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hoseoksluna · 21 days

Text

TIME | knj

pairing: fiancé!namjoon x oc

genre: smut

word count: 13.0k

summary: namjoon makes your dream come true in a much better way than you ever wanted.

pinterest board: divine | playlist: time | taglist: join

warnings: basic relationship fears, oc is heartbroken in the beginning, fight, minor violence, oc has daddy issues (like the writer), namjoon and oc smoke (like the writer as well <3), family sickness, punishment, spanking, choking, hair pulling, a mention of throat fucking and squirting, namjoon has an obsession with oc's boobies, dirty talk, use of a blindfold during intercourse, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, handjob, multiple orgasms, raw sex, namjoon talks her through it, praise kink

note: i will cherish this work until the day i die. i will carry it in my heart and never, ever forget it. this might be my best piece and i don't think i'll ever write anything as good as this. i love namjoon with all my heart and i want to thank him for inspiring me to write this. if he weren't such an amazing person, such a dear person to me and if he never released cbtm, this work wouldn't be here and i wouldn't brim with so many warm emotions. i gotta tell you guys—while writing the smut, this was the first time i wasn't affected by it in a way that i normally am because i found so much beauty in their relationship. enjoy this, my loves. let me know what you think. i love you. <3

The orange light in the hotel room causes bile to rise in your throat. It exudes a zephyr of mockery, such profound air of scorn, and you feel it thumping upon its reflection on the bare skin of your arms. You want to pinch it—make it hurt somehow, cause it the same agony that’s poisoning your system through and through because in all truth, that’s all you’re left to do.

The Eiffel tower out beyond your window, blanketed in a soft layer of snow, has begun to twinkle. The perception of how long you’ve waited for your fiancé to come back that even such a monumental structure, your dream, has descended to its sleep full of blinding light beckons gooseflesh to mar your skin and it doesn’t go away. Not when your sight blurs, unfocuses, and the stars that have latched themselves to the tower enlarge into bulbs with softened edges, a myriad of bokeh that seem to have a slither of pity for you, lessening their grandness as the falling snow thickens. Not when both of your waterlines become rivulets of tears that heat your cold cheeks, despite the burning bushes of fury that incinerate your lungs.

Just one more hour and the twigs of flames will perforate the chambers of your heart and sweep it clean of any emotions, any feelings, any understanding for the man that took you to Paris and left you all alone in the hotel room he paid for. You thought he took you here to give you the experience of seeing something new as you’ve never been to Europe and you’ve shared with him on several occasions that it’s always been your dream to see the Eiffel tower. Especially at night when it glimmers with such pretty, pretty stars. But considering he brought you here under the pretense of doing business, you carry nothing but contempt for the strange iron structure. So much for dreaming, so much for putting trust in a man.

There will always be the other woman. It doesn’t matter if it’s in the form of a female, of alcohol, of ignorance. In this case, the mistress is Namjoon’s company and you should’ve known you’ll have her haunting your back for the rest of the trajectory of your secret relationship with him, with Mr. President.

You should’ve seen it coming the moment she created a realm for you to soften, privately, in and fall in love with him until your ears turned red, the petals of roses. A realm between an ordinary employee and her boss. Between the walls of unknowing people—the way he would lean in to hear you talk because in comparison to his large stature and broad proportions, made even more prominent by his short hair, you were a mere stone on the ground, an ametrine—split in half with a tendril of yellow—but a stone regardless, fearing the tip of his lacquered dress shoes stomping on you until you’re left crumbled in the dying grass, the jagged pieces of you consoled by the ruthless wind.

You were terribly afraid of him. Briefly, but ardently. A true personification of desire, whenever you had to look up into his eyes. Whenever a whiff of his oriental cologne tickled your nostrils. Whenever the allure of secrecy between you two heightened. All because he was a powerful man, on the cusp of saving you from the lowest of the dirt. Saving you and digging you back inside, left to your own decay.

Left to. That’s the wisp of tendency in your relationship. The wisp of force that drove you to give your yes to him. The wisp of the engagement ring encased around the fourth finger on your left hand. Left to—because you’d been single for so long and your mother pined after grandchildren and Namjoon was there, a knight in shining armor, dressed in suit and tie underneath, at the very age and position to settle down. Left to—because the special attention he gave you grazed your fear of him, gently, and helped it blossom into a bush of hyacinths growing in your lungs.

It’s how you found out you were in a severe destitute of a fatherly figure in your life.

Because Namjoon paid your bills. Put food on your mother’s table. In the form of a generous paycheck, overtime pay—even though you always clocked out at five, and odd bonuses that rose in monetary value the more he spent time with you. You’ve told him to stop, asked for fairness among his employees, even though nobody liked you there and would do quite the opposite if they ever happened to be in your shoes. But Namjoon never agreed to your offer. No, he stroked your hair and told you to save that money for your mother. And because you never heard that come out of man’s mouth, you nodded, meekly. Listened. The fear of him stroking the violet petals of hyacinths in you because as of now, he owned you. Owned your life. Owned the comfort of your mother.

All because you made the faux pas and took off your heels when you thought your presentation was done and nobody answered when you asked if anyone had any questions left. Except for that one employee who didn’t have, evidently, a sense of decency and suddenly remembered he had a groundbreaking question to ask you in regards to the matter of your presentation, when everyone else, including Namjoon, was gathering their possessions and rising to their feet.

He had noticed your nylon-clad feet, your swollen little toes, the way you rolled the ball of your foot on the carpet to alleviate yourself of the pain. And he changed the decades-old policy of dress code the next day. Forbade all women to wear high heels. Flat shoes only—loafers, ballet shoes. Incorporated bonuses that appeared in their bank accounts that very day, demanding an instant payment.

He paid for every woman’s shoes in his company, including you.

You never had to go through the torment of wearing heels again, no matter how pretty they seemed to you.

And then it was easy—languid and smooth, the innocent eye contact from across the room, the constant attention, the brushing of hands when walking past each other. And then you ran into him everywhere. He was always alone, which caused you to suspect he was single, so you smiled a little more and found it the easiest thing in the world, conversing with him about everything and nothing. Put a lot more care into the clothes you wore and the daily choice of your perfumes. Not forcing yourself and not being in control of it at the same time, something in the very middle. Something so natural that allowed you to turn your brain off for a moment and let yourself be led by your instincts.

Then, your mother got sick and you lost your smile. Spent all your free time with her, taking care of her and you never ran into Namjoon again.

Which is why he began to call you into his office behind the pretense that he needs something from you. And perhaps he did. He needed to be a friend for you. And you needed it just the same.

He helped you cope with the gravity of a burden regarding a sickly parent and you became his.

And you gave more of yourself to him with every fleeting touch, every secret invitation to his office in broad daylight when he had meetings to attend to but wanted to get to know you instead, get to know your dreams because he has the money and the power to make them come true. Tenderly, despite the potency, the violence of his instrument. And tenderly, he always treated you. Tenderly, he held you steady as you made it a regular thing between you and him to sit on his lap. Not straddling him, but sideways—like a little girl sitting on the lap of her father. Tenderly, he led you through new parts of your life with poetic advice and viewpoints, meeting you outside of work, intertwining his fingers with yours and reassuring you. And tenderly, he became the stable male figure you invariably needed and never knew you did.

And tenderness is what you need right now. In this shadowed hotel room, with only your arms to wrap around your torso and a ring on your left fourth finger, a ghost of his presence, ever so lingering, but not quite here. And you clutch at your dress, scrape your fingernails along the side of your ribs, etching the words that he said to your slowly awakening form in the late afternoon before he left.

“I won’t be long. I just have some business to attend to. I’ll be back in an hour.”

It has been more than an hour and you wonder if he’s going to miss the twinkling of the tower. It’s your first night here. You had dinner after you landed, napped, didn’t even walk around the poetry-woven city and Namjoon chose his work. You showered for him, wore the long black dress you saved up the little of your last two paychecks for and he’s not here to see it.

You feel so betrayed. He found work in your spare time, the time saved only for you both, the time that should’ve been saved for the romance part of your relationship. All he knows is work and so do you—as the entirety of your hours spent together have been solely work-related. This vacation should have been anything but.

You sigh, hand ready at the zipper at the back of your dress. Once he comes home, he’ll be tired. Too tired to take a walk and immerse himself in the European beauty, so you should save this dress for a better occasion, one which he’s present for. Whenever that is. If that ever comes, at all.

The squeak of the zipper going down is interrupted when you hear the lock make a sing-song melody, a signal that someone is coming in. Your breath quivers. A twist of events you didn’t expect, but you don’t get your hopes up. You know your fiancé well enough not to expect him to be full of life and elation after a work meeting. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but you let it slide past every time, aware that if he didn’t work so hard, your mother wouldn’t have the comfort she has. And neither would you.

That doesn’t mean you’ll let it slide past this time. Not when he reserved his special time for you, for you both.

Namjoon emerges out of the soft-toned yellow hall with a hand behind his back. You rise from the bed, facing him. Notice his sagged, broad shoulders, the sweat that lines his forehead and the narrow thin line that his lips are pursed in. A petulant, gray aura swathes him, despite the vibrancy of the colors of the hotel room and when he comes in, it’s almost like he absorbs them. His brows quirk at the sight of you, nearly relieved to see you dressed and waiting for him, but that expression falters once he takes in the mirror of you. The same wrinkle on your forehead stamps itself onto his and the sag of his coat-clad shoulders deepens. He stops at the edge of the bed, in front of you. Remains silent. And when you give him a few more seconds to speak and he doesn’t, your fists clench at your sides, against the linen puffiness of your dress.

“An hour, huh?”

He sighs and lowers his gaze. But not onto the ground. No, he lowers it onto your dress, swallowing dryly at the accentuation of your waist and the bunched up fabric at the hips cascading down, clothing you in the prosaic night of Paris, not the poetic, not the lively. He missed it.

“You look so beautiful in this dress,” Namjoon comments and you scoff. If that’s his way of apologizing for leaving you for almost four hours, you don’t really understand it. It merely adds fuel to the flames of the indignation underneath that fucking dress.

“Do you know what time it is?” you bite, your fingers instinctively grabbing onto the fabric of your garment for some kind of stability as your blood boils. Abruptly, his eyes flick to the window and when you follow his gaze, you discover the tower dressed similarly as you. Shrouded, entirely, in the night, clouds drifting past in place of the twinkles. Your blood is scorching hot and even though you didn’t expect him to take you to it, your stomach still drops at the disappointment that you missed the thing you looked forward to for weeks, knowing it won’t be the same tomorrow or the day after that. Your eyes prick with tears and you hate them. Don’t want to cry. Don’t want to be a spoiled brat, in fact. Not when you grew up the way you did—dreamless, poor and independent. But you can’t stop the words from rushing out. “I can see you wearing that watch that costs more than the house I grew up in and I know your habit of checking the time often, so tell me. Why didn’t you text me? Why didn’t you pick up my calls? Why did you bring me here in the first place if you knew you had business?”

Mouth ends rounding ever so slightly, at last he shows what he’s been hiding behind his back. A bouquet of fresh, violet chrysanthemums and baby’s breath of the same muted tones. A symbol of thoughtfulness and care. The oxymoron makes you seethe and you grit your teeth.

“I ran around the city trying to find one flower shop that was still open. I bought the first flowers that reminded me of you.” He pushes them your way, trying to get you to take them and you do, the wrapper rustling as your hands touch and electricity zaps you. Damn it. “Purple, your favorite color.”

The audacity this man has, walking over that one word of apology, avoiding it. He takes your anger to another level and the fact that it seems to be endless makes you even angrier. Enough to want to hit him with the flowers.

And you do.

The flowers hover in the air in slow motion before their petals scatter around his troubled shoulders and the ruffled bed, where you sat so restlessly. Namjoon raises his arms in defense and you don’t stop, not until he grabs your arms and stills you.

He calls you by your name, his hold on you deathly, and he shakes you, just once, in effort to bring some sense into you. “Calm down.”

The stems from the chrysanthemums lay crooked on the floor between your bare feet and his black dress shoes. Ruined, devastated. Just like your dream. Some snapped in half, never to be whole again. Just like your heart.

“You think some flowers are gonna bring my dream back, huh?” you snap, raising your voice, quivering in his grasp. You push at his chest, trying to get out of his clutches, but to no avail. You remain firm and unmoving in his hold. He doesn’t even budge. And once again you feel like a stone—an amethyst this time. Bigger, stronger, yet it still pales in comparison to the mountain that Namjoon is. You give very little fuck about that, however. “You knew it was my dream to see the Eiffel Tower at night. You brought me here knowing that, so I’m asking you once again why. Why did you bring me here when you knew you weren’t gonna make that dream come true for me?”

He sucks in a breath and it looks as though he’s hanging by the edge of his composure. A thick vein bulges on his forehead and he clenches his jaw, his mouth a small button on his face. Anger. A mirror of you. But it’s not directed towards you—not at all.

Namjoon withdraws and steps away, taking off his coat and his jacket, slinging his outerwear onto the edge of the bed. And as you simmer in the middle of the tense silence, he casually rolls his sleeves upwards, focusing his gaze, momentarily, on the action before he bores it into yours. The other sleeve gets the same treatment meanwhile he keeps the boiling temperature of your fury at a fixed degree with that stare. You want to boil over and so does he, but he doesn’t let that happen.

The tiniest wisp of lust curls in your bloodstream, steamed by the heat, creating something dangerous. Oh, he’s playing with fire and he shouldn’t.

All forest fires end catastrophically. The ruined flowers are enough proof of that, and yet it’s just the beginning.

Namjoon loosens his tie a little bit, tipping his chin, and you can’t help but to ogle the slender material, his long fingers as they hook over the knot and pull it down. They way he’s asserting his dominance—the way he’s making you wait, making you tremble all fucking over by the silence and the slowness of his motions, by his stance and the clenched jaw. You hate the way it’s working; hate, with all your crumbling, stony being the pressure of your craving to get on your knees.

Your tremor causes your fallen strap to tickle your arm and it snaps you out of the indecent daze, head swiveling to it, hand fixing it right away. You tug your dress down so it doesn’t slip down again, your plunging sweetheart neckline exposing your full breasts.

“Why don’t you ask me what the business was about?” Namjoon challenges and it causes your head to swivel back to him, facing him. He’s sunk his hands into the pockets of his black dress pants, anticipation and tension hanging heavily in the stuffed air.

You raise your brows. Fuck if you care about it. “Do I look like I give a fuck? I don’t wanna hear it.”

Namjoon drops his gaze onto the ground, the clench of his jaw tightening enough that a dimple appears on the side of his cheek. For some reason you can’t really explain it aches and you don’t want to look at him anymore. You edge around him, the soles of your feet stepping on the violet petals and when you’re side by side, he stops you with one hand.

“You’re gonna want to hear this,” he murmurs, his hold on you softening once your movement is halted.

You roll your eyes, untangling your arm from it. “Too bad I don’t.”

Namjoon sighs, deeply. “I’m telling you this one last time. You’re gonna sit on this fucking bed like the nice girl I know you are and you’re gonna listen to me.”

A pulse sneaks to your sensitive parts and you furrow your brows, not liking the words he chose, not liking the way they made you feel. A half of you is torn, though. A half of you forces your body to do as he says, liking it very much. Too fucking much. “You don’t get to talk to me like this. It’s unfair.”

“Sit.”

That half of you wins. That easily.

You sit on the bed and cross your leg over the knee, obnoxiously dangling your shin back and forth. The hem of your dress flutters, gains momentum when Namjoon opens the balcony door, letting the winter air in. Then, he moves over to stand a foot away from you, the stems crunching beneath his feet, his hand fishing out his pack of cigarettes and pulling one out, popping it into his mouth. Yellow, almost brownish butt. Golden Marlboros. Typical.

Your own parts in dismay. “You’re gonna set the fire alarm off.”

“You’re gonna get rained on, then. Look pretty in that soaking dress with the petals and all.” He lights up his addiction and the flow of your fire changes its course. Burns differently now. Burns lustfully. “You think I didn’t tell them to turn it off when we arrived? You were too sleepy. Barely knew where we were.”

Flying while drifting through dreamland does that to you. Why it is a surprise to you that Mr. President made such a demand is beyond you. What’s more, it annoys you. His power, his influence. While it once sparked fear, you’re glad it’s lukewarm to you now.

Sucking deeply, he puffs out the smoke, its tendrils curling around his eyes that he narrows to protect them from the sting. Your fingers, instinctively, play with your engagement ring. You’ve always loved the way he smoked. Especially in his office. Especially the way it never smelled. His attention to detail, his thoughtfulness perpetually mesmerized you. You wonder where it’s gone at the cusp of the realization of your dream.

“I fought tooth and nail to get a deal. To make a connection. For you.”

You scowl at him, pull your wandering fingers away from your engagement ring. What the fuck does he mean by that?

“For me?”

“Yes, for you. For your mother.”

You grip the edge of the mattress at the mention of your mother, left behind on her sick bed while you’re fussy about your mindless dream. A jolt of guilt runs down your body and your scowl smoothens. You don’t think the madness disappears from your eyes. Not entirely.

“I risked having some very powerful people knowing about us because I wanted you to have a stable place here. There’s a five star hotel that has shares in Korea. I wanted to become their partner. Get you in there. Get you another source of income. Get you a house here. For your mother. For our children. Have you commute here whenever you’d like,” Namjoon breathes out, moving his busy hand with each word, the smoke clouding the air. He takes a drag, holding the cigarette. “Come to think of it, you’d get to see this.” He points behind himself at the Eiffel Tower with his thumb. “For a week straight if you’d like. Splurge on dresses, shoes and croissants and whatnot. Have not one care in the world. You make the call and we fly.”

From Korea to Paris. Whenever you’d like. Namjoon is the CEO of a five star hotel he built with his own hands. You’re the marketing manager, but you oversee almost everything you find time for. From banquets to room beddings, only because you enjoy it. It’s the main reason why you’re so disliked. You’re favored. And if there’s conflict of interest, there’s only one person who wins in the eyes and the final say of the CEO.

