I hope the next vtm book has Anatole on the cover so he can join his gehenna besties Beckett and Lucita
Like, he's the Malkavian's symbol vampire, is one of the most prolific diablerists, is a prophet of the gehenna, and may be an avatar of Kupala? There was at least 3 books that could have feature him
Also unrelated to the main point, but Lucita de Aragón should be called Lucía, that's an actual spanish name, Lucita is a nickname a grandma would use for someone named Lucero
From now on I will call her Lucía de Aragón, and you too should
Shownu x F! Reader | Idol x Fan
Mature | Explicit | MDNI | One-Shot
A staged flirtation becomes a high-stakes private encounter when a lead actor lures a stunning fan from the front row to his hotel suite under an NDA.
The perfume was floral, sweet, and thick in the small theater, but the scent that hit you the hardest was the crisp, artificial fog that drifted from the stage vents. It smelled like cold, damp earth and anticipation. You sat in the so-called Comet Seats—a small, elevated platform right at the edge of the stage, a private table for two where the action wasn’t just viewed, it was felt. You paid a premium for this, a Monbebe willing to spend anything to be close to him. Tonight, he wasn’t just Shownu. He was Anatole, the lead in this lavish, period-piece musical, and you were here to watch your bias transform.
The lights dimmed. The overture began. And then he strode out.
It was a physical shock. The Hyunwoo you knew from interviews and music videos was soft-spoken, gentle, almost shy. This man who owned the stage was a predator. Leather trousers hugged thighs that looked powerful enough to break stone. A silk shirt, deep burgundy, hung open at the collar, the fabric clinging to the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. His hair was swept back, a few strands falling over his forehead. His walk wasn’t a walk; it was a prowl, a chariot-driver’s swagger that made the air itself seem to bend around him. His first line wasn’t spoken; it was declared, his voice a low, resonant growl that vibrated through the floorboards and up your spine.
You watched, mesmerized, as the play unfolded. He was a different creature here—commanding, arrogant, dripping with a charisma so potent it felt like a physical heat radiating from the stage. But the moment that stole your breath, the moment that shifted everything from performance to interaction, came during his violin solo.
The scene was intimate. Anatole, the character, was reflecting on a lost love. The music was a mournful, beautiful thread. Shownu stood near the edge of the stage, the violin tucked under his chin. Then, as the melody climbed to a poignant peak, he stepped off the stage entirely. He walked right to your Comet Seat table. He leaned over you, the polished wood of the violin’s body coming so close it nearly brushed your shoulder. His eyes—dark, intense, unblinking—locked onto yours.
He wasn’t playing for the audience. He was playing for you. His gaze held you captive, a hunter’s stare, while his fingers flew over the strings with impossible grace. You could see the concentration in his brow, the slight flex of his jaw, but the eye contact never broke. The music wrapped around you, but it was his stare that pinned you to the seat. You felt seen, targeted. The vibrato of the notes seemed to echo in the pulse thumping wildly in your throat. He leaned in closer, the heat of his body palpable, the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something spicy—washing over you. Then, with a final, resonating note, he straightened, his eyes finally releasing you as he stepped back onto the stage. You were left trembling, your skin buzzing.
The next shock came during the chaotic ensemble number. The stage was full, actors dancing, singing. The director called for “everyone sit down!” Chairs were pulled, actors perched on various surfaces. Shownu, with that same predatory fluidity, moved directly to your table. He didn’t ask. He didn’t gesture. He simply sat down on the small bench beside you, his large, solid body settling so close there was no space left.
Your thighs pressed together, the heat of his leather-clad leg a brand against your own. You could feel the muscle beneath the fabric. He turned his head toward you, his profile sharp in the stage lights. Then he leaned in, his lips almost touching your ear. He whispered a line—a heated, provocative line Anatole was supposed to say to his lover on stage. But he said it to you. His voice was a deep, private vibrato, his breath hot against your skin. “Do you feel the storm building inside me?” The words weren’t just heard; they were felt, a low rumble that went straight to your core. Then, as if it were part of the choreography, he leapt up, back onto the stage, leaving you breathless, disoriented, and utterly, completely claimed.
