#i did do a champagne tasting once but it was in france so it was more about having an excuse to drink 4 glasses of champagne before lunch

[pinktinselmonstrosity]

going to a whisky tasting tonight i'm so ready to taste each one and say hmmm..... tastes like...... whisky

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Hi! I can't find the post but you mentioned once that Alfred was everything Francis wanted in someone to mentor. Do you think Francis continued to mentor Alfred after the revolution, or did he seize the opportunity to settle his score with Arthur and then have to focus on other things? Did Matthew witness it firsthand? Did he and Alfred ever discuss it?

Immediately after the American Revolution came the French, which had Francois a little closer home. But Lafayette never stopped thinking highly of America and visited, even sending his son to Washington. I‌ think Francois is the same. He likes Alfred. Not only does he appreciate his power or is charmed by that rough frontier charm Alfred likes to put on or the protestant alarm about sex or joy, but actually likes him. And deeply. Alfred is passionate, romantic in the idealist sense, and energetic. He has an intoxicating optimism and ease around others I struggle to write well enough. He’s direct, he’s cheerful, but he understands subtext and what’s written between the lines. He may not always act like he does, but make no mistake, he’s an intelligent, driven, ambitious young man as taken to zealotry as Francois is.

When Europe became fascinated with America in the 19th century and then later again in the 20th came to be the ‘American century,’ Francois was a key holder and broker of information about the young superpower. Francois was a little repulsed by the American influence on him and his culture; it was a sea change from his absolute chokehold over European tastes (bar whatever the hell is ever going on in England at any given moment.)‌ But he sits there, swirling a glass of good French champagne in a Manhattan gallery, looking at art and so satisfied that he sparked much of this. He has also gotten away with breaking from and rejoining NATO, consistently annoying Alfred by making a display of defiance but yet consistently often counted amongst Alfred’s oldest and dearest friends. There’s nothing he and Alfred haven’t discussed at one point or another. Francois counts artists like Mary Cassatt, John Singer Sargent, or Guy Rose as half his, but they never lose their American sensibilities. There are countless individual stories of Americans finding success, especially artistic success in France. If Alfred represents this burning optimism that Francois has lost some of in his antiquity, then Francois represents another facet of freedom, creative freedom, that Alfred holds as dear as its equal force in his scientific interests. They’re a very odd pair in some ways, with conflicting priorities and visions of the future, but the fact that they both have an equally vivid vision of that future is more than enough to hold their interest in the other, something few others have in Francois’ life.

That initial punch against Arthur for the slight of taking his own young North American was momentarily satisfying, but little more. Neither Canada nor Matt has left a lasting impression on French history or who Francois’ is as a man, and his feelings on the matter bear very little importance to either. It's a little more than nothing to Alfred, but acting on that would mean Alfred talking about his daddy issues, so they don’t discuss it. He knows perfectly well that his emotions are irrelevant, and any display of resentment will be met with pity or humiliation. Either way, Matt knows perfectly well no one wants to hear him complain. Well, maybe his uncle.

[teawithmagician]

The table was plenty. Full of food: delicacies, poultry, aged cheeses, fruit. Bottlenecks stuck out proudly as soldiers at a parade. Raphael let go of her shoulders, transforming into his devil form with smoke and cracking, fire in the fireplace roaring and changing colours.

“Since we’re here to talk business maybe let's skip the seduction part and go directly to drinks?” she asked, taking off her gloves. She was strikingly beautiful despite her age, and the grey streaks in her raven-black hair only added to her beauty. But there was something to her that was unpleasant and sharp like a blade and crunchy-cold like first ice.

“We have things to discuss, that for certain, my lady,” Raphael smirked. He ignored her lack of acknowledgment of his transformation, yet he couldn’t say it didn’t disappoint him. It was his favourite trick in the end.

She nodded, earrings in her ears swinging.

“Anyways, some small talk for starters? What you've been up to? Seducing some easily impressed maidens with fulfilling their deepest desires?”

“Oh, you've been asking around then? I like your attitude, but no. I have been working on some other things” he brushed it off with slight annoyance.

“Oh, you did, you fiend”, she chuckled in good humour, examining the bottles. Raphael watched her, enjoying the familiarity of the feeling.

“You have champagne from that one world? I always loved it” She looked at him over the shoulder saying 'I always loved it' as if it meant not quite champagne. But the impression only lingered for a second and passed quickly.

“I have many things, I have enough to satisfy any taste,” Raphael boasted casually, signalling the champagne to open itself. “It’s from that silly little place called France. I think I took you there at least once?”

“Self-driving carriages” she snapped her fingers. “Yes! I was so scared.”

“Love to see you scared, a rare sight,” he laughed. They lingered by the chairs in silence. He waited until the glass poured itself and gave it to her. She drank, looking aside. Her black velvet jacket seemed dusty, as if after a long journey. Raphael looked at her, sipping on his champagne. For some reason, neither of them sat: he was leaning on the chair, and she leaned on the table.

“I'm under a rather strange predicament these days. I'm responsible for a bunch of troubled kids, including a vampire, a Shar priest, a mage, a vigilante, a spectral warrior, and Zariel’s protégée. And now I need to decide on their behalf. And on behalf of humanity, I guess.”

“I remember the vampire boy, Astarion, right?”

“The boy wants to talk to you about his master. Devil tongue, I remember you've been good in it considering it's not your primary language.”

“My dear, I think you know that another one hinting at me being half-blood would not live long enough to enjoy the joke,” he reminded her, but she brushed his threat off.

“If you wanted to kill me, you would have already done that. But I admire human souls, so take it as a compliment from someone who doesn’t have one anymore.”

“That kid and his master. Their souls are interesting. I could help, yes. But what do I get in return? You know, I don’t particularly do favours.”

“Raphael,” she frowned slightly, looking at him. “You don’t have to be stingy. You’ll get the world, figurally speaking. You can help the vampire kid. He is a nice kid after all.”

“Oh, I would do anything for you” Raphael laughed, playing courteously. “But I don’t quite trust your judgement. Once you considered me a nice kid too.”

“You were one… to a certain extent.” She shrugged.

“What can I say? I’m my father’s son” he spread his arms jokingly.

“But then do you remember the last time you did something you truly wanted? Not to spite your father, or to prove him he was wrong about you?” she looked at him sharply.

“I do remember. I do remember well. I was young and innocent back then. I had dreams, you know? I had the wish to be a famous musician and sing in front of thousands of people. However... I was forced to be what I am by my father, and I had to make him happy.”

“Yes, with a father like yours, it's a matter of survival. I remember how I was a young bard and a spy. I made a deal with you to live forever and you warned me I may find it a burden. And the moment I regret it, my soul is yours.”

“So, do you regret your deal?”

Somehow, he wanted to hear both ‘yes’ and ‘no’. And, yet he’d rather she said ‘no’. Strangely, he didn’t want her to regret anything. To his relief, she shook her head.

“No. I still find my life entertaining”.

He moved the chair, finally inviting her to sit. But as she sat, he didn’t take a chair, still holding her chair’s back in his hands.

“I liked you back then” she mentioned it casually, but he fell silent for longer than a conversation could allow.

“And I liked you as well”.

It felt like a confession, and it was one.

“Hold me close and hold me fast,” she sang quietly, “the magic spell you cast, this is la vie en rose.”

“Give your heart and soul to me, and life will always be la vie en rose,” he finished with a soft chuckle. It was ironic how it was exactly what she did. But it never was her heart.

She sat on the edge of the chair, turning to him, and asked.

“You really want this crown, do you? Become the ruler of the nine hells and the rest that goes with.”

“I want everything. And that never would be enough” he snapped. “It belongs to me. By the birth right and by the right of the fittest.”

There was sudden sadness to her gaze, her dark eyes were starless as she looked at him. Driven by impulse he leaned in to her.

“And you know what is the next thing I’ll want.”

“You never change, you cocky unreadable man,” she laughed. He finally took the chair, turning it to her and sitting next to her, feeling outraged for no particular reason. Yet, the reason was too clear, he just couldn’t admit it. It was like stepping on pride.

“Watch your tongue, dear. I’m not a tame cat.”

“No, you write silly poems and you never clean your House properly, and your ego is in a size of a continent. What a curse you are, really,” she sighed.

“Curses are my job, darling,” he leaned to her, and she smiled with the corners of her lips. The dimples on her cheeks was almost girlish. That brought back memories. “And my ego is of proper size for my plans.”

“Don’t be silly” she ruffled his hair. “I lied and you believed me. That proves my hypothesis of you being silly.”

“What did you lied about?” he asked in a relaxed tone, yet he was immediately alerted like a hellhound on a track.

“That I don’t have a heart to love you.”

The response was like a slap. And even a devil could be taken by surprise.

“How do you think I would put up with you for so long if I were not even a little affectionate about you? How do you think you convinced me into this deal of yours in the first place? I wouldn’t lose my soul to miscalculation. As a secretly dramatic nature, I would only go for a dramatic cause.”

She sipped on her champagne, leaning her elbow on the back of her chair.

“So, you say you are in love with me and expect me to believe you?” he raised his brow. He only needed to win some time to truly assess the situation. But time was what they were always short of.

“I don't expect you to believe anything,” she fixed his collar, her confidence always swept him off his feet. “You were a boy. And I was in love with you.”

“Why would you lie then?” that was the only question that was on his mind.

“To have the upper hand, naturally,” she shrugged her shoulders. “You know how you are at times. Just can't help to use every leverage you have. I couldn't give you that. You men can't handle a graceful surrender.”

“You got me. I do like to think, I am always right. But you know what's really funny?” he chuckled. “I lied too. And that said, I didn't even have a reason to do it.”

“I know. I was quite striking back then. And I counted on you to fall for me to get a better deal. Seems like we both miscalculated.”

[jeonsfrvr]

high-end (jjk) : zibermuda

→ summary: jungkook is a best-selling erotica novelist living in a lavish neighborhood. He spends his days cruising on yachts, tasting the world’s most expensive wines, and fucking bar-staff. But, as soon as you move in next door with your fruity cocktails, tight bikinis, and odd philosophies, his hobbies shift. To put it plainly; you’re sex on legs and he wants to write about you in his upcoming novel. But first, he has to get to know you inside and out. 

→ genre:smut, fluff, angst (erotica-novelist!jk, architect!reader)

→ words: 13,050

Let’s get one thing straightened out; rich people love to do rich people shit. Whether it be deep-throating oysters in the coastal towns of France, raiding designer stores, or pretending to relate to the lower class, they do it and they do it often.

Jeon Jungkook is guilty of most of the above. At 25 years of age, he lives in a multi million-dollar house situated in the privacy and luxury of the Hills. His neighbors live just as lavishly; some actors, some dentists, and some wealthy by marriage. Their problems seem bizarre to the average person, but respectfully, problems are problems. If you’re feeling off about something — even if you’re standing in your ten-acre garden and can’t seem to decide where to build your own personal water park — you still have a problem.

Jungkook has a problem of his own, but we’ll get to that in a moment.

How the fuck did he get so rich and where do I sign up? You might be thinking to yourself. He writes about the intimate and explicit details of sex. Each of his novels revolve around a successful individual dealing with life’s obstacles and ultimately leaving their imprint on the world. The sex scenes are a by-product of the power play. There’s a lot of power in sex, there’s a lot of love in his heart for life and its obstacles, and there’s a lot of money in publishing well-written (debatable), fantasy-driven erotica novels. 

To say he was born with a silver spoon sticking out of both of his ears would be a bit of an overstatement, but not too far from the truth. His parents are the masterminds behind a multi billion-dollar tech company that develops security software. From day one, they drove the tech-fantasy into their sons head, and even though they persuaded him to graduate college with a Bachelor of Advanced Computer Science, things took a different turn once he stepped foot into the real world; he grew a little too cocky with his qualifications, social status, and good looks, and so spent his time entertaining a rowdy bunch of people, partying, having insane amounts of sex, drinking whatever was handed to him, snorting blow off bars, and everything else the champagne life entails.

And then, like most young people, he was inspired by a short-lived summer romance. She was an aspiring solicitor, beautiful, confident, and determined, but her determination made her use people like dental floss. She bat her eyelashes a thousand times, said anything to grow her network, and lied like it was a 9-5 job. But, as much as it hurt him, he never grew to hate her. There was something about her — maybe it was the way she could tame every doubt in his mind, or the way she built herself from the ground up — that made it clear that she knew the world was hers. She was the inspiration behind his first novel.Similar to how musicians write an array of emotional lyrics and dedicate music videos to ex-lovers, he too found a way to tell stories. The difference is that he never writes out of spite.No matter how many chapters of heartbreak he could write, he believes it to be wholly unproductive. He sees the good and the fun in others or he doesn’t see at all.

He knew many fine publishers through his parents, so it wasn’t long before he was an official published author with a new network of literate friends. His novel was a quick success thanks to his advertising team. They worked their ass to the bone to gain a cult following for him. Posters were on bus-stops, library walls, retirement home notice boards, and even on the ‘Do Not Feed the Ducks’ signs at parks. If the ducks and the elderly weren’t already into sexy, but also kind of odd novels, they sure as hell are now.

He was crowned the king of erotica just a week after his first publication.

The average Joe appreciates a little sex every now and then, but this isn’t a story about average Joe’s. It’s about filthy rich savages who can’t get enough of it; in every position, at every time of the day, at every setting. They put rabbits to shame. For all intents and purposes, Jungkook is one of these rabbit-shaming savages. He loves dubious, sweat-inducing, vulgar sex with loose women; MILFS, teachers, models, lawyers, doctors, bartenders, and even the neighbor living in the colonial mansion opposite from him. She’s forty-three years old, freshly divorced, and had been a fan of his writing since the very first publication, so she thought ’what the hell? I’ll just knock on his door, crack open a bottle of wine, and gush about how much I love his work. Maybe I can work on my game, too.’ She came for conversation, but never thought that he’d be spelling it out with his tongue between her thighs.

When it comes to conversing with him, there’s often tension, whether sexual or just plain enlightening, and a tipping point. He always says the right things to aid out unlikely confidence within people; a type of confidence that makes a person say what they truly mean and want. He likes to ask unlikely questions and do unlikely things, sex aside.

Back to his problem, though; writers block. He’s lacking very specific inspiration, but this is where you come into play. He was curious about you from the very moment he saw you chatting with the driver of the movers truck. You’d been standing outside your new house with your summer dress and broad-rimmed hat, and he’d been curiously scoping out his new neighbor from his window. It’s not uncommon for him to feel such curiosity toward a successful person, nor is it rare for him to adapt and characterize them for his novels. Only the devil knows what kind of woman you are. Maybe you’re a teacher of fine arts, a model, a marine, a police officer, maybe you married into wealth, or even a decoy sent by the FBI. He learned many years ago to not judge a person by their cover.

It was only yesterday that he saw you standing on your driveway with a shadow cast over half of your face, and if he hadn’t been preoccupied with avoiding various voicemails and bickering with his lawyer over the phone, he would’ve introduced himself. Today, though, he plans on doing just that. In fact, he’s already half-way down the stairs with a free schedule and the brighter side of your face clear in his mind.

The staircase banisters are glass panes adorned with silver hand-railings, and each step is a thick, hand-cut slab of grey marble. The steps cascade from the second floor to the kitchen, where contemporary wine racks have been built underneath. Stocked on the racks are hundreds of bottles of imported red wine, white wine, and limited edition champagne taken from events and given to him as gifts. Most, if not all, are purely decorative. He prefers whiskey.

Bright, white spotlights are tucked underneath floating wall dividers to brighten up the home and most, if not all, of the walls have been coated in a light grey paint. A theme of dark wood runs true to his home; dark counter tops, coffee tables, and sculptures. His home is very much an open plan, quite like himself.

Money has never been an issue for him, but it’d be foolish to say that wealth is what got him here in the first place. He has always been smart, has always known the right people, and has always been ambitious to the core. You could give him nothing but an empty bottle, and he’d soon be the best-selling bottle maker in the country.

Jungkook takes a few moments to pick out an expensive bottle of wine — a house-warming gift, if you will — before heading outside. The sky is a pretty shade of blue and almost void of clouds, except for a single cloud spread across the sky like a stroke of white paint. He knocks on your door three times and checks his Rolex after waiting an excess of fifteen seconds. Almost a minute passes before the front door swings open to reveal your shadow-free face. You have light, complementary makeup and a small smile adorning it. If he were younger and a little more naive, he’d drop to his knees.

It’s 4:48PM on a Sunday, yet you have a half-empty, strawberry cocktail in your hand. It’s 4:48PM, yet he has an expensive bottle of wine in his. He already likes you.

“Hello.” You say with those strawberry stained lips. Something about you suggests that you’re a little bit introverted, but it’s definitely not the cloud-white bikini and black, sheer cover-up wrapped around your figure. “I don’t suppose you’re the pool man?” 

“No, but I can take a look if you’d like.” He smiles a true Hollywood smile. “Your neighbor. To the right.”

His home is the biggest in the neighborhood. Many of the other homes are half the size, but just as lavish, including your own.

“Y/N.” You offer out your hand for him to shake and he does so without hesitation. “Architecture is my forte, but that’s not usually the first thing people guess.”

He tells you his name and you repeat it back in a way that makes him raise his eyebrows ever so slightly. And, as you invite him inside, you size him up; from his broad shoulders, slim waist, to his surprisingly perky ass. What is it with men and winning the genetic jackpot for good asses and eyelashes?

You’re not the only one, though. He’s already taken note of your half-naked body, ring-less fingers, and the dimples in your lower back. Your house smells like clean laundry and fresh paint, and an array of gin, brandy, vodka, and whiskey bottles sit on a silver platter on your marbled kitchen counter, right next to a bouquet of deep pink Dahlias. He places the wine bottle nearby, slightly defeated by the wrong choice of drink.

You’re not a wine-drinker, he notes. Cocktails are your best friend.

“Thank you.” You say, genuinely, as you inspect the brand and age of the wine. It looks expensive and by the looks of him, it has to be. “You really didn’t have to bring me anything.”

“I would’ve brought you a pie, but I can’t bake to save a life.” He humors. “You’ll get one, though, just not from me.”

The sun is far too warm to keep the conversation strictly inside. Summer has always been your favorite time of the year.

“What do you do, by the way? I don’t think I asked.” You inquire as you step past the large, glass sliding doors and wander around the great length of your swimming pool. Sundays are the only days where you have the time to lounge around in a bikini and drink cocktails before 5PM, so you make the most of it.

“I’m an author.” Even for someone like him, he’s never seen such a huge personal pool. Are you coaching the Olympic swimming team or something? He can just about picture you lounging on an inflatable pool float, skin wet and glistening in the light.

"What kind of stuff do you write?” You ask with your drink in one hand and his full-attention in the other. “Let me guess.. Science fiction? Business advice?”

His tan skin, wavy hair, and aura yells — practically screams — ‘leisure’, so he could easily be mistaken for a businessman with a habit of visiting the Bahamas every weekend. That’s not far from the truth, to be fair. He isn’t one to shy away from self-indulgence.

“Erotica.” There’s no hidden shame behind his confession, nor is their a flicker of embarrassment. He owns it, just like he owns that white, button-up shirt and that dark, ruffled hair. He’s physically fit, too, thanks to his interest in recreational boxing and high intensity training.

“Erotica?” You repeat, way-off, but entirely captivated by this strange man. “So, you’re addicted to sex?”

Cheeky, he notes.

You tap your finger against your glass and drink in everything about him. The longer you look, the shyer you feel. What’s that about? You’ve never been one to shy away from a hot, single neighbor; that is if he’s actually single and not just a cocky husband of a woman who deserves a whole lot better. There’s something very intimidating about him. He carries himself like nothing in this world could bother him or make him stutter over his words.

He likes that you asked that. It gives him incentive to ask you the same thing. “Aren’t you?”

“We’re living in the hills, Mr. Author.” Your laugh strokes his ears like soft velvet. “I’m sure everybody around here is in some sort of sex ring.”

He touches the bottom of his chin and your eyes linger there for a few moments. His face is perfectly symmetrical; sharp jaw, deep brown eyes, pretty pink lips. A small mole sits directly under his bottom lip, too. “You free Thursday evening, Y/N?”

“Could be.”

“Could be.” He repeats, amused. “A friend of mine opened up a bar down on boulevard. Real fancy shit. They serve $1,000 diamond cocktails and everything else pretentious. I’d like to take you.”

“Sounds fun.” You agree without much hesitation. “I get home from work at 7.”

And that’s how Jeon Jungkook meets you for the first time. He doesn’t stay for too long, though, because he prefers to pace himself. Too much of a good thing isn’t good for anybody. You’ve only spoken to him for twenty-five minutes, but he’s already so intrigued. You’re two years his senior, graduated college twice; first with a Bachelor’s Degree in Architecture, and the second time with a Master’s in Architecture. You love what you do, but you hate where you work, even though it’s one of the best studios in the city. Interior and spacial designs interest you the most, but your boss compresses what you’re allowed to do out of fear that you might be better than he is. Jungkook can already tell that you’re better than a lot of people, especially your boss.

“I won’t be mad if you pour that wine down the sink, honestly.” He wanders past your front door and eyes the way you ever so slightly lean your hip against the door frame. “I mean it.”

You laugh, knowing damn well that that very thought crossed your mind just moments before. “See you Thursday, Mr. Author.”

He heads back home, but catches you again from the same window he’d seen you from yesterday. He observes, slightly hypnotized, as you bend over to place a cocktail glass on the concrete nearby the pool. The sheer fabric of your beach kimono rides up your lower back, revealing the curve of your ass and the white bikini thong clinging to your skin. And then he notices his own novel in your hands. The coloring of the front cover suggests that it’s one of his older novels. He then wonders if you already knew who he was and are just a really convincing actress. You didn’t, really, but his novel was stuffed into a box of books that you had just started to unpack. You recall a friend gifting you the erotica novel for your 25th birthday, but you never even read the blurb. It’s been gathering dust at the back of shelves for two years, but now you just have to know what it’s all about. 

Not expecting much, you flick through a few chapters until you land on a random sex scene. You drink in every word like it’s a new cocktail flavor, tasting the incredibly lewd descriptions of wall sex shifting to wet, shower sex. The way he describes each scene has your imagination firing up like an old truck. You can picture each water droplet sliding down the two bodies, the hand print left on the main character’s thigh, and the thick, misty air in the bathroom. A little warm in the face, you flip the novel and peer at the image of Jungkook printed just above the blurb. He’s wearing that same Hollywood smile.

Monday rolls around far too quickly. You bid farewell to your bikinis and cocktails until next Sunday, and head to work with armfuls of files.

Your boss, David Woods; a man with a passion for development and architecture; ushers you to his large office before you can even make it to your desk. He’s tall and lean; at-least 6′1; with a short quiff that he feels the need to gel back. His hands are abnormally large and disproportionate to his body. Pressed suits, solid-colored ties, shiny shoes, and white button-ups are all that he wears in fear that he could be mistaken for anything other than a rich man.

A dark oak desk sits toward the further end of the room, closest to a blue-grey wall and a painting of something dark and abstract. There are countless awards for god-knows-what lined up on his bookshelves, and a prayer plant is sat on the left side of his desk in a tall, gold vase. If it weren’t for that plant doing regular plant things, the air in here would reek of death.

He takes a seat at his black leather chair and places his big hands on the desk, grinning wickedly at you. The gold light fixtures match the thin, gold necklace that’s half-tucked beneath his button-up.

“A little birdie told me that you’re planning to open up your own studio.” He interrogates. Woods has never been one to mind his business, let alone speak to another human being without a condescending tone. “When was that? Sometime this year?”

“A little birdie?” You’re not afraid to call him out on his blatant dishonesty. “You look through my laptop when I’m at lunch.”

“The company’s laptop.” He corrects. He’s amused by your boldness, but if you squint, you can see the irritation behind his pale blue eyes. “You know how I feel about my people taking clients from The Woods. It’s not good for business.”

No, he’s not talking about literal tree-dominated land, although he does a good job at making people feel as if they’re lost in such a place. The Woods is quite literally him and anything he owns. Once you step foot into the building, you’re in The Woods territory. There’s a difference between being proud of what you’ve made for yourself and being an overbearing asshole who thinks he has a say in everyone and everything.

“I’m just trying to help you out, Y/N. You know that’s all I’ve ever done for you.” He says as condescending as ever. “I just don’t think you’re ready to be your own boss.”

“I’ve been ready for a while.” There’s no reason for you to say this out loud, because, well, both of you are already aware of it. You’re his best. You draw in clients like no other, have a network exceeding 500 professionals, and are a complete realist. You could run five successful studios, but with the right investors, you could run one of the best in the country. “If it’s clients that you’re worried about, don’t. I won’t steal from you.”

“Oh, but you’ve been stealing from me since I let you in these doors.”

Loyalty is a big thing for Woods, but he holds it against people to an extreme extent. He interferes with personal lives, often ordering people to cut ties with others he holds a grudge against or because they don’t ‘fit his vibe.’ If you have an ugly pet, he’ll refer you to the nearest pet sanctuary. If your wife or husband is an under-performer, has one too many blemishes on their skin, or can’t bear a child, he’ll introduce you to somebody he deems worthy.

You leave his office with a plunging feeling in the pit of your stomach and a need for fresh air.

