#it looks really opulent and over the top

[cuppatealove]

It's stressful because I set out to put together a house that wasn't a boring minimalist box, but every nice thing I try to add to it makes me feel like it's going to come across ostentatious and extravagant, in a way that actual period houses somehow don't 😩

[wheresarizona]

Columba 

summary: It isn’t until you’re in his home that you learn it’s General Marcus Acacius who’s summoned you for your services—you’re not sure why he did, when the other courtesans standing beside you, hoping to be chosen by him, have bodies that look nothing like yours.

pairing: Marcus Acacius/Plus Size f!reader (Courtesan)

rating: E (18+!! This is smut. No y/n, explicit smut, plus size reader, courtesan reader, age gap (reader is of legal age in today’s standards), takes place pre-Gladiator 2, dommy Marcus Acacius (loves giving orders), he’s a tiny bit possessive, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, rough sex, backshots, woman on top, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal fingering, breast worship, hair pulling (m receiving), slight breeding kink, (1) pussy slap, dirty talk, spanking, spit mention, some biting, with hair like that he wants it pulled, some sweetness at the end) 

word count: 4.8k+

a/n: I took one look at Marcus’ hair and immediately thought, that guy likes his hair pulled. I also decided that since he spends weeks to months with a bunch of men at a time, when he comes home, he really appreciates a curvy woman. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything for him until I saw the movie, but the trailer got me. This is unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

It was the marble bust atop a pedestal that revealed whose home you were in. The opulence of the domus’ atrium, with its four tall marble columns surrounding the impluvium's shallow, sunken pool in the middle of the room and the compluvium’s opening in the ceiling above it, allowing the moon’s light to filter in, told you whoever lived here had notoriety—then you saw the face carved out of stone, recognizing the curls and strong nose you'd only ever seen as he was paraded past you down the street in honor of his latest victory, and you knew.

General Marcus Acacius is a man feared by many for his ferocity and skills in battle. It's been said Mars, the God of War, blessed his birth, while others believe his bloodline is descended from the God himself. What you know to be true is he's a gifted General that the Emperors and Gods have smiled upon, and in his presence, an intimidating figure you didn't dare look at unless you were addressed.

There are four women standing to your right, all of you younger than him, naked, and courtesans of the highest standard—well-educated and well-versed in politics along with the pleasures of the body—and highly sought out by society's elite. 

Marcus is at the opposite end, silently making his way down the line with what you can only assume is a scrutinizing eye, and you fear there's been a mistake that you're here—the other courtesans are all built similarly with small breasts, flattened stomachs and thinner waists than yours, whereas you’re curvier, and have more meat on your bones, with your bigger chest, soft noticeable belly, and grabbable hips. Clearly, he requested a particular type of woman, and it doesn't appear you're it. Staring down at the tiled floor seems better than seeing the disappointment on his face when he gets to you. 

His sandaled feet come into view as he stands before you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your bare body—golden snake bracelets coil around each of your upper arms, and at the unexpected gentle touch of his fingertips to one, you flinch. 

"Do I frighten you?" His voice is a low, deep rasp that shivers down your spine. 

"No, Sir," you answer.

His thumb strokes over the snake's head and along its body. "Why do you flinch?" 

Raising your head, you see he’s wearing a white tunic with a gold pattern lining around his neck, down his arms, and along the hem, a belt securing it at his waist; golden cuffs covered his wrists. You’re met with dark eyes, a furrow crinkling between his eyebrows—his brown hair with a kiss of gray, curls like waves on his head, his facial hair dotted with a few silvery strands. It takes you a second to answer his question because the glimpses of him you caught during victory parades and the marble bust didn't prepare you for his beauty. 

Mars and Venus have bestowed their blessings upon him. 

“My apologies, Sir,” you finally reply. “It was simply surprise at being graced by your touch.” His expression is difficult to read, so you continue speaking, “I’ve heard of your prowess in battle that inspires songs and how your enemies tremble before you, but I do not believe I have reason to fear you—unless that is something you wish. Do you wish for me to be frightened of you?” 

Some men liked it if you acted afraid of them to feel powerful. Some men, usually the big, tough ones, liked to bury their faces in your bosom while you held them. The slight show of relief on Marcus’ face when you said you had no reason to fear him made you suspect he’d be in the latter category. 

“No.” His eyes are locked onto yours. “I do not need another to fear me. I wish for you to want my touch.” 

“I wish for more than your touch,” you reply. “I wish to feel your lips on mine and your weight on top of me, I wish to feel your cock inside me and to hear the sounds you make when you peak, and I do wish for your touch; I wish to feel your hands claim my body as yours.” 

His gaze turns to one of desire, and it makes you smile. 

"You," he says. "Stay. The rest of you,” he announces, keeping his eyes on yours, “leave us.”

The invitation the messenger brought to your home the day prior did not state who requested your services; it simply said the person was a public figure, and the woman picked would be paid handsomely.

The servants, who stood as still as statues against a wall, scurried to assist each of the other women with redressing.

"Come," he orders, offering you a hand you accept. He leads you to a room you realize is his personal quarters when you spot his armor in a corner, Medusa's golden head on the cuirass shining in the candlelight—she wards off evil and offers protection. There's a bed against the wall opposite the door, and he lets go of your hand, slipping off his sandals by the doorway before walking over to a thin table laden with a jug, cups, and a bowl of berries and grapes. 

"Care for some wine?" he asks without looking at you while pouring himself a cup. 

His body is tense, and you’re assuming you’re here to help him relax—he arrived home only days ago from war, and you got a chance to see him rolling down the street on a chariot as he waved to the cheering masses. It would make sense that he could use somebody with your expertise to get him to unwind. 

“No, thank you, Sir,” you answer, and he faces you again, taking a drink. “It’s a great honor that you chose me, and I do not wish to forget a single moment.” 

His cup lowers, and you're surprised to find he’s wearing a little smile. He twists to set his wine down next to the jug, and removes the cuffs from his wrists, setting them onto the table then his eyes are on yours. 

"Marcus," he says, and it only takes a few strides to have him in front of you again. 

"I'm sorry?" you ask.

His attention moves to your body, and he’s not looking upon you like an object or something he’s just purchased as most men do; his gaze is appreciative, the same kind of look you could imagine was on his face when he stared at art that pleased him. Your figure isn’t the ideal for most Roman women—your hips are too wide, your breasts are too large, your ass is too big, your thighs are too thick, and your stomach is too noticeable—yet, there are many men who sought you out and paid well for your time, and it seems the General is one of them. 

"My name." He walks around you, his fingers sliding along your upper back from shoulder to shoulder. “Call me Marcus. I want you to be familiar with how my name tastes on your tongue.” 

The touch and his words cause your nipples to harden and goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Marcus,” you say. 

He’s in front of you again, his darkened eyes on yours. His big hands grip your waist, pulling you into him, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale deeply. “Gods, you’re the best thing I’ve smelled in months.” The words are said against your flesh. “Like a meadow of flowers in Spring, and I fail to remember the last time I felt such softness.” He squeezes the fleshy handles at your hips and goes lower to grab handfuls of your ass, then runs his hands up your back. “Upon hearing your description,” he says, “I knew you’d be perfect, but what I imagined has no comparison to seeing your beauty with my own eyes.” His admission catches you off guard as it sounds as though he always intended to pick you from the line of women. It’s curious that he even invited the others if his mind had been set beforehand. He straightens, meeting your gaze. “Take off my clothes.” 

There's no need to reply; you just do as he ordered, getting his belt undone, the leather falling to the floor, then pulling his tunic over his head, it meeting the same fate as his belt. 

He’s completely nude, standing at his full height before you. 

You expected the scars etched all over his body, the evidence that he'd lay down his life for Rome without hesitation. There's a long, jagged one across his right pec, silvered with age, that has you forgetting yourself and softly pressing your fingertips to it.

He snatches your smaller hand, pulling it away from his marred skin. 

"My apologies," you quickly say, bowing your head in submission. "I shouldn't have touched you without permission." 

"You may touch me." Once again, he surprises you by putting the flat of your palm against the scar, his other hand grabbing your chin to lift your face. 

From his reaction to your fingers on him, you think he hasn’t been with a woman in quite some time, and you hope you can make up for all the nights he spent alone. 

It seems he's done with the pleasantries when his lips crush into yours. It's all of the encouragement you need, kissing him back while rubbing your palms up his broad chest, feeling his warmth. You snake a hand down his stomach through the trail of hair low on his belly to take his half-hard cock into your hand—he groans and twitches in your hold.

He truly has the Gods' favor—a talented General, handsome and well-endowed. 

With his hands on your waist, he walks you backward to the bed, laying you on the mattress. He's on top of you, deepening the kiss with his tongue pressing into your mouth, his hand palming your tit, making you wet with arousal and your body heat. 

It's fascinating how he's defying all of your expectations. The men who seek you out after spending months fighting are often rough and brutish, using you however they want to release their tension. There's never kissing or offers of drink; it's orders to suck their cocks, or to get on the bed in their desired position—and here's Marcus kissing down your body, along the skin of your neck to your chest. Most of his weight is on his knees between your legs while bending forward over you, and the only word you can think of to describe it is he's worshipping your breasts. He has them in his hands, moving from one to the other, licking, sucking, and nibbling on your nipples and soft skin, the sensations making your pussy weep with need. 

“Gods, Marcus,” you moan. He has you squirming with how good it feels, your fingers pushing into his curls. He takes a pebbled bud between his teeth and gently tugs. “Oh,” you gasp, your hands tightening in the tousled waves on his head.

He releases your nipple. “Harder,” he rasps, then flicks his tongue against your stiff peak, and you do as requested, pulling his hair harder. A loud groan rumbles from his chest as he continues laving at your tits, skimming his hand down your stomach, your skin tingling under his fingertips, until he’s sliding two fingers through your wet slit. You tighten your hold on his head, your toes curling when he starts rubbing your clit, and the realization hits that he intends for you to have just as much enjoyment as him. 

"Marcus," you whine.

He’s one of those men who has you praying that he’ll wish for your company again, and you wouldn’t even make him pay if you got another chance to warm his bed. 

The push of his thick digit into your pussy makes your breath hitch at the slight stretch, his thumb pressing to your sensitive bundle of nerves, moving side to side—you know he’s going to make you come, and you silently thank the Gods.

His finger is pushing in and out of you, his thumb continuing its movements, and he lifts his face to look you in the eyes, his own are so black there’s hardly a sliver of brown remaining. "Come for me," he commands, slipping a second digit inside you—you’re so wet you can hear the slick slide of his fingers pumping into you. The muscles in your belly are tightening, and the fire in your core is building. "Come for me, sweet girl." His head dips to lightly bite your nipple before soothing it with his tongue. "Once you come, I'll do as you wish and sheath my cock into this perfect cunt." 

The hot heat of his mouth envelops your pebbled bud, and he sucks—it's your undoing; your eyes close as you fall over the edge, coming with a moan of his name. His digits and mouth continue to extend your ecstasy while your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart pounds. 

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, his hand sliding from your pussy, up your stomach, leaving a trail of your release on your skin. His voice deepens, “You’ve done well for me, and I keep my word—turn over.” 

He helps you to roll onto your front, and you get up onto your hands and knees—a familiar position. He takes a moment to admire you in front of him, his palms feeling the thickness of your thighs and hips. His fingers dig into your plump asscheeks as he spreads them and dips his head, hearing and feeling him spit between them, the hot saliva dripping from your asshole down to your opening. He shuffles up behind you, sliding his cock through the wetness of your come and his spit to lubricate himself, then notches it at your entrance—you both moan as he slowly starts feeding himself into you. 

Gods, he’s big. 

There’s a slight burn with how he’s stretching you, your inner walls having to accommodate his ample girth, and once he’s pressed all the way to the root inside you, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in. 

He has a tight grip on your waist and pulls out almost all the way, immediately pushing back into you hard enough there's a clap when his hips hit your ass. This was expected, Marcus setting up a rhythm that punches the air from your lungs each time he thrusts forward—he’s working out what he doesn’t wish to feel, and with how slippery it is between your legs, he's moving easily, and the brutal pace feels amazing. 

Many times, you’ve had to fake your enjoyment to make those employing you think they’re talented lovers—the majority are selfish in bed and care little about your comfort but want their egos stroked. Marcus, on the other hand, earned your favor when he took the time to ready you with his fingers and allowed you to climax. 

He's pounding into you, the collide of his body against yours making your asscheeks shake, and with how his cock is pressing into something truly divine, he’s also earned your screams of his name and whatever incoherent words are babbling from your mouth—he has you dizzy with pleasure, heat coiling in your belly, and there’s no doubting the Goddess of Beauty and Sex has given him her blessing. 

Sounds are spilling unbidden from your lips, Marcus loudly grunting with each stroke, the wet slap of skin hitting skin echoing in the room, and you look over your shoulder—the candlelight around the room shows the glisten of sweat on his golden skin. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and his jaw slack. Hair is sticking to his forehead, and a beautiful rosy flush has begun on his chest, rising up his neck to paint his cheeks. You can't think of another you've laid with who looked so breathtaking while taking their pleasure, and you could only imagine how glorious he’d look on the battlefield. You don't know what comes over you, reaching your hand back to touch his hip, and suddenly, he’s looking at you, his eyes glazed with lust. 

It’s as though he’s been in a trance, losing himself in your body, and now he’s come back to be in the moment with you. He falls forward, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of you, blanketing your back and slowing his pace. His chin is on your shoulder, and he bites the shell of your ear; all of his weight goes onto one arm to free up the other that roughly grabs your breast and plucks at your nipple.

“You take me so well,” he says into your ear, his cock continuing to slide in and out of you. “Your sweet little cunt will milk me dry, and then I’ll have you again and again after that to keep you full of my seed.” 

His words steal a moan from your lips. 

“Does that please you, my sweet girl?” he asks. “You wish for more of me? Has another ever fucked you so good?” He gets his hand between your legs to circle the pearl of your pleasure, and your jaw drops, eyes closing—he’s going to make you come again. “Answer me,” he growls, lightly slapping your clit, and you clench around him. 

It’s challenging to think, but you say, “No,” and push your ass back against him as he thrusts forward, fucking yourself on him to get closer and closer to your end. “I’ve never had such fortune.” 

“You do now—by morning, I’ll have you ruined for any other man, and your cunt won’t soon forget the shape of my cock.” 

He means every word that slips from his tongue, and it sets the fire in your belly ablaze. You’re holding yourself up on shaky limbs, the muscles in your stomach knotting up—you’re close.

“Marcus,” you moan. 

His warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks into it: “I love how my name sounds from your lips. I know you’re close. Give in so I can feel you ascend to the heavens.” 

His words, the fullness of his thick shaft moving in and out of you, and his fingers swirling around your sensitive bundle at the apex of your thighs has you shattering—stars burst behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure erupts in your center, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough he slows to a stop, and groans in your ear.

You exhale panted breaths, your heart beating rapidly, and the blissful euphoria ripples through your body, slowly ebbing away. 

Somehow, you find your voice, "Allow me to ride you." 

He kisses your shoulder, his beard scratching against your bare skin. "You want to mount me?" he asks. 

"Yes."

"Then you shall." 

He pulls out of you, an achy groan leaving him as he lies beside you on his back, and you get up onto your knees. He draws your attention with how he’s splayed out on the mattress, his long legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his head. His cock is still hard, it shiny with your juices, and resting against his lower belly, cushioned by the tantalizing path of hair that led directly to it—and he’s looking up at you, his eyes dark with want that keep lowering to your bosom, and back up to your eye line, the pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip, that you suddenly wish to bite. 

There’s the common knowledge about Marcus all of Rome is aware of—the family he comes from and the military achievements that have led to him being the victorious General the Gods have blessed the city with, and now you’re versed in his more private attributes—he likes his women to be sturdy with sizeable breasts, he enjoys the pleasurable pain of his hair pulled, he’s a generous lover, he prefers to be in control unless you can tempt him enough to hand over the reins. It’s quite tempting for him to lie back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him. 

Shuffling in place to face him, taking his hard length in hand—he didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer, yet you want to take care of him like he took care of you, so you scoot back enough that you can bend down at the waist, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

The sound of Marcus’ loud moan and the way his back arches as if it were the string of a bow shoots straight to your cunt—you can taste the mix of your essence and his arousal that’s steadily dribbling from the sensitive head that you lick and suckle; your hand easily stroking up and down the sheath of skin on his shaft. The muscles in his thighs and stomach have tensed like it’s taking everything in him to hold back and not fill your mouth with his come.

“Enough,” he grits the order through his teeth, and his palm lands on the side of your ass with a hard slap that echoes against the walls, the sharp sting getting a moan out of you—your head lifts off of him to see he’s scowling. “I’m not spilling down your throat,” he continues and smacks your ass again. “Ride me, or I’ll have you under me.” 

“Apologies, Marcus,” you reply demurely and sit up on your knees once more. Quickly, you move, throwing a leg over his waist to have your thick thighs hugging his hips. You rise, grabbing his cock, you press to your entrance, and you watch his face as you slowly start to impale yourself on him, relishing in how his mouth falls open and the tight grip he has on the meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into them hard enough it bordered on painful. 

The fullness is incredible when you sit flush against him, and you love how he fills you. Your palms find purchase on his broad chest, and you rise until only the tip of him remains inside of you, and you drop back down—the rhythm you set has you moving in his lap, up and down in quick succession, Marcus groaning, his eyes locked on the jiggle of your breasts. 

Sweat forms on your skin, feeling it on your forehead and a single drop sliding down your spine, your eyes closed as you focus, your moans stuttering each time you sink onto him. 

His hands are resting on your backside, rising and falling with you, his voice rough with pleasure, “That’s it, ride me, bounce on my cock.”

This isn’t about you, and though it feels good riding him, your goal is helping him achieve his own high, and you’re determined to do so—your hands leave him to press your tits together, and you gasp in surprise when he sits up and shoves his face into them. Your pace doesn’t waver, and you look at him to see he’s keeping himself up with an arm braced on the bed behind him, the other hand grabbing a handful of your ass, and you know he’s not going to last much longer. 

Your fingers slide into the unruly curls at the back of his head, and you yank them hard to make him look at you, Marcus hissing while his cock twitches inside you. In this position, you’re taller, and he gazes up to meet your eyes. 

“I want you to come,” you pant, continuing to fuck yourself on him. “I want to feel you flood my cunt with your seed.” The noise he makes sounds like a whine. “Then I want you to do it again, and again after that—I want you to fill me to the point I’m brimming with you, and you’re in me for days.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he groans out a long, drawn-out Fuck

With his beautiful neck on display, you duck your head and lick up the taut skin of his throat, wishing you could suck a mark into it to remind him of you for a while after you part ways. His free hand roughly grabs your chin to pull you close enough for him to slot his lips against yours, and you have to slow to a grind as he messily kisses you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. 