Namjoon’s hidden thoughtfulness opens in the shadows of the room and you’re stupefied.

He wanted to partner with another five star hotel in Paris.

For you. For your mother. For your future. For your comfort.

For your dream.

For your children.

Your mouth opens and closes, but no words come out.

How would you possibly handle having your job times two? You already have enough on your plate. Have wished, multiple times, that there was more of you cloned, who could do each job that you have to do each day. Doing that twice would be difficult, agonizingly so, but knowing your own work ethic, you’d make it manageable. You’d make do. Not for yourself, per say—but for your mother and your future children.

Your heart constricts. Constricts so tightly that you let out a pained breath, overcome by his plan for the future, by the actions he’s willing to do for it. By the very raw fact that he spent three hours trying to make that happen—make that come true for you.

“Namjoon, I—”

“They said no, though. No matter how hard I pushed, no matter what I was willing to risk, to sacrifice. They said no. So I made a quick phone call and forbade them from ever entering our hotel.”

Our hotel.

You almost sob, touched by him, but a gust of the icy breath of winter seizes you and you visibly shudder. Namjoon takes a last drag of his addiction and, putting it out on the ashtray on the confined balcony, he closes its door. But the freshness grazes you still, grazes you with the allure of this too-good-to-be-true fantasy and while it feels nice momentarily—the futile, brand new dream—you settle on the contentment that it will never come true.

And that’s okay. You were brought up having nothing. Having someone like Namjoon intertwined with your future doesn’t change it. You don’t need to have everything. It’s enough that you’re in Paris just for the prolonged weekend, even though you didn’t get to see the sparkling Eiffel Tower up close on your first night here. That was the only dream you ever had and you can die peacefully now. Knowing the reason behind his late arrival, it doesn’t disappoint you anymore that your dream was altered. As a matter of fact, you don’t consider it ruined any longer. Not when Namjoon tried his hardest to create a beautiful future for you and your closest. You regret being mad at him, regret hitting him with the flowers and you brim with the wish to gather them, fix them, and put the little what’s left of them in a vase. Cherish them like he cherishes you. Cherish him.

Namjoon crouches at your feet, cradling your ankle. “Your mom would’ve had a house right next to ours. Our kids would visit her everyday and vice versa. The air would’ve done her good here. The change of scenery. It would’ve prolonged her life. She’d be happy.”

You nod, believing him, your heart untouched by the weakening fire, tender, squeezing. A mist of liquid emotion pools at your eyes. “You spent three hours trying to make that become a reality.”

It’s not a question, but rather an expression of your procession of his goodness. Of his selflessness. And all over again, you’re reminded of the way you grew close in your relation because of your poor mother, of the way you bonded. And in place of the fire, it’s love that blooms those hyacinths in your lungs back to life.

Your mother would’ve loved Paris. Because you know how much she loved listening to you talk about your dream when she was healthy and you were a young schoolgirl, you’re certain she would’ve fallen in love with the stark difference that lines these history-wrought streets.

Namjoon focuses his gaze on your bare foot, fondling his thumbs over your silky skin. Your declaration of his actions loosened the heft on his shoulders and he relaxes, leaning his temple against your knee, fleetingly. When he speaks, he looks up at you. A certain light, covered in pity, flickers in his eyes. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It just took that long and I had no idea. And when I checked the time once it was over, I googled when they turn off the lights. Knew I had some time to spare, so to fix my mistake for taking so long, I ran through these streets, trying to make it up to you. I thought I’d make it in time, but you let out your frustration on me, which is understandable. I was in such a hurry that I forgot to text you. I’m sorry.”

The coolness of the growing flower buds in you fills you with such gentleness that it’s not relief that you feel upon hearing his explanation and apology. It’s love. A profound, sinking capacity of love for the man beneath you taking on the likeness of the stone that certain energies and events of life invariably minimalized you into.

He’s the stone and you’re the mountain.

And when you bolster his face in your hands, Namjoon releases a breath at the touch and you find that relief streaming in him, seeping color back into his cheeks. You’ll paint them redder. Feel obligated to do so.

“I’m sorry for hitting you. You left me alone for so long and I had so many bad thoughts,” you say, internally cringing at your neediness and you would regret uttering your admission had he not rubbed your legs in such a reassuring manner that it revitalizes your body, guiding briskness into your veins.

“I’m sorry that I missed it,” Namjoon says, subduedly, his hands warm like the fire that burned in you, giving you back your heat that you’re lacking. He kisses the top of your knee and your breath is but a vine of poison ivy inside your throat. Such tenderness, such healing gentleness, such pity that permeates your skin. He truly is regretful that he messed up and you want to weep. He doesn’t have to be, not anymore. “What kinda bad thoughts?”

You feel your heart rotate on its axis and you stifle back your tears, taking a deep breath to be able to talk. “I thought you chose work over me. Thought your business had nothing to do with me. Thought you left me here all alone for selfish reasons.”

Namjoon coos, a softened emotion screwing his face—eyes enlarging and a slight pout forming on his face. A leeway for your tears to spurt onto your cheeks, unabashedly, with nothing holding them back any longer. He cups your face, like you did, and he sweeps back that rivulet with his thumb. “I didn’t, baby. I didn’t. And I’m here. I’m here with you.”

You nod and it’s all that you’re left to do because it’s the truth. He’s here. He’s come back. And he’s sorrowful that he let those thoughts plague your brain with such a small mistake.

“Don’t go anywhere again,” you beg, hushedly, your voice breaking. “I’m sorry you worked so hard for nothing.”

It’s the last straw for Namjoon because he straightens his form, guides you to stand up and he sets you down on his lap, pushing your legs onto the bed—holding you as if he were holding a child.

And that’s precisely what you need at the moment.

“It’s not over. Pick a place and we’ll go there. Start over. With you present this time. What are you dreaming of these days?”

Your heart swells. Nothing has been flooding your dreamland as much as Paris was. Even that seemed unrealistic, let alone a much different place. It overcomes you and, peculiarly, stops you from crying. You feel like a spoiled girl getting what she wanted after she had a meltdown and, internally, you blame Namjoon for it. He spoils you. Exudes such overtones of fatherliness that makes a way for it to happen. Most naturally.

“Paris has always been my dream. No other city,” you say and Namjoon clicks his tongue. A smile widens your mouth, liking the way he senses your custom of modesty, liking the way he dislikes it. You laugh, softly, through your nose. “I’ll think of something.”

“That’s my nice girl.”

Taken aback, you clutch the side of his neck. Namjoon is bathed in the orange light and it no longer causes bile to lodge in your esophagus. No, it sparks up something else. Something very rapid, spreading throughout your body. The energy shifts and it’s you who clicks their tongue. “What did I tell you about talking to me like that?”

You move your hand to the middle of his throat, tightening your hold around his Adam’s apple, tipping his chin. Namjoon grins, hums, wraps his fingers around your wrist.

“What did I tell you about choking me, hm?”

A flashback flickers across your vision. One of the last time you were intimate in bed and he was rocking your shit in missionary, using your throat as a leverage. You mirrored him, as you usually do in these endeavors, and choked the air out of him, making him come prematurely. Namjoon scolded you until your ears turned red and refused to make you come. You had to bring yourself over that edge and you managed to squirt your love and your enjoyment of fucking with him all over his body. Namjoon made sure to feed you your elated essence, but he also made it very hard for you to swallow, telling you to hold it as he drilled your throat, making it trickle down the corners of your mouth.

The memory effortlessly brings back the pulse in your sensitive parts and you begin to crave the repetition of that filthy rendezvous. Badly.

And so you squeeze his throat.

Namjoon squeaks your name. You laugh, ferally.

That is until he pins you down. Hand on your throat this time, the other holding down both of your wrist, the petals sticking to the silk of his pants-clad knees on either side of you. You didn’t even catch the movement as he did it, his strength overbearing and so incomparable to yours. But you don’t feel like the amethyst. No, you feel like a mountain connected to another, to him. Two peaks staring at each other, grinning, your laughter unfaltering, even though it’s you who’s squeaking now.

Elated, giddy, aroused, equal, your tears sunk deeply within your skin, giving life to your rhapsody, giving it the body it needs in order to come out.

You love it when he’s like this. And you love that he’s come back to you.

Of course you have the means to prolong it, to tease it out of him.

“I don’t really care when it turns me on this much,” you rasp, your smile glinting in the dimmed light, arching your back until your chest kisses his. Just once. “When it turns you on this much.”

Truth, the epitome of pleasure. The corners of your mouth widen, all over again.

You can’t help it.

Namjoon cocks a brow, his mouth ends following the same directions, dimples poking holes in his cheeks. “Oh, so you don’t need to be reminded?” He mimics your intonation, angling his head.

You shake yours, eyes dipping to his clefts, teeth instinctively finding your bottom lip, biting down. You feel the heaviness of his stare and it urges you to bite down harder, the tension quickening your blood circulation. And it isn’t until you meet his adoring gaze that it stops, for a mere second, scattering tingles down every vein. And Namjoon resumes the flow by pressing a chaste kiss down onto your lips, lingering there.

“I know you’re a nice girl and that you didn’t mean it, but I have to spank you for it, anyway. Do you understand?” He whispers against those pillows, each movement of his mouth brushing against yours, making you needy for more.

You make a face. “But I did mean it. Meant it with everything in me.”

Namjoon laughs, endearingly. “No, you didn’t, baby. Not when you know what I’m capable of doing to you. Or not doing to you.”

You smirk, catching onto his game. He’ll disagree until you grow so frustrated that you burst, disobeying him to the point that he has to tame you. He wants to get you to the lowest point, because the lower you dig, the bigger treasure you find—the more you stimulate the brain, the chemistry, the bigger the pleasure. Namjoon is an intelligent man; knows what the fuck he’s doing and you’re so transfixed by it that you’ll let yourself be led into his little trap that he watches over. Just to please him because ultimately, you’ll be pleased beyond measure.

You tip your chin and trace his lips with your own. “No, I did, because I love how whiny you get. Makes me wanna bruise my knees for you, take all of you down my throat until it hurts to speak.”

Namjoon is so awestruck by your words that his mouth parts as he gawks down at you and he moans. There it is. That’s precisely what you wanted.

“You know,” he starts, pausing to swallow. “I had different plans with you in terms of this. Good fucking plans. But you just ruined them.”

The precipice of what that could be hangs over your clavicles and suddenly you brim with the need to know what it was. What his smart, business brain came up with. And not only that—you want it to happen, your curiosity piqued, blaming the choice of words he used, the work-tinged colors he splattered them with.

“What plans?”

He straightens, setting your hands free. “Take off your dress.”

You’re taken aback. “Namjoon.” You stress his name. “What plans?”

“No, I’m not telling you. You’re gonna take off this dress and you’re gonna take what I give you.”

You frown. Your curiosity won’t let up. “Namjoon, please.”

The pretty word curls his mouth. Perhaps, you’ve softened his stubbornness. You surely hope so, but to no avail.

He gets on his feet and swivels you onto your stomach, fingers finding your zipper and dragging it down. Being manhandled like this causes butterflies to swarm not just in your tummy, but over your arms and legs as well, fluttering all over, making your head spin and again, you can’t help the smile blossoming. In the middle of winter, spring opens in you at the touch of his dominance.

Spreading his hands over your back, sinking his warmth beneath the skin, he leans in, mouth at your ear. “What word do you use when you say please?”

You know what he wants you to say, but, peculiarly, you’re in such a good mood that you crave to disobey. Just for the fun of it. Just for the pain of it.

“Pretty please?” you chirp, pursing your lips to hide the slyness of your smile. Delighted, excited.

Namjoon pulls your hair, causing your head to tip, harshly, pain shooting up your scalp. Your tongue runs over your bottom lip, moaning almost soundlessly, only to realize that he can see you. Your pleasure wasn’t private. Not at all. Never is when he’s involved.

You flick your eyes up at him, meeting his darkened stare, and you flutter your lashes at him, playing the stupid girl when you’re well educated by him in reality.

Maybe you do need to be reminded, after all. Again, for the fun of it. For the pain of it.

To distract him from his failure. Help him forget. You know how it gets to him. Deem he deserves it; deem it’s a duty of your fiancée privileges.

“Pretty please is an addition. Something to help me have a sliver of pity for you. You seem to have forgotten who I am to you.”

Oh, he’s a myriad of things.

Mountain. Stability. Dependability. A most grand picture of beauty. Of intelligence. The sun and the moon, his brain cells the planets in the universe. The second heart you’ve grown over the trajectory of your relationship. The pulse of your emotions, especially the one between your legs.

He’s everything in your life while you remain your own person.

And only Namjoon would have achieved something like that.

“No, I haven’t. You’re my husband,” you say, allure dripping in your tone, wiggling your hips, causing the fabric of your dress to ripple over your bum.

Namjoon coos, quite pleased with the title, and he pats your behind before he grabs you by your waist and pulls you to your feet—flush against his body and the rock solid situation in his pants. You sway your hips, the gasp that slips out of your mouth goes almost unnoticed by you as you’re entirely focused on his hardness. You look down to follow the movement of his hands like a cat. They drift upwards—from your ribs, over the swell of your breasts until his long fingers reach the straps of your dress and drag them down, exposing you, exposing your arousal evident on your stiffened nipples. You could blame the cool temperature hanging in the room for it, but both of you know that would be a lie. A fat lie that your husband doesn’t deserve, not when he’s so dominant, so strict and so fucking provocative, spreading tendrils of heated life in you with each subtle touch.

Subtle? Oh, Namjoon gropes your tits, rolling your nubs between his slender fingers, softly moaning behind you. And then he pinches them, coaxing your squeaks out and you feel that familiar, wet warmth pooling in your core, mingling with the throbbing sensation that intoxicates you. Enough for you to clasp your hands over his and tighten his hold, squirming against him, loving—loving terribly the sparks of pleasure coursing down your figure. Loving the feeling of dampness against your panties that’s nothing but evidence of the way your body savors his special attention.

“Husband, that’s right. Your fucking husband,” Namjoon murmurs, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, causing your head to knock back against his chest and make space for him, inviting him to continue—and he does. Places tiny little kisses down to your shoulder, where he licks the skin before he sucks it into his mouth. “But there’s something else you call me when I treat you this good. What is it? Think.”

Those kisses and his command for the wheels in your mind to quicken alone make you give in, make you submit to his craving to call you by that filthy, rightful title. Even more so when he pinches your nipples again. You whine, feeling your neediness for more taking greater highs in your system, feeling your own body yearning to scream out that name.

“Daddy,” you cry out, desperately, awfully. How well it fits him, how well he deserves to be called by something like that—how gratified you sense your body to be right now. No poetic string of verses could ever manage to do it justice.

Namjoon hums, his pleasure deepening. “That’s it. That’s a good girl. I love it when you use that brain of yours.”

You blush. A tableau unseen by Namjoon yet, for he busies himself with undressing you. Your garment gets plopped onto the mattress, your underwear along with it. A silky strip that hardly covers anything. You’re bare while he remains fully dressed and something about that turns you wild. The silkiness of his slacks, the cotton of his white shirt against your skin—such softness, such balminess, such caress for the undomesticated freedom that you profoundly feel within. You sigh at the sensation, your lingering curiosity bubbling in you, slowly rising to the tip of your tongue.

“Will you tell me now? What you planned?”

Namjoon chuckles, humorlessly. “You think you’ve earned it? No, baby.” He runs his hand down your ribs and your tummy, halting at your mound. His middle finger can nearly reach your swollenness and you quiver in response. “You’ve got spanks to take first. Maybe then I’ll tell you.”

You whine, softly, and Namjoon grabs your chin and turns your head so you can look at him. A mad, mad smile adorns his shadowed, taut face and you realize there’s pent-up frustration still swirling in him. One you will do anything to help him steam off.

Anything.

Anything for your husband.

And so, by your own whim, you lay down onto the bed, anticipating the pleasure of pain. Namjoon lets out a sound of approval and you sense the vibrations of his nearness as he props a knee on the bedding, flattening down a violet petal. He fixes your position, lifts your bum in the air, and he kisses your bare cheek with all the world’s affection, sucking the skin, nibbling on it before smoothing the pain with a swipe of his tongue.

“You’re my nice girl, aren’t you?” Namjoon questions and you nod, but that’s not good enough of an answer for him. He spanks you, harshly, coaxing a hiss out of you before the pleasure draws in and you let out a breath, turning your head, so you can have a perfect view of him. Namjoon gives you another chance to fix your mistake. “Aren’t you?”

Licking your lips, you make it your focal point to be good for him. “I’m your nice girl.”

Humming, he caresses your back to praise you. Spanks you with the same tenderness, rubbing the flesh to alleviate the faint sting. The love you carry for him grows with each brush of his calloused hand and you stifle back your needy sounds, your little whines and sobs of a small girl very seldom loved by an even smaller number of male figures in her life.

Most strangely, it heightens the experience.

“You’re my wife, aren’t you?” Namjoon purrs, his fingers sneaking to the place that yearns for him more than anywhere else, finding you bedewed, dripping as he rubs your folds—just touching you there without giving you any friction.

The touch is so nice that you can’t help but mewl most happily.

“Yes, I’m your wife, Daddy.”

Namjoon moans, the pads of his fingers sneaking over to your clit and stroking it. You arch your back, your noises rising in volume—the wetness, the pleasure in tandem. Your body begins to shudder in reaction, mimicking his motions, the pressure coiling in the lowest of your tummy.

“Good, good. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. You’re my good little wife, but you were bad, weren’t you? You were a bad little wife?”

He quickens his speed, testing your focus and your mind spins again as the pressure deepens. From his words, from the very gravity of the title ‘wife’, from the very pleasure stemming from the principle of being bad, and you stutter a few times before you’re able to get out the full sentence in a perfect flow.

“I was your bad little wife.”

