#mistress of all agonies

[cressidagrey]

Stars all aligned - Chapter 9

Summary:

If there was one thing that both Azriel and Zahra Archeron had in common, it was that they were both very good at blending into the background.

They just never thought that their family were going to be the ones who never saw them at all.

Warning:

I'll keep the warnings, even though there is no outright mention in this part: Bashing of like...every IC member? Especially the Archeron Sisters, discussion of chronic pain, discussion of Infertility, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Accidental Baby Procurement

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please, take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

"He'll be fine," Esmeray said evenly.

Zahra couldn't help but flinch, her eyes fixed outside the window. She didn't get to see anything, there was nothing to see, but…"How do you know that?" Zahra demanded sharply.

Esmeray didn't seem the least bit surprised at the harsh question."Because my son will always do whatever he has to do to survive," she said drily. "Just as he should. He'll come home to you." Her words were blunt, straightforward and to the point and Zahra felt the sudden tightness in her throat ease slightly.

Azriel was going to come home…it wasn’t like he was walking into…enemy territory right? He had survived two wars…he could survive dinner with his family…

“But normally his enemies aren’t his own brothers,” she whispered. Regardless of her own personal feelings about Cassian and Rhys…she didn’t doubt for a moment that…they were both exceptionally powerful.

Esmeray said nothing for a moment, her face pensive. She watched Zahra with an intense gaze, the silence drawing on as Zahra tried not to fidget under her scrutiny, her own gaze meeting Esmeray’s as the older woman tilted her head.

“Has Azriel told you what happened to his hands?” Esmeray finally asked her.

That…wasn't what Zahra had expected to hear. Zahra blinked as she stared at Esmeray, her mouth opening uselessly for a few seconds as she tried to form words. But in the end, she couldn’t find the words and settled for a shake of her head, her eyes wide as she stared at Esmeray.

She had seen the violent scars. Of course she had. They were impossible to miss. And she knew how they had pained him…though the useless golden glow of hers seemed to at least have eased that particular agony. It hadn’t seemed like they had bothered him again. 

“Or where he spent the first few years of his life?” Esmeray continued.

"No," Zahra admitted, her voice small.

She had an inkling that whatever had happened to Azriel as a child...it must have been bad. Really bad.

“I was 17 when a Azriel was born. One of the Lords at a War Camp fathered him,” Esmeray said, her voice quiet. “I was young…I was stupid…and my family had too many mouths to feed. So…I became his mistress. He took my son from me, when he was still a babe. And he kept him from me…for the years that followed. I was allowed to only see him an hour a week. My own son,” she spat out these words

Zahra stared at Esmeray.

She felt...sick. Sick and furious and heartbroken all at the same time as she listened to Esmeray's admission."Any other child...They wouldn't have survived these years locked away in that dungeon. And if they had....they would have been angry at the world and ready to watch it all burn," Esmeray continued softly. "But not Azriel. Not him. Not my son… He got the scars on his hands when his half brother’s decided to see how fire and oil would mix. The scars… were the result."

She wanted to vomit. 

The pain and heartbreak in Esmeray's eyes spoke of horrors that she couldn't possibly begin to imagine.

"The shadows came to him after that...And his father...he realised how dangerous Azriel would be in the future. So he send him away. To train. And for one decade, I thought I was never going to see my son again," she recounted, shaking her head. "I thought that if the years in the darkness hadn't killed him...then the training would. Illyrian start training young. He was already 11. He couldn’t even fly, Zahra. They had bound his wings to his back since he was a baby."

Zahra stared at Esmeray, her eyes wide.

She swallowed. It sounded like torture. Plain and simple. 

She hadn’t been treated…well as a child... hadn’t slept in the same nursery as her sisters, but instead in the servants quarter on a lumpy mattress with some mice to keep her company…but she hadn’t been…she hadn’t been locked in the darkness. She had gotten food…not the food the family ate but what the servants ate. She had been ignored…but even if Nesta hated her…she had never put her hands on fire. 

And Azriel…

"But he survived," Esmeray continued. "He survived. With these shadows of his. And he became a Carynthian, he touched the sacred peak of Ramiel...and then he came back for me," Esmeray said with a shake of her head and a shaky sort of laugh. "He came back for you?" Zahra repeated, her heart twisting in her chest as she listened to Esmeray’s words.

She couldn't even begin to imagine the love and loyalty Azriel must feel for his mother, to survive all that, and return for her.

"He did," Esmeray said softly. "He had every right to forget I even existed...but he didn't. He killed one of his half- brother during that Blood Rite...and he killed his father the moment he set a foot in that training camp where he was born. And then he came for me and brought me here," Esmeray said softly. "This is what he did for me, his mother. For his mate? I can promise you one thing, Zahra, with absolute certainty: As long as there is breath left in my son, he'll return home to you."

The words sounded almost like a promise and Zahra felt the tightness in her chest ease. Hearing the conviction in Esmeray's voice, the absolute belief in her son...made Zahra believe, just for a moment.

"His father wasn't a...good man. He was a monster," Esmeray said softly. "And he did...horrible things to me. But I'll never regret having Azriel. He's the only good thing that male ever created."

Zahra felt her throat close up at those words. At the unwavering and fierce love in Esmeray's voice, even as she spoke of the monster...and her son.

Zahra thought about herself. She didn't know if she could have...if she could have loved a child created from what had been done to her. Wouldn't know if she could have...if she would have been...able to love them as fiercely and beautifully as Esmeray clearly loved Azriel. 

"He’ll come home to you," Esmeray repeated. "Don't borrow troubles."

It was easier said than done. 

"I never wanted him to fight with his family for me," Zahra said weakly.

"It's your family too, is it not? Your sister is married to Rhysand…your other to Cassian," Esmeray pointed out reasonably. "What happened?"

Zahra felt her face heat up in shame as she avoided Esmeray's gaze.

"My sisters don't particularly like me," she said weakly. "I am a constant reminder of our father's...infidelity."

"And what does that have to do with you?" Esmeray asked, voice sharp.

Zahra flinched back in surprise at the sharp tone and how direct the question was.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Esmeray snorted derisively. "Your father's infidelity...is exactly what it says on the tin: your father's sin," she snapped. "Not yours. You are your own person, not an object created solely to hurt your half-sisters or their mother. Who do they think they are, to decide who you are based on their father's mistakes?"

She could just blink at Esmeray as she felt a knot in her throat. Zahra swallowed past it tightly. She had always just been a bastard created by her father’s infidelity. That was the one thing…that she would never get away from. 

But there was also…

"... I had an affair with a married man," she admitted weakly. "While I was human."

Esmeray fell silent, the only sound echoing the quiet.

Zahra didn't meet Esmeray's gaze, her hands curled into tight fists on her lap as she waited for the older woman to speak.

She was waiting for judgment. 

“Do you really think, you’ll get judgment from  me, when I did the same?” Esmeray asked her, her voice quiet. “Azriel is the result of that, Zahra. So were you…But you must have been…awfully young?” Esmeray said softly. “You are what? 20 now?”

"24," Zahra corrected her weakly. "I was 15. When it started."

Esmeray's face twisted in fury when Zahra answered her question. It was clear that she already put the pieces together, even before hearing the young woman's answer.

"You were a child," Esmeray snapped. "How much older than you was he? A few decades, l imagine?"

"Eighteen years older," Zahra responded quietly, her voice trembling slightly. "...Feyre was sick. He owned the apothecary. We had no money and she needed medicine and I..."

Zahra swallowed back the bile rising in her throat as she recalled the fear of those days, the pain and terror as she desperately tried to protect her sister.

She remembered how he used her. How he took advantage of her when she had no one else to turn to, no one else to rely on.

"In what world would you call this an affair, sweetheart?" Esmeray asked her weakly. "How long did it go on?"

Zahra took a shuddering breath as she stared at the ground.

"Six years," she answered, voice shaking. “I would rather call it an affair than call myself a whore,” she said weakly. 

Esmeray reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. "He hurt you." It was said flatly. Not a question.

"Yes," Zahra choked out, forcing the words passed the knot in her throat. "He hurt me." The words tasted like ash as they left her lips, the pain and shame they came with making her feel sick to her stomach.

She didn't want to think about it, about him, or the pain he made her feel.

She never wanted to think about it again, she didn't want to recall the things he did to her. There was no escaping the pain the memories brought, or the pain he caused for all those years. And still to this day. 

"I won't be able to have kids," she whispered. "He took that from me too."

Esmeray reached forward, a shaky hand resting in the younger woman's.

"Oh, sweetheart," Esmeray muttered, her voice shaking in sympathy and fury. And then..."There were two pregnancies after Azriel," she said softly. "I miscarried the first...the second...he beat me so badly that...the baby was too small to survive," Esmeray said softly. "Not anymore after that. He took that from me too."

Tears welled in Zahra's eyes as she listened to Esmeray's soft words.

"I'm so sorry," Zahra whispered. The pain Esmeray felt was so evident in those words, and Zahra couldn't help but feel sorry for her.

She couldn't begin to imagine how it must feel, to lose children the way she did.

"Don't be," Esmeray reassured her, voice shaking. "It was a long time ago...and I love my son. I love Azriel. He's more than enough for me. Why mess with perfection?" she asked, her voice firm. Zahra couldn't help a weak laugh that escaped her.

"And if you and Azriel decide that you want children one day...there are ways to have children that aren't the traditional way," Esmeray continued. "There are plenty of illyrian children that are simply...thrown away. Not here in Rosehall but in some of the more traditional camps. Not enough food for too many mouth to feed...bastards themselves...physical disabilities...plenty of reasons," she said with a shudder.

Zahra blinked in surprise at the words.

She...she hadn't had the chance to think about anything beyond surviving yet, let alone how...how she and Azriel would have children some day in the future, if they wanted. after everything that happened.

But children, a family...she had always wanted a family. A family of her own. She just...hadn't even considered how that could ever happen to her.

There were children like her, thrown away as unwanted, but she hadn't known that it was such a... common occurrence.

"That's horrible," she whispered under her breath.

To think that those children were left behind, abandoned, or thrown out when they were too young to even take care of themselves... It filled her with rage. How could an entire society treat people like that?

"Sometimes it's something as simple that they are girls," Esmeray said, her voice bitter. "Girls are useless in their eyes."

Zahra felt her heart twist in fury at the words.

The fact that an entire society could think that girls were useless enough to throw them aside...it sickened her.

"Azriel will come home," Emeray promised her with a squeeze of her hand once more as she pulled back to go back to her cooking. "Could you set the table?"

Zahra nodded quietly, her words stuck in her throat as she swallowed her tears.

She stood and slowly went over to the kitchen, gathering the things necessary to set the table for dinner.

But she couldn't get one thing out of her head. "Do you...Do you keep an eye on his half brother?" She asked the shadows softly. "So he'll never hurt Azriel again?"

The shadows writhed in the air, twisting around on themselves for a few moments as if in agitation.

Zahra swallowed slightly at the sight of the shadows reacting like that.

"Could you?" Zahra requested. "please? Just for my own sake of mind?"

The shadows writhed a little more before they seemed to quiet down, only a gentle shift in movement now, as if the shadows had accepted her request.

"Thank you," she said softly.

You're welcome, the voice was as soft as a breath, as otherworldly as that as well.

Zahra couldn't help the shiver that ran down her spine at the voice that echoed in her head.

It was as otherworldly as it was strangely soothing.

***

Azriel was tired. Tired and exhausted and hurting and furious and hungry, his rage and exhaustion leaving him on a hair trigger.

His shadows writhed in the air around him, agitation and fury rolling off of

It was done. He had had that talk. It had gone...better than he thought it would. Which was something, he supposed. But it left him tired...

His exhaustion was seeping into his bones, settling deep and leaving him heavy and...worn. He was exhausted deep in his marrow, all the way down to his very soul.

He didn't like to fight. He had never liked to fight. Especially not this kind of fighting. Fighting with knifes and swords was one thing...this kind of emotional bloodletting was another thing entirely.

It hurt so much more, to be vulnerable, to lay his emotions, his deepest secrets and insecurities, bare and have others know them. Have others be able to twist and use those things against him if they so desired.

And even when this had needed to have happened...needed to be done...this didn't make it any easier.

It had made him feel horrible to use…Zahra’s most traumatic moments as pressure points. 

He just needed...he just needed to see Zahra. Jsut needed to know that she was safe.

That need rose like a crashing wave.

He could feel it now, the need to get to his mate, to know that she was safe, to see her and feel it.

So he winnowed. The wards around Rosehall bent to his will...and just seconds later, he got to walk through his mother’s front door.

He heard voices, his mother's low murmur and Zahra's soft responses to the older woman, the words a quiet hum in the air that carried him further into the small home.

The smell of food rose in the air, the rich scent of stew and bread wafting through the hallway as he followed the voices and the scent of food into the dining room.

„Azriel!" and then Zahra was already throwing herself at him and he caught her instinctively, burying his face against her shoulder. Not a scratch on her. Nothing. Just the warm scent of her.

Honeysuckle and something he never could quite place. 

His mate was safe. She was whole and unharmed and right there...in his arms.

“She was worried for you," his mother said drily.

He ignored the words for a few moments longer, clinging to his mate.

Azriel took another deep breath, the scent of his mate so close easing the tension in his body little by little.

He finally pulled back, his hands moving to frame her face, just to feel her warm skin against his palms.

Their gazes met, the green of her eyes familiar and safe and comforting and Azriel felt some of his exhaustion and tension bleed away.

Being in her presence always felt like he could simply...breathe, no matter the circumstances.

In her presence, he could breathe.

"All is well," he promised Zahra who leaned into his touch, her eyes misted with tears. But she simply nodded.

She believed him. 

That small, simple gesture. The way she nodded and trusted his word, was enough to make him lean in and press a kiss against her forehead.

"Are you hungry? We made stew. Esmeray was nice enough to teach me how to make Illyrian flatbread." She asked him and he nodded. His stomach twisted a little at the reminder.

Yeah, he was hungry. Starving actually.

"Food and then bed for both of you," his mother said with some amusement as she filled his plate for him.

He huffed out a breath, his hands still in a gentle grip around Zahra as if to ensure she wouldn't slip away from his grasp.

For once, he couldn't bring himself to complain about his mother's bossy attitude.

The idea of food and then sleeping in a warm bed with his mate curled up against his chest, her steady heartbeat and slow breathing a reminder that she was there, safe and whole beside him...it sounded like perfection.

He cleared two plates of stew and then curled up in the guest bedroom with Zahra, tucked safely and warmly underneath his mother’s quilt.

"How did it really go?" Zahra asked him in the darkness of the room, drawing random patterns onto his naked chest. 

"Both better and worse than I thought it would," Azriel answered honestly. Then he grimaced. "...I told them. About what happened to you."

"Oh," she said, voice quiet even as she shifted closer and wrapped her arms around him. "How did they…..take it?"

He had expected anger. Expected…something.  "You aren't angry?" He checked and Zahra just weakly shrugged. "They wouldn't have understood without, would they?" She forced out, her voice trembling.

She was right. He wished they didn't need to use her trauma as a shield but...

She was right.

He hated it. But he couldn't deny the truth in her words.

"Your sisters were distraught," he said delicately. "Elain wants your forgiveness… Feyre wanted to know where you are."

He heard Zahra take a shuddering breath, felt the way her chest rose as she tensed.

"Why?" she muttered, sounding more tired than angry.

He didn’t need to be Rhys to be able to read her thoughts. Why did Feyre care now?

"She wanted to apologize," he answered softly as he felt the tension in her body, rubbing her should gently. 