He breaks away to fall back onto the mattress, his fingers getting a tight grip on your ass, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you enough to start thrusting up into your soaked pussy rapidly—he’s grunting while baring his teeth to chase his high, and all you can do is press your palms to his chest for balance while keeping yourself raised enough for him to pound into you. 

The slick push and pull of him, moving in and out of you, has you chanting his name, and it sounds wet between your legs, hearing the clap of skin on skin of him plowing into you. Perspiration makes his tan flesh glint under the candle's light, his hair is a mess atop his head, and his expression is wild; it’s no surprise when his strokes get uneven and his eyes close. Marcus tugs your ass down to bury himself as far as possible in you as he gives in, coming with a guttural groan—you feel his cock jerk and the wet pulse as he paints your insides with spurts and spurts of his spend, wringing himself out until his body goes completely lax.

He pulls you forward to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, and turns you both onto your sides. There’s a hiss that slips from his lips when he removes his softening length from your cunt, and you smile at Marcus sliding down the bed far enough for his face to nuzzle in your bosom while hugging you tight. Your fingers stroke through his sweat-damp curls, his hums of appreciation sounding like the purr of a cat. 

Minutes pass in silence as your breaths even out and your hearts slow. After some time, he says something you can’t make out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” you reply. 

His head lifts, and he kisses under your chin. “Stay,” he says again. 

“I have no intention of leaving. I’m here until you send me away.” 

“And if I don’t wish to send you away?” 

His lips trail along your jaw. 

Your eyebrows pull together. “As I said, I’m here until you request my leave.” 

“And if I never request your leave?” 

He’s kissing your neck now, the question making your eyes round. “You intend for me to be your mistress?” 

It’s not uncommon for a courtesan to become one’s mistress. Some of you are from families of wealth and do this line of work for the powerful connections, while others are freedwomen who’ve worked their way up to earn their notoriety—either case, courtesans are respected and thought to make great mistresses. 

“That is all I can offer since I have no plans to marry,” he answers. “You can stay here with or without me when I’m ordered away, and whatever is left of my salary and spoils of war after the household debts are paid, you may keep.”

He makes you frown. 

“Why me?”

Marcus gets his arm out from under you and scoots up the mattress to look you in the eyes. 

“You’re everything I desire in a woman with your beauty and intellect, and you can sate my needs in bed—you’re perfect, and I want you all to myself. I do not wish to share you with anyone else.”

It’s in this moment you realize you’re the one in control here—you don’t need him, you’re self-sufficient, and there are many who’d eagerly take his place, but your looks are rare in your profession, and he needs his deal to be enticing enough for you to take it. 

“What if I decline your offer?” 

“Then I pray you’ll allow me to keep your company until I receive my next orders.” 

He seems to be a good, honorable man who wants to please you, and he had you tempted to accept on the merit of his skills in bed alone—there’s just something that won’t leave your mind. 

“Before I make my decision, answer this question: if you believe me to be so perfect, why were the others here?” 

He presses his large palm to your cheek. “It was in your power to deny me your company, and though the other women weren’t of my tastes, they were better than nothing.” 

You see no flaws in his answer. 

“I accept your offer on one condition.”

“And that is?”

You no longer find him intimidating, and you’re now comfortable brushing errant hairs off his forehead and sliding your fingers through the curls above his ears. 

Your eyes lock onto his. “You return home to me,” you tell him. “You fight with the might of Mars, and you always return home to me.” 

That earns you a small smile, and he takes your hand into his, kissing the center of your palm. 

“I will, my Dove.” 

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!

[liz-on-leash]

Are you still going to write Eunchae or... 👀

Sponsored Cunt

No tags, read at your own risk!

You sit alone in a lavish hotel suite, eagerly awaiting Eunchae's arrival. You had paid top dollar to have the innocent LE SSERAFIM member all to yourself for her 18th birthday. Anticipation courses through your veins as you hear a knock at the door.

You open it to find Eunchae standing there, a shy smile on her cute face. "Hello~ Thank you for sponsoring my party today!" Her voice is sweet and pure.

You smile back, ushering her inside. "Of course, happy birthday Eunchae-ya. Please, make yourself at home." As the door closes behind her, your smile turns wicked.

Eunchae looks around at the opulent room. "Wow, this suite is amazing. You must really like me to go to all this trouble!" Her naivete is almost laughable.

You step closer, backing her against the wall. "Oh I like you very much, Hong Eunchae. In fact, I've been imagining this moment for a long time now..."

Before she can react, you grab her by the throat, squeezing hard. Eunchae's eyes go wide with shock and fear. "Wh-what are you doing? Let me go!" She croaks out, struggling against your iron grip.

You ignore her pleas, slamming her head back against the wall. Eunchae cries out in pain, her small body going limp. "Stupid girl, didn't you wonder why I'd spend so much money on you? Your manager sold you to me for the night. I own you now."

Keeping your hand around her delicate neck, you rip open her shirt, sending buttons flying. Eunchae whimpers in terror as you grope her budding breasts, pinching and twisting her tender nipples. "You're mine to do with as I please, little girl. And I'm going to break you."

You drag Eunchae into the bedroom and throw her down on the bed. She curls up into a ball, sobbing. "No, please...this can't be happening! I'm a virgin, please don't hurt me!"

Chuckling darkly, you strip off your clothes, revealing your massive, rock hard cock. "A virgin, huh? Well, I'll fix that right up. Scream for me, slut." You growl, roughly yanking her legs apart.

Eunchae screams as you plunge your huge cock deep into her impossibly tight cunt. Her hymen rips open, blood oozing around your invading shaft. "AGHGHGHH NOOOO! IT HURTS, TAKE IT OUT!" She wails, thrashing beneath you.

You laugh sadistically, pounding into Eunchae's torn pussy with brutal force. Her blood smears across your dick and balls. "What a good little cock sleeve...I knew you'd be perfect for raping. This is your new purpose, whore."

Eunchae is too weak from pain and shock to fight anymore. She lies there limply, taking your vicious thrusts into her broken body. You rail her mercilessly, her blood and pussy juices gushing out around your pistoning cock.

Reaching down, you scoop up some of the fluid leaking from her ravaged cunt. Forcing your fingers into her mouth, you make Eunchae taste the proof of her defilement. "Get a load of your own ass juice. Doesn't it taste good to know you're nothing but a set of holes for me to violate?"

Eunchae gags and chokes, tears streaming down her face. But you don't let up, hammering into her abused pussy. The bed creaks and shakes from the sheer force of your thrusts.

After what feels like hours of fucking, you feel your orgasm approaching. Pulling out, you spray your thick load all over Eunchae's battered body. Globs of cum paint her face, tits, and stomach. "Look at you, marked as my cum dump now. I'm going to use you over and over until you're forever broken."

You scoop up Eunchae's limp, cum-soaked form and carry her into the bathroom. Plugging in a handheld shower head, you aim it at her gaping pussy, rinsing out the blood and cum. The gentle pressure makes Eunchae shriek in agony.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for screaming..." She whimpers brokenly, her spirit already shattered. "I'm just a dumb whore now...thank you for raping me sir..."

You smirk in satisfaction, turning off the water. "Good girl. Now get on the bed. I'm going to ruin your ass next, then your throat. We have all night for me to break you in..."

Dragging Eunchae back to the bed, you bend her over and drive your cock into her tiny asshole. She screams like a wounded animal, her body jerking. "NOOO OHH GOD! IT'S SPLITTING ME IN HALF! TAKE IT OOUUUTTT!!"

But you're restless, pounding her ass with animalistic fury. Her blood and shit spray out around your invading cock as you shred her back passage to bits. Eunchae wails like a banshee, her mind splintering from the unbearable agony.

When you're done destroying her ass, you flip Eunchae over and force your bloody, shit-smeared cock down her throat. She gags and chokes violently, tears and snot pouring down her face. You hold her head in place as you brutally face-rape her, her throat bulging obscenely from your huge invading shaft.

Finally, you shoot another massive load straight down Eunchae's gullet. She swallows it convulsively, the excess cum and drool pouring out of her stretched lips. "That's a good cum slut, take it all like the dirty whore."

You collapse next to Eunchae, covered in a mix of piss, shit, cum and other fluids. She lays there in a broken heap, eyes vacant and mouth agape. You've utterly destroyed her mind, body and soul.

As you drift off to sleep, you know you'll never be satisfied with just raping her once. You'll use Eunchae every day, violating her in every way imaginable. She'll be your perfect sex slave.

[mommyslittlebird]

If You Wanted to Stay

Married WandaNat x Reader

Summary: It’s been a confusing past 24 hours, and you have some decisions to make. Luckily, Wanda and Natasha are here to help.

CW: Homophobia, Moving, Guilt, Fluff, Still Slowly Burning, Still no Sex/Romance

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: Three months of waiting but at least you needn’t wait for Chapter 2

Chapter 2 of A Room of Your Own

You woke up the next morning groggier than usual. You sat up as the events of the previous night came back to you. The fight in the dorms. The girl on the sidewalk. The woman who had come to rescue you.

The woman whose house you were currently in. You groaned and dramatically fell back onto the pillows. You turned to the nightstand to check your phone. Dead. Of course. Your charger was in your dorm room.

You finally rolled out of bed at the smell of coffee. In the morning light, the house was much more opulent than you recalled from last night. The bedroom was on a beautiful awning that overlooked the massive windows lined wall of the front door. You squinted your eyes as they took in the sunlight.

Making your way downstairs, you easily found the kitchen, as well as the woman leaning up against the kitchen counter. It wasn’t Natasha so you assumed it must be her wife, Wanda. She was taller than Natasha but just as lean, and just as absolutely jaw droppingly beautiful. She also had red hair, but much lighter than Natasha’s. More of a strawberry blonde. Her legs showed well defined muscle, and her thighs looked like…

“My my,” the woman tutted, interrupting your thoughts. You redden as you realized she caught you ogling over her thighs, which were hardly covered by her silk robe. “Nat wasn’t kidding when she said you were a cutie. Y/N, right?”

You nodded. “Miss Wanda, I assume?”

She nodded. “Y/N. I like that.” She added. “Is that my sweatshirt you’re wearing?” She smirked over the top of her coffee mug.

You flushed in embarrassment when you remembered that you were still in the sweatshirt you’d found on the bed last night.

The sweatshirt, and nothing else.

“It was… my other clothes were wet and-,” you attempted to explain.

“It’s okay. It looks absolutely darling on you. You can keep it, if you like,” she interrupted, trying to soothe your rising worries.

You frowned. You didn’t want to keep the sweatshirt because if you did, the comfy smell that all but lulled you to sleep last night would fade. Almost unconsciously, you raised your covered hands to your face, taking in the smell again. “No, it’s okay. You can keep it.”

Wanda smiled and chuckled. Whether you knew it or not, you weren’t one for subtly.

“Well good morning,” a raspy voice chimed from behind you. “You’re up early.” Natasha squeezed your shoulder and offered you a sleepy smile before approaching her wife.

God, she looked even more beautiful in the daylight.

She wrapped her arms around Wanda’s waist and leaned up against the counter next to her. Wanda gave her a quick peck on the forehead.

You looked at the clock above the stove. It wasn’t even 8am yet. You really had gotten up early. No wonder you’d been so entranced by the coffee smell. Natasha kissed Wanda on the cheek before drawing out two mugs from the cabinet and filling them with coffee. “Which kind of creamer do you like? We’ve got half and half or…” she picked up the bottle and read the label “peppermint oat?” She shot a teasing glance at her wife.

“Life is short and I want a caffeinated delicacy every morning,” Wanda retorted. “And dairy makes my stomach hurt.”

You chuckled. “I’m intrigued. I’ll take the oat.”

Wanda smirked, smugly crossing her arm while she took another sip of her coffee. “She has a sense of adventure.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, pouring the creamer into your cup before handing it to you. You let out a satisfied hum as you tasted the new flavor. Peppermint had always been a favorite of yours.

Natasha put the creamers away, then propped herself up on the kitchen island. “So, about last night,” she started, “do you wanna talk about it?”

You shifted uncomfortably, sinking into the oversized hoodie. “I wasn’t trying to make anyone uncomfortable.” Your eyes brimmed with tears just at the thought. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, determined not to cry.

Wanda set her coffee mug down and slid closer to you. “Oh honey,” she cooed, reaching out to squeeze your hand, “we know that. If I had to guess, they weren’t so much uncomfortable as they were straight up hateful. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You didn’t do anything wrong.

Your heart sunk. You’d felt so terribly guilty about the whole situation. You had tried so hard to make everyone comfortable. The idea that you’d failed… no, you had done worse than fail. They saw you as a predator. Your skin crawled with disgust and shame.

“I made them scared, but I promise I wasn’t trying to. I’m not like that, I promise.” You wanted to shrink back and disappear. Then you remembered this morning: walking into the kitchen and looking at Wanda. The way she caught you staring at her exposed legs. Not to mention you were half naked after forgetting to put on pants before coming downstairs. Fuck. Maybe you were like that.

Natasha tore you from your thoughts with a gentle hand on your shoulder. “We believe you, sweetheart. Really. None of this is your fault. Why don’t we sit down and come up with a game plan.”

You simply nodded in response, joining them at the kitchen table. “I’ll head back to the dorms this afternoon. I have some friends off campus that I can probably crash with until I get things figured out. Thank you both for your hospitality last night. It really means a lot,” you finally said, taking a long drink of your coffee. As much as you typically loved to savor the drink, you figured the sooner you finished it the sooner you could get out of their hair.

Wanda and Natasha exchanged glances. Something akin to concern washed across their faces. Natasha hadn’t even turned back to face you before saying “I think Wanda and I would prefer if you’d let us go with you…”

“Strongly prefer,” Wanda corrected, finally looking back at you. “After how harshly you’ve been treated, I don’t think you need to be going back all by yourself.”

You stuttered, trying to think of a rebuttal, a reason you’d be fine on your own. Unfortunately the panic you’d just recovered from wasn’t helping your case. Clearly you weren’t fine. “It’s really okay. There’s only a couple boxes, most of the stuff never even got unpacked…”

“Then we’ll make quick work of it. Together.” Wanda interrupted. She put her coffee mug a little harder than necessary, pursing her lips with finality.

Natasha chuckled. “It appears my wife has made up her mind. Good luck changing it now.”

You flushed, hiding your face in the hoodie once again. You weren’t so bothered by the thought of the women helping you move out of the dorm, but finding a place to put your things was another matter entirely. You hadn’t lived anywhere but the dorms for years. Maybe they’d settled for just moving the stuff to your car? You doubted it. You pulled anxiously at the collar of the hoodie.

Wanda gave you a sympathetic look and reached across the table for your hand. “It’s going to be okay, honey. We’re going to make sure you’re taken care of.”

Your bottom lip quivered. You had never been keen on asking for help. You had always hated feeling like any sort of inconvenience. But something about Wanda’s soft smile and green eyes made you feel different. You believed her. Before you could think any better of it you whispered “I have nowhere else to go.”

It was Natasha who spoke this time. “Oh honey, that room upstairs is yours for as long as you need it. I mean it, Wands and I would enjoy the company.”

You considered your options. You could couch surf again, like you’d done in the months before college, but it’s not like you’d be any less inconvenient on a punk squat couch with 20 people already living there. You’d run away from opportunities like this before, robbing yourself of others' kindness just because you didn’t feel like you deserved it. You took a deep breath. Whether you deserved it or not, this wasn’t worth running away from. “I have one condition,” you stated seriously. You weren’t in the position to be the one making requests, but there was one absolute necessity you needed from both of them.

Both women nodded, looking at you attentively. Hope gleaned in their eyes in a way you didn’t recognize.

“If I’ve stayed too long, or it’s just become burdensome, or anything, anything at all happens and I become an inconvenience to you, you will tell me.”

They both soften, seemingly unaffected by your request. Wanda even chuckled briefly. “Darling, you aren’t going to become a burden, we assure you,” she soothed.

Your hardened stare didn’t soften. You felt no relief in her words. You squeezed Wanda’s hand that still held yours. “Promise. Me. Promise me you will tell me,” you demanded. With a whispered desperation you added “please.” This wasn’t going to be negotiable for you. You needed to hear them say it.

They both looked at you with a renewed seriousness. Natasha nodded. “We promise.”

Your grip on Wanda’s hand loosened. Then Natasha put her hand on top of yours and Wanda’s. She raised it and cheered like you had put your hands in a circle before a sports game. You and Wanda both soften, chuckling at the older woman’s attempt to lighten the mood.

“Okay team, let’s suit up and get those boxes out of that dorm room before those college girls wake up at noon,” Natasha said, hopping out of her seat and kissing her wife on the top of the head. “Y/N, I left some clothes and a toothbrush in your bathroom. Be ready in 20.”

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

Packing up your dorm had been as delightfully uneventful as you could’ve hoped. Natasha had been correct, most of the girls on your floor were still asleep. The hall was entirely void of people. Your previous roommates had already packed up their things, so all that remained was two bare college beds.

True to your word, packing took no time at all. Between your car and Natasha’s, it wasn’t even going to take a second trip. You had to turn down Wanda’s offer to ride back with you for directions several times, insisting you could use your GPS. In reality though, you were a bit embarrassed by the thought of Wanda being in your old junker car. There was a notable hole in the floorboard of the passenger side. She would’ve had to tuck her feet up to ensure they didn’t fall through..

You waved goodbye as they pulled off in Natasha’s Mustang. Once you were sure they were gone you dug into one of the boxes Wanda had packed, pulling your teddy bear from the top. It had been tradition that everytime you moved, even if it was just dorms, he would be your copilot on your way to your new home. You carefully buckled the seatbelt over him, hopping in the driver’s seat and driving to your temporary new home.

When you arrived, Natasha and Wanda were already busying themselves with unloading the car. Natasha laughed when you got out of the car. “I’m surprised that thing still moves!” she teased, referring to your very old, very busted car.

You smiled and cautiously tapped the hood. “Cheese Louise runs just fine, thank you,” you retorted.

This time it was Wanda who burst into laughter. “Your car’s name is Cheese Louise?”

“Well…” you gestured dramatically towards the car. It was one of the single most unattractive vehicles you’d ever seen. It was just a shade brighter than mustard yellow, and the whole thing was chocked full of holes that had since rusted into larger holes. You didn’t know what the holes were from. They’d already been there when you bought the car. The radio didn’t work, and neither did the AC. But it was your first car and you had grown rather fond of it over the years. “It’s fitting.”