The receptionist greets you as you walk past and toward the revolving doors. She’s a woman in her mid twenties with a noticeable French accent. Light highlights run through her shoulder-length, brown hair. She’s fond of wearing sneakers to work as it makes the train commute a lot more comfortable for her feet, she likes ice-cream scented candles, cats — that’s evident by the few cat hairs stuck to the sleeve of her blouse —, and keeping up with local gossip. She’s good at her job, reliable, and always greets people with a warm smile, even Woods. She’s no-doubt the glue that holds this place together and prevents people from strangling each-other to death.

“Long day?” Mylène, the French receptionist, asks even though lunchtime has yet to hit.

“You could say that.”

“11:11AM.” She says like it means anything to you. “That’s an angel number. I’ll make a wish for you.”

From Monday to Thursday, you work and you work and you work. You have countless meetings with new and old clients, draw up elaborate designs, revise old designs, and visit various construction sites. Your desk grows littered with pens, pencils, cuts of fabric and woods, and random slithers of wallpaper prints. During your lunch breaks, you often grab a coffee with old college friends and colleagues, making the effort to really nourish relationships.

Thursday rolls around faster than usual and you find yourself sitting at a bar with Jeon Jungkook at 8:48PM. He’s wearing a black button-up shirt with a slight satin finish, rolled at the sleeves, black dress pants and shoes, and a Rolex around his wrist. His well built chest strains slightly against his shirt, as do his biceps. You’ve come straight from work in a deep blue pencil dress. There’s not a single casual tee or distressed jean in sight, only high heels, neutral colored ties, gorgeous dresses, and styled hair.

Soft, white down-lights shine from the ceiling above the bar table, illuminating whatever vibrant drink the bartender has served to a customer. Pleasant jazz hums from cleverly hidden speakers. The atmosphere couldn’t get any more intimate. You often find yourself at bars like these after a shit day at work with a drink in both hands. There are specific things that make a shit day, but your boss is always the garlic and onions behind recipes like those.

Jungkook orders a scotch on the rocks and takes the first gulp like a parched man. You order yourself a strawberry-mint gin and tonic.

“What got you into writing?” Is your first question of the night. “I’ve heard that the industry is hard to get into. A friend of mine was rejected dozens of times and told that her plots were all wrong.”

He ponders carefully before settling on an answer. “Life and its shit. I’ve been rejected before, but that’s just how it is out there. Wouldn’t it be boring to be right all the time?”

You chuckle at the notion. “My boss begs to differ.”

Writing — putting your thoughts out into the world for crass feedback — isn’t an easy thing to do. It’s often praised as brave; to open yourself up to such interactions with people who should have zero impact on your self-worth because, they’re, well, complete strangers with a different set of values, literary interests, interpretation skills, and are often just doing their job as a well-paid shit-stirrer.

A handful of people get a kick out of sharing anonymous, hateful comments. Jungkook deals with those kind of comments every day of his life, but if there’s one thing that he’s learned by being in the public eye, it’s that opinions aren’t facts. It’s important to take them and then let them go. Hell, you even have the power to build your own foundation with the bricks people throw at you. His life is his. Your life is yours. It’d be a very big mistake to see your life in eyes that aren’t yours.

People are always going to be cunts with zero regard for other people’s feelings. The difference is that you and him know the difference between being a decent human being and being that. That’s something to take pride in.

“Sure, but how do you deal with criticism?” You ask, intrigued by his extraordinary life. He’s so young for the empire he’s amassed. Sure, he’s two years your junior, but he could teach you a thing or two. “Do you rewrite or try somewhere else?”

He swirls the whiskey in his glass and watches as it glisten beneath the lights. Amusement is written all over his face, but there’s something foreign wavering in his eyes. “I deal with it by sitting in my mansion and not changing a fucking thing about myself.”

“Touché, but wealth isn’t everything.” You challenge. “A lot of people learn to love the money, but hate themselves.”

“I don’t hate myself.” He says and you believe him. “Not always. I try to hate the choices I make instead of hating myself for making them.”

“Smart. You’re your own best friend.”

“I’m never going to know somebody as well as I know myself, so why not? I am my own mind. I know what I’m thinking at most times of the day.”

He makes an interesting point, but you can’t help but challenge it further. “Then again.. you see yourself, but you also don’t see yourself. There are some things that I know about you that you don’t know about yourself. For instance..”

He holds his glass with a limp wrist, listening attentively. “Enlighten me.”

“Well.. I’m sitting in front of you and I can observe the expressions that your face makes during our conversation. You don’t always realize that you’re making them, but you can’t carry a little mirror with you and check what your face is doing all the time. Wouldn’t that be weird?”

“I’ve never thought about that before.” He says with a smile. “You’re a bit strange, aren’t you?”

His answer disappoints you slightly, but you don’t bother verbalizing it. He can tell you feel this way by the slight lowering of your eyebrows. Only, you don’t realize yourself that you’ve taken on this expression. Funny, he thinks to himself. Ignorance was bliss.

You both discuss your the past few riveting days that you’ve had; you speak about your boss in the kindest way possible, and he speaks about the people he recently met in only good tones and smiles. He doesn’t ever poke fun at another persons flaw, or their dress choice, or their intellect. He could sell anyone any product, no matter how shit it actually is, with that talent. You find yourself laughing and cringing like he’s an old school friend. It’s a nice feeling.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve done?” You dare to ask with your straw poking at your bottom lip. You’re on your third gin and tonic.

“The worst thing?” He repeats, amused by your formidable question. He could list a few things that’d shift the mood, but he isn’t ready for you to meet the skeletons in his closet, to evaluate the bad decisions he’s made, or to sympathize with the people he’s hurt.

“Yeah, you know-” You take a sip from your drink before returning it to the bar. You’re in a prying mood. There’s something about him, maybe it’s the way he looks at you with those big brown eyes, that makes you want to try your luck. “The naughtiest.” 

The naughtiest? He thinks to himself. Maybe it was when he bent his lawyer over her desk and showed her what ’taking it from the back’ really meant, or when he fucked a prestigious critic for a better review on his novel. He’s been everywhere, done a little bit of everything, and a little bit of everyone. To choose just one naughty thing would take a weeks worth of contemplation, but then, something of value comes to mind and he leans closer to whisper it into your ear; something so filthy that it makes your breath catch in your throat and your posture improve.

As he speaks lowly, his breath tickles your neck, sending goosebumps down the length of your arms. If you were slightly more sober, and some may argue — smart —, you’d recognize them as warning signs.

“And then..” His voice is intoxicating and has you hooked on every syllable that falls from his lips. He smells like a delicious mix of whiskey, vanilla, and pine. And, during the most telling part of his confession, he runs his palm from your knee to your upper thigh, taking the fabric of your dress with him.

You definitely took him as the promiscuous type, but this is far beyond anything you’ve ever heard before. When he pulls away, your skin is engulfed in an arousing heat. A warm flush had been crawling it’s way up your neck, but has well and truly settled between your thighs. "That’s pretty naughty.”

“Think so?” His confident tone arouses you more. You’re wet. That’s clear to the both of you. “I like the way you’re looking at me.”

You’re way too lost in his eyes and consumed by the feeling of his fingers tracing small circles against your thigh. Your eyes are probably begging for something, a portion of your bottom lip is probably caught between your teeth, and your chest is probably rising and falling quite quickly. “What way?”

“That way.” His eyes flick to your mouth, and then, just like that, his lips are on yours. He kisses you slowly at first, gently sliding his tongue against your own and relishing in the warmth and wetness of your mouth. He craves you; from your bashful smile to every inch of your body that always seems to be wrapped tightly in designer. He wonders what sounds you’ll make when he fucks you, whether or not you prefer to go slow and make love, how wet you’ll get you with just his fingers, and if your panties are thin and lacy and riding up your ass.

He hates wondering, so he takes you home. You unzip your dress and let it fall to the hardwood floor, and he pours himself a whiskey on the rocks. His curious eyes roam all over your skin, from your hardened nipples to your bare thighs, as he guides your lower back against the kitchen counter. Every touch against your skin makes you shudder, whether it be the pads of his fingers or the grey marble of the countertop.

“Look at you. Fuck..” He says, mostly to himself, as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. Your eyes flutter shut at his touch. 

He runs his palm up the curve of your ass and hooks his fingers underneath the band of your panties, tugging it tight against your pussy. The feeling of your skin burns into his memory, and as he looks at your face, really looks at it, he knows he hit the jackpot; your face is as beautiful as your voice, your voice is as beautiful as your mind, and your mind is as beautiful as your body. To him, you’re fucking faultless. He knows he’ll be on his knees for you before the night is over.

The ice sitting in his glass glistens beneath the kitchen light and it gives him an intriguing idea. He wants to see you come undone, to make you so stimulated that you can’t pinpoint where the feeling is coming from. He takes an ice cube between his lips and presses it against the side of your neck. You gasp at the feeling of the ice running against your skin; so cold that it almost stings. Your fingers grasp at the fabric of his button-up as he drags the ice past your collarbone and down to your nipple, pressing it firm against the bud until your back arches away from the counter. A thin sheen of water maps out exactly where his lips have been.

Just like he knew he would, he sinks to his knees and tugs your panties down your thighs and off at the feet. The ice melts in his mouth. His lips are still cold and wet as he presses a hard kiss against your pussy, and the feeling draws a startled gasp from your chest. He spreads your folds with his fingers and teasingly drags his tongue against your pussy hole. His nose digs against your clit as he licks into you. His own saliva coats his chin, and at one point, drools from your pussy to the hardwood flooring.

“Right there.. Like that. Fuck!” You sigh as he alternates between sucking and licking your clit, and curling two fingers inside of you. He touches you right, really making the effort to listen to the sounds you make and taking note of the way you squirm against his mouth.

He licks your pussy and digs his fingers into your ass until your moans double in volume and your breathing turns rapid, and then he stands to steal your breath again with a deep kiss. You fumble with the buttons of his button-up as he fervently kisses you. The pace of the kiss is erratic and you find it difficult to keep up. He bites and sucks on your tongue until your lips are swollen.

His body is dreamy and something you’ve been curious about ever since he turned up in that tight, black button-up; wide shoulders, slim waist, defined abdomen and pecs, and small nipples that harden slightly as you run your hands over his skin. You tug on the zipper of his pants and reach beneath for his cock. It’s stiff and warm in your hand.

He lifts your leg and wraps your thigh snug around his bare waist, eager to feel you. A relieved sigh falls from both of your mouths as he sinks into you. He pulls your hips flush against his own, delving deeper and filling you up until he can’t any more. You feel so warm and wet wrapped around him. It couldn’t be any better.

“You feel so good.” He praises and he means every word. “So fucking good..”

Similarly to the first kiss you shared, he starts off gentle and slow, but is quick to lose himself in the moment and set a quick pace. His pecs and abdomen flex as he bucks his hips against yours over and over again. The sex has you in a trance. Moans drool from your lips, your nails rake across the back of his neck, and your head grows increasingly dizzy. Your lower back digs firmly into the counter top as he fucks you against it, and profanities fall from his tongue in arousing moans. You can’t imagine your night getting any better.

The sex migrates from the kitchen counter, to the doors of the pantry, and finally to the nearby couch. He sinks onto, almost into, the couch as you straddle his lap. Nothing else is running through his mind aside from you; the feeling of your wrapped tightly around him, the sight of your parted lips and low eyes, the sound of your pretty whines and stuttering breath, and the bounce in your tits as you sit on his cock over and over again.

“Oh my.. god. Oh my-” You chant in desperate whispers. “Fuck..”

He reaches for your tits, squeezing the flesh and pinching your nipples between his fingers. Your skin is delicate beneath his touch; he almost feels like he could break you at any moment, but you’re proving to be a bigger girl than he made you out to be.

You come twice that night; once on his cock and the other on his tongue. You’re breathless when it ends and it takes you many, many more moments spent in his arms before you can gather your thoughts and clothing.

Jungkook has had enough sex in his life to understand that sex is never perfect and that’s a very normal and human thing. Sometimes it takes a few different touches and manoeuvres to turn somebody on, and other times it’s a walk in the (water) park. Sometimes he’ll laugh while he’s balls deep in somebody because one of them made a funny noise. He might miss their mouth and accidentally kiss their chin. He might come too early or too late, lose his erection halfway through because a bizarre thought crossed his mind, or even fall asleep before he can take his pants off because he’s had a little too much to drink. Sometimes sex is boring, or silent, or just an itch that needs to be scratched. But he saw no fault in the sex he just had with you. His mind didn’t wander, but his hands definitely did. He liked everything about it; from the sounds you made to the way you slipped your tongue into his mouth. He still sees zero faults in you.

Woods hands you the client on Friday morning. Just like that. He strides to your desk and slaps down a file full of various sketches, building plans, and contact details. You flip through the pages with an abundance of enthusiasm as he glares down at you. He wants you to stay at the studio and he’s hoping that this will buy your confidence. That’s what this is.

“Don’t disappoint me.” Is all that he says.

You meet with those clients on the very same day, introducing yourself and chatting about various design ideas over coffee at a nearby cafe. They’re a married couple in their late fifties and as rich as ever. They carry themselves well and decide on a budget in the millions. They want to build a retirement home for themselves; somewhere secluded and surrounded by gorgeous scenery, open plan, modern, lots of light, white and elegant decor.

“Plants.” The man adds as you’re taking notes on an iPad. He’s handsome; short, dark hair, well-built figure, pretty brown eyes, and a soothing voice. “Lots of house plants. They make the air better.”

“Actually..” The woman adds as the meeting comes to an end. She’s as attractive as her husband; pretty eyes, shiny black hair, and delicate fingers. “We’re heading to a literature event tonight and the venue is exactly in the style we’re looking for. Why not come? It’s a nice excuse to get you out of the office, isn’t it?”

You accept with a smile. Who are you to turn down free champagne during a weekday? You’re not much of a reader, not because you don’t like to read, but because you rarely have the time. Regardless, you put on your nicest dress and your nicest heels, and adorn your face with pretty makeup. 

The venue is stunning; high ceilings with expensive chandeliers, white Victorian walls, indoor ivory hanging from aged wooden beams, huge windows that allow the sunlight to pass through. It really is beautiful here. The other guests are dressed to the nines; shawls, glistening dresses, designer ties and suits, and priceless shoes. As you’re looking around and sipping on a glass of complementary champagne, somebody all too familiar catches your eye. He notices you just moments after and comes bounding over with a handsome smile on his face.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Jeon Jungkook, your neighbor and the man you had literal sex with the other day, joins you by the table of champagne glasses. A huge chocolate fountain and a few vases full of white flowers are sat on the table, too.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, a bit taken aback by how good he looks; black blazer over a tight high-neck sweater, black dress pants, and shiny shoes. His hair is styled neatly and pushed off to one side.

“I was invited-” He quirks an eyebrow. “-to the author’s events because, believe it or not, I’m an author. Why are you here?”

“Right.” You breathe out all of your tense energy in one, long sigh. With little conviction, you gesture toward the middle-aged couple who are enjoying champagne with a slightly younger woman. “Those are my clients. They want a home in a similar style to this. They didn’t have to invite me, but it’s nice that they did. Could’ve just googled this place or visited later in the week..”

“My parents?” He asks, unaffected.

“Your parents?”

He points two limp fingers in the direction of the same couple and you can’t help but remember the feeling of them between your thighs. “The pretentious looking couple, yeah, my parents. I was so sure you were the type to read through my Wikipedia page and draw up my family tree.”

Small world, you think to yourself. It seems like every rich person knows all the other rich people in this world. They all meet at some point, buying and selling parts of themselves in the good name of business. The world makes the strangest connections sometimes.

“If you ever feel nervous, just remember this.” He says. “Their son writes sex novels, so nothing can really disappoint them any more than that. You’ll give them what they want, though. I’ve seen some of your work.”

“They don’t support you?”

“They do. My mom tells people that I write about science and the order of the universe, though. She’s still holding out hope that I’ll suddenly want to work at their company. My dad doesn’t really care.. as long as I don’t overdose on some yacht in Cancun.”

Jungkook’s eyes drag from your exposed neck and arms, to the curve of your ass. Your glittery dress is as amazing as everyone else’s, maybe even better. The soft skin of your back is exposed and a delicate string of jewels runs down your spine. “You look nice, by the way. Really nice.”

The opportunity for mingling comes to a close once a young man — about the same age as Jungkook — steps up to the mic that’s been set up at the front and center of the venue. He’s wearing round glasses and a black, fitted suit. The guests take their seats at their allocated tables. It comes as no surprise to you that Jungkook is seated at the same table as parents. You sit at the table behind with a few other rich women draped in designer. The eldest woman sat around the table taps your shoulder and compliments your dress.

“Stunning.” She says and you smile.

“Thanks for coming everyone. I’d like to start us off with a passage from my latest self-help book.” The young man with the glasses begins after tapping the mic with two fingers. He’s not nervous, just eager to change at least one person’s outlook. “If somebody doesn’t bring anything positive into your life, let them go. You’ll feel bad and question whether you’ve done the right thing, but just give it some time. Don’t check up on somebody who doesn’t check up on you. Don’t try to keep in contact. Stop associating things, music, and people with that person.”

“Maybe they said something mean and you said something back or vice versa, but in reality, it just doesn’t matter. You were both upset. You’re not defined by a petty argument. People in this world kill each-other, steal, abuse power, and assault the most vulnerable. You’re not a bad person for being upset and saying something hurtful, and that rings true if you feel any ounce of regret. It happened and you can’t change it. Sure, you might’ve had some awesome times and genuinely have love for that person, but if they continuously make you doubt your worth, intellect, choices, values, invade your privacy, and lash out at you for being somebody other than who they want you to be, let them go. You don’t even owe them an explanation or a goodbye. Don’t apologize when it isn’t your fault. Don’t apologize for mistakes that you didn’t make. Don’t waste time reflecting on shit that just isn’t worth it. This world is full of people who you will love and who will love you. Don’t settle. You lose part of yourself when you do.”

And then he nods to the crowd and returns to his seat. An older woman takes his place and introduces a passage from her own novel.

“Lessons in love hurt.” She says. “If there was a class for love, nobody would turn up. We’re not lab rats and we’d all prefer to learn without pain. I don’t ever remember feeling like I’d spend life alone after a math class, do you?” 

Despite Jungkook being the most famous author here, he doesn’t get up to speak at all during the night. All he does is listen to the others and clap once they finish reciting their bit. When the event ends and all the rich people have shaken all the other rich people’s hands, he offers to take you somewhere where they serve a lot more than champagne, and you accept without a hesitating thought.

He drives a black camaro and it smells exactly like his aftershave. You don’t bother to ask him where he’s taking you because you trust that he’ll show you a good time. He drives for fifteen minutes down a busy road before turning a corner and continuing down a narrow driveway toward a federal colonial house. The driveway widens five times it’s previous size, making room for at-least twenty decent sized vehicles. He parks among nine other cars and walks toward the large front door with your hand in his; just in case you trip in the dark with those heels on.

Dim, alternating colors of light emit from each of the windows; floor to ceiling on the first floor, and half the size on the second. A huge lawn surrounds the property and is dimly illuminated by outdoor solar lights that are impaled into the soil. Loud, electropop music booms from the walls of the building. You can practically see them shaking in tune with the bass.

“Where is this?” You ask over the volume. Bunches of balloons are fastened around an assortment of topiary bay trees.

“A happy house.” He lets himself in like he’s been here one hundred times before. He has. This is the one place that he won’t ever outgrow. People do every type of drug here, party for three days in a row, and have boatloads of sex. The police don’t bother intervening because too many celebrities are fond of this place and come often. If offered enough money, even the law can turn a blind eye. “You get very happy here, if you know what I mean.”

The air is thicker inside the building and more difficult to breathe in. It doesn’t feel like a home at all. You can smell weed, sweat, sex, and alcohol. The flickering lights illuminate parts of people’s faces and bodies. They’re chatting quietly, touching each-other through and beneath their clothing, smoking cigarettes, and exchanging saliva in the hallway. Some have multicolored hair, streaks of neon paint smeared on their face, missing shirts, cocaine melted into their upper lip, and a light sheen of sweat adorning their skin.

Jungkook takes no notice. He guides you past the bodies in the hallway and toward what looks like a pumped-up, party-haven living room. Two couches sit opposite from one another and in-between a table that’s littered with empty glasses and glow sticks. It’s hard to see much else.

“I was wondering when I’d see you again.” An older woman comes out of nowhere and engulfs Jungkook in a tight hug. She’s wearing a turquoise jumpsuit, lots of jewellery on her wrists and fingers, and bright pink lipstick. The flickering lights make it difficult to make out the true dimensions of her face, but you can tell that she’s very beautiful. She has yellow neon paint smeared down her neck and arms.

“Huifang, Y/N.” Jungkook takes the joint that she offers him and lights it between his lips. The smoke rises to the ceiling and changes color in tune with the lights. “She’s designing my parent’s old people home.”

The woman steps forward and you expect her reach for a hug, but she cups your face and presses a hard kiss against your lips instead. You’re wide eyed when she pulls away, but her smile doesn’t falter. This is definitely a happy house.

“She’s very friendly.. Ever since the divorce.” Jungkook’s eyes sparkle in the light as he laughs. It’s a playful gesture that Huifang returns by nudging his arm.

“Wow.. Yeah.” You pat your lips and check your fingers for her bright pink lipstick.

Somewhere along the flashing lines, Jungkook vanishes beneath the lights and Huifang pulls you down on the the nearest couch. You’ve never been so bewildered in your life. There’s so much going on that you don’t understand, but the three glasses of champagne that you had previously are doing their bit at calming your nerves.

“You’re free here.” She says. “You can do anything around these people; take every kind of drug, have sex on the tables, commit fraud in the hallway. Nobody fucking cares here and I love living this way.”

She points a manicured finger toward two people sat on a dining table chair. Balloons are tied to the legs of the nearby table and confetti litters the floor. A woman, about the same age as Huifang, has the straps of her dress at her hips. She’s hungrily kissing a man whose lap she’s occupied. The flickering lights make what their doing seem slightly more private, but they’re still definitely having sex. There are other people slumped against the wall, some are on the couch, some are cutting up cocaine on the table, some are walking past the couch and into the back garden, where sex is also definitely being had. It all seems very normal here. It’s like a frat party on steroids and Viagra.

“You and I are from the same spaceship. I can tell.” Huifang says, but doesn’t elaborate until she lights a cigarette between her lips and takes a long drag. “Ambitious as hell when shown a little faith.”

“I wasn’t always like this.” She gestures to her styled hair and the expensive rings on her fingers. “I was dirt poor when I had my son and couldn’t even afford to send him to school with lunch like all the other kids. Selfish, right? I got pregnant when I knew I couldn’t take of my own kid. And then it got even harder; I couldn’t afford to pay for his bus tickets when the school fees starting increasing. Something to do with expensive development in the area. That’s when I knew I was in real shit. I thought about pulling him out and teaching him a thing or two around the dinner table, but what the hell do I know? I dropped out of high school to raise him. I couldn’t teach him half the things a decent school could. All I could do was work unstable jobs.”

In the time it takes her to preface her story, her cigarette burns out completely. She takes a new cigarette from the pocket of her turquoise jumpsuit and lights it between her small, pink lips. “Anyways..” She says with a cloud of smoke chasing each syllable. The lights make her dark eyes look like they’re shifting colors.

“I met him during my shift at a bar when I was thirty-two and he was twenty-one. I couldn’t believe how smart and handsome he was. He spoke like he knew the answers to everything.” She doesn’t point to any man, but you know for certain that she’s referring to Jungkook. “He was interested in my life, so I told him everything. I told him how my parents would frown at me for living how I lived. They were rich, but I didn’t want to live off money I didn’t earn. They didn’t understand and scolded me for being selfish. My son wasn’t ever a depressed or spoiled child and he knew the value of money from a very early age. I guess that’s one thing I could teach him.”

“He wrote about me, you know?” She admits. “It’s a complete autobiography, really. He’s a talented writer, always describing things that others wouldn’t have thought to. And he gave me 100% of the profits he made from it. I refused at first, but he insisted that I deserved it.”

You’re so engulfed in her story that you don’t notice when Jungkook takes a seat next to you until his fingers push your hair away from your neck. His hand is smeared in pink neon paint, which is now glowing in a section of your hair. In his other hand is a clear drink. He offers it to you and you smell it; vodka and lemonade. Classy.

“Having fun?” He leans close to your neck so you can hear him over the booming music. “She’s funny, isn’t she?”

“You could say that.”

He watches as you take a leisurely sip of your drink. Your lips are slightly wet and glisten beneath the flashing lights. “Can I ask you something?”

You give him a playful look, the same one you’ve been giving him most of the night, and he responds by placing a hand on your thigh. The silk is smooth against his palm, but so is your skin as he reaches underneath the skirt of your dress. Huifang isn’t sitting next to you when you look for her.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve done?” Jungkook coos against your neck as his fingers dance against your skin. They inch higher and higher as each second passes. The music grows louder.

You’ve had plenty of sex with ex-boyfriends at questionable places, but you haven’t been touched so publicly before, nor have you been so aroused that you’d even allow somebody’s hand to reach any further than your knee.

Your heart slams against your rib cage and you swallow hard. You can’t find the strength to recite your response in anything other than a quiet whisper. You’re no stranger to sex, but you feel like a virgin again. “The worst?”

He can’t hear you. His hand vanishes beneath your dress, now delving beneath the fabric of your panties and running against your wet skin. You sigh at his touch.

The music and chatter has dimmed around you and the only thing your ears listen for is his voice. “The naughtiest.”