"And Nesta?" Zahra asked weakly.

"Let's just say, I am pretty certain that Cassian and her are going to have a screaming match sometime soon."

"Why?" she asked, her voice so quiet and small that it made his chest ache. 

His hand moved to gently brush over her waist, slowly stroking along her side in what he hoped was a soothing motion.

"Let's just say that she didn't take the news of our mating bond well, and leave it at that," Azriel said with a snort. "It doesn't matter what she thinks."

Zahra huffed a small amount of breath, the tiniest of laughs.

"No, it doesn't," she agreed, body leaning more heavily against his as the tension slowly drained from her. "Your mother is lovely, by the way," Zahra said softly.

That made him smile a little bit, warmth flooding him at the mention of his mother. He was so glad Zahra and Esmeray seemed to get on as well. He couldn't quite put it word, the relief and happiness he felt at the knowledge that the two people he loved seemed to get on so well. And the shadows... well they were already enamored with Zahra as well.

He felt the shadows curl and twist around his waist in fond affection and he couldn't help but smile faintly.

They had been fond of Zahra since the beginning, but now..they were practically in love with her.

He pressed a kiss against her forehead and closed his eyes. 

Between one breath and the next Azriel fell asleep. 

Only to be roughly awakened by his shadows what seemed like seconds later.

Master. Master, you need to wake up. He was awake immediately, thrown back to the last time they had done the very same thing to him. But there was no iron-rich scent of blood in his nose. Nothing of that sort. And Zahra was peacefully slumbering away next to him, looking younger in her sleep than she did awake…nothing out of the ordinary. 

What's wrong? he demanded immediately. He could hear his mother's quiet heartbeat down the hall, nothing seemed to be amiss with her either.

Something… happened, his shadows whispered hesitantly and the sound of it made him sit upright in bed, his grip tight around Zahra, shielding her from danger as he stared into the darkness of the bedroom. We…maybe broke a rule, Master.

A rule.

There were only very few rules the shadows had gotten from him. Mostly to not outright starting to murder anybody unless he allowed it.

What did you do? he asked with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. Had they gone back to their habit of gambling a truly ridiculous amount of money all at once? He had gotten them to do it more often but with smaller sums of money so it wasn't as obvious as it once had been centuries ago.

Esmeray told her about what happened to your hands, Master, the shadows admitted softly. And that you went to get her after the Blood Rite... Our Mate asked if the shadows kept an eye on…*him*. 

Oh, he breathed out, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. What did you do? he asked with a sigh. Did he want to know? If they had killed his half-brother that would be...well there were worse things they could have done, he supposed...He just hoped they made it look like an accident if they did murder him. 

The shadows stayed silent for a moment.

He's still using the dungeon, the shadows said softly. But the warding is...broken. The warding that had kept him contained. Now it would be nothing but a blink of an eye to break...but for a weak 8 year old...it had been impossible to escape.

What did you find? he asked, swallowing.

We may have...taken her, the shadows admitted quickly. But if we hadn't, who knows how long she would have survived down there!

Azriel stared into the darkness, taking a breath at the word.

Who exactly is *she*? he demanded sharply.

His bastard daughter, the shadows said quickly. She's just a baby!

You kidnapped a baby?!?!

[strawberrymochin]

Crown prince!gojo who has met you on his little sneak trip out of the imperial palace. He saw you lone scrubbing on a piece of silk, as slow tears trailed down your chin.

“does washing a single piece of silk cause you such great sadness?” his tone startled you, lacing with a hint of sarcasm.

You take a look on his stunning majestic brocade, and shiny silk robes, his hair tied up with a silver hair piece in which delicate blue crystals sparkled the evening sun. His attire suggested audience, unable to conceal his blood rank.

“i expect nothing from you to understand who hasn't even worked himself for a single day.” you made a snarky comment, frustrated from the overflowing tasks given by your mistress. You cared any less for pleasing or showing any respect for an notable rank.

Crown prince!gojo who had never been spoken so harshly with a taunt in air, had spiked his interests. After your abrupt leave, he got his attendants to search for you. And the next thing you know, is that you are summoned in the imperial palace to serve his highness who has requested you from the household you work in.

You who had never met any royals, and no idea who the mighty crown prince, taking over the kingdom after his father looked like, had your colour drained from your face after a single look at him.

He looked cunning with his azure eyes as his white hair, was now tied up in a knot, white robes with blue brocade and a belt of silk wrapped around his waist, which shone in the reflecting lights from the courtyard where you were summoned in.

“your highness" you bowed, your brow touching the grounds, mentally cursing your tongue to have provoked him the last day. God knows what he might ask you to do. Worse even your life being snatched away.

Crown prince!gojo who tells you to rise your head up, dismissing his attendants, now his smile looking more of mischievous. “you shifted your personality with such measures I'm impressed,” his lips creak a bit, but as of incredulity.

Crown prince!gojo who grinned even more when you unable to keep your composure snap at him. He wants you to be his companion, learning by his side before he assumes his court duties.

Crown prince!gojo who confesses to you the night you beat him in sword fight after almost 2 years spending day and night with you. Falling even more every single day.

Crown prince!gojo who clasps your hand to his chest while kissing you, under the solicitude of moonlight.

Crown prince!gojo who tells you he wanted to kiss you for so long, that his heart burned with agony.

Crown prince!gojo whose eyes darkens everytime he sees you taking with captain!geto from afar during your war practice sessions.

Crown prince!gojo who gifts you a tassal woven by him with tear drops of jades dangling from it, which is enchanted and protects you from all harms.

Crown prince!gojo whose dull eyes avoids yours during the entire crowning ceremony, face looking pale at the moment the emperor announces his betrothal to a princess of another strong kingdom.

It stabbed your heart, smeared it into Shards of glass and if you were tranced by an enchantment, you also joined the crowd praising the holy couple soon to be married.

Your throat felt dry as your heart burnt with rage. That's when finally his eyes meet yours—knowing very well this is the last time you see it.

Crown prince!gojo who cries himself to sleep as you left to join the army, never returning back to the imperial palace, as his companion anymore.

Crown prince!gojo whose heart thunders in his chest as whenever he learns you were about on a mission to fight with dangerous monsters.

Crown prince!gojo who sneaks in your room to heal your injuries with his magic, before any healer appears.

Crown prince!gojo who gets annoyed at the appearance of captain!geto, who came to check up on you.

Gojo's gaze steady upon geto as he entered the room nonchalantly, obvious to the tension in the air. He knows it rages the prince whenever he talks to you. And you know what? your captain loves to feast upon what others can't have. Especially in this case the we are talking about his highness Prince. How could he not lace his finger with you only to see prince gojo's fists rolling into balls as veins popped out on his jaw.

Crown prince!gojo who takes his leave, dismal as he exchanges cold glances with captain!geto.

This is terrible. You thought.

A/n- and it's fun for me. Lol. Shall I continue this with captain!geto?

[auragasmics]

WRITHING HEARTS!

° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ₒ𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° synopsis! it's marriage for business, pitting you as the engaged bride to one Gojo Satoru, known as a shameless playboy. but when your heart yearns to be with Geto Suguru, the lover behind closed doors, you'll do anything to wind up in his arms!

° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° pairings! fem!reader x Geto Suguru

° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂  ₒ𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° cw! 4.1k words, arranged marriage au, features Gojo Satoru, mentions of death/suicide, implied infidelity, oral ( m -> f) , missionary, cowgirl, cremepie, Gojo catches you in the act

° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ ��𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ° xoxo, chris! sigh, i love this fic </3

A wedding they said, one that would unite the two competing companies into a mass monopoly to control the economic world. You being the poise daughter you were, accepted your parents’ request, relinquishing your chance at finding a pure and true love. It came with not even a bit of resistance, considering that you loved no man except your father.

You even knew the man you’d be wed to within the coming year, one that goes by the name of Gojo Satoru. He was a kind fellow with such charm that any woman could fall for him at the mere wink of his icy blue hues. 

In fact, that’s exactly what he did. What troubled you about the sudden marriage to Gojo was that his reputation was known as a playboy, using women for sexual gratification. It utterly disgusted you, knowing that someone as smug as he would be due to be your groom caused unrest within you. 

When the news had broken on national television, all seemed to be shocked, hailing you as the holy one. You were seen as the one who put an end to Gojo’s promiscuous ways, the photos of you both taking leisure lunches resurfacing from media blogs everywhere. However, that was only a small percent of the truth, something only you kept to yourself.

Those lunches were designed to shield from the public, staging it that you and Goji were such a happy couple. In truth, Gojo’s ways hadn’t changed, only keeping his personal affairs. In the very house purchased for the soon-to-be united by both his and your parents, he brought his mistresses and quick flings to your abode, a separate room reserved for his affairs. 

Even after numerous complaints and teary-eyed woes to your parents, they could not budge. They hated watching as their sweet daughter wailed in agony, sorrow dressing her words in these past few months since announcing the entire ordeal. 

In the darkest hours, that’s when your path just happened to cross with one man in particular, Geto Suguru. Geto was a man of former stature, his family losing their wealth due to extortion charges.

He was left with a small fortune before both his mother and father committed the act of suicide a few days before their prison sentence. From the age of fourteen, Geto was forced to endure the stains left behind by his parents.

He’s been shunned from the corporate world, only being invited to gatherings to dwell in the shadows of those who boasted of their success.

Geto would only linger for a bit before disappearing from sight. He was the biggest mystery, one that had your infatuation written all over it. You were unconsciously embedded in him, the wish to free him from his harrowing loneliness ate at you night and day. It had reached a point where you longer cared for your parents’ wishes, finally placing your desires before their own selfish needs. 

You needed to seek out Geto, for you own sake and at a chance of finally receiving peace of mind. As for how you both met, it was one of sheer coincidence, the both of you entering the lobby of a building your father owned in the city. You were well aware of who he was, his towering physique jutting from the crowd. You couldn’t help but be drawn to him, the rumors and mysteries shroud his name, but not a single person seeking out the answers they desire.

With every step you took towards him, an unsettling coil formed in your belly. Could it have been from the nervous strike attacking your body all of a sudden, or the words from your adolescence that reply at the forefront of your thoughts. A warning from your parents, advising you to stay away from that man, claiming that nothing good ever occurred when involved with him. 

You were refined to believe such an idea, judging the poor man without any pre existing context. You sought to learn the truth of Geto Surguru, especially at the risk of defying your parents. 

Once you had initiated the first words, a bright light was casted onto the darkness that covered Geto’s heart. He clung to you, deeming every intimate moment as rare as the jewels found in caverns. The man became intoxicated with your every fiber, and eventually led to your touch. You both knew it was wrong, but the vines of the budding rose to your romance was something that not even the false engagement to withstand. 

Yet, like the rose, it’s thorn will always come back to prick the one who gave it life, a lesson you would soon learn all too soon. 

“Gojo, could you not flirt while we’re together? It won’t look good for the tabloids,” you suggest, whispering the words of warning along the shell of his ear. He merely shrugs his shoulders, “It’s our engagement party, it’s not my fault there are so many lovely ladies here tonight!” 

You roll your eyes, the veins lining underneath your eye twitching with gall. You had hoped that Gojo would put aside his reprobate methods, even if just for the night.

However, the way he dressed tonight alone told a different story.

He wore a glaucous white silk dress shirt, his chest revealed to the wandering eyes of women who hoped to one day take your place beside him. The black trousers upon his body were tighter than usual, the bulge of his length just teasing the onlookers. His hair was styled neatly, hanging just past his ears with not a strand of the frosted locks out of place. 

Gojo wore a sneering smile, his best accessory by far. You knew that if you even left his side for a second, he’d be out of the room with a woman linked to each arm. Then again, you had nothing tying you to him, the urge to seek out your one true lover hanging above your head similar to the glass chandeliers adorning the ceilings. 

You wore a slim black dress, the neckline ending just below the curve of your ribs. It clung to your figure perfectly, drawing every eye to you. It was a piece that Geto found the most pleasing for the event, his assistance proving itself through all the praise.

Yet, you wished to be with him for the evening, not the snobbish man doomed to marry you within the coming days. It has been almost a year since your engagement to Gojo, but almost a year since meeting Geto. 

“Listen Y/N, you and I aren’t actually married, daring, hell, we can barely tolerate each other. You see, in the public, I’m your loyal husband, changed from his old ways. Yet, in private, I haven’t changed not one bit. I don’t plan to either, I love the way I am. I suggest that you find something that makes you happy too, sweetheart. It’s the only way you’ll survive in this life.” 

You whipped your head away from Gojo, the pestering tone of his suave voice pinched your nerves. Though it was as if the brash message was on demand, the sight of a familiar figure caught your eye, there stood Geto against the door, wearing a black turtleneck with navy blue slacks and a floral patterned suit jacket.

You felt your heart nearly skip a beat, the look of bliss etching onto Geto’s face as he spotted you. You practically ached to join him, your body desperate for the warmth only he could offer. 

Gojo seemed to be interested in socializing, his arm tugging away from the link you both formed an hour prior. He sensed the same urge to leave, to pick his new victim amongst the other beauties. It was only right if you freed him, right?

“Gojo,” you called, “I’ll go get some wine. See you at home later.” 

That was all he needed, ripping away from you to dive headfirst into the bundling crowd. You spun around to face Geto, only to find that he had left his position against the wall. 

A huff seeped from your lips, realizing that it would be near impossible to find a man who wouldn’t allow himself to be found. Gratefully for you, he was already closer than you had expected, just waiting to take you away into his world. 

“Don’t you look absolutely stunning?” A voice hummed, the palm of a large hand slipping along the curve of your shoulder. Just from the subtle peck laid against your skin, you knew who had finally gained their hold of you.

“You know better than to act so boldly like this in public, Geto. I’ll get in so much trouble,” you teased, but you’ve already decided to forego the thought of consequences once the dreamy scent of his cologne flooded your nose.  

“Why, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I want the world to know your mine, not that asshole’s.”

Geto slides the pads of his digits down your arm, your skin heating up at his languid touch. You spin around face him properly, a grin gracing both your faces. The urge to kiss Geto ran high, the tension between you both was something that couldn’t be ignored. 

“Can we leave this place? I hate loud parties like these,” you sighed, urging your face near his own.  

“But, it’s your engagement party,” Geto began, “It’d suck to have the bride be missing. Even worse to find her with a man other than her betrothed.”

A shallow pout poked out from your lips, the gloss reflecting the lights from above. “But, I want you, and only you, Geto. Can’t we make that happen?”

From his pocket, Geto pulled out a room key, the silver ridges twinkling before your widening eyes. “It’s the closest we’ll get to having our own space but...it’s better than nothing.”

Without another word, you and Geto took hold of each other’s hand, slipping from the masses and into the darkened hallway of the hotel. You peppered kisses all over his cheeks, the anticipation bubbling within your body. 

In that time that you’ve gotten to know him, Geto was far from all the names and warnings everyone was always so quick to spew. He was kind, gentle with his words and manners. You’ve come to realize that he would never harm a fly, nonetheless, does he live up to a quarter of the rumors surrounding him.

In other words, Geto was the one who had your heart. The marriage would only prove more difficult for the little arrangement you both had. Eventually, the relationship would have to be brought to light, regardless of your attempt to keep it hidden. 

“Are we in the clear?” He whispered, aligning the key with the slot. You nodded, checking the surrounding area for any onlookers for the last time. He pushes the door from its frame, pulling you and himself into the room.

With a slamming shut, you found yourself pinned against the shiny white paint, Geto decorating the pulse of your neck with pecks and bites. Your fingers found way to his hair, the thick ravenous locks latching around your dainty digits, encouraging Geto to proceed with his display of affection.