Wanda shrugged, popping one of the backdoors open to help unload. You expected to be unloading the cars into the garage, just as storage until you found another place to stay. To your surprise, the women were actually bringing the boxes inside.

You attempted to correct them, but Wanda tilted her head in confusion. “We can keep it out here if you’d prefer but we were actually kinda hoping you’d let us make your room more… yours.” She could tell by the expression on your face you were unsure, so she reached out her hand and grabbed yours. “Come on, let us give it a shot.” She winked and squeezed your hand before pulling you upstairs.

********

The rest of the afternoon was spent unpacking all of your things into the large bedroom and around the house. You were surprised by how pleasant it all was. You had never found any joy in moving and packing and unpacking, but it was different this time around. You simply found the company enjoyable.

Natasha had unpacked a speaker, insisting you put on some decorating music. Unsure of what to play, you picked a playlist you had made years ago to listen to when you rode in the car with your mother. It was essentially just old hits and a mix of some more modern pop music. The playlist was honestly kind of a mess, but it was still reliably enjoyable. You collapsed onto the bed with laughter as you watched Natasha teasingly attempt to grope her wife, to “Love Shack” by the B-52’s. Wanda rolled her eyes and continued with her decorating before giving in towards the end of the song.

Wanda seemed to really be in her element as well. Despite her complete lack of interest in the “Legend of Zelda” posters she was hanging, she really had a knack for being able to cohesively visualize the room. You beamed with delight as she unveiled a giant poster from the galleria borghese and asked if she could hang it in her office downstairs. You happily agreed. The poster was from an ex who’d taken a trip to Rome one winter, but it was so beautiful you’d kept it anyway.

Natasha stripped the blankets off the california king bed and replaced them with the blankets you’d brought. You had insisted you were fine with the blankets they already had, but after watching you wrap yourself in your favorite throw and rub your face comfortingly against the soft material, Wanda insisted otherwise. You really did love your blankets.

By the time dinnertime rolled around, you were all collapsed against the large mattress. Natasha starfished out all her limbs and Wanda curled up into her side. You laid on your back with your hands folded against your chest. You had an inexplicable urge to curl up with them. You had only met them yesterday and yet you felt drawn to them. You couldn’t remember the last time that being around people had been so easy. So often you found yourself quickly exhausted or at a loss for words, but you hadn’t felt that at all today. The panic from this morning seemed a distant memory.

“Where’s the bear?” Wanda asked, peeking her head up to scan the bed.

Your face flushed. “What?” you asked. You hoped if you played dumb, she might drop the issue. You wondered how she even remembered such a small detail from helping you pack, but you guessed that a college student having one single stuffed animal must have stood out.

“I packed a stuffed bear from the dorms. Was it not in any of the boxes?” Wanda corrected. She genuinely looked a little worried. You weren’t going to be able to wiggle out of this so easily.

“Oh yeah, he must’ve fallen out in the car. I’ll check in the morning,” you said as nonchalantly as you could. You’d be humiliated if she found out how important that bear was to you. You knew you were too old for it to be such a source of comfort. It wasn’t even a comfort from childhood. You had never kept stuffed animals growing up. You’d just picked him up around two years ago when your therapist had recommended a trip to Build-a-Bear to “heal your inner child” or something. His importance had grown by accident. Still, the idea of either woman learning of him was nauseating.

Wanda finally shrugged, seeming pleased enough with your answer.

It wasn’t until later that night, after you’d already fallen asleep, she decided to check for herself. She tucked the bear carefully under your arm, cautious not to wake you up. “I found him. Sweet dreams you two.”

[auraxins]

wwwriothesley and cozy mayhaps?

writing wrio is rly fun actually ty beloved anon for the opportunity hehe <3 i'm really enjoying this sprint-fic series! so, if anyone else wants to, please feel free to send me a character and a one-word prompt ^-^

sprint-fic miniseries 06

prompt: cozy

tags: wriothesley x gn!reader, kissing, fluff, pre-established relationship

wc: 0.5k

The Fortress of Meropide isn’t particularly known for it’s comfort. Such is the point of a prison, of course. And yet, there is a sense of home within these tall metal walls that you can’t find anywhere else in Teyvat. 

It comes to you in the form of the little plush cushions laid out on the chaise in the Duke’s office, the spare blankets kept for when the nights fall cold. A space carved out in the heart of such a hostile environment, made warm and inviting all for you. And it lingers in the brushing of limbs and holding of hands that would have even the most heartless of prisoners watching with envy. 

When you had made the decision to stay by Wriothesley’s side, for better or for worse, you had been prepared to live life poorly if it meant he was near. But he had fought his way to the top of the food chain, shedding sweat and blood and tears, all to lavish you with opulence. You deserve it, he insists. It’s the least he can do, for all you’ve done for him. 

Truly, you don’t think you’ve done much more than love him. 

Perhaps, that’s all he needed. 

Now, you get the pleasure of watching him as he files papers, legs outstretched along the chaise and fluffy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. The corner of his lip downturns as he thumbs through a report, and if you weren’t so comfortable you’d get up and kiss him senseless on the spot. 

“You should take a break,” you suggest, and when he looks up at you, you take the opportunity to curl your finger and beckon him over. “Rest a while?” 

Wriothesley settles beside you with ease, gently lifting your legs before placing them back across his lap. For a man with the ability to manipulate ice, his blood runs hot. He is warm when he presses against you, slotting perfectly within your arms. 

“You’ll be the death of me one day,” he grumbles, turning to kiss your neck. 

The scruff around his jaw scratches against your skin and tickles you, eliciting a fit of giggles, but he refuses to cease. He kisses up along to your cheeks, and up to your forehead, before taking your face between his large calloused palms and capturing your lips. You melt into him, pliant and pleased, fingers twisting into the collar of his shirt as you anchor him close. 

Kissing Wriothesley is as indulgent as the life he has molded for you, languid and rich. Your tongue finds one of the scars that stretches across his mouth and dips against the flesh, and he doesn’t stifle the groan that escapes from it. The pad of his thumbs presses against the hollows of your cheeks and your mouth parts for him in turn. Like clockwork. 

You have been made for one another since the beginning. And even in the most mundane of moments shared between you, this forever rings true. 

[amethystarachnid]

maybe a prequel to let you know how Tony and y/n ended up with four kids? 🤭, just wanna focus some more on the two of them before the kids

IS THAT EVEN A QUESTION???? OF COURSE YESSSSS!!!! 🥹😍 this family is so perfect!!!

CHRISTMAS MORNING - prequel

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 9.6k

ᯓ★ Summary: the story of how you and Tony ended up with four kids

ᯓ★ TW(s): some spicy scenes

ᯓ★ Part I | Part II | Part III

ᯓ★ Tony Taglist: @groovy-lady

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The private jet touches down in Paris just as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of pink, orange, and lavender. From your seat, you can already see the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the distance, its golden lights shimmering like a beacon. The sight takes your breath away, and Tony, seated next to you, notices immediately.

“Wait until you see it up close,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple. “The Maldives were nice, but Paris… Paris is the city of love. It’s going to ruin you for every other place.”

“You’re the one ruining me,” you tease, turning to face him. “This is over the top, even for you. Who takes a honeymoon after the honeymoon?”

He grins, that classic Stark smirk that’s equal parts confidence and mischief. “I do. And you love it.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s not wrong. From the moment you said “I do” just a few weeks ago, Tony has made it his mission to ensure that your life together starts with nothing short of pure magic. First, there was the extravagant wedding, an intimate yet elegant affair with just the right mix of family, friends, and glamour. Then came the Maldives—a week of turquoise waters, white sandy beaches, and lazy mornings spent in each other’s arms.

And now Paris.

By the time you’re whisked away in a sleek black car to the hotel, the city’s energy is already wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Tony is at your side, his hand resting on your thigh as he points out landmarks through the window, his excitement almost boyish.

The car pulls up in front of a building so grand it looks like it was plucked from a dream. The Hôtel Plaza Athénée, with its iconic red awnings and ornate façade, is breathtaking. But it’s not until you step inside the suite that you truly understand the extent of Tony’s planning.

The room is enormous, with high ceilings, opulent chandeliers, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offer an uninterrupted view of the Eiffel Tower. A bottle of champagne sits chilling on the marble-topped bar, and a trail of rose petals leads from the entrance to the massive bed draped in silk sheets.

“Tony,” you breathe, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.

He watches you with a satisfied smile, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Too much?”

“It’s perfect,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him. “Good. Because you deserve perfect.”

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, your heart swelling at the tenderness in his eyes. “You know, you’re setting the bar really high for the rest of our marriage.”

“Good,” he says, his lips brushing against yours. “Because I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.”

The next few hours pass in a blissful haze. You toast to your new life together with champagne, your glasses clinking softly as you sit on the plush sofa and watch the Eiffel Tower sparkle in the distance. Tony insists on feeding you strawberries dipped in chocolate, and you can’t help but laugh at his exaggerated attempts to be suave.

Eventually, the city outside calls to you, and you find yourselves wandering hand in hand through the streets of Paris. The air is cool but not cold, and the city feels alive in a way that’s almost tangible. You stop at a small café for espresso and pastries, and Tony spends the entire time gazing at you like you’re the most captivating thing in the world.

“Stop staring,” you say, trying to fight back a smile.

“Can’t help it,” he replies, his voice low and teasing. “I married a goddess.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in his tone makes your cheeks flush.

The night ends back at the hotel, where Tony pulls you onto the balcony. The Eiffel Tower looms large before you, its lights casting a golden glow over the city. He wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“This,” he says softly, his breath warm against your ear. “This is exactly how I imagined it. You and me, in Paris, with the rest of the world fading into the background.”

You turn in his arms, your hands resting on his chest. “You’re such a romantic. I never would’ve guessed.”

He chuckles, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

Your laughter is muffled by his kiss, slow and deep and filled with every unspoken promise you’ve made to each other.

The next morning, you wake to the sound of soft Parisian rain tapping against the windows. The room is still dim, the heavy curtains keeping the early light at bay. Tony is already awake, propped up on one elbow as he watches you with a sleepy smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Stark,” he says, his voice husky with sleep.

“Good morning,” you reply, your own smile matching his.

He leans down to kiss you, and you lose track of time, the rain outside becoming a soothing soundtrack to the soft, lazy morning you spend wrapped up in each other.

Eventually, hunger pulls you out of bed, and Tony insists on ordering room service. When the knock comes at the door, he’s shirtless and grinning as he wheels in a cart laden with croissants, fresh fruit, and enough coffee to keep you both buzzing for hours.

“Breakfast in bed,” he announces, setting the tray down on the bed between you. “Because I’m the perfect husband.”

“Perfect, huh?” you tease, taking a sip of coffee. “What happened to ‘genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist’?”

He smirks. “Retired the playboy title. I’ve upgraded to devoted husband.”

The day unfolds in a series of moments so perfect they feel almost unreal. You visit the Louvre, where Tony pretends to critique the art in exaggerated tones that have you laughing so hard you can barely breathe. You stroll along the Seine, stopping at little shops and buying ridiculous souvenirs, including a beret that Tony insists you wear for the rest of the day.

That evening, he surprises you with dinner at Le Jules Verne, the Michelin-starred restaurant inside the Eiffel Tower. The view is spectacular, but it’s the way Tony looks at you—like you’re the only thing that matters—that truly takes your breath away.

“Have I mentioned how beautiful you look tonight?” he asks, his voice low and sincere.

“Only about a hundred times,” you reply, your cheeks warming under his gaze.

��Not enough, then,” he says, reaching across the table to take your hand.

By the time you return to the hotel, Paris feels like it’s become a part of you—its magic, its beauty, and the love you’ve shared here all weaving themselves into the fabric of your story.

As you lie together in the dark, the Eiffel Tower’s lights casting a soft glow through the curtains, Tony pulls you close, his arms warm and strong around you.

“You know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “Someday, when we have kids, I’m going to tell them all about this trip.”

You smile, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “What are you going to tell them?”

“That it was the start of everything,” he says softly. “The moment I realized there was nothing I wouldn’t do to make you happy.”

Your heart swells at his words, and as you drift off to sleep, you know without a doubt that this is the beginning of a love story for the ages.

The days in Paris seem to blur together in a dreamlike haze, each one more romantic and enchanting than the last. Tony insists on showing you everything—whether it’s the iconic landmarks or the hidden gems only locals seem to know about. He pulls out all the stops, making sure every moment feels like something out of a fairytale.

One afternoon, you visit the Sacré-Cœur in Montmartre, climbing the steps hand in hand as the city sprawls out beneath you in all its beauty. Tony stops halfway up to pull you into his arms and kiss you, not caring about the crowd around you. When you reach the top, he wraps an arm around your waist and points out landmarks in the distance, his voice filled with excitement as if he’s seeing it all for the first time too.

“You see that?” he says, pointing to a small café nestled in a nearby street. “We’ll grab a coffee there before heading back. Locals swear by it.”

“You’ve done your homework,” you tease, leaning into him.

“Only the best for Mrs. Stark,” he replies, kissing your temple.

From there, the two of you wander through the cobbled streets of Montmartre, stopping to admire street art and musicians performing on the corners. You share a crepe from a tiny stand, laughing as Tony tries (and fails) to eat it without getting powdered sugar all over his shirt.

“Worth it,” he says, brushing the sugar off with a grin.

That evening, you stroll along the Seine as the sun sets, painting the water in golden hues. Tony takes you to a bookshop filled with ancient, leather-bound tomes and buys you a vintage copy of a French poetry collection, insisting that you read it to him later even though your French is rusty at best.

“You’ll butcher the pronunciation,” he jokes, tucking the book under his arm. “But it’ll still be sexy.”

The laughter, the stolen kisses, the endless affection—it’s all a reminder of how much you love each other and how lucky you are to have found this kind of happiness.

On your fifth day in Paris, you return to the hotel suite after a long day of exploring, expecting to collapse onto the bed and rest your aching feet. But the moment you step inside, you freeze.

The room has been transformed.

Dozens of candles flicker softly, their golden light casting a warm glow over the space. Flowers are everywhere—roses, peonies, and lilies arranged in elegant bouquets on every surface. A bottle of champagne sits chilling in an ice bucket next to two crystal flutes, and soft music plays from hidden speakers.

You turn to Tony, your eyes wide. “What’s all this?”

He smirks, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Just thought we’d end our Paris trip with a little extra magic.”

“Tony…”

“You deserve it,” he says simply, stepping closer to wrap his arms around your waist. “Every candle, every flower, every second of happiness—I want you to have it all.”

Your chest tightens with emotion as you lean into him. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Now, come on. Let’s toast to us.”

You sit together on the plush sofa, sipping champagne and letting the weight of the day melt away. Tony is as charming and witty as ever, making you laugh until your sides ache. But there’s also a softness to him tonight, a quiet vulnerability that makes you fall in love with him all over again.

As the champagne flows, the conversation grows quieter, more intimate. You talk about your future together, the life you’re building, the dreams you both have for the years to come.

“I can’t wait to see you as a dad,” you say softly, your head resting on his shoulder.

He chuckles, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. “Oh, I’ll be the fun parent, no doubt about it. You’ll be the one who makes sure they eat their vegetables and do their homework.”

“And you’ll be the one teaching them how to hotwire a car,” you tease.

“Exactly,” he says with a grin. “We’ll balance each other out.”

The night stretches on, and as the candles burn lower, you find yourselves tangled together on the bed, the rest of the world fading away. Tony is all soft whispers and gentle touches, his love for you shining in every movement, every kiss.

The next two days pass in a blissful haze, though the knowledge that your time in Paris is coming to an end lingers in the back of your mind. You make the most of every moment, revisiting your favorite spots and indulging in one last round of pastries and wine.

Finally, the day comes when you have to leave. The flight back to Miami is bittersweet—you’re excited to return to the villa, but saying goodbye to Paris feels like leaving a piece of your heart behind.

As the plane takes off, Tony reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers. “We’ll come back,” he promises, his voice soft. “Maybe for an anniversary. Or just because. Paris will always be here for us.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, a contented smile on your lips. “I love you,” you whisper.

He turns to press a kiss to your hair. “I love you more.”

When you finally arrive back at the villa, the familiar warmth of home wraps around you like a comforting embrace. The memories of Paris stay with you, though, lingering in the air like the scent of roses and champagne.

And as you fall asleep that night, nestled in Tony’s arms, you can’t help but feel like this is just the beginning of a love story that will last a lifetime.

A month later, life in Miami has settled into a blissful rhythm. The villa feels alive with the love and laughter you and Tony share, the memories of Paris still fresh in your mind. You’ve spent the last few weeks unpacking souvenirs, teasing Tony for his over-the-top beret collection, and finding new ways to love each other in the quiet moments of daily life.

But lately, you’ve noticed something different. Subtle changes that make you stop and think. The fatigue you’ve been brushing off as jet lag doesn’t seem to fade, and you’ve had a few mornings where you’ve woken up feeling queasy. At first, you dismiss it—stress, the heat, maybe a stomach bug. But as the days pass, a quiet suspicion grows in the back of your mind.

It isn’t until one morning, when the smell of Tony’s coffee turns your stomach, that you realize you need answers.

With Tony busy in his workshop, you sneak out to the nearest pharmacy and pick up a pregnancy test. The drive back feels surreal, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. Once home, you lock yourself in the bathroom, staring at the little plastic stick as if it holds the key to your entire future.

And then it happens.

Two lines.

Your breath catches in your throat, and tears spring to your eyes as the realization washes over you. You’re pregnant.

The moment feels too big to contain, and you sit there for a while, holding the test and letting the joy sink in. When you finally compose yourself, your thoughts immediately turn to Tony. How will you tell him? He’s going to be thrilled—you know that much. But you want to make the moment as special as he’s made every moment for you.

An idea begins to form, and soon you’re rushing around the villa, gathering supplies and making calls. By the time Tony emerges from his workshop that evening, everything is ready.

He walks into the living room, his T-shirt smudged with grease and his hair a charming mess. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says, glancing around. “What’s all this?”

The room is bathed in soft candlelight, with a trail of rose petals leading to the dining table. On the table sits a small box wrapped in gold paper, alongside a plate of Tony’s favorite dessert.

“I wanted to surprise you,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady as your heart races.

His eyebrows lift, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Another surprise? You’re spoiling me, Mrs. Stark.”

“Just sit,” you urge, gesturing to the chair.

He does as he’s told, his curiosity evident. “What’s the occasion?”

You smile, your hands trembling slightly as you hand him the box. “Open it and find out.”

He gives you a playful look but tears into the wrapping with childlike enthusiasm. Inside, he finds a tiny pair of baby booties—soft, white, and impossibly small. His hands freeze, and his eyes widen as he stares at the booties.