*
The lobby gala after the show was a blur of noise and light. Fans chattered excitedly, clutching merchandise. Other actors mingled, smiling, gracious. You moved through the crowd, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You spotted him near a marble pillar, looking composed, sipping water. He was Shownu again—calm, quiet—but his eyes were scanning the crowd, methodical, searching.
You waited, your turn in the line feeling like an eternity. When you finally stood before him, your words of praise ready on your tongue, he didn’t wait. He stepped forward, invading your personal space with the same confidence he’d used on stage. “Photo?” he asked, his voice low and direct. You nodded, unlocking your phone. He took it from your hand, his fingers brushing yours. He snapped the picture quickly—his face close to yours, his arm around your shoulders—a gesture that felt both perfunctory and intensely intimate.
As he handed the phone back, his large hand enveloped yours completely. The warmth was startling. And then you felt it—a small, folded slip of paper, pressed firmly into your palm. His fingers lingered for a second, ensuring the transfer was secret, complete. He gave you a look then, a tiny, fleeting smirk that was utterly un-Anatole. It was a flash of Hyunwoo, a glimpse of the man behind the character, knowing and deliberate. Then he turned, his attention shifting to the next fan, leaving you clutching the paper like a secret talisman.
In the safety of your car, the engine off, you unfolded the note. It was just a phone number, printed neatly. No name. Your fingers shook as you dialed.
The voice that answered was professional, clipped, discreet. A manager. “You attended the gala performance tonight. Mr. Shownu would like to invite you for a private dinner, to thank you for your support. Tonight. Are you willing?”
Your mind raced. You were still glammed up, still dressed in the elegant clothes you’d worn for the theater. It felt like fate. “Yes.” Your voice was a whisper, then firmer. “Yes, I am.”
The instructions were clear. A hotel, a suite number. A time.
*
The hotel was a five-star monolith, silent and opulent. The elevator ride was a smooth, silent ascent. The hallway smelled of expensive sandalwood and polished brass. You found the suite door, a heavy, dark wood entry. You knocked, softly.
The manager opened it. He was the same voice from the phone—polished, efficient. He ushered you into the expansive living area of the suite. It was vast, decorated in muted tones, with a view of the city lights twinkling in the night. “Please,” he said, gesturing to a sofa. “There is a matter of discretion.”
He produced a document. The NDA. It was thick, several pages. The language was cold, formal, a stark reminder of the world you were stepping into. This was high-stakes. This was private. Your hand shook slightly as you read the clauses, the penalties, the absolute demand for secrecy. You took the pen. You signed your name on the dotted line, the ink feeling like a commitment, a threshold.
The manager nodded, a satisfied, professional expression. He glanced toward the heavy double doors at the far end of the living area—the bedroom. “He is waiting,” he said simply. Then he turned, exited the suite, and you heard the definitive click of the front door locking behind him.
The silence that followed was absolute, heavy, charged. You stood alone in the grand, empty living room, the signed contract on the table beside you. Your gaze was fixed on those double doors. Your breath came in shallow, tight pulls. You smoothed your dress, a nervous gesture. Then, you walked toward the doors. Each step felt amplified in the quiet. You reached them, your hand hovering over the ornate handle.
You pushed one door open.
The bedroom was darker than the living area, lit only by a few low, golden lamps. It was just as expansive, dominated by a massive bed. And there, standing by the window, looking out at the city, was Shownu.
He had changed. The leather and silk were gone. He wore simple, dark lounge pants and a soft, grey t-shirt that clung to the formidable shape of his torso. He turned as you entered. His face was calm, but his eyes held that same intensity, that same hunting focus they’d had on stage. He looked at you, not as Anatole, not as an idol, but as a man. A man who had orchestrated this entire evening to end here, with you, in this silent room.
“You came,” he said. His voice was low, stripped of the theatrical vibrato, but still deep enough to resonate in your bones.
You could only nod, your throat tight.
He moved toward you, his steps slow, deliberate. The space between you closed. He stopped just a foot away, his presence overwhelming. You could smell him again—clean skin, that subtle cologne. He reached out, his hand not grabbing, but cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed your lower lip. The touch was electric, a simple gesture that felt more invasive than anything on stage.
“You watched me very closely tonight,” he murmured. His eyes searched yours. “I could feel your gaze. It was… distracting.”