“I see you’re wearing that dress I like, almost like you wanted to get my attention,” he ventured, pulling away from the freshly laid trail of bites. You bit your bottom lip, the blood rushing to greet each ministration on your skin. It was all too overwhelming, but you fell prey to the amorous aura surrounding Geto, the searing ache amidst your legs leading your every move.

“I have no clue as to what you mean, I just really like the color black against my skin,” you purred, peering up at the impassioned man through your darkened lashes. Geto snaked a hand behind you, his fingers toying with the zipper lining the curve of your spine. With his lips brushing along the shell of your ear, he whispered the teasing words to spur you on.

“If you don’t mind, I happen to love what’s underneath the dress all the more.”

You surround the nape of his neck with your arms, leading Geto into the kiss just waiting on your lips, nodding frantically at his request. Without breaking the kiss, Geto stripped you bare of the silky material, leaving the matching hunter-green bra and thong set to don your body. 

“Aw, no fair. I didn’t wear anything you’d like,” Geto frowned, drawing away from your lips for a moment.

 You trailed your fingers down to the heavy belt buckle at the forefront of his hips, a sly grin creeping onto your lips. “Y’know how much I love those tattoos of yours, that’s all I need.”

Geto chuckled at your words, the pair of you working in tandem until he stood with only his briefs. He took a firm hold around your waist, lifting you from the cold floor. “I missed this, I’ve missed you,” he groaned, his teeth pinching at the supple skin of your breasts. You giggled in response, “It’s only been a few days, I don’t see how you miss me so much.”

Geto placed you onto the bed, the white sheets contorting around you as he planted his hands on either side of your head. “When you’ve been as alone as I have, you’d understand. In all of my twenty-four years, I’ve never been so happy,” he gushed into the crook of your neck. You giggled in response, “I can say the same, I’m so glad to call you mine.” Geto pried away, placing himself above you once again. 

“See, you love me and I sure as hell love you, I’m tired of hiding it. I mean, why can’t everyone know that I’m so much better than that Gojo. Do I have to demonstrate that to confirm my case,” he groaned tirelessly. 

You shook your head, “No, but I have a feeling you’re about to prove it to me.” 

“Damn right I will,” Geto boasted as he sank down to his knees, his face filling the spacer between your legs. He glared up at you, laying a trail of kisses along the plush of your inner thigh.

“I’ll prove it to you and I’ll do it well,” he quipped, the animalistic tone intertwined with each word. He hooked onto the sides of your panties, sliding the soaked cloth down your legs and away from sight. The calloused palm of Geto’s hand pressed into your stomach, pinning you down to the bed without choice. 

“Stay there for me, won’t you? I just wanna make this pretty pussy of mine happy,” Geto quipped, his lips placing a soft kiss onto the folds of your puffy cunt. You nod in agreement, all tension melting away from his touch. 

With the pad of his thumb, geto parted the lips of your cunt, the viscid mess of slick glimmering in his eyes. He was quick to attach his mouth to you, the flat of his tongue collecting every drop hungrily. 

A sharp gasp flooded your lungs, your back arching beneath him. There was something in Geto that seemed to have your body just fold at his command. In everything he did, he approached it with benign care. He knew every curve, nerve, and crevice of your body, each arc of your curling silhouette accepting him willingly. 

The earthy brown hues of Geto’s eyes were no longer in view, looking back to his head as he continued to immerse himself in your flavor. He rolled docile circles into your clit, a hum of praise vibrating from his throat. 

“Holy—don’t stop, Geto,” you mewed, biting back the moans that sought to fill the walls of the room. 

You sensed a nod of compliance from him, Geto suckling the pearl between his swollen lips. The heavy pool of nerves churning at the pit of your stomach surfaced, limbs stiffening at once. Your vision grew burry, the patches of white light piercing through.

His hands latched onto your wrist, guiding your own hands into the thick strands of his hair. Geto loved whenever you raked through his locks, tugging at the roots whenever the pleasure pooled over the limits you could handle. 

You began to tremble, your legs seeking something to grasp. Geto took notice, the robust strength of his arms clasping the underside of your thigh, He led your legs to drip across onto his broad shoulders, your thighs nuzzling Geto deeper towards you. A rush of thrill sped through his veins, Geto watching his efforts pay off with such pride. 

A harsh arch carved itself into your spine, your walls coming to a steel grip of nothingness as you release the woes of the day all onto Geto’s awaiting tongue. A groan emitted from his throat, the whites of his eyes reverting to the forefront of his visage.  

“Fuck, give it all to me,” he moaned, desperately dragging his tongue across your spasming clit. You rocked your hips against Geto’s slicked muscle, riding out the fleeting moments of your high. Your head tossed back with a final cry, Geto’s name singing from your lips.

He could only chuckle at your state, the pride brewing in his heaving chest. “See, I know Gojo can’t do that, even if he tried,” he jeered, pulling away from you. Geto stood from the ground, a visible spot of precum soaking through his briefs. You reached out to tug at the elastic waistband but Geto tacked your hand down on your stomach, hovering above you.

“Just spread those legs for me, and I’ll take even better care of you,” he hummed, sliding the tips of his fingers to squeeze at the underside of your thigh. You found yourself in the center of the bed, legs pressed into your chest. Geto was swift to strip from his briefs, standing before with eight inches to fill you with, his cock so heavy with the need for relief that it stood upright with no aid, the plushy pink crown of his length just riddled with thick streams of precum drooling from the slit. 

Geto held the base of his dick, gently nudging at your entrance. He studied at how the whole mass of his tip slid inside you, an enticing gasp following suit. 

“Don’t look at anything but me,” he hissed, Geto’s cheeks stricken with heat. He relished in the way you squeezed around him, your walks never fully being able to contort to his size. He would always give you a few minutes filled with kisses and words of encouragement until you adjusted around him, Geto giving you the slowest of thrusts to begin.

 “You’re doing so good, baby, just a little bit more,” he comforted, Geto’s hips driving a bit deeper. You rested your hands atop his broad shoulders, sliding down the expanse of his chest, admiring the way the sleeves of Geto’s tattoos complemented his body’s physique.

With such a strong build of muscles shaping his arms and the cuts of his hardened abdomen, even the patterns of ink that adorned his being were enough to make anyone squirm at a glance.

You were just lucky that person was you.

You eventually found your way to his waist, his hips rutting into you effortlessly. You pulled Geto into you, trapping him in with your legs around his waist. He took in a heavy intake of air, the hull of his chest expanding in compensation. 

“That’s new, something you wanna tell me?” He whispered teasingly. You bit back the onslaught of moans, the want to form an actual sentence gaining the upper hand. 

“Just want y-you closer,” you whined, the girth of Geto’s cock dragging against your walls at a sluggish pace. He stood still for a moment, staring down at you. 

“I’m not going anywhere, promise,” he cooed, pressing a kiss onto your perspired forehead. Geto slid his arm underneath your back, closing the gap between you both. He drew himself from your heat, a spew of curses leaving from his parted mouth. You had no clue as to what Geto had in mind but you knew he was far from done.

“I’ve been dying to have you ride me again, it’s practically all I think about these days,” Geto cooed as he crawled to the top of the bed, his back flush against the wooden headboard. 

You followed behind him, your arms encircling his neck. “Have you now? Is that all you think about?” You grinned, allowing for your legs to plant themselves on either side of Geto. 

“Of course not, but I love it when you do,” he beamed, his hands settling upon the curve of your ass. He kneaded the soft flesh in the palm of your hands, your body jolting in response. 

“Shh, save those chills for when you finally cum, it's a sight that I get to savor all to myself.” 

Geto snaked a hand between your bodies to brace his twitching cock towards crooned as he your entrance. You slid down his shaft with ease, your walls encasing his length snuggly. You lifted your hips, earning a seething hiss from Geto, the pressure already rendering him weak. 

“Why I barely did anything, don’t tell me you’re close already,” you taunted, carding through his locks that dared to cover an ounce of Geto’s lewd look of pleasure.

“Hell no, I just get a little excited, you know that.” 

You swiveled your hips against him, taking Geto in deeper until you felt satisfied to ruin the man beneath you. You couldn’t ignore the knot in your stomach, growing tighter with every rise and fall of your hips onto the unalloyed mass of Geto’s thighs. I

t was hard work to bring that prickling rush of ecstasy among Geto, but it was worth it all, the way he’d become drunk off you. His speech, his thoughts, and even the way he’d latch onto your ass to fondle at the mound of flesh all belonged to you, something that brought you more pride than your own family name.

Heavy pants of need leave from Geto’s strained throat, louder than the pornographic rings of skin crashing against another. You painted kisses and nips onto the velvety skin of his chest all the way up to his lips. 

Geto was sensitive, to say the least, between the deepening strides of your hips, the plush of your lips dancing against his own, and your pretty voice singing his name at the top of your lungs were all the ingredients for a disaster in the making. 

“Princess, how do you think Gojo would react if he found out that a degenerate like me fucked a beautiful little baby into his fiance?” Geto pondered between weak bucks into you, trying to gain back some type of control. 

You struggled for a moment, gathering the words around the mushed thoughts of your mind. “H-He wouldn’t care,” you mewled, using the fleeting bits of your energy to clamp down around Geto. 

“Good, that’s what I wanted to hear,” he moaned, tossing his head back as he came undone, the thick ropes of cum flooding your womb. You released a squeal of glee at the feeling, the sensation being one for the books. 

As you both came down from the high, Geto pulled you into his chest, the expanse of his pecs rising and falling at a staggering pace. “Fuck, you’re so good to me, Y/N.” Geto huffed, nuzzling a kiss onto your parted lips. You remained perched on his lap, back arching into his smothering hold. 

“I love you so much, Geto,” you whimpered, rocking along the thick length still plunged inside you.

“I love you beyond words. I hope that one day soon I’ll be able to m–” he began, only to find his impending sentence being interrupted. 

The sounds of voices rang from behind the door, the clicks of locks echoing around the room. You and Geto had no time to react, only facing who could possibly disrupt the intimate moment. 

“…and I said, "No, who the hell wants chiffon mixing with spandex?" designers are so stupid these days–Oh my! What have we here?!” The voice barreled out, the steps coming to a sudden halt. You shifted around on Geto’s lap, facing the onlooker head-on. 

“Hello…Gojo…” you grinned, staring back at the man, who just happened to have two women strung along with him. You couldn’t find it in you to feel even the slightest bit embarrassed if anything…it felt good to watch Gojo have the dumbest shock displayed on his face.

Geto didn’t budge either, his lips clinging to the corners of your malicious smile. “There seemed to have been a room mix-up…I’ll be on my way then,” he croaked, Gojo’s eyes still pinned on the scene before him.

You and Geto exchanged a quick glance, one filled with disinterest. It also seemed as if Gojo was hurt, hurt to find that his sweet soon-to-be wife had a filthy secret of her own. What a beautiful concept double standard can be, something that can be forgotten once it is done to the doer. 

You turned to Gojo, looking him dead on with an expression of apathy.

“You do that then.”

[hoseoksluna]

TIME | knj

pairing: fiancé!namjoon x oc 

genre: smut

word count: 13.0k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An hour, huh?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you do. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit.” 

That half of you wins. That easily. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For me?” 

“Yes, for you. For your mother.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

For your dream. 

For your children. 

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

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

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

“Namjoon, I—”

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

Our hotel. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s my nice girl.” 

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

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

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

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

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

And so you squeeze his throat. 

Namjoon squeaks your name. You laugh, ferally. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t help it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What plans?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, he’s a myriad of things. 

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

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

And only Namjoon would have achieved something like that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anything. 

Anything for your husband. 

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

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

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

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

Most strangely, it heightens the experience. 

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

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

“Yes, I’m your wife, Daddy.” 

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

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

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

“I was your bad little wife.” 

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

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

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

“I choked you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Truth, the epitome of pleasure. All over again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “I do, Daddy.” 

A hum. “Will you do it again?” 

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

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

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

And another thing. 

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

That, too, will ring in your veins. 

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

“I love you, Namjoon.” 

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

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

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

“Take this off. Now.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Sizzles, ferociously, when Namjoon reveals his secret. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so you give him your consent. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready?” 

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

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

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

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

Groundedness is what you’re missing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another thing for him to tame. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An inhale of breath. “Paris.” 

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Namjoon.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And your dreams explode across the blackness of your vision. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t. Gonna come.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perfect,” you whisper. 

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

You trust him. 

Forever. 

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

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

[poppy-s-rampage]

Once a Hero.

-Prologue-

Danny Phantom fought with the knowledge that at any given time he could be stricken dead. With the knowledge that his own parents, the people who brought him into this world, could be the ones to take him out permanently. The Job was already half done after all.

But no matter what, no matter his adversaries, Danny held strong. Despite the constant threat of the GIW and his parents, despites his rogues’ shenanigans and Vlad’s scheming, despite the citizen’s ungratefulness, he held his ground. Always staying true to his beliefs.

Yes, he made mistakes ,terrible ones. Yes, he has done things he would forever be ashamed of. But he never let others take responsibility for his actions. The very proof being his existence as Phantom.

There is no denying it, Danny Phantom/Fenton is a hero.

An existence to whom every victory comes hand to hand with tragedy.

An existence favored by fate.