“Wait…” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. He looks up at you, his expression a mixture of shock and awe. “Are you…?”

You nod, tears filling your eyes. “We’re having a baby, Tony.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to find the right words. And then he’s on his feet, pulling you into his arms with so much force you let out a surprised laugh.

“We’re having a baby,” he repeats, his voice full of wonder. “I’m going to be a dad?”

“You’re going to be a dad,” you confirm, your hands clutching the back of his shirt as he holds you close.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face. “You’re amazing. Do you know that? You’re absolutely amazing.”

You laugh, tears streaming down your cheeks. “You had a little something to do with it.”

“Yeah, but you’re doing the hard part,” he says, dropping to his knees in front of you. He presses his hands gently to your stomach, even though it’s still flat. “Hey, little Stark. It’s your dad. Just wanted to say… I love you already.”

Your heart swells as you watch him, his usual bravado replaced by a tenderness that takes your breath away.

“Tony,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

He looks up at you, his eyes shining. “I’m going to take care of you both. Whatever you need, whenever you need it—I’m here.”

Over the next few days, Tony’s excitement only grows. He dives headfirst into research, ordering books on pregnancy and parenting, and even designing a state-of-the-art baby monitor. He starts asking you a million questions—Are you eating enough? Are you getting enough rest? Do you need anything?

One evening, you catch him talking to your belly again, his voice soft and full of love.

“So, here’s the deal,” he says, his hand resting gently on your stomach. “You’re going to have the best mom in the world. Seriously, she’s amazing. And me? Well, I’ll do my best not to embarrass you too much. But I can’t make any promises.”

You watch from the doorway, your heart melting at the sight.

“Are you giving our baby a pep talk?” you ask, stepping into the room.

Tony looks up, grinning. “Just getting a head start. Never too early to bond, right?”

You laugh, sitting beside him on the couch. “You’re going to be an incredible dad, you know that?”

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. “Only because I have you by my side.”

As the weeks pass, the reality of your pregnancy begins to sink in. You and Tony start making plans—converting one of the spare rooms into a nursery, discussing baby names, and dreaming about the future.

One night, as you lie in bed together, Tony traces lazy patterns on your arm, his voice soft and thoughtful.

“Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” you reply, smiling. “What do you think?”

He grins. “If it’s a girl, she’s going to have me wrapped around her little finger from day one. And if it’s a boy… well, I’ll teach him everything I know about being a genius billionaire.”

You laugh, resting your head on his chest. “Either way, they’re going to be loved beyond measure.”

Tony presses a kiss to your hair. “That’s a guarantee.”

In the quiet moments like this, you feel the weight of your happiness, the love you share with Tony expanding to make room for the new life you’re creating together. And as you drift off to sleep, you can’t help but think that this is the beginning of the greatest adventure yet.

The months of your pregnancy pass like a whirlwind, a beautiful blend of preparation, excitement, and moments of quiet connection between you and Tony. From the moment you told him the news, he’s been by your side for every step of the journey, making sure you feel loved, supported, and cared for in every possible way.

It starts with the nursery. One morning, Tony wakes you up with a mischievous grin and a blueprint in hand.

“Alright, future Stark,” he says, pointing to the paper. “Your nursery is going to be the coolest room in the house. Scratch that—the coolest room on the planet.”

You roll your eyes fondly, propping yourself up on the pillows. “Tony, it’s a baby, not a Stark Expo exhibit.”

“Details,” he says, waving a hand. “Look at this. Adjustable crib height. Temperature-controlled walls. And, of course, a soundproof system so I can build without waking the baby.”

“Let’s start with painting the walls,” you suggest, laughing.

He’s relentless in his enthusiasm, though, and over the weeks, you watch as the nursery transforms. The walls are painted in soft, neutral tones—gentle creams and grays, perfect for the baby whether it’s a boy or a girl. Tony can’t help but add some of his signature flair, installing a ceiling full of tiny twinkling lights to mimic the night sky.

“It’s so they’ll always have stars to look at,” he explains one night, pulling you into his arms as you both admire the room.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper, resting your head on his shoulder.

The gender reveal happens a few months later, and true to your style, you decide to keep it intimate—just the two of you. You’ve both been careful to avoid finding out the baby’s sex during the ultrasounds, wanting to make the moment special.

One evening, you sit on the villa’s balcony, the ocean breeze ruffling your hair as the sun dips below the horizon. Tony has set up a simple cake with neutral frosting, and as he brings it over, you can’t help but feel a nervous excitement flutter in your chest.

“Are you ready?” he asks, holding the knife out to you.

You nod, your hand trembling slightly as you both cut into the cake together. As the first slice falls away, the inside reveals a soft pink color, and your breath catches in your throat.

“It’s a girl,” you whisper, tears springing to your eyes.

Tony lets out a breathless laugh, pulling you into a tight hug. “We’re having a daughter.”

The rest of the evening is spent basking in the joy of the news. Tony pours a sparkling apple cider for the two of you, and you sit together under the stars, imagining what your little girl will be like.

“She’s going to be brilliant,” Tony says, leaning back in his chair. “Beautiful, like her mom. And probably a handful, like her dad.”

You laugh, placing a hand on your growing belly. “We’ll name her something strong. Something that fits her.”

Over the next few months, as your belly swells and your connection to the baby grows, the name “Cora” keeps coming up in conversation.

“It’s classic, but not too common,” you say one night, lying in bed as Tony traces lazy circles on your stomach.

“And it has a nice ring to it,” he agrees.

Eventually, it feels like the name was always meant for her. Cora Stark.

Tony talks to your belly every chance he gets, his voice soft and full of wonder.

“Hey, Cora,” he says one evening, resting his head on your bump. “It’s your dad. I can’t wait to meet you. Just so you know, you’ve already got me wrapped around your little finger. And your mom? She’s a superhero, so you’re in good hands.”

The sweetness of his words never fails to make you smile. He’s even more protective than usual, refusing to let you lift a finger. You catch him researching everything from the best prenatal vitamins to baby-proofing techniques, and his dedication warms your heart.

As your due date approaches, the anticipation becomes almost unbearable. The nursery is ready, filled with soft blankets, tiny clothes, and toys Tony couldn’t resist buying. You spend your days nesting, organizing and reorganizing the drawers, while Tony hovers nearby, insisting on carrying anything heavier than a feather.

Then, one warm evening, it happens.

You’re in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner, when a sharp pain shoots through your abdomen. You freeze, your hand going to your belly as the knife clatters onto the counter.

“Tony,” you call out, your voice trembling.

He’s at your side in an instant, his eyes wide with concern. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think… I think it’s time,” you say, clutching his arm as another contraction hits.

The next few hours are a blur of activity. Tony keeps his cool—barely—helping you to the car and driving to the hospital while simultaneously calling the doctor, Pepper, and every other person he thinks might need to know.

When you finally reach the delivery room, he’s by your side the entire time, holding your hand and whispering words of encouragement.

“You’ve got this,” he says, his voice steady even though his eyes are filled with emotion. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

And then, after what feels like an eternity, you hear the first cries of your baby girl.

“She’s here,” Tony whispers, his voice breaking as the doctor places the tiny bundle in your arms.

You look down at her, tears streaming down your face as you take in her tiny features—the soft tuft of hair, the little fingers that curl around yours.

“She’s perfect,” you whisper, your voice full of awe.

Tony leans over, pressing a kiss to your forehead before gazing at his daughter with a look of pure adoration.

“Hi, Cora,” he says softly, his finger brushing her cheek. “I’m your dad. And I love you more than anything.”

In that moment, with Cora in your arms and Tony by your side, the world feels complete. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of is right here, wrapped in the love you share as a family. And as you hold your daughter close, you know this is only the beginning of a beautiful new chapter.

Bringing Cora home for the first time is a surreal experience. The nursery, once so pristine and untouched, now feels alive with her presence. You carry her into the house, cradled in your arms, while Tony hovers beside you, holding the diaper bag as if it contains fragile glass. He’s been unusually quiet since leaving the hospital, his eyes never leaving Cora’s tiny face.

When you step into the nursery, the soft twinkling lights on the ceiling cast a warm glow over the room. You place her in the crib, a tiny bundle wrapped snugly in a pink blanket, and just stand there for a moment, your heart swelling with love.

“She’s really here,” you whisper, brushing a hand over her downy hair.

Tony leans over the crib, his expression a mix of awe and disbelief. “She’s so small,” he murmurs. “How is she even real?”

“She’s half you,” you tease, looking up at him. “Of course she’s perfect.”

He smirks, though his voice softens as he says, “She’s more you. That’s why she’s perfect.”

From the very first night, it’s clear that Cora has Tony wrapped firmly around her tiny, delicate fingers. She lets out the smallest whimper, and Tony is already out of bed, rushing to her side.

“Tony,” you murmur sleepily, watching him through half-closed eyes as he leans over the crib, gently picking her up.

“She needs me,” he insists, rocking her gently in his arms.

“She’s probably just fussing in her sleep.”

He shakes his head, looking down at her with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “She needs her dad.”

And that’s how the nights go. While you’re the one feeding her, Tony is always right there, handing you bottles, adjusting her blanket, or just staring at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world.

By the end of the first week, you’re both running on very little sleep, but Tony seems to have developed a superhuman ability to function despite it. You, on the other hand, aren’t quite as lucky. One morning, you’re sitting on the couch with Cora in your arms, trying to keep your eyes open, when Tony appears with a tray of breakfast.

“Eat,” he commands, setting the tray in front of you. “I’ve got her.”

You blink up at him, too exhausted to argue. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he says, carefully scooping Cora into his arms.

You watch as he starts pacing the room, humming softly to her. It’s a completely different side of Tony than the one the world knows—the billionaire playboy, the genius inventor. Here, he’s just a dad, utterly devoted to his little girl.

Over the next few weeks, his devotion only deepens. He insists on being part of everything, from diaper changes to bath time. At first, he’s all thumbs, fumbling with the snaps on her onesies and nearly dropping a bottle during one of her feedings.

“You’re a genius, and you can’t figure out baby clothes?” you tease, watching as he wrestles with a stubborn button.

“Hey,” he shoots back, narrowing his eyes. “This is complicated engineering.”

But it doesn’t take long for him to get the hang of it. Soon, he’s a pro at changing diapers, even inventing a gadget to make the process faster.

“See?” he says proudly one afternoon, holding up the contraption. “Efficiency is key.”

“Tony,” you laugh, shaking your head. “Sometimes you just have to do things the old-fashioned way.”

“Not in this house,” he declares, grinning.

Cora, for her part, seems to adore her dad. She has a way of calming down the moment she’s in his arms, her tiny hand clutching his shirt or his finger. Tony takes every little coo and gurgle as a sign of her brilliance.

“She’s communicating,” he tells you one evening as she babbles happily in his lap.

“She’s just making baby noises,” you reply, amused.

“No, she’s trying to say something. I think she’s trying to say ‘Dad.’”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tony, she’s three weeks old.”

“Genius genes,” he counters, grinning.

Despite his confidence, there are moments when you catch him looking a little overwhelmed. One night, as you’re getting ready for bed, you find him sitting in the nursery, holding Cora close to his chest.

“Hey,” you say softly, leaning against the doorframe.

He looks up, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I just… I want to get everything right, you know? I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t,” you assure him, sitting beside him and resting your head on his shoulder. “You already love her more than anything. That’s what matters.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around both you and Cora. “She’s going to be amazing,” he murmurs. “Just like her mom.”

As the weeks turn into months, you start to settle into a routine. Cora’s personality begins to shine through—she’s curious, always wide-eyed and alert, and she has a smile that could light up the entire villa.

One afternoon, as you’re sitting in the living room, Tony pulls out a small black notebook and starts scribbling furiously.

“What are you doing?” you ask, cradling Cora in your arms.

“Baby Stark’s first invention ideas,” he says without looking up.

You laugh. “Tony, she’s not even sitting up yet.”

“Exactly. I’m getting ahead of the game.”

Moments like these make you realize how deeply in love you are—not just with Tony, but with the life you’ve built together. Watching him with Cora, seeing the way he lights up when she’s in the room, fills you with a sense of peace you’ve never known before.

And when Cora falls asleep at night, nestled in her crib under the twinkling lights, you and Tony steal moments for yourselves.

One night, as you’re lying in bed together, Tony wraps an arm around you and pulls you close.

“Can you believe we made her?” he asks, his voice soft with wonder.

You smile, resting your head on his chest. “It’s hard to believe sometimes. She’s so perfect.”

“She is,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to your hair. “And so are you.”

You fall asleep that night with his arms around you, your heart full of love for the little family you’ve created. It’s not always easy—there are sleepless nights and moments of exhaustion—but through it all, one thing remains constant: the love that binds you, Tony, and Cora together.

Cora as a toddler is an absolute whirlwind of energy and discovery, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s just beginning to babble actual words, and while most of them are jumbled sounds only you and Tony can interpret, she’s already mastered a few favorites: “Mama,” “Dada,” and, of course, “No.”

Tony is hopelessly, utterly smitten with her. If she had him wrapped around her finger as a newborn, she now has him tied up in a full bow, and he doesn’t seem to mind one bit.

One morning, you find him sprawled out on the nursery floor, Cora perched on his chest like she owns him. She’s giggling uncontrollably, her tiny hands patting his face as he makes exaggerated silly noises.

“Stark Industries meeting canceled, I assume?” you tease, leaning against the doorframe with a cup of coffee in hand.

Tony tilts his head to look at you, his face smeared with what looks suspiciously like mashed banana. “This is more important,” he declares, grinning. “I’m raising the next CEO.”

Cora claps her hands at the sound of his voice. “Dada!” she exclaims, the word coming out loud and clear.

“That’s right,” Tony says, beaming. “Say it again. Come on, kid, show your mom who your favorite is.”

You laugh, setting your coffee down and crossing the room to join them. “She loves us equally,” you point out, scooping Cora into your arms.

Cora doesn’t seem to care about the argument, instead turning her attention to your hair, which she grabs with surprising force.

“She’s got your strength,” Tony says, sitting up and brushing banana off his shirt.

“And your flair for chaos,” you counter, wincing as you gently pry her fingers away from your hair.

Despite her mischievous streak, Cora is endlessly sweet. She loves to hand you things—blocks, books, occasionally random objects she’s found on the floor—and say “Here!” in her high-pitched little voice. Tony, of course, takes every offering as a priceless treasure.

“Thank you, princess,” he says one afternoon when she toddles up to him with a crumpled napkin. He acts like she’s just handed him a gold bar, holding it up to the light and examining it with mock seriousness.

“Tony,” you say, laughing, “it’s trash.”

“Not to her, it’s not,” he says, slipping the napkin into his pocket as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Cora’s curiosity knows no bounds. She loves exploring every corner of the villa, her little feet pattering on the marble floors as she goes from room to room. Tony has taken it upon himself to baby-proof everything, but he still follows her around like a hawk, ready to scoop her up at the first sign of trouble.

One day, you find the two of them in Tony’s workshop, Cora sitting on the floor with a pile of colorful wires in front of her.

“Tony,” you say, raising an eyebrow, “is that… safe?”

“They’re not plugged into anything,” he assures you, crouching down next to her. “See? Harmless.”

Cora picks up a wire and holds it out to him. “Here!”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, taking it with a grin. “You’re a natural.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. The two of them are thick as thieves, and it’s clear that Tony treasures every moment he spends with her.

Cora’s vocabulary grows quickly, and every new word is cause for celebration. When she says “love you” for the first time, you both nearly melt on the spot.

It happens one evening as you’re sitting on the couch, Cora snuggled between you with her favorite plush bunny clutched in her arms.

“Cora,” Tony says, leaning close to her, “do you know how much Dada loves you?”

She looks up at him with wide eyes, then tilts her head. “Love you!” she chirps.

You gasp, your hand flying to your mouth. “Did she just—?”

“She did,” Tony says, his voice thick with emotion. “She said it!”

“Love you!” Cora repeats, this time reaching out to pat his cheek.

Tony pulls her into his arms, holding her close as he presses a kiss to her forehead. “I love you too, princess,” he says softly.

Watching the two of them together fills you with a sense of joy that’s hard to put into words. Tony has always been larger than life, but with Cora, he’s different—softer, more grounded. He’s still the genius billionaire you fell in love with, but now he’s also a dad, and he takes that role just as seriously as he takes everything else in his life.

There are countless little moments that make your heart swell. Like the time Tony taught Cora to say “yes” by offering her cookies every time she got it right. Or the time he built her a tiny rideable car, complete with her name painted on the side.

“She’s one,” you pointed out as he presented the car to her. “She can barely walk, let alone drive.”

“Early start,” he said, unbothered.

And then there’s bedtime, which has become a ritual of its own. Tony insists on reading her a story every night, even when he’s exhausted from work. Cora’s favorite book is one about a bunny who goes on adventures, and she lights up every time Tony does the voices.

“One day, you’ll go on adventures too,” he tells her as he tucks her in. “But for now, your only job is to sleep and dream big, okay?”

“Dada,” she says sleepily, reaching out for him.

He stays by her side until she drifts off, his hand resting gently on her back.

Afterward, you find him standing in the nursery, looking down at her with a look of pure love on his face.

“She’s everything,” he says quietly, turning to you. “How did we get so lucky?”

You smile, wrapping your arms around him. “I ask myself that every day.”

Life with Cora is a constant adventure, filled with laughter, love, and moments of pure magic. And as you watch her grow, you can’t help but feel grateful for the beautiful family you’ve built together. Tony may have the world at his feet, but it’s clear that to him, Cora is his entire universe—and she always will be.

The first day of school for Cora feels like a milestone for both her and Tony. She’s five years old and practically vibrating with excitement, her tiny backpack filled with everything she carefully picked out for the occasion: pencils, crayons, and a little notebook with bunnies on the cover.

Tony, on the other hand, is vibrating with nerves.

“She’ll be fine,” you assure him for the tenth time that morning as Cora spins in circles by the door, already dressed in her new outfit.

“But what if she’s not?” Tony protests, watching her like she’s about to walk into battle. “What if some kid’s a jerk to her? Or what if she doesn’t like her teacher? Or—”

“Dada!” Cora calls, cutting off his spiral. “Let’s go!”

Tony sighs, giving you a helpless look. “She’s so little,” he says quietly.

You reach for his hand, squeezing it. “She’s ready. And so are we.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he manages to pull himself together as you drive her to the school. When it’s finally time to say goodbye, Cora gives each of you a kiss on the cheek and marches into the building like she owns it.

“She’s going to be a CEO one day,” Tony mutters as he watches her go.

“Just like her dad,” you reply, smiling.