His other hand came up, mirroring the first, so both his palms were framing your face. His fingers were warm, slightly rough. He leaned in, his breath mingling with yours. “Do you still feel the storm?” he asked, repeating his line, but now it was a real question, for you alone.
You tried to speak, but only a shaky breath came out.
That seemed to be all the answer he needed. His lips met yours.
The kiss wasn’t soft. It was claiming. It was deep, hungry, and immediate. His mouth opened yours, his tongue seeking and finding yours with no hesitation. The hand on your cheek slid back, tangling into your hair, holding your head gently but firmly in place. The other hand left your face and traveled down, over your shoulder, your arm, your hip. He pulled you flush against him. You felt every contour of his body—the hard chest, the tight abdomen, the strength of his thighs. You melted into the kiss, your hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders, the soft cotton of his shirt under your fingers.
The kiss deepened, became wetter, more desperate. You could hear the soft, muffled sounds of your joining mouths. His hand on your hip slid lower, over the curve of your ass, and he squeezed, possessively, pulling you even tighter against him. You felt a hardness, growing and pressing against your lower stomach through his pants. A moan escaped you, swallowed by his mouth.
He broke the kiss, but only to trail his lips down your jaw, to your neck. His breath was hot, his mouth open as he kissed and licked the sensitive skin there. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, the other now roamed your back, tracing your spine before settling again on your ass, kneading the flesh through your dress. “Take this off,” he whispered against your neck, his voice a rough command.
Your fingers fumbled with the clasp at the back of your dress. He didn’t help; he watched, his eyes dark with hunger, as you managed to undo it. The fabric loosened. He took the initiative then, his hands sliding to the shoulders of your dress and pushing it down. It fell to your waist, then he helped it slide further, pooling at your feet. You stood before him in just your bra and panties, the cool air of the room hitting your skin, followed immediately by the heat of his gaze.
He didn’t speak. He reached for the clasp of your bra, deftly unfastening it. It joined the dress on the floor. His eyes dropped to your breasts, and a low, appreciative sound hummed from his throat. His hands came up, not to touch them yet, but to frame them. His thumbs brushed your nipples, once, lightly, making you gasp. Then he leaned down, his mouth finding one peak.
The sensation was immediate, intense. His lips were warm, soft, but his suction was firm. His tongue circled the nipple, then flicked it, then drew it deeper into his mouth. His hand cupped the other breast, his thumb mimicking the motion of his tongue. You arched into him, your head falling back, a moan tumbling from your lips unchecked. He switched breasts, giving the same attentive, devouring treatment. Your hands were in his hair now, holding him to you, the soft strands between your fingers.
He pulled back from your chest, his lips wet. His hands went to your panties. He hooked his fingers in the sides and simply pulled them down, letting them fall. You were naked before him, in the low light of this secret room. He stood back for a moment, just looking, his eyes traveling over every part of you. The look was pure, carnal appreciation. It made you feel exposed, worshipped, and desperately wanted.
Then he moved. He kissed you again, briefly, before his hands went to your thighs. He urged you backward, toward the enormous bed. When your legs hit the edge, he pressed, and you sat, then lay back on the cool sheets. He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at you sprawled before him. He pulled his t-shirt off, revealing his torso—the defined muscles, the broad shoulders, the powerful arms. Then he pushed his lounge pants down, letting them fall.
He was fully naked. He was… magnificent. Every line of him was sculpted, strong. And he was fully erect, his arousal thick and evident. He didn’t join you on the bed immediately. He knelt on the floor beside it, his face level with your thighs.
His hands settled on your knees, pushing them gently apart. He looked at the intimate space he’d opened. Then he leaned in. He didn’t kiss you there first. He nuzzled, his nose and lips brushing through the soft hair, a gentle, teasing exploration. You shuddered, your hips lifting off the bed involuntarily. Then his mouth found its target.
His first touch was a soft, open-mouthed kiss directly on your center. The warmth, the pressure, made you cry out. Then his tongue emerged. It was flat, broad, and he dragged it slowly, firmly, up your entire slit. The sensation was so direct, so wet, so good, that your hands flew to his head, your fingers gripping his hair. He did it again, slower, savoring. Then his tongue focused, circling your clit with deliberate, tight rotations.