Namjoon growls, liking it just the same. “And what did you do?”

He slows down, stalling your climax, keeping you halfway from the edge, right where he wants—the pressure of his touch light and gentle. Letting you work your brain.

You smile up at him, from the clouds of shadows and petals you’re surrounded by. Namjoon deepens the eye contact, returning the smile. Your heart thuds in your chest.

“I choked you.”

Clefts of dimples—you, yourself, choke out a breath. Another one, too, when Namjoon spanks you hard, his fingers wet and sticky on your skin, the pain tingling all over your body, beckoning out more of your slick for him.

“That’s right, you choked me, even though I punished you for it quite severely the last time,” he rasps and spanks you again, again and again. You hiss and flatten your lips to stifle it back, grasping the bed sheets to overcome that burn—and overcome your craving for more.

You’re at a crossroad. You find yourself wanting to be bad in order to get spanked again, but at the same time you want to be good, so he tells you what he planned for you. Your fucked out brain can’t decide which side is better, but when Namjoon spanks you again—he reminds you that it doesn’t matter at all. You’re getting punished either way while the goal is to tell you.

Such a good, intelligent husband. And you tell him.

“You’re so good to me, baby,” you whisper, your knuckles white as you’re grasping the sheets with all your might. “I’m sorry for being bad. I’m sorry for choking you, but I love it when you spank me.”

Namjoon chuckles, warmly, spanking your clit once in affection, drawing out your squeaks.

Truth, the epitome of pleasure. All over again.

Close to your ear now, he kisses your cheek, his body heat enveloping you in an embrace. “My naughty little wifey loves it when Daddy punishes her. Loves to do the bad things Daddy doesn’t like just so he spanks her. That’s it, isn’t it?”

You moan out, puckering your lips against the sheets and Namjoon half-kisses your pout, humming against you. He lifts you up onto your knees with your torso upright and he cradles your face. Waits for your answer.

You’re more than happy to douse yourself in that truth.

“Yeah, I love it. I love being bad for you.”

He descends one hand to your bum while the other wraps around your waist and pulls you flush to the hardness of his body. And as he expresses to you how much he liked your words with guttural moans, he spanks you. Again and again, your head tipped back, eyes wandering in the darkened maze of his, where you lose count of how many you’ve taken.

“But you do realize that’s a big no-no, don’t you?”

You nod. “I do, Daddy.”

A hum. “Will you do it again?”

You whisk your irises up, thinking about it while already knowing the answer in your heart. “Probably.”

Namjoon laughs and kisses you, feverishly. Moves his mouth against yours, parts it, so he can slip his tongue inside. Plays a game of chase while both of your noises and his interlock and create a music that echoes around the hotel room. He adds a high-pitched tone into the song, yours, as he spanks you again, playfully this time, grabbing the flesh of your bum with both of his hands now, kneading it, drawing it closer until you feel his aroused length against your tummy.

Moans, squeaks, skin slapping and lip smacking. A song of beauty that will resonate within your body, mind and soul for days to come.

And another thing.

“God, I love you so much,” Namjoon whispers, bringing his hands to your ribs until his thumbs brush across your nipples.

That, too, will ring in your veins.

You melt. Become nothing but liquid devotion in his hands. And as he begins to focus on your neck, you roll your eyes back and resound your love back to him.

“I love you, Namjoon.”

He sighs against your collarbone, mutedly. “You love me?”

You sink your fingers into his short hair, kissing his temple. “I love you so fucking much.”

When he emerges with puffy, reddened lips, you can see it on his face that he did it again. Made you say the words he wanted to hear. And so you say it again, again and again. Each time with more intensity, with more verve, embedding it into his lips, his cheeks, jawline, his chin and his neck. All skin you can reach until you stumble upon the cotton of his shirt, at which you frown.

“Take this off. Now.”

And he listens. Loosens his tie, places it upon the petals on the bedding. Begins to unbutton his shirt. All while staring you down. And all you can do is watch him in awe, licking your lips, hungry for him, hungry for the intelligent plan he’s keeping from you.

Once he bends at the waist to get his arms out of the sleeves, you press on the matter.

“Tell me,” you say, softly, despite the tension of your curiosity. “Tell me what you planned.”

Namjoon tilts his head and light flickers across his eyes, fires of stars—the ones that twinkled on the Eiffel Tower before his arrival. You spent your entire life dreaming about seeing it when it stands right in front of you, half naked. Has been standing before your eyes for years.

Your mouth parts at the tenderness of it all and emotion bubbles within you.

Sizzles, ferociously, when Namjoon reveals his secret.

“Speeding down the road to this hotel, I saw it before my eyes. What I was going to do to you,” he starts, unbuckling his belt and sliding it off the loops. Your heart thumps, violently, against your ribcage, longing to jump onto his big palms. He pauses his motions to concentrate on his words. “I was going to apologize. Tell you what happened. And then I was going to make it up to you. Undress you, keep only the shoes on you were going to wear.” He looks over to the side, where your black YSL heels have been waiting for hours to be worn. Before he even asks if those were the ones, you nod your head and Namjoon fetches them and puts them on your feet. “I was going to have these digging into my back while I ate you out. While I would transfer us to the park before the Eiffel Tower with my words.” Securing the straps, he straightens, knees on either side of yours, and grabs his tie, smoothing it out with his thumbs. “I was going to blindfold you. Make you imagine you were there with me. No one else but us. On a blanket. Describe to you in great detail what we were doing as I’d be balls deep in you. Here but there at the same time.”

Your throat dries as you take in his words and there’s only a few words you’re capable of saying. Your eyes flick to the tie, then back up to his dark chocolate irises, wet with a glint of deep arousal, one that you feel pulsing in you just as well. You hook your arms on his hips and nod at the slender fabric in his grasp.

A man of the world’s intelligence. How attractive, how alluring. Your shadowed cloud swathes you tighter and you spill with the need to be fucked. Fucked with that smartness. That capability. All wrapped around that big cock of his.

You need it. Won’t live if he doesn’t ruin you with it.

“Do it,” you choke out, swallowing with great difficulty. “Please.”

Fingers curling around his belt loops, it doesn’t go unnoticed the way his manhood twitches in the tight confines of his slacks and the sound you let out at the sight would be embarrassing if he wasn’t so endeared by it, caressing your face with his thumb, lifting it so you pay attention to what he wants to say to you.

“Are you comfortable with me blindfolding you? We’ve never done that before.”

Even though your trust wavered merely an hour ago, it happened so it would get strengthened at this very moment. You don’t detect any no’s echoing within you, any worries or fears, anything that would cause you to stand in the way of this endeavor unfolding. It excites you, the newness, the principle of placing not just your trust, but your control, your senses and your safety in his hands. Allowing him to proceed with his would solely mean that you deepen what you already practice in your sex life, take it to another level. And these things are of great importance to Namjoon. He never disappointed you—never failed, never missed.

He takes care of you. Through and through. From the beginning to the end. Until you close your eyes, only to take it from the top the following morning.

Your trust in terms of that could never waver. It’s impossible. It’s so strong, so held steadily that it would never come across your mind, even.

And so you give him your consent.

“Yes, I am. I’m excited to do this. I want this.”

Namjoon strokes your hair, pressing a kiss onto your forehead. “All right, my love, but remember that we can stop anytime. I’ll take it off as soon as you say the word. Tell me you understand.”

And along with your consent, you give him a big smile. “I understand, baby.”

He kisses you, stealing a thousand tiny kisses more in the same lip lock. “That’s a good girl. So smart. Are you thirsty?”

You fold your hands on your lap and nod your head. The tie slung over his broad shoulder, Namjoon walks over to the mini bar, fishes out a bottle of ice cold water and opens it for you, tipping it to your mouth, encouraging you to drink.

The coldness streaming down your stomach only enlivens your arousal and it seems as though the matter is naked to the eye as Namjoon bites his lip at the sight of you, screwing the bottle shut and placing it on the bedside table. You tug at the tie, your eyes crinkling as your smile simply can’t leave your mouth alone and Namjoon hums out a laugh at your excitement.

“Ready?”

Your whole figure is fluttering, of course you’re ready—and you tell him. “Born ready.”

It prolongs his expression of lighthearted endearment. “Good. Remember to stop me when it gets too much. Close your eyes.” Obeying, the softness of the silk grazes, fondly, your eyelids as pitch-blackness encompasses you. Namjoon ties the thick wisp at the back of your head, careful not to intermingle any strands of your hair into the knot, attentive enough not to pull it too tight and not too loose either, causing you to ache for him so badly that you almost want to scream. “How does it feel?”

Uncanny. You hear his voice and, peculiarly, it’s louder in your ears, although he’s speaking in the same volume as he was before he blindfolded you. You sense something missing from you—and it’s a feeling that you detect in the pit of your stomach and at the ends of your abruptly numb fingertips.

You clench those digits, but the sensation remains. It is only when you raise them and bump into the sturdiness of his chest that you perceive what it truly is.

Groundedness is what you’re missing.

The softness of his skin brings back a sense of realness back to you. When you drift your palms up to his shoulders and hold onto them, you feel real; you feel like a person that has limbs, that has someone right there with them to look out for them because aloneness is what comes with the darkness of the sight and that is absolutely terrifying.

You cling to his neck, causing him to stumble into you, and you sigh in relief at the feeling of his weight. He goes to lift himself up, but you stop him—tightening your headlock, pressing the side of your face against his, eating that realness as you trace your lips against his cheek, run your hand across the back of his head.

He’s here with you and he’s not going anywhere. With that stability, you can walk further in this rendezvous because you’re not alone at all, despite the fact it’s what your eyesight is telling you.

“It feels really strange. I need you close. I need to feel you. To know I’m not by myself,” you whisper, sensing your chest to become lighter once the truth is out. Your naivety and excitement didn’t expect this to happen, but you’re comfortable with trying this out and feel where it takes you.

“Do you want to stop?” Namjoon asks and you can identify where he roots that question on your body. Right there upon your left collarbone, where his breath seems warmer than ever before and where he begins to scatter tiny kisses.

That thrills you—the identification of where he is, the loudness of his voice, the depth of his touch and the unusually scorching body heat he radiates as all of your other senses are heightened and you want more of it. You crave to know what it would feel like to have his tongue on your sensitive parts like this. What it would feel like to have him drilling you.

That alone makes you shiver with something beyond excitement. With something feral and undomesticated, again.

Another thing for him to tame.

Your body sings to him. To the stars. To the tower. And Namjoon can hear it, incorporating his tongue into his not so chaste kisses in response.

“No, I don’t want to stop. I want you to keep going,” you say at last, caressing the wholeness of his back, reveling in the discovery of his muscles, his shoulder blades. It feels so new, so different. You quake all over.

Namjoon pulls himself upwards, nudges his nose against yours and you smile. “Okay, baby. I’m right here.” He kisses both of your eyelids, the right one first before the left one. You feel at one with your heart as it palpitates; feel as though you were inside your body. “Fuck, your eyelashes are so long that I can see them curled around the tie. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You blush, the heat of your cheeks akin to a blanket pulled to your nose. Such coziness. You hum and try to find his lips, but he’s out of reach. You crane your neck until it hurts, giving up with a huff.

“God, don’t do that to me. That was so cute,” Namjoon husks and moans when you pull him down and kiss him at last.

It’s at this moment that you thank the God that he mentioned for writing into the Book of Life that Namjoon was to be late and miss your dream because this kiss does more than make up for it. This kiss creates new dreams that begin to swirl within you. Dreams of the Mediterranean sea, the sand and sun rays so hot that they bronze your skin. Dreams of sultry nights, black dresses and flats for all the roads you shall walk upon while following the starlight, hand in hand with Namjoon dressed in linen of the same color.

Dreams of Asia, but not where you first opened your eyes in as a newborn. The western side of Asia, the one you’ve never seen and never dreamed of until now.

Your heart enlarges and you overspill with so many emotions that they trickle out of your hidden tear ducts. Newness, possibilities—for both you and Namjoon, but mainly for him. For his happiness.

He calls your name, fearfully, but you shake your head. “What’s wrong?”

You feel his fingers sneaking over to the knot of the tie, but you stop him. “I know where we’re going next time.”

His breath of relief becomes the new cloud you rest upon. “You scared me. Don’t cry, baby.”

You fondle his wrist. “Namjoon, we’re going to Turkey.”

Silence. Then, a kiss. “Is that where you want to go?”

A nod. That’s where your soul will escape to once you lay down to sleep. “That’s the place I’m dreaming of.”

A kiss on your neck. A hum. “Then, that’s where we’ll go.” A stripe of his tongue down to your collarbones—you feel your slick drip down onto the bedding. “Do you remember where we are right now?”

An inhale of breath. “Paris.”

Namjoon sucks the supple skin above your nipple. “That’s right. We’re at the park in front of the Eiffel Tower in the middle of summer. You’re sat on my lap like this.” He manhandles you to the position he describes and you gasp, not expecting it. “My back is facing it while you have a perfect view of the twinkling lights. Can you see them?” If your memory serves you well, he’s painting a picture of reality as well and you’re so touched by it that another, secret tear rolls down your cheek.

“Yes, they’re shining so brightly. They’re so pretty, too. You’re making my dream come true. Thank you.”

Wetness against your sternum. Namjoon must be crying as well and the realization makes you sob. Makes you find his lips again and kiss him.

“I love you,” Namjoon croaks out and you break, holding onto him so tightly that you clench all of your muscles.

“I love you, Namjoon.”

A final kiss before the continuation of his depiction of the dream.

“Nobody is around. They’ve all gone to sleep. It’s just us, the Tower and the moon. You’re so beautiful, so lost in the pleasure as I’m kissing you like this.” He shows you by resuming leaving kisses along your breasts. “And when I do this—” He licks over your nipple, sucking it into his mouth. You whimper, flexing your eyelids at the sensation swarming in your core. “You make pretty sounds just like that, but I tell you to be quiet. We don’t wanna wake up those people and ruin the fun. And you’re so good that you listen, taking the pleasure so well.”

He sets you down onto the bed, moves down to your tummy, placing the rest of his kisses there.

“Then, I lay you down on the blanket. You’re naked for my eyes only and I spread your legs.” His hands follow his words, lifting your thighs and pinning them down. “I blow on your needy little pussy and you shiver so beautifully for me. I can see you shining for me, shining brighter than the lights and I give it to you.”

There you feel it. The lick of his tongue on your clit and you shudder, moan so loudly that it reverberates down your body, the pleasure unlike any other you ever had the grace to experience. You roll your body into his mouth and Namjoon moans in tandem with you, even more so when your heel digs into his shoulder blade like he dreamed of.

“I lick your clit in circles and I feel you come alive on my tongue, so I pick up the pace.”

You chase the movement as he does, reveling in it to the point that you curl your body, rising yourself to your elbows and grasping the nape of his neck, knocking your head back once he prods a finger into your heat.

“I need more of it. I need to feel you around my fingers, so I stretch you out.”

He adds another digit, fucking you diligently, and you whine out his name, squeezing his neck, your thumb pressing the spot above his Adam’s apple.

“But my baby is doing something she knows is making my cock needy for her. She’s choking me, making me so fucking hard for her, so I pin her hands down.”

He rips your hand from his neck and pushes it down onto the bedding, holding it in place with his forearm as he rounds an arm around your tummy, fingers spreading your folds apart from this angle, leaning his weight on it, freeing up space for his other hand to fuck you harder.

You plop down onto the bedding, unable to resist him. And with your submission comes your orgasm, the rope uncoiling right at the place where the pulse on his wrist thumps.

And your dreams explode across the blackness of your vision.

“And you come like this. On my tongue. Around my fingers and I go fucking crazy for you, lick up everything you gave me. So fucking crazy that I turn you around and take you like this.”

You’re glad for the way he worded this part because you don’t jump when he does swivel you and licks over the red marks over your bum. He prepared you. The coolness of the petals on your skin causes you to whimper and you move your hand in effort to grab one of them. Namjoon settles between the sides of your thighs and when he sees what you’ve found, he chuckles, taking it from you, turning you halfway and brushing it against your cheek.

You gasp, liking the heightened softness, and you purr. Seeing your reaction, Namjoon drifts it down your neck, your collarbone until he reaches the peak of your breast. And when he circles that stiffened nub—an endeavor just between you, outside of the dream—your whimpers have so much tension and opulent seductiveness to them that you feel his bare manhood twitch against the line of your bum.

It drives you to thrash your hand until you find him, too, and you wrap your hand around his thick manhood, pumping him as he stimulates your nipple like this, your position—halfway on your side, with your leg crossed, propped on the bedding, brings friction to your clit as your body moves where the pleasure wants it.

Namjoon breathes hard, groaning gutturally, and you could almost come like this.

“Fuck, Daddy, it feels so good,” you whine and it causes Namjoon to turn you fully onto your back and take that petal down to your wet clit. “Oh, my God.”

Faint, yet so nice. You tremble, feeling the petal drifting over your folds, your lips, gathering your slick over your heat. And when Namjoon rubs circles on your clit with it, the membrane of the petal so fucking slippery now that it’s coated with your wetness, his title falls from your lips like the rain that keeps those flowers alive out there in Paris.

“Keep fucking me with your wrist,” Namjoon rasps and you moan, loving to be ordered around, loving being told what to do.

You fix your mistake of neglecting him while lost in the new delight, concentrating on his equally wet tip as you tighten your hold, pumping him swiftly, his foreskin closing around him in tandem with your movement coaxing his growls out that envelop you in firelight, hotter than anything you’ve ever felt.

Even gripping him you perceive to be different and as that firelight flickers vastly across the night you see, splattering it with makeshift stars that Namjoon calls to creation with each of his deep sounds, your orgasm comes as an explosion that brings color to his art.

Purples, yellows, reds and pinks. Stars that brim with colors. Such paintwork of beauty that Namjoon strums to life on your clit and your scream gets muffled by the sheets as he turns you back onto your tummy without withdrawing his hand.