Completely void of shame, he eases two fingers into your pussy until his palm is flush against your clit. You instinctively reach for his inner thigh and dig your nails into the fabric of his pants. He moves, slowly pumping his fingers and rubbing his palm firmly against your clit. You’re hazy and light-headed, completely drunk on his touch.

He takes your earlobe between his teeth before pressing a gentle kiss against the sore skin. “I think I can guess.”

You bite back a moan into a whimper that only he hears. Your pussy aches around his fingers and you instinctively push your hips closer toward his touch. He presses a hard kiss against your neck and drags his paint-covered hand from your neck down to your breasts. A trail of neon pink paint vanishes beneath your bra, where he has your nipple between his fingers.

Arousal drools down his skin as he increases the speed of his fingers. Your hips move on their own, circling and following the rhythm of his fingers. A fire grows between your thighs and you have to really, really focus to not drop your drink on the floor and smash the glass.

“That’s pretty naughty.” You can hear the amusement in his voice.

On Saturday, you work yourself to the bone. Jungkook crosses your mind when you’re alone in your bedroom, but you fall asleep before you can do anything about it. On Sunday, though, you just can’t fall asleep. The thought of his touch and the insanely perverted thing you did in that house full of people lingers in your mind. Things like that would usually repulse you, but you can’t help but ache for it again.

Shamelessly, you touch yourself. You run the tip of your vibrator up and down your pussy, spreading your lips and slicking up the toy. You picture the shower scene you had read in his novel; the hand-print on the woman’s thigh, the slapping sounds of wet sex, and the heavy water flowing from the faucet. You picture his fingers rubbing hard against your clit and easing deep into you, just how he had done on Friday night. You picture the dimples in his lower back as he dips in-between your thighs, his wide shoulders, toned abdomen, his voice in your ear.

A whine falls from your mouth as you delve deeper into your imagination. His sex, his moans, the furrow in his eyebrows when he concentrates on fucking you well, the kisses that he likes to press against your neck. Your back arches off the bed as you draw yourself closer to your climax. You can barely contain yourself. Moans and gasps fill your bedroom. You grasp at the sheets and think of him when you come.

From Monday to Friday, David Woods invites you into his office before you reach your desk in the morning and before you step outside at the end of each day, demanding updates on the rich couple you’re working for. They may be Jungkook’s parents, but they’re your clients. You’re smart enough to know that it’s always best to leave personal-life far, far away from work-life.

“Well?” Woods always begins with.

“Well what?” You always finish with. “They’re happy with how things are progressing.”

Sunday is supposed to be the day that you can dedicate to yourself and to your peace of mind, but you find it increasingly hard to wind down. No matter how delicious your cocktail is, how warm the summers night is, or how pretty the pool looks as the water glistens beneath the moonlight, you just can’t seem to settle your thoughts.

“Rough day?” A familiar voice calls from his second story home. You don’t need to lift your head to know that Jungkook is hanging out of his window with a glass of whiskey in hand and a handsome smile on his face.

“You have no idea.” You call back, making no effort to meet his gaze. You’re wearing a short summery dress and he likes the look of it.

“Well.” He lifts his glass like he’s making a toast to God himself. “I’d like to have an idea.” 

He invites you over and you hesitantly accept the glass of red wine he pours for you. A gin and tonic would’ve been nice, but he’s keen on you tasting this exclusive bottle of wine. You take a tiny sip and are pleasantly surprised. It’s not vinegary like all the other wines you’ve tasted. It’s floral and soft on your throat.

You tell him everything about your ordeals at work; from the first time you met your boss, to the time he told you not to wear a particular color because it ‘washes you out’, and now to his constant breathing down your neck. You want to leave and create your own business as soon as you can, but you can’t leave a client before construction work begins. You’ll look like a fucking idiot.

It feels good to vent and it feels even better to vent to someone who holds zero judgement toward you. The conversation shifts and you ask about Huifang. He tells you that her son recently received a scholarship for university.

“What’s your favorite color?” Jungkook asks as he refills your wine glass for the third time that night.

“Why do you ask?”

He’s amused at your sudden defensiveness. Is it that bad? “Trying to get to know you.”

“I don’t have one.” You say without giving it a single thought. It’s such a simple question, but you don’t want to answer it. There’s something much more intimate about telling somebody your favorite color than, for example, drawing them a labelled diagram of your vagina and asshole. You don’t want to be that kind of intimate. Not now.

“Fine.” He says, smile not faltering. “Mine’s blue.”

You decide to ask him a question of your own; one that you’ve been meaning to ask since that night at the bar. “Nothing in this world bothers you, does it?”

“Things bother me.” He admits. “But I see no point in hanging onto things that I can’t change.”

When midnight strikes, you announce your departure. You pick up the bottle of red wine and make a rightful request. “Mind if I take this? It’s better than I thought.”

“Help yourself.”

You leave and he rolls himself a tight joint. His personal phone rings from the kitchen counter and he picks up after five rings.

“Yes?” He asks, wholly uninterested.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” A pretty female voice murmurs through the receiver. “I’m a few hours behind, so I’m sorry for calling you so late at night.”

His joint hangs loosely from the side of his mouth, the filter growing slightly damp. It crosses his mind that this woman behind the phone may be his first love, but that thought leaves his mind as quickly as it comes. He changed his phone number multiple times to avoid a handful of others, so how could it be? “Who is this?”

“You forgot me already?” Her laugh rings in his ears like a high school bell. It is her. Only she has that laugh. It’s beautiful, but also sort of villainous. “How long has it been? three years?”

“I don’t keep track of time anymore.”

“Because you’re so rich, right? Nothing really matters to you anymore. You can do whatever you want.” He can picture her rolling her eyes so clearly in his mind. That was something she often did when she disapproved. “Money is a nice feeling.”

He doesn’t say anything, too taken aback by the exact same person who used him up like a favorite lipstick three years back. He doesn’t understand why she called him.

“I read your novel, by the way. The one about me.” She cuts the silence with a softer tone. “You made me look a lot better than I’ve been. Why?”

He lights the tip of the joint with an old, silver lighter and inhales the smoke deeply into his lungs. The smoke chases his response and then vanishes into the air. “No hard feelings, right? We agreed on that.”

“Did you mean it?” She switches the topic at the very moment he notices the lights to your bedroom flick on. “When you said you’d always love me? Wait for me?”

“I meant it then.” He admits, his vision and mind softening. He checked out of the conversation just moments before. “But that was then.”

You work like you always do. Jungkook crosses your mind, but it’s far too often for your liking. It concerns you how he easily he can creep into your mind while you’re sitting at your desk, waiting in line for a coffee, or driving home. You always look at his house before pulling up to your own. This isn’t seeming like a no-strings-attached arrangement anymore and that bothers you.

Jungkook is presented with countless opportunities, but he doesn’t sleep with anyone during the time spent away from you. He touches himself to the thought of you a few times; a clear picture of your face in his mind as he runs his fingers over his skin. He can’t help it, but he doesn’t quite know why. He wonders what you get up to at work and if your boss has backed off yet. He hates wondering.

You don’t speak for almost three weeks and that irks him. He writes a lot of his novel in that time, but it’s not enough to ease his mind. He wants to see you, to listen to you ramble about your life, to see that bashful smile. He calls you on a Tuesday night, but you don’t answer. He calls you on a Friday night and you answer after six rings.

“Where have you been?”

“Working.” You hate the effect that his voice has on you. “Where have you been?”

“Working. Wanna hang out?” He asks because he wants to touch you and you agree because you want to touch him, too.

For a change, he knocks on your door and you have sex in your house. The sex is just as good and dirty as it had been the last time, maybe even better; he pulls your hair, pushes his fingers in your mouth, and slaps your ass as he fucks you from behind. He makes you come twice, makes you say his name, and ties your wrists with your own panties. You lick his cock from the base to the tip and coat his skin with your saliva. You hollow your cheeks, swirl your tongue, and run your tongue along his slit, and he fucks your throat until tears prick at the corner of your eyes. The both of you let completely loose and crumble beneath each-other’s touch, but when all is said and done, you immediately start searching for your clothes.

“Are you avoiding me?” He asks as he watches you step back into your panties. He’s laying back on your bed, naked, with a hand resting under his head.

This is where he had his heart broken for the first time; not with his dick out, although, that does come to mind whenever he reminisces, but after being avoided for a period of time. He remembers what his ex said to him; ‘I’m moving away. Away from this fucking city. I’ll call you.’ And then he let her. He let her glance at him only once, get on that flight, and leave his heart on the runway. But he’s not a total idiot. He picked it up and shoved it back into his chest where it should’ve stayed and where healing only comes with time. Even after publishing his first novel, he still felt alone. Money, fame, and sex isn’t everything. He was missing a kind of company where he was allowed to be flawed. And then he met you. You let him say the wrong things, drink too much on a night out, have messy and imperfect sex, and express dissatisfaction even toward his wealthy lifestyle.

You hesitate before answering. Have you been avoiding him? You couldn’t say. You’ve definitely been running from thoughts of him. “No, why?”

“Don’t know. Maybe you’re not.” He doesn’t pull his eyes away from your frantic movements. “I like spending time with you, so it sucks that I can’t see you more often.”

To you, he’s just another contact in your phone book. To him, you’re just company that he’s very fond of. That’s what you’ve convinced yourselves, at-least. Maybe you were both raised the same way; taught to not put yourself in risky situations unless they’ll bring you success and fortune. Emotions are messy and complicated, and feelings of heartbreak aren’t worth the trouble. Sex is fun, but falling in-love isn’t. You go from occasionally thinking about a person, to becoming a vessel for their entire existence. You’ll no longer put yourself first and that can be a dangerous thing. After sex, you can just get up and leave. But, when you’re in-love, it stays with you no matter how far you run.

“I’ve just been busy.” You say. It’s not a lie. “You know how it gets.”

“Yeah, I do.” He grins at you and you feel a huge wave of guilt wash over you. Why is he such a nice fucking guy? Why do you never want to see that smile leave his face?

You can’t hold it in much longer, so you just let it all out. You need to make sense of this. “This is just a friendship, right? We’re clearly friends, but then there’s all of this sex. Really good sex, don’t get me wrong..”

Jungkook knows that he has love for you, but he’s not in-love with you. He could be, though, and that’s something that intrigues him. If you would just look into his eyes a little differently and let him see past the shades of your iris’, he knows that he could fall in-love. Seeing you stand in front of him, now, with nothing on but panties and his shirt makes him wonder. He’s seen what’s beneath, but he hasn’t seen much of what’s even deeper. You don’t talk when you don’t want to. You don’t let yourself be wholly vulnerable around him.

“Why wouldn’t we be friends?” He realizes how that sounds as soon as he says it. You’re just trying to draw the lines and he’s really fucking awful at coloring within them.

“Okay. Let’s agree on friends.. Just to be clear.” You hold out your hand like you’re offering him a life-changing deal. It may not be life-changing, but it’s definitely a one-way deal. How can he refuse? If he does, he’ll lose you completely. If he agrees, he’ll lose you in the way he wants you, but you’ll still be around.

This has happened before, something similar at-least. He should’ve seen it coming, but he gets so lost in your eyes and lost in the way your voice envelopes all of his senses. This is how his life will continue to be; others will do great things and he will be the messenger. Willingly, of course. There’s something quite intriguing about being the pawn in another person’s self-discovery plan. Besides, he’s not leaving empty handed; he gets another plot for his next novel. He gets to feel whatever pain he feels and he’ll make millions out of it. People will do just about anything to succeed in this world, whether it be playing the devil or the fool. Both warrant profit and a status of some kind. 

He wants to ask if you’re sure, but who is he to question your choices? He doesn’t know what goes on in your head, what’s best for you, or how you truly feel about him. Some may say that he deserves to know, but he doesn’t. Nobody in this world is entitled to your thoughts, your body, or your time, no matter what they’ve done for you.

His expression shifts to one of amusement — like he’s saying ‘well played’ — as he takes your hand and shakes on it. You’re one hell of a woman, the most intriguing one he’s even met. There are layers to you that are never-ending, depths that are too dark for him to see in. And, until you hand him a torch bright enough, he’ll appreciate the things that you do decide to show him. “Friends, whatever you want.”

No matter how much it hurts, nobody can force what isn’t meant to be. Maybe time will change the story, but for now, everything is how it’s supposed to be. He won’t force any of his feelings onto you and that’s what will make him a good friend. You’ll just look at each-other, exactly how you’re doing right now, with tight lips. You’ll share the warmth of each-other’s palms and bathe in the silence until somebody picks up their pride and makes the easier decision.

Just because two people love each-other, even in the most platonic way, it doesn’t mean that they’re meant to be together. For some, pain is pleasure. For others, pain is pain, and they have a habit of letting it go along with the person who sparked the feeling. Life is a cycle of giving and receiving pain, but it’s also a cycle of giving and receiving love. Without pain, nobody would know love, and vice versa. 

But, before he can pull his eyes away from yours and be the one to leave, to make that easy decision, you give him that very look; the look that makes him fall in-love with you.

“Purple.” You say, holding onto his hand like it’s keeping you afloat. You feel like you might lose him forever if you let go, like you might drown in the most painful way. You don’t want him to leave. “That’s my favorite color.”

He doesn’t say a word, far too afraid of missing one of yours.

“Not a hickey-colored purple, more like a lilac.” Your eyes are wide and desperate. To be friends isn’t what you want, even if it’s what you said. You know that you’ll never feel what he makes you feel with any other person. Maybe he’ll break your heart into a million pieces, or maybe you’ll break his, but you wouldn’t want anyone else to do it. You’ll never trust somebody like you trust him and that’s important to you. “I didn’t like wine until you poured me some, daises spark up my allergies, my parents have been separated for nine years, but can’t be bothered to divide their assets, so, technically, they’re still married. My friends and I have a Sex and the City marathon every Christmas..”

You succeed in your own studio because that’s what you put your mind, body, and soul towards. You rarely question your identity, femininity, and self-worth, but when you do, you take a step back and take a long look at the empire you’ve amassed for yourself. You cry when you need to, you scream at the ocean when things bottle up, you have the filthiest sex with Jungkook and let him kiss every inch of your skin when you want to be touched, and you allow yourself to be wholly vulnerable with the people that love you. You take a look at the kind friends you’ve made, the supportive clients, investors, and even those who despise you in silence.

And, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, you take a good look at a newspaper article displayed behind the window of a news agency: David Woods, former CEO of Woods Architecture Studio, is under fire for subjecting his employees to bizarre company policies, underpaying, and failing to provide adequate training and feedback opportunities to female employees.

The article displayed on the following newspaper makes you smile just as wide: Jeon Jungkook, author and new-found owner of a whiskey distillery, sold more than one million copies of his new novel in the first seven days, and has achieved the title of Best Selling Author for the third year in a row.

You might be thinking to yourself: did he ever write that odd, sex-filled erotica novel about me? The answer is yes. You just read it.

[mesillusionssousecstasy]

Emily in Paris : Season 4 - Part. II - Quotes

"- Oh, okay, yeah, I'll just e-mail you. (Emily) - Don't. Don't e-mail and definitely don't call." (Sylvie - Episode 6)

"- I can't believe that you didn't wanna join Nico and his family in St. Barts. (Emily) - Seriously? No, thank you. I've done Christmas in the middle of a succession war before. Nightmare." (Mindy - Episode 6)

"- That was a performance, Emily. We were giving the audience a taste of what they wanted while also leaving them wanting more." (Mindy - Episode 6)

"- Sylvie Grateau, what did you do?" (Emily) "- What part of don't call did you not understand? (Sylvie) - I'm not even on the plane yet, and this lounge is so chic. They keep offering me champagne. Is it too early? (Emily) - It's certainly too early for stupid questions. (Sylvie) - I mean, did you know that there's a spa in here? (Emily) - Yes, I know. Why don't you get a facial and put your phone down? The whole purpose of a lounge, a spa, and a holiday is to relax, unplug, be quiet." (Sylvie - Episode 6)

"- You really are adorable. This is why I can't stay mad at you. (Episode 6)

"- Oh, What kind of man would I be if I left a beautiful woman stranded like this? (Marcello) - Well, a French man, apparently." (Emily - Episode 6)

"- I don't have the energy to pretend you are not eye-fucking each other tonight." (Étienne)

"- You all right? I mean, what happened? (Mindy) - Reality happened." (Emily - Episode 6)

"- Ah, ah! You delete a photo, you delete a memory." (Mindy - Episode 7)

"- You mind taking this scintillating conversation out of my office?" (Sylvie - Episode 7)

"- I finally know what they mean by, "Shop till you drop." (Genevieve) - That's why I don't need exercise, nor therapy. I leave it all in the dressing room." (Sylvie - Episode 7)

"- How would I know? No one tells me anything! They just come, go, invite friends, boyfriends, girlfriends. Now I don't know who's with whom, and I don't want to know!" (La concierge - Episode 8)

"- Emily, which do you prefer? (Luc) - Oh, I'm a Starbucks girls, sorry. (Emily) - Quoi? Oh, no! Why? (Julien) - You don't like coffee, you like sugar. (Luc) - I like to celebrate the seasons." (Emily - Episode 8)

"- If you wanna win, you've got to give voters a story. Stories aren't always true, sweet peas." (Episode 8)

"- How do you get any work done? - Somehow we manage." (Episode 8)

"- They make limited stock that sells out immediately. It's impossible to find their product, even here in Paris. (Sylvie) - I had never heard of them before. (Emily) - Yeah, I'm not surprised. It's not the kind of cashmere you find at H&M. It's quiet luxury. Wearing this is a signal you have exquisite taste. So, why did Marcello send this to you? (Sylvie) - Because I have exquisite taste, obviously. (Emily) - At least you will now." (Sylvie - Episode 8)

"- Keep them guessing and leave them wanting more. That was my motto in high school. (Emily) - Oh, my God. Of course you were a tease. (Mindy) - No, I wasn't. I was a romantic." (Emily - Episode 8)

"- I guess I... I had to leave to realize... how much I belong here." (Emily - Episode 8) "- I wish we had more time. (Emily) - I wish we had more time too. (Marcello) - Well, then, we'll always have Paris." (Emily - Episode 8)

"- So now you've been with a French guy, a British guy, back to French, and now Italian? You're really stamping your passport, huh?" (Mindy - Episode 8)

"- I'd rather miss a flight than a party." (Episode 8)

"- Nicolas will understand. He's a businessman. This is.. This is just marketing. People love relationship drama. Not the people in the relationship." (Mindy - Episode 9)

"- Uh, go to Rome. (Mindy) - I do love Italian food. (Emily) - That's not why you should go. France is for food, Italy is for sex." (Mindy) - I do not get on a plane for that, okay? (Emily) - Come on, for once, do something spontaneous and reckless and un-Emily." (Mindy - Episode 9)

"- I believe she said something like, "She's both a blessing and a curse." (Episode 9) "- You know what they say? The French are just Italians in a bad mood." (Marcello - Episode 9)

"- Can't handle your own girlfriend, you gonna handle a billion-dollar company?" (Nicolas' brother - Episode 9)

"- We need a meeting with Marcello Muratori immediately. (Sylvie) - This is not a work trip. (Emily) - I know, but that's what's great about you. You're always on the clock." (Sylvie - Episode 9)

"- You sound just like him. (Mindy) - Who? (Nicolas) - My father. (Mindy) - Please don't be dramatic. (Nicolas) - He didn't give a shit about what I wanted either. It was always about his agenda. So, I'm going to tell you the same thing that I told him. This is who I am, and this is what I wanna do. And if that threatens or upsets you, then you don't deserve to have me in your life. (Mindy) - What matters to you more? Some silly song contest or me?" (Nicolas - Episode 9)

"- If I go to bed, it means this perfect day is over." (Emily - Episode 9)

"- What are you doing? Why would you just show up and ruin this for me? (Emily) - This is bigger than you, Emily. We need to talk. You don't know the whole story. If you care about him, you'll listen to me." (Sylvie - Episode 9) "- I care about Marcello as a person, not as a brand that needs saving. (Emily) - Well, maybe you can do both. It's not the first time you mix business with pleasure, and you're actually quite good at it. (Sylvie) - And now I plan to keep them both separate, like you've always advised me to." (Emily - Episode 10)

"- Or maybe you've changed." (Episode 10)

"- How is your romantic weekend going? (Mindy) - Uh, well, it's a long story, but Sylvie crashed the party and it got a whole lot less romantic." (Emily - Episode 10)

"- But ever since I opened my own agency, my life has become my work. I'm even in business with my husband now who's opened a club in Paris." (Sylvie - Episode 10)

"- So? What happened with the Italian Stallion? You put him out to pasture already?" (Mindy - Episode 10)

"- You shouldn't have to tailor your life or your career to make another person happy." (Episode 10)

"- I may have lost the guy, but I got the meeting. (Emily) - Oh, wow, Em, that's great. (Mindy) - Yeah, story of my life." (Emily - Episode 10)

"- Gasp at the beauty of everything. I don't see any of that here!" (Episode 10)

"- This is the last woman I slept with. Before I started sleeping with men." (Designer) - Oh. From before. I never know whether to take that as a compliment of an insult." (Sylvie - Episode 10)

"- Like you, I would do anything to work for people I care about. Because when you care, it's love, it's not work." (Episode 10)

"- I could not have done it without your belief in me. (Gabriel) - Yeah, that, and Antoine's money. (Alfie) - Yeah. (Gabriel) - Even though we're in the red, it's still the most fun investment I've ever made." (Antoine - Episode 10)

"- A three-way. - I had no idea you were that kind of girl." (Episode 10)

"- Then it's me. Rome has been my dream ever since I spent summer after college interning for one of Valentino's pugs, Margot. (Julien) - Seriously? (Emily) - Seriously. Three months of glamor and a basement. The fashion world in a nutshell." (Julien - Episode 10)

"- Congratulations, Emily. You stole my dream." (Julien - Episode 10)

"- What are you all doing up so early? Or, what are we all doing up so late? We've been celebrating all night." (Episode 10)

[stripper-patrick]

Heaven 🇫🇷Florian Munteanu

|part 1: Get You| |part 2: Heaven| |part 3: Hell|

Warnings: language, smut, nsfw

Song- Streets: Doja Cat

Tags: @rebellious-desires @mrsbanreswillseeyou @eclecticblkgirl @designerwriterchic @bvssmob

Relationship: Florian Munteanu x black plus sized reader

My alarm goes off and I happily get up getting ready for our trip to Paris. I go to the bathroom wetting my face with warm water seeing as cold water just makes me mad. I exfoliate my face and lips before moving on to brush my teeth and swish some mouthwash.

I hop in the shower scrubbing, shaving, and exfoliating my body with my warm vanilla sugar scented soap from bath and body works. I rinse off the soap and step out applying coconut oil to my damp body then applying the matching warm vanilla sugar lotion to lock in the moisture. I’m black we gotta stay hydrated and mind out business.

I put on some deodorant and face moisturizer grabbing a black bra and some burgundy rhinestone Brazilian panties. I grab the outfit laid on my nearby chair and my Nike air 270’s. I sit at my vanity doing a light makeup look and adding some Vaseline for that shine affect on my lips. I decide to tie up my long braids in a cute little bun and I see my phone buzz. I swipe right and answer Florian’s call “good morning” I smile

“Good morning” my breath physically catches in my throat at his deep raspy morning voice. “Are you ready?”

“Yes I am”

“Oh and be sure to have something nice we’re going to brunch with my family”

“Oh ok” I nod. I did pack some fancy outfits because it’s Paris who wouldn’t but I know China hasn’t met his family yet. “So do you fight tonight?”

“No tomorrow. And we’ll be staying with my parents at their house”

“We’re not staying in a hotel?”

“No” he chuckles

“Ok then”

....

I park my car on a vacant lot seeing a singular airplane and Florian sitting on the steps. I get out and my jaw is dropped to the core of the earth.

“Hey baby girl” he jogs over hugging me and I’m too in shock to even acknowledge the nickname. I pop the trunk and grab my suitcase before he takes it from me “I could’ve got it”

“For what I’m here. You look good”

“Thank you” I smile “so you own this plane?”

“Kinda me and my brother went half on it. You’ll get to meet him later” he winks. Flo takes my luggage to the flight attendants and holds my hand leading me into the spacious red leather interior of the plane.

“This is dope Flo” I say

“Thank you” we sit across from each other and the flight attendant brings us champagne in a glass.

I take a sip and I can taste how expensive it is.

“So how long will this flight be?”

“About 12 hours” I sigh as we take off.

“Well how do we pass time?” He cocks up his eyebrow Suggestively and I smile.

...

“Ok how old were you when you lost your virginity?” I ask looking over. We’ve now moved next to each other giggling from the champagne.

“15” he answers. We’re playing a game of truth or strip. It’s simple. If you don’t wanna answer your truth you have to strip. Better than truth or dare. He has taken off his socks, shirt and watch and I took off my biker shorts and socks.

“Oh” I nod “if you had to choose between me and Brad Pitt to have sex with who would it be”

“Can I choose both?” I laugh

“Nope”

“Ok I would choose you” I laugh “I don’t know Brad like that or how good he is”

“How do you know I’m good in bed?” he leans getting closer.

“Aside from the details China tells me I can tell you know how to use what you got”

“What do you mean?” He smiles.

“You know what I mean” I laugh. Deep down I want him to prove me right but that would be completely outta line.

“I need an example” all of a sudden I’m shy but not to shy to bite my tongue.

“Like your tongue you look like you know how to use it in the best way” He doesn’t say anything he just stares at me. I feel myself leaning in. He’s leaning too. Our lips attach and it was like a flame was set off in my body. I’m frozen but my lips are still moving in sync with his.