And fate is known to be a cruel mistress.

~~~

He should have known something was up. It was too good to be true. He should have trusted his instinct. But he ignored it, choosing hope instead of the very thing that kept him alive all these years. All it took was one mistake for everything to domino into a nuclear warhead that quite literally took his everything.

And now, there he is on all four in the middle of a crater of what once was Amity Park and its surroundings. His ears ringing only able to hear the sounds of his own screams.

The once menace, once protector of a city too soon departed wailed in agony. Clutching at his wounds with a strength that reopened his sloppily made stitches. His devastated wails, only interrupted by his sobbed breath and hiccups. His throat was ripped to shreds, tainted ectoplasm pooling into his mouth and lungs while some got projected out with each wail.

Rivers of tears cascaded down his face burning his already bloodshot eyes. His unstable form glitching from ghost to human to something in between.

His once healthy balanced core was now struggling to remain whole. Cracks appearing all over, life and death fighting to preserve their precious Halfa’s existence. Danny felt his body and core beginning to give out. His consciousness finally fading. His body slowly being engulfed into the cold familiar embrace of death.

He fell on his back. His wails dying to choked wet sobs and coughs. Through his tears, Danny could only vaguely see the smoke covered nightsky. Ash falling slowly around him like snowflakes.

He could feel the cold creeping up his limbs then gripping his chest. His already dying heart being embraced by a type of cold even his core couldn’t dream to reproduce. Phantom finally fell silent, his unseeing eyes staring at the starless sky above.

Danny in his last few coherent thoughts felt the pain of his core shattering and reforming itself. It felt like his entire being was set on fire before being melded back together. He felt familiar arms cradling him close to their unbeating heart. The familiar ticking of a clock luring him into a dreamless rest.

--------------------------------------

Masterpost!

Chapter 1!

------------------------------------

Author notes:

My brain vomiting this at 3 am. I am sorry for any catastrophic grammar and english, that would be my brain short circuiting from lack of sleep. I intend to hopefully continue this story wherever it may go. You’re welcome to suggest anything or add yourself something to it.

[cheeeeseburger]

Illicit affairs

Sergio Perez x Reader

Masterlist

A/N: Hi, I'm not sure about this one! English is not my first language, apologies for the mistakes!

You and Sergio had just gotten into a fight.  It was a big one, the kind that left you wanting space from the other. Since the hotel room forced you to be in the same space, you had gotten on a long walk around town. You had time to think, and although it hurt, your choice was made.

As soon as you walked in the hotel room, Sergio got up from where he was sitting on the bed. “Mi pastelito, I was worried you were not going to come back.” He pulled you in his arms. You hugged him back, taking care to note how he smells, the way it feels to be in his arms, how loved you felt. “This was a stupid fight. Let’s forget about it, okay?” he asked while carefully brushing your hair with his fingers. You immediately got teary eyes.

“Sergio, we need to talk.” You pulled his hand, so you were both sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked so concerned that it only made you want to cry harder. “¿Qué pasa?” You took a deep breath before saying out loud something that would break both of your hearts.

“I think we should stop seeing each other. I can’t be your mistress anymore.”

Every single word from those two sentences hurt. You had been his mistress for the last two years, ever since you had fallen for his charms at a GP. Since you were working for an F1 team, you were at all the races, and you and him naturally started and affair. You knew what you two shared wasn’t right, you knew you were the other woman, but you two shared something so special that you ignored all your moral judgement. You just listened to a lot of Lana Del Rey and cried whenever the urge to publicly show off your love was too strong.

Being his lover was a terribly beautiful thing. Nobody on Earth could ever feel as loved as you when you were with Sergio in private. He adored you and worshiped you for your mind, your body, your love. During those moments, you pretended he was your fiancé, your husband, the father of your children. You cosplayed as his wife. But your fantasy was always interrupted. In public, he had his wife and kids, and you stood to the side, pretending your heart was not longing for more, acting like you didn’t even know him. You let guys flirt with you since you were technically single. They all thought you were playing hard to get when you didn’t text them back.

But after two years of this illicit affair, your heart couldn’t take it anymore. The guilt was starting to be overwhelming. You were afraid of confessing everything anytime someone mentioned his name. This wasn’t fair to you or his family, and that’s why you had to stop seeing each other.

“What? Are you serious?” Unfortunately, you were. You batted your eyelashes to chase the tears away. “Sergio, this has been going on for too long. I can’t live with the thought that I’m possibly a homewrecker.” He looked at his ring finger that was always empty whenever you were together.

“Mi pastelito, you’re not a homewrecker, my wife doesn’t know about us, and she will never find out! We don’t have to stop, please don’t make us stop.” He was in agony, truly panicking when he thought about losing you. You caressed his face, trying to comfort him. You needed comforting too.  “Baby, you know the truth always comes out, especially with your level of fame. This isn’t fair to your children or your wife. I can’t be the one to ruin your relationship with your family.” A selfish little voice inside of you was screaming at you to ruin his family, make him divorce his wife so he’d finally fully be yours. Mine mine mine mine

“I’ll divorce my wife. My children, they’ll understand. It will be fine!” The selfish voice roared at his words, but the rest of you didn’t.  At this point, he was desperate, trying everything to make you stay. “Don’t say that. You don’t mean it. If you divorce your wife to be with me, one day, you will wake up and realize that this was all a mistake, that you should have stayed with her. You’ll start to resent me, I’m sure. I love you too much to let you do that,” you said softly, like you would to a child.

Sergio closed his eyes and let you comfort him. You continued: “I don’t want to be the other woman anymore. I want to be someone’s girlfriend in public, maybe even someone’s wife. I want to kiss you after a race, I want to go out in a restaurant with you, I want the whole world to know we’re in love, but I know you can’t give it to me.”

He immediately protested. “Mi pastelito, that’s what I’m saying! I’ll get a divorce, and I’ll marry you instead. I’ll get you a big diamond ring. We can have a big wedding, so everyone will see. Please, mi amor, give us a chance!”

You gave him a soft kiss. Saying yes would be so easy, and it was everything you wanted. But you could never live with yourself if he let his family down for you. “Baby, it’s okay. It’s all okay. In a few minutes, I’m going to leave this hotel room, and you’ll have to let me go, okay? We will probably see each other at the races, but we will look away and continue walking. The only thing I ask for is that you be the best version of yourself for your wife and your children. Please, work on your marriage, take care of your wife, be the perfect father for your children. You owe me that much.” You were both crying now, realizing that in a few minutes, you would never be in each other’s lives ever again. In a few minutes, you would walk out as a free woman, heartbroken but free, nonetheless.

“I promise. I’ll really try, even though you will always be in my heart. I will always look for you in a crowd, always wish that things had been different. I love you, mi pastelito.” It was his turn to comfort you. He took your hands and gently caressed them.

“I love you too, so much it hurts.” You smiled weakly through the tears. “When I��ll see you with you wife and children, I will be happy. I’ll know that we have done the right things. And when you see me in the paddock with some other guy, you’ll have to be happy, too.” He made a pained face at the last part.

“You know I could never be happy to see you with someone else. You should be with me.” He looked so sad, so hurt.

“Then you know how I have felt for the last two years, whenever I saw you with your wife. That’s why I must go, baby.” You kissed him, and Sergio and you knew it was the last kiss you two would ever share.

It was tender, filled with love and adoration for the other. It tasted like “maybe in another life” and “how come we can’t be together in this one?”. The kiss felt like heartbreak and love at the same time. When you pulled away, the look in his eyes almost crushed you to death. Leaving him was the most difficult thing you had ever done. When you stood up from the bed, he did not let go of your hand. He tried to pull you back, but you stood strong. When he realized you were actually leaving, he kissed your hand and laid his head on your arm. This was the final act of your story. You were the one that got away. If this was a movie, the director would get an Oscar for filmography and another one for screenplay.

He finally let go of you, after what could’ve been minutes or hours. You did not dare to look back as you stepped out of the room, because you knew the look of anguish and despair on his face would be the death of you. When you closed the door, you were not longer a mistress, but a lovesick woman. At least, you were guilt-free. Almost guilt-free.

。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+

The next few weeks were hell. You were missing your lover like crazy, and apparently, so did he, because he had sent multiple texts asking to see you again. Even though the temptation was there, you did not reply to any of his messages. You did read them multiple times and cried a lot over them, but that doesn’t count, right?

The fact that you were working in F1 and attending all the races didn’t help. You wanted to swoon every time you saw Sergio’s face on a poster. On a few occasions you almost ran into him, but you always managed to hide before he could see you. Your heartbeat was so fast and so loud, you swore he would discover you because of it.

To distract you and to respect your part of the deal, you started seeing an engineer. It had been four months since you lost your title of Sergio’s mistress, and when he asked you out, you said yes. He was kind, gentle, and way more into you than you were into him. In other words, he was the perfect rebound.

It was the week of the Australian GP, and the guy who was now your boyfriend took you to a nice restaurant to celebrate your two months. Honestly, things were going great. You were taking things slow with him, and although your stupid heart betrayed you by beating fast every time you saw Sergio, you weren’t nearly as upset as you were three months ago. You felt good about yourself.

You excused yourself to go to the bathroom before dessert. It really was a nice place. You might have had one too many Aperol Spritz, though.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, please excuse me!” You apologized as you ran into a man. When you looked up, it was Mr. Sergio Perez himself, thankfully without Mrs. Perez. That would have been awkward, or at least more awkward than this already was.

“Mi pastelito, it’s you. It’s really you,” was all Sergio said. He wasn’t sure if you were real or not. Perhaps you were cake?

“Hi,” you avoided his gaze and tried to run away, but he grabbed your arm. His touch immediately took you back to endless illicit nights spend together, where you had to restrain yourself from leaving marks on his body. Instead, he left love bites on yours.

“Are you really going to run away from me? Hide from me once again?” Oh, so he had seen you. Oops.

“Sergio, I don’t think this is a good idea. I’m on a date right now, we’re celebrating our two months” you confessed sheepishly.

He held on to your arm possessively. “Yes, I heard everything about that new boyfriend of yours. Congratulations, I guess.” He pulled you closer to him, so he could whisper in your ear. “But I don’t think you’ve truly moved on. I know I sure as hell haven’t. Mi pastelito, does he know you’ll never love him like you loved me? Like you still love me?” He pulled back then kissed you on each cheek, like you were old acquaintances meeting again. “It was lovely to see you. Have fun on your date, mi amor.”

He left you standing there, in shock and more in love with him than you had ever been. A five-minute interaction with him made you head over heels once again. How cruel was that for you, but also for your new boyfriend. When you went back to your seat, your boyfriend happily informed you that an anonymous gentleman had picked up your tab. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out who was the mysterious man.

The next morning, you broke up with your boyfriend.

。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜

Oh, you were definitely tipsy. Perhaps even drunk? But that’s the Miami GP afterparties for you!

Hey baby, it’s me!!!!!!!

Sergio jumped when he saw your name pop on his notifications. It was like a siren call he had hoped for in vain since you left him. He replied immediately.

Hello, are you okay mi amor?

Are you alone?

Yes, why?

Can I call you?

“Hello?” Sergio picked up the phone, confused but happy that you were calling him at midnight.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiii baby, it’s me!” He chuckled when he realized that you were drunk. He would have preferred that you had called him sober, but when it came to you, he would take anything.

“Hello, mi pastelito. Are you alright?” He hoped you were not passed out somewhere. He heard people shouting your name in the background, so you were probably with friends, thankfully.

“Oh baby, I’m doing soooooooo good actually. These guys keep buying me shots. It’s great!” He definitely didn’t like to hear that.

“I think you should slow down. Tell these guys to back off.” You were pleased to hear his possessive tone.

“Are you jealous? Because if you are, that’s hot. All of this is your fault, anyway.”

“Really? How come? And when it comes to you, I am always jealous.” He heard you sigh.

“Well, because I saw you the other day, I had to break off with my boyfriend. It wasn’t fair to him. Now, I’m drunk in the club, and I keep telling people it’s because I just broke up with my boyfriend but really, I’m trying to get over you.” He softened at your words.

“I don’t want you to get over me, mi amor. In fact, I’m glad that you’re not with that other guy anymore. Why don’t you come over and we can talk about it?” You were drunk, but not drunk enough to forget why you shouldn’t see him.

“Checo, I really, really, really think that this is a bad idea. We were doing so good, we hadn’t seen each other in months.” You whined. “But I just miss you so much, I can’t help it.” He smiled at your words. This was the longest conversation you two had since you broke up.

“Don’t fight it, mi amor. Text me the address, and I’ll come pick you up.” Oh, he was good. It almost worked.

“I see what you’re doing,” you could hear him laugh. “Here’s what going to happen, okay? I’ll convince some guy in the club to buy me some shots, and if it works and I get drunk enough, I’ll call a cab to go see you. Text me the address of your hotel, please, just in case.” He wasn’t so sure about your plan.

“I don’t like this. Why don’t I just come pick you up?” He especially didn’t like the part that involved you flirting your way to free shots.

“Come on, baby, learn to live a little! It’ll be a surprise. I’m going to hang up right now, okay?” He tried to stop you, but it was too late. He texted you his location and kept checking his phone to make sure he hadn’t missed your call or a message from you.

Finally, at one in the morning, his phone rang.

“Hey baby, it’s me again!” He liked that you had started calling him baby again. “I’m on my way to your hotel, will you please let me in?” He was already sprinting down to the hotel lobby.

“Of course, mi amor, I’ll be there.”

“Also, the last guy that bought me a drink was pissed that I was not coming home with him, until I said that I knew Sergio Perez really well. He said he would forgive me if you sent him an autograph. Do you think you could do that?” He laughed.

“Yeah baby, I can do that. Are you nearby? I’m in the lobby.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” You shrieked when you got to the hotel. “Okay, I’m here. Bye bye now!” You hung up the phone and practically jumped out of the car. Maybe you shouldn’t have drunk that last sex on the beach.

“Mi pastelito, you look gorgeous.” He smiled in appreciation. It’s true, you did look gorgeous, in your short dress that barely covered anything. You gave him a little spin.

“Thank you, baby, it got me so many free drinks!” He chuckled at that, even if he didn’t like the thought of other guys circling you like sharks. “Although maybe I should’ve toned it down, because if I wasn’t so drunk, I wouldn’t be here.” You sighed. He pulled you in a hug, and it was like coming home. It was like nothing had changed. The mistress was back.

“I’m glad you’re here, mi amor.” He kissed the top of your head. “Let’s go inside.”

You didn’t make it to the elevator before you were all over him. As soon as the doors closed, you were kissing him like a starved woman, which is what you were. You had cut him off your diet, but the craving was too strong. He made you sit on the handrail to get a better angle. This could have been a shot straight out of a porn movie, the way you were both desperate to touch the other, the sounds you made. Plus, an elevator scene is always a hit.

“I just missed you so much, baby. I can’t help loving you!” You said between kisses.

“That’s good, because I love you too.” The elevator doors opened. Thank God there wasn’t anyone else. He led to you to his hotel room, never breaking the kiss. Your lover was talented.

Once you were inside the room, he pushed you against the wall to stun you with kisses all over the skin your dress showed. So, basically everywhere on your body. You were already moaning.

“Baby, we have to think. We shouldn’t be doing this. We are supposed to stay away from each other, remember? I’m drunk, so I have an excuse, but you don’t!” He took his sweet time to answer you, as he was too busy marking you.