Time flies after that. Cora thrives at school, coming home every day with stories about her friends and the things she’s learned. Tony makes it a point to be there for every milestone, from her first science fair to her first school play, where she confidently announces to the entire audience that her dad “builds robots that save the world.”

By the time she’s ten, Cora is a perfect mix of you and Tony: sharp, curious, and endlessly confident. She has her dad’s knack for problem-solving and your steady kindness, and you couldn’t be prouder of the person she’s becoming.

And then one day, everything changes.

You’re standing in the bathroom, staring at the little test in your hand, your heart racing. Two lines.

“Tony?” you call, your voice trembling slightly.

He appears in the doorway a moment later, his face immediately shifting to concern. “What’s wrong?”

You hold up the test, your lips curving into a smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, processing the words. Then his face lights up, and he pulls you into his arms, laughing in that carefree way that makes your heart swell.

“We’re having another baby,” he says, like he can’t quite believe it.

Cora takes the news better than either of you expected. When you sit her down to tell her, she gasps, her eyes going wide.

“I’m going to be a big sister?” she asks, her voice filled with awe.

“That’s right,” you say, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Are you ready for the job?”

She nods vigorously. “Yes! I’ll teach them everything I know!”

It’s not until the ultrasound that you discover the truth: you’re having twins.

Tony’s jaw drops when the doctor says the words, and for a moment, he’s uncharacteristically silent.

“Twins,” he finally says. “As in… two babies?”

“That’s usually what it means,” you tease, though you’re just as stunned as he is.

From that moment on, the chaos begins. Tony throws himself into preparing for the arrival of the twins, turning one of the spare rooms into a nursery with military precision. He builds matching cribs, installs baby monitors, and even designs a twin stroller that’s sleeker and more high-tech than anything on the market.

Cora, meanwhile, is fully invested in her role as a big sister. She helps you pick out baby clothes, suggesting everything from tiny bow ties to onesies with rocket ships on them.

“You know they’ll be babies, right?” you say one afternoon as she holds up a miniature suit.

“I know,” she replies confidently. “But they’ll grow into it.”

The day the twins are born is nothing short of extraordinary. You’ve never seen Tony more nervous—or more excited. When Alex and Howard finally arrive, tiny and perfect, Tony is instantly smitten. He holds each of them like they’re the most precious things in the world, his voice soft as he murmurs words of love and promises to protect them.

Cora is equally enchanted. She insists on being the first to hold them, her eyes wide as she cradles Alex in her arms.

“He’s so small,” she whispers, her voice filled with wonder.

“That’s because he’s a baby,” Tony says, smiling at her.

She rolls her eyes, already slipping into her role as the older sibling. “I know that, Dada.”

The first days at home are a blur of feedings, diaper changes, and sleepless nights. Tony is a natural, juggling the demands of two newborns with the same ease he handles billion-dollar deals. Cora does her best to help, fetching bottles and rocking the twins when they cry.

“They like me,” she says proudly one afternoon as she sits between their bassinets, singing softly.

“Of course they do,” you say, brushing a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re their big sister.”

Life with twins is chaotic, but it’s also filled with moments of pure joy. Like the way Tony lights up every time one of them coos or how Cora insists on reading them bedtime stories, even though they’re too young to understand the words.

“They’re going to be geniuses,” Tony declares one evening as he holds Alex in one arm and Howard in the other. “Just like their dad.”

“And their mom,” you add, smiling as you watch him with the boys.

Cora, sitting nearby with her favorite book, looks up and grins. “And their big sister!”

The event is one of Stark Industries’ annual galas, and this year, Tony insists on making it a full-family affair. It’s the first time you’ve attended one of these with the kids in tow—until now, events like this were reserved for just you and Tony while the children stayed home with their trusted nanny. But the twins are four now, and Tony seems to think they’re ready.

“They’re not ready,” you say as you adjust the hem of your dress, already picturing Alex and Howard tearing through the banquet hall like twin hurricanes.

“They’ll be fine,” Tony says with his signature confidence. He’s seated on the edge of the bed, fixing his cufflinks. “It’s good PR. The Stark family, united. The kids will charm everyone.”

“Howard bit Alex yesterday because he didn’t want to share a crayon,” you remind him.

Tony waves you off. “It’s a gala, not an art class. No crayons, no problem.”

Meanwhile, Cora, now 14 and perpetually exasperated by her younger brothers, is leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom. She’s dressed in a sleek black dress that makes her look far older than she is, her hair pulled back in a way that Tony has already called “unnecessarily mature” twice.

“They’re going to ruin it,” she says, crossing her arms.

“You’re not helping,” you tell her with a pointed look.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” she replies, smirking.

Getting everyone ready for the event is an ordeal in itself. The twins are surprisingly cooperative during bath time, but when it comes to getting dressed, it’s chaos. Howard refuses to wear the tiny bow tie you picked out for him, while Alex insists on wearing mismatched socks.

“You can’t see the socks under his shoes,” Tony says, clearly taking Alex’s side as he kneels down to help him into his little suit jacket.

“It’s not about the socks,” you reply, exasperated. “It’s about setting a tone. If we let them win now, they’ll think they can get away with anything.”

“They already think that,” Cora mutters under her breath, earning a sharp glance from you.

Eventually, you manage to wrangle everyone into their outfits. The twins look adorable despite their protests, and Cora looks effortlessly elegant in a way that makes you realize just how quickly she’s growing up.

“Alright, team,” Tony says as you all pile into the car. “Here’s the plan: we walk in, smile, mingle, and don’t touch anything breakable. Got it?”

“Got it,” Alex says, but you can already see the mischievous glint in his eyes.

The gala is held at a luxurious hotel downtown, the kind of place with chandeliers that probably cost more than your car. As you step into the grand hall, you’re immediately greeted by a sea of familiar faces—board members, investors, and socialites, all eager to shake Tony’s hand and coo over the children.

Cora stays close to your side, her expression polite but bored. The twins, on the other hand, are a bundle of energy, bouncing between you and Tony as they take in the glittering surroundings.

“Look at the big lights!” Alex exclaims, pointing at the chandelier above.

“Don’t climb it,” you say automatically, earning a laugh from Tony.

The first hour goes surprisingly well. The twins stick close, charmed by the endless parade of hors d’oeuvres and the fact that everyone keeps calling them “little gentlemen.” Howard even manages to say “thank you” without prompting when a waiter hands him a tiny plate of macarons, and you catch Tony beaming with pride.

But then the novelty starts to wear off.

“I’m bored,” Alex announces, tugging on Tony’s jacket.

“Me too,” Howard adds, his voice edging toward a whine.

“Okay,” you say, crouching down to their level. “What if we play a game? You two are spies, and your mission is to stay as quiet and sneaky as possible. Can you do that?”

They nod enthusiastically, though you’re not entirely convinced.

Meanwhile, Cora has found a corner to sit in, her phone in hand.

“Cora,” Tony says, frowning. “You’re at a gala, not a texting marathon. Put the phone away.”

She rolls her eyes but complies, slipping the phone into her clutch. “Fine. But if they break something, it’s not my fault.”

It doesn’t take long for the twins to push the boundaries of their “spy mission.” You catch Alex attempting to sneak a second macaron off a waiter’s tray, and Howard is dangerously close to climbing onto the stage where the band is playing.

“Alright,” Tony says, swooping in to scoop Howard up before he can make it past the first step. “Time for a Stark family meeting.”

He gathers everyone in a quiet corner, crouching down to look the twins in the eye. “Listen, guys, I know this isn’t as exciting as, say, Disneyland, but this is important to your mom and me. Can you stick with us for a little longer?”

“Okay, Dada,” Howard says, his small voice earnest.

Tony ruffles his hair. “That’s my boy.”

The evening continues with only minor hiccups. Alex spills a glass of water on a chair, and Howard tries to play hide-and-seek under one of the tables, but overall, it’s manageable. Cora even manages to crack a smile when one of Tony’s colleagues tells her she looks just like him.

“Poor kid,” Tony says later, his voice low as he leans toward you.

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow.

By the time the event starts winding down, the twins are visibly tired, their earlier mischief replaced by yawns and sleepy eyes. Cora looks ready to leave too, though she’s done an admirable job of keeping her brothers in check.

As you gather your things and prepare to head out, Tony wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“See?” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We survived.”

“Barely,” you reply, though you can’t help but smile.

On the drive home, Alex and Howard fall asleep almost immediately, their heads resting against each other. Cora sits quietly, her phone back in hand but her expression content.

Tony looks over at you, his eyes soft. “We did good, didn’t we?”

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “Yeah, we did.”

As chaotic as the evening was, it’s moments like these—together as a family—that make it all worthwhile.

The night Estelle is conceived feels like something out of a rom-com that turns unexpectedly steamy. Cora is 16 and fully immersed in her own teenage world, juggling her social life, school, and extracurriculars like a pro. The twins, at six years old, are finally at a stage where they’re not constantly climbing the furniture or attempting to build rocket ships out of household appliances.

That night, the twins are having a rare sleepover at a friend’s house, and Cora has locked herself in her room with her homework and noise-canceling headphones. The house feels unusually quiet—peaceful, even—which is an anomaly in the Stark household.

Tony takes full advantage of it.

You’re in the kitchen, finishing the dishes after dinner, when Tony sneaks up behind you. His hands slide around your waist, and he presses a kiss to your neck.

“What are you doing?” you ask, though you’re already smiling.

“Enjoying the silence,” he murmurs, his lips trailing along your skin. “And my incredibly hot wife.”

You laugh, swatting at him with the dish towel. “Tony, I’m doing dishes.”

“They’ll be here tomorrow,” he says, turning you around to face him. There’s that mischievous glint in his eyes, the one that still makes your heart skip a beat after all these years. “But this moment? It’s fleeting.”

Before you can respond, he picks you up and carries you—dish towel and all—upstairs to your bedroom, where the evening takes a decidedly romantic turn.

A few weeks later, you start noticing the signs. You’re more tired than usual, food smells are suddenly a little too strong, and Tony catches you crying over a commercial for baby diapers.

“You okay?” he asks, concerned, as you wipe at your eyes.

“I’m fine,” you say, though the realization is starting to dawn on you.

The next morning, you take a pregnancy test. And then a second. And a third, just to be sure.

“Holy crap,” you whisper, staring at the two pink lines.

You decide to tell Tony that evening. He’s tinkering in his workshop when you walk in, holding a tiny pair of baby socks you picked up earlier that day.

“What’s this?” he asks, looking up from his project.

“You’re going to be a dad again,” you say softly, holding out the socks.

Tony’s reaction is immediate—he stands so quickly that his chair nearly topples over. “Wait, are you serious?”

You nod, tears in your eyes.

His face breaks into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “Oh my God,” he says, pulling you into a hug. “We’re having another baby?”

“Yes,” you laugh, overwhelmed by his enthusiasm.

He drops to his knees in front of you, pressing his hands gently to your stomach—even though there’s no bump yet. “Hey, little one,” he says softly. “It’s me, your dad. You’re going to love it here, I promise. Just wait until you meet your mom—she’s the best.”

When you tell the kids, their reactions are predictably chaotic.

Cora is thrilled. At 16, she’s mature enough to appreciate the idea of a new sibling without feeling jealous. “Oh my God, another one?” she says, laughing. “Are you guys trying to build a basketball team or something?”

The twins, however, are a different story.

“What?” Alex says, his eyes wide. “A baby?”

“Where’s it gonna sleep?” Howard demands. “In our room?”

You kneel down in front of them, trying to explain. “The baby will have its own room, just like you guys do. And you’ll still have plenty of time with me and Daddy.”

“But babies cry,” Alex points out, looking skeptical.

“And poop,” Howard adds, wrinkling his nose.

Tony steps in, crouching down beside you. “True,” he says, nodding seriously. “But babies also think their big brothers are the coolest people on the planet. This baby is going to look up to you two like superheroes.”

That seems to win them over—at least for now.

As the months go by, the pregnancy becomes a family affair. The twins take their role as big brothers-in-training very seriously, often offering to help carry things or pat your belly to “say hi to the baby.” Cora is your right-hand girl, stepping in to help whenever the boys get too rowdy or you need a moment to yourself.

The gender reveal is a quiet, intimate moment at home. You and Tony decide to keep it simple, opting for a cake that reveals the gender when you cut into it.

When the knife slices through the frosting and you see pink inside, you both freeze.

“A girl,” Tony says, his voice soft with wonder.

“A girl,” you repeat, tears welling up.

The twins cheer because cake is involved, and Cora just smirks. “Called it,” she says, crossing her arms.

“Cora,” Tony says later that evening, as the two of you are lying in bed. “What do you think of the name Cora?”

“What?” you ask, laughing.

“Just kidding,” he says, grinning. “But seriously, do we have a name yet?”

It takes weeks of brainstorming, vetoing each other’s suggestions, and poring over baby name books, but eventually, you both land on a name you love: Estelle.

“It means star,” Tony says one night as he presses a hand to your now-round belly. “And that’s what she’ll be. Our little star.”

The day Estelle is born is as chaotic and beautiful as you’d expect. Tony is a nervous wreck during labor, pacing the room and muttering to himself about whether the hospital’s equipment is up to Stark standards.

But the moment he holds her for the first time, everything shifts.

“She’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion as he looks down at the tiny bundle in his arms.

When the kids come to visit the hospital, Cora is smitten immediately, cooing over Estelle like a proud big sister. The twins, however, are a bit more cautious.

“She’s so small,” Alex whispers, peering at her from a safe distance.

“Can we keep her?” Howard asks, looking genuinely concerned.

“Definitely,” Tony says, grinning.

Bringing Estelle home is a new kind of adventure. The twins are constantly vying for a turn to hold her, Cora is your go-to babysitter when you need a break, and Tony is completely wrapped around her tiny finger from day one.

“She’s our last, right?” you ask one night as you watch him rock her to sleep.

“Definitely,” he says, though there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

You give him a look, and he laughs softly. “Alright, alright. She’s our last. I’m good with this chaos level.”

And as you sit there, surrounded by the beautiful, chaotic family you’ve built together, you can’t help but feel like the luckiest person in the world.

[snek-panini]

This is the final book from the batch I started in April, and look how cute it is! This is London Calling by forthegreatergood, a Good Omens fic set around the end of the cold war. It's definitely a TV!verse fic, not a book fic, but it does a quite good job capturing the feel of the time when the book first came out. It's got pining, and spies, and politics, and actual real grown-up conversations about feelings, and an optimistic ending even if it isn't a happily-ever-after.

The cover up there is a printed lokta paper that I got from...probably Hollander's but it's been a while. It was a total impulse buy and for a long time I kept trying to find stories that would fit it but I kept failing until I settled on this one. The print is metallic, but it phases between gold and silver and copper, so I chose a subdues rose gold metallic htv on the spine, over green book cloth for reinforcement.

More photos under the cut!

I've only just noticed that the photo of the endpaper is blurry, but since it's a simple unadorned green I'm not too fussed about it. I love fancy endpapers but was afraid that whatever I chose would fight with the cover, and I really wanted the cover to be the star here. Machine-made black and white endbands, and a plain black ribbon for the bookmark. In this top view photo you can see one of the most annoying things I've dealt with in all the 50-ish books I've made. One of the center pages in this book wouldn't print correctly no matter what I did. I kept getting one sheet with a single printed half-side (one book page) and one sheet with one fully printed and one half printed side (three book pages), instead of the thing I was supposed to get, which is two fully printed sides (for book pages). I tried every formatting trick I could find and got the same result every time, and I still don't know why. Eventually I just cut off the single page and pasted it in place on the blank part of the three-page sheet, but it didn't turn out too well and the paper is wiggly. I cannot fix this. It is unfixable. So I've just rolled with it and accepted that things that are handmade are going to have quirks. This one's just got a more obvious quirk than most.

Title page and first page of the fic. I wanted to keep it fairly simple and un-ornamented because I don't think opulence suits this fic. So it's not exactly austere, but it shouldn't be ornate either. Some fics are ornate, some just aren't. The feather thing on the title page was originally a scene break divider for another fic I bound, and it was put together with free vectors from I think vecteezy. Like many Good Omens fics, there's a wing grooming scene in this one, so it felt appropriate. The graphic didn't get to shine too well last time I used it because scene break images have to be pretty small, and I think the larger size I was able to use here suits it better.

Overall, in spite of its challenges, I think this book came together really well and I'm proud of it. It's sweet and interesting and I think it suits the fic, and I couldn't really ask for better than that.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This decadent 2016 home in Long Beach, CA looks like it belongs in the masked ball scene in 50 Shades of Grey. 3bds, 2ba, 2,670 sq ft, $2.2m.

First enter a foyer.

Then double doors lead to an opulent sitting room with an ornate fireplace and ceiling.

This really does remind me of that party where everyone was wearing fancy masks.

In this short hallway the carvings are incredible.

Look at the gilded gates on the built-in cabinet.

Lots of gold and fancy stuff.

Then, double glass doors open to the dining room.

More over-the-top details.

Gold ceiling and marble floor.

Even the home gym is fancy.

Mirrored hall with carved wood and marble floor.

Check out this bath. Marble everywhere.

Marble shelving.

This entrance actually looks like an event venue with valet parking.

And, this is where they messed up. The kitchen has dated elements, but it does have marble counters.

This attempt at a DIY stone exhaust hood really misses the mark when it comes to outlining the control panel.

There are some high end appliances and some of the cabinetry was updated.

Stairs to the boudoirs.

I would've expected this to be larger.

One of the other baths. Not as opulent as downstairs.

Very continental plumbing fixtures.

The home office has some built-in shelving.

Oh, a piano right outside the primary bedroom.

Mirrored doors on the closets, and the famous Creation of Man mural on the ceiling.

Private patio.

Large koi pond.

5,720 sq ft corner lot is a block from the beach.

https://www.zillow.com/homes/3702-E-1st-St-Long-Beach,-CA-90803_rb/21223871_zpid/

[keithpaladin05]

stolas x reader in which the reader is a lower class demon who isn’t used to all the fancy stuff stolas has and gets frustrated with all the magic

YESSSS OFC LOVE! STOLAS IS MY BABY I WILL PROTECT HIM AT ALL COSTS 💕💕💕

A Little Magic, A Lot of Heart

You had never seen anything quite like it. The palace was a magnificent labyrinth of opulence and extravagance, a far cry from the dingy, cramped quarters you were used to. From the marble floors that gleamed with an otherworldly sheen to the ornate, magical chandeliers that floated above, the palace was a testament to a world you had only glimpsed in fleeting, envious glances.