Flo’s large hand caresses thigh then bring them in my underwear rubbing slowly at my clit. I moan in his mouth and he speeds up. Out of instinct I try to close my thighs arching my back but he keeps a good grip. He slips a finger in and starts kissing my neck. I moan out but the flash of my best friends face crosses my mind and I place my hands on his shoulders and stop all movements.

“You’re with China” I say breathing heavily. He nods looking down and my clit is throbbing and so badly I want so much more but I know I’d feel the worse whether China found out or not.

“You’re right I’m sorry” he nods taking his hand out of my underwear. His fingertip is wet with my juices and I let out a puff of air holding my head in my hands. I grab my pants and we redress ourselves before sitting back down. I sigh closing my eyes getting comfortable. All I can think about is his head between my legs and him being dominant and absolutely man-handling me. I open my eyes again looking out the window at the dark night sky.

‘Something takes over me and I straddle Flo and grab his arms wrapping them around me. I grab his face kissing him and he grinds me against his hard on. He’s quick to pull off my underwear and shimmy down his pants just a little bit. The tip inserts through my walls and I-‘

“Y/N you should probably get some rest” I snap out of my thoughts and he’s just staring at me.

“Yea you’re right” he stands to grabbing two blankets from the closet. He hands me one and I give off a small smile and a thank you. I pull the heavy soft blanket over my body up to my chin before taking a deep breath that transitions me into a deep sleep.

...

I wake up just at sunrise to see Florian asleep. He looks peaceful when he’s asleep. I look out the window watching the beautiful sky. It’s painted a mix of pink purple and yellow in the cleanest way.

I smile and stand up stretching my legs and back. There’s a big window at the back of the plane and I walk back there folding my arms just looking.

I feel arms around my waist and Florian’s hand slides up my neck to my jaw bringing my lips to his. I can’t help but kiss back now. This is so wrong but it feels so right.

I turn my body taking in his embrace and his hands go down to my butt giving it a light squeeze. He stops kissing me and walks away back to his seat. I watch his eyes close and I go sitting next to him. I lay my head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around me and I lay on his chest drifting to sleep once again.

...

We are just getting off the plane in the warm climate of France. Considering it’s spring there’s a slight chill in the air making me put on a light jacket. Flo grabs our bags taking it to the car and the driver gets out. He looks like Flo honestly. Not as tall but still over 6 feet, green hazel eyes, pretty smile. The have a resemblance towards each other. Florian gives him a big hug with a laugh “how’ve you been?” The guy asks

“I’ve been good. This is Y/N. Y/N this is my brother Daniel” he opens his arms and I give him a big hug.

“Nice to meet you” he smiles

“Nice to meet you too”

“How’s China” he glances at me smiling

“She’s great” he nods

“Good well let’s not waste any time let’s go” he nods. I get in the backseat and I see a woman in the front. “Hi I’m Amelia” she introduces. Perfect skin, long legs, gorgeous blonde hair. She’s a model.

“Hi I’m Y/N” she smiles sweetly and turns around. Florian sits next to me and his brother gets in the driver seat as we pull off in the beautiful city of Paris. Or as I like to call it, Heaven.

As we go through I’m glued to the window tapping Flo’s thigh every time I see something cool like mimes, flowers, and even puppies. I notice Flo’s hand on my thigh and I want to move it so badly for the sake of just feeling bad but I can’t. This feels so good.

We arrive at the house shortly after and it’s huge to say the least. I get out and Daniel opens the trunk. I go to grab my bag and Florian smacks my hand. My jaw drops with a laugh emitting from both of us while Daniel and his wife walk by.

“I’ll get it” he says. He picks up my suitcase and his as well rolling both of them into the house. I’m still enjoying the exterior. An older gentleman comes out looking at me. I walk up to him and a huge smile spreads across his face. “Are you English?” His thick accent much like Flo’s emits through his perfect teeth.

“Close. American. I’m Y/N, Florian’s friend”

“No girlfriend?” His thick accent doesn’t stop the curiosity but still love coming from him.

“No she’s at home” I smile. He extends his arms pulling me in for a hug. He smells like teakwood and a little bit of backwoods.

“We have dinner tonight. You like goat?”

“Never tried it” I laugh. He wraps his arm around my shoulder walking me into his house “your house is beautiful”

“Thank you. Me and my wife built it when Daniel was born” he explains “from the ground up and this is one house I will never get rid of”

“I’m just in love with it” an older woman appears with broad shoulders and a disgusted look on her face staring right into my soul.

“Who this?” She asks pointing to me. I hate when people wave their fingers in my face it makes me wanna fight. But for her sake I’ll chalk it up to a culture difference.

“Diana this is Y/N Florian’s friend” his father speaks “oh my apologies my name is Emilio”

“You think you’re good enough for my son?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ma stop” Florian scolds “what the hell is wrong with you”

“I apologize she can be a handful sometimes. Which is why we’re separated” Emilio says to me. I can’t help but giggle and he shows me around more with Flo behind us.

...

I get out the steamy shower and a knock comes at my door. I open it slightly seeing its Florian dressed in a Nike tracksuit. I’m only in a towel and I smile at him. “Hey you look good” I step aside allowing him in and he shuts the door sitting on the bed.

“Thanks” he answers “you look better. I think my mom will love that” he laughs

“Funny” I smile sarcastically laughing to myself

“Y/N I’m sorry but I just can’t help myself when I’m around you. Every time even when all of us like me you and China are together I want to make you mine and I know that’s your best friend-“ I cut him off with a kiss. That’s that wrenching feeling inside of me knowing I’m going to hurt my best friend is strong. But my feelings for him are stronger. What we have built is too strong for me to just walk away.

“Let’s just have fun this weekend and we’ll see where to go from there” I reassure him. Florian slides his hand up my thigh dangerously close to my bare pussy. Before he moves any higher I push his hand away “I have to get ready”

“Alright alright” he stands up “just meet me downstairs” he kisses my head and I shut the door behind him. I sigh shaking my head ridding myself of the thought that betrays myself and my best friend the most. I go in my suitcase grabbing the short casual t-shirt dress I brought. It accentuates my curves but still is simple.

I grab some sandals sliding those on and snapping the strap to my ankle. I take one last look in the mirror before opening the door to his mother standing right in front of me. “Hi?” I respond in more of a question like tone

“Are you going to Florians fight in 2 days?” She asks

“I am” she rolls her eyes muttering something under her breath. “What was that?” I call out daring her to say it again. People, especially older people, need to realize respect isn’t given it’s earned and if you put me in a position where I have every right to disrespect you, then that’s that.

“Take your ass back on the plane and go home. My son doesn’t need you” Just then I hear Florian yell and he comes up the stairs.

“Let’s go Y/N” he grabs my hand but I yank it away too heated in the moment to understand he means good.

“Nah she wanna sit here and keep disrespecting me. I’ve had enough. Me and him aren’t-“ Florian picks me up taking me downstairs where he sets me down on my feet. His hands are still clad at my waist as I fume.

“I’m tired of her talking to me like she’s lost her gotdamn mind”

“Just don’t let her get to you. I’ll talk to her later tonight. Please” he begs. I sigh and he pulls me in for a tight hug. I take a deep breath of his cologne gathering my thoughts. I let go and walk in front of him to the kitchen earning a swat to my behind. I shake my head and we approach the table full of others. They all stare at me including his mother sitting at the end. I sit down and Flo sits next to me. The maids bring out an appetizer and it’s an orange soup. I grab my spoon taking a sip and it’s delicious.

“This is called a zuppa toscana” Emilio says “something my mother used to make me and my brothers all the time” he smiles. The family engulfs themselves in chatty conversations and I continue sipping on my soup. Flashbacks of the plane and Florian rubbing my pussy keep hitting me creating a waterfall in my panties. I can already feel their soaked through. I stretch my hand on his thigh lightly resting it there. Florian glances at me before going back to his food. I move my hand on top of his crotch rubbing lightly making a firm grip. I feel his thigh twitch and his hazel turn into a dark brown. I keep rubbing him through his pants feeling him harden. I keep rubbing until the chef comes out of the kitchen.

“The food is taking some time but it will be out shortly” the chef announces smiling.

“Perfect Y/N come with me” Florian grabs my hand dragging me with him throughout the house.

He opens the big glass door and lets me out first. I look around seeing we’ve entered a beautiful garden. “This is gorgeous” he shuts the door and grabs my hand not saying a word. Florian leads me through it to a bench in front of some flowers. I bite my lip and he wraps his hand around my throat sealing any space between us with a kiss. His hands move to my butt giving it a nice squeeze. I gasp feeling his tongue slip in my mouth. I feel dizzy and hot. I’m not sure who’s air I’m breathing anymore. He lets go and I suck in a breath of air as Florian sits on the bench. He pulls my dress off tearing off the thin fabric of my lace thong. He sits me on his lap and I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. I grind along his hard-on as he grips the back of my neck holding me in a powerful kiss. I lift my dress up pulling my underwear to the side while he unbuckles his pants. Florian lets out a big girthy dick and I watch as it pulsates and leaked with precum.

I grab ahold of it and glide myself onto him feeling his dick expand my walls gracefully. Once I’m fully on him Florian grabs my hips digging into them guiding me to ride him. This increases my pleasure somehow.

“I’ve waited for this for so long” he moans bucking my hips faster. I bounce my ass and my acrylics glide through his short hair. My breath is caught in my throat by how fast I’m going and how big he is. My hands move to his chest and I let out that first succulent moan. Florian rolls my hips faster attaching his lips to my neck heightening my pleasure. I claw at his chest hearing his deep voice rumble in my neck “I’ve wanted this tight pussy around my cock and in my mouth since I first met you”

My moans get louder hearing his vulgarity and my legs begin shaking from the pressure building in my center. Florian holds me down with one arm and his other hand snakes up to my mouth silencing my moans. Somehow this makes this rendezvous 10x hotter. He starts pounding me out from below and the only thing you can hear is skin slapping on skin and his low grunts and moans.

“Are you gonna cum on me?” I nod furiously trying to push away from his death grip. The pounding becoming too much “uh uh take this dick”

I have no choice but to sit there and take it. My entire body tensed and I begin my convulsions while gripping on the bottom of his shirt. He takes his hand off my mouth and I instantly move to his neck where loud moans are muffled in his shirt. “Fuck I’m gonna cum” I hop off to the best of my ability and get on my knees. I grab the base of his dick jerking it hard while sucking on the tip. Before I know it warm, bitterness is brought into my mouth while he grips the edge of the bench moaning. He’s gripping so hard that his knuckles are turning white.

“That’s my girl” I milk him dry and keep sucking until he’s begging me to stop. I come off his member with a pop and smile at him. Florian grabs my throat giving me a wet sloppy nasty kiss.

“You’re so nasty” he smiles “I love it”

I pull my dress down and discard my underwear in my bra. Florian fixes himself and I see the door open. It’s the chef.

“The food is ready. I was told you might be out here since it’s your favorite spot”

“Yes thank you. Just showing her the flowers” he extends his hand and I walk in front of him. The chef leaves the door open walking away and I giggle to myself thinking of what we just did. I’m gonna beat myself up later about it.

[peakywitch]

Too much, too less - Michael Gray

A/N: eeeh angsty of course lmao sorry... THIS GIF 🤰🤰🤰

Words: 1k maybe idk i didn't count

masterlist

Christmas was one of Y/N favourite times of the year. Her family always celebrated it with joy, love and a lot of laughter. The whole year they worked day and night, just to be able to spend cozy and warm festivities.

It was, of course, all she could remember. Then, war wiped her dad away from his family fingers, and her mom disappeared into the horizon inside a gipsy caravan with a Lee after the letter from his death came in, as a desperate way of escaping grief. And so, the only Christmas she would never forget was Christmas 1918. It was a cold, grey and lonely Christmas.

When the town heard from her misery, they all handed out their hand to help the lost girl.

They tried to find a job that would suit an eighteen year old, and she found her place by Polly Gray’s side. With her nephew’s in France, she needed an extra helping hand in the betting den. And you could tell her skill was treating customers, you could see it in the way she smiled, she acted and she laughed at the silly jokes men did. She helped them by sometimes giving hints on which horse would win, and that’s how she won everyone’s heart.

When the boys came back, they took a quick liking at her. The Shelby brothers found her warm teas almost bewitching, they tasted like a little bit of peace. Christmas 1919 wasn't so horrible, after all, she found herself in a new family, with good older brothers and a motherly figure who would always be there for her, no matter what.

And in 1921 he appeared: Michael fucking Gray. A man with such a superiority complex yet to show, but someone could sense it in the way he began to make his way into the company.

And so he did, he got a job as accountant in the company, leading Y/N to a horrible destiny: being his assistant.

She felt the need to stay quiet, she could not end up in the streets. So, Y/N would always help Michael when he demanded her help. And now, he felt like he owned her. Y/N do this, do that, take note, erase, write, speak, eat, stop speaking. And being bossed around by someone who is your own age and more stupid than you, it’s a pain in the ass.

“Don’t you think you are a little too loud?” he asked once, coming out from his office to find her laughing with Johnny Doggs.

Maybe she was too loud.

“Sorry, Michael, it’s my fault…” said Johnny, trying to stop his laughter.

“It’s ok Johnny, but she needs to stop being so loud.”

It felt like cold water splashing over her.

Then, one happy night in the Garrison, he did another remark.

"Do you really think that joke was funny? You're trying way too hard."

Men who wanted to hear her jokes and laugh, could now only see her smile. And it happened too when she went out with Isaiah, Finn and now Michael. She was always laughing, drinking beer and making jokes. But her jokes became small smiles, and hours of fun abd endless beers became twenty minutes of being uncomfortably seating by his side.

But it was Christmas 1925, when the family found out how she had been feeling the past year since she started being Michael’s assistant.

It was the 24th of December, and the whole family was gathered in the master dining room, while the house employees were serving the food. She was sitting between Lizzie and Esme, drinking champagne and laughing at stories they told.

She couldn't keep her laugh inside, and she kept on laughing with every word the women spoke. Everyone loved to hear her laugh, she always made everyone happy.

And when she calmed down, after a few seconds she heard Michael whispering to Isaiah underneath his breath:

“Don’t you think she is too loud?” he asked, with a chuckle, but Is kept a straight face, Y/N was staring at both of them.

When Michael moved away from Isaiah, he had a weird smile, as if he had won something. They both connected their eyes, she would be throwing champagne in his face in any minute.

And then she felt it, the courage building inside her, and erupting from her body.

“Stop it.” she demanded, with a straight face. Her stomach tangled.

“Stop what?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, playing dumb

“Stop telling me I’m too much. Too chatty, too happy, too excited."

"And don't forget about too nosy and too loud."

She laughes in disbelief. Michael was always a dick, he thought of himself as king of the world.

"I am a woman, and maybe I am too much of a woman. Maybe I'm just too much of a fucking woman for you, and you only know how to cry about how much of a man you wish you could be." She screamed as her hands tried to stay away from the knife.

That!" He laughed, and drunk some wine "That's exactly why you keep on scaring man away. You think I didn't know you liked me? You think you are cute and pretty when you laugh? You are impossible to stand, didn't you know?"

"Michael, that's enough." Demanded Polly.

"Twenty-something and no lover, uh? Poor little girl. Must be horrible to cry yourself to sleep asking God why no man wanta you! Well there you fuckin' go! Now you know!"

She looked around, trying to run into Arthur's arms like she always did. But he was worried with his own kid now. While Ada and Polly were exchanging silent plans on what to do, Esme had her hand on John's shoulder, telling him to sit.

She was alone.

“Stop focusing on me and my happiness, and start focusing on the lack of joy and laughter your life has, Michael. My dad died and my mom left me to mourn alone, so I’m sorry if I’m enjoying life once and for all, i’m sorry your life is so dark, that you have to focus on someone else’s happiness to have something to say.”

“Y/N, I think you are being…” he began, with a defying gaze.

“Too loud? Too angry? I damn am. You will be too much of an idiot not to realize I am two times the man you are. And damn you fool, you would be a lucky guy to date a woman like me, who tries to keep a smile on her face every fuckin’ day!”

“Calm down, you don’t need to yell.” he stated, with a smile that make him look like a snake. That same smile he had every time he talked about a girl he spent the night with.

“You never had the need to be a bastard with me for the past year, yet you were. And every day i tried to bond with you, you would just brush me off with nasty comments about my smile, my clothes, my hair, my laugh. I was happy, and you took it away. So congrats Michael, now I am everything you always wanted: too quiet, too grey, too sad and too fucking boring, just like you are.”

"You're simply pathetic. As lost as a kid, I don't even know how you got this position. You can't-"

"Now I know why Charlotte wanted to abort your kid. You don't even have what it takes to be a kid yourself."

Polly stared in disbelief.

Michael was...?

Michael did.... what?

Esme and Ada stared at Finn, who was trying to hide a smile.

She cleaned her mouth with the white napkin, and excused herself.

"If by monday Michael doesn't quit, I will. Thank you for the lovely dinner, Tom. The food was amazing."

She walked out of the dining room, her heels accompanied her, letting everyone know she was heading upstairs to end her night.

"You went too far, Michael." Said Lizzie, still in shock at the news Y/N had just revealed "She didn't deserve it. And you fucking know it."

The table was one big argument. Everyone in her favor, trying to get Michael into his senses.

"Michael…" Tommy stated, and the table started to calm down "Michael, you heard her."

"Are you mental? Do you want my son to quit?" Polly fought.

"He's a adult, Pol. He has a good twenty years, ain't that right? If he doesn't want to be fired, he will sort it out. Like we all do in life."

Tommy stood with her, she knew it. And to say she was oblivious to it would be a lie. She knew. But she had supported to much.

@deepdonutkid @a-golden-sunflower-vol-6 @stydia-4-ever @natural-hearts @lovemissyhoneybee @girlwith-kalei-do-scope-eyes @peakyrogers @writeroutoftime @peakyxtommy @nyotamalfoy @pinkeijin @lukeymybabe @eternallyvenus @anchy-bananchy @peakyswritings

[apiratewhopines]

Thanks again to @teamhook for the artwork and being the muse for this one! You wanted a movie fic and I did my best 🙂

Midnight

Chapter 7 — The Slipper

Summary: In which our heroine resets the clock

Chapter 7 on AO3 (That’s all folks!!)

“You’ll never know

How many dreams I dreamed about you”

-It’s Been a Long, Long Time, Bing Crosby

It was receiving the invitation to Arthur and Guinevere’s second wedding that did it. Emma’s fairy godfather stayed in touch after their weekend in the country, offering investment advice for her windfall and acting for all the world like her adopted brother. She knew he felt guilty for finding his happy ending at her expense. Despite her reassurances she messed up her chances hours before he came on the scene, maybe months if she were really honest.

Three months ago, she left the estate a little more scarred, a little less hopeful, and much more wealthy. She paid back the money stolen from Granny but couldn’t bring herself to buy a place in the city like she originally planned. Instead, she took the remainder and invested it per Arthur’s overbearing instruction. She doubled it in a week and tripled that figure by the end of the month.

She still wasn’t satisfied, though. Dreams of a certain blue-eyed man haunted her, his last words whispering through her mind like a mantra and a curse. So she found Neal’s trail again and spent the next couple of weeks looking for him in the shadows and muck. She found him mooching off his mother of all people.

All the hate, anger, and embarrassment she buried deeply at the end of their relationship dissipated the moment she saw him. Why had she given him so much real estate in her mind, allowed the ghost of him to rob her of her sanity and potential happiness?

It was with satisfaction at a job well done rather than his impeding downfall that she turned him over to the local authorities and headed back to the east coast.

By the time she arrived, she was richer and even more lonely.

She was listless and finding no reason to stay, Emma accepted Arthur’s latest proposition that she needed to see the world. Using his numerous estates as a guide, she flitted across the globe, experiencing all the world had to offer and looking. Always looking.

It took her longer than it should have to realize she wouldn’t find what she was missing in the new people she met or the natural wonders she explored. The whole time her mind and soul were calling out for a more familiar setting and a dearer face.

Lancelot was right. She was running scared, and the only thing it was going to get her was absolutely nothing.

The handsome, almost homewrecker had not attempted to reach out since their quiet conversation on the beach, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know what he was up to. After calling it quits, he realized the US hadn’t been the best place for him. He returned with great fanfare to France, where he took on the daily running of the family business. He was said to have the Midas touch, working with the locals to improve the processes and products they offered. His vineyard was becoming the trendiest tourist destination in the country.

Not even a month after his departure, the press reported on the fairytale romance of the champagne millionaire and his widowed neighbor, Belle French. The pair’s engagement announcement ran in every major newspaper in the world.

It was quick work, even for Lancelot du Lac. She couldn’t begrudge him, though. He was never truly a bad man, just a regular one who made bad decisions. She could certainly relate.

Cutting her trip short, she returned to the city where it all started, to a tiny loft apartment she rented on a month-by-month basis above Granny’s diner. There didn’t seem to be much point in seeing the world when the only world she was interested in was centered about four hours away.

The news of Killian was more challenging to come by than the other people involved in her charade, but that only made it more precious. A charity fundraiser here, a life saved there, the ever-present and never changing picture on the hospital website she checked so often it was now saved as her homepage. She thought glimpses and scraps were all she was entitled to at first. However, the longer she tried to resist his pull, the more she started to think maybe she did deserve a chance.

Maybe she wasn’t too late.

Staring at the thick cream-colored invitation with scrolling words waxing romance, dates, and times, she came to a decision and packed her bags.

—

—

It wasn’t hard to find the exact location of their meeting. It was burned into Emma’s memory. Their initial encounter cemented as one of those moments that seem routine when they happen but take root in your fate and grow, threading through every aspect of your life until all traces of happiness are tied to one serendipitous second in time.

After departing from Arthur’s estate in a chauffeured car all those months ago, she had returned to this spot and found her Bug right where she left it. Someone, probably the Prince Charming she was determined to break, had filled the tank with gas. So, she bid adieu to Arthur’s employee and drove off into the sunset all alone. Like she did everything.

Nothing had changed about the place in the intervening months. It was thirty minutes to midnight. The dark sky was clear, stars twinkling from space and the moon a tiny thumbnail above the evergreens. She would wait all night if she had to, but sooner or later, she would catch her quarry.

Emma Swan always got her man.

Unfortunately, she didn’t always get him on her first try. She waited for a couple hours the first night, but no black BMW could be seen cresting the hill. Admitting defeat, she went back to her hotel and vowed to try again.

She knew she could have sprung an unannounced visit on him at his job. After all, it wasn’t difficult to pick out his dark sedan in the parking lot when she cruised by the hospital several times a day. Nor would it have been difficult to track down his address and ambush him one evening when he returned home. The idea had a lot of appeal since his place lived in a variety of fantasies involving oversized shirts and pancakes.

Deep down, she knew after she had robbed him of his choice so many times in their brief acquaintance, it would be wrong to show up and act like nothing happened. She needed to allow him to invite her back in or send her away.

God, she hoped he invited her in.

It took three nights, but eventually, she saw headlights. Smoothing down the hem of her black tank top over her skinny jeans, she took a cleansing breath and stepped out into the middle of the road.

She had no doubt it was him, the cautious pace slicing through the night at exactly the same time as before. She could even tell the precise moment he spotted her in the bright lights of his high beams, the luxury car swerving slightly into the other lane. It was less than a minute later he rolled to a stop about ten feet away.

Then, nothing. The silence of a door not opening was deafening.

Maybe this was her answer.

She wished she could see past the glare and through the windshield. Look into his eyes at least once more and tell him everything she figured out over the past couple of months. The same things he had tried to say to her before he left.

Finally, a lifetime later, she heard the door open. She felt every footfall in the far reaches of her heart, each measured step in time with the rapid beating in her chest. She was lightheaded with longing, her eyes frantically trying to adjust between light and dark and make out Killian’s beloved form in the nighttime.

“Fancy meeting you here, Captain.”

There was another long pause and then he stepped into the narrow, car-sized area of light. He was even more handsome than she remembered. The static, professionally staged photo on the website never did him justice in the first place. “Emma, when did you get back?”

She heard the question for what it really was, ‘Emma, why are you here?’

Smiling past her nerves, she took a step closer. He looked like the proverbial deer in the highlights, like any sudden movement would cause him to turn tail and run. She did this to him. It was her fault her cocky Prince Charming looked spooked. “A couple of days ago. I need a ride to Misthaven. I’m late for an appointment.”

“An appointment? It’s almost midnight. I’m getting the strangest sense of deja vu.”

“You see, there’s a man. He’s actually the best thing that ever happened to me. But I felt like I didn’t deserve him, like I didn’t deserve anyone, really, so I ran. Several times. And even though I pushed him away and ruined everything, I need to let him know that he was never nothing. His feelings were never nothing. As a matter of fact, he’s come to mean everything to me, and I wanted to tell him I was sorry it took me so long to say it.”

Taking a step forward, he stood nearly toe to toe with her. His hair was sticking out at odd angles, his face twisted in thought, hands hanging in fists at his side. “Is that so?”

Reaching out, she placed her hands on his shoulders and she looked up into his eyes, whispering, “I’ve loved you since you let me have all the bites with whipped cream. I was just too scared to admit it.”