He begins to kiss your shoulder, knowing you need a minute before he can fill you up.

“My pretty girl, my wife,” he moans against your skin, marking you there. “I’m gonna fuck you with that petal on your clit. With the rest of them clinging to your beautiful body like that. Gonna fuck you nice and hard against them.” You whimper your vulgarities, so out of it—so intoxicated by the picture, looking forward to it. “You came so well on my fingers. With the petal. Fuck, I’m gonna ruin you just for that. And for the way you made me forget where we were.”

You laugh and your stomach flips, love hormones coursing in your veins like the strongest drug. And you laugh even harder when it dawns on you that you’ve also forgotten.

“I don’t remember either,” you sputter between your giggles, contagious as Namjoon laughs as well, brushing your hair back to one side to kiss your cheek.

“How are you feeling? Has it gotten too much, hm?”

He takes the time to check up on you, instead of picking up where he left off and, fuck, you dissolve, becoming one with the petals—no edges to you, only liquid affection.

You’ve gotten used to the darkness. No traces of fear or uneasiness can be found trickling in your system—as a matter of fact, you can’t wait to be fucked, can’t wait to find out how it’ll feel once he’s inside you. The way he’s talking to you, constantly touching you and making it known to you that he’s present with you doesn’t let the previous disturbing feeling to sidle up to you and you’re terribly, terribly grateful.

“I feel great. I want you inside me, baby. I’m ready.”

Namjoon growls, biting into the skin of your shoulder until you whimper, kissing the pain away. Rubs his petal-clad fingers on your clit, prolonging your noises. The pleasure begins to build up, the colors you’ve seen stacking back on top of each other and you sigh, nuzzling your face into the sheets, most comfortable.

He cradles your jaw, though. Makes you look forward. Augments the dream, resuming.

“You’re looking at the Tower and I’m holding you like this so your neck doesn’t cramp up. I’m inside you, just like you wanted.”

Namjoon merges the reality into the retelling, creating something more expanse than this world can bear and you’re awestruck. He sinks himself into your wonder, knees on either side of you as you lay flat on your tummy, your bum lifted a little, heels dangling off of the bed.

Your eyes flutter beneath the tie as his girth stretches you and the colors you see are adjacent to the picture he paints. They blossom into shapes, swirly edges that grow into flowers and cling to the Tower like the violet petals cling to your body. Namjoon pulls out and gives you a long stroke and more flowers bloom, hanging by the lights. You lose your breath, the vibrancy of the pleasure so heavenly that you lose track of time, day and space as well, floating in that dream that the reality you thought about ripped away from you once he bottoms out.

You can’t even hear yourself. Can only hear him as your senses wrap around him.

“I’m not choking you. I’m not giving you a taste of your own delicious poison; I’m just holding you like this, helping you see your dream alive in front of your eyes. I look at you and I can’t help it. You’re illuminated by those lights, yet shining brighter. Kissed by the moon so much that I get jealous. Can you see that fucker up above?”

As if he drew the planet with his finger, it appears in your vision as soon as he pulls out again and fills you in all entirety in one swift, but hard motion. And it’s now that you hear yourself scream as your clit rubs against his fingers flat against it with that collision.

“Fuck, Namjoon, I—I can’t take it. It’s too good.”

“I didn’t ask you if you could take it. I asked you something else,” he husks, moving his mouth against your neck. You feel your eyes rolling back underneath your closed eyelids and you moan, his hips picking up the speed. “You can take it and you will. Tell me, baby. Can you imagine that moon in your vision?”

It’s right there, beaming at you, but you can’t focus, not when you can feel his cock in your throat. He huffs against you, overcome just the same, resuming his circles on your clit and you’re dead.

“You’re so deep, Daddy,” you utter in one breath. “So good, fuck.”

Soaked flowers. Stars flickering more quicker. White dots joining in, along with hot flashes. You’re face to face with your orgasm.

“Focus, baby,” Namjoon scolds, voice straining nearing you closer, falling in step with you the more you clench your walls against him.

“Can’t. Gonna come.”

“Come, then,” he encourages, drilling you harder into the mattress, your clit yet again rubbing against his flat fingers. “Let go and give it to me like the nice girl you are. Come for me, baby.”

Fireworks shoot through that picture and you cling to it as you come around him. Namjoon praises you through it all, darkening those flowers that surround it and your orgasm convulses through you, lasting as long as the flying colors bursting through the night-tinged sky. And white gushes in as he loses himself in your climax, his own triggered and he stuffs you with it, fucking you through it until the bed makes such terrible sounds that he stills, letting you milk it out of him.

Panting, Namjoon swivels you halfway around while still buried inside you. “I’m gonna take off the blindfold now. Keep your eyes closed, baby.”

You listen and he flings it off, kissing you, ravagedly, whimpering into your mouth. Exhaustion seeps so deeply inside you that you can barely reciprocate the energy of the movement of his mouth and with one last peck, he lets you breathe.

When you open your eyes, it’s not the light that stings your pupils, but the exhilarated, flushed and content sight of Namjoon, his chest heaving, glistening with sweat. You blink a few times to get used to the beauty, touching him all over, spreading your love for him everywhere you can.

“That was so perfect,” you whisper, sleepily. “Thank you. Thank you for making my dream come true. For making it better than I ever dreamed of. I love you, Joonie.”

He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles—with bruised, puffy, reddened lips that make you weak.

“I love you.”

You lay like this for quite some time, stroking each other’s skin, enjoying the rest and the silence. Namjoon takes off your heels then, massaging your feet as if they were in pain and you smile down at him, fondly.

“Like hell, I’d let you wear these to the park.”

You laugh through your nose, your love for him blooming, and he carries you in the shower.

You join him on the balcony later, sharing a cigarette with him, wearing matching, thick and warm hotel bathrobes to protect you from winter’s cold. You look up at the moon as you take a drag and send your thank you to God for the contended joy that clothes your heart. Namjoon pulls you in, kissing the top of your head.

“So, Turkey next time?” he asks, inhaling your vanilla scent from your body wash that you brought along.

You sigh and life overflows from you. “In the summer. No business, just vacation. Just us. And if business does find you there, it’ll find me, too. It’ll be different this time.”

Namjoon presses his mouth against your forehead, sinks his words there. “I’d marry you right now if I could.”

Tears prick at your waterline, your throat aching. “If I pray hard enough, she’ll get better by spring,” you say, voice wobbling, speaking of your poor mother. You couldn’t get married without her—it’s the sole reason why your wedding is left in the hands of fate.

“We’ll bring her to Turkey, then. I’ll make sure to tell her to pack her hanbok and I’ll marry you there. What do you say?”

Rivulets of tears stream down your face and you look up at him, catching the same liquid lining his eyes. You nod, your mouth rounding in a pout.

“Perfect,” you whisper.

Namjoon gives you the last kiss of the night, sealing that plan shut and you believe, with everything in you, that he will bring it into reality.

You trust him.

Forever.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah.

BACK to masterlist

#namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon x y/n #namjoon x oc #namjoon x you #btscreatorscorner #bts smut #bts imagine #namjoon imagine #namjoon scenarios #namjoon fluff #kpop smut #knj x reader #knj #kim namjoon #namjoon

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tasteracha · 3 months

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a/n: my comeback in the form of a disorganized half silly half poetic felix. thing. inspired by him looking divine enough to lick after walking the runway.

warnings: lix is a little mean and condescending, fem!reader

your lips are on his before he makes it through the door, a sweet smell from the roses crushed between the two of you erupting into the room. you’d been all but waiting at the door since he left for paris, too busy with work and life to take him up on his invitation to join him, though it hurt more than it should have to see him there without you.

“you looked so good, still do, oh my god,” you say against his lips, kisses complimenting every word.

“thank you, darling,” he pulls away to set the flowers down, and there’s so many. what were you even going to do with all of that? a problem for later, you decide, instead prioritizing entering his personal space once again.

you take his face in your hands, gentle as to not smear the careful swipes of makeup there - that would be a task for later. it seemed like he didn’t have the opportunity to change and shower before he came home to you, and in your head it had more to do with his desire to see you than the timing of his flight following the after party. you take in the browns brushed across his eyelids, the gentle flush of blush highlighting his cheekbone, the shininess of his eyes as he lets your eyes feast on the delicacy of his features. he’s dressed smartly in a crisp white button-up shirt and high-waisted black slacks that sat around his waist and curved perfectly around his ass. you brush one hand through his wavy, iridescent hair and it’s so feather soft that you can barely feel it passing through your fingers. specks of glitter fall out of it like angel dust and the urge to call him pretty passes through the forefront of your thoughts. you don’t think you will ever get tired of telling him how beautiful he is.

“never cut your hair again,” you demand, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck and twirling the strands between your fingertips. “you look like an angel, lix.”

“okay,” he grins, nuzzling his hand into your palm. “you might have to work it out with the stylists on that, though.”

“i’ll fight them with my bare hands,” you’re completely serious, and fondness takes over his features when he sees the sharpening of your brow and the set of your mouth. “if they bring a pair of scissors near you they’ll face my wrath.”

“down, baby,” he chuckles and removes your hands from his face, holding them in his and keeping you close. “let me get out of these clothes and i’ll let you tell me all about how you’re going to dismantle the stylist empire, alright?”

“no,” you whine, and you’re almost embarrassed at how needy you sound. you were desperate for him, sure, but you weren’t a child. “wanna stare at you forever. everyone else got you for so long, now you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” he echoes, love and affection dripping off of his words like syrup. “but in five minutes, i’ll be yours but wearing a hoodie. how does that sound?”

“fine,” you relent, releasing him completely so he could scamper away at the chance he was given. he was smart like that.

five minutes, he had said. it took you about one and a half to lose patience and pad over to the bedroom. the door was open, all thoughts of privacy gone after you had reached the first year of your relationship.

you find him in his boxers, wiping his shoulders with a damp towel and you pounce, trapping him underneath you on the bed. your hips are lined up with his from where you’re straddling him and you can feel his cock jump with interest against your core.

“this is surprising,” he starts, and you have snark waiting on your tongue about how he should have expected this before he continues. “i thought you would have come in earlier, at least i had time to get undressed.”

“lix, you’re just so beautiful,” embarrassment rushes to your cheeks as you duck your head, ashamed and delighted at having your desperation for him verbalized like this. “can you blame me for wanting you?”

“of course not, darling,” he soothes you with fingertips to your forehead, brushing off tufts of hair that fall back into place right after. “i want you just as much.”

“good,” you grind down on him, savoring how he hisses at the contact. you get a moment of satisfaction before he switches, flipping the both of you over in one practiced move. you end up beneath him, your wrists pinned over your head and his thigh wedged between yours.

“but i think you may benefit from learning a bit of patience, hmm?” he ghosts his lips over your cheek, running the top of his nose against yours. his hands leave your hands to wander over your sides, running up the hem of your shirt and towards your breasts; you weren’t wearing a bra, so he had easy access to your nipples and he took full advantage of this.

the sensation isn’t enough, heat already pulsing in your core at just the look of him. you try to buck your hips up against his thigh but the angle is all off and you give up in frustration after a few attempts. you hated and loved when he got like this - teasing, controlling, edging on condescending. it was so unlike him in any other way that it sent sparks of excitement tingling up your spine.

“giving up so easily?” he smirks, and even that is soft around the edges in a confusingly adorable way. you never know what he wanted, and that made it even more fun. did he want you to act desperate or be patient?

you voiced as such, and he tutted and moved to get off of you with a shake of his head. his hands leave your shirt and you grasp for him, nails scrabbling against his bare chest and leaving lines of red in their wake. he pauses, leaning over you like a fallen deity and you almost falter, but the need to get one over on him wins over.

“if you don’t touch me, i’ll just do it myself,” you reach one of your hands towards your shorts, fully intending to go through with your word. it wasn’t much of a threat, but you knew it would work on him. or well, you hoped it would.

“but darling, i am touching you,” he moves his thigh, still flush between your legs and you jolt. of course he would get the angle right. “you’re this worked up and you haven’t even told me what you wanted from me yet.”

“you know what i want,” you mumble, fire rushing to your cheeks again at having been outsmarted by him again. you should be used to this by now, but it ignites feelings inside of you as if they were the first time you were experiencing them, time and time again.

“i want to hear you say it,” he purrs, falling back against you and pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. “i want to hear how badly you want me. i want to know what you were thinking about when you were touching yourself while i was gone.”

you want to deny his words, want to tell him that you didn’t think of him at all, but you knew he would see right through you. you loved him with every aching beat of your swollen heart, you couldn’t deny anything even if it was just to keep up the dynamic he had started.

“i thought of you inside of me,” he pinches your side and compliments it with a nip to the shell of your ear, his breath hot on your skin. not good enough, he says with his actions. “nothing else feels like you. i couldn’t finish without you- ah.”

your breath is pushed out of your chest as he begins to kiss down your neck, his lips finding every sensitive spot on your skin like he was tracing a line that he had drawn on you.

“t-thought about the first time we had sex, when i knew i wouldn’t fuck anyone else for the rest of my life,” you might have been laying it on a little thick, but you knew he would fall for it. he might have teased you for being possessive, but he returned every inch with a mile, even if he was better at hiding it. he groans against you, tightening the hold he had around your waist, and you knew you had him.

“flatterer,” he says, less of a tease and more of a statement. he rewards your efforts by slipping his hand into your shorts, rubbing at your pussy through your panties. you had a second to worry about the wetness that had been collecting there, but it fizzled out with the pressure of his fingertips.

“wanted you to be here, to keep me full all day,” you were babbling now, saying anything to keep him going. as slow as he was being, you had no doubt that he would walk away just to keep up the act he had put on tonight. he was stronger than you in that way, one step ahead just by sheer force of will. “was hearing your voice in my head, telling me how good i was, how good you felt.”

“my darling is always good,” he murmurs, pushing aside your panties to slide his fingers against your clit. you never understood how a man who couldn’t tell the difference between a fruit and a vegetable was such an expert in your anatomy, but you weren’t one to complain, at least not about that. “even when you’re being a brat, you’re good.”

too soon, he removes his fingers from your core, wiping them against your shorts and shushing you when you open your mouth in protest.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he assures, staying close as he kneels over you. “just let me get you undressed, unless you want to stay like that?”

“dick,” you narrow your eyes, “i’m not going to answer that.”

“do you want my dick or am i a dick?” he pauses his hands, shorts and panties halfway down your thigh from where he had pulled them and you huff out a laugh.

“you’re hilarious,” you deadpan, kicking your foot to urge him to keep going as you lift your shirt off to quicken the process. you needed his dick inside of you like, yesterday. preferably.

he pulls off his own briefs and they float to join yours on the floor and you can finally see his cock, half hard and pink and flushed and perfect.

god, everything about him was perfect.

you spread your legs a bit, smiling when his hungry eyes land on your pussy, now fully on display. you could see the fight in him fizzling out; for all his talk, he was apart from you for so long, and as strong of a man he was everyone had a weakness.

he crawls back over you, stroking himself until he’s fully hard and leaking. he braces himself with one hand by your head, the veins on his arm popping at the exertion of keeping himself held up, the other hand guiding his cock into your folds to swipe against the wetness that had built up there.

“c’mon, lix,” you turn your head to press a kiss to his wrist, the delicate flesh feeling fever hot against your lips, and you can feel him trembling. “i’ve unintentionally edged myself for days, take me.”

“what did i say about patience?” he grunts out, but there is no bite in his words and despite their implication he presses the head of his cock against your hole.

you can’t help but tense up in excitement, the one thing you’d been craving for several nights finally within your grasp. he ducks his head to kiss you, mumbling a relax, baby against your lips and at once your body melts into the mattress.

when he finally slides into you it’s like coming home, the feeling of two imperfect pieces slotting together to create a masterpiece. everything else in the world fades away and it’s just him, the feeling of him inside of you and on top of you, his face taking over your vision and his scent invading your nostrils like a drug.

on another day he might have spent hours taking you apart with his mouth, teasing you with his fingers in ghosted touches and playful dancing. on another day he may have prolonged the game, made you recite every single thing you wanted him to do to you before doing it. but today, he stays like this for a moment, buried inside of you and panting into your neck, savoring the feeling of your tight heat around his aching cock. when he starts moving it’s like fireworks are bursting beneath your eyelids, sparks shooting out every time he hits your spot.

you try to match his thrusts with your hips, lifting up to meet him halfway, but you end up exhausted after just a few moments. his movements were getting more intense, quicker and harder until he was fucking into you without abandon and you couldn’t keep up even if you wanted to. this is what you were waiting for, the wildness of his body and the sharp possessiveness glinting in his eyes, the teeth he bared before sinking them into your neck and the harsh grip he kept on your waist.

you both finish fast, but what else could one expect from two beings completely obsessed with each other? time was fickle in the face of the two of you together, every minute felt like an hour. and besides, now that he was home you could do this over and over.

he fucks you through your orgasm, whispering i love you’s and my darling’s into you as he follows you soon after. he ends up collapsing against you for a moment, and the breath you lose is worth you feeling his chest heaving with exerted breaths and the way he nuzzles into whatever patch of your skin he can find.

“lix,” you mutter out, totally spent even though this may have been the tamest sex the two of you have had in a long while.

“hmm?” he scootches over to the side and gathers you in his arms, holding you like you’re something precious.

“do you still want to teach me about patience?”

#stray kids smut #skz smut #stray kids imagines #lee felix smut #felix smut #lee felix x reader

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littleeyesofpallas · 3 months

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So, with the new legends there's a neat way we can take a guess at some of the time frame. Although it's largely aesthetic and hard to gauge the intended historical parallels of, the not-Eiffel Tower at the center of the city could presumably have been completed in the late 1880s like the real thing. Interestingly that places it pretty concurrent to the construction of the Hokkaido Government building in the 1870s that served as the basis of the Galaxy Team HQ in the first Legends game.