“It’s funny, I can’t remember anything, except that I love you. Oh well.” You protested weakly. His touch on your body after months apart felt too good for you to remember your morals. You forced him to remove his shirt. You still remembered the number one rule of being a mistress: never leave a mark. You were very careful not to scratch him, even if that’s all you wanted to do. You both made your way to the bed tangled with each other.

“I want to be on top of you, baby, so I can remember this moment. This is our last time, for real this time.” He sat against the headboard and let you straddle him.

“Mi pastelito, I don’t think there’ll ever be a last time when it comes to you and me.” You shut him up by removing your dress. He looked you up and down lovingly. “I missed this, mi amor. You’re way too beautiful for your own good.” He made you blush.

“Thank you, baby.” You started to move on top of him. He gripped your waist to help you move while kissing you. Oh, your affair was so back, whether you wanted it or not.

When he started to unzip his pants, you suddenly remembered one tiny detail.

“After I dumped my boyfriend, I stopped taking the pill. I know it sucks, but do you have a condom?” Sergio shook his head.

“No, mi amor, I was not expecting you to come here, I don’t have anything.”

A big neon sign with the word DANGER flashed in your head, but stupid drunk you decided to ignore it. Having him again was just too good.

“I’m clean, so that’s okay. But we’ll have to be really careful!” He nodded.

“I’m clean too. I’ll pull out, it’s going to be okay.” He started to make you move on top of him again. You continued kissing him. The sign still flashed in your head.

After that, things got hot very quickly. When he got inside of you, you couldn’t help but scream his name everytime he moved. You started to breathe rapidly. Still, you were watching him to make sure he really did pull out. You were already in a big enough mess, adding to it was unnecessary.

“Baby, I swear, I’m going to come very soon.” He was too busy pleasing you to comment, but he did make grunting noises. Why did you two every stopped seeing each other again?

Only a short while later, when you were arching your back, you had your orgasm. It was heavenly. You fell lifelessly against his shoulder, and your guard slipped. You heard him finish inside of you at that exact moment. You gasped, and immediately tried to get off him.

“Oh no, this is bad, like really bad.” He realized his mistake.

“I really tried, I swear!” You weren’t listening to him. You were too busy freaking out.

“I have to... I have to go!” You were scrambling to get dressed. He was freaking out too, more by the fact that you were preparing to leave him once again.

“Mi amor, calm down! It’s going to be fine! At least stay the night, we'll deal with it in the morning!” He was desperately trying to get you to stay.

You were putting on your shoes. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go.” You hadn’t noticed, but you were crying. “This was a mistake. It won’t happen ever again!” You got out of the hotel room. He tried to chase you, but you were running down the hallway, and you were surprisingly fast, even with how much you had drunk.

When you looked at yourself in the mirror in the elevator, you had mascara tears running down your cheeks. You were nothing but an illicit affair. You saw nothing but the other woman in your reflection. This was your Black Swan moment.

[kinascum]

GUILTY AS SIN? - M. STURNIOLO

WARNINGS: RELIGIOUS METAPHORS, edging, male masturbation, sub!matt, use of, goddess/mistress, don’t like don't read xoxo

A/N:this is one of my favorite works, I'm fucking so happy that it's my 500 FOLLOWER fic, thank you so much everyone, I love you all.

"my bedsheets are ablaze, i screamed his name..."

Matt's skin prickled with anticipation as he approached the altar. The air was thick with the smell of incense and candle wax, and the flickering flames cast shadows on the walls. He laid down and closed his eyes, feeling the heat of her breath on his face as she asked him to say the prayers she usually says. As he began to pray, he felt a surge of energy coursing through his body, a heat that traveled all across his bed like a fire. But just as quickly, his hand was pulled away and the feeling was gone, replaced by a deep sense of longing and frustration. He knew he could never attain the ultimate release he craved, not while he worshipped his goddess. Agony ripped through his throat as he screamed out the name of his goddess with all his might, his voice pleading for mercy and release from the unrelenting punishment that he was enduring.

The searing pain in his throat was almost unbearable, but he kept on shouting, hoping that his cries would reach the divine ears of his beloved deity and she would take pity on him

."...building up like waves, crashing over my grave..."

Matt had been yearning for a release from his agony for what seemed like an eternity. His mistress had been subjecting him to unbearable suffering, and he had been pleading with her to let him let go. He had been praying fervently, hoping to be heard by his higher power. Every moment felt like a lifetime, and he whispered to himself that his pleas would eventually reach his deity, and he would be granted the relief he so desperately craved.

As he stood there, gazing up at his mistress, he suddenly heard her voice. It was like nothing he had ever heard before - beautiful, yet ominous at the same time. It was as if a pure, divine creature was singing to him. The sound flowed through him, filling him with a sense of relief that he had never experienced before. He felt his chest heave with emotion as he finally let go of all his held-back tears and agony, as he began to chant his gratitudes to the sky - to the goddess that he knew was watching over him from above. It was a moment of pure bliss, a moment that he would never forget.

"...Without ever touching his skin, how can I be Guilty as Sin?"

The sensation of her touch lingered like a ghost, but he could never quite feel it. He yearned for his goddess to appear and envelop him in her embrace, amplifying the euphoria he felt. He begged and pleaded for her to reveal herself, to let her hands glide over his skin and intensify his state of bliss. However, despite his fervent prayers, she remained elusive, leaving Matt with only the memory of her touch.

Matthew found himself in a state of inner turmoil, wondering if the situation he was in was a form of punishment for his past wrongdoings. His hands were clenched tightly around his bedsheets as he struggled to maintain his composure in front of the divine figure before him, who seemed to possess an all-seeing gaze. He couldn't help but wonder how he could be held accountable for sins he had not committed, and how he could be considered guilty without ever having laid a hand on his goddess' golden, sun-kissed skin.

THANK YOU FOR 500 FOLLOWERS

[sekhmetpaws]

Svsss AU where compulsory heterosexuality wins (for a while anyway).

Shizun just looks so upset that Luo Binghe isn't spending time with girls that he gets in a fake relationship with Ning Yingying and shit escalates from there. Sha Hualing accepts to be part of it to spite her dad and Liu MingYan joins to write her books in peace and hide from her family that she is actually dating Sha Hualing. It never really works out with the little palace mistress, but Shizun is not upset because she was toxic anyway.

In the end, Luo Binghe is just collecting wives like a pokemon game, picking one after another, depending on who Shizun finds more interesting. He is not having sex with any of them, they are just sort of pilled together in his palace, living their best lives, but it's not as if Shen Qingqiu notices because he jumped most of the actual porn of the book.

All the other Peak Lords are howling in agony the whole time.

[emmaofnormandy]

~A Medieval Tale: The Rogue & His Lady. Part I~

Plot: Y/N is a damsel who captures the heart of a rogue, misunderstood prince named Aegon Targaryen in 14th century England… with no civil war to disarray the family.

It’s fluffy, very mediæval like; smut; long post.

(+21)

***

The bells are heard. The sound echoes through the county, reaching the ears of high and low born alike. It indicates that another part of the day comes with other demands to attend.

You are occupied this first part of morning, busied hands using the needle skillfully. You are followed by your mistress’s other ladies, for the task given is about producing a tapestry. The scene chosen to be sewed usually is biblical, but the princess of Wales is too fond of Greek allegories to let them be prevailed over by her piety.

It’s all about a story concerning a damsel of pure heart who captivated the heart of Apollo. He struggles to conquer her, as far as you know it—which you don’t know much, preferring chansons and sweeter stories to old “pagan” ones.

“My ladies, we are required at court”, the voice of your mistress breaks the pleasant silence that has been helpful in the work. Lady Rhaenyra is dressed in her usual clothes, lately preferring black robes in opposition to the Queen’s green ones.

“There is a lavishing meal to be offered by the king, my father. Dress yourselves the best for we expect my husband and our children to return from the hunting trip.”

You quickly stand, prompted to do as told. Quiet and introspective, you are overshadowed by the usual bubbly and chatty ladies, whom you judge to be far prettier—and snobbish to be around.

Discreetly you part of the others, preferring the way that leads to the gardens. It’s when you and him cross paths first.

Aegon is the king’s second son, treated as the presumptive heir by many in spite of His Grace’s evident preference over Rhaenyra. Often overshadowed by his siblings’s gifted minds and brilliant sword skills—as is the case of both Aemond and Daeron—, this prince found solace in wayward manners overlooked by the court.

However, out of people’s sight—and mind—, he is a fragile, broken prided man. Aware of his flaws, Aegon is lost in thought, not really preoccupied in masking his lostness underneath arrogance when he bumps into you.

“I am sorry, lord…!”, your words die by half an agony when seeing whom you collided to.

The prince is about to retort something, irritated by what he judges as being caught off his guard, when he looks at you. A lustful man, drowned in the darkness of his heart and slaved by his flesh desires, he suddenly feels the weight of his sins just by looking at you.

Your wide-eyed gaze, your red lips that form in a small “o”, the shyness behind your delicate features… signs of a sweet tempered soul. A rogue he is, but Aegon is a poet when he is not too occupied being someone everyone expects him to be.

Your y/c curls that are partly loose in rebel-ish locks that run free like a cascade behind your back, reinforce your heart-shaped face, matching the y/c that paints your eyes.

So mesmerized, like struck by the arrow of an invisible Cupid—oh, winged being! Shall thou be the one to receive the blame for this another misfortune that befalls my fate?!— he forgets his own selfishness.

“Lady”, his voice comes out unusually dusky, carried out by a different sort of embargo.

You, hardly before a royal company who is not the mistress you serve—albeit discreetly so—, too are affected by this intense and disruptive encounter.

To stand before a Targaryen prince equals to stand tall before a living dragon. You are afraid of the fire, even though part of you is led to wonder what would be like to be burnt by it—a sinful thought you are quickly to dismiss, though.

“Lord”, you lower your eyes down to the floor and, recalling manners, dip to a curtsy.

Your heart is troubled by this view, this singular captivating instant where destiny seems to play with one another. Thus you wish to disappear, trying to get your steps moving you out of the way.

But someone like you must not be lost out of his sight. Softening, Aegon says:

“I apologize if I scared my lady. Never before I saw such a handsome creature of your sex.”

You lift your gaze, carefully checking your emotions.

“I fear to doubt the sincerity of your words, lord. Nonetheless, you find in me with honest gratitude for an unworthy praise.”

“Unworthy praise?”, there is a shadow of smile playing in the prince’s lips and you suddenly remember his bad reputation—so to preserve yours, you begin to walk away, but to your dismay he follows. “I believe many poets have described your beauty, Madame. Your gracious moves, your cascade locks and your y/c eyes are unmatched!”

Rather unaccustomed to be praised like this, you think wise to stop this before it goes to a path where there is no going back. Thus you sigh heavily and, retracing your steps back inside the castle, you say:

“Lord, I ask you to save your praises to someone of your station. Little I am in comparison to a prince like you. Leave me be, this I ask. And forget my existence.”

Aegon is left thus annoyed, almost angry, by a rejection that never before occurred. But if you think that by preserving your heart of his misdemeanors, you’d soon know how wrong you were…

After all, the Cupid had other intentions where you and the rogue prince are concerned…

***

The following day he finds you again. Here’s the scene he sees through his eyes: a damsel of long y/c locks in blue, long sleeved silk gown twirling and dancing merrily with her lady companions. She seems oblivious to the attention her presence attracts and this itself inspires a new sensation of despair in this prince who is used to have it all.

According to hierarchy, a prince like Aegon should court and espouse his womanly counterpart. But where men know rules, what is to say concerning their hearts and desires?

Somehow, his overconfidence breaks him. Aegon is more than acutely aware of the glances bolder ladies cast him—some of them even married by now. But you? Too busy dancing, smiling merrily as if bumping to the kingdom’s next king was a random encounter designed by fate.

Aemond, seeing the melancholy his brother is, takes no more than few moments to realize the cause and says:

“You’ve had women in your bed before. Why is this one an obstacle for you?”

“She is not like any other, Aemond.”

“Certainly far less wench like”, says the other slyly.

Aegon shoots his brother a glare.

“She is anything but worthy a comparison as this, Aemond.”

“Then pursuit her already”, Aemond retorts, not inclined to these courtly games. “What’s there to lose?”

“My dignity”, he grumbles, detesting his fragility.

Aemond doesn’t bother responding the drama. He shrugs his shoulders, occupying himself with his secret liaison as their sister Helaena casually passes by, giving the prince a long, meaningful look.

***

At the gardens, the prince is after his damsel once more. This time, he hopes to look far less obnoxious than before. He is determined to have you by every means—even if doing so requires reason to acknowledge some spell cast on him to humble this proud lord.

Here he is. Ready for a chase.

And here you are. Prompted to be chased.

‘Tis all fair in the game of love, is it not?

“Lord Aegon”, you cry out before the sight of the handsomest man you’ve ever laid your eyes on, even if he’s the devil himself. “My prince!”

“‘Tis I who should bend my knee before my lady, not otherwise”, says the king to be, quickly helping you stand.

One touch is enough to electrify both parts, with neither knowing what to do.

“I know naught about my lady”, whispers he, thirsty for you.

And you cannot withdraw of his presence, because it burns too much and it feels good to burn this bright.

“My name is Y/N”, you give in partly.

Because his eyes are locked with yours, the purple there is in his irises seemingly holding the color that paints yours—as if pressing you against the wall is the solution to denude the soul you refuse to give.

But Gods be cruel. You want him too.

“Lady Y/N”, you’d think he smiles because he gets what he wants and is soon leaving you, but what do you know, sweet child of summer? “I am Aegon. But my friends call me Egg. May I have the honor to get to know you?”

That sharp side of yours is ready to rebel. Your reasonable self recollects his scandals, prompted to riot. But when you dive in these purple eyes… every resistance dies.

So this is how defeated your pride is.

“Aye, lord. Though I do not think I am interesting to a prince such as you.”

“Allow me to disagree, my dear.”

Locking arms with him never seemed so sinful. And yet here you two are, finally in harmony.

“Here we are”, you smile at him. “Shouldn’t you be elsewhere? Perhaps with your wenches?”

Aegon snorts at your sharp tongue. Indeed, sharp as a blade, under which he would gladly let in his skin crave.

“Nay. They interest me naught”, and when gazing at you this broken king feels whole.

Indeed, it all indicates that this could not have been arranged by other than a divine being. Never before this attraction crossed the limits of the flesh and soul.

Aegon has no explanation for reason cannot conceive why you have messed up with him. And you two barely met.

“Do you like poetry?”

He asks.

And it all begins with this.

One simple question.

Your heart skips a beat. Your lips pull out a smile.

“Aye, lord. I do.”

This is how it begins.

***

The chase must follow the typical etiquette: poems here, poems there, no matter the longing, the lord must be after his lady in between court sessions, gardens plays and theatrical dancings.

No one seems to think this is going truthfully far more than a mere court love fare.

“A day without the sight of you is a divine punishment”, says the besotted Aegon, surprisingly tamed by your sweet temperance. “It pains me physically to be distant of you.”

You two are underneath this pomerade this day. It’s sunny and cloudless. The scenario is ilidic, dreamy like. With none to trouble the peace of this day, you count the Gods as your witnesses.

In the summer breeze, you dress in the colors of autumn, embellished with the jewels he gifted you.

Leaning your head against his shoulder, you drown in his words, paradoxically warmed in this sinful contact against his protective body, locked in his arms.

“You tend to exaggerate the words, my dearest”.

“Hardly exaggerated these are when they truthfully express how I feel towards my lady. Imperfect I may be, but not the love you inspire me.”

You turn lightly at him. The tenderness in his gaze is genuine and it makes you beam. Seeing the delight in you inspires Aegon likewise.

For the very first time there is peace within and when he kisses you, serenity is exhaled.

But it only lasts briefly. For soon passion ignites and his old self comes to surface—albeit in a different manner than before, not the rogue he used to be.

However, temptation comes, sinfully so. Where is, one might wonder, the resistance of conscience? Nowhere to be found, for sure.