She waited when all she wanted to do was pull him closer and bury her face in his neck, inhale his intoxicating scent again and taste his skin. She had said what she needed to say, but it didn’t give her the right to waltz back into his life if that wasn’t what he wanted. “Killian, I—“

Her words were cut off by his abrupt kiss. He grabbed her like he was drowning and she was the only thing that could save him. His chest heaving and lips brutal in their quest. He hitched her up slightly, settling her against the hood of his car. He half leaned over her as he continued to explore every neglected inch of her mouth, every lonely corner of her soul. When he finally broke off his passionate embrace, his breathing was ragged and his voice harsh with emotion. “I have big plans for you and whipped cream, love.”

Laughter filled the inches between them, his forehead resting against hers. Peppering his face with soft kisses, her fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, she teased, “Prove it.”

—

The trail of clothes leading to the bedroom remained untouched for days. They survived the early days of their relationship on pancakes, whipped cream, and borrowed shirts.

Over the years, people asked her when she knew Killian Jones was the one. Her answer was always the same.

At the stroke of midnight.

Every night for the rest of their lives.

Note:

Midnight — Info about the movie

@teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @stahlop @xarandomdreamx @xsajx @motherkatereloyshipper @klynn-stormz

[aquagirl1978]

To New Beginnings - Lovestruck AU Fanfic - Various Love Interests

A/N: I thought I was done with the original trilogy, but Antares returning brought a fourth chapter out of me. In this chapter, the group gathers to say goodbye to the LIs that are returning for new routes. I was inspired by @aliboo's amazing artwork in where she created "glam" portraits of some LIs (permission granted by @aliboo to repost)

Credit to @violettduchess for creating this amazing AU where all the retired LIs continue to exist - her story can be found HERE.

Warnings: None

Tagging: @mcira @enchantedlovestruckfan @otakufangirl-12 @fan-girl-2 @remys-lucky-franc

****************************

"Here you go, Nikolai. Just as you asked," she said with a wink as she pressed the martini into his hand. "Shaken, not stirred."

"Niko, you've truly taken to the notion of the masquerade party, completely transforming yourself into your chosen character," Remy announced as he swept into the room. He sat across from Nikolai in a plush velvet lounge chair and crossed an ankle over his knee. "Aeryn, is my tea ready yet?" he asked, a faint Russian accent slipping into his voice.

Nikolai peered at Remy over his martini glass, his brows furrowed. "Now who are you supposed to be?"

"Why you, of course!" Remy exclaimed, his green eyes sparkling with joy. "Onyx was kind enough to find me some turtlenecks. You remember your phase years ago when all you wore were these things?" Remy tugged at the neck with his fingers. "How did you do it, these are dreadfully constricting?" When he noticed Nikolai's mouth agape, with no words coming forth, Remy continued, returning to his French accent. "Anyway, I thought you'd be flattered I chose to dress as you, Niko."

"I'm not sure flattered is the word I would choose. Perhaps, instead..."

"He's flattered, Remy," Aeryn interjected, placing a gentle hand on Nikolai's thigh. "He's just not there yet."

"Oh no, no. Not more of this!" Nikolai shouted when Jett and Leon entered the room. Jett was dressed in a crisp white shirt and tailored black suit jacket. Leon was sporting a plaid button-down shirt and black suspenders.

"When Remy told us who he was dressing as, we thought we'd join in the fun," Jett said. "I also never thought I'd ever get Leon to wear my suspenders."

"How much convincing did he need?" Remy asked.

"Not nearly as much as you'd think," Jett replied, gently elbowing Leon in the ribs. "It suits you, Daddy," Jett added with a smirk.

Leon's cheeks immediately turned pink. "Stop. Just stop."

"Don't you two look cute," Sevastian snickered, leaning lazily against the wall.

Nikolai nearly dropped his glass. "Now who are you supposed to be?" His face was blanched; Nikolai looked truly terrified by the wicked prince.

Sevastian pushed himself from the wall and made his way to the nearby mirror to fix his hair in the reflection. "Dave...something?"

"David Bowie!" Jett shrieked in Nikolai's ear as he plopped down next to him on the couch.

Nikolai arched an eyebrow. "I assume you had something to do with this?" Nikolai gestured towards Sevastian.

"I think you look great," Aeryn offered, ignoring Nikolai.

"You think so?" Sevastian asked sincerely to which Aeryn nodded. "Do you think she will come?" he whispered, speaking only to her.

Today was a special occasion. Normally, this group of retired LIs celebrated when an LI joined them when their route ended. But today...today they say goodbye to some of their friends. Antares, Nova and Aurora were leaving them to start new adventures with new MCs. To mark this momentous occasion, some of the current LIs and MCs were coming to bring them back.

Sevastian, of course, sent word to his MC, inviting her to join him at this party. He went as far as to tell her he was dressing up, and with Jett's help, gave her an idea or two of who she could come as.

"Yes," Aeryn replied, smiling. "Of course, she will come. And I'm dying to meet her!" Sevastian brightened, a small smile forming on his lips.

Remy stood and clapped his hands. “Let’s go mingle with the others. Can’t hide here in our little corner all night,” he added with a chuckle, winking at Nikolai. The group stood and followed Remy to the party. Nikolai begrudgingly joined them, Aeryn’s hand clasped firmly in his.

“How’s this all going to work…an LI paired with a new MC?” Jett asked as they entered the main room. The party was in full swing, with some of the partygoers dressed in costume and others remaining in their regular clothes. Unlike parties of the past, the music was not loud and booming, but rather somewhat subdued. There was a sense of sadness lingering in the room; usually these parties were to welcome a friend, not say goodbye to one.

“It’s cheating, if you ask me,” Leon replied, grabbing a glass of champagne from a nearby tray. “I would never want to return with a new LI.” Leon smiled at Aeryn as he spoke, his eyes twinkling with love.

“I agree with Leon. I would never want to come back with a new MC,” Nikolai added, placing a sweet kiss on the top of Aeryn’s head.

“I would gladly come back,” Remy interjected.

“That’s simply because you only got 4 seasons,” Nikolai said with a smirk. Remy scoffed, mock affronted.

“Oh look,” Aeryn said while grabbing Nikolai’s arm, an obvious move to change subjects. “Look at Atlas! Is he --?”

Nikolai peered over Aeryn’s shoulder, observing the pilot in the distance. Atlas was wearing a shabby black vest over a plain shirt that once upon a time might have been white. His MC was with him, her hair in a style he could only describe as appearing to be cinnamon buns. Atlas was, much to Nikolai’s shock, positively glowing. His cheeks were a ruddy red and he was roaring with laughter.

“He is most definitely plastered!” Jett snickered.

“He’s just excited the Emperor is leaving. Means more time with his MC,” Sevastian noted wistfully.

"Where's Antares, Nova and Rory?" Remy questioned.

"Nova and Rory said their goodbyes last night. Antares early this morning," Leon answered. "They wanted their final moments to be private. As they should be." The group murmured in silent agreement.

“Speaking of MCs…. shouldn’t the others be here by now?” Aeryn asked, glancing around the room. Off to the side, Aeryn spotted Darius chatting with Cal and Wrath. Only Darius was dressed up in a leather jacket and, for some unknown reason, wearing sunglasses indoors. Aeryn couldn’t put her finger on who he was supposed to be, but knew he was trying to be someone.

“Slater,” Nikolai groaned painfully, “please tell me you were not responsible for that.” Nikolai pointed an angry finger at Sascha. The entire group cringed as they watched Sascha dance dramatically around the room, dressed all in black, his face covered in black and white markings.

“Bloody hell,” Jett uttered. “No. Absolutely no. I had nothing to do with that.”

"Does anyone know who that is?" Aeryn points out an attractive brunette dressed in a maroon off-the-shoulder jumpsuit.

"She's kinda cute," Remy leered. Nikolai rolled his eyes at the Frenchman.

"She reminds me of my race car driving days, but I don't know her from anywhere," Leon reminisced. "Maybe she is..."

"They're here, they're FINALLY here!" Onyx's voice rang throughout the room.

Sevastian nervously glanced around the room, his fingers fidgeting by his sides. They're here; she is here. That is, if she came. What if she's not here? What if she wanted to, but couldn't come?

Sevastian was so preoccupied by his rambling thoughts that he didn't notice Aeryn approached him until she was under his nose. "You won't find her standing here," she said softly, urging him to search for his love.

With a smirk, Sevastian turned, and headed towards the crowd. Please let her be here, please, please, please. He thought it was her when he spotted a flash of red in the crowd, but it was only Cecelia. And he ran into Darius again. He stopped and began to seriously fret that perhaps his love just couldn't come. And then he felt it.

It hit him so fast; their connection had laid dormant for so long that he almost didn't recognize it. He didn't need to see her to know she was there, he felt her. Their connection tugged at his heart as a sense of serenity washed over him, stilling him to his spot.

A pair of hands slid over Sevastian's eyes as a familiar voice tickled his ear. "I almost didn't recognize you." Krystal felt his body slump against hers in quiet relief. He moved her hands from his eyes down to his lips, where he brushed a kiss on the inside of her wrist, before finally settling her hands around his waist. "So warm," she teased, as she soaked in his scent. He huffed out a small laugh as he intertwined his fingers with hers, enjoying the press of her body against his.

He shifted in her arms, unable to wait even a second longer. He had to see her, taste her, feel her. He cradled her face in his hands; his eyes gazed down upon her, admiring her like she was his own special gem, while his thumbs grazed her pink cheeks.

“I missed you.” Her lip trembled as she whispered the words. Krystal looked up at him expectantly, her turquoise eyes full of love, shimmering against the lights of the party. His thumb brushed against her lower lip, causing Krystal to sigh and shiver against his taut body.

With eyes closed, his mouth found hers. He buried his hands in her hair, pulling her closer to him. Breathing in her sweet, floral scent, the scent he gave her, he deepened the kiss, his tongue twisting and twirling around hers. They soon parted, both panting, foreheads still touching.

He eventually pulled back, curious to see how she looked. His breath hitched when he saw what she had done to herself – her fiery locks were teased, curls spilling down past her bare shoulders, and on her face, her skin was adorned with sparkling jewels and gems.

“You’re ridiculous.” She slid her hands in the open cut of his shirt, resting her palms on his bare chest, his heartbeat quickening under her touch. “A very sexy ridiculous, but still…” She rose on tiptoe and placed a quick kiss on his lips. “Ridiculous.”

“And you, my love, are magnificent.” He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, nudging her closer, and kissed her again. They stood there, embraced in one another’s arms for what felt like both an eternity and a split second. “I have some friends I’d like you to meet,” he murmured tentatively into her hair.

Taking his hand in hers, Krystal looked up at his, smiling brightly. “I’d love to.”

After introducing Krystal to the group, everyone gathered by the bar for a much-needed drink.

“I see he is still having fun,” Leon pointed to the pilot, who was surprisingly still standing after all this time.

“Let the lovebirds have fun, Leon!” Aeryn chided.

“I agree,” added Krystal. She nuzzled against Sevastian as he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

Leon, Jett and Remy all look down into their drinks and groaned in unison. Nikolai shared a knowing look with Sevastian, winking at the Winter Prince. It was good to see him smiling again.

“What does someone have to do to get a drink around here?” a voice from behind called out arrogantly.

“Spoiled by your private bar, eh, Emperor?” Atlas called out from the other side of the bar. Antares sighed and shook his head. He glanced over by the pilot, and saw his MC.

His face immediately fell, and he awkwardly adjusted his necktie. “Stupid blasted costume,” he muttered to himself. “Should have worn my uniform, would have been happier…” Antares looked over at his MC again. She was holding Atlas’ hands, leaning into every word he was saying. Probably regaling her with some stories about his days with the Union. Antares scoffed. Antares had stories, many more left to be told. Only now they will be shared with a new MC.

He picked up his glass of honey wine and before he could take a sip, he noticed everyone staring at him. “Yes?”

“Let’s make a toast,” Remy announced. He held his glass up and the others followed. “To new beginnings.”

“To new beginnings,” Antares whispered.

[bluscryn]

ℭ𝔯𝔦𝔪𝔰𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔫𝔬𝔴

part 1 (we'll see)

a/n: it's the first time I ever share something I created...I'm kind of nervous

warning: sexually explicit content

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

◇ P R E S E N T ◇

The lace around her neck was supposed to itch. Surely that unforgiving material couldn't have been as comfortable as the young female made it appear. Well, it was understandable in a way.

  That's because Lucinda haven't felt anything in years.

 

  The warm lights of the hotel's restaurant reflected off of her long, chestnut hair. She was sitting on a leather clad bar stool, eavsdropping on a boring conversation. Something about the upcoming election...When did this country stop being a monarchy?

  Funny how time slips by you when you're immortal. One moment you're on a balcony, sipping champagne with the Prince of France and the next you're at your great-grandniece's funeral in the Highlands - the one who had no idea she even had you in her family tree.

  After all, those were the risks you had to take when you decide to dance on the blade of darkness.

  Seemingly bored, Lucinda checked her long nails. Tonight, they were sharpened and painted with a bloody red. But then again, tonight was a special night for her.

   She heard him way before he got close to her. The smile she flashed in his direction could have competed against any shining star.

  In his eyes, Lucinda was the most beautiful woman to ever grace the Earth. What he didn't know was that her beauty was as deadly as cianide.

 

  The warmth of his touch was enough to almost make her melt - almost.

"Peter..." she breathed out, relieved to see him there. "I thought you wouldn't come after all."

"And miss the chance to see my muse? Not in a thousand years." his low voice filled the air, a smile growing on his lips.

His muse...The memory of her, sitting naked on his velvet sofa still lingered in Peter's mind, clear as day.

He was fascinated by her. From her dark, cunning eyes, sharp cheekbones and full lips to her heavenly curves that seemed to have been sculpted by a generous god.

He had written numerous songs about her, but never once mentioned her name. As if spelling out those letters would take away from the mistery of the woman he loved - no, not loved, adored.

Lucinda stood up, the heels making a small, satisfying noise on the marble floor. Even in her highest heels, the woman still had to get on her tip toes to wisper in his ear.

"I think it's time to retreat in my room. Wouldn't you say so?"

  Her voice was like honey to him, the warm breath giving him goosebumps.

"Whatever you want, my love."

His big arm wrapped around her waist, as she tried not to look into his eyes for too long. The icy blue shade was the one that still haunted her dreams.

  Night after night for decades, those eyes tortured every inch of her soul. Only the thought of seeing them again kept her alive.

  The only problem was that Peter was just an unlucky coincidence. Still...her soul could rest, for a while at least.

The minutes spent on their way from the restaurant to the room on the tenth floor passed like seconds. Lucinda was lost in her thoughts.

  Images from the elevator, Peter's lips on her neck and her own trembling fingers on the doorknob flashed before her eyes.

Moments later, her heavy dress was on the polished floor and Peter was lying on the bed, looking at her with hunger in his eyes. Hunger that she felt too, only for something else.

Looking at the strong man on her bed, Lucinda couldn't help but admire him, in a way. He was tall and muscular - she had a taste for men who looked like they could break her in half if they wanted to - with thick black hair that reached his lower back. His eyes seemed to burn holes into her skin and his angular face was partially hidden by shadows. He was beautiful, that was certain. Especially when his veiny hands were wrapped around her slender throat.

In those heated moments, she could close her eyes and pretend he was the man whose eyes she dreamt of every night. But that sweet illusion wouldn't last for long.

Still in her high heels, the woman approached him, with a soft sway of her hips. She shook her head, making her brown curls bounce a little as she stopped in front of Peter.

"Look at you. Still fully dressed, while I'm almost naked."

"Are you going to do something about it?" he asked, with an amused glint in his eyes.

She was going to, indeed.

Stepping out of the shoes, Lucinda climbed into his lap. His scent was intoxicating. Strong cologne adorned his pale skin and she couldn't help but smile.

  Running her fingers along his neck, the woman started kissing his cheek, trailing down to the jaw, the collarbones and even further, as she unbuttoned Peter's white shirt.

  A small moan escaped his sinful lips and Lucinda's whole body tensed. It was a natural reaction, almost an instinct.

  His long fingers were circling up her back and, anticipating his intention, she laughed.

"Not yet, my beloved." 

  The word left a sour taste in her mouth, but her eyes didn't betray that feeling.

 

She tangled her fingers into his hair, at the base of his neck and pulled a little. His eyes widened, only for a moment, as he squeezed her soft hips.

"My bad. Please, go on."

 

  His voice was no more than a wisper now.

  She lowered her free hand down his abdomen, grazing her sharp nails down to his happy trail.

  Biting his pink lips, Peter laid down on his back, letting her take control.

His large palms were sliding up her waist until they reached the lacy black material covering her breasts, but he didn't go any further than that.

 

Lucinda took hold of the heavy belt buckle and, with no struggle, took the belt off. With a satisfied grin, she unbuttoned his pants. Eager to finally get them off, the man raised his hips enough for her to finally throw the material on the floor.

"Mmm..." she mused,  "You're such an obedient man."

"Only for you."

In a matter of seconds, Peter laid his muse on the bed and kissed her feverishly. He slid the bra straps down her shoulders and cupped one breast with his right hand, while supporting his weight with his other hand, as to not crush her.

  Lucinda arched her back, starving for his touch. Licking his bottom lip, she plunged her nails into his back. The man tensed and bit her tounge.

"Marking me already? As if I could belong to anybody else..."

She just laughed and ran her fingers into his hair. Ah, if only he knew...

  Sliding his right hand up, Peter squeezed her throat, choking away the laugh from her beautiful lips.

"Look at me, Lucinda."

  And she did. She really looked at him.    

  For a second, it seemed as if the world froze around them. There was only this moment, only them. She, and his icy blue eyes.

  Not Peter's, his.

  The only man Lucinda has ever loved.

  Her soldier, her saviour.

  The man who left with half of her soul and her whole heart.

  Something switched inside of her and the darkness flooded her veins.

   What was she even doing?!

   Gifting her body like that to a man who wasn't him - the keeper of her heart.

  With a force she rarely showed, Lucinda pushed Peter under her. Her strong thighs were wrapped on either side of his abdomen, forcing him to stay still. Lust filled his eyes, thinking that all of this was part of their erotic game.

"Enough!"

 

  The shriek left her body, as tears began to fall on her cheeks.

He raised his eyebrows, pure concern painted on his face.

"Love, what's wro-..."

His words were interrupted by a sudden scream. His own. Looking down at her, he tried to push the woman off of him.

  It had taken her years to master a certain level of self control. But everything shattered in that moment. The pure terror on Peter's face turned her on. And she grinned.

  Lucinda - the monster, not the woman showed her true nature.

  Her fangs were deep inside the artery that ran down Peter's throat. His warm blood was filling her whole mouth, as she let out a sound similar to a moan. The coppery taste stung her tounge in the most divine way possible. The sensation was pure bliss. She tangled her fingers into his hair, in an attempt to ground herself.

  Then and there, any trace of humanity or sanity left her body. She feasted on the warm liquid like a rabid dog who had been starved for way too long.

  Between the euphoric moments, she felt his body stuggling underneath her.

   It only gave her pleasure, knowing that he was slowly falling apart.

 

   After she drained the last drop of his blood, Lucinda raised her head and looked straight into the mirror in front of her.

   Her hair was wild, framing her face in such a way that it accentuated the wildness in her eyes. Her skin regained a youthful glow, the one that she still had when she was alive. The blood was dripping from her mouth down to her neck and chest.

 

  Crimson on snow white.

  Such a beautiful contrast.

  After years of trying to create a perfect image of herself, Lucinda became, once again, what she had always been.

  A monster.

  One that seduced and drained men for survival.

  

   But only he could love her like that.

   And she was determined to make her soul whole again.

[omniswords]

la vie en rose [félix graham de vanily/marinette dupain-cheng]

“What in the world are you doing?”

Her arm was still extended. “Giving you an out. Because it’s New Year’s Eve, and we’re lonely-together people, and you want a party, and I want to change my mind.” She looked at him meaningfully, then nodded toward her hand. “So are you going to take it or not?”

Two years pass, and Félix finds himself stuck and bored out of his mind at a New Year's party. Fortunately, he finds someone who can get him out. And give him more than he bargained for.

Félix wasn’t exactly a man of science beyond school necessities, but he was pretty sure—he could hypothesize, even—that mankind was capable of dying of boredom, and he’d be the first to go.

It wasn’t as though he found it difficult to interact with people at gatherings like these. He’d been to enough of these stuffy parties and black-tie galas that he could at least pretend at being a socialite. He knew how to manipulate words and punch up cheap party tricks enough for that special class of adults who looked down their noses at everyone to laugh behind their hands and call him a master magician. And he knew how to feign laughter at comments like those, because he wasn’t a magician, really. He was an illusionist. He just didn’t have the time to play at semantics with these people when the only point was to get on their good sides.

(Even if he wasn’t entirely sure that any of those Rossis had a good side.)

The problem was that events like these were so monotonously dull, whether they were here in France or back in London. He didn’t know how much longer he could deal with the Paris elite telling him how much he’d grown. How talented he was and how excited he must be to inherit his family’s line of work. How he must love the city his aunt once came to call home, and how very tragic it still was to think of her sudden disappearance. Worst of all, how interested he must be in the Agreste’s fashion lines, and—to his chagrin and disdain—how very much he resembled his cousin.

The only relief he got from the last was how, whenever she overheard it, Chloé Bourgeois would fix him with a brief disgusted expression. No matter to him; the feeling was mutual, always had been. And she was the fool besides, for trying so maddeningly hard to possess Adrien in the first place, even after all these years. Even after he tied himself down to that fencing girl. Tsurugi, he thought her name was?

Well. He did it for his mother, after all. She was, and perhaps would always be, the only the reason he managed to endure these things.

But no matter how much he thought of her, no matter how many hugs she gave him, or how much of the car ride back to the hotel she spent thanking him and stroking his hair, he still needed a moment to breathe. That moment found him on one of the balconies of the Grand Paris, the double doors behind him closing off the music and the gossip and leaving him only with the night lights and the strangely temperate winter weather. The city was just as he remembered it, or wanted to: buzzing with life where he couldn’t quite see it, baring its teeth in a smile or bitten-out words. Inviting him to play, or scolding him for all the stiffness in his clothes and his bones and his attitude. But what did Paris know about him? And what did he care to know about it?

And, most baffling of all—why did he want to disappear into it so badly?

Before Félix could humor himself with any more questions or sink his teeth into the night air any further, a figure caught his sight of the corner of his eye. A person, strolling down the street with an irritating bounce in her step. It wasn’t until she came into the streetlight that he recognized her—the dark hair, those curious eyes.

That… that girl from Adrien’s video message. I-Love-You Girl. What was her name again? Marie? Madeleine? How easy it was to forget… He only hoped she’d developed some taste since he’d seen her last.

But what if he…?

Once she was close enough to the balcony, just under the streetlight, he cleared his throat to get her attention. When that didn’t work, he called out, “Hey.” Loud enough that she’d hear him, but not so loud that anyone else would think he was crazy.

I-Love-You Girl stopped, startled, looked around. Was she always so scatterbrained?

“Up here,” he said with an exasperated sigh, leaning over the balcony and digging his chin in his hand so she could get a better look at him. When she had the sense to look, of course.

Finally she did—and as soon as they met eyes, she stared at him sideways. Which… he supposed he deserved, all things considered. At least it was refreshing not to be mistaken for Adrien at first glance. Even though she was, or hopefully had been, so sickeningly invested in him that it was more a dichotomy of Adrien and Not Adrien. “Félix,” she said, by way of greeting, colder than the evening. He didn’t even know she was capable of a tone like that. He didn’t even know she remembered his name. “What do you want?”

“Get me out of here,” Félix said with no hesitation and a backwards glimpse at the gala going on behind him. He could make out a muffled piano rendition of O Holy Night or Auld Lang Syne, one of those two—probably Adrien’s doing—and a chorus of voices at various levels of inebriation. So much for distinction. “You’re my out.”

The girl narrowed her eyes, and she jammed her hands in the pockets of her jacket. “Why should I?”

“Because it’s New Year’s Eve,” he pointed out airily, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And aren’t you supposed to be nice to people on New Year’s Eve? Good will toward men? Any of it ring a bell?”

She was unmoved. “You’re supposed to be nice to people year-round. And Christmas,” she added pointedly, “was six days ago.”

He sighed again. “Then at least do it for Adrien, would you? Aren’t you friends?”

“Right.” She laughed, but not because she was amused; still, he didn’t miss the split second that her face fell and her body tensed. “Adrien, whose phone you hijacked to try and make me think he hated me. I’m so irrevocably convinced.” She took a step forward, as if to leave. “Besides. You aren’t Adrien.”

Not that that seemed to matter anyway, apparently.

And yet he’d never heard such beautiful words. You aren’t Adrien. Damn right he wasn’t. He’d play them over and over if he could.

“Look, I understand,” he blurted out, hoping at least that would stop her. “I shouldn’t have said that. And I hurt your feelings before and never apologized to you for it. I should have. We were just in such a hurry to catch our train back and I never got the chance to meet you in person. Let me… make it up to you now. You know. While fate’s brought us together.” The words tasted tight and bitter in his mouth, like black licorice, but maybe she would believe them. “Tis the season, no?”

She hesitated.

He cocked an eyebrow, inclined his head. He was getting to her. “Besides,” he added. “That Lila girl won’t get off my back about some film deal or other. You must know how annoyingly persistent she can be sometimes. She even puts Bourgeois to shame.”

Félix knew more than his fair share about risk assessment in situations like these, and it seemed as though keeping in touch with Adrien through text, even minimally, paid off. I-Love-You Girl’s expression softened in sympathy—no, empathy—but then she went stiff again, put up the very walls he thought he’d opened up. Oh, he liked this. Finally, someone with a little give.