But with the keywords being "urban redevelopment" the setting could only possibly be Haussman's renovation of Paris that took place from the 1850s-1920s. So given that the tower is already standing, that places Legends Z-A between 1889 and 1927.

And I doubt it would play into the setting of a Pokemon game but I think it's neat that it would mean taking place firmly in the 3rd French Republic, as that's not typically the most romanticized period of French history. (Kind of shocking given just how much Japanese pop culture loves to fixate on the Ancien Regime and Rococco architecture.) It's right at the height of the French Colonial empire and their rivalry with the British... Even if they don't address the history directly, certainly not the darker bits, I wonder if we'll see an ancestor of Rose* and some mention of Kalos and Galar's relation as a hint at the Pokemon world's equivalent of India. (Elephant, what elephant...)

*put a pin in that... Well come back to Rose later...

Also I know a lot of the stupid "leaks" that were just running with any/every rumor they could find had been talking about Celebi, despite there being no signs of it in the direct, but it's possible that the Z-A title and the fadethru of the sort of sci-fi looking city diagram into a pencil and parchment one is indicating going back in time --backwards, from Z to A, end to start.

and just so long as I'm just picking at edges of things...

The unknown are an anagram of, "POKEMON PRESENTS"(oh and the SOEYUE one at the end is just "SEE YOU") and the ""confidential"" stamp on the documents likely reads "Gokuhi" as in gokuhi[極秘]: "Top Secret," but the rest of the text doesn't seem to match either Japanese, French, or English,

Hito to POKEMON no kyouzon o yumemite[人とポケモンの共存を夢見て]: "Dreaming of people and Pokemon's coexistence" Toshisaikaibatsu hassou MIARE CITY[都市再開発発想ミアレシティ]: "Urban Redevelopment Concept Miare City"

The obvious exception being that redacted text is clearly the romanized MIARE from the Japanese MIARE[ミアレ] and the English CITY, which is the Japanese name for what was localized as "Lumiose."

Curiously the word "Pokemon" is very clearly missing from the passage, and also in both cases there are too few "Galarian" characters for how long the phrases are in any actual language.

and finally, given some of the existing examples of handwritten Galarian in SwSh, I'm guessing the text on the big logo is as i've transcribed into the more standard Galar font, although I'm really uncertain about that second one, and a bit iffy about the big "X"s, but the little cyclone O, the V with the underbar, and the E seem certain enough.

Also there's a logo I know I remember seeing that looks like this one but I can't remember where it is or what it's associated with.... It's the logo on the Macro Cosmos power plant. Not Rose's personal logo with the stylized rose, and not the Cosmos business logo with the big star system orbital ring Cs, but the power plant in Hammerlock where you go to fight Eternatus specifically.

It would be really neat if whatever this organization is was tied back to an ancestor of Rose and Peony and the origins of Macro Cosmos somehow.

#pokemon #kalos #pokemon legends #pokemon legends Z-A #pokemeta i guess #pokemon za #pokemon legends za

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sinsirellaxx · 3 months

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Slytherin Boys – What makes them toxic?

Warning: Toxic Slytherin boys – what else? 🫡

Mattheo …

… he’ll always monitor who you’re talking to without making it too obvious. He will listen to the conversations you have with others while pretending to be busy with something else. Messages? He has hacked into your accounts and checks everything regularly – there is nothing you can hide.

… whenever a boy’s eyes linger on you for too long, he will memorize their faces and hunt them down either at night or early in the morning. If he finds out that someone has a crush on you, that someone will slip and fall down the moving stairs.

… if you don’t want to be intimate before marriage – for whatever reason – he will guilt you into sleeping with him and giving him what he wants, whenever he wants. This way he can bind you to him in a much deeper way.

… at first, he won’t care about what you wear and how revealing something is, but the deeper in love he is he will slowly start manipulating the way you dress

… depending on how naïve you are, he will make you do the unbreakable vow with him – promising to love each other until death does you part

Theodore …

… wants you to always tell him where you are and with whom

… if you don’t reply to his messages within minutes he will start calling you – and if that doesn’t work, he will come find you

… has many female friends but won’t allow you to have any male friends that he doesn’t approve of – and he does not approve of anyone except for his own friends

… will occasionally flirt with girls in front of you just to make you jealous and to constantly remind you how desirable he is. If you get mad at him for flirting with other girls, he just makes you believe that you are being overly dramatic and that he would never flirt with others. It wasn’t his fault that he had girls throwing themselves at him left and right

… bought you a necklace – basically a choker – with his initials on it and expects you to wear it all the time

Lorenzo …

… never posts you on his socials but expects you to do it

… whenever you spend more time with your friends, he will start a fight to ruin your time with them – if you’re not having fun with him, you won’t be having fun at all

… always questions your love for him if you don’t give him what he wants: You don’t want to change your clothes? You must hate him. You won’t stay in with him instead of going to Hogsmeade with the girls? He always knew you didn’t love him as much as you claimed you did. You don’t want to be intimate? Your love for him isn’t strong enough – his ex-girlfriends never made him ask for it

… buys you clothes he likes wants you to dress up for him all.the.time

Draco …

… he is annoyed whenever you have an opposing opinion

… uses his parents’ wealth to impress and overwhelm you. You are mad at him? He buys you jewelry. He forgot your anniversary? He’ll take you on a trip to Paris. He hurt you and screamed at you in a fight? He’ll have roses delivered to your room every day until you forgive him

… you are not allowed to talk to the golden trio at all

… you always have to join him on the boring pureblood-events his parents host, even if you don’t want to

… he has to be you first priority. Always. Even if you aren’t his

Blaise …

… is the sweetest and most attentive boyfriend until you do something that provokes him

… will cancel dates whenever Draco needs him and does not have any sympathy when you get mad at him for it

… can’t help but smirk whenever girls stare at him with heart-eyes even if you are with him – he still enjoys their attention

… even though he stares at the cleavage of other girls from time to time he does not allow you to wear revealing clothes at all

… kinda ghosts you whenever he’s back home

… calls his ex-girlfriends crazy and problematic

#slytherin boys #draco imagine #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #theodore nott x reader #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #theo nott x reader #theodore nott fanfiction #theodore nott imagine #blaise zabini #blaise zabini x reader #lorenzo berkshire #lorenzo berkshire x reader #enzo berkshire x reader #enzo berkshire

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minhosimthings · 6 months

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Lancey or Lancey

Symphony Smut Series Day 5: Lancey Foxx's Lancey or Lancey

Lyric: Took her to Paris, she took her panties off

Pairings: Bf!Felix × fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, fingering, p in v sex, overstimulation, lingerie kink, Frottage, implied use of pheromone, dom!felix, sub!reader, protected sex, reader orgasms like 3 times, fluffy at the end (sorta), smut with plot

A/N: sorry for delaying day 5 everyone! I had to release my Christmas headcannons yesterday so I couldn't really post this. But we are back on track! So enjoy my urge for Felix to buy my lingerie, through this stupid oneshot.

THE SYMPHONY SMUT SERIES MASTERLIST

"Felix tell me you're kidding right now."

"Hmm." Your boyfriend put his finger to his temple, pretending to playfully think, "I think.... Nope!"

You could have screamed out loud right there. But instead of damaging your boyfriend's ears, you decided to damage his heart, by filling it with too much love, by hugging him almost to the point of his ribs breaking.

"I love, I love you, and I love you." You kissed every part of his face after every 'i love you'. His freckles, his nose and finally his lips, where you loved to be the most.

"I can't believe we're going to Paris." You slumped back on the bed, not being able to realise that you had Paris tickets clutched in your hands.

"Me neither darling." Felix leaned closer to you, encasing your waist in his arms, his grip sending tingles throughout your body, "Oh and I have a surprise for you."

"Don't tell me you got me lingerie." You rolled your eyes at him playfully, "Lix, for god's sake you already bought me so much crap."

"But this is special, I promise!" Felix scrunched his nose at you, before reaching over and taking out a box from underneath the bed.

"You hid it under my bed for how long exactly?" You raised your brow at his weird hiding spot, "Wait so this is why you were searching for your missing sock under my bed!?"

Felix chuckled, his deep voice pulsating throughout your body like electroshock. "You never clean the underside of your bed, so it became the perfect hiding place."

The box he held in his hands was about the size of a shoebox, completely covered in pink ribbons and lace and whatnot. It was pretty, you had to admit, but you were confused about whether Felix was getting you a box or lingerie.

"Open it princess." Felix nudged the box into your arms, "You'll like it, I promise."

You had often gotten lingerie as gifts from your boyfriend, with all of them almost becoming your daily wear. But he had never gotten you something like this.

"Liz is this-" "A lingerie dress? Yes princess, yes it is."

You stared at felix in awe, before snapping your head back to the white cloth in the box. It was pretty, made up of, what you assumed was white silk, with lace ribbons decorating the neckline perfectly.

"But, but, but, this isn't the surprise."

You looked up at Felix with confusion clouding your eyes, which made him chukle at how adorable you were.

"So the surprise is-" Felix said, in a hyperbole voice, "I get to fuck you in these in Paris."

"That's the surprise?" You scoffed, at how underwhelming it was, "We could fuck-"

"And you get no sex until we get to Paris and you're in this beautiful piece of art."

It was as if you got a slap to your face when you heard Felix's words echo through your mind.

"Lee Felix Yongbok." You glared at him, "Tell me you're joking."

"Nope." Felix leaned back against the bedframe, his shirt riding up slightly to reveal his abs, "Let's just say this is payback for making me love no nut November on purpose."

"So what is this then? Death by No Dick December?" You glared at him, as he sealed you tighter in his arms.

"Impatient aren't you?" Felix mumbled into your ear, rubbing his hand against your leggings, "Patience is a good virtue darling."

"Not when your dick is literally rubbing against my pussy."

A week passed and you were finally in the land of romance and love and roses and croissants.

A week with none of your favourite food in your mouth or in your pussy. Felix enjoyed it, the way you were basically on your knees for him, but you weren't a sore loser, so you kept the game up, with the help of your trusty vibrator.

But now, it was the real game.

After you enjoyed some nice croissants by a quaint cafe and petted a lot of stray cats, you headed back to your hotel, side-eyeing Felix all along the way who had not a clue about all the breakdowns you were about to have. Your cunt was itching to the point of destruction, and his dick was the only way of peace.

"Well aren't you gorgeous now?"

The room was more dimly lit than it was when you had entered it, the smell of lavender intoxicating you, courtesy to Felix's new perfume.

"Come 'ere." Felix opened his arms, as you silently walked towards him, the chill breeze from the open window giving you goosebumps. The material of the lingerie was thinner than you had anticipated, basically transparent, but then you reminded yourself that this was what Felix liked the most. And if you obeyed properly like his good princess, he would give you the medicine to your poor cunt.

"Fuck you're like a goddess." Felix's hands traced over your barely clothes thighs, leaving marks with his mouth on your collarbone, making you whimper.

"What do you want princess?" Felix chuckled. Teasing you was always fun, "My cock hmm? Use your big girl words now, come on. We don't wanna disappoint the city of love do we?"

"Ah fuck Lix!" Your voice vibrated off of the walls as felix squeezed the inner walls of your thigh, the desperation of him had been so high that even a tiny squeeze was already getting you wet, "Need your cock please!"

"Good girl."

He chuckles at how needy you sound, but at the same time, your voice has blood rushing to his cock while his head swirls with desire. He shifts his own hips, subtly pressing his erection against your ass. His eyes flutter at the minute pleasure. He grows more bold, and his hand rubs your hip before coasting up your side to your chest, giving your breast a gentle squeeze.

You whimper louder and squirm. He squeezes again softly while lowering his head to your neck to lay some tender kisses on the side of your throat. His palm leaves your tits and smooths down over your tummy in the direction of your panties.

Cautiously, he maneuvers his hand past the waistband and dips into your cunt. He cups your pussy, feeling the heat radiating off the area. A single finger slides between your folds in almost an exploratory touch. He feels your slick all over his digit.

He begins to use another finger, sliding the two up and down through your wetness. You roll onto your back, your breasts rising and falling as your breath gets heavier. Your thighs spread a little as if you subconsciously sensed his presence between your legs.

“I’m right here, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice huskier with arousal this time around.

You cry out as his fingers brush against those same spots that brought you to the finish last time. Your hips twitch, and you grip his thighs as your peak rises within you. Moments later your cumming all over his fingers, sucking in a harsh breath as a second release courses through you, even more intense then the last.

His free arm keeps you secure against his chest while rubbing your side soothingly. The heel of his other palm roughly massages your clit as his fingers pump in and out.

As soon as you seem to be coming down, Felix lifts you up again, tugging your clothes off and moving your body around like a doll to get you in the position he wants. You were definitely more pliant after two orgasms, but you could also see how the weeks without pussy had been paying off. He was getting better.

He has you on your back now, thighs against your chest and knees hooked over his arms. Again, he had no patience to tease right now, so after pushing his sweats down to mid thigh, he takes his cock and slides it in you with no hesitation. He groans as your hole takes him in, your walls pulsing around him even after he bottoms out.

Your eyes droop at the stretch. It always felt so satisfying, having him buried balls deep in you. As close as he could possibly be. No fear of him leaving or pain of being separated. You whine and reach up to pull him closer.

“Perfect pussy’s made for me,” he grunts while snapping his hips, “Miss it every second I’m not inside it.”

“Lix” you whine, “Harder. Wanna feel it.”

He moans at your plea but indulges you, grabbing you harder, pressing your legs higher, filling you deeper.

He fucks into you over and over, stoking the flames within himself, trying to build to that explosion. You were so tight, so warm. He hums another low moan and whimpers softly as he feels it right there. He gasps softly before holding you tighter and muttering in your ear.

“Good… good girl,” he moans before his hips buck wildly and he finally releases.

You finish for a third time. You cling to him tight as the euphoria washes over you again. Locking your legs around his hips, you keep your face pressed to the warm skin of his neck as it goes through you. You feel the hot flood of cum he fucks into you. His chest is heaving now too as he recovers from the high.

He stays on top of you for a moment before pulling out. You cling harder upon losing that full feeling. He smiles at your desire to be close to him and gives you one more kiss before sitting up.

"Well-" Felix's deep voiced chuckle vibrates throughout your body, "That was fucking good."

"First of all-" you sleepily say, "Fuck you for depriving me of all that good dick for a week." You glare at him, "Second of all, I want more lingerie like this."

"Whatever you say darling." Felix shrugs his shoulders, supporting you a little straighter against his figure, "You know Paris does have really good lingerie."

Taglist: @ramenoil @mynameisniya150 @demigodmahash + whoever wants to be tagged the list is open!

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iateyourparents · 6 months

Text

home | t.y.

pairing: tara yummy x fem!reader

summary: you decided to surprise your girlfriend.

warnings: bad writing and grammar(i’m sorry, english isn’t my first language)

pictures are from pinterest:)

You and Tara were together for three years now and everything was perfect.

Almost everything.

For almost two months now, you were long distancing because of both of yours works.

You had to fly to Paris and Tara couldn’t go with you so now everyday you two were texting each other and facetiming as often as possible. But it was almost two months and you both just wanted to be in each others arms in your apartment.

So you came up with a plan.

Although you were supposed to be in Paris for few more weeks you decided to just cut it short and do rest of the work from LA by social media. People you had collaboration with weren’t the happiest with that idea but they didn’t have much to say when you already made up your mind.

You contacted Jake for help, he was supposed to take Tara for some dinner to give you a time to come home from the airport and prepare another part of surprise.

So now here you were, finally after a long time, walking into your and Tara’s apartment. You felt almost at home. You couldn’t wait to see, cuddle and kiss Tara. She was your home.

You quickly changed your clothes into something more comfortable and started working on your surprise for Tara. At first you went to nearby store where you bought many sweets and other snacks you and Tara liked. Then, your next stop was a flower shop where you bought the priettest bouquet of red roses you could find.

You came home and started working on your living room.

You pushed a couch up to the wall and on the floor in front of the tv you laid many blankets and pillows. Then you positioned a coffee table in the way that it wouldn’t disturb in watching a tv from the floor but also was near enough to reach there for snacks.

When you got a text from Jake saying that Tara should be home in next few minutes, you quickly laid out snacks on the coffee table. You also lighted a few candles to make nicer atmosphere and turned on the tv to go to disney+ so it would be ready when you would want to choose something to watch.

You heard the door opening and Tara stopping in the door. She probably was surprised that they were open. You could hear her cautiously walking towards living room where you quickly picked up the roses and faced Tara’s direction.

When Tara finally walked into the room she stopped and was just staring at you with shock.

“Hi love.” you smiled widely at her trying to stop tears from coming to your eyes.

Tara lifted her hand to her mouth trying to say something but she was too stunned to speak. You also could see tears already forming in her eyes.

Finally she shook off the shock and ran up to you to hug you, so you quickly moved the flowers so you could reciprocate the gesture. You both hugged tight and you couldn’t stop yourself for any longer. You finally had her in your arms. You were home. And that realization made your cheeks wet with your tears.

“I can’t believe you’re really here.” Tara’s voice was muffled by your neck.

“Surprise love.” you whispered to her kissing the side of her head.

After a moment she disconnected from you just to connect your lips together.

“I missed you so fucking much baby.” she placed her forehead on your.

“I missed you too. I couldn’t wait any longer so I told them I would do rest of the work from here.” you explained.

“I’m so glad you did. Bed is so lonely without you here.” she pouted slightly and you kissed her again.

“I know Jake took you to dinner so I made us a movie night.” you pointed to blankets and pillows on the floor and Tara smiled widely.

“You’re the best. But did you ate dinner? We can order something.” she offered slightly worried.

“It’s alright, I ate on the plane.” you assured her and gave her the flowers “These are for you, love.”

She smiled and kissed you again.

„They are beautiful, just like you. Thank you baby.”

Tara quickly went to put the flowers in the water and then to change into some comfortable clothes and then you two laid on the blankets and chose something to watch.

Needless to say, you two didn’t really focuse on the movie.