You were a lower-class demon, accustomed to the simple and often shabby accommodations of the underbelly of Hell. But here, everything was over the top, from the celestial décor to the glittering spells that adorned every corner. You had been invited by none other than Stolas, the powerful and illustrious Goetia prince, for what was supposed to be a simple dinner. However, navigating this world of magic and grandeur had proven to be anything but simple.

"Could you please help me with this?" you called out in frustration, struggling to hold onto the floating napkin that refused to stay in place as it danced around your head like an uncooperative butterfly.

Stolas, perched elegantly on his gilded throne with a bemused expression, flicked his wrist casually. The napkin stilled and gently floated down to your hand, neatly folded as if it had never been a nuisance. His eyes, the deep crimson of a setting sun, twinkled with amusement.

“Ah, it appears the magic is giving you trouble,” Stolas said, his voice a melodious blend of sympathy and mirth. He glided over to you with a grace that made even the air around him seem to sparkle.

You huffed, trying to mask your embarrassment with a scowl. “It’s not just the napkin. It’s everything! I can’t seem to get a handle on any of this magic stuff. It’s like it has a mind of its own.”

Stolas chuckled softly, a sound that felt like a warm embrace. “Indeed, the magic in this palace can be a bit temperamental. It does have its whims and fancies, much like its master.”

You couldn’t help but crack a small smile at his playful self-deprecation. “Is there a way to make it just… normal? You know, like regular objects that don’t float around or change color?”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Stolas teased, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous light. “Magic is meant to be enjoyed, not just tamed. But if you prefer simplicity, I can arrange for that.”

He raised his hand, and with a swift motion, the magic around you began to settle. The napkin rested calmly in your hand, the floating candles stopped their erratic dances, and even the walls seemed to quiet down, their vibrant hues softening.

“There,” Stolas said with a satisfied nod. “A touch of normalcy for your ease. Though I must admit, I do enjoy the way you handle these challenges. It’s quite charming.”

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks at his compliment. “I just don’t want to embarrass myself in front of you.”

Stolas stepped closer, his presence warm and reassuring. “There’s no need to worry about that. You could never embarrass yourself in my eyes. If anything, you make this grand palace feel more... grounded.”

His words, delivered with such sincerity, made your heart flutter. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” he said, offering you a soft smile. “Your genuine nature is a breath of fresh air amidst all the enchantment. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to spend time with you.”

You looked around at the opulent surroundings, now rendered simple and manageable thanks to Stolas’ intervention. “Thank you. It means a lot, coming from you.”

The prince took your hand gently, guiding you towards a cozy corner of the palace where a small, charming table was set with simple, delectable dishes. “Let’s enjoy a meal together, without any more magical fuss. Just you and me.”

You took a seat, the ambiance now pleasantly unpretentious. As you shared stories and laughter, the weight of your worries lifted, replaced by the warmth of Stolas’ company. The palace, once an intimidating labyrinth of enchantment, felt like a cozy haven.

As the evening wore on, you realized that perhaps it wasn’t the magic that made this place special, but the genuine kindness and affection of the demon who resided within it. And in that moment, you knew you’d cherish both the prince and the little bit of magic that made him who he was.

The night ended with a lingering smile and the promise of more simple, heartfelt moments to come. In Stolas’ company, the grand palace was no longer an overwhelming maze, but a place where love and understanding made every bit of magic worth it.

[makeyoumine69]

I Like It Rough

— PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Fem!OC (Angel💋)

— SUNOPSYS: "There is something special about this girl. Something I have always wanted to unravel."

— CONTAINS: Smut, Patrick's POV, toxic relationship, aggressive foreplay, hair pulling, unprotected rough sex, degradation kink, praise kink and maybe something more :D

— A/N: This is for my beloved @mothhmannn! It was such a pleasure for me to write about your OC! 💕

— SONG REC: Lady Gaga — I Like It Rough

— LINKS: [MASTERLIST] 🪓

The roar of the city was barely audible in the opulent interior of the limousine, and I could care less about the angry expression of the girl sitting next to me. Angel, my beloved, but a spoiled brat. Maybe it was not her fault at all, since I was the one who allowed her to feel special. As if she was not just one of the hookers I used to sleep with.

"Darling," I began, placing my warm palm on her knee. "I know things can be complicated between us, but please don't sit there with that face. It doesn't suit you at all."

Angel, sighing in frustration, just crossed her arms over her chest and turned away from me. 

"Oh, come on, baby, don't be like that," I urged in a stern voice before grabbing her wrist, causing the girl to whimper in pain. "Look at this beautiful bracelet. Do you think you will ever be able to acquire such luxury without me?"

This time, the blonde didn't dare ignore me and locked her big, sad eyes with mine. "Fuck you, Bateman," she hissed through her white teeth. "If you really think you're the only Wall Street man I sleep with, you're delusional and sick," she spat in my face, forcing the blood in my veins to boil, but I didn't allow myself to hurt her. Not yet. "And pathetic."

"Say it again." 

Angel trembled under my grip. I could feel the turmoil inside her, reflected in the way she stared at me, desperate and broken. "You..." she almost whispered, glancing down at the gleaming jewelry around her thin wrist, then raising her eyes to my lips. 

"...are so unbearable."

"Oh, I know, little one," I bridged the distance, snuggling into her like a snake in one swift motion, finding that sweet spot on her delicate neck. "And you love it, don't you? You've always loved that about me."

Whereupon, I kissed her hard, letting go of her wrist only to put her arms on my shoulders. Angel didn't respond to my initiative at first, but then, with a muffled moan, she got on top of me, letting me grope her great ass and pull up the hem of her dress.

"Ah, Patrick," she gasped into my ear as I pressed her harder against my groin, making her feel how much I wanted her. Angel squirmed on my lap before she kissed me again, plunging her wet tongue into my mouth, which I gladly sucked without shame. "Mmhm, fuck!"

With a cheeky grin, I relished the way Angel was grinding on me like a fucking bitch in heat. "That's it, sweetheart," I crooned in a husky voice, my cock straining against the confines of my Valentino pants. "You just need a firm hand."

At my words, I noticed that Angel's humping became less and less vigorous until she stopped moving at all. "Tell me," the obvious pain in her voice. "Tell me what happened last night was just an accident."

The lewd memories came to my mind faster than I could actually think about Angel's words. Closing my eyes, I indulged in the obscene image my brain produced: me lying on the bed with three beautiful girls, Angel being one of them. While two of them were busy with my cock, I sat Angel on my face and made her buck her hips towards me as I stuck out my tongue for her to use.

"Patrick!" A stubborn female voice pulled him out of the tantalizing haze. "Why did you do this to me?"

"Did what?" I asked, assuming she meant the way I slapped her face several times until her lower lip began to bleed. "I thought you loved pain, my fallen Angel."

The girl scoffed as I grinned. "Why did you treat other chicks better than me?"

Was she really jealous? Such an idea made my smirk widen and I couldn't help but squeeze her cheeks, forcing her to claw at my large palm. "How many times do I have to say it?" I whispered against her swollen lips. "No matter how many girls I have, you will always be special to me."

That was only half true, or at least I wanted to believe it, because Angel was just a hooker. But a very hot one. At some point I even wanted to tell her that I didn't want her to sleep with anyone else but me. I wanted to, but something inside me stopped me every time I opened my mouth. Angel kept bubbling something in my ear, but my own thoughts were louder.

As the limousine pulled up to a not-too-fancy looking building in Lower Manhattan, we both realized that this was a breaking point, but this time I let her decide if she wanted to be alone tonight or have my company. The blonde carefully got up from my lap and took a moment to fix her slightly disheveled hair, then she adjusted the hem of her short dress and looked at me with hope. But I didn't understand what she wanted.

"See you next week, I guess," I mumbled, pulling out a thick stack of $100 bills. "Buy yourself some new lingerie for the one I ripped off."

Perplexed, Angel took the money but she didn't move, so I opened the door for her, implying that no one was forcing her to stay. A cold breeze blew into my face as I did so, but the girl just clutched the bills in her hands, on the verge of tears—I could smell her desperation in the air.

"I hate you, Bateman," Angel hissed, her eyes devoid of emotion, shimmering like broken glass. "You…you just don't understand."

Annoyed, I looked at her indifferently, then at the pile of bills. "I think I pay you enough. You should be grateful, you know?"

The moment I heard her muffled sob, I knew it was over, so when she grabbed my hand and forced me to follow her, I was not surprised. Not even a little. Everything was going according to my plan, as usual.

In a few minutes we were in Angel's small apartment. Overwhelmed by the consuming last, I didn't pay attention to the surroundings, I only cared about the place I was going to fuck her while I was holding the girl in my strong arms and she was kissing me if I was about to vanish.

"Fuck, you're gonna stain my suit," I grumbled as she wrapped her legs around my waist, her wet panties rubbing against my expensive suit. "You're such a dirty little whore. My little whore."

"Patrick," Angel whimpered as I bent her over the back of the couch I saw in the living room. Being too impatient, I couldn't wait any longer and my hands were already undoing my belt with practiced ease. "Put on a condom-arhhh!"

Her loud moan echoed through the small room as I slammed into her supple body without any preparation, as I was sure she didn't need it, since she was soaking wet. 

So fucking needy for me. 

"Just like that," I purred with my eyes closed, reveling in the blissful sensation of her warmth enveloping my thick dick. "God, you're so fucking perfect for me, doll."

Blushing, Angel sobbed, but she didn't let a single tear slip down her beautiful but sad face. Even when I yanked her hair, fucking her really hard and forcing her to look at me. Her bright eyes stared at me without any judgment, all I could see was a pure, raw desire that I so eagerly wanted to fulfill.

"Spread your legs wider," my command was obeyed almost instantly. "Good girl," I snaked my fingers between Angel's thighs to tease her blushing clit before pulling down her lace panties and removing them completely. With a guttural growl, I rolled my hips against hers, hitting the most sensitive spot inside her pussy and indulging in the way she screamed for me. "I'm... I'm close, babe."

Arching her elegant back, Angel opened her mouth so invitingly that I couldn't stop myself from sliding a finger inside. "Mhmm," she moaned around my digit as I refocused my attention on her swollen little bud, rubbing it in sync with my thrusts, I could feel her inner channel contracting around me, about to milk me until I was dry. "Pat-Patrick..."

Panting, I pulled my digit out of her warm mouth to wrap both hands around her slender neck, ramming into her with all my might, her small form shuddering with each stroke. Angel was the first to fall apart, she could barely stand on her feet, clinging desperately to the couch, shaking as if from the electric shock. 

This girl. She was perfect. At that moment, she was mine, completely mine. And if I ever found the courage to tell her I wanted her forever, I would probably be free of the obsessive thoughts that had haunted me since I met her. 

My little fallen Angel. 

[captn-trex]

angel of small death

Howzer x F!Reader / Twi'lek!Reader 

word count: 10k / 24k

part one | part two | part three

description: after the rise of the Empire, Howzer finds his position on Ryloth to be precarious at best, but his attention is drawn from his troubles when he finds himself captivated by a new politician’s arrival

warnings/tags: NSFW 18+ !!! strangers to lovers, mutual pining, a little bit of political stuff, fluff, smut, dirty talk, fingering, pinv sex, soft dom!howzer, praise kink, title kink? edging? oh my I'm so bad at tagging smut

a/n: for the full effect, listen to jeff buckley’s ‘everybody here wants you’ at the beginning. did I give reader lilac skin just because of this song? yes. yes I did. don't ask me what's goin on with the smut ok, idk either. wkfjh why am I scared to share this I just want to hide in a hole forever now. also sorry about the poem. (whole thing in one is on ao3)

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Ostentatious. That was the word Howzer would use to describe Senator Orn Free Taa's estate.

High ceilings, gaudy silver curtains and a vivid blue carpet that ran throughout the marble halls. It resembled the more imposing areas of the senate bureau, but devoid of any of the charm. Thankfully, the room that Howzer would have to be standing at attention in for the duration of the evening was slightly less over the top, though no less opulent with its golden chandeliers and dark wood floor.

The people, however, left much to be desired. Extravagantly dressed Senators and other people of political importance shared sparkling drinks in fancy glasses, talking, laughing and dancing with each other. Every smile he saw seemed false, an act that should be genuine reduced to a political play. He couldn't help but think that you didn't fit in here, but then again, you weren't here. Howzer hadn't seen you since yesterday, and with the celebration already in full swing, he didn't presume that he would.

The lavish party was supposed to be a celebration, an important day in Ryloth’s history, but with the way the people in front of him went on, and how the discussions of late had been, Howzer couldn't help but let indignance rise in his gut. Not a single one of these politicians cared about Ryloth. They didn't care about its past or its present, and they certainly didn't care about its future.

It was sickening. The wealth that surrounded him was unmistakable in a particularly vile way. It was all a distraction from what was really going on, the corruption that was embedded within the people who held the power.

Any negative thoughts spilled from Howzer's mind as soon as his eyes caught the figure standing at the top of the grand staircase. He was pretty sure that his heart actually stopped beating at the sight of you.

You had forgone you heavy robes in favour of a silky dress that hung from your figure and perfectly framed your body, a thin scarf that laid over your neck and draped down your back, and a headpiece adorned by pearly beads that dangled around your face and down your lekku. The thing that caught Howzer's attention the most, however, was the colour of your dress. It was teal, the exactly shade that decorated his armour. He couldn't help but think that you looked incredible in his colour, perfectly complimenting the hues of your skin.

He watched as you gracefully descended the stairs, one hand sliding along the rail, the other holding your dress so you wouldn't trip. You were a vision, like an angel descending from the sky, and suddenly Howzer didn't care at all about whether or not he was allowed to have you.

At the bottom of the stairs, you were greeted by a small crowd that had gathered during your entrance. Howzer had been too enraptured by you yourself to notice, his mouth still hung open a fraction as he watched you navigate through the people demanding your attention. He wasn't surprised in the least, you were the most gorgeous being here by far.

As you made your way across the room, seemingly zeroed in on something, or someone, Howzer saw that your dress was backless, plunging down to your lower back, the only thing covering your skin being the thin, almost non-existent scarf that hung from your neck. He had to bite into his lip to save from letting his jaw hit the floor.

You made your way over to a Pantoran woman dressed in maroon, whose eyes widened comically upon seeing you, throwing her arms around your neck and almost knocking you back. Your laughter carried across the room, entering through Howzer ears and bouncing around in his head, the most delightful thing he'd ever heard. The woman handed you a drink, clinking your glasses together as you beamed at each other.

Your back was to him as the two of you caught up, and he couldn't help but trail his eyes down your body. He wondered what it would be like to be able to touch you, how your skin would feel as he ran a hand down your spine. It felt like you were taunting him, begging him to lose his composure. Whether you meant to or not, it was working.

Howzer was so lost in admiring you that he missed the way your friend nodded to him, catching him in the act. You turned, your eyes searching for a moment before your gaze settled on him. It froze him in his place, his eyes locked with yours. You swirled your drink gently in your hand, offering a small smile to him before turning back to your conversation, but not before Howzer managed to catch the blush that tinted your cheeks.

You continued to talk with your Pantoran friend, until she got called away by someone else, leaving you by yourself for the time being. Howzer was itching to go over and talk with you, just be close with you in any way he could, despite his previous words about how forbidden it was. Before he could make up his mind, another man had slid up next to you, a wry smile on his lips and a playful glint in his eye that made Howzer's stomach turn. He watched on as the two of you settled into a conversation, mostly him doing the talking. You gave him the time of day all the same, much to Howzer's chagrin.

“What's your name trooper?”

Howzer couldn't help but jump slightly at the unexpected voice to his left, and he swivelled his head around to the source. The Pantoran woman that you had been chatting to before was stood next to him, a curious expression on her face.

“Howzer, ma'am” he replied firmly.

“Please, drop the formalities” she waved him off with a smile, and he was reminded of the first time that he talked to you, “I'm Riyo”

The woman stuck out her hand, and Howzer shook it firmly with a small smile of his own.

“Now,” she spoke, something mischievous sliding across her face, “are you going to go and talk to my friend, or are you just going to stare at her all night?”

Howzer’s eyebrows shot up, instantly feeling his face heat up under the scrutiny of the small woman.

“I— uh, Senator, I don't know what you— I wasn't— I wouldn't—” he stumbled through a number of phrases before Riyo cut him off.

“Howzer” she caught his attention, a small smirk on her lips as she noticed his cheeks darkening by the second, “you can drop the act with me. I saw the way you were looking at her, and I know she wants you to go over”

Howzer frowned, “she told you that?”

“No…” she admitted, “but I've also never seen anyone else make her blush”

Howzer felt his heart skip a beat. The idea of him being an exception in being able to break your composure made his blood run hot all of a sudden. He cast his eyes back over to you, locked in conversation with the same man and listening intently as he leant back on the wall, head tilted towards you. When he looked back to Riyo, she gave him a knowing look.

“Just don't wait forever” she instructed with a hand on his shoulder, and Howzer nodded to her before she turned away.

A determination set into him as his eyes found your form again. A somewhat dreamy sigh passed his lips, taking in the way you stood with your weight rested on one leg, your hip jutting out just a little as you brought your glass to your lips. Howzer adjusted his grip on his helmet, watching the way your throat bobbed as you took a sip.

Your eyes momentarily left the man in your company and slid over towards Howzer from behind the rim of the glass, and he had to suppress a smirk when you discreetly rolled your eyes, no doubt in mocking of the man who was still waffling on. It pleased him to know that he could hold your attention from across the room, when the same couldn't be said for someone stood right beside you.

After a few minutes of entertaining the man’s conversation, you interrupted him with a point of your finger, excusing yourself. Howzer’s breath stuttered at the prospect of you making your way over to him, but instead he watched as you walked towards the opposite side of the hall and slipped outside, cracking the door just open enough for your frame to fit through.

Howzer cast a glance around the room to see if anyone was looking his way, then surreptitiously followed in your footsteps around the edge of the large room. When he opened the door, he was greeted by the sight of you leaning your elbows against the stone railing at the edge of the deck, looking out over the expanse of the Senator's gardens. He had to admit that the view was stunning, but the sight of you leant forwards, your dress pooling at your sides and exposing more of your skin to the moonlight, was a far more alluring sight.

Your head turned to the side as you heard the door shut, your lips quirking into a half-smile.

“Captain” you nodded to him in acknowledgement.

“Ma'am” he replied, a small smirk winding its way onto his face.

A breathy laugh left your lips, you head shaking slightly, “I'm not— you shouldn't call me that”

Howzer shrugged, “you look the part”

You chuckled, your expression pleasant as you turned your body to face the other way, resting your back against the cool stone. The headpiece that you wore caught the light of the moon perfectly, contrasting with the warm glow from indoors, and once again Howzer couldn’t help but compare you to the beautiful paintings he had seen. His features were then weighed down by a seriousness, and he spoke more softly, more sincerely.