“Be down in five minutes,” she said, “or you’ll have to find your own way out.”

He grinned, and pushed off the balcony, and slipped back inside.

It wasn’t hard to navigate the hordes of guests, some still singing, some still taking yet another champagne flute from a server with a tray. All he had to do was wait for that Rossi girl to be properly occupied with his mother—which he silently apologized for, and swore to make up to her with a proper Christmas gift—to grab his coat and head downstairs. Even he needed a little air, he said; he wouldn’t be gone long. The only thing that paused him, even briefly, was a conversation he overheard between Adrien and his fencing girl.

“You know, I thought Marinette might show up and help her parents,” he said.

To which the fencing girl replied, “They must have relieved her for the night. Wherever she is, I hope she’s enjoying herself.”

“You mean like we are?” Adrien mumbled, and the two of them laughed, and he took her off to some other corner to chat.

Perfect.

When Félix made it down to the lobby, I-Love-You Girl was still waiting for him, still with her hands in her pockets. Now that he was closer, he could make out the dark pink of her peacoat, the pattern of her sweater dress that peeked out underneath, the wool tights and lace-up boots. At least she had more fashion sense than anyone upstairs, with their sequined gowns and straitlaced satin lapels.

She looked up, and he took a step forward, smiling cordially. “Marinette. So good to see you.”

———

For someone as sweet and mild-mannered as Marinette Dupain-Cheng, she certainly knew her way around Paris’s narrow streets and alleys, all the perfect ways of never getting caught. It almost bordered on suspicion, but Félix was already on thin ice as it was. He resigned himself to the universal truth that it was always the quiet ones who got caught up in affairs like these.

“You know,” he said all the same, “it would be nice to know where you’re taking me.”

“Away from that party,” she said, keeping up a pace so oddly brisk that he might have found it hard to keep up if he weren’t so much taller than she was. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

He laughed, a bit in disbelief. He really was going to enjoy this, wasn’t he? “What were you doing out, anyway? Almost everything is closed this time of night.”

Marinette only gave him another sideways glance—more of a glare—and seemed somehow to walk even faster, taking sharp turns every so often. She must have practice with this.

“Must you move so quickly?” he said. “Any faster and we’ll be running.”

“Do you always talk like this?” she shot back.

“I’d rather it didn’t look like I’m trying to pursue you. Or, you know, like you’re trying to get away from me.” He paused. “Are you trying to get away from me?”

Marinette stopped just at the end of one of these alleyways, so suddenly that he stumbled and almost bumped into her. She didn’t turn around to face him, but she spoke anyway. “Did you mean what you said up there?” she asked.

Félix paused. “I don’t follow.”

She scoffed through her nose, as if to say, that’s a first. “Because if you didn’t mean what you said, and you were just trying to get me to get you out of there, then yes, I am trying to get away from you, and you can handle with getting exactly what you wanted—and finding your way back—all by yourself.” Whatever stiffness still lingered in her body started to fade, just a bit. “But if you meant it… if you really do want to make it up to me, if you really have changed for the better, then…”

Marinette trailed off, and turned her head just so, and the rest of her words hung in the balance. I’ll stay with you.

He wasn’t used to this. People like this. Girls like this. They either avoided him like the plague under the impression that his money made him consider them beneath him, or they fell all over him because they wanted something out of him. But Marinette wasn’t quite either one. She was hesitant, sure. Resistant, even. But there, in the hairline cracks of her resolve, were the pieces of her personality poking out. The vulnerability. The want, the need to be known, really known. All the little things that Adrien might have loved about her, if he had been smart enough to look.

It fascinated him.

“Do you really think I haven’t changed?” he asked. “It’s been two years. A lot can happen in two years.”

Marinette folded her arms tight. “So can nothing at all.”

Félix sighed. “Fine, I’ll concede it. I made a… less-than-stellar first impression. We were fourteen. And I was foolish.”

“You also understand,” she quipped, “that being fourteen isn’t an excuse for anything. And that I have this thing called a gut feeling. And that I almost always trust it.”

“And did your gut feeling tell you to leave me on that balcony?” He stepped back. “Did you, perhaps for the first time in your life, decide to go against it?”

Marinette didn’t say anything.

“If you really want me to leave,” he said after a while, once it was clear that she wasn’t going to say anything, “I’ll leave, and you can be on your merry way to celebrate… however it is someone like you celebrates.” His eyes traced the outline of her, head to foot, and he flexed his hands in his pockets, thumb rubbing against the silver band on his finger. “You seem to have been hurt by many people, many times. Let one of them actually do something about it.”

The tension in the moment that followed was near-tangible, and when Marinette stepped onto the street, into the glow of the next streetlight, Félix was half-convinced she really was going to leave. But then she turned on her heel, the slowest she’d been all evening, and looked him up and down, and she was more than that too-soft, simpering I-Love-You Girl he’d first seen. Her cheeks were rosy, likely from the night wind but perhaps from his own words, and she’d pulled her hair back in a ponytail that actually suited her age, and the swimming glint in her eyes and the way she carried herself told him that he was right. That she had been hurt and that, quite frankly, she didn’t need anyone to do anything about it.

And yet she pulled her hand out, extended it to him. “You have tonight,” she finally said. “Let’s hope your second impression is better than your first.”

Félix raised an eyebrow, and took that next step forward. “I think you’ll find,” he said, grasping her hand, “that I’m very good at meeting others’ expectations.”

He bent to kiss the back of it out of polite habit, and it tensed and slipped out of his grip almost instantly. When he looked up, she was staring at him in shock and… shame? Embarrassment? It was hard to read between her lines.

“Sorry,” she stammered, and looked away. “For a moment you reminded me of… someone else.”

“Well, I suppose we can’t have that.” He managed to save himself with a gallant bow—both hands showing, none of his fingers crossed, nothing in his palms. “Miss Dupain-Cheng, I’m in your charge.”

———

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so surprised that there was very little still open on New Year’s Eve in Paris. Back home, as he was sure was the case literally everyone where, most festivities and fireworks went on well into the night; in fact, it had sort of been an unofficial family tradition to visit the Natural History Museum, go skating at the ice rink just in front, turn in for some time, return to the streets late at night for some fireworks. He had plenty of pictures from all the years they’d gone before. But that was before his father had passed away, and they hadn’t been back since. Something in his mother’s eyes had changed the first time he asked about the museum, and the sight made his gut twist so unpleasantly that he retracted the question and didn’t dream of ever asking again.

Paris, it seemed, was no different. Sure all the shops and cafés and bakeries were closed for the night and the next day, but there was no shortage of people in the streets and bars and restaurants that were still open. In every building they passed that dared to have its lights on, there were food and drink and excited, almost deafening and certainly drunken chatter.

He swore he’d seen a movie like this, once.

But the whole walk—which was, thank God, actually a walk and no longer practically a run—Marinette was quiet. Occasionally, she checked for phone, sometimes looked it for a couple of minutes at a time. It wasn’t until he pointed out that she still hadn’t told him just where they were going that she shot him a look, phone in hand, and said, “That’s what I’m trying to decide.”

Whatever she could dish out, Félix could give right back. “Have you considered the very novel concept of asking me?”

“Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that?” Marinette made a show of rolling her eyes as they cut through a nearby park, but at least it seemed playful. “Let me ask the London native what to do on New Year’s Eve in Paris.”

“You know well and good what I meant by that,” he began to say, but stopped short as soon as Marinette did. He squinted at the building in front of him, the dim display cases just inside, the black and gold embellishments, the writing on the windows and front door. Tom and Sabine’s Boulangerie Patisserie, the signs read. Open every day.

Félix looked at her blankly, putting two and two together. “Is this your house?”

“Very perceptive of you,” Marinette said, taking out her keys and fumbling with the lock. And then, as she opened the door and turned on the lights for both of them, “Wait here. No, not outside, it’s cold.”

“You know,” he tried to joke as he stepped in, “I don’t usually go home with a girl on the first date.”

“Have you even been on a first date?”

Félix paused, and for a brilliant moment Marinette glanced back at him, apologetic, as though afraid that she’d actually hurt his feelings. “That is,” he said as he gathered his words, “far beyond the point.”

She gave him one of those up-and-down looks again. “Then should I be honored to be the first?” she asked dryly, slipping behind the counters toward a room in the back.

“That depends.” He leaned forward on the counter, took in the brick backsplash and the empty shelves and cases. “Do you consider this one?”

Marinette’s answer was little more than a scoff as she disappeared behind the door, and within a few minutes returned with two small white paper bags and two paper cups in a tray. If he looked close enough, he could see steam rising through the holes in each of the lids.

“Let’s go,” she said, thrusting the bags into his hands before he—or either of them, really—could do or say anything else. And if he looked close enough again, in the time that she allowed him to add a splash of milk, he could have sworn there was a dusting of light pink on the tops of her cheeks.

In spite of that earlier quip, Marinette was probably right about not entrusting an itinerary to him. He barely knew the first thing about these arrondissements, or why anyone would ever refer to them by only their numbers, and he certainly didn’t know what the bus system was like. But then, he barely knew what any bus system was like. He’d even only been on the tube a couple of times, and he’d been so young then, and his father had been the one to take him…

His father…

His expression must have gone sour as they waited at the bus station, because Marinette sighed and sipped her coffee and said, “I get it. It’s not exactly glamorous. But it’s running, so that’s what we’re going to use.”

“I don’t have a problem with it,” he replied simply, and when the bus pulled in she did him the courtesy of giving him a window seat in the back. Sure, the fact that they were seated backwards made him a bit nauseous at first, and sure, the cushion design was absolutely hideous, but seeing the city like this… all this electric contrasted against the dark, the brightly colored signs… well. It did beat staying at that stuffy hotel and that stuffy party. At least, for a blessed half-hour or so, it was quiet here.

“Still haven’t told me where we’re going,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

“I’m aware.” There was a pause, and under the roar of the bus, Marinette let out a breathless laugh. “You’re just going to have to trust me, huh?”

Félix rested his chin in his hand, smiled grimly into his palm. “How tragic.”

———

“Well, what do you think?”

“It’s…” Félix began, except the only way he knew how to end his sentence was, “empty.”

Well, it wasn’t terribly empty. There were a few people scattered here and there across what Marinette had called the Trocadéro, but not nearly enough to warrant a celebration. Most of them were talking in small clusters or taking pictures together over some festive music booming in the distance, and still more of them were, more frequently, walking away from the plaza and trying to get somewhere else. At least the place was well-lit for a nighttime spot, and the black-and-white pattern on the ground was pleasantly geometric. But Marinette seemed to be getting comfortable here, on a set of nearby steps, and Félix, having nowhere else to go, could do nothing but follow her.

“You know,” he said, “this wasn’t exactly how I expected my year to end. If you understand what I’m getting at.”

“Do I understand?” she replied. Her words were surprisingly soft, and she hugged her knees to her chest, cradling her cup in both hands and staring out at the park below, and the Eiffel Tower just beyond.

Félix took a seat beside her. In spite of how cold and rigid the steps were, he had to admit, the view from where they were sitting was stunning; it gave them an almost-perfect display of whatever light-show the tower had on, and he was sure that if it were daytime, he might spend more than his fair share walking about the park and the fountains in sight. “When you agreed to get me out of the hotel,” he said, “I assumed you were going to take me to some… some… uncouth party, with flashing lights and earsplitting music.” He set aside his own coffee, thankfully still warm, and the paper bags she’d left in his charge. “Isn’t that how people like you end the year?”

Marinette turned to him; if she was offended, it was difficult to tell. “You don’t know very much about people like me, do you? You don’t know me at all.”

“Then why get me out of there in the first place? Was it really because you hold so much disdain for that Rossi girl? Or because you thought I owed you something?”

“Because you needed kindness,” she said sharply, as if she’d be better off never hearing that name again, and as if that should have been just as obvious. “And because it seemed like you thought I did, too. And, if you weren’t aware, people like me think almost everyone deserves kindness. And everyone deserves to have their mind changed.”

Félix stopped, held his breath, took a moment to realize he was even doing it. Almost everyone deserved kindness. Of course he’d heard that before, countless times. From his mother, who took him in her arms and set him on her lap after he’d been teased and rejected one too many times on the playground. From his father, who always made it a point to dig around in his pocket for spare change for any homeless person they might see. Everyone deserved kindness, his father said, because everyone was fighting some kind of battle. Everyone deserved kindness, his mother said, because eventually kindness came around to give you the things you deserve, and—best of all—it came at no cost.

“Well?” Marinette said, resting her chin on her knees. “Was I wrong?”

“No.” He shook his head. It was easier to say when he wasn’t looking at her. When he was looking at the lights instead. “No, you weren’t wrong.”

Out of the corner of his eye, she shrugged, but something in the air about her told him she might be smiling, even if to herself. “I just figured you’d spent so much time around people that you might want to get away from them without getting caught. And I figured you wouldn’t want to do dumb tourist-y stuff like go on the Seine or ride one of those nighttime tour buses.” She nodded toward the tower, then pointed in another direction. “But if a party’s what you want, then there’s one over on the Champ de Mars, and there’s one by the Arc de Triomphe. Just say the word and we’ll get walking.”

Félix chewed his lip, basked in the temperate silence between them, and finally decided to busy himself with poking through the paper bags. Inside were them two croissants—one almond, one chocolate. He looked up from the back, and found Marinette hugging herself even tighter, as though she were trying to make herself even smaller than she already was. “I suppose,” he said, getting comfortable and offering her the bag with the chocolate croissant, “that I could do with knowing you.”

Marinette sighed and scooted a little closer to take it, and Félix counted that as a win. “For what it’s worth,” she added, “You do still owe me, and I wouldn’t wish Lila on anyone. So I guess i’m not totally opposed to you using her as a bargaining chip.”

“She wouldn’t be the first.”

She rolled her eyes. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“So.” Delicately, he tore open his own bag at the crease, making a temporary placemat as he unwrapped the almond croissant. “What was a girl like you doing strolling the streets of Paris so late at night?”

“I’m electing not to take a girl like me as an insult.” Marinette was bouncing one knee far too fast for her own good, and only stopped to tear her pastry into smaller pieces, to lick the chocolate from her thumb. “I was with some friends. A couple of them were holding a party on their houseboat.”

“Hm.” Félix paused to sip his coffee. “Now who’s fancy?”

Marinette snorted. “More like chaotic. Their mom partied harder than any of us. Said you have to end the year with a proper bang.” She paused, smiled faintly as if remembering the scene. “She’s fun. They’re fun.”

“Then… why did you leave?”

As soon as he asked, the air around her seemed to depress itself. Her lashes lowered, and she focused entirely too much on eating, and she went pigeon-toed, sitting there. Eventually, she said, “Low social battery, I guess you could say. And…”

Félix tilted his head, and when he spoke, he didn’t think his voice could ever go so… soft. “And?”

Marinette sighed deeply, finally turned to look at him. “I know I’m risking something by asking you about, you know, human emotion,” she said, just barely joking before she sobered up again. “But do you ever feel like… like you’re in a room full of everyone you know, and you’re still lonely? And suffocating? And you need to get out just to be you, for a little bit?”

By now, he’d finished his food, and he gestured for her to give him her empty bag and cup. “And just why do you think I asked you to get me out of that party?”

She looked taken aback for a moment, scanning him up and down with her eyes, and she was staring at him even as he came back to sit with her again. “So I guess we’re just… lonely together. On New Year’s Eve.”

“I suppose we are.” Félix stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I suppose I can’t say I mind.”

Under the light of the Trocadéro plaza, it looked like, perhaps, Marinette didn’t mind, either. And under that same light, if only for a moment or two, Félix suspended his belief in shallow niceties.

———

“This is the way the year ends,” Félix said, more to the gardens and the tower and the festivities than to Marinette. “Not with a bang, but a whimper.”

“Who said that?” Marinette asked, smiled faintly. “Those words are too pretty to be yours.”

So she could warm up even to someone like him after all. “T.S. Eliot,” he said. “I just changed the words a bit. You should read him sometime.”

He didn’t know how long they’d been sitting out here. Long enough for his hands and the tip of his nose to catch a chill, but not so long that he’d be any kind of missed. Briefly, he wondered how long that would take—if anyone would miss him at all.

He checked his phone. 11:00, and the plaza was entirely empty.

So this really was the way the year ended. Not with choruses and flashing lights and a single glass of champagne form a popped bottle, but with the quiet and the cold and, surprisingly even to himself, a girl to keep him company.

“Can I ask you something strange?” he asked to break the silence.

Marinette looked at him sideways. She was incredibly good at that, it appeared. “You’re on thin ice,” she murmured over the distant music. “But go on.”

He couldn’t believe he was even asking this. “You’re not so—” No, he wouldn’t say it that way. She wasn’t foolish. She’d proved that enough times tonight. Perhaps a bit naïve, and golden-hearted enough to confuse him still, but not foolish. He cleared his throat, tried again. “You don’t still carry those feelings for my cousin, do you? After all this time?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, but not without stiffening just a touch. She was probably hoping it wasn’t noticeable, but she couldn’t have known he had the eyes of an illusionist. The kind that saw everything and unraveled everyone else’s tricks on sight while still hiding his own. “Félix,” she cooed, and this time she really was joking, but the pit of his stomach warmed anyway, and he wished, for just a few seconds, that she might say his name like that again. “I’m flattered, but not interested.”

“Oh, come off it,” he shot back. “That’s hardly why I’m asking.”

“Well,” she said, “To answer your question, that depends. You’re not still a jackass, are you? After all this time?”

He folded his arms. “I’d like to think that sort of characteristic is subjective and employable only when necessary. And I wouldn’t consider this to be one of the times it is.”

Marinette was quiet for a moment, tapping her fingers against her knees in a rhythm he couldn’t quite place. “Not that it’s any of your business,” she said, “but no. Not anymore.”

“I see.” He gave her a faint nod. “Good for you. No point in wasting your time on endeavors bound to go nowhere, is there?”

She didn’t answer, and for a moment he was, to his own surprise, afraid that he’d been the one to hurt her feelings this time. But it seemed that Miss Marinette Dupain-Cheng was nothing if not resilient, and she got to her feet, pacing the plaza just behind him. “Well,” she said, “now it’s my turn to ask you something strange.”

Félix flinched and braced himself, tuned into her every step. “Go on.”

“Why…” Her steps paused, and she brushed back some hair that the wind blew across her face when she turned on her heel. “Why did you do that thing? With Adrien’s phone, I mean. I know it was two years ago, but…”

“That depends.” His legs were starting to get sore, and he stretched them out over the stairs. Had she really been thinking about that all this time? “Which answer would you like to hear?”

Marinette scoffed again, though it was barely audible, and began to pace again. “You got an honest one in there?”

He hummed, the businessman in his blood running warm. “Intending to use it against me somehow?”

“No,” she said simply, another smile lingering somewhere in her voice. “That’s reserved for people like you.”

She wasn’t wrong; in fact, he was sure his mother secretly prided herself on raising him that way. He just had no reason to admit to it. He followed suit, stood and nodded his head, and they began to walk the perimeter of the plaza together. “I suppose you could say I was… jealous. That we had come from such similar circumstances, and yet he was happier for it. That he had friends at all. That in spite of my uncle he opened up and went out into the world, and in spite of my mother I receded and stayed shut in.” Marinette looked at him in a manner he could only describe as incredulous, but he wasn’t fazed. “I didn’t say it was a very good reason. Only that it was one.”

She scuffed her heel against the ground, refused to look at him, and her voice went soft and small. “I didn’t know you lost your mother.”

“My father,” he corrected her. The thought of him ever losing his mother put a twinge in his heart, but he didn’t dare let his expression betray it. “He married into our family, you know. Took my mother’s last name. You could say he was the first to teach me about common folk so I wouldn’t be so out of touch, locked away all the time. Once he passed, I… started failing him.” And then, when Marinette didn’t say anything else, “What? Did you expect something more?”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, paused at the set of stairs once they reached it. “Did you expect that to excuse you?”

“No,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Forgive me for trying to do that human thing they call forging a connection.”

Whatever festivities going on in the park nearby seemed to double, and some admittedly catchy American jazz song began to play, so loud that he could actually make out some of the lyrics. Marinette seemed to perk up at the sound, and she shot him a glance. “You want to forge a connection?” she asked. “You want your chance to prove you’ve changed?”

“That is why I’m here, isn’t it?”

When he looked to Marinette, she was smiling, walking backward toward the center of the plaza, and she held her hand out to him. “Dance with me.”

His brow furrowed. Had she lost her mind? “I beg your pardon?”

“Dance with me,” she said again, more emphatically this time. She was rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet now. “You wouldn’t leave a lady alone on the floor, would you? You still owe me, don’t you?”

Perhaps they weren’t cut from such distant cloths after all. “I thought you said tactics like these were only reserved for people like me.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe I think something like this is employable only when necessary.”

“I don’t dance, you know.”

“Great.” Her smile shifted into a grin worthy even of the Cheshire Cat himself. “Neither do I.”

“Marinette,” he said, shaking his head. She’d definitely lost her mind. “What in the world are you doing?”

Her arm was still extended. “Giving you an out. Because it’s New Year’s Eve, and we’re lonely-together people, and you want a party, and I want to change my mind.” She looked at him meaningfully, then nodded toward her hand. “So are you going to take it or not?”

Félix didn’t exactly consider himself one to hesitate—it was quite possibly the only other thing he and Adrien’s fencing girl had in common. And he’d never really considered Marinette to be the business type. Tonight, for these few long-lasting seconds, he did. He took her hand before he could double back or regret it, and he tugged her all the way to the center of the Trocadéro. It wasn’t until he had both of her hands in his that he really felt how cold they were, and how soft, and how he wouldn’t be opposed to holding them a while longer. “Seems we both could do with some warming up,” he said.

Marinette’s eyes softened in the light, sparkled bright blue. Strange, how it made his stomach turn so. “Lead the way.”

He’d admit the dancing was clumsy at first; nothing like the ballroom lessons he’d been put up to so many times before. At best, they were two fools doing some simple two-step, back and forth, side to side, and she was leading far more where he should have been. But there were no rules here, no witnesses to look like a fool for, nothing to manipulate and no one to trick. And when he held Marinette at arm’s length and twirled her over and over, she wasn’t just tolerating him. She was enjoying him. She was smiling, glowing, and her cheeks were as pink as her peacoat, and whatever dark cloud had imposed itself on her presence was starting to disappear, little by little. And he was doing this human, infinite thing. And he was human, infinite, too.

He saw her as the music was dying, as she stumbled and he caught her. Not Marinette. I-Love-You Girl. Wherever she had gone before, she was back now, and that breathless smile was his to remember. And he’d never delete it.

“Looks like two years did you some good after all.” she said, letting go of his hands. And then, “What? What are you looking at me like that for?”

Félix shook his head. “Nobody misses me,” he said, entirely unshaken, “and my cousin is a complete idiot, and I couldn’t care less.”

———

He did her the courtesy of dancing to two more songs after that, until she was flushed in the face and out of breath, and at ten minutes to the New Year, they took the steps down from the plaza and cut through the gardens. They’d probably be stranded here until well after midnight, with every bar and street party starting to clear out. But Marinette had said the buses would be running until 2:00, and from the way she kept bumping into him even with intermittent apologies, he came to mind the prospect of taking one less and less.

“I have one more thing I wanna ask you,” she said. The further they got into the gardens, the louder the music became, and she tugged him away by the sleeve of his coat, where they could walk and talk more quietly. Where he could measure words and ineffable feeling by the slow click of her boots.

He spared her a look, and only that, despite the twitch in his fingers that told him to brush her hair out of her eyes, despite the tension in his arm that told him to pull her out of the way, just in case. He did neither, and said, “I’m listening.”

“Why did you ask me about Adrien?” For some reason, the question rang out louder than anything else he’d heard that night, but Marinette didn’t stop. He had to wonder if she was even capable of it; she only paused when he did, and even then she was a few paces ahead. “I mean, you probably know about Kagami, so. I’m not so sure why whatever I feel—”

“Forgive me,” he said, unmoving, watching her from a distance. “I merely thought that someone who thinks everyone deserves kindness should deserve some of it returned.”

Marinette opened her mouth. Closed it. Open and closed, again. She tucked back those flyaway hairs he’d been tempted to touch. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Only…” She looked softer in the streetlight, more than she had in the alleyway, more than she had on the bus, even more than she had under the light of the Trocadéro plaza. A part of him wanted to savor it, carry it into the new year; another part of him was mortified to have felt so, and determined to cover it up. He found the middle ground and steeled himself, his hands in his pockets, clenching out the softness of her fingers that still lingered there. “Only that it would be foolish to let that kindness go to waste. Those feelings.” He pressed his lips together, caution bleeding into his stare. “You’ve proven that you’re far too smart for that.”

Perhaps this was, aside from the dancing, aside from that video, the most vulnerable he had ever seen her: standing on the sides of her feet, looking away with a blush that was as demure as it was flattered. Something about her, so still and listening for the countdown, told him that she must have been telling herself this for ages. “That’s how I know you never really knew me,” she joked hollowly. “Just saying things to butter people up, huh.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Félix took one step forward, and then another. “Well,” he said, “if that’s really how you feel, then… I did say I could do with knowing you. I don’t intend to take that back now.” He flicked his gaze up toward her as they stood toe-to-toe, close enough for them to hold each other’s breaths, far enough for him to back off. “What do you say?”

Marinette looked at him like she was expecting him to hold out his hand again. Skeptical. She folded her arms. “Is this some kind of deal?”