#tara yummy x reader #tarayummy #tara yummy #tara #jake webber #johnnie guilbert #sam and colby #colby brock #sam golbach #snc

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stardust-swan · 16 days

Text

The Kind of Girl I Want To Be

Buys herself pink peonies and roses

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

Bakes heart shaped sugar cookies and macarons

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

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

Drinks peppermint tea in the morning and camomile tea at night

Sleeps on pink silk sheets and has a satin kimono robe

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

Takes ballates or yogalates classes

Plays the violin or cello

Watches Audrey Hepburn and Anna Karina films

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

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

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

Is always up to date with Fashion Week

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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flowerandblood · 2 months

Text

The Temple of the War

[ Ares • Ettore x Aphrodite • female ]

[ warnings: incest obviously, sex content, hate sex, smut, angst, violence, domination, swearing, marital infidelity ]

[ description: Although she thought it would be a fleeting affair, her disturbing relationship with the god of war only deepens, condemning them both to any attempt to reach an agreement. However, her brother loses his patience, wanting to find out what his lover gave Paris in exchange for the apple that Hera and Athena also deeply desired. ]

This is part 2 of The Temple of the God but it can be read as a standalone story. 💕

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

She wasn't sure she had ever felt anything like she did then, that night, as his heavy, sweaty, muscular body lay on top of hers, his hot breath enveloping her cheek as the last waves of pleasure and heat surged through her.

She stroked his smooth buttocks with her hands feeling his hips rock softly in some natural, subconscious reflex, his half-soft manhood still throbbing deep inside her.

She heard him swallow hard and grunt before he rose up on his elbows, looking down at her with his lips slightly parted, sliding out of her slowly with a quiet click of her moisture, rising up on his knees, stepping off her bed as if nothing had happened, making her press her lips together, disappointed.

"Are you going to simply walk away?" She asked coldly, saw him stop in his half-step, glancing over his shoulder at her, some kind of shock in his eyes, as if she had surprised him.

"Hm?"

"Are you going to leave me like this?"

He looked at her dully, clearly not understanding what she meant, what he was supposed to do now, what more she expected of him.

She realised, sighing heavily with disapproval, that after his aggressive rapprochements with women he was simply leaving them, going back to his own affairs, thinking no more of them, not knowing the tenderness of embraces, of soft, dreamy kisses, of hands trailing over warm, soft, naked bodies, of peaceful, deep sleep after an intense closeness.

"What do you demand of me, sister?" He asked her impassively like a soldier asking his commander for an order; she raised herself up on her elbows, looking at him intensely.

"I do not demand. Do you desire that I should now, after you have warmed me, be left alone in a cold bed?" She asked regretfully. She saw him blink, his eyebrows raised, his gaze quickly traveling over her naked, bared flesh, his Adam's apple waved hard as he swallowed loudly.

"That is not my desire." He replied calmly, looking at her expectantly, his silhouette frozen in stillness like a marble statue, the same kind people placed to honour them in their temples.

She nodded, moving aside, looking at him expectantly. He hummed under his breath, his gaze softening a tad as he lay down beside her lazily, sighing quietly through his nose, watching her, his large hand in some simple, primitive gesture rising to her breast, squeezing it uncertainly. He lifted his gaze to her face, apparently wanting to see if he was causing her pain again as he had when he had first done it.

Something about how direct, how roughly honest he was captivated her; years of poetic chants under her windows, long, theatrical declarations of love that in the end turned out to be lies had tired her.

She thought, surprised, that perhaps such a change would do her some good.

Surprise flashed through his gaze as she moved closer to him, placing her hand on his, encouraging him not to stop, laying her body on her side facing him, looking straight into his face, for the first time so shamelessly, so closely.

His facial features were sharp, as if the sculptor had struck the stone with his chisel too brutally and without finesse, his mouth full, his eyes as dark as the night around her. He shuddered and swallowed hard, drawing in quiet breath as her hand rose tentatively to his cheek, closed his eyes as her fingertips brushed over his warm, soft skin.

She ran her hand like this over his exposed flesh, over his jaw, his neck, his collarbones, his shoulders, his chest, feeling him flinch as waves of heat surged through his body, the flick of her fingers leaving a trail of his goosebumps behind.

He opened his eyes as she suddenly took her hand away, placing it casually against her body, the fingers of his hand from her breasts slid down to her waist and from it to her buttocks, squeezing it, pushing her closer to him with a sure, soft movement, she felt his hard manhood on her stomach, ready again for him to possess her.

Though she wanted to protest, she let him take her for the second time that night, her folds slick from his seed and her moisture allowed him to slip easily into her hot interior, a low, animal grunt of satisfaction came from his throat as he threw her thigh against his waist, spreading her wide on his fat cock.

"I can do this all night, sister. You know I can." He exhaled with a hint of menace, from which her lips parted in a shy moan as her walls clenched around him tightly, making him gasp. He accelerated his pace, his free hand clenching in her hair, forcing her to look straight into his empty black eyes as he pounded aggressively into her again and again with loud splats of his thighs against her buttocks.

"This is what you want, isn't it? You despise these poets. Those weak, little boys. You don't believe them, because what's the truth in their pretty words? Hm? This is the truth, sister." He breathed out, and for some reason she clamped her hand on his broad chest and kissed him, heard his low groan of surprise, his tongue came out to meet her immediately, licking her encouragingly, teasing her with the very tip as she longed for him to slide it deep down her throat.

"− take care of me, brother −" She whispered in surprise as her voice trembled, as she felt tears under her eyelids, wishing for someone to protect her, for someone to watch over her, to be safe in someone's arms at last.

She felt him quiver all over, he gasped loudly as if he had waited his whole life for those very words, his hands clenched painfully tight on her hair and bare buttock, forcing her to fit him all the way in as deeply as he desired. Both of them moaned helplessly as they came out to meet their bodies, entwined together like vines, sweaty and hot with desire, his cock throbbing intensely inside her, betraying that he was close to fulfilment.

She thought in disbelief that he truly desired her all this time.

This rapprochement was more tender, more passionate than the first one, shamelessly close, her breasts pressed against his chest, their fingers digging into the naked skin of their bodies, their legs thrown over each other, making it so that if either of them wanted it, they couldn't break free.

"− beg −" He growled like a wild animal, panting right into her mouth, so she begged, again, again and again; she didn't even know when warm tears of relief and regret ran down her cheeks, his hot, accelerated breath enveloping her face, their kisses were an aggressive, wet dance of their tongues and lips, loud and slick.

After his last few desperate, deep, confident thrusts she was sure that all Olympus heard their groans of pleasure as they both finally reached their peak.

"− stay inside me −" She mumbled out, panting heavily along with him once the first waves of pleasure flowed through their bodies. She heard him hum under his breath; she knew he was grinning mischievously, his hand in a careless, lazy motion pressed her cheek against his chest, all wet from exertion.

"− sleep −"

Despite his command, she got no rest that night, and though she slept only for her own pleasure, unlike mortals do not need it every day, never before had anyone fucked her as many times in a row as he had, and as their brother, Helios, appeared in his chariot lighting up the sky, they both breathed heavily, his face snuggled into her bare, sweaty shoulder, one of his hands on her breast, the other on her womb.

"You will bear my children." He ordered, as if it was an obvious decision to which he was sure they were both agreed. She closed her eyes, sighing quietly, knowing that if he was going to leave this amount of his seed deep inside her frequently, for her to carry his legacy under her heart was only a matter of time.

She had no intention of denying him that.

To her surprise, he had visited her every night since that day, leaving his barracks late at night, returning there only at dawn.

He wanted her to satisfy him in every way possible.

She wasn't sure if he preferred to watch his fat cock thrust deep down her throat or between her thighs, she noticed, however, that as she caressed him with her tongue and her lips, licking and sucking him unhurriedly, sounds came from his throat that she hadn't heard before, higher and more helpless, as if the sight of her like this, with her mouth full of his swollen manhood, completely overwhelmed him.

"− f-fuck − faster −" He was panting then, clamping his fingers tighter on her soft hair, forcing her to quicken her pace, as impatient as always, wanting only to come down her throat as quickly as possible, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat again and again, making her gag.

Out of sheer mischief, she gave the tip of his length a few encouraging, teasing licks of her pink, fleshy tongue, feeling his body quiver then, his hot spend spilling deep down her throat with his loud curses and groans of pleasure.

She swallowed everything he gave her, feeling him watching her; he hissed quietly, tilting his head back, clamping his hand warningly on her hair as she began to suck him again, his manhood twitching vigorously between her lips and throbbing, oversensitive after his fulfilment. However, after a moment he gave in, allowing her to repeat the whole process, his gaze hazy, hot, his lips puffy with desire and emotion.

"− sister −" He whispered then, completely absorbed in his deepest thoughts in a way that sent shivers down her spine, betraying what he truly wanted.

She could rarely count on him reciprocating in a similar way, but when he did he was merciless, eating her like a starved man; his tongue forced its way aggressively inside her, pressing and licking the bud between her muscles from which she was shaken again and again by waves of pleasure, his nose pressed against her pearl, his fingers digging into the soft, smooth skin of her hips, not letting her escape even when she begged him to stop.

She could hear his mocking grunt then, his dark eyes shining suddenly with a dangerous gleam, one that sent a cold sweat running down her back, he swapped his lips for his cock then, all hard and swollen from listening to her moans.

Rumours of their affair spread quickly across Olympus. Hermes tried to lay a trap for them, jealous of her and the fact that she had never let him possess her, however, when her fierce lover caught him in the act he would have nearly killed him with brutal, swift blows of his fist, if only their brother wasn't immortal.

Though still silent, cold and distant, in his own way he responded to her request, protecting her the way he was capable of.

"What have you done?" He asked her one day, infuriated, startling her, opening the door to her chamber with a loud slam, bursting inside at noon in full armour, his jaw clenched, his nostrils quivering in anxious breath.

He was furious.

She swallowed hard, putting aside her embroidery, looking at him in disbelief.

"What do you mean, brother?"

"What did you give him for that fucking apple? Hm? What did you give him to satisfy your vanity? Did you suck his cock? Did you let him come deep inside you?" He hissed coldly, walking towards her like an enraged, ferocious animal with the loud clang of his gilded steel armour, ready to hit her, to hurt her, to pierce her with his sword, to destroy her in every way possible.

She rose from her seat, furrowing her brow.

"I gave him what he asked for. I give him Helen of Sparta."

She saw him stop, hesitation in his eyes, as if he was comparing her words with his knowledge. He swallowed loudly, his broad chest rising and falling quickly in accelerated, heavy breaths.

"How."

She turned her face towards the large windows of her chamber open to the view of the halves and rivers around Olympus and sighed loudly.

"He wished to possess her. I described to him her desires and her weaknesses. How he could make her content."

"This whore ran away with him. The Achaeans declared war on the Trojans." He growled low. She looked at him wrinkling her brows and snorted, shrugging her shoulders.

"The God of War does not rejoice that in the name of love blood will be shed again? I do not follow your desires, brother."

"Be silent, woman. Do not speak on my behalf." He grunted warningly, looking at her with a sharp, piercing gaze from which she felt a drop of cold sweat run down her bared back. She smirked involuntarily and laughed helplessly, shaking her head.

"It is you who speak on my behalf, boasting before your brothers and comrades that I believed your words and, out of feminine naivety, let you between my thighs. I gave you what you desired and you come and spit in my face, jealous that another man could reach for what you think is yours. No wonder our father didn't give you my hand."

She snarled, and he stared at her, the corner of his mouth raised slightly in a grimace that could be called a smile if not for his gaze, his eyes wide open, filled to the brim with fire and rage, his hands clenched into fists, his nostrils quivering with each of his deep breaths.

A silence filled with suffocating tension fell between them, the quiet singing of birds outside her chamber windows, the rustling of grass and leaves, the pleasant breeze around them, cool and crisp.

She knew he was going to do it, but still she was surprised that a few brisk steps from him were all it took for him to be in front of her, turning her violently with her back to him, clasping his hand in her hair.

She whined helplessly when her cheek hit the table top in front of her, and whimpered loudly when she heard his fingers tear the material of her thin robe at the height of her buttocks, the fat head of his cock pressed against her fleshy walls without any preparation, without any caress.

"Do you think I fucking brag about how much seed I left in your womb to my soldiers? I have killed hundreds of those who dared to dream aloud about you and your body with my own hands." He gasped through clenched teeth, imposing a violent, fast pace on her at once, thrusting furiously inside her with sure, deep stabs of his hips. She heard his low chuckle when all it took was for the thick tip of his cock to rub a few times against the spot inside her, for her quivering to begin to be accompanied by the loud clicks of her moisture.

"I know exactly what you're doing. You like to fucking tease me, don't you? You know the way I'll fuck you then, hm?" He growled, one of his hands pressing her head against the table, the other digging hard into the bare skin of her buttocks, pounding into her so fast and brutally that he didn't slide out.

She could tell that he was staring at the place where their bodies joined, at what he was doing to her, at how wide he was opening her on his fat, aching length.

"− yes −" She mewled, heard him sigh loudly as he fucked her relentlessly, sinking his short fingernails painfully hard into the delicate skin of her hip as if he was just waiting for this; they both began to moan low hearing how loudly their bodies slapped against each other again and again.

"− that's what I thought − fucking take it now −" He snarled mockingly; she felt his words do something to her, the sensation she was experiencing was on the verge of ecstasy from pain and pleasure.

She cried out loudly, mumbling something, probably his name and how pleasurable it was. She lost control of her body as her walls began to suddenly squeeze him, sucking him inside.

"− shut the fuck up − mghmm − s-sister − fuck −" He gasped and she heard him groan low, feeling her fulfilment, her moisture running down his thighs, his hot spend finally filling her womb with his loud sigh of relief.

He rocked his hips for a moment longer with a lewd, sticky slap of skin against skin, his grip eased and she sighed heavily, feeling immense relief, wonderful shivers ran through her body, something like a tickle throbbing at the tips of her fingertips, her lips and inside lower abdomen.

"− you should stop doing this − at least until you're carrying my child inside you − " He gasped; she could feel him looking at her, his manhood still pulsing deep inside her, his large hand slid lower, stroking her slightly rounded abdomen for a moment in a manner that could be described as tender.

"− I can't −" She mumbled out, ashamed at how pleasurable it was, how wonderful it felt to be out of control, that there was something she had no power over.

His element, his aggressiveness, his unpredictability attracted her, just as he was drawn to her understanding of his complex, violent nature.

He hummed under his breath and she closed her eyes as his free hand took the unruly curls of her hair from her face with a gentle flick of his wrist.

"− let this little boy fuck his Helen of Sparta − I'll support you in the coming war − I'll gladly spit in the face of Athena and your sweet husband −" He sneered, and she sighed in relief, pleased with his words, rising on her hands.

His strong arm embraced her at the waist, his free hand clamped down on her cheeks, turning her face in his direction, their lips pressed together in a greedy, sticky kiss. She heard his low, drawn-out murmur of satisfaction, his soft manhood still twiched deep inside her.

"− brother −" She whispered, his nose pressed against her hot cheek in a sudden, surprising surge of tenderness, his hand ran over her soft, smooth hair, only one more word left his lips.

"− undress −"

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mynameis-noe-body · 8 months

Note

marquis de gramont fic

Y/n is sweet and kind and isn't part of Vincent world, but he fell for her anyway and although he's ruthless he has a soft spot for her as she's his wife. A fic of him killing someone and she accidentally sees and get scared and he comforts and cuddles her.

Thank you for the request! I found myself immediately inspired and I wrote it as soon as I could.

I am working on the other requests, too! It will just take a little time :) 🖤

Safe in his arms

Marquis Vincent Bisset De Gramont × you (F)

Rating: Teen & Up Audience

Status: Complete (one shot)

The first time he had seen you, truly seen you, was at the Louvre. On a January morning, when Paris was still cold and tormented by a wind blowing from the north, when the fog rose in the city's parks and around its splendid monuments, bathing everything in an intense white, you had waited for hours on those stairs, with your arms crossed, looking at one single work of art. At first Vincent didn't give it much importance. But when the crowd thinned out, around noon, knowing that soon the guests would arrive at his private event — yet another official HighTable lunch right there in Paris — and seeing you still there, fascinated, he approached.

"Madmoiselle, I am sorry. These rooms have been reserved for a private event. You should leave" he had said, coldly.

But you, you smiled. And your smile was sweet. "Can I just ask you for a minute? One minute, and I'll be gone. I've never seen her like this." You looked up dreamily at Nike — that marble statue at the top of the steps, as proud and silent as you'd ever seen it. “She is just so beautiful” you had commented under your breath, as if not to break that spell. "They deprived her of her arms, of her very face. They tore her to pieces. Yet no one has ever managed to take away of her wings."

Vincent, enchanted by your words, so simple and so true, lost himself in your face. His gaze filled with you for the first time. He watched you go, nodding at you when you wished him a good day, and he followed you with wondering eyes until he saw you disappear. He didn't know it yet, but you would haunt his days and his nights from now on.

He looked for you. He had his men search for you until he could find you. Your subsequent encounters must have seemed casual; a casual meeting in the park during your walk, a chat over a coffee, you even met in the library.

You laughed about it. “It almost feels like fate.”

Vincent nodded. Fate, sure.

He wooed you with expensive gifts, luxurious dinners, evenings at the theater, visits to the most prestigious private art collections — but you weren't as impressed as he expected.

“How can I make you happy, mon amour?” he asked you.

"I don't want your money, Vincent, only you."

And so, one spring evening, you found yourselves simply walking through the streets of Montmartre, laughing and chatting amiably, holding hands, exchanging a few kisses without realizing that the night had already passed; at dawn, on the steps of the cathedral, it was just the two of you, two hot cappuccinos and two croissants, watching the sun rise from the east, illuminating a new day.

Soon after, he asked you to marry him. And you said yes.

There was only one small problem. You knew nothing about him.