You want more and so does he. Though inexperienced, you move to his lap, striding over him, moved by a strange instinct never before known that now takes the reins of you.

Aegon smirks at the urgency with which you now kiss him, leaving aside decency and prudence. His hands take the opportunity to play with your braid, resting thus in your hips all the whilst his lips follow the rhythm dictated by yours.

Your hands are now wrapped around his neck, your fingers hesitantly play with his short locks. Decorum is not in your mind when these move impatiently to his chest and before he knows…

“Oh!” Aegon throws his head back, eyeing you with a mix of pleasant surprise and lust.

But something about his “oh” confuses you. And you stop what you are doing.

“Why’d you stop, dear Y/Nickname?”, he inquires when seeing the deep shade of pink that colors your cheeks.

You lower your gaze, noticing the unlaced pants that are nearly showing his manhood. Your blush deepens.

“I’ve never done this before.”

Aegon blushes too. Has this courtly love gone too far? The prince fears the answer.

“I lament that it has caused you embarrassment of any kind”, he rests his chin over your shoulder, trying to read your composed face.

“This is not about embarrassment, my love. You should be properly praised. Come here.”

Saying so, Aegon helps you laying down in the grass. He soon follows, on his elbows by your side. You giggle softly, blushing to be under his intent gaze, but every smile dies when his lips touch yours, barely brushing before moving to your jawline and neck.

When his tongue moves to your neck, this prince is soon eagerly showing his devotion to you. He wants to make this memorable—even if this isn’t about consuming the aching passion that burns in each of you.

You sigh heavily, playing with his silver locks all the whilst his tongue takes his time against your neck. Only then his right hand moves to your chest, brushing his fingers over your nipples quickly—much to your dismay, for this new discovered feeling, sinful as it is, makes you want to explore it further. How to voice it, though?

The confusion that is your mind is solved when his hand is now lifting gently the skirt of your gown.

“Very bold of you, Egg”, you admonish him in a playful tone, short breath cut the moment he rests his hand over your womanhood.

When Aegon lifts his head to meet your gaze, his hair dropping over his forehead giving thus a sensual look, you feel already dropping wet.

“Should I stop, milady?”, he side smirks, perceiving what is not being said by your red-ish lips, but so clear behind your y/c eyes.

Your blush is the answer he needs. Aegon chuckles, before pecking your lips.

“If we best not engage in this intercourse, voice me your denial and I shall respect it”, he vows it.

You, however, meek by nature—and sinful, if taken in consideration the words of the clergy—find too much tied to this experience to refuse him.

In other words, it’s to say you want him.

Badly so.

As if this prince is capable of reading your thoughts, Aegon chuckles quietly. He dives in your lips, slowly kissing you, letting your tongues intertwine perfectly.

But he wants to see you. He anxiously wants to see the effect he has on you.

And here you are. Right under his command, experiencing new experiences, you burn the dragon fire.

“Oh!”, your eyes are barely open, eyelashes fluttering as bliss opens pave to Heaven.

Aegon too is aroused when finally having a taste of you. Knowing too that he’s giving this to you only makes his bone ache. But it’s about you, his lady. The one woman who made possible his redemption.

By the time you are arching your back, sounds resulting from this pleasurable intimacy, he comes to your aid like the dreamy knight he’s become.

One kiss is enough to seal this spiritual vow you and him now exchange.

But a question is yet to be answered… What will be of the two of you?

(To be continue)

[darsynia]

Hand(s) Off | Ch1: Agony

(Steve Rogers/f!Reader sex pollen-esque multichapter)

STORY MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | NEXT

Summary: Bucky Barnes is the most important person in your life. When he confesses to you that he lives at the Avengers tower, and the 'Steve' you've been hearing about for months is actually Steve Rogers, you think that nothing can top that revelation-- and then you find yourself trapped in Captain America's bedroom getting a second-hand dose of NYC's favorite new aphrodisiac, Mistress.

Length | Warnings: 3,271 | None this chapter; story will contain explicit sex descriptions and situations, MINORS DNI

Note: I want to make clear that I'm treating the issues of consent with sensitivity. This is not even a dubious consent story in my eyes; the choices these characters make are kind, as clear-eyed as possible under the circumstances, and respectful.

Excerpt:

“You grew up with Captain America?” you ask, impressed. Bucky Barnes can really keep a secret.

“Not at all. I grew up with Steve. Skinny, brave Steve. Never backed down from a fight, and now he doesn’t have to. C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the Avengers tower that’s visible in the distance.

There’s something in the back of your mind that’s important, something-- “Oh my God, Bucky!” you gasp, almost stumbling in your shock. “I dragged you to that trivia night, and you did so badly on the Avengers questions! You let me answer the all Captain America ones myself! I totally went on and on about how wonderful and handsome Steve Rogers is. I talked about his ass-- and he’s your best friend?”

“You squeak any higher you’re going to start catching the attention of every purse dog in the city,” Bucky teases gruffly. You shoot a look over, noticing that he’s trying not to grin.

“You jerk!” you say, nudging his right arm with your left elbow. “Were you feeling me out?”

Bucky starts cough-laughing. “You’re going to have to define that one for me.”

Chapter One: Agony

He’s falling and you can’t do anything about it.

Bucky’s shirt catches on a stub of a branch on the way down. You, the child whose balloon he was retrieving, and the kid’s mother all rush over when he lands in a heap.

“Oh my god, are you--” the mom starts to say.

“Here you go, kid. Hold tight, I’m not going after it again,” Bucky interrupts, hauling himself to his feet. 

“Wow! That looks like it didn’t hurt at all!” the kid says.

“It hurts. Everything hurts. I’m just trying to impress her.” He nods in your direction.

Even though it makes you crack up (because he’s absolutely not), this seems to do the trick. The mom takes a minute to tie a more secure knot in the balloon string before smiling nervously at the two of you and leading her son away.

“I’m sorry,” you wince, taking a picture of the hand-sized rip at Bucky’s armpit that reveals the metal of his arm underneath. You’ve never seen the whole thing, but you’ve felt the arm through his sleeve a couple of times.

“Why are you sorry? You told me not to do it.”

“I’m sorry to have been right?”

“Yeah, okay,” he says grimly, scowling at the phone you handed him and reaching around to feel the edges of the tear. “It shows the join, doesn’t it?”

You’ve been trying not to look, because, yeah, it does. The skin edging the metal graft looks burned and painful, definitely not appropriate for your museum plans. Bucky takes in your uncomfortable nod and his jaw clenches.

“We don’t have to go,” you offer.

“We’re going. I just have to…” He trails off, twisting the shirt around to get a better look. The two of you had decided to take the long way through the park. There’s about an hour before the interactive exhibit opens, but it’s the last day. He wouldn’t even tell you how he got the tickets.

“Okay, what if we swing by a corner store so I can grab a sewing kit--”

Bucky interrupts in a firm voice. “No need to waste the money. I’ll head back home to change; we can get a taxi from there. It’s a bit of a walk.” He shrugs the shirt back into position and starts back the way you’d come.

You have to jog to catch up. “That works.” There are a million things you want to say, but it’s Bucky who speaks first, after fifteen minutes of silence. The two of you reach a crosswalk, and he stops you with his left arm, which in your opinion is a choice.

“Spit it out.”

“You were keeping things separate. You shouldn’t change your mind unless you want to,” you say quietly. He’d said he wanted to keep this friendship to himself for a while, with no connection to the past, and no expectation for the future. You’d found that unexpectedly refreshing at the time, and you still do.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Bucky says. “It’s time. I probably would have sat on it for another month anyway.”

It’s been a six month journey from friendly to friends to close friends for the two of you, and it’s only been two months since he’d opened up about his agonizing past. You don’t know everything yet, and that’s okay. You might never know. As long as Bucky knows he can trust you, that’s what matters.

The light changes, and he guides you across, his body language more relaxed now. Still, you want to make things as easy for him as possible.

“I can wait in the lobby--”

“Shit. That won’t help,” Bucky says, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Did you ever look me up?”

“No! You asked me not to.”

He looks at you like you’re some sort of rare creature for a minute, and a slow, appreciative smile grows on his face. You get it-- when he’d told you his actual birthdate, that he’d gone missing in the 40’s, you’d been tempted. But… when someone with a medically engineered metal arm asks you not to poke around in his past, you don’t. Not if you care about him.

“There was a good reason for that, I’m assuming?”

Bucky’s chuckle is deep and amused. “Yeah. I ah, live with the Avengers. Steve’s last name is Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

You’ve heard all about his best friend Steve, enough to feel affection for the man without ever having met him-- but this is not what you were expecting. At all.

“You grew up with Captain America?” you ask, impressed. Bucky Barnes can really keep a secret.

“Not at all. I grew up with Steve. Skinny, brave Steve. Never backed down from a fight, and now he doesn’t have to. C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the Avengers tower that’s visible in the distance.

There’s something in the back of your mind that’s important, something-- “Oh my God, Bucky!” you gasp, almost stumbling in your shock. “I dragged you to that trivia night, and you did so badly on the Avengers questions! You let me answer the all Captain America ones myself! I totally went on and on about how wonderful and handsome Steve Rogers is. I talked about his ass-- and he’s your best friend?”

“You squeak any higher you’re going to start catching the attention of every purse dog in the city,” Bucky teases gruffly. You shoot a look over, noticing that he’s trying not to grin.

“You jerk!” you say, nudging his right arm with your left elbow. “Were you feeling me out?”

Bucky starts cough-laughing. “You’re going to have to define that one for me.”

“--stop by, that’s all I ask. Redwing would love it,” Sam grins as he opens the door to Tony’s lab.

“I’ll try, but did you have to say it like that?” Steve groans before heading into Dr. Banner’s workspace right next door. A new street drug named Mistress has been causing concern, and with SHIELD still in transition, the government has called on the scientific wing of the Avengers to help figure out how to combat the substance. 

Mistress is an aphrodisiac, a potent one. Banner’s preliminary tests show that it’s likely not of Earth origin, which has slowed down their testing considerably due to safety concerns. That’s where Steve comes in; Bruce thinks his fast metabolism could be the key to figuring the stuff out without putting too many others at risk. That and his lack of a romantic partner. 

Apparently the drug enhances a person’s desire to have sex to a strong need, strong enough that there’s no data on what happens if they don’t. The stuff reportedly burns through people, causing dangerous fevers that have officials fearful that someone’s going to get dosed and killed, not to mention the consent issues.

“Hey, Steve,” Banner says. “I don’t know if you’ve met Doctor Lyonne?”

“I haven’t. First or last name?” Steve asks the attractive female doctor.

“Oh, nice one. ‘Lyonne’ is my married name, though. Sorry to possibly disappoint,” she says easily.

Banner smiles at Steve’s wave-off gesture and says, “I’ll leave you two experts to the interpersonal stuff.” He ignores them in favor of a large glass jar with a bunch of warning labels stuck to it. The liquid inside is clear, and all signs point to it being the drug in question. “All right,” Bruce finally says, stepping away and scratching out about four things on his clipboard. “The plan is to expose you in measured doses and observe the results. It’s pretty volatile-- works if ingested, soaks into the skin, and we think it’s capable of being aerosolized under certain conditions. Drinking it will be the most controlled method, so Dr. Lyonne is setting up dosing cups for me. She’s got a class to teach in about forty minutes, so--”

“That’s his delicate way of saying I’ll be out of your hair and unable to observe anything you’ll be going through over the course of the tests,” Lyonne interrupts.

The door that joins the two labs swings open before Steve can respond, and Tony leans his head in. He’s wearing one of his Iron Man suits. “Before you ramp up Icy Hot here, can I show you my new toy?”

“This is a segue to a sex toy joke, Steve. Retreat, retreat!” Sam calls out from behind Tony.

“I’m wounded!” Tony says, muttering, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that first.” He walks in and grins, holding up his left arm. “Check it out. Nav is still a little spotty, but--”

Steve watches as a shape lifts up from Tony’s bicep area on the suit, similar to Redwing but oval and smaller. 

“Tony, I’d be happy to look at it pretty much any other time, but--”

“You have the whole rest of the day blocked out, Bruce, just give me this!”

The friendship between Stark and Banner always makes Steve nervous. They are the closest aligned in terms of work ethic and smarts, but farthest apart in temperament-- and that’s before the Hulk is brought into play. Steve inches closer to the large glass jug of Mistress as Tony gesticulates wildly, sending the drone careening around the room.

It starts beeping.

“Shit!” Tony shouts. “Uh… apparently something I did set the self-destruct?”

“Why does your drone have a self destruct, Tony?” 

Bruce sounds incredulous and angry, and Steve doesn’t have his shield. As though Tony had set up the whole situation for maximum drama, the thing is headed straight for the jug. Steve lunges to protect it as Bruce maneuvers himself to take the explosion for the team. Someone screams for JARVIS to lock down the building.

Steve lifts the drug container high, meaning to leap out of the way with it, but there’s nowhere to go. The drone’s explosive impact brings forth the Hulk-- which sends Steve and the jug flying backwards into the lab equipment.

Things turn a bit surreal when you enter the tower. Bucky takes you to a secret side entrance (to avoid the press, he says) but when he gets into the elevator, he seems confused when he can’t talk to it. You’re just about to make a Star Trek joke when he explains there’s usually an artificial intelligence that runs the building, but it’s not responding.

You’re used to pretty much anything apartment-related being out of order, so you’re not fazed. Once inside his apartment, you point out that there’s a sticky note on the opposite side of the door, and Bucky grabs it, his brows furrowing as he reads.

“Shit,” he grins, holding up the note. “Stay here? You’re not authorized for this area.”

“Better hurry!” The tickets for the exhibit are for 1:30, and it’s already 12:50. With a nod, he jogs back into the hallway toward the elevator, and just like that you’re alone in Bucky’s apartment.

It is immediately apparent that he doesn’t live here alone. Underneath a coat rack with multiple jackets is a shoe tray with at least five pairs of shoes in two different sizes. The living room is cozy and lived-in; you see the familiar sight of a bottle of Bucky’s favorite beer sitting on an end-table-- right beside a coaster.

You’re about to reach for it when an alarm sounds, accompanied by an urgent voice.

=Tier One protection activated. Retreat to an interior room and wait for further instructions. Attention: Tier One protection activated. Retreat to an interior room and wait for further instructions.=

You freeze in fear for a few seconds, but when the instruction repeats a few seconds later, you hear a grinding noise in the wall. It’s frightening enough that you dart into the hallway and inside the first open door. The reason for the sound becomes terrifyingly clear a few seconds later as a metal panel encased in the doorframe slides down, too quickly for you to slip out underneath it.

The room turns pitch black in the space between one frightened breath and the next.

After taking a minute to listen for danger, you make your way by feel to the far wall, looking for the light switch. On the way, you trip over something that turns out to be a pair of men’s slippers. You’re glad to let your eyes adjust to the light as you put them back, but when you straighten up, you immediately feel like you’re trespassing somewhere you do not belong.

The room is neat as hell, the kind of tidiness that must come from enjoying a clean space rather than a sense of obligation. However, you soon reassess: this is lived in, less frighteningly neat than well-designed. Everything has its place. It’s different from the easy chaos that Bucky has shown on the few times he’s slept over after movie marathons, so you’re pretty sure this isn’t his room. That, and the white cat plushie you gave him that he swears lives on his dresser? Isn’t there.

Instead, the tray with grooming materials in front of a small mirror are the only objects on the dresser top. There’s a low bookshelf next to an easy chair whose footrest has a worn-in divot. The nightstand is equally neat and functional, with a slightly askew sketchbook hinting that the room’s occupant is an artist.

Unfortunately, these observations are making you more nervous, not less. An intrusive thought that the alarm could be about a fire and there’s literally no way out sends you into a frenzy of banging on the inexorable metal slab. 

“Hello?? HELLO!? Please let me out, please, please let me out!” you scream, slamming your fists against the damned barrier until your hands hurt. You’re crying and frantic and yelling, and suddenly there’s someone else on the other side of the door also yelling, and in the next few minutes everything happens at once. 