“You look beautiful”

Your lips lifted a little as an amused hum reverberated in your throat, and you looked to your feet when your cheeks flushed with colour, turning your face from his in an attempt to hide it.

“Thank you” you replied, “as do you”

Howzer's lips lifted into a genuine smile at the unexpected compliment, albeit somewhat of a deflection from his own.

“Are you enjoying the party?” he asked, moving on quickly.

Your eyes lifted back to his, and you paused for a moment, dropping your head to the side before answering, “not really”

“How come?”

You shrugged one shoulder, your smile rueful, “not my scene”

Howzer nodded, glancing inside at the outlandishly dressed party guests and the splendour that surrounded them, but when his gaze found you again, he could have melted. You positively shone in comparison to all of them, something so authentically positive and genuine surrounding you.

“I was thinking that I might leave, actually”

“Without a dance?” Howzer raised a slightly teasing eyebrow.

You laughed gratuitously at the idea, “I don't want to dance with any of these philistines”

Howzer chuckled, taking a moment to peer inside once more. No one was looking out, no one was paying attention to anyone but themselves, not concerned with things going on outside the walls of the ornate room.

“Would you dance with me?”

You cocked your head a little, a dubiousness written into your furrowed brow, “you know how to dance?”

“More or less” he shrugged, placing his helmet down on the railing, following up by taking off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. He held his hand out with an inviting smile, “can I have this dance, m’lady?”

You chuckled lightly and tentatively took his outstretched hand, letting him pull you towards him, “it's ‘could I have this dance’, for next time”

“Next time?” Howzer asked with a raised eyebrow, his other hand coming to rest at your hip.

You tried to suppress a smirk as the pair of you began dancing to the medium tempo, “in case you find yourself dancing with another member of the Senate, of course”

“Of course” Howzer grinned, “though I can't imagine I will”

He brought your hand up and gently spun you around in time with the music, pulling you back towards him so you were almost chest to chest. Your eyes bore into his as his hand slid to the small of your back, gently brushing your skin. As the dance went on, his hand pressed further against the warmth of your skin, bringing your body closer to his. He wished that he owned any other outfit but his armour, so that he could really feel what it was like to have you pressed up against him, but he'd settle for a gloveless hand against your back for now.

There was something in your gaze, something troubled despite your smile. Howzer didn't know if he was diagnosing the problem correctly, but he spoke up anyway.

“What you did yesterday was really admirable” he mumbled, earning a sigh from you that made your whole body slump towards him, resting your forehead against his chestplate.

“I'm afraid of what's happening to this planet, to the galaxy”

Howzer nodded, his hand sliding up to gently rub what he hoped were comforting circles between your shoulder blades. You continued to let him lead you through the dance, moving your feet in tandem with his despite your collapsed posture.

“I know” he spoke quietly, “but… you can't give up”

Your head lifted from his chest, your eyes slightly wide and startlingly close to his. He felt as if he could see his own soul reflected back at him in that moment, and it startled him a little, as much as it was intoxicating.

“I feel like giving up” you told him, but he just shook his head.

“You can't. You might be the best chance that Ryloth has under the Empire” he replied, his arm wrapping further around you as he slowly let the dance draw you both from the light spilling through the glass door.

“but I can't do anything, as long as the Senator is here” you said desperately, your brows pinched and mouth twisted in a frown.

It was strange to see you so defeated. Howzer had only known you to be quietly confident and seemingly hopeful in a particularly composed way, but now you had been beaten down by the truth of the matter, and for whatever reason you were looking to him for help.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, “will he not go back to Coruscant eventually?”

Your eyes dropped for a moment, then found his again with slightly more conviction, “I suppose so, but—”

“No buts” Howzer interrupted with a growing smile, “just do what you can, right? isn't that what you told me?”

“Yeah” your lips curled up in an appreciative smile, “I can't believe you remember me saying that”

Howzer gave you a small frown, “why wouldn't I?”

“I don't know, I guess I'm used to people just ignoring what I say”

It was a disquieting thing to hear, and Howzer quickly realised it was probably one of the most vulnerable thing you had ever told him.

“Well they're fools” he said assuredly.

You huffed a small laugh as he spun you around once more, “If you say so”

“I mean it” he spoke seriously, pulling you back against him and holding you close by your waist, “I've never— no one ever gave me the time of day to… just talk, before you. No one saw fit to educate me about anything, or talk to me like a human being”

Your brow creased as he spoke, “I'm sorry”

Howzer laughed, a teasing grin plastered on his face, “That was supposed to be a compliment, not me looking for sympathy”

“Oh” you chuckled in a self-deprecating manner, the dance dying down to a light sway, “right, well… you're welcome I suppose. Though I hope you do know that what you just described is the bare minimum”

A scoff left his lips, “so that's the only reason you talk to me? Human decency?”

“Well, no. I—” you stuttered out, diverting your gaze, “like I said before, you're a good man”

Howzer just hummed in response, unable to help the way his smile almost split his face in half. Inside the walls of the mansion, the instrumentalists finished playing their song, a small round of applause following, and you stepped away with a particularly timid expression, as if the intimacy of the moment had finally caught up with you.

“Well, I think I'll be going now” you said softly as the band started up again.

Truthfully, Howzer didn’t want you to leave. Even if it wasn’t in such a troubling way as the previous times, he wasn’t going to watch you walk away from him again.

“Allow me escort you back to your quarters, ma’am” He suggested with a mock sincerity.

You gave him a hesitant and withering look, and his smile grew even more, “you should probably stay here, no?”

Howzer confidently shook his head, “I am tasked with protecting the people in this party. Should one wish to leave, it would only be proper to ensure they get home safely”

He watched the way your bottom lip caught between your teeth to bite back your smirk, your eyes narrowing a little as if to try and read his thoughts. It made his resolve crumble a little, your presence almost deriding him.

“I suppose that makes sense” you mumbled finally, and Howzer smiled in satisfaction.

“Lead the way ma'am” he gestured towards the set of steps that led back towards the front of the estate, and you rolled your eyes playfully as you started walking.

“I thought you agreed not to call me that” you muttered, false annoyance in your tone.

Howzer shrugged a little, “maybe I just want to”

He held out his hand to you once again at the top of the stairs, all four of them, and you scoffed while slipping your hand into his to let him assist in your descent. He knew he was pushing his luck, trying to be so affectionate with you after he had shunned you for doing the exact same thing only a few days prior, but he couldn't help himself.

“Thank you” you said quietly, taking back your hand to clasp both of them behind your back.

The pair of you made your way back up through the large courtyard of the Senator's mansion, stately trees lining your way and casting you into darkness. You settled into a comfortable silence, letting the sounds of the people inside the party dwindle into nothing as you made your way through the city.

The dark engulfed you both, the only light being that of the moon and the stars that were littered through the sky. A gentle breeze sent leaves scattering over the floor, tickling at Howzer’s skin and lightly ruffling his hair. He could smell your perfume as the breeze drifted it his way. It was sweet, understated and gentle but with a noticeable presence. It matched you perfectly in that way. He looked over from his place beside you, and couldn’t help but stare in awe.

In many ways, you were the antithesis to him, a reflection of everything he wished he could be. Much of it was given away in your footfalls; where his were the inelegant scuff of boots against the cold stone of the cobbled street, yours was the tapping of your delicate heels, sounding more akin to a steady drip of water into a lake. Where Howzer was all hard edges and military barbarism, at least in theory, you were made up of soft contours and political courtesy.

He was beneath, you were above. He was the soil, you were the sky. He was inferior, and you were fundamental. All that was true to the places you held in the galaxy, but when he stood next to you, he felt whole, as if your idiosyncrasies fit together to create a one picture, one he didn’t know he recognised until he had laid eyes on you for the first time. Although, as much as you were different, you held a similar space within your own lives, echoing each other’s values. You were both bound by duty, a duty which kept you both from seeking true happiness, and yet, watching you stroll through the moonlight felt like exactly that: happiness.

You halted outside the door to your dwelling, turning back towards him as you opened it up. You observed him for a moment, eyebrows twitching as if thinking something over.

“I'm going put the kettle on” you told him, leaving a lengthy gap to let the words hang in the air for a moment, “would you like to join me for some tea?”

Howzer was agreeing before you had barely got the words out, and you gestured for him to enter with a smirk that you failed to hide. The space was a lot more modest than he was expecting, but he realised then that he probably viewed you as being more important than those who organised your living arrangements. There was a kitchen to one side, a homey looking sofa on the opposite wall, a small dining area between them, and two doors off to the side which he could only presume were the bedroom and refresher. It was humble, especially as compared to the mansion you had just left.

Howzer watched as you pinched the fabric of your scarf between your fingers, pulling it off. The sheer fabric slid over your smooth skin like water over glass, and Howzer was positively mesmerised. It was such a simple action, but he was coming to understand that anything you did was a little more than appealing to him.

“Make yourself at home” you smiled at him as you glided over towards the kitchen to put the kettle on, leaning on the counter to take off your shoes.

For a moment he just watched you move around, almost desperate to reach out and feel your skin against his once more. He forced himself to look away, to try and do as you said and make himself comfortable in the space. He placed his helmet on the table, and noticed that the flimsibook he so often saw you with was open, your stylus laid in the centre of it.

He didn't mean to look, he knew that he shouldn't, that it was private, but when his eyes skimmed the page and he saw his own name, his heart stopped in his chest. He picked it up, unable to help himself, and ran his fingers across the page as he read from it. It was poetry. All this time, the writing that you had been so intently working on were poems, and it seemed that he was a recurring character.

Howzer was floored. He couldn't believe that such sweet words were written for him, someone made for such violence, and by someone like you no less. He turned page after page, and his name appeared a number of times, but upon reading further, even when he wasn't mentioned by name, it was obvious that it was him you were describing.

Instances from your time together, the day at the lake, descriptions of sitting opposite him under the whiptree, and as far as just passing by him. He noticed that they were dated, and as he flipped backwards through the pages, he found one dated under the day you arrived at the senate bureau.

eyes meet, a flicker of recognition,

birthed from nowhere, you’re unknown.

a quiet understanding, but no words,

a warmth that reaches to me.

It feels like a promise,

a vow to fulfil in time,

to make this notion true, not just a stolen glance from the nameless.

From the very beginning, you had felt exactly the same as him, recognising that pull that he had as soon as he laid his eyes on you. Howzer felt his breath go short, his heartbeat thundering in his ears as his blood ran hot through his veins. He looked over to you, leaned against the kitchen counter and tapping a rhythm against it as you waited for the kettle to boil. He called your name, and you looked over to him inquisitively, but your face instantly dropped as your eyes darted between the book and his face.

“I didn’t know you wrote poetry” he stated, the first think he could think to say.

“You weren’t supposed to” you said quickly, your embarrassment obvious as you strode over to him in a few steps and snatched the book from him, shoving it into a drawer when you made it back to your original position.

Howzer could see the deep blush that set in across your cheeks, and he gave you an apologetic look. He hadn’t meant to embarrass you, he only wanted to convey how much it meant to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look, just—” he found himself at a loss for words, “it’s beautiful”

“It’s…” you glanced over to him with hesitation, shame still colouring your cheeks, “it’s private”

For a moment neither one of you moved, watching each other carefully to see if the other would go on. You shortly began to look flustered, your fingers fiddling with the fabric of your dress and shifting on the spot.

Letting out a long breath, you hung your head, “I’m so sorry Captain”

Howzer’s eyebrows shot up, taking a step forward on instinct, “you’re sorry?”

“Maker, this is so mortifying” you covered your face with your hands, “I don’t even have the words to explain myself”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at that assertion, “I don’t know about that, seems like you might have quite a few”

You groaned in embarrassment as your body curled in on itself more, drawing another small laugh from Howzer as he made his way over to you.

He tentatively wrapped his hands around you wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. You looked up at him with a bashful expression, struggling to maintain eye contact as he slipped your hands into his.

“I—” he began, not entirely sure of the direction he was going, “I wish I had any of the sort of talent with words that you have, so that I might be able to express my feelings more clearly, but..” he paused, seeing the timidity begin to recede in your eyes, “perhaps I could show you instead?”

His eyes remained trained on yours as he awaited your answer, one hand skimming over your waist and running the silky fabric of your dress through his fingers, the other ghosting over your arm as it made its way up to hold your jaw.

You stared back at him with wide eyes, “I thought— you said it— that we shouldn't”

Howzer had never known you to trip over your words in such a way, and a smirk wormed its way onto his face as he shrugged a little, “I changed my mind”

He could feel some of the tension drain from your body, your shoulders relaxing, and you stepped into his space so you were chest to chest, your nose almost touching his. Your eyes dropped to his lips, tilting your head upwards so they were only a hairbreadth from his own. He could feel your breath warm on his lips, and he had to fight to keep from shivering at the sensation. Eyes finding his again, he could see more confidence in your gaze, and it sent a certain thrill through him that was hard to ignore.

“Then prove it” you whispered, lips almost brushing his.

Howzer closed the space between you, lips meeting with ardency as his arm wrapped around your waist to hold you close to him. He moved his lips against yours with intention, taking his time in the hopes that it would convey every unsaid notion of admiration. Your hands curled around the top of his chestplate, pulling him flush against you, and he gripped you tighter, the fabric of your dress bunching up at his touch.

“You look so good in my colour” he mumbled against your lips, sounding as drunk as he felt at the intoxicating taste of your lips.

“I hope so” you returned, “I wore it for you”

Howzer groaned as he instantly deepened the kiss, pressing you back into the kitchen counter, and he felt you smirk against him. His hands explored your body, finally allowing himself the pleasure of indulging in the feel of your skin.

He suddenly became overwhelmed by desire, desperate to be as close as possible after your admission. You had worn this excruciatingly tantalising dress just for him, and he wanted to be the one to take it off of you. One hand cupped the back of your head as his mouth devoured yours, exploring every inch of you he could reach, and the other trailed down your body to grip at your hip. You raised to your toes to push back against him, matching his fervour, your arms snaking around his neck to bring him closer.

In a swift motion, Howzer hooked his hands under your thighs, placing you on top of the counter behind you and standing between your thighs. You threaded your legs around his waist, pulling yourself into him and earning a breathy groan at the feel of you pressing into his now uncomfortably tight codpiece.

Howzer had never felt a desire as pure as this one. He'd had encounters of a similar nature with other people, of course, but never had he felt this aching within his chest, the need to be close, not only physically, but to be tethered together by your very souls.

Becoming impatient and overwhelmed by his own state of mind, Howzer’s hand ran down your leg and found the hem of your dress, which had ridden up a little by that point, and lifted it so he could slip beneath. His fingers danced along your skin, skimming your inner thigh as he made his way towards the apex in a swift motion.

A shaky breath passed your lips and fanned over his as his knuckles came into contact with your clothed sex. He teased you for a moment, ghosting over the fabric with featherlight touches, but a heavy sigh gave an indication that you were just as impatient as he was.

“No need to be so gentle, Captain. I told you, I'm not made of glass” your voice was thick with desire, breathy but confident.

“I thought you weren't going to call me that anymore” he pressed his forehead into yours to peer into your eyes as his first finger hooked into your underwear slowly.

“Maybe I want to” you whispered, and though initially a little stunned, his lips formed a particularly rakish grin at the implication. He took what you had said at face value and sped along the process by pushing your underwear to the side, his fingers sliding between your folds.

“Fuck” he breathed out slowly, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, “how are you so wet already?”

His voice was hoarse, genuine perplexity and pleasant surprise colouring his tone.

“Didn't you read my poetry?” you asked, a contented sigh passing your lips, “you look very good in this armour, Captain”

Howzer chuckled, and he heard your breath hitch as his fingers grazed your clit.

“So good you had to match, apparently” he breathed out, his lips against your ear and drawing a shudder from you.

He continued his teasing, every motion in response to the way you reacted to his touch. Dragging his teeth along your earlobe, he heard a whimper sound in your throat, and as you were about to reply to his previous comment, he sunk two of his fingers inside of you. Howzer could feel his knees almost give out at how easy it was to slip his fingers past your entrance, and your breath escaped you in a sharp and unsteady exhale.

“Fuck, so… good” you finally replied, struggling to get your words out as his fingers set a steady pace within you, watching every twitch that played on your features as you responded to his efforts.

Your face was twisted in pleasure, brows pinched and teeth digging into your bottom lip. It was as if you were an instrument, him the air, or the strings, that allowed you to sing. Your soft moans were the melody, the most beautiful one he had heard, and the fact that it was him pulling it from you only made it sound sweeter.

“You're right, mesh'la” he spoke against your lips, detaching the meaning you had intended from your previous words, “you're so good, taking my fingers so well”

A small whine left you, and Howzer attached his lips back to yours, swallowing the sound. His thumb brushed over your clit as he wound you up, and you let out a delighted moan into his mouth.

“Tell me how it feels, baby, tell me how good I make you feel” he rasped, the fingers of his free hand digging into the flesh of your thigh.

“It— fuck” you were interrupted as Howzer's fingers found a particularly deep spot within you, curling and hitting a place that made you unable to speak, “it feels so good, Captain”

“Yeah?” he asked, adding pressure to your clit so you could only nod in reply, “you like calling me that, huh?”

A small ‘yes’ slipped from your lips in a whisper, looking up into his eyes, and Howzer could see something shy swirling within them. He wasn't going to have that.

“Yes, what?” he challenged, and watched with pride as the timidity receded and a flicker of desire took its place.

“Yes, Captain”

Howzer smirked broadly, his teeth catching on his bottom lip as he looked down at the positive alluring sight of you at his mercy.

“Good girl” he praised, and felt the way you clenched around him in response. He was quickly coming to understand exactly what it was your body wanted from him.

He felt you getting close to finishing, your chest heaving and breath short and uneven as your walls tightened around his pumping fingers, but before you could reach your peak, he pulled his fingers from you completely. A sharp whine slipped from your lips at the loss, but Howzer just gave you a teasing simper.

“Not yet, mesh'la. I'll let you know when you can come” he spoke lowly, nothing but pure lust dripping from his tongue.

He could tell his words were having an effect on you. You were breathless, looking up at him through your eyelashes, and the sight alone was enough to set his skin alight in an entirely new way, his cock throbbing beneath his armour. A hand found its place on your cheek, needing an affirmative before continuing.

“How's that sound? You think you can follow my orders?” he asked, his tone reverent despite the meaning behind the words.

“Yes sir” you breathed out, and Howzer couldn't deny the way the sentiment set his insides alive.