Your back arched off the bed. Pleasure, sharp and building, coiled in your belly. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting them, opening you wider to him. He delved deeper, his tongue now plunging inside you, tasting you, before returning to torment your clit. The rhythm was relentless, expert. You were panting, moaning, your legs trembling where he held them. You could feel your own wetness, hear the soft, slick sounds of his ministrations.
He pulled back, his mouth glistening. His eyes were nearly black with desire. “You taste perfect,” he growled, the sound raw and unfiltered. Then he rose from the floor. He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between your spread legs. He looked down at you, at himself, at the joining that was about to happen. He took himself in one hand, guiding his tip to your entrance. He rubbed it there, through your wetness, coating himself. The contact was exquisite torture.
He leaned forward, bracing himself over you. His face was close to yours. “Look at me,” he commanded. You obeyed, your eyes locking onto his. Then he pushed.
The entry was slow, deliberate, but relentless. He was large, and you felt every inch as he filled you. It was a stretching, a claiming, a completion that made your eyes water. He didn’t stop until he was fully inside, seated deep, his body pressed against yours. He held there, motionless, for a long moment, both of you feeling the profound connection, the heat, the pressure. You could see the strain in his jaw, the pleasure in his eyes.
Then he moved. He withdrew, almost completely, then pushed back in. The stroke was smooth, deep, controlled. He set a pace that was not frantic, but powerful. Each thrust was a full, measured penetration, his hips driving into yours with a force that rocked your body up the bed. The friction was incredible, a building fire inside you. His hands were on your breasts again, kneading, his thumbs brushing your nipples with each push.
Your moans became continuous, ragged sounds. You clutched at his shoulders, his back, feeling the muscles work under your fingers. His pace began to increase, the powerful strokes coming faster, deeper. The bed creaked softly beneath you. His breath grew ragged against your face. He was watching you, his eyes never leaving yours, witnessing every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features.
He was deep inside you, his powerful thrusts rocking your body against the mattress. His hands held your hips with a grip that felt possessive, final. But a surge of energy, a raw desire to take something for yourself, flooded your veins. You wanted to see him, to control the rhythm, to give back some of the intensity he was pouring into you.
With a gasp, you pushed against his chest. He stopped, his eyes widening with a flicker of surprise. You managed to get a hand between your bodies, leveraging yourself up. You didn’t pull him out—you shifted, rolling him beneath you, his cock still buried deep inside. The movement was awkward, urgent, but you succeeded. You straddled him, now sitting upright on his lap, feeling him fill you completely from this new angle.
His hands moved immediately to your waist, steadying you, his thumbs digging into your soft flesh. His gaze, dark and intense, locked onto yours again. “Do it,” he whispered, a challenge and an encouragement.
You began to move. At first, it was tentative—a slow rise and fall, testing the sensation. But then, feeling the way he stretched you, the friction of his length sliding inside you, you found a rhythm. You rode him with abandon, your hips rocking forward and back, then grinding in a circle. Your hands braced on his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath your palms. You leaned forward, your breasts hovering near his face.
He didn’t hesitate. His hands left your waist and reached up, cupping your breasts. He squeezed, the pressure firm and claiming. Then he leaned up, his mouth finding one nipple. He sucked it into his mouth, his tongue working it with the same focused intensity as before. The dual sensation—the deep penetration and the sharp pleasure on your breast—made you cry out. You arched your back, pushing your chest into his mouth, riding him harder.
His other hand continued to play with your free breast, pinching and rolling the nipple. The overload of sensation was dizzying. You were panting, your movements becoming less controlled, more desperate. He released your breast from his mouth, his lips glistening. He grabbed your face, pulling you down to him.
The kiss was messy, hungry. Your mouths clashed, tongues tangling, teeth grazing. You could taste yourself on his lips, a salty, intimate flavor. You moaned into his mouth, your hips never stopping their frantic ride. His hands roamed your back, your ass, gripping and guiding you.
Then he pulled back from the kiss, his breath ragged. “Turn around,” he instructed, his voice a low command. “On your knees.”
You obeyed, a thrill of submission mixing with your own desire. You carefully lifted yourself off him, his cock slipping out with a wet, soft sound. You shifted on the bed, turning your body away from him, getting onto your hands and knees. The position felt exposed, vulnerable. You felt the cool air on your back, then the heat of his body as he moved behind you.