You can’t see anything through your tears and fear; all you know is the feel and sound of strong hands and a soothing voice that isn’t Bucky but it should be. That thought sends you into more frightened tears, because he’ll be worried, he’ll be upset, and it might send him into a spiral like the one from a few months ago when he finally explained about his past.

Then, awfully, the grinding sound is back and the warm hands are gone.

You hear several shouted, imperative commands before the man falls silent. He’d set you down in a huddle on the bed wrapped in a blanket, and you kind of… drift back into awareness surrounded by the strong scent of coconut, with a not-unpleasant buzz of awareness deep in your gut.

You pull the blanket closer before you recognize it. You’d been working on it during the first few movie nights you and Bucky had shared, and he’d bought it as a gift for his best friend. That’s what brings you fully back to yourself: you’d handmade the thing that’s warming you up. You’ll be able to tell Bucky that. It’ll help, when the time comes.

Taking in a long, deep breath, you look around, expecting, since you’re no longer alone, to see anything but a metal panel completely covering the door. You’re wrong. There’s damage to the frame, as though someone had pried the previous slab out of the way-- but there’s once again a solid-looking metal barrier between you and freedom.

“Are you okay?” It’s Captain Am-- Rogers. Steve. Bucky’s Steve.

The unreality of your situation is fully hitting you now.

“That’s what you’re going with? Not ‘who are you?’ or ‘funny story about the door…’”

Rogers says, “I did. You were too upset to answer.” He’s tense, clearly uncomfortable, and his clothes are soaked. You wonder if that’s the source of the strange fruity smell. 

“Dee. I’m Dee.” It’s short for Chickadee, your stage-name-turned-favorite-nickname. You think you see recognition in his eyes. “Bucky needed to change his shirt. I didn’t mean-- you have to believe me, I never would have come in here, but he said he would just be a minute, and then a voice told me to hide and…” You’re babbling, but you feel like you’re out of your mind. Of all the people in the world, you’d probably pick Captain America as the one person you’d want to know that you’re eating your vegetables and being polite to your elders, that you wouldn’t invade someone’s private space. “Did something happen to the building?” you ask in a small voice.

“No, this--” Rogers winces. “Bucky asked for extra security or he wouldn’t move in. To slow him down.”

“The Soldier,” you whisper, closing your eyes tightly.

He makes a noise of understanding, then a louder, angry sound. “Everything has gone the exact worst-- I’m sorry,” he grits out. “I’m sorry.”

The depth to his voice prompts a heated curl of attraction that warms you from the inside out. It’s unexpected and strange, given the fear and confusion that’s ruled your reactions in the past minutes.

“I think I should be asking if you are okay.”

Rogers is looking at the floor now, his hands fisted in his pockets. “I was exposed to a… chemical. Tried to do everything right: activated security protocols, set the apartment Dark so I didn’t say or do anything I’d regret before the brain fog set in.”

“What happens when the brain fog sets in?” you whisper, sensing that the answer is what has this man’s body stiff as a board, in contrast with his broken and worried tone.

“How close are you with Buck?” Rogers lifts his head and the intensity in his eyes shoots you with an arrow of concern.

You lift your chin. “Truthfully? I consider him my best friend, why?”

“There’s nothing… more?”

There have been times, multiple times, when you’ve thought about it. But Bucky Barnes is a multifaceted man, and you don’t want to sully his progress towards becoming whole again by making things complicated.

“No,” you say, feeling heat in your chest from the look of understanding in his eyes. Your pause was unintentionally illustrative. “Why?”

“It’s important that I be honest with you: the building is on lockdown, its governing AI is too busy monitoring the Hulk to get us out of this room, and the chemical I was exposed to is Mistress.” He sounds like a soldier reciting battle parameters.

The name sounds familiar, but you can’t place it. Suddenly, you feel too vulnerable on the bed, his bed, so you slide over to the edge in preparation for getting up. The action bares your legs to mid-thigh, and Rogers immediately turns his back on you and hits the wall with the flat of his hand. 

That’s when you remember where you’d heard that name. Mistress. The aphrodisiac is the reason many women have flocked to your cousin’s restaurant to hang out, instead of at bars. Many establishments are offering complimentary test kits so their customers can ensure there’s no residue in their food and drinks. It’s become fashionable to carry around your own cups, just in case. Some bars are actually trying to skip requiring women to pay a cover charge, desperate to return to the status quo. Drinks containing coconut aren’t even served anymore, thanks to the scent association.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” you blurt out, rushing over to the easy chair and covering yourself with the blanket. Jesus, the whole room reeks of coconut. He’s practically steeped in the stuff. “What can I do?”

Steve Rogers’ voice is husky, but pained. “Don’t let today be your first impression of me.”

Next chapter...

[sky-kiss]

Omgggg you know how in the house of hope scene, there's the option to try to plead Raphael for no more bloodshed and then to say nothing? Imagine if Tav and co won, but Tav doesn't give the killing blow to Raphael. She truly doesn't want to kill him or for this to happen. Raphael meanwhile feels even more humiliated and hurt because he did really felt betrayed but damn it he can't do anything and why is she looking at him like that. Are those tears??

I just don't want the stupid man to be left alone and eaten by his dad 😭

A/N: Ok, so he's still like...alone. But he's not dead? Baby-steps. Woops. Uh. Maybe they meet up after.

________

He’s dying. 

A surreal thought. His flesh is bruised and broken. Whatever power Mephistopheles loaned him has long since been withdrawn; his father is howling in triumph, the sound not unlike the blizzards whistling across Cania’s frozen wastes. It is the death of sanity, and the cost of his ambitions made manifest. Raphael attempts to pull himself to his knees, wings twitching and broken behind him. The right hangs limply, bones broken. There is pain, worse than any he has endured before. 

It is the indignity that cuts worse. 

The cambion lifts his head, lips curling back in a sneer. His pet lingers, an actress who has forgotten her lines and stage directions. Her erstwhile companions shift behind her, glancing between the devil and their mistress. The killing blow should come, but she hesitates. 

The damned little thing dares to sound hurt. “I didn’t want this. Raphael, we needn’t have…” she takes a step forward, weapon dropping. “It shouldn’t have come to bloodshed.” 

“A little late for that, no? My home, a ruin. My kingdom…” he snarls against the pain, digging his fingers into his palm. His vision blurs near the edges. Father calls him home. Calls him to the feast, howling. He will be like Magadon, consumed. But who will come to barter for his soul? No one, he thinks. “Every eventuality planned for, all but this.” 

Tav crouches in front of him. The tears in her eyes baffle him, leaving slick tracks in the dust and grime. She touches his cheek. “Baldur’s Gate must be saved.” 

“What did I offer you if not the means?” Fading, falling. Raphael presses his right hand to his belly, willing the bleeding to stop. “A fair deal, honestly made, and this is how I am rewarded.” 

Her touch is comparatively cool. Something grounding in the encroaching darkness. “I know.” 

“You know,” he sneers. “How eloquent.” 

Tav smiles. She takes a small vial from her bag and uncorks it. The hateful little creature dares to press it to his lips as one might a child. The devil glares but drinks. The worst of his hurts begin to pull together. “I didn’t want this. I won’t kill you.” She helps him finish the bottle and then stands. She motions to the portal. “Come on. We have an invasion to prevent.” 

She intends to leave him shamed and broken. He will be a pariah among the courts. His Father will know. The cambion clings to the last vestiges of his fury, “Insolent child, I will find you. The horrors of the Hells and the Abyss will seem pleasurable compared to the agony I will visit upon you.” 

“If that’s what you want. You know where to find me.” She squeezes his shoulder as she passes. For all the heavens and hells, the only emotion flitting across Tav’s face is hurt. “Goodbye, Raphael.” 

[ewanmitchelll]

Imagine Arctic Monkeys’s songs: Do I Wanna Know?

Imagine you are seduced by Aemond Targaryen.

Warnings: fluffy, light reading—explicit smut.

Warnings 2: alternative universe where the Greens won uncontestedly the war.

***

Have you got colour in your cheeks? Do you ever get that fear that you can't shift the type that sticks around like something in your teeth?

Aemond finds difficulty to settle after years waging war. There is peace after a decade fighting his sister and her partisans. They are all nothing but names now, recorded in the maesters books.

To placate his restless energy, the prince has, in many ways, followed in his bitter enemy’s footsteps—getting himself lands in the Free Cities, he found himself a new life style as well as a new wife.

But because he’s now the Hand of the King, in opposite to Daeron’s career in Citadel, his life style was left behind. For now.

You, however, settled easily with this new routine. Harrenhal is your home and this is the household you must fill your wifely duties. Initially, you found a rival for your husband’s affection—his former mistress, a woman named Alys Rivers, did not let easily go the path to Aemond’a heart—which complicated your smooth transition from the life of a free damsel who loved the seas to a noblewoman, wife of a bad reputed prince.

Despite the initial scandal such a match evoked, you and Aemond overcame the early disapprovals until the dowager queen accepted you as her daughter-in-law in a relationship that grew fondly in due time.

As you spend the afternoon reading a love story between a knight and his damsel in distress, which in some shades reminds yours, you are found missing your husband dearly.

Aemond has been gone to Free Cities to knock a local rebellion and negotiate peace terms with the involved, applying the law, before going back. And he misses you too.

When he lands with Vhagar, he hurries to you—although the prince needs to clean himself first. Only then he comes at you.

Aemond finds you busy with your lecture at their bedchambers, so concentrated that you don’t spot him, leaning against the wall, watching you with a side smirk on his lips.

Are there some aces up your sleeve? Have you no idea that you're in deep? I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week…

His good eye is set on you like a hunter when it’s about to get its prey. Your y/c hair is loose behind your back, your eyes are focused in the lines you read but he wonders what is the theme that makes you furrow your eyebrows. Your lips are partially open and Aemond easily sees his own clashing against yours in a long fervent kiss. But the man is patient.

The gown you dress is the first he gifted you, in the days of your courtship. Aemond is pleased to see you still keep it in your wardrobe. The gown shows some cleavage and shoulders, reinforcing your firm full breasts.

When staring at your heavy breathing, his own chest goes slowly up and down. His eyes devour your skin through the clothing, still keeping in his thought the moment your nipples go hard under his eager tongue.

When remembering how much you enjoy it, how you always sang louder the moment he took his time to suck each breast, a heat troubles his inner balance. His manhood gets lightly unbearable.

It’s time to move.

How many secrets can you keep? 'Cause there's this tune I've found that makes me think of you somehow and I play it on repeat until I fall asleep, spilling drinks on my settee…

Aemond recollects the first time he saw you. Finding a way to survive in Essos, your brother had plans to send you to serve Rh’llor whilst you considered piracy. You’ve always loved the sea, and there you’d content yourself when your path crossed his.

You knew nothing of his past, and yet you took him in. When love flourished, it took not much time.

Moved by this agony of spending too much of his time away from you, he wants you again. Using shadows on his favor, he is about to surprise you.

Aemond kneels behind you. Still focused in the reading, you do not notice he’s behind your chair. The prince is lightly amused at how this novel has stolen you from him.

“My lady, I am no poet, no bard, no man versed in the court of love, but I’d think by now you were missing me.”

Quickly, you stand, turning at him with joy. It’s been five years since he espoused you and the same joy is there whenever he comes back to your arms.

“I missed you, my husband! How could it not be? Oh Aemond, it’s been so long!”

He experiments that peaceful bliss he never thought he’d feel the moment his lips are welcomed by yours. It starts as a slow, passionate kiss, only then to be parted by you.

“I should have prepared our chambers to receive you better”, you say, ready to fetch a servant when he pulls you right in front of him.

“Why, I wanted to surprise my lady”, he smirks, resting his chin over your shoulder as his hands begin to pace around your waist. “You still have the gown I gifted you during our courtship.”

“Yes, I do”, you blush lightly, not expecting him to notice it.

“Looking gorgeous as always”, he whispers hotly in your ear, giving you goosebumps.

“Aemond…”, you smirk, wondering what’s to come. “I have some news to tell you.”

“Then tell me”, so he says as his tongue begins to draw lines from your earlobe to your jawline and neck, tightening the grip of your waist.

You try to focus, but when he gets to your neck, your leg automatically begin to rub in another and you giggle softly.

“Y-Your brother…”, you almost forget how to breathe the moment he rests a hand over your belly, moving up to your breast.

“Yes?”, he bites your neck softly, missing to feel your firm breast over his hand, but not taking it long now… not yet. “You were saying?”

You try to release yourself off his grip, about to get on fire, but Aemond is very domineering today. The hand on your back is now over your neck, holding it possessively. The way you like it.

“He is throwing a feast and a tournament…”, you get speechless the moment his lips are back at your neck and his right hand starts to lift the skirts of your gown.

“And…”, he smirks, encouraging you to speak as he defies you not to succumb easily into his teasings.

“And… Aemond!”, you hiss impatiently when feeling his hand on your thigh.

Aemond takes a seat and makes you sit on his lap. There is a fire that is about to burn you…and you want to get burnt. But you know it’ll be on his terms.

“Tell me, or I will stop.”

He smirks devilishly as you pout.

Do I wanna know if this feeling flows both ways (Sad to see you go) Sort of hoping that you'd stay. (Baby we both know) That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day…

“The tournament is on…” you barely speak as he begins to tease you through your undergarments. Using his thumb to draw circles over it, you whimper, partially impatient.

“On?”

He pauses, amused as you frown at him.

“Either you tell me or I’ll stop, my dear. The punishment for ignoring me…” Aemond chuckles as you pout again.

“…on the next week”, and he resumes the touching, working his hands within you. “He wants to…. Oh, Aemond!… to celebrate his tenth year he is on the I-I-Iron Throne!”

Aemond chuckles to himself as you try to keep your composure the moment two fingers are inserted in your womanhood. He feels how soaked you are, enjoying the sounds you make as he stimulates you.

“Mm. What else?”, he asks in your ear, using his free hand to unlace your gown, aroused by your reactions.

“He wants you…”, and here you let out a poorly muffled cry the moment he increases his pace. “…to take part of the feast and… and be his champion! Oh bloody seven hells!”

As you throw your head back, the gown, now loose, begins to fall. Aemond stares at your denuded chest, biting his own bottom lip as your nipples are hardened under his lustful gaze.

“His champion?”, he helps you to straighten on his knee, despite the trouble to ignore the aching in his manhood.

“On the tournament!”, you moan indecently loud the moment he cups one boob with his free hand.

Aemond smirks at you. Oh how he loves these games he plays with you. He is a victor each time.

“Hmm. I shall consider the invitation”, he leaves more bruises in your skin, before whispering unspeakable things to your ear that makes you hot enough to burst into his hand.

And when he licks each finger before you, you almost go insane.

“Aemond!”, you turn at him, finally free of his grasp. You remove the gown off your body, rubbing yourself to his manhood as you settle your hips properly over his, hands eagerly removing his own clothing.

“Oh I haven’t finished with you yet, woman”, he groans as he lifts you and pulls you gently against the window. As you remain on your back to him, he kisses your neck and down to your back, before fingering you again.

“Lords, Aemond!”

And to your delightful surprise, his lips soon take place where his fingers have been. Now you settle the reins and gladly ride his face.

Crawling back to you… Ever thought of calling when you've had a few? 'Cause I always do. Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new. Now I've thought it through, crawling back to you…

But once again in bed he has you under his command again. Crawling over your body, he prepares to set his pace.

“I’ve been burning too long alone to let these flames go unescaped”, he whispers, touching himself right before you, until he leaves it to tease your entrance.

Aemond likes seeing you subduing to him. Even more when fire is indeed burning in such a level that makes you bed. And nothing arouses him more than seeing a prideful lady be turned into a beggar in… bed.

This is how he spreads your legs gently and, leaning his body to be closer to yours, the prince slowly thrusts in you.

“Have I been punished enough?”, you moan sensually, legs wrapped around his waist.

“Perhaps”, he smiles at you.

Only when your gazes meet, he softens.

“I’ve missed you”, and his lust is replaced by the genuine affection that has mirrored in your eyes. “A lot.”

“As have I”, you admit in short breath. “Very much, my rogue prince.”

Aemond smiles down at you, kissing your lips as your body and his finally move as one.