“I’d like to think,” he said, “that by now we’ve moved past transactions.”

Before she could respond, a resounding cheer from down the way caught their attention, a chorus of people beginning to count down from sixty. Félix wondered if it must have sounded the same back at the Grand Paris, or if they were simply waiting for the clock to turn over, waiting to applaud the new year by way of greeting.

She turned back to him. “One minute left,” she said, and if he strained his ear it might sound like she was… regretting it. “Well? Did I waste my kindness on you, too?”

“You’re the one with the ‘gut feeling,’” he replied with a shrug and a set of air quotes. “Did you waste the honor of a first date on me, too?”

“This wasn’t a date.” Thirty seconds. She rolled her eyes. “This was a second impression.”

“Not a bad second impression.”

“How would you know?”

“You’re smiling,” he said. “Your eyes are smiling.”

Marinette held her breath, watched him cautiously. She wasn’t quite the girl from the alleyway, wasn’t quite I-Love-You Girl. She hung somewhere in the balance, eyes soft, stance open, even as the hint of an actual smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

He took his hand out of his pocket, let it hover at the small of her back without actually touching her. “Would it be a date if I kissed you?” he asked. He didn’t know why he was breathing the words. He only knew why he was asking. “Or would it just be tradition?”

She snorted. “And waste a New Year’s kiss on you?”

He raised an eyebrow and both hands, took a couple of steps back. “You thought you wasted a lot of things on me. Why would I stop you now?”

Marinette moved forward, reached for him by the front of his coat and tugged him in with a force that made him stumble. “Oh, get over here,” she murmured over the roar of the street party, standing up on her toes and pressing her mouth to his just as the countdown hit one.

Sure, Félix had admitted to never having been on a first date, but he’d never admit that he hadn’t ever been kissed either. He stumbled again, his hand finding purchase at her back—for real this time—and in the sudden deafening quiet of the park his body went stiff and his stomach began to turn. He felt every sharp thing he’d ever seen in her, warm and searing—the biting comments, the limits, every little thing that put him in his place—and he fully expected her to rip herself away from him and ask if he was happy now. Instead, all that edge began to fade, and gradually she went lax under his touch. She stood back on her feet, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him with her, let him find and follow the rhythm of her lips. Let him feel the dancing again. And when she finally moved back, she didn’t stray too far. In fact, she was still holding onto him. Like she was considering giving him another.

“Oh,” she rasped. He couldn’t even tell if her eyes were open or closed. If they were still smiling. If I-Love-You Girl was standing in front of him instead.

He didn’t dare move. “What?”

“You have changed. You’re real.”

He wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. But before he could say anything, she gingerly tapped his chest, stepped out of his grasp, brushed her fingers against her lips before jamming her hands in her pockets.

“How long before you go back to London?” she asked.

“That depends,” he said, all breathy words again. He could still feel the kiss on him. Kicked himself for wanting to feel it again. “If you wanted to see me again, would it a first date, or a second?”

“Let’s go,” Marinette said with a joking shove and a tug toward the bus station. And as they pushed through the crowds she grabbed his hand, and as they rode the bus back she leaned on his shoulder and watched the city die down with him, and before he made it to the lobby of the Grand Paris she pulled him into the dark for one more kiss goodnight. It was well past midnight, and the kiss was quicker than the last, but he returned it anyway, lonely-together with her for those last few seconds.

“If they don’t chew you out in there,” she said, “meet me at the Trocadéro tomorrow at 11.”

Félix raised a brow. “For what? Another second impression?”

Marinette smiled. There wasn't very much I-Love-You Girl lingering there, but he supposed he liked her better that way. “For a second date.”

[artificialqueens]

Taste of a Poison Paradise, Chapter 1 (Multi) - Joley

a/n: there were too many ships to fit into the title but the ones in this fic are crygi, lemyanka, sportsdoll, jaidie, and branjie/kamjie

Lemon let out a whiny groan as her alarm went off. Unlike the average alarm, hers was set to 6:30 at night, leaving her just enough time to get up and ready for her shift. She sat up and looked over, then gave Priyanka’s shoulder a light shove. “Rise and shine,” she mumbled as she got out of bed and grabbed the lingerie she’d laid out that morning and covered it with sweats and Priyanka’s flannel shirt.

“Every day I have to wake up and participate in society,” Priyanka lamented as she got out of bed. Her uniform consisted of a simple black t-shirt and jeans, making her routine much shorter than Lemon’s, who had to get all dolled up. “Gonna make coffee,” she decided, shuffling into the kitchen.

While Priyanka was making coffee, Jan came out of the other bedroom. “We carpooling tonight, Pri?” she asked, propping her elbows up on the counter and resting her chin on her hands.

“Yeah, if y’all aren’t planning on hanging out once the shift ends,” she answered, a slight stiffness in her tone. “Can’t stick around.”

Jan knew she needn’t say anything else. “Gotcha,” she nodded before grabbing her sweatshirt off the couch.

The three of them arrived at the club and clocked in on time, much like they always did. Priyanka went to get her station set up while Jan and Lemon joined the other girls in the dressing room to finish their makeup.

“Brooke Lynn told me she’s bringing in a friend of hers tonight,” Vanessa remarked as she swiped highlighter along her cheek. “Met at a convention or some shit in France and this is her welcoming celebration ‘cause she just moved out here.”

“Rich and French?” Jan’s brow quirked with interest and she strummed her fingers together, acting as if she were ‘scheming’. “Damn, I’m glad I just got my hair done.”

“But what if she tips you in euros?” Gigi chuckled.

“Actually,” Jaida chimed in, “the euro is worth like, twenty percent more than the dollar. So, it’d be a better gig if she did.” She tilted her head when the rest of the girls looked at her with either surprised or perplexed expressions. “What? I can know shit too.”

Jackie poked her head into the dressing room, then leaned against the doorframe. “I come in and you guys are talking about economics? I never cease to be amazed at this place. Anyway, just letting all of you know that the new security guard is starting tonight. I expect you all to be nice to her.”

“We’re always nice,” Jan cooed and batted her lashes. “Aren’t we, girls?”

“Speak for yourself, I’ve got an image to maintain,” Lemon retorted.

Just as Jackie was about to turn and leave, she heard footsteps and turned around. “Oh good, Kameron, you’re here. Come say hi to the girls,” she said, excitedly gesturing her over.

A muscled, tattooed blonde made her way over, stopping just a step into the dressing room. She seemed very aware of all the eyes on her, and perhaps a bit shy because of it. “Hey,” she greeted with an awkward wave.

Jackie went down the line introducing the girls. “This is Lemon, Jan, Gigi, Jaida, and Vanessa. Don’t worry, they don’t bite.”

“I make no promises,” Vanessa chimed in, twirling her hair around her finger as she looked Kameron over.

Jaida chuckled and tapped Vanessa’s thigh. “Down, girl. Sit. Stay.” Then she looked back up and warned Kameron, “Vanjie likes blondes.”

“Behave,” Jackie jokingly chastised, though she knew it would fall on deaf ears. “I’m gonna go get Kameron set up out front,” she said before the two of them left.

Once they’d left, Gigi leaned over to talk to Vanessa. “How’s your girlfriend gonna feel about you giving bedroom eyes to the new recruit, huh?”

“Relax, I just looked at her, not like I tried to eat her pussy or somethin’,” she retorted. “And you can’t say shit about girlfriends when your ass can’t even ask Crystal out on a date.” She got a chorus of ‘ooooh’ from the other girls at that and made Gigi turn red.

——

“Gigi, Jaida, and I are gonna hit up that new diner two blocks over after work, you in?” Crystal asked during a slow point in their shift.

Priyanka sighed and looked down at the empty glasses she was clearing off from the bar. “Can’t,” she mumbled, then reluctantly added, “I told Mark I’d pick him up from the airport.”

“I should’ve recognized that pain face,” she mused with a sympathetic nod. “Does your girlfriend know your boyfriend’s back in town?” she asked, cocking her head to the stage Lemon was dancing on.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Priyanka caught the defensiveness in her tone, so she tried to playfully follow it up with “she’s my mistress.”

Crystal chuckled, dividing her attention between her coworker and the customers that came up to the bar. “Whatever you gotta call it. At least he’s out of town like, what, forty weeks out of the year?”

“And yet it never feels like enough.”

The other bartender shook her head. “Remind me again why you’re still with him.”

“He’s… my safety blanket. No one asks me too many questions if they know I’m still with him. I can be normal and not have to worry about my family disowning me,” she explained.

“Oh, right, I forgot how far in the closet you are. Which is easy to do when you consider… every other aspect of your personality.” Crystal looked over and spotted Brooke Lynn approaching with a dark-haired woman at her side. “Who’s your friend, Brooke?”

“This is Nicky, she just moved here from Paris. Had to give her the proper welcome, you know?” Brooke explained. “I ran it by Jackie, gonna have her set up in the VIP room once she picks who she wants to-”

“Her.” Nicky had only turned away for a moment when her eyes locked on one of the dancers. “I have decided. I want that one.”

Brooke looked over, amused at the promptness in her decision. “Jan? Good choice. Crystal, set Nicky up with a cognac while I go let Jackie know to get her set up,” she explained as she got up. “If I don’t come back, assume Vanjie’s got me captive and don’t send for help.”

Priyanka watched as Brooke left. “God, that bitch has her whole life together and then some. Like, actual life goals, you know?”

“Priyanka also aspires to be a rich businesswoman that gets to rail a stripper on the regular,” Crystal explained to Nicky as she handed her the drink.

Nicky lifted her glass to her in approval. “Aim high, love,” she said and took a sip. “So, tell me about this girl I’ve picked, Jan, yes?”

“Oh, Jan’s great,” Crystal told her. “She’s a real sweetheart, you know? Like, the type to accidentally make customers fall in love with her because she just radiates that warm energy. Even had to ruin the illusion by outing herself a couple of times.”

“Yeah, but that was when that guy proposed to her, remember?” Priyanka chimed in. “Nice guy, stupid as all fuck.”

Nicky listened with amusement to the anecdotes the bartenders went on about until she spotted Jan coming her way, instantly tuning out everything around her to focus on the scantily clad woman.

Jan smiled and held her hand out. “Follow me, I’ll take you to the VIP room.”

“Then, by all means, lead the way,” she purred and followed her as they weaved through the club, to a room behind velvet ropes.

The room itself was designed to look even more expensive than it was with its red and gold color scheme and velvety fabrics. There was a plush couch, a table with champagne in an ice bucket, and a basket containing various sexual accessories – fuzzy handcuffs, lube, things of that nature. It was also perfectly spotless, which was easy to maintain with how rarely it was used. For the most part, it was up to the dancers to decide if they even wanted to confirm the existence of VIP rooms, let alone bring anyone into that space.

But Jan seemed thrilled to have Nicky in there with her. Especially since she knew she wouldn’t have to keep up her professional pretenses – Nicky came in with Brooke, after all. “So, I’m sure Brooke probably told you, but we make up whatever rules we want based on the client. But since this is your big American welcome present, I’m cool with following your lead.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Nicky cupped Jan’s face. “I don’t know if you want to give me that much power. There’s just far too much I’d like to do to you.”

Jan felt a chill go up her spine. The intensity of Nicky’s gaze paired with the coolness in her voice had her entranced on the spot. “Even better. Nothing’s sexier than a powerful woman.”

“As if I had any doubt on what a bottom you are,” she lightly teased as she sat down on the couch. She leaned back, admiring the beautiful woman she had all to herself. “Purple is your color,” she observed, admiring the way the violet lingerie fit her body, how it framed her perfectly while still begging to be ripped off.

“Why thank you, it’s my favorite,” Jan hummed, making her way over and straddling Nicky’s lap. She wasn’t used to having any sort of banter on the clock. Normally, a customer’s brain would short circuit as soon as they saw her tits, and that was how she liked it – the best man was a silent man as far as she was concerned.

But even Nicky seemed to have had enough with the talking, having moved on to kissing along Jan’s neck while her hands wandered her body. Eventually, she let them rest on Jan’s ass, which she groped and slapped while the two of them made out.

Jan let out a pleased sigh against Nicky’s lips. She rolled her hips slowly at first, arching towards Nicky’s touch and threading her fingers through her hair. “God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” she murmured as she undid her new client’s top.

“So are you, angel,” Nicky purred as she unhooked Jan’s bra and let it drop to the floor. She could tell she had caught Jan a bit off guard – normally the client would never undress the stripper. But it was clear Jan didn’t take issue, so she continued, kissing down her neck and chest, between her breasts, then teasingly swiping her tongue over both nipples. While she licked and sucked at her breasts, Nicky moved her hands back down, lightly snapping Jan’s panties against her and peeling them off once Jan lifted her hips up to let her.

It was so rare for Jan to be able to give up control at work. Her true submissive preferences were reserved exclusively for her personal life, lest anyone get the wrong idea. But Nicky had her under her thumb without even trying, and honestly, Jan found that even hotter. She wanted Nicky as badly as Nicky wanted her, and she didn’t make any attempt to hide it, going right to undressing Nicky once she was naked herself.

“So eager,” Nicky couldn’t help but call her out. “You must be so desperate to get fucked after teasing ugly men all night, hm?” She moved her hand between Jan’s thighs and traced her fingers along her slit. “You’re wet already, you little whore.” She then tapped her thigh lightly to redirect her. “On your knees,” she instructed, “you know what to do.”

Of course she did, Jan had just been eagerly awaiting her command. She got on her knees in front of Nicky, pulling her trousers and panties down to her ankles before situating herself between her thighs. She licked a stripe up her slit, then eased her tongue in, alternating between slow and fast, deep and shallow licks and thrusts.

Nicky tilted her head back and let out a deep moan. “Fuck, good girl,” she grunted. Her hand moved to the back of Jan’s head, holding her head in place with just a bit of firmness to keep her going.

Not that Jan would’ve stopped even if her life depended on it. Every time Nicky bucked her hips up or pushed down on her head, it turned her on and encouraged her all the more. Her hands gripped onto Nicky’s waist to hold her close and not let up until she was certain she had came, then pulled back with a bright, hopeful expression.

And Nicky knew exactly how to react, she could tell right away that Jan was the type that thrived on praise and positive reinforcement. “You did so well, babygirl,” she cooed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Get up and sit on my face, Mama’s gonna make you feel good.”

Jan nearly tripped over herself with how quickly she scrambled to her feet. She waited for Nicky to lay down on the couch before straddling her face and gripping the arm of the couch, then let out a breathy moan when she felt Nicky’s tongue inside her. “Fuck…”

Nicky held onto Jan’s ass as she thrust her tongue steadily. She smirked to herself when she heard how desperate and needy the younger woman’s moans were. This was not going to be their last encounter, that she was certain of, and by the time she had made Jan come, she was already thinking about the next time.

“Oh my fucking god,” Jan was still trembling when she got off of Nicky, sitting down to catch her breath. “Is that what French kissing really is?”

“I like to think so,” Nicky chuckled, sitting up and getting dressed. “Either way, that was just the welcome I had hoped for, and I will certainly be coming back for you. I’d take you home if I could.”

“Who’s to say you can’t?” Jan batted her lashes and twirled her hair around her finger.

——

“You know, with the way Nicky pounced on Jan, you might not be getting her back tonight,” Brooke warned. She was sitting in Jackie’s office with Vanessa sitting on her lap, though Vanessa had more or less checked out while Brooke and Jackie caught up.

Jackie laughed softly. “If I know Jan, and I tend to think I do, she won’t mind in the slightest,” she assured. “Though sometimes I worry you’re gonna keep bringing your friends in and pairing off all my girls.”

“What can I say? I’ve found my niche,” she hummed. “And it’s all good as long as you keep up those profit margins, right?”

“Oh god, are y’all just gonna talk business and shit all night?” Vanessa whined.

Brooke arched her brow at her girlfriend. “We’re not making you stay here, babe. You can go do a set or hang out in the dressing room,” she suggested. “You know, considering this is still your job,” she added.

“You can just get Kameron to babysit her,” Jackie remarked offhandedly, oblivious to the way Vanessa had suddenly tensed and sat upright or the way she was glaring a hole into her head.

And Brooke hadn’t picked up on it either, just coming off as confused. “Who’s Kameron? Another dancer?”

Vanessa had started to answer. “No, she ain’t nobody, she just-”

“She’s the new security guard,” Jackie explained. “I like her, she seems nice, really funny once she warms up to you, a little quiet otherwise.”

“Is she…you know…”

“Gay? Yeah, she a fitness dyke, I can tell,” Vanessa chimed in.

Jackie cleared her throat awkwardly. “I mean, I didn’t want to assume.”

Brooke arched her brow. “You, the woman who has managed to employ five lesbian strippers and two lesbian bartenders, didn’t want to assume? Like, you want us to believe that was purely coincidental and not your full intention?” While she had meant it lightheartedly, she noticed Jackie start to curl into herself. “Jackie… do you think we don’t know?”

Jackie swallowed thickly. “Vanjie, do you think you could give me a minute with Brooke?” she asked softly, then waited for Vanessa to leave before she redirected her attention to completely focus on Brooke. “I-I don’t know what you mean. What are you talking about?”

Brooke’s expression became more concerned. Her brows furrowed as she leaned closer and spoke in a hushed tone. “Do you… wait… are you not out?”

“Out of what?” she bristled, sitting upright and pointedly averting her gaze. “There’s nothing for me to be ‘out’ of. Because I’m not. I’m not.”

“Jackie…” she reached out and took her hand. She knew what a delicate subject this could be, but she also knew she would be remiss if she ignored it. “If there was ever a safe space…”

Jackie shook her head, suddenly getting up and pacing back and forth across the room. “You don’t understand. Firstly, my family, they… they just wouldn’t get it. They still think I own a restaurant.” She sighed heavily, finally stopping and leaning against her desk. “Besides, acknowledging my attraction to girls in a place like this… it’s just asking for trouble, you know? Priyanka is the only person that knows, and that’s just because she’s in the same boat.”

Brooke nodded as she listened. “But even still, Pri’s out to everyone here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“Pri’s out to everyone here so she can fuck Lemon in peace,” she retorted with a dry laugh. “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t thought about… like I wouldn’t…”

“You’re afraid of catching feelings for one of the girls.”

“No,” Jackie squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, everything she had spent so long burying was pushing through all at once. It made her feel dizzy and nauseous and faced with the realization that telling the truth was the only thing that could relieve that sense of unease. “I’m afraid I already have.”

[dorevenge]

where ignorance is bliss - chapter 3: a young fellow

SUMMARY: Obadiah is back from Washington and surprises Maria with a belated birthday trip abroad. [AO3 LINK]

CHAPTERS: 1 2 [3] 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 ☆

November 16, 1959 – Bronx, New York, Obadiah’s Apartment

“Surprise, darling! Happy belated birthday.”

The door swings open, the jangle of keys alarming me, and I run to put his engagement ring back on, tossing the dirty apron back in the hamper. I greet him at the door, with a perfect smile, the image of everything he would want from me. I put the thick folder in the back of my mind, trying not to think about the bookshelf I shoved it behind.

Obie takes me into his arms. My face barely comes up to his collarbones. It was normally a sensation I craved after a long, stressful day, but when the person holding me is the source of my stress, the effect is not the same.

He takes a step back and takes my face into his weathered hands, his cold, tired eyes peering into mine. I try to keep eye contact and return the peaceful gaze. The pressure gets to me, so I reach up and pull his head towards mine.

We haven’t kissed in three months, and it’s almost like we’ve forgotten how. At least, I had forgotten how to enjoy it. His lips feel foreign between mine, like a stranger’s. Like someone I couldn’t trust.

When we break apart, his smile is as wide as his head. “I’ll take that as you missed me,” he says. “I got something for you.” He reaches down to the paper bags he had set at his feet when he arrived. He pulls out an envelope and two small, wrapped packages.

Obie leads me to the couch in the living room and sits me down, pushing the envelope in my hands first. He sits beside me, eager for me to open my gifts.

“Already? I didn’t even get to ask you how your flight was yet.” The envelope felt heavy with unknowing in my hands.

“My flight was uneventful. Please…” He gestures impatiently towards the gift in my lap.

I open the envelope gently. Inside, is a simple card, lilac with the words “Happy Birthday” written in a cursive script on the wrong. From within the card, two tickets fall into my lap.

“We’re going to Monaco?”

“Surprise again! I thought it would be a nice break from New York, get away before the holidays. And I feel terrible for leaving you alone for so long right after our engagement. From here on out, I will be an attentive partner to you.” His joy is so thickly spread across his face, it’s all I can do to smile in return and stare down at the tickets in my hands.

“Thank you, Obie, I-”

“You hate it.”

“No, love, I love it, and I love you,” I’m fumbling for my words, and I hope he doesn’t notice. “I’m just tired. It’s hard sleeping alone, and I’m still surprised that you’re here, let alone going taking a trip with you… Tomorrow?” I read the date on the tickets.

“Why wait? Then we can be back in time for Thanksgiving with your parents.” He kisses me on the forehead, content with my reaction, and stands. “I’m going to unpack my clothes from DC, then start repacking.”

-

November 20, 1959 – Monaco, France, The Hellfire Club

Obadiah was not a betting man, but he seemed at home at the Hellfire Club & Casino like a Protestant in church. He “enjoyed the company of the machines that controlled men’s fates,” but I imagine he enjoyed thinking he had more willpower than the men who squandered their paychecks and had to return home to their wives with their head between their tails, lying about the state of their finances.

It turns out he had business in Monaco, and surprising me with a late birthday trip seemed easier than leaving me for work again. I was left to my own devices again, but this time it was in a foreign country. I had studied abroad in France my junior year of college, so it wasn’t like I couldn’t talk to anyone here, but rather I have no desire to even leave the room.

Obie would meet me back at the hotel room at night, and we would often play a game of chess before bed. Playing chess with him was one of the best ways to pass the time. It keeps him quiet from rambling on about things I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about, details about materials and manufacturing and marketing. I did the accounting for Stane International, as that’s what I had studied in school, and as long as the numbers added up, I was content. And for every chess game I won, Obie paid me what we had bet, fueling my addiction to the finer things in life. I purchased more purses and linens and dresses and shoes than I would care to admit, but as long as the numbers added up – and as long as I hid the packages at Peggy’s – he didn’t complain.

The Hellfire Club is unusually classy for Obie’s taste; I’ve already started to resent his cheapness and penny-pinching, and we hadn’t even set a wedding date yet. I should have noticed that sooner. Here, gold decorates every pillar and billiard ball, marble fountains and silver pens, a gratuitous buffet and generous décor around every corner. Whoever the owner is has taste and luxury in excess. I am a girl with champagne taste engaged to a cheapskate.

Obadiah had spent the last four days in meetings from sunrise to sunset, and I am bored out of my mind. I have no interest in day-drinking, I’ve already read every book the front desk has to offer, and the pictures playing down the block don’t spark my curiosity. I feel like a tiger pacing its cage in a zoo, and I am ready to pounce.

Touching up my red lip and pinned curls, I leave the room and exit the elevator. I feel the turn of men’s heads like a gravitational pull, the clack of my heels leading the charge, and I’m embarrassed to admit how much I miss that attention. I know how this dress fits, I know how the color complements me; just because I’m an educated woman doesn’t mean I’m not a human one.

I have hours to kill before Obie will direct his attention to me again, so I stride right into the room full of betting games and tables. I pause in the doorway, taking in the sight – and cigar smoke – of men shuffling cards and chips like it means something, until I recognize one of the tables.

I had learned baccarat in my time in France, and despite never fully grasping the French language, I played their game very well. Like all of the casino’s games, the house has the edge, but my host family had taught me their tricks, and I could keep track of the location of every card once I saw it. This casino plays the punto banco style, which is where I excelled.

The first three hours, I did very well. I did so well that the waitstaff came to watch over my shoulder to assure I wasn’t cheating. I had almost doubled Obie’s entire investment portfolio, at least the one I had access to, using his information to start the hand but relying on my winnings to keep me afloat. But after three hours, I got – as I often do these days – bored. Keeping track of the calculations of the face value no longer keeps me entertained. So I start losing. Maximum bets net maximum losses.

I don’t know why I find so much joy in draining Obie’s savings, linked to the banking information from his hotel reservation. I don’t hate the man, but I don’t think I could ever love him. He has done nothing cruel to me, nothing unjust, or even unkind – but I don’t think he loves me either. I am comfortable and convenient; I straighten his ties and predict his chess moves and shake the hands of men he so desperately wants to impress. When you come from money, you learn to smell desperation a mile away, and Obadiah reeks of it. Every privileged man he meets can smell it, too, and until he can mask it, Stane International won’t become that international.

He’s just so boring. He fixates on the most minute details of his plans, his inventions take priority, and I think if I hurt him here, he would finally pay more attention to me than his baubles.

The chip pile, once mountainous, dwindles, replenishing when I transfer more funds, then drain once again. The staff look at me puzzled, wondering what happened to my blaze of glory, and I ask myself the same question as I feel myself go robotic and glassy-eyed. Twisting the probability on its head, I play the moves in the house’s favor, leaving nothing behind but a tray full of cigarette ash and empty champagne classes.

It dawns on me that this game of baccarat reflected Obie’s and my relationship. I feed his ego, his business deals, and checkbooks, and what did I have to show for it? A cheap steel ring, a prolonged engagement with no date in sight, and still living in my childhood bedroom with my parents in Southampton.

As I drain my last glass, several tall men in nice suits approach me, stern looks on their faces. I straighten in my seat.