He didn’t enter you immediately. Instead, he knelt close. His hands spread over your ass, appreciating the view. Then he leaned in. His mouth wasn’t on your ass, but lower. He kissed the inside of your thigh, a soft, tender touch. Then his lips found your exposed pussy.
He didn’t just kiss it. He licked. A broad, wet stroke from bottom to top, making you shudder and gasp. He did it again, slower, savoring the taste he’d just left inside you. Then his tongue focused on your clit, circling it with tight, precise rotations. The pleasure was sharp, immediate, a direct contrast to the deep fullness you’d just experienced. You dropped your head, a moan tearing from your throat. Your hands clenched the sheets.
After a minute of this torturous attention, he stopped. You heard him shift. Then his hands were on your hips again, pulling you back slightly. You felt the blunt, wet head of his cock press against your entrance. He pushed.
The angle was different. He sank into you deeper, so much deeper. In this position, with your spine curved and your hips high, he penetrated you in a way that felt like he was reaching your core. Each inch was a profound, stretching invasion. You cried out, a wordless sound of overwhelming pleasure. He filled you completely, his body snug against your ass.
He began to fuck you. His thrusts were powerful, rhythmic, each one driving him deeper into that new, profound depth. The bed shook with the force. Your moans were continuous, broken. One of his hands remained on your hip, holding you steady. The other hand left your hip and reached around you.
His fingers found your clit again. As he thrust into you, his thumb began to rub your sensitive bud in a firm, circular motion. The dual stimulation was overwhelming—the deep, pounding penetration and the direct, focused pressure on your clit. Pleasure built like a storm inside you, tightening your muscles, shortening your breath.
“Come for me,” he growled, his voice thick with his own need. His thrusts became faster, harder. His thumb on your clit pressed harder, moved faster.
You shattered. The orgasm crashed through you, a wave of pure, blinding release. Your body clenched violently around his cock, a tight, pulsating grip. You screamed into the mattress, your vision blurring. The clenching of your pussy, the intense contraction, seemed to trigger him.
He gave a few more brutal, deep thrusts, riding your climax, his own groans becoming ragged. Then, with a final, guttural sound, he pulled out of you completely.
You felt the hot, wet splash of his release on your lower back, on your ass. He was painting you with his cum, marking you. The sensation was warm, possessive. You collapsed onto the bed, your body spent, trembling. He collapsed beside you, his breathing heavy.
For a long moment, there was only silence and the sound of your shared panting. Then he moved, pulling you into his arms. He turned you so you were facing him, and he wrapped you against his chest. His skin was hot, damp with sweat. Your head rested on his shoulder. His hand stroked your hair, a gentle, calming motion.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, his voice soft now, almost tender.
You nodded against his skin, too exhausted to speak.
“I’ll order something,” he murmured. He shifted, reaching for a phone on the bedside table. He made a call, speaking low and quickly, ordering food. Then he got up. You watched him walk to the bathroom, his powerful form moving with a relaxed grace. He disappeared inside, and the sound of shower water started.
You lay there, in the warm, damp sheets, surrounded by the scent of sex and him. Your body felt gloriously used, every muscle soft and satisfied. The exhaustion was profound. Your eyes drifted closed. The sound of the shower was a distant, white noise. Sleep pulled you down before the water even stopped.
You woke to sunlight. It was bright, streaming through the windows, painting the luxurious room in gold. You were alone in the bed. The room was tidy—someone had cleaned them while you slept. The room was silent, empty.
A flutter of panic rose in your chest. You sat up, looking around. No Shownu. No sign of him. Then you saw it—a small, folded piece of paper on the pillow next to you.
You picked it up. It was the same heavy, expensive stationery as the NDA. You unfolded it.
The handwriting was neat, precise.
"Thank you for last night. You were amazing. I have your number."
Just those words. No name. No promise. Just a statement.
You clutched the paper to your chest, your heart pounding. You could still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, the memory of his body inside you. The scent of him seemed to linger in the air. You looked at the empty room, the silent suite.
It had happened. It had really happened.
*
"NDA: The Series is a collection of one-shot stories, each featuring a member of Monsta X and a plot centered around a Non-Disclosure Agreement."