Simmer down and pucker up. I'm sorry to interrupt. It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of trying to kiss you. I don't know if you feel the same as I do but we could be together… If you wanted to.

Later, you feel his wide eyed gaze at you. With no patch to cover his bad eye, he is the way you like him to: himself, nude and crude.

“I am pleased to find your heart shut for me alone”, you muse after a moment spent in warming silence.

“How so?”

He turns at you, on his elbow. Aemond strokes your face gently, doing the same then to your hair.

“Are you still daunted by these insecurities?”

“At times I am. I fear to lose your affection”, you admit. “But this only happens when I’m sensitive.”

“You do not need to excuse yourself for me when I’m open like this before you, wife”, he presses a kiss over your forehead. “I admit I have my own demons to haunt. There are nights I wish I had not… survived.”

“How so, my love,”, you turn at him and he sees fear in your eyes.

“I wish I had not been the cause why such a war disrupted. There is no good in dwelling in the past, but if I must be open with my lady, then my remorse must be shared with you. This is what pains me in times where restlessness knocks me out. Not an old mistress.”

“I’m sorry for this”, you feel ashamed for the confession, but Aemond looks in peace with it.

“Don’t be. We are husband and wife, love. We are in this together. I love you and it’s your love that helps me with going through difficult times.”

That being said, he kisses your lips. Every doubt dies permanently at his passionate kiss.

[thatmadshifter11]

The Shadowsinger and The Mistress of Love and Lust

Mate.

I could feel the nightmare in me growl at the word but the dreamer in me smiled softly and shed tears of genuine happiness. I felt like I was drowning in an ocean of glass.

Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate.

Then all I felt was pain.

My wings- the pain- my wings.

My wings are gone.

I wince. How can I feel pain in my wings? Suddenly I’m being swarmed by shadows-his shadows-Azriel! They circle me whispering softly, touching me lightly.

He needs you. He's in pain. Help him.

They call to me, the pain in m-his wings keeps growing stronger. I don't question how they found me or how they spoke to me, all I can think is save Az.

I vacate my post at the healing tent and leave my assistant Lily in charge. I set out to find Azr-my mate. I see my brother and Cassian, they both seem tense and it worries me. I have been cooped up in the healing tent and haven't heard about anything pertaining to the war other than healing the soldiers and warriors injuries. I walk towards the two illyrians trying to tap into the power to summon my wings.

Hot searing pain floods the bond and I drop to my knees unable to summon my wings or my battle fan. I sink lower as I feel the shooting pain in my ankle and the sharp stabbing pains still in m-his wings. I am going to murder whoever hurt Azriel- My Azriel.

Cassian rushes towards me spitting curses as he grabs my arm trying to help me up.  I give him a vulgar gesture and I call him things a High Lady shouldn’t even be able to think of. I yank my arm away and stand up slightly dizzy and nauseous. I catch myself on Cassian as I hear the faint sound of my brother laughing.

“Oh shut it Rhys” I say one hand on my hip the other leaning on Cass to stay balanced. “I was looking for Az but this fucking oaf got in the way,” I jab a finger in Cass’ chest. Cass looks at me with a snarl. I laugh as does Rhysand. “Well sister if your looking for him he should be flying back soon I have been awaiting his and Feyre’s return from rescuing Elain.” I smile knowing he should return, but then I remember the pain and the bond. “H-he's hurt brother like big time,” Rhys looks alarmed. “How do you know? And what happened” he asked, dragging me toward a group of chairs, Cassian following behind us.

"I felt it through our bond, a mating bond," I reply, wincing at the fresh wave of pain that surges through me. "His wings, they're damaged, and I think his ankle too. I need to find him, now."

Without waiting for their response, I push myself off the chair and start heading towards the direction the shadows came from. Every step feels like a dagger in my heart as I can sense Azriel's agony echoing down our bond. I almost stumble, but I steel myself and keep moving. I can't afford to falter now. My vision blurs, but I blink away the tears, focusing only on the path ahead./As I reach the spot where I had found the two stubborn Illyrians I see a shadowy figure in the distance. He drops quickly landing harshly groaning in pain. His wings, his glorious beautiful wings all torn and bloody filled with arrows I can only assume are ash arrows.

"Azriel," I call out, my voice breaking. I rush towards him, dread pooling in my stomach. He looks up, his eyes filled with pain but also relief at seeing me. I reach out to touch him but he winces, pulling away slightly. "I'm here, Az," I whisper, trying to assure him that he's safe now.

“Mate,” he growls at me in a sadder tone then his usual mocking raspy voice. “Yes, yes Mate, but for now lets get you healed alright?” He huffs which I can only assume is an answer to my question so I take it as one.

His eyes, usually so lively and watchful catching every slight move, are dulled by pain. Seeing him like this breaks my heart into a million pieces, but I swallow down the lump in my throat. I need to be strong for him.

Pt.2 link: https://www.tumblr.com/thatmadshifter11/748248818969198592/the-shadowsinger-and-the-mistress-of-love-and-lust?source=share

[girlw-amermaidtattoo]

The Candle’s Flame

“Look at you, squirming in that cage. Did you think this would be easy?”

Her voice drips with amusement, as she circles you like a predator toying with its prey. You shift, the confines of the cage pressing into your skin, reminding you of how utterly trapped you are. Trapped by metal, yes, but more than that—trapped by her. And you’d have it no other way.

“Tonight,” she begins, her fingers tracing the top of your cage, “you’ll learn something very important.”

You breathe shallowly, pulse quickening as she reaches into a velvet box and pulls out a single candle, long and black. The wick catches the flame she holds in her hand, and immediately, your eyes lock onto the flickering light.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The flame. So mesmerizing…” Her words are slow, deliberate, and you feel yourself getting lost in them, lost in the way the candlelight dances across her eyes.

“You’re going to hold this candle for me.” She leans in close, her lips so near you can almost taste them. “And you’re going to keep it steady. Very steady. Because if you let it waver, even once, pet…” She lets the sentence hang, her smirk doing all the talking.

You swallow hard. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good.” She places the candle into your trembling hands, locking eyes with you as she slowly lets go. The flame flickers, teasing you with the threat of disobedience, but you quickly steady yourself. Every muscle in your body tenses as you focus, holding the candle exactly as she gave it to you.

She watches, and you can feel the weight of her gaze, heavier than the cage, heavier than the fire itself. You don’t dare take your eyes off the candle, even as she walks around you, her heels clicking against the floor, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“Steady,” she whispers from behind you, her breath hot against your neck. “You don’t want to fail me, do you?”

“No, Mistress,” you murmur, your voice tight. The heat of the flame, so close, burns against your skin, and every second it stays alight feels like both agony and ecstasy.

She steps in front of you again, her fingers tracing your jawline, tilting your chin up. “Good. Such focus. You’re learning, aren’t you? That even something so simple—a candle—can become a test of your obedience. Your will.”

Your heart races. The flame wavers slightly as her thumb brushes over your lip, but you catch it, steadying your hand with renewed determination. She smiles at your effort, but the challenge remains in her eyes.

“The candle is a symbol, pet. A symbol of your devotion. Your restraint. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” you breathe, your arms trembling now, but you hold on. You hold on because pleasing her is all that matters, and you’ll endure any test, no matter how trivial it seems.

She leans down, lips inches from your ear. “Every second you keep that flame burning, you prove to me how much you want to serve. But if it dies…”

Your breath catches. You know the consequences.

“Very well,” she murmurs, stepping back and letting you hold the candle, still flickering, still burning brightly. “You’ve passed this test. But know this…”

Her eyes gleam with a dark promise. “There are many more flames, pet. Many more tests. And soon, you’ll beg for the chance to prove yourself all over again.”

The flame dances between you, and you realize, in that moment, that serving her—pleasing her—is a fire you’ll never want to extinguish.

[narcissarina]

𝔊𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔢𝔫 ℭ𝔞𝔤𝔢, 𝔅𝔩𝔲𝔢 𝔅𝔬𝔫𝔡𝔰

જ⁀➴Previous chapter

Pairings: bodyguard!Leon × college billionaire!reader

Word count: 935

Tw: shooting

Summary: You confronted your step-mother.(please i suck at summarizing as the chapter progress)

𝚇𝙸𝙸𝙸.

“Never thought you had a guts to even consider me as your mother, dear.” The woman in front of you, who’s your step-mother—the mistress of your father, the woman who ruined the marriage of your parents. She was right, she never expected you to even consider her a mother, let alone being called as a Mother.

You take a deep breath and look at her dead in the eyes, “you’re right, I don’t consider you as my mother,” you frown and clenched your fist, “I only called you mother because of my father, now that my mom is gone. I called you mother because my father wanted me to.” You remark as you could feel the tears from the back of your eyes.

“You ruined their marriage, you took father. Now you wanted to take my life too?” you weep, fist clenching as your nails dug to your skin.

She chuckle and turns into laughter, she laughs as if she’s royalty, hand on her mouth as she lets out a laugh. “No hard feelings, dear.” She flashes a smile and put her hand on her hips, “you’re just ruining my plan, that’s all. Got to take matters to my own hands, you know?”

“What did I ever do to you?”

“You did nothing wrong, but your birth did and so does your mother marrying your father.”

Leon could only stand beside you, listening as the family drama unfold. You felt betrayed by your step-mom, you thought she’s a decent woman with a habit of controlling others to their clothing of choice. She always looks out for you best, managing to fool you when she thought she’s concern for you.

But she isn’t.

She was even relieved that when you go to your school party that a student held, you were almost assaulted. Little did you know, that she knew that Leon wouldn’t be by your side that time. But what about the bring your bodyguard bullshit? That was just a façade.

She paid them money, the drugs and the men… it was all hers, Leon always thought that no one in the right mind would just do that out of the blue—you never made enemies, you shut idiots out from your world.

The more she talks, the more Leon loses his shit. As if his ears were ringing at the annoyance of her voice, “god, you fucking talk too much.” He aim and shot her in her left shoulder, she screamed and ordered her ‘men’ to attack, “ma’am, we’re just scientist.”

“Do I look like I gave a shit?! I pay you dirty money so do as I say!” The woman snaps while gripping onto her shoulder, hissing and groaning in pain. The three men don’t know what to do, the big guy attacked with a chair in hand, Leon pulled you aside and shot the guy in between his eyes.

“I don’t have time to play games!” Leon shouts and made a quick rundown at the two men, shooting them in their leg. The woman got to her feet and tries to run away, Leon shot her in her leg—making her scream in pain and agony. “You’re not escaping me.”

Leon turns to the tan male, “when I ask a question, you better answer truthfully if you wanna live.” The agent threatened, pulling the mans hair, “tell me,” Leon kneels and make him meet eye contact, “will she turn to, you know. One of them?”

The man lips trembled as he answers the agents question, “n-no, although there will be side effects since we buried the piece deep in her skin—she wouldn’t survive if we stuff a bigger piece inside her wound,” his pistol points to the mans chin, “to be sure though, she needs some medications…”

Leon nodded and stood up, letting go of the mans hair, “I think I’ve heard enough.” He turns to his earpiece, “Hunnigen, send the choppers.”

“Just did.”

The agent smiled and walks up to you, “you’ll be fine.” He assures, “help me with them, hm?”

You manage to help Leon with the three people who’s behind of this all, the sun is already rising and it’s now 7 in the morning. When out of the mansion, you took a deep breath and inhale the welcoming breeze as it touches your skin.

The three were badly wounded by Leon’s shot, he didn’t bother patching them up.

The blonde agent stood beside you, watching as the sun is rising. Silence filled as he spoke, “we did good.” Leon said, you smiled at him and lay your head on his shoulder. “Hope you didn’t forget the thing you’re suppose to bring back.”

Leon chuckle at your remark and held it high in his hand, “don’t worry,” she smiled and wrap his arm around your shoulder, “mission accomplished?”

“Mission accomplished.”

You heard wringing on the distance as it come close, it was the chopper that Leon called for. There was a couple of agents in that chopper, slowly it got to the ground and took the case from Leons hand and took the criminals in.

“I’ll get you home safe, princess.” Leon mutter to your ear as he assist you inside the chopper, it was now the time for you to relax as you feel Leon’s heartbeat right beside your ear. You hum in content and let your eyes rest, he’s there when you nee him to protect you.

You have a lot to catch up in school and get interviewed by the authorities as your father is worried sick.

But it’s been a fun but terrifying journey, right?

Next Chapter>>>

[howlingday]

Imagine Jaune boosting Weiss allowing to summon her gigas with speed glyphs and just Jojoing someone.

"So what will you do, Ice Queen?" Mocked Traitor's Preach from the other side of the battlefield. "My Unbreakable Armor has managed to not only best your glyphs but also rendered your ally unconscious!"

"Rgh!" Weiss grunted, her aura feeling dangerously low. Normally, she would retreat to a safer position, but the idea of leaving Jaune behind was too abhorrent an idea to condone. No, she'd have to hold out for Ruby and the others to arrive, if only by some miracle they knew she was in trouble.

Without any further sounds, she summoned a Beowolf to charge ahead, but as it made to swipe at Traitor's Preach, the huntress clashed her two cymbals together to create a sound barrier. With her Beowolf unable to break through, it was instead broken all too easily by the slicing cymbals that pierced through it's body.

"..." Weiss spoke, but the words didn't reach her opponent's ears.

"Huh?" She mockingly leaned with her ear cupped. "What was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of you losing."

"I said..." she grinned, spinning around before driving her sword into the glyph below her, "You lose!"

Suddenly, a chilling air blew across the battlefield as a massive titan of armored ice rose from nothing. Traitor's Preach stood in abject horror at the towering knight looming over her. She was about to ask how when she saw Weiss walking towards her... and someone else picking themselves off the ground.

"You?!" She roared. "You're supposed to be knocked out!"

"I was... taking a nap." Jaune grinned.

"Don't try to act tough, Arc." Weiss chided. "You're hardly Xiao Long, but your semblance does make you an effective ally."

He stood up, walking up behind her. "Yeah, well..." The next words out of his mouth went unheard as the giant began attacking with its sword. Whatever he said made her red in the face and distracted. This would be good if not for the looming threat.

A clash of cymbals deafened the words and provided protection for Traitor's Preach. It may have been made of ice, but even ice can break. She swung her cymbals outwards, aiming right for the titan's heart and center-mass. However, a familiar white threat zoomed through the air and sliced the cymbals free from their mistress.

"You've forgotten yourself, Traitor's Preach," Weiss announced from the air, "you face against a Schnee. But garbage like you aren't worth our swords."

With those words, the massive knight raised his boot of ice. It came crashing down with the might of a meteor, but it was stopped shortly by a clap of her hands. The cold shadow cast over Traitor's Preach like an eclipse.

"I still have my hands, Schnee!"

"And I still have my boot." The mass receded, only to come crashing down again. It was stopped once more, though it continued to get closer with every clap. "What's faster? Your hands or my foot?"

Another stomp, another clap. Traitor's Preach backed up, only to trip over her own feet. The massive boot was inches from her face. As it rose skyward, she swung her arms together only to be struck in the head by something. Dazed, she caught a glimpse of what struck her. It was a metal cannister, no bigger than a soda can. But that matter became less important than the large mass of ice smashing into her.

Traitor's Preach roared in agony as the heavy, cold boot of Weiss Schnee came crashing repeatedly down on her foe. No, a foe would have been someone equal to her. This was trash, and it was stomped out just as easily.

Or it seemed easy, until Weiss suddenly felt dizzy and began to teeter from her glyph. Her Arma Gigas then dissipated into drifting snow and Weiss began to fall from its height. It reached to catch her, but she fell through the weightless snow it had become. It was until a firm jolt let her know she'd stop falling.

"I didn't need your help." Weiss panted.

"I'm sure you don't." Jaune smiled. "You're welcome for the help anyways."

Weiss pouted, but she was grateful for his help. She would thank him later, when she had the strength to speak. For now, she relaxed in his arms, comfortable and safe and-

"Hey~!" A familiar voice crooned from the distance. "Need any help?"

Damn! Xiao Long! Weiss struggled to get out of Jaune's arms before she was teased incessantly by her. She grunted and fidgeted and squirmed until she fell flat on her face on the hard ground.

"Uh, you okay, Ice Queen?" Yang asked.

"I'm fine, Xiao Long," a bruise swelling on her chin and forehead, "thank you for asking."