“Ms. Carbonell?” one of them asks to confirm my identity in an American accent.

“Is there a problem?”

“You’ve attracted our attention with your gameplay. What are your intentions here at the Hellfire Club?”

I blink at the empty glass in my hand, just a hint of the red wine remaining on the bottom swirling at its base. “To win.”

“Looks like you’re not doing much of that now.”

“Winning got boring,” I shrug.

“Please come with us, Ms. Carbonell.”

“I’d rather stay here and keep losing.”

One of the men places a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll come with us now. The owner of the Roxxon Corporation would like to speak to you.” I’m suddenly on my feet.

[romantic-hero]

Homecoming.....

Isabella Rose Poldark was six months old before her father returned from France.  Demelza was hanging up the wash  that August morning when Caroline Enys’s carriage was heard before it pulled into Nampara’s courtyard.

“Caroline! Has something happened?” cried Demelza as she ran towards her friend who had alighted the steps and stood with her hands out,  reaching  for Demelza.

“Yes! But don’t worry, my love. It is good news. Dwight has had word that Ross will land at Plymouth this morning.”

Demelza thought she might faint. She was glad to grasp Caroline’s hands as it kept her from falling.

“I’ve come to get the children and Prudie so that you may have Ross all to yourself.” Caroline explained “If he landed with the tide, you only have but a few hours to make ready!”

“Oh, Caroline.  That is so nice of you, but I’m sure Ross  will want to see the children. Why he’s never even seen Bella.”

“Yes, my dear. And Ross will have the rest of his life to make up for being gone so long. But I can assure you a few hours or days will make no difference.” Caroline reached into the carriage and brought out a large hamper. “Cook sent this, so you won’t have to worry about what to feed him.” She handed Demelza the large basket, then turned towards the house. “Prudie!  Jeremy! Clowance!”

Jeremy was the first to appear. “Aunt Caroline! “

“My dearest, get your sisters and Prudie and come to Killewarren with me. Uncle Dwight has a new microscope and Horace is as lonely as can be. “ Caroline bestowed her most charming smile and when Prudie finally poked her head out the door, Caroline told her, ���Get the children and come with me to Killewarren. Captain Poldark is arriving home this very morning.”

Prudie looked at Demelza. “I hate to leave you mistress, but ..” Prudie saw how bright Demelza’s eyes were shining. “I know the Captain will like a quiet welcome.”

Before she knew it, all three children and their clothes and toys were loaded into the carriage and as she waved good bye Demelza ‘s mind was frantic. The house was a mess and oh my God. Ross was coming home!

She ran inside and put books and toys and sewing away.  She gathered papers from the table and when the kitchen and living room were straightened she ran upstairs and made the bed. How she wished she had time for a proper bath, but she did her best. She took off her clothes and washed herself. Then she put  on a clean shift and her newest stays and the her best dress she recently had made in Truro. She brushed her long titan curls and threw the bath water out the window.

Back in the kitchen she unpacked Caroline’s offering, and smiled. So unpractical, but utterly perfect. Two bottles of champagne and one of brandy. Marzipan, strawberries, some fine cheddar and fresh baguettes that Killewarren’s French cook was famous for. There was sliced beef and wrapped carefully was a custard pie.

“Flowers!” Demelza said out loud, and she hurried to her garden happy that a few late blooms of roses were left, but glad for the abundance of dahlias and fuchsia, their gay colors bright against the green hedges. As she was placing her arrangements throughout the house, she looked out the window and there across the fields she spied the familiar tricorn atop the rider galloping towards Nampara.

Demelza raced down the stairs as Ross pulled into the courtyard  and she flew out the door and into his arms.

sexy sex..

There were no words. After months of yearning and longing and loneliness just breathing in his breath, his sent,  made Demelza bold with desire and suddenly she could wait no longer.

She grabbed two fistfuls of of his long, black heavy linen coat and pulled him close. “Judas, Ross. I was beginning to think I’d never see you again!” She  took in his dark unruly curls, the dark stubble that stained his cheeks and chin and stared deeply into his brown eyes. “My god, I’ve missed you!”

Ross laughed. “After all this time, you still desire to be with me?” He put his hands on his wife’s hips and brought her body to him so he could feel her whole length against him.

Immediately Demelza was aware of his arousal, and her hand reached down his breeches and Ross groaned before his lips found Demelza’s and they kissed frantically their mouths colliding, their front teeth knocking on the first try, but in a second his tongue had pushed past her lips and all was sweet and hurried. The kisses as  heady and passionate as their first time. Ross’s hands found the curve of her rump and forced her even closer. Demelza put her hands on his strong, muscular shoulders and jumped up wrapping her legs around his waist as tightly as she could. For now that Ross was home, she didn’t think she’d ever let him go.

Somehow they didn’t fall,  and Ross walked into Nampara and pinned her against the ancient paneling of the entry way.

“The children?” he rasped.

“Killewarren,” she whispered and they returned to the most urgent of matters.

Ross kissed her neck, his hands cupping her breasts. Being together at last was so exquisite that neither noticed the painting they knocked from the wall. Finally Ross was able to let her down and as he stood before her he started undoing Demelza’s clothes, his forehead wrinkled in concentration as he slowly undressed his wife.

“Judas,” Demelza thought. “He’s still the handsomest man in all of Cornwall.”

Ross finally had her dress off and then he unlaced her stays and lifted her shift over her head. She stood before him naked and he marveled at her beauty. Perhaps she was even more beautiful than he remembered.

Then he knelt before her and looked at her. Demelza felt impatient. It had been almost a year since he’d last touched her and she quivered with the anticipation  of his fingers against her skin. Ross reached up and brushed her nipples with his calloused finger tips and then he took one leg and draped it over his shoulder as his lips kissed a trail up one thigh and down the other. Demelza  made a pleading sound in the back of her throat and then his hands were on her derrière, and he pulled her forward until his mouth was right tnere, and he licked and sucked, his tongue tasing her sweetness which was far more intoxicating than the finest wine he had ever drunk.

“Oh, Ross,” Demelza knocked her head against a sconce, but the pain didn’t register. She lowed her eyes because as busy as he was with his mouth, his eyes had never left her face. She was suddenly shy, but she didn’t want him to stop. The pleasure was so intense it was painful. Her hands were lost in his hair as she tried to keep her balance. She couldn’t help but call his name over and over, and she was glad there was no one near to hear her cries as his lips teased her into a release that weakened her knees and brought tears to her eyes,

Ross stood up, and his lips were wet and she tasted herself and it was breathtaking and urgent. She wanted him more than she thought possible. He lifted  her up and she wrapped her legs around him again, and after fumbling with his buttons finally he was inside of her, sliding in with a groan of deepest pleasure and desire. Demelza squeezed down on his cock and his  thrusts were deep and long, as if he couldn’t  get enough of her. It was all breathing  and moaning and loving, it felt so good it made Demelza’s head spin.

It was all so explosive, things got a  bit rough, a bit careless. The sconce  fell and hit Demelza’s shoulder and she cried out. Her body was on fire and she took Ross along for the ride. He came  with that usual  little moan from the back of his throat, and his knees buckled a little as he tried to keep them both up. Demelza held on as tight as she could  while he breathed hard against her neck. She didn’t want to let him go, but her thigh muscles were jelly and her legs slid  from his hips. Ross’s hands sneaked up  and spread across her back as he got  his balance, his cock slipping out of her as they stumbled apart.

They stayed like that for a minute, with the old wall doing most of the work of holding them up. Demelza kissed the side of his neck and inhaled his musky scent. She looked at him and they both grinned. Demelza sent a trail of kisses along his jaw line. Ross leaned his forehead gently against hers . His eyes stared into Demelza’s until they were finally able to breathe normally.

"Demelza," he said in his deep, yet sweet way, for he truly adored her as much as she adored him. "I love you."

Suddenly it was all too much. His return. The future ahead. Demelza fought off tears. "I love you too, my love ,” she told him as her fingers held onto his shirt, over the spot where she knew his heart was.

Later, they sat at the kitchen table. Demelza naked under his coat, eating strawberries as he cut the bread and sliced the cheddar Caroline had provided.

“Shall we go to Killewarren and get the children?” Ross asked as he lifted one of the bottles of champagne from the hamper.

“Tomorrow,” replied Demelza.

They both laughed as Ross popped the cork and then after taking a long drink passed the bottle to his wife. “Yes, tomorrow, my love.” And he leaned across the table and kissed her once again.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I really enjoy your cultured posts and especially about wine. I never knew that Roger Scruton wrote about wine! You tantalisingly talked in bits and pieces in past posts about your chateau vineyard in France. I understand why you protect your privacy but can you say a bit more. I was also hoping as a wine connoisseur you can explain to me what wine sommeliers in restaurants mean about wine having ‘terroir’? Are they just making stuff up to look down on us poor saps or is there something to it?

Your experience with the sommelier reminded me of the classic British television comedy, ‘Fawlty Towers’, where John Cleese’s perpetually hard pressed hotel owner, Basil Fawlty, says with his usual sarcasm, “I can certainly see that you know your wine. Most of the guests who stay here wouldn’t know the difference between Bordeaux and Claret.”

I’m sorry that you had from what I can surmise bad experiences with sniffy sommeliers when it came to appreciating wine. I have had one or two depressing experiences myself but it’s important to call out such rudeness so that others don’t have their dining experience spoiled. In Paris at least I can honestly say the spectre of the rude sommelier is dying out - and I have eaten in many great restaurants where I’ve had very lovely experience chatting with sommeliers versed in their wines.

These days sommeliers are positively jumping for joy if you show any kind of wine literacy. Don’t forget these men (and women) have worked extremely hard to hone a refined sense of their craft and they just want to share that knowledge and wisdom with you - otherwise it goes to waste.

Everyone likes to be appreciated and so I go out of my way to listen and appreciate their recommendations based on what I like or if I am looking to pair something interesting with the food I have ordered. If I don’t know I just ask. Indeed often I do know but I still ask because I’m curious to know if there is a better choice of wine and also because I want to learn. There is no shame in asking.  Remember they are there to guide you to have the best dining experience in their restaurant. So engage with them with kind civility and your palate will thank you. And tip generously (if applicable).

I do indeed have a chateau vineyard in southern France - south of Paris anyway. But it’s not just mine. I invested in a dream that belonged to my two cousins who are the real wine connoisseurs. Out of their request for discretion I don’t talk too much about it here on this blog (they follow my blog). I can say that I admire both my cousins hugely (I get brownie points for saying that) for their hard work, risk taking, passion, and their artisanal flair.

Both my cousins gave up lucrative corporate careers to follow their dream to owning and managing a small vineyard. In this case it was bought from the family of my cousin’s French wife; her very old traditional family had the vineyard for generations. They had fought off French revolutionaries who wanted to burn down their chateau because of their old roots but they managed to prevail and survive. They barely survived the Great French Wine Blight (the Phylloxera infestations) that was a severe blight of the mid-19th century that decimated many of the vineyards across France.  But times change. It’s not a romantic business but an unforgiving one. So rather than sell up to rapacious Chinese investors and other outsiders they instead sold it to us.

I have my day job and that keeps me extremely busy. My two cousins (and their French wives) manage the whole vineyard with other hired staff. They make all the decisions and I do the drinking (for quality control purposes, naturally). I help out when I can. This could be from business marketing advice or attending a few wine merchant trade shows. I often go to Shanghai and Hong Kong for my corporate work and my Chinese is passable; and so I help out my cousins who might be out there when I am there too. In fact one of my cousins was out in Shanghai just before the Wuham Covid 19 outbreak in China; thankfully he got out fine and didn’t suffer any symptoms after his trip.

More fun for me is actually spending time on the vineyard. Call me weird but I really do look forward to rolling up my sleeves and getting down in the dirt. It’s incredibly back breaking work - pruning or harvesting - but very rewarding because we’re all in it together. The camaraderie is immense.

I love escaping into the countryside and I just enjoy the easy bonhomie and companionship of my cousins and their French partners for whom wine is a passion and a way of life. Besides learning a lot more about wine, I also get to run, cycle, and hike in the surrounding hills, a world away from crazy city life.

Like many vineyards in France (and indeed vineyards around the world) the Coronavirus has made it an even more challenging environment to produce and sell wine. We did a lot of business in China and now, like many others, we’ve taken a hit. But we’re not down for the count. We’re fortunate that we are more robust with what we have in place. But like everyone else uncertainty of the future with an expected recession means we need to dig in deep and weather the oncoming storms. But we’ll be fine.

So what is this odd French word, ‘terroir’?

The French have this expression they use when it is clear they are tasting a true terroir wine - "un goût de terroir" - a taste of the place.

Terroir is a largely misused term, though the general understanding of the term of terroir is correct that it refers to the place of where the wine is made. Terroir is not something you pick up after tasting a few wines from one vineyard. It's more complicated than that, which of course makes it harder to use. Which is no fun, because people really like saying fancy French words when talking about wine.

A classical definition of terroir would be something along the lines of this: terroir is the aggregate factors that affect the physical vineyard site: geography, geology, weather, and any other relatively unique environmental conditions that might affect the process or final quality of the fruit.

Put simply terroir is the combination of micro-climate, soil, sun exposure, weather conditions and other environmental influences on wine. To Europeans in general and to the French and Italians in particular, terroir is a key indicator of quality in wine.

The best way to understand what what terroir means is to think of terroir as a different accent - an English accent sounds different from a Scottish accent which sounds different from a Welsh accent. Although the English language is the same, these accents have their own sense of place. Once you are fluent in the language of wine these different accents start to become a lot more pronounced. These ‘wine accents’ echo the terroir where the grapes were grown and the wines were made.

So what does this mean in practice? Take the Pinot Noir grape. Pinot Noir is a notoriously difficult grape to grow because it is very fussy with climate. With the grape being so fussy it is remarkable that the grape can be grown in many parts of the world. Its home is in Bourgogne (Burgundy), France, and yet the grape is grown successfully in Germany (where it's called Spatburgunder), Italy, United States, New Zealand and Australia, among others. So while Pinot Noir is a very fussy grape, it can grow in different climates. It's just the the way it expresses itself can be vastly different. This starts with fruit, whereby it will express a wide range from red fruits like cranberry (cooler climates) right through to black fruits like plum (warmer climates).

The key is the soil - and the sweat and blood that goes into cultivating it.  

Soils contain a huge array of types of rock, decomposed rock, and organic materials, in a seemingly infinite array of mixes of topsoil, subsoil, and bedrock. Grape vines tend to grow vigorously and this causes a tendency toward better wines emerging from counterintuitive places - places with relatively poor soils. Too many nutrients and too much water near the surface and the vines will not push down deeply into the ground, seeking out what it needs to live. The belief is, if it does so it will find a more complex variety of nutrients that lead to better, more nuanced wines.

Soil, however, is not the only facet that gives us a full sense of what terroir means.

It is not enough to have a great mix of soils. Vines grown for grapes have a range on Earth in which they will ripen. Champagne, for example, is near the northern ripening limit for growing grapes — around the 49th parallel. They usually do not achieve anywhere near full ripeness nor do they want it - they need lots of acidity - so a northern location works well for their purposes. Too far south, however, and relentless sun and warmth will yield over ripened, jammy, sometimes stewed tasting fruit, lacking acidity and possessing searing levels of alcohol, at times. So the parallel on which the vines are planted is important.

Next, prevailing weather patterns in the region, such as adequate, but not typically heavy rain is necessary. The further north the vineyard site, the more that frosts and hail will likely be factors in varietal planting decisions, as well as harvesting. Achieving full ripeness before vinification is generally the goal for winemakers, but in certain climates the likelihood of sudden rain and weather changes which would dilute or damage the fruit, all go into the perception of the terroir.

Where the vines are planted, even within a commune in Burgundy, can prove very important for several of the reasons listed above: a southeast facing slope in the Côtes de Nuits, for example, provides a poor soil (meaning a good soil for wine grapes,) making the roots grow down deep into limestone, searching for nutrients. The top of the slope to the vineyard's back creates a microclimate and gives a small rain shadow effect, potentially dropping a major portion of rain on the western slope away from the quickly-harvesting vignerons on the other side, before their crop becomes diluted or destroyed. Not to say it always works out this way, because it does not. The point here is that the position within the mesoclimate and even microclimate is important.

Further, the angle or aspect toward the sun in our example is tremendously important. In our example, facing southeast gives the grapes a higher average number of hours per day to ripen in the sun, without getting the stronger, sometimes-harsher evening sun directly. When there is rain, rot can be a problem which leads to yet another factor - slope. A well-drained soil is very important, and altitude is a factor, which will lead to variation throughout a vineyard on such a slope.

Finally, a very important factor in terroir that is not always mentioned is the hand of man.

In the local customs for wine growing, winemaking, cuisine around those wines, and traditions sometimes dating back thousands of years, there emerges a tendency to understand what works well in the local soil and climate. Based on those ideas, certain decisions are made in the cellars that nudge the wine in the direction of one style or another. Decisions can be made that completely mask - destroy - the sense of terroir. Yet decisions are made, nonetheless. They do influence the final product.

Two producers owning parts of the same few hectares of land produce products of two wildly different qualities. There are decisions to be made of using wild yeasts or cultivated yeasts, steel tanks or oak barrels, the type(s) of oak, where it is from, the amount of toasting.

A poor vineyard manager can plant vines in impeccable terroir, but fail miserably in their ability to farm the grapes appropriately, even assuming they planted the right grapes for that terroir. Equally, you can give an inexperienced winemaker the best grapes from the best terroir and he is still very likely to make a mediocre wine at best.

Now, this isn't to say that a great winemaker can take substandard grapes from a poor region and turn them into great wine. But it takes a knowledgable and experienced winemaker to make the best of the spectacular grapes that world-class terroir and impeccable farming technique provides.

So all in all, I would say that terroir, vineyard manager and winemaker are equally as important and there can be no weak links in that equation if quality wine is to be produced.

The point is that all of these factors affect the wine. The best winemakers are artisans who work hard to let the land and vines speak. Over time, some places on Earth have been identified as having very high potential to produce outstanding, unique wines that sing with a voice like no other. That is terroir.

Music is like wine. We appreciate different composers and their pieces more as we understand more of the context of each piece.

Most wine drinkers, no matter their level of knowledge and sophistication, are on a similar path of evolving understanding. Each mouthful whose flavours and aromas we drink, each bottle label we unconsciously imprint in our memory, each line-item on a wine list that we select for the evening’s meal is another volume in our own library of experience, and determines how we will experience the next. The more wine we drink and the more we learn, the better context we have to evaluate (or enjoy) every future glass. So wine drinking is not a race nor is there a prize. You go at your own pace. It’s your own journey of self-discovery. Ignore the pretentious twattery that so often hinders the enjoyment of good wine. 

May I add wine enjoys companionship. It makes love to fine food and good conversation. Yes, wine can be drunk on its own but it is more than just a balm to the soul. It is best appreciated when shared or paired - as one might with a cigar and a whisky - with good food. In the words of the late Paul Bocuse, who was a celebrated Michelin starred chef and father of French Haute Cuisine, “La véritable cuisine sera toujours celle du terroir. En France le beurre, la crème et le vin en constitueront toujours les bases.”

Thanks for your question

[europescleverest]

                                 * 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐓

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝟶𝟶𝟷 : 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙾𝚄𝚃𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴 .

NAME :   lady marguerite violette blakeney, née st. just EYE  COLOUR :    blue HAIR  STYLE   /   COLOUR :    a dark auburn, curly. usually worn up in the most fashionable styles   HEIGHT :  5′4″ CLOTHING  STYLE :   like her husband, she is considered one of the most fashionable people in london society and she’s often a bit ahead of the curve in terms of what the latest styles are. her taste is expensive but not over-the-top. classy and tasteful. she grew up an orphan and spent most of her formative years in a convent, so when she became an actress, she finally had the means to dress how she pleased and leaned in hard so -- eat your hearts out! PHYSICAL  FEATURES :  considered incredibly beautiful, which, combined with her stage career, has drawn many admirers from about the age of nineteen. slim, fine-boned, and vivacious. gives the impression of total openness even if it’s not entirely true. at the point of the first book, she’s 25 and in Peak Hot Form. and okay in the books she’s constantly described with words like ‘dainty’ and ‘childlike’ and ‘girlish’ to degree that is, frankly, kind of hilariously annoying. so we’re not fucking with all of that... she’s a grown woman, emma, ffs....

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑  𝟶𝟶𝟸 : 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴 .

FEARS :   abandonment, loneliness, isolation, loss of the people she loves -- especially armand (her only family since she was a young child) and later percy, fears about being used, collecting too many regrets in life, and never being able to atone for her mistakes (especially the betrayal of the marquis d st. cyr and his family).  GUILTY  PLEASURE  :   she doesn’t put much stock in the idea -- she’s about grabbing what enjoyment she can out of life. she’ll tease about indulging too much in this or that, but in reality, she doesn’t feel much guilt about doing what she enjoys. AMBITIONS  FOR  THE  FUTURE :   once she discovers her husband’s true identity, her ambitions are basically ‘make sure he doesn’t like....die horribly at the guillotine.’ a family of her own, one day, as well. 

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑  𝟶𝟶𝟹 : 𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝚂 .

FIRST  THOUGHTS  WAKING  UP :  she’s a deep sleeper, so it takes a couple minutes to rejoin the world of the living lol -- and from there, it really depends. if percy is in france, her first thoughts are about what he’s doing and if he’s alright. if not, it’s about what’s in store for the day and whether or not she can put it off with another hour of sleep... WHAT  THEY  THINK  ABOUT  MOST :  depends on where in her timeline. once she’s a part of the league, that takes up most of her thoughts -- as well as having to balance the social expectations of someone of her status in order to maintain appearances. and also?? being married to a vigilante with a secret identity is stressful as hell okay??? WHAT  THEY  THINK  ABOUT  BEFORE  BED :  she’s usually exhausted, so it’s not too complicated. but did i mention the stress???? usually can fall asleep, but sometimes it will keep her awake with worry.   WHAT  THEY  THINK  THEIR  BEST  QUALITY  IS  :    a romantic, uncynical heart. there are ways this has led her astray -- made her too trusting or too careless. but she wouldn’t trade it for anything. she’s learned that you can’t take anything (or any person!) for granted, so she would rather feel things and be hurt later than add to her list of old regrets.

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑  𝟶𝟶𝟺 : 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃’𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁 ?

SINGLE  OR  GROUP  DATES :   oh single. it’s so rare that she gets any time with percy so sorry not sorry. TO  BE  LOVED  OR  RESPECTED :   to be loved. absolutely. having grown up with so little and so few people in her corner, she wants to grab onto any love she can. being a famous actress and socialite has taught her how many people’s attentions can be hollow or insincere -- what she craves is the real thing above all else.  BEAUTY  OR  BRAINS :  she values both, honestly. she’s been called ‘the cleverest woman in europe’ but she also knows how much her looks have been a means of survival and leverage for her. when it comes down to it, she’d certainly pick brains but... she’d rather not have to give up the other one either lol DOGS  OR  CATS : dogs. they’re warmer and friendlier. but i wouldn’t call her a dog person or a cat person tbh. 

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑  𝟶𝟶𝟻 :     𝙳𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 …

LIE :   oh sure. lies of omission, lies to help the league, etc. even a nice healthy dose of lying to herself about things she doesn’t want to admit to!  BELIEVE  IN  THEMSELVES :   in her career? in her role as a social butterfly? yes. in personal matters? it’s gone one a roller coaster of doubts over the years... BELIEVE  IN  LOVE :  god yes. she’s a big old mess of hopeless romanticism and tries to pretend she isn’t... but love is probably the thing she believes in most of all.   WANT  SOMEONE :   ' hey remember the time percy & marguerite got married & still thought their crush didn’t like them ’ (this was knight’s answer and i’m leaving it here bc.... yep.)

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑  𝟶𝟶𝟼 :    𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 …

BEEN  ON  STAGE :   countless times at the comedie francais and elsewhere in france. while she wouldn’t trade her current life for that one, she does miss it sometimes. DONE  DRUGS : not really no. unless occasionally going too hard on the champagne counts... CHANGED  WHO  THEY  WERE  TO  FIT  IN :   not really changed who she was -- rather just hid parts of herself while projecting others. playing up a carefree attitude in her public life as an actress and socialite is a means of survival and protection.

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑  𝟶𝟶𝟽 : 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙴𝚂 .

FAVOURITE  COLOUR : blues, golds, rose FAVOURITE  ANIMAL :  she’s kind to animals and enjoys riding, but she doesn’t really have a favorite. FAVOURITE  BOOK :   she’s not voracious reader, but she does enjoy reading novels and plays and has generally read whatever is new and popular at the moment. in her paris days, she kept abreast of the political and philosophical papers surrounding the revolution that were being published.  FAVOURITE  GAME : making fun of her husband in public? lbr teasing each other in front of people is foreplay

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑  𝟶𝟶𝟾 : 𝙰𝙶𝙴 .

DAY  THEIR  NEXT  BIRTHDAY  WILL  BE :  august 17.... so in terms of canon, that’d make her next birthday... a saturday ;D HOW  OLD  WILL  THEY  BE :  26

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑  𝟶𝟶𝟿 : 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙸𝚂𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 .

I LOVE : my life and my family I FEEL :  compelled to live fully in each moment and atone for what’s past I HIDE :  more than i show, but only -- perhaps -- three people would know it I MISS :  an uncomplicated life I WISH :  that i no longer had to be afraid for the people i love

tagged  by : @arvnsis​​ tagging :   YOU !