▪️▪️▪️

You were beautiful. Naked in his bed after yet another night of love, entwined with the ivory silk pillow, your cheeks slightly flushed and your lips so sweet, so languid. Vincent stroked your hair, watching you sleep. You had the power to unleash in him a tenderness that had long been buried, forgotten and drowned in an ocean of violence. There was nothing he loved more than taking care of you, spending hours listening to your stories so simple and yet full of emotions; he was surprised at how you were able to find beauty in the most mundane things. There was no art that compared to the perfect curves of your body in his hands, against his lips, kissed by his mouth, worshiped by his limbs. There was nothing he wanted more, at the end of a day, than to soak in your immense bathtub with you — a glass of champagne, a tray of mini pastries, macarons and fine chocolates, essential oils and perfumes in the warm water and his hand gently caressing your breast, listening to your heartbeat — before carrying you to bed and falling asleep in your arms.

You were his most precious jewel. And because of this, his biggest fear was losing you forever.

Yes, in his world you were a weakness. Vincent had taken every precaution to keep you away from the monsters that lurked in the shadows of his life, but on the other hand it was inevitable that sooner or later the Great Table would learn of your existence. With this, the problems had begun. Vincent was a powerful man and a powerful man always had enemies. Indeed, the more power he had, the greater the number of his nemeses.

House Bisset De Gramont was a peaceful, safe place, far from danger. Immersed in the Provençal countryside, surrounded as far as the eye can see by lilac fields of fragrant lavender, kissed by the sun, it was one of your favorite places to spend long summer weeks. You knew that Vincent was a Marquis, that his family had been extremely wealthy, and that his business took him all over the world... and nothing else. You enjoyed your holidays with a carefreeness that he envied. Vincent watched you tan by the pool, read your favorite novels lying on the green grass of his gardens, paint the spectacle of lavender swaying in the wind, and hoped that nothing would ever affect your happiness.

But that morning, that morning...

There was a knock on your bedroom door. Yet they knew — his men had been well instructed about it and it was forbidden for anyone to come near your bedroom! What the hell were they doing?

Quickly, he stood up and put on a robe, stomping out of the bedroom with frozen anger in his eyes. "What the fuck are you doing? What made you think you could—"

"Monsieur — Marquis. Please listen" one of them interrupted. "We have the man."

The man. Vincent took a deep breath. The son of a bitch who followed you. He had noticed that black sedan since your departure from Paris a week earlier. He was sure it was a hitman sent for you, the easiest target, most disarmed in the face of the capabilities of his enemies. Some had understood that if they wanted to destroy the Marquis De Gramont, they would have to destroy you first. You, who were his strength and purpose in life. His one true love.

Many had tried, that man was just one of many.

Vincent growled, grabbing his helper by the collar of his shirt. "You separated me from my wife at seven in the morning, on a Sunday, for yet another son of a bitch? At least tell me it was worth it!"

"He's here, sir, we thought you would—"

"He is here?!"

They carried him forward. Two other men had tied the hitman with tight ties around his wrists and legs, blindfolded him and were now dragging him forward, holding him by his arms.

Vincent was inflamed with terrible anger. "Don't you ever dare bring one of them into my house again! My wife - my woman, she's in the next room sleeping and you bring one of these worms into my house!" the Marquis grabbed the knife from his man's pocket. "Kill them and get rid of them! This is my order!" and with a mechanical gesture of the wrist, making it seem so simple, he threw the blade and it pierced the assassin's neck. He gasped for just a second. Blood ran down his wounded throat and, now dead, he collapsed in the arms of his captors. It was only when a trickle of blood reached the white marble floor that, with a short, anguished breath, you attracted attention. And with terror in his eyes Vincent turned away.

You had just woken up, you were wearing his shirt, you had walked silently barefoot to the ajar door. And you had seen it all. You had covered your mouth with the palm of your hand, but this was nothing compared to the terror you felt when you saw the blood. The death. A murder. Your Vincent, your sweet, caring husband, who had just killed a man. Stepping back, trembling, you risked fainting. You suddenly felt pale, weak, powerless, completely disconcerted. Cold shivers ran through every fiber of your body. But before you could fall to the floor, Vincent had rushed to catch you. Lifting you into his arms, he had carried you back to bed.

"It's okay, mon amour" he whispered, kissing your forehead. You were shaking and crying. "No one will hurt you, you are safe with me, ma chéri."

You pointed to the door, now closed. "That man — I saw, oh God, I saw that man! You killed him! Vincent, my God, oh no. No, no — you killed a man!"

He shook his head. The more you trembled, the tighter he held you against his chest. "He was an evil man and he would have hurt you if you had let him live. He had been paid for this, my love, for you."

"Me?" you exclaimed, horrified. Your face twisted into a grimace of disgust and terror. "What have I done wrong in this life to deserve death?!"

Vincent chuckled. It was really fun. “Oh dear, you married me.”

You tried to move away from him, to squirm, to slip away from his embrace, but despite managing to slide against the other end of the bed Vincent took your hand, your wrist, and dragged you towards him again. Laying back on the sheets, he held you down with his entire body. "I am a very powerful man. And powerful men must protect themselves, and protect those they love." He caressed your face wet with tears. He found them so innocent.

You stammered, still shocked at the sight of that blood, that death, that ruthlessness. "Then we should hide!"

Vincent laughed even harder. "There's no hiding from this! It will always be a part of me, darling. But I can assure you of one thing. If there is a safe place for you in this world, then this is right here, by my side." He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your neck. He hugged you, rocking you gently.

" I love you" he whispered, "and I live for you. I am willing to kill — to die, if necessary, for you. I ask only that you continue to love me as you always have. I am still me, always your Vincent. You can do this for me, mon amour?"

He left the ghost of a kiss on your lips, and covered you both with the sheets, stroking your hair to help you fall asleep again. Before closing your eyes, answering his question, you nodded softly. "I love you, Vicent."

He smiled.

#marquis de gramont #marquis de gramont x reader #vincent de gramont #vincent bisset de gramont #marquis vincent de gramont #Marquis Vincent Bisset De Gramont × you #vincent de gramont x reader #Vincent de Gramont x you #john wick fandom

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strangerdangerwrites · 10 months

Text

the art of lies | t.s. (fantastic beasts) - chapter one

Summary: all your life you had been handling the dirty truth, and here he comes presenting you with his sweet lies.

Pairings: Theseus Scamander x Fem!Reader

genre: romance, mature audience intended

warnings: mature themes, implied sexual content, sexworker protagonist, pleasure house (brothel), smoking

the art of lies masterlist

IN THE ABSENCE OF DAYLIGHT, Paris comes alive, after all, it is known as the City of Love.

Love in the form of freshly picked flowers from the florist.

The sweetest chocolate that tickled your taste buds.

Hand-written poems that rivaled world-renowned poets.

A love so sweet and tender that it caresses you gently in the night

But that certainly wasn’t the truth, it never was. Love wasn’t like that.

Love was the thorns that hid beneath the roses.

Love was the bitter taste that lingered in your mouth after your first dark chocolate.

Love was the letter from lovers that had written goodbyes instead of ‘I’ll stay’.

Love was the harsh tug of your hair, the rough hands that hold your wrists, saying the words ‘You are so beautiful’ only when you are in the middle of the bed, spread willingly to the desires of man.

Here, in Paris, is nothing but filled with nights of debauchery where all senses are thrown out the window. The sickening smell of expensive perfume and wine drowning you in the world of sins. And Paris was notable for it, here you are free! Or so they say.

Truth be told, you could never be free, always staying in hiding from the Non-Magiques. And here you were indebted to your handler, Madame Blanche, the owner of the renowned luxurious Maison close ‘Amour Délicat’.

Like her name, the whites in her hair and the sharp look in her eyes tell her story. She was a former courtesan before and when the first war of the non-magiques happened there she learned something that would give birth to her only child, the Amour Délicat. When she shared the truth of what was happening in the world of the non-magiques to the Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France (Ministry of Magical Affairs of France), Madame Blanche was greatly compensated, and there from the ground up, she built her history.

Madame Blanche is far from the harsh and ruthless handlers in the non-magiques world of prostitution; she is commanding and ruthless. When she saw the reality of the world, it opened her mind to do whatever it takes to protect herself, and that is by being well-known that you create a sense of security in being seen. Here she opened her doors to those willing to work for her, at first, many were wary as to join and take employment, the look of disdain and gossip were indeed not for the faint of heart.

And you who had nothing to lose, took the first bite and jumped straight into death potion.

You, who only had your name and the clothes you wore on your back crawled straight inside Pandora’s box.

Madame Blanche had saved you, she had given you a roof, food, clothes, and the protection that you needed. The life you formerly had was long gone; it was all in the past, thrown into the sea to be forgotten.

And here you learn to be a great witch. She first-hand, had taught you how to be a legilimens, as her first courtesan, she has taught you how to traverse the mind easily, to learn secrets, and how to use them to your advantage.

“The most powerful of witches and wizards can all be defeated by the secrets they hide.”

While the other courtesans were only taught surface-level legilimency, you were a natural. Not only can you do it nonverbally and wandlessly, but you can also communicate with others telepathically. Madame Blanche had opened you to all possibilities, and with that, she entrusted you with the highest position of being her right hand.

And your skill at legilimens always comes at night when you bed another clientele. And in the middle of pure ecstasy, they reveal the truth unwillingly. Here in the dimmed candlelight, you walked through the halls of their mind unlocking every door with a skeleton key of your abilities. No matter how many layers, or how many locks they keep, trust you could open it with ease. Secrets like marital affairs, financial debt, graft and corruption, illegitimate children, crimes, enemies, first love, their favorite color, the last thing they ate, their thoughts at that very moment… you can see and feel. An out-of-body experience, stripping you naked from yourself, from what you are and who you were. Here you forgot you were even breathing.

You didn’t realize you had been lying on the bed still for the last few minutes, the house elf, Bernadette, had been looking at you worriedly, and in her hand was your dressing robe, colors almost like the blinding light.

“Was the man harsh on you today, Miss?” She asked, placing the mulberry silk robe on your hand. You gave her a small smile and shook your head. The faint marks of rope were the clear sign of your lies, yet you were accustomed to it.

“It is alright. Run my bath for me?” With a wave of her hand, the bed took itself towards the laundry room and came in a small golden tub that fit your frame. Muttering a spell it filled the tub with bubbles and water, you stood before it before hitting it with a wave of your wand. The gramophone in the room suddenly erupted into soulful jazz music. With a scrub and a bar of soap ready at hand, Bernadette tried to assist you but you declined. Stepping foot into the warm bubbly bath.

“I would like a moment alone.” You waved your hand as soon as the words left your mouth, the house elf knew to leave you to your own devices. You were a grown woman, a woman who has been doing these for the last decade. And whenever you tried to look into your future, all you could see were the grand walls that painted your very eyes, the moving wallpaper depicting fields of various white flowers, you were stuck in Amour Délicat for the last moments of your life. This was the only thing you will ever know. You were indebted and grateful to Madame Blanche, and that led to your loyalty. She protects you and everyone in the Maison close. Outside these walls was uncertainty.

In the hot water, you submerged yourself trying to wake yourself up to the fact that this is your life. Yet when the warm glow of the city, fireworks erupted the skyline, muffled by the water you sat straight to peer at the noise. Without even looking, you knew families were in their own homes, enclosed with the scent of pastries and the warmth of their own fireplace. It was just a few minutes before New Year's Eve, and here you were working. Alone, staring into the distance, craving the sense of a warm home.

Holding your knees close to your chest, you stared at the skyline as Muggles and Magical people alike celebrated the night with a bright display of fireworks.

Unbeknown to you, Clarice, the receptionist had been preventing the members of the British Ministry of Magic from stepping foot towards the quarters an hour before the new year would start.

“You cannot go inside; this is a private and respectable property,” Clarice spoke, her accent rushing the words as panic littered her veins. Her arm at ready with her own wand. The lounge was filled with thick air as the British aurors pointed their wand at the girl, not understanding a word she shouted.

Click-clack! Click-clack!

With every slow step, Madame Blanche descended the stairs.

“And what do you English want? Here to close Amour Délicat? You don’t have the right.” Madame Blanche boasts, looking at the men below with her chin pointed upwards. Looking at them one by one, the Madame could not read their minds, the British aurors have been trained in occlumency. Remaining calm, she stood on the balcony, overlooking the whole crowd below.

“We were looking for one of your workers. I believe they have the answers to the disappearance of one of the assistant delegates of the British Department of the International Confederation of Wizards.” Torquil Travers claimed, holding a photograph of a man in his middle 30s-40s.

Summoning the paper in the grasp of the Madame, she looked at the photograph intently, racking up all the lists of their clients. Without even showing hints of recognition, Madame had thrown the paper back into the hands of the aurors.

“I believe you must have a permit before we further your inquiries. If not, then leave.” Turning around, she waved a hand to open the large doors.

“We have it, signed and approved by your own Minister.” Stopping in her tracks, the auror walked up to the steps and held it right in front of the Madame’s face. Now a hint of annoyance was painted on her pointed brows.

“Come to my office, only I can accommodate two of you. Choose wisely.” Madame Blanche said in a cold tone, not even bothering to wait for aurors as she walked straight to the lift.

“Scamander! Come with me.” Travers could upon the young man, the older auror respected the young man’s abilities and thinking, after all, he was a respectable war hero.

Stepping into the lift, the walls were decorated with moving painted white flowers, the madame touched the button to the highest floor, and the black lining of the lift showed its elegance. As the Aurors stood behind her, eyes darted across each other in nervousness. The Brits showed no sign of anxiety, even if that was far from the truth, the Madame held an air of regalness suffocating them with the scent of floral perfume. As soon as the doors of the lift parted for her, the room was quite the luxury and beauty with its eclectic interior, engulfed with knick-knacks from travels, moving statues, paintings from famous muggles, and the large glass pane showing the night sky.

In the middle of the room was a velvet green chair, a large glass table, and a lone flower sitting in the golden vase.

“Sit.” She pointed toward the chair in front of her, while she remained standing encircling the room looking at the Englishman that disturbed her home.

“Our clients value discreteness, we simply could not disclose it easily… yet since you presented me with a hand-written note by our minister I must oblige to your request. Then talk, what is it that you want?”

“We are looking for Charles Moore. He has been in charge of communications with the French Ministry as a part of assistant delegate for our Ministry, he asked to be assigned here after the Muggle World War. The day he was posted to return, he didn’t. And we believe that in his letters to his sister, he claimed to be…”

Madame Blanche raised her eyebrow at Torquil Travers waiting for him to spit it out.

“In love.” Theseus replied. “He claims that he has found the love of life here in Paris and was planning to buy off her indenture. Or so we believe.”

Madame Blanche scoffed.

“There are many dames in Paris, and he chose to settle with a courtesan?” Madame Blanche laughed, making Travers find it humorous as well. In the keen eyes of Madame Blanche, he saw Theseus's brows turn into a frown before shifting back to biting his cheeks.

“Are you certain that it was in Amour Délicat?”

Theseus answered with a nod.

There were three letters in total from Charles Moore to his sister. And for the past few days, Theseus had been assigned to look for the exact description of the building. He alone took the time of the day, looking at details of every establishment and brothel in Paris, from the world of the muggles to hidden alcoves of the French Wizarding World. After 2 days, he had seen the exact description of the magnificent-looking walls lined with silver and the sweet nauseating scent of flowers, that’s when he knew this was it.

First Letter:

Dearest Ange,

I believe I have found the love of my life! No one is ever as beautiful as her. No amount of theatrics on the show could ever take my eyes off of her. She sat there like a flower, waiting for me.

As soon as the play was over, I tried to approach her. Tell her to take my hand and run away with me. Oh, Ange! I never felt something like this. This must be what love is. Yet, my heart turned to pieces when I saw her taking the arm of another man, walking together side-by-side as they left the theater. I trailed behind them, and saw the most luxurious of buildings, sparkled with silver linings and flowers decorating its walls. Then I stopped and stared, and the man left her there. That’s when I realized what it was… I know this might sound ridiculous, but she is working in the red-light district and with that, no amount of apprehension could hinder me. I know you would flip the whole house upside down, but Ange this is love. I am certain of it. No amount of your denial could keep me away from this.

From your darling brother, Charlie.

Second Letter:

Dear Angelique,

With the amount of your reply, I take that your silence was your approval.

Today, I took liquid courage to go ahead and talk to her. But the only way was that I had to pay a fortune. I walked to the receptionist with high hopes, and with her assistance, she immediately gave me a room. With flowers in hand, I waited for her only to get my hopes up when another girl walked into the room. I was filled with disappointment. I asked the lady of the night for the description of my love, and she claimed that she was part of the ‘bouquet de blanc’. First-time patrons' pocket money is not enough to gain an audience. And me being an assistant could only lead me to certain places, yet I will persevere.

Give me a few more days and I’ll be able to, no matter the cost.

From your brother, Charles.

Last Letter:

To my Darling Sister,

I hope this letter finds you well, I could not disclose to the ministry the cost of my expenses… but I found another way. Worry no more. Today, I will finally be able to talk to her.

The day that I return home is when she is with me.

From your loving brother.

Placing the letters right in front of the Madame of the house, with a lifted finger her smile faded into a scowl. Someone from the inside was spreading information about her courtesans; Bouquet de Blanc was valued in secrecy. This was a catalog of their courtesans that had regular high-paying patrons, and this was not open for viewing so easily. Patrons that were deemed valuable to her and her Maison close were accommodated, the pure-blooded noble families, higher ranking officials, royalty even. And someone from the lower ranks of her courtesans had their tongue quite willingly.

Waving her wand, she summoned a large logbook. There inside was information such as names, professions, ages, nationalities, and ranks of their patrons, of course, the courtesan they were assigned to. Whispering the name Charles Moore, it skimmed through the pages with ease, and there in bold letters was the name of the auror the Brits were looking for. Travers tried to peer at the other listed names, his curiosity taking the best of him.

“Curiosity is the lust of the mind, Mr. Travers. Why don’t you sit still, and I’ll call upon her.”

Closing the book harshly, Madame called upon Bernadette. Apparating next to her mistress, Madame Blanche whispered to call the girl. Nodding the house elf disappeared within a blink of an eye. Behind them, the elevator dinged, while the Madame tapped on the book with carefully manicured nails.

“It is New Year’s Eve; would you like to avail of our services? It can easily be arranged. I know it’s a long journey and your work for your ministry is greatly appreciated, it wouldn’t hurt to take the night off— to indulge yourself in your sensual desires.”

The older man shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Suddenly they were interrupted when the elevator doors dinged, signaling the arrival of the courtesan. Turning around a slender figure stepped foot in the room, She wore a long flowing green nightgown.

“Come in here and greet the Brits, Maeve. They would like to talk to you about Charles Moore.” Madame Blanche pointed to the aurors in front of her, the back of the courtesan’s neck grew in a cold sweat.

“I–I do not understand Madame Blanche. I didn’t do anything wrong! The man asked– and I swore that was the last of it, I told him what he wanted to hear.” The girl's pleading cries fell on deaf ears as the aurors could not understand what she was crying about. Theseus' eyes darted between Madame Blanche and the girl’s tear-stricken face. While Torquil Travers stood to show his authority, ready to apprehend the girl.

Within just a few seconds, Madame Blanche had already seen the inner linings of the girl’s mind. The fear registered in her thoughts while she traversed doors upon doors to look for the memories of the missing delegate, and right there she found what she was seeking.

In just a few quick strides, Madame Blanche towered over the girl with a look of disdain painted on her red lips. The old mistress, jaw held tightly as she wiped the tears of the girl. Only to hold the young girl’s face tightly, her long nails pierced through the delicate skin while she stared straight down into the young woman’s eyes with an intense look, unblinking.

“You may leave, pack your bags, and look for work elsewhere. I do not take it kindly to those willing to open their mouths willingly to my secrets. Bernadette, escort her out of here. I have found what I’m looking for.”

The girl refused as the house elf dragged the wailing girl back to the elevator, screams of ‘no’ echoed through the walls.

Travers, who was far too confused, shouted for the house elf to stop as the girl was a key witness. Even pointed his wand threateningly at the old mistress, ready to cast a stunning spell within the tips of his lips. The madame disarms him with a flick of her wand, his wand went flying right off his grasp and cluttered on the hardwood floor. Madame shook her head no when the auror Travers tried to pick it up.

“You’re a legilimens.” Theseus muttered; Madame Blanche turned around to face the man giving them a tight-lipped smile and nodded.

“Would you like to view the girl’s memory and be done with it? I need to run my business after all.” Offering to perform legilimency to project the memories to the aurors, they declined. They knew not to, after all, they too have secrets that protect their ministry.

“We decline. We, Aurors value our minds and do not open them so willingly.” Travers stated, still apprehensive of Madame Blanche. “But the girl needs to be questioned, we have to have her testimonials as to Moore’s disappearance.”

“Then you must trust my word because I too have my secrets to keep. That girl didn’t kill or cause his disappearance. He came in here one night, to question about the catalog of my courtesans and that was it–”

Cutting off the handler of the brothel, Theseus insisted; “Charles Moore stated in his letters about a ‘bouquet de blanc’. I hope that might ring a bell, after browsing through your catalog in the lobby earlier. I couldn’t find traces of this list, is this a secret that you are hiding from the ministry?”

Madame Blanche’s eyes narrowed at the young auror; her piercing ice-blue eyes almost looked like they could kill.

“No, of course not. My bouquet de blanc is the Amour Délicat trade secrets. I could not easily say it out loud for fear of our competitors copying what I built from the ground up. If you would like to browse that catalog, then let me— although I must say, we do not easily offer our services freely.” Walking towards a dark oak cabinet grabbing a large book with golden linings. Placing right back at the table, Madame Blanche flipped through the pages with images of different courtesans, and right on its last page was a picture of you.

“I believe she is the one he is asking for.” She pointed with a manicured finger, right before your name was a title given to you.

Queen of the Night; Night-blooming Cereus

You were smiling, looking right at the onlooker like it was destined. While others bashfully hid their eyes, sultry looking to get admirers, you didn’t need to do that. You had your charm, something that allures the onlookers to choose you. Madame Blanche tried to flip the page to show them another photograph of you leaving nothing to the imagination to the spectator, but Theseus stopped her.

“I think that is enough, could you summon her to talk to us.” Theseus declared with a cough, standing up to close the book and stepping right in front of Travers' line of sight. “Please.”

Madame Blanche smiled, this time it was far different. “I believe your permit only limited you to talk to one of the key witnesses… And since Mr. Moore was not a benefactor of bouquet de blanc, I know because I am the only bookkeeper of that catalog… you must pay a hefty price.”

Now, the Aurors were stuck in the beginning, only pieces of blocked paths. If Charles Moore was not on the list of high-ranking patrons, then they could only comply with the demands of the authority and right now it wasn’t them who was holding the winning cards. When Travers' authority gets threatened, he scoffs, ready to drag Theseus out of the old woman. Madame Blanche truly was a businesswoman, she played them a fool. Whether they get out of the establishment empty-handed, or with empty wallets was their choice. They could simply not arrest the old woman, this was out of their jurisdiction, they were out of their element and far from their own country, and they simply couldn’t do whatever they wanted.

“Either you pay full price, or you will tell me why such a simple assistant is being hunted down by the best Aurors of the British Ministry. Pick your price.” She sat arms folded right in front of her face, holding her chin while she grinned at the standing men.

Within a minute of no one budging, Travers' patience wavered. With a deep sigh, he faltered. With one last glance at Theseus, he held his head low.

“Charles Moore stole 4,000 galleons. We believe that he tried to buy her indenture and convince her to come to London with him.” Travers confessed. That was the half-truth, Theseus’ senior took out the part that it was from the subsidy for international affairs. And the way he stole it was undetected like he had some insiders to help him, they were now battling an unseen threat. They only noticed it was missing after 3 months, when Theseus looked at the accounts and noticed that something was awry.

Madame Blanche started laughing, “He believes he can buy off her indenture for 4,000 galleons. Oh, what a joke! That’ll only cost him half an hour at most”

When Madame Blanche stopped laughing, she pointed back to the lift doors. “Head to the floor below. I’ll tell her I sent you.” The aurors nodded and headed to leave only to be held when the Madame halted them to stop.

“You endanger my investment; I’d rather you stay here than be near one of my priceless courtesans.” She stated, pointing at the older auror. Theseus can see his senior jaw tightened, and the veins on his neck grew red in anger. Not only was the older auror disarmed, but he was also being held under surveillance in fear that he might endanger you, now his patience and authority wavered on thin ice, and his eyes clouded with anger.

“I’ll talk to her and I’ll find what we need.” Theseus whispered as soon as he stepped foot in the lift. The doors closed slowly; he saw Madame Blanche’s eyes watching the other auror like a hawk.

When the doors for the lift opened, what greeted him was a vast hall painted like the night sky. With a slight shift of his eyes, he can see the tiny freckles of stars that decorated a lone white door. Unlike the outside of the establishment, this seemed out of place with the flower motifs of Amour Délicat. Here he can feel the cold breeze of the winter night. Knocking on the white door, he called out to the name he had seen written on the catalog.

You who had been preoccupied with your thoughts; wishing to know the feeling of stepping out of your body, floating, freely, like the ghosts that linger down the dark alleys. Right outside the window, the streets erupted in cheers as they all greeted each other another happy new year. Drinking down the champagne that was given to you by a patron, noting a taste of toast and coffee and a subtle spice drowning out all your other senses. When the fireworks ended, you lay there looking at the skylight as the only glow of the light left was the moonlight.

A subtle knock started you as you let Bernadette waltz her way in. Her company and the cup of tea are greatly appreciated when your water has now gone cold. But instead of the house elf, what replaced her was someone far taller than her; there he stood only the silhouette of his slender frame seen.

Theseus didn’t expect what he saw, a lone woman basking in the golden tub, a melancholy look written in her eyes.

Sad. You looked sad.

The only sound that could be heard was the faint hum of the gramophone across the room and the muffled cheers that erupted right behind the glass windows. With the faint sparkle of light, you saw a slight frown on his face. Realizing your predicament, you went back to wearing the mask when you were at work.

“Would you like me to keep you company?” You asked, turning around delicately, careful not to show another ounce of skin. Tilting your head to one side and smiling at him, the same one he has seen in the photograph earlier.

When Theseus realized what you were implying, he held his hand and shook his head, showing you a metal badge indicating the words ‘auror’. You had a fair share of French aurors that came to you for a night, often playing the role of the captive and captor. What a lack of imagination, if this is the role he wants to play then so be it.

“You would like to play that role? I, the convict, and you the detainer. Would you like that darling?” You asked, ready to approach him when he realized what was happening, he turned around not to face your naked form. The tips of his ears went red in embarrassment.

“I didn’t come here for your service; I was sent here by Madame Blanche to question you. My name is Theseus Scamander, I was sent by the British Ministry of Magic.” He announced.

Ahh… A British Auror. You hummed and stood to grab the white robe and placed it on your body. Hearing the sound of faint footsteps, Theseus waited until you gave him a signal.

“I see… talk I don’t have all night to entertain you.” This time you put your weight and one foot, crossing your arms across your chest. Your hand laid steady on your wand.

Turning around, you pointed toward the chair that sat across from you, and he agreed to your request. As soon as he did, you went and grabbed the champagne you had been drinking earlier and procured another glass to pour him one. Placing it next to him, you stood in front of him and drank yours, waiting as he did too. Theseus eyed it suspiciously, but you continued to drink it on your own accord.

“A gift… something lighter than the fire whiskey.” You replied as you down the glass in one gulp. He nodded and carefully took a sip of his. You sat in front of him and grabbed the bottle to pour more down into your glass.

When he exhaled in satisfaction, you knew it tasted amazing. Theseus knew what you were doing, trying to lower his guard, not sitting to show you were in control, and intoxicating him to vulnerability. Yet, he remained calm, showing no signs of threat to you. If Madame Blanche was a legilimens, there was a high chance you were too, all he needed to do was throw you off his scent.

And just like he had predicted, right at the moment you tried to pry his mind. A knot on your brow formed when you stared intently at him.

‘You looked sad.’ Those were the thoughts that circled his mind, like a mantra. You can feel it. Feel him. It made you nauseous, the bile in your throat rose as his thoughts engraved into yours. No one had looked at you and thought you were sad; it was always beautiful. Sadness and you were never to be put in a sentence, and when his thoughts did it terrified you.

To be seen broken makes you fear. To be seen feeling sadness made the feeling of being stripped naked for the whole world to see. All your life, you had built these walls that made you stand on your own two feet. The ache in your mind becomes unbearable, you weren’t beautiful… underneath all the expensive clothes, and pearls that glittered your skin— you are crooked, battered with bruises, wrecked by time, your skin filthy with sin, you were a tragedy… a rotten work.

“Stop.” With gritted teeth, you fail to look at his eyes and his mind. A slip of the tongue made you realize what you had said out loud, that was all Theseus needed to know that you too are a legilimens. “State your purposes.”

Right in the pockets of his coat was the photograph of Charles Moore, he carefully placed it on the table in front of him waiting for you to pick it up.

“Do you recognize him?” He placed the picture within your line of sight. Pausing he tried to scope for your reaction. “It’s Charles Moore, an assistant delegate of the British Department of the International Confederation of Wizards.”

“He has been missing for months and the last contact we had from him was a letter to his sister, trying to have an audience with you.”

Your eyes examined Moore’s photograph. And minutes passed your silence almost became too heavy to Theseus's dislike, but he needed to thread your waters carefully, you were already agitated for unknown reasons.

“I believe I do not know who this person is.” You smiled and stared at Theseus, the first time you met his eyes after your outburst earlier.

He pointed out another slip of your strong facade right at its mark. “Yet you do not deny that you do recognize him.”

“Maybe I do… Maybe I don’t. It is possible he is one of my long lists of admirers, doesn’t erase the fact that I do not know him at all.”

“I highly doubt that. You’re a legilimens, and I am not; that is true. I need to know if you have met with him once, and if you are proven to be telling the truth then I would leave this room. But I can tell you’re lying. Skilled legilimens can procure memories into another person, and all I needed was the time and date, any people that were trailing him. Your truth is all I need.” He proposes.

“Or would you rather we do this the hard way? The choice is yours.” He leaned forward as his head rested on his knuckles.

“You give me the illusion of free choice when all you want is to pry my mind. Is there something you are not saying, Mister Scamander? Tell me the truth, what is in it for you? What would you get to look into the inner workings of my mind? You expect me to believe that you honestly want nothing else? Just my memory? I hardly doubt that.” Challenging his proposition, you leaned forward as your palms hit the glass table harshly with a loud slap, not before rebutting his claims. “Surely it could not be just you are looking for a testament, you wouldn’t work hard on that, all you needed is a vial of the strongest veritaserum and it would be done. Then why are you pushing hard to look into my mind?”

“You play a cruel game of trust.” He sighed, making you scoff. “Mr. Moore had said in his letters about how he will get the currency to meet you, his means to getting it is unsaid. And that was a clear sign that he needed someone to work with him to get that from a subsidiary of international affairs, you are simply a madman to be able to work alone. And all I need is— you. All I need is you.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion.

“I need you to work with me. You knew better than just mere rumors, you knew everyone and could see their thoughts.”

Working with the British Ministry, consider it treason. Yet, you never were loyal to this land. Your loyalty lies elsewhere, it stays to those who have given you a sense of protection. Your loyalty is within Madame Blanche’s hands. Hands that remained choking you to stay.

Still, you let Mr. Scamander entertain you with his words.

“It would have to take you a valuable price, Mr. Scamander. I am an expensive woman, yet, I am considerate. Give me leverage and I will give you what you want.” That’s when he stopped and stared at the photo, avoiding any eye contact. “What could you possibly offer Mr. Scamander, tell me.”

You grinned as you took a sip at the champagne, just like a war, both of you had been disarming and hurting each other for the kill. Breaking down every barrier with a small slip-up of each other, both of you were professionals at your trades. He is an Auror, he knows how to spot lies and negotiate, give you the feeling of support to make you break down your armor. Meanwhile, you pride yourself on being a great liar, you know what to say to appear compliant, and you know how to adapt and play the games to your tide. Every word and sentence uttered until one of you would lose the battle of wits, one slip and the fallen would crash and burn.

Leaning back you gave him a smile, your wand procuring a cigarette that lay on the table. Placing it gently on your lips, the tip of your wand lit up a flame. With a deep inhale, you knew you were already winning the battle. You didn’t need to look into his mind, to know that he was fighting a losing war. His occlumency was far useless when the knot on his forehead and the jaunt of his chin told you he was conflicted.

“I have been offered riches that could fill De Nile, clothes that were woven from the rarest of silks, jewels that shone brighter than the sun, houses that housed thousands of rooms, paintings of the most beautiful landscapes, songs and sonnets about my beauty, the most exotics of creatures that lay hidden within the government’s grasp… Pray tell, what could a simple auror like you have that can overthrow all those proposals?”

He was silent, expression never changing. And no matter how hard you try to pry to look into his mind, it remains still like he is right in front of you.

“Safety.” Your smile faltered. “I offer you safety.”

You blinked and blinked. Trying hard not to show that your jaw was slack in silence; the timeliness of the gramophone hitting its ending notes was fitting. His words lay heavy on your mind.

Amour Délicat had always offered you protection, but never safety. Safety was a word often associated with emotional aspects that were never visible in your job, safety offered you the sense of never needing to keep your secrets in this line of work or needing not to utter a word that would be your downfall in these walls. Protection kept you free and sheltered from physical aspects and threats, like the two guards that trailed you whenever you needed to do outside work, or the walls that shielded you from the rain. Safety is a foreign word, way too foreign that it burns you with curiosity. A thrill you never experience on a silver platter. It gives you hope— and hope gives you greed. A greet that surpasses all material things known to man. You want to take it all, consume your being until all is left is the safety that you wanted, the safety of being able to walk free, to run away, the security of not needing to know that this is the place where you would meet your demise.

You knew how Madame Blanche worked, she took pride in knowing secrets and that is her leverage. And right now Madama Blanche would be none the wiser when you will take his deal. And there is one thing in the world that the Madame hated, and it is to not know anything at all.

“Give me your hand.”

“What?”

You held your hand to him and stood up, apprehensive he stood up as well taking your hand in his. Looking up into his eyes, you called upon the house elf. Bernadette immediately appeared right beside you.

“Don’t promise me empty words.”

“I won’t.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we made an unbreakable vow.”

Your hold on his palm tightens, only to travel into his wrist. Without breaking eye contact you give him a minute to decide what his choice would be. Does he trust you enough to do it at the expense of his life, or would he rather fear being the one to dictate his actions?

His palm pressed tightly into your wrists, not like the rough hands that occupied your wrists hours ago, his hold was gentle, not imposing. Nodding at Bernadette, a thin tongue of flame issued at the tips of the house elf's fingertips and wound its way around both your and Theseus’ hands. It felt like a burning wire, keeping your skin aflame.

“Will you, Theseus Scamander, promise to provide my safety, as he and I work together?”

“I will.”

“Will you, abide by our oath, to only tell the truth to me?”

“I will.”

a/n: dialogue that is formatted like this “dialogue” is in French. i tried hard to make it one-shot i really did, buT I SIMPLY CANT SO HERE I GIVE YOU WORLD BUILDING AND MORE LORE UPON LORE ON THIS FIC.

#theseus scamander #theseus scamander x reader #theseus scamander x y/n #theseus scamander imagine #theseus scamander oneshot #theseus scamander fic #theseus scamander smut #theseus scamander x you #fantastic beasts fic #fantastic beasts imagine #fantastic beasts one shot #callum turner

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