He kissed you deeply, taking a moment in the flurry of desire to see to the fact that he cared for you deeply, and he wanted you to know that. His fingers traced your jaw, winding their way behind you head in a soft brush of skin against skin. He kept his touch light as he drew a path up to one of your lekku, and gently brushed his knuckles over the sensitive area.

He felt a shiver ripple through you, and you drew away from him with a shaky breath. Your eyes were a little wide, and he worried that he'd pushed your boundaries, but then your fingers hooked into his belt and you yanked him towards you.

“How do I take this off?” you asked, fumbling with the clasp.

Howzer laughed, your actions so sudden that he couldn't help himself, “here, let me do it”

He shooed your hands away, unclipping his belt and then going about removing the rest of his armour as quickly as possible. You just sat atop the counter, one leg crossed over the other and watching him with a fascination. He caught your eyes, and a smirk broke out over his face.

There was an understanding between you, a sense of affinity and trust that had been there since the beginning. Howzer didn't believe in fate — his time in the war had only taught him the certainty of everything being up to chance and luck — but something about the way you looked at him, the way his eyes found yours and things made sense, it felt that it had been brewing for a long time, since before you had met.

Once Howzer was just down to his blacks, his armour scattered about the floor that surrounded him, he pulled the top from his body, and your hands were on him before he could continue. You pulled him towards you, tasting his lips again, and he melted into you, his hands running up your thighs.

Your hands travelled over his chest and took a path downwards, your fingers brushing against his muscle and the hair that peeked above his blacks before they wrapped around his hardened length. An unbidden groan left his lips at the action, grinding himself into your hold and gripping the flesh of your thighs as you palmed him through the material. He could feel himself crumbling under your attention already, and he couldn't wait a second longer. He needed to feel you around him.

His thumbs hooked into the waistband of his blacks and tugged them down with his underwear, stepping out and catching the way you bit your lip at the sight of his cock springing free. He bunched your dress up around your hips and slid your underwear from your body with an urgency, placing himself between your legs once more and resting the blunt head of his cock at your entrance. Your breath stuttered at the sensation, and he looked up to meet your eyes once more.

You were so beautiful. He'd always known it, but a newfound appreciation of your beauty now washed over him like an icy tidal wave, waking him up and making him feel entirely more present and aware of what was happening. One of his hands lifted to caress your face, looking deeply into your eyes and feeling that connection, the tethering of souls that he desired.

“You're incredible” he breathed out, and your lips curled up into a genuine smile.

“I think you're pretty incredible too, since were being honest”

Howzer wasn't entirely sure how to respond to the compliment, but shortly a smug expression took over his face, “oh I know, you wouldn't write words like that otherwise”

You rolled your eyes, a huff leaving your lips, “cocky”

He dragged his tongue along his lips with a devilish grin, “you have no idea”

He sheathed into you, and heard a gasp get caught in your throat as he slowly filled you out. Your fingers gripped onto his shoulders as he bottomed out, and Howzer couldn't find it within himself to move. He pulled you close, your foreheads together and eyes closed as your bodies were flush with one another, his cock buried deep within you, basking in your warmth. He pulled out slowly, a careful procedure, and then sank back into you with a shuddering breath.

“Fuck” he choked out, running a soothing hand up your side, “you feel so good baby”

Howzer set a steady pace at first, relishing in the feeling of your tight walls around his cock, but soon found himself speeding up, the sensation too intoxicating and your nails biting into his shoulder making his vision hazy even as he opened his eyes. The melody of your moans was more colourful, inflections and articulations that he hadn't heard before, and the sounds alone were driving him closer to the edge by the second.

His speed was punishing, driving into you and hitting deep inside with each thrust. His hands gripped your thighs to ground him, feeling almost drunk on the feel of you. He was mumbling acclamatory words against your lips, unable to concentrate enough to speak properly, and especially when your lips were on his neck. It made his head spin, more arousing than he realised, and he felt positively high. You were invading his senses like a drug, and he was so lost in the moment that he was only brought back by the feel of your walls clenching around him. Despite his body's wishes, he pulled out of you completely. You let out a whine in protest, and he ran a finger over your pouting bottom lip with a chuckle.

“Not yet, pretty girl”

He brought his fingers to your core again, teasing you just enough to keep you on the edge. He watched you squirm, both satisfaction and frustration written into your expression, and your hands wrapped around the back of his neck and slid up, tangling in his hair as you guided his lips back to yours. You pulled gently, earning a groan from his throat that echoed in the space around you. Howzer returned the action, running his palm over the base of your lekku.

You whimpered against him, and pulled back fractionally to speak a desperate plea to let you finish. Instead of heeding your wishes, he took his fingers away from you, and a breath escaped you as your forehead came to rest on his chest. Your legs wrapped around his waist again, drawing him closer so his cock came into contact with your dripping core. He groaned deeply, wanting nothing more than to bury himself in you again.

“Where's your bedroom?” he mumbled out, and your head raised to look at him.

“Door on the right” you answered in a quick breath.

Howzer hooked his hands under your thighs and wasted no time in heading over towards the room. He smashed his hand into the door panel with an urgency, making you chuckle against his skin as you littered kisses up his neck and along his jaw. When he found the bed in the darkened room, he placed you down gently, laying you down beneath him. He took the opportunity to explore your body with his lips, pressing open mouthed kisses where your dress would allow, and nudging it aside when he wasn't satisfied with how little skin he could reach.

He then pulled back and tilted his head, a small smirk playing on his lips as he looked down at you, “don't you think you’re a little overdressed?”

Your lips lifted into their own smirk, “you think so?”

Howzer chucked darkly, his lips meeting the skin of your neck as he drew a path of kisses along the underside of your jaw. He paused for a moment, feeling you shudder at the feel of his hot breath against your ear.

“Be a good girl and take this off for me” he spoke lowly.

You pushed him away with a trembling breath, and he rolled off of you, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching as you stood. You slipped the straps of your dress from your shoulders, and the silky material of the dress folded easily, sliding from your body and pooling at your feet in one graceful motion. Howzer’s mouth dropped open, his hand reaching for you and tracing his thumb along your hip bone as he took in the sight of you in a state of undress.

“Kriff cyare, look at you” his tone was nothing short of worshipping, adoration and infatuation laced into his tone.

One side of your lips quirked up at the compliment, and however much he hadn't really spoke his mind, he knew you understood. He gripped your waist and pulled you back towards him, tugging you down and placing his body back on top of yours, caging your head between his splayed palms. He shook his head in disbelief, looking down at the sight of you beneath him and taking your hand in his, interlacing your fingers with his and pressing it into the bed.

“You ready pretty girl?” he asked in a whisper, leaning down to press a kiss to your jaw.

You nodded, your breath leaving you as he positioned himself at your entrance once more.

“Hm, doesn't seem like you really want it” He spoke coyly, slipping his length through your slick folds as he dragged his teeth along your collarbone.

You were whimpering, squirming beneath him, and he knew he had you absolutely wrapped around his finger in that moment. It was exhilarating, the idea that ordinarily you were a quiet and poised government official, strong in your resolve and far above him in station, but now you were beneath him, begging for more, hanging on his every word and under his command.

“Please, Captain” you breathed out, your tone so lustful that Howzer could have crumbled.

“Please what? You have to tell me what you need mesh'la” he rumbled against your skin, teasing your clit with the tip of his cock.

“Please, I— I need you to fuck me Captain”

You sounded desperate, and it drew a low groan from Howzer's throat, “that's more like it”

His forehead met yours as he slid inside of you again, filling you completely in one thrust, the dulcet sound of your moans mixing filling the dark room. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your hand gripping his tighter as he pounded into you. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was actually going to last much longer with the feel of your walls clenching around him, but he was determined to have you hanging on until the very last second.

The feeling that it gave him, the intimacy of it more than anything, was euphoric. He had never felt so close to another person, so understood and frankly loved, whether or not it was the case. The two of you were connected in a way that he couldn't comprehend, but could only feel, an energy that bound you together and created a space where only the two of you existed.

He felt your walls tightening around him once more, and kept his pace up as he spoke, “ah, ah. You don't come until I tell you to, remember?”

“Yes, Captain” you whimpered, your eyes screwing shut.

“Hey” he said more gently, slowing down as his hand caressed your face, “look at me.” Your eyes opened once more, and a smile broke out on his face naturally, “there you are pretty girl”

He bumped his forehead with yours as he resumed his punishing pace, his eyes burning into yours and yours burning in kind. He could tell you were only just hanging on, doing everything in your willpower to not come undone until he let you, and he just felt grateful for the trust you had in him to allow him to have such a power over you.

“You take me so well baby” he whispered, his voice reverent and gentle as he buried his face in your neck, nipping at your skin, “made for this cock”

His breath stuttered as he felt himself getting close, not able to hold on for much longer, and your whispered pleas told him that you were right there with him.

“where do you want me?” he asked, his voice strained.

You were breathless as you replied, almost relieved, “inside”

Howzer groaned deeply, stilling inside you and trying to control his body desperately, “I'm serious cyar'ika”

“I'm protected” you assured him, “please Captain, I want to feel you”

That was all Howzer needed to resume his shattering pace, his hands holding your hips firmly in place as he pounded into you and finally spoke the words, “come for me, baby”

You were easily pushed over the edge, and Howzer rode you through your high until he came undone with a harsh grunt, spilling his seed deep within you. It took more than a moment to come down from the pure bliss of fulfilment, and when he did, his eyes opened to look down at you, still panting, and you were doing the same. He let out a breathy laugh, grinning at your spent expression.

He slipped out of you, sitting back on his heels to catch his breath, and watched the way his seed spilled out of you, making his teeth sink into his lip. His eyes found yours once more as his hand gently kneaded your thigh, shaking his head in disbelief.

“What?” you asked, a gentle smile playing on your lips.

“You're just—” he breathed out deeply, “you're so beautiful”

You grinned at him, sitting up on your elbows, “thank you”

You looked confident in saying it, and his heart sang with affection. He pressed a kiss to your knee and stood from the bed, “don't move, I'll be right back”

He left the room and entered what he rightly assumed was the refresher, and returned with tissue in hand. He helped you clean up before crawling over you again, cupping your face and pressing a tender kiss to your lips.

You hummed contentedly, your own hand caressing his face, outlining the scar on his cheek, “will you stay the night?”

You looked so hopeful in asking, but Howzer sighed, “I can't be caught leaving here tomorrow”

You chewed on your cheek, looking away for a moment, “just for a little while then?”

He smiled, “alright, a little while”

He settled beside you and pulled your body flush against his, placing a kiss to your forehead as he held you close. Your face was buried in his chest, breath tickling his skin, and he couldn't think of a time when he had ever felt as contented as this.

“Howzer?” you called softly.

“Hm?” he rumbled, his arms tightening around you.

“What— um…” you stammered, and he pulled back to look at you.

“What's up?”

You didn't look nervous perse, he didn't think you capable of it, but you looked a little apprehensive to say whatever it is that was hanging onto your tongue.

“What does this mean?” you asked quietly.

Howzer smiled, his fingers brushing against your cheekbone as he looked down at you adoringly, “it means whatever you want it to”

You tilted your head at him a little, “well what do you want?”

“I only want whatever you'll give me, however much that is”

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you lifted your head to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, “I just want you… in every way I can”

“Then I'm yours” he smiled in return, “in every way”

It was first light when Howzer awoke the next day, the sun only just breaching the horizon and casting a blue glow through the curtains of your bedroom. He was pressed up against your body, curled around you and keeping you sealed in a warm embrace with his arms.

He wished that you could stay like this forever, the both of you comfortable and locked together, hidden from the unblinking eye of the outside world and the realities that weighed on your minds at any other moment. Here, there was no Empire, no politics, no power — just peace.

Howzer nuzzled into your neck for just a second, pressing a lingering kiss to your throat, before he pulled away from you completely, leaving the room to get dressed into his previously discarded armour. If he had taken another moment he was sure he'd never leave.

He dressed quickly, slipping his blacks on and putting his armour back in it's place. As he adjusted his pauldron, he looked back towards your bedroom door. He didn't want to leave without saying goodbye, but he also didn't want to wake you. You would be getting up soon enough, but he wouldn't deny you even a few minutes of rest with the state of things in the senate bureau, so instead he opted to write a note.

He found your flimsibook and a stylus in the drawer where you had stuffed them the night before and opened to the next blank page, next to the end of a very long poem that was seemingly about justice, based on the heavy use of the word. He wasn't going to pry by reading it once more, so he just wrote a quick note down, to let you know that he'd make some caf for you. His language wasn't as flowery as yours, and he almost felt embarrassed for it, but he wasn't exactly trying to be very poetic. He set a batch of caf on to brew, then slipped out the front door as quietly as possible.

The air outside was fresh, the scent of morning dew and the ever-present lavender invading his senses, though the distinct lack of people around was strange. Howzer was never usually out of the barracks this early so it was unusual to be able to hear the birdsong, which was usually covered by the sound of people talking, milling about, on their way to work. It was nice, perhaps he'd make an effort to get up earlier in the future.

As he made his way towards the square, he was ambushed by a pair of troopers, exactly the people he was trying to avoid in not going back to the barracks.

“Where have you been?” Teddy asked him with a taunting edge, knocking his elbow as the two of them walked either side of him.

“Yeah, you weren't in your bed last night” Oscar smirked, “which begs the question: whose bed were you in?”

Howzer rolled his eyes, playing off their questions, “I was stationed at the Senator's estate last night”

Oscar let out a loud laugh, “as if you slept in the Senator's mansion”

“We're not that stupid, sir” Teddy gave him a knowing look, “well, maybe Oscar is, but come on, wh—”

“Hey!” Oscar reached around his Captain to push Teddy away.

“You two are such children” Howzer shook his head disapprovingly, though a small smile still managed to worm its way onto his face.

“He started it” Oscar grumbled, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Did not” Teddy grinned, rubbing his arm.

“Anyway” Oscar said pointedly, “you didn't answer the question. who'd you go home with, Captain?”

Howzer scoffed, “I’m not discussing this with you loudmouths”

“Don't worry sir, I'll cover his ears while you tell me” Teddy suggested, causing Howzer to chuckle.

“Don't you two have somewhere to be?” He asked as they came to a stop in the town square, an eyebrow raised and looking between them.

“Ugh” Oscar huffed, rolling his eyes, “I suppose”

“Best be off then” Howzer nudged him forwards.

Oscar was mumbling under his breath as he walked away, and Teddy leaned toward Howzer fractionally, his tone amused, “Don't worry sir, I'll keep him in line”

“I know you will, Teddy” Howzer chuckled fondly as he stepped away, “I'll see you later”

Teddy gave his Captain a quick salute and ran after his brother, throwing an arm around his shoulders on approach. Howzer turned away with an affectionate smile and the threat of a scoff leaving his mouth at their antics.

Howzer had barely been keeping it together all morning, and he had no idea how you could act so nonchalantly, as if nothing had transpired between the two of you. It wasn't discussed that your escapades from the previous night would be kept a secret, but it was assumed. That didn't stop the way the edges of Howzer's lips curled into a smirk upon seeing you enter the room.

Today you were dressed in a corseted robe, paisley designs adorning the silky sleeves and collar, and it was noticeably a light blue-green colour; teal. Howzer shook his head at you and had to bite back a smirk, he could tell you knew what you were doing. You had greeted him with a simple ‘Good morning, Captain’ but it had made his blood run hot with memories of the previous night filling his vision. He had never been so thankful for his codpiece.

He watched as you and Cham discussed something in his office, your voices too far away to hear what. He caught little words here and there, but nothing that really indicated the subject matter. It made him laugh, really. You would both probably discuss it with him later, so there was no need for the hushed tone you employed, but neither of you knew that. Perhaps you did, but your sabacc face was too good that he couldn't tell.

The arrival of a new Imperial officer, a vice admiral, had been the talk of the day. The man was so self-important and petulant that Howzer was sure he was making up for something, though in truth, he hadn't been paying all that much attention to him. He hadn't been paying attention to anyone but you.

You had met his gaze only once since first saying good morning, and it was driving him crazy, particularly as the one time he did catch your eyes, you had sent him a maddeningly sultry smirk. Howzer felt like all the self control he had left within him was hanging by a thread, ready to snap.

When the time was right, he pulled the thread, and let it break, finally getting you alone and dragging you behind a non-descript door that ended up being some kind of supply closet. He instantly pushed you up against the wall, attaching his lips to yours with a desperation that made you smirk against his mouth.

“Someone's eager” you chuckled as his lips left yours for a moment.

“Shut up” he mumbled, kissing you deeply in between his words, “what do you expect when you walk in wearing this?”

You smirked broadly, “I thought you'd like it”

He suppressed a groan as your teeth dragged along his lip, “you're trouble”

Howzer's hands roved over your body, mapping the shape of it and burning it into his brain. He ran his tongue over the seem of your lips, begging for entrance that you allowed in an instant, and the soft sigh that left you made his knees weak.

A shuffling of feet outside the door made the both of you freeze, eyes opening and locking as you listened intently. It sounded as if there was a group of people passing by, their discussion so benign it could be about anything.

You smiled up at Howzer as their voices receded, and he returned the gesture, his arms snaking around your waist and holding you tightly.

“Thank you for the caf” you whispered.

“It was no problem” he whispered back, a hand cupping your cheek.

“But next time, wake me up” you said, somehow ever quieter.

The promise of a next time made his smile widen, and he knew now that he wouldn't deny you anything you asked for. He bit his lip as you looked up at him through your lashes, your gentle expression making his chest feel tight with admiration.

“Alright” he murmured.

He dipped his head and nudged your chin up with his nose to latch his lips onto your neck, and that wonderful sighing noise left your parted lips once more.

“We shouldn’t be doing this here” you insisted, your voice breathy and full of a certain neediness despite your words.

“Tell me to stop” Howzer spoke, his warm breath over your collarbone, and you moaned softly, prompting him to repeat himself, “go on, tell me to stop”

Your breath was short, but you found your voice enough to speak, “no sir”

“That's what I thought”

Howzer placed an armoured leg between your thighs to pin you to the wall, and a less gentle moan slipped from your lips.

“Shhh” he cooed, shifting his leg further up just to tease you, and you struggled to suppress another noise, “do you think you can stay quiet for me, baby?”

You stifled a noise as he bit into your neck, giving him his answer.

“Good girl”

taglist: @darthnihila @cdblake1565 @heidnspeak @mae-lou-ron @burningnerdchild @orangez3st

[traumxrei-archive]

【 v. plated perfection 】

summary: now that yuu was better, they still had nothing to do. that is, until they heard the cheerful tune of a certain white haired maid floating down the halls… maybe they should go see what kalim is up to.

word count: 1.3k

author’s note: kalim’s part !! i really wanted to do the whole shoujo manga cliche w/ this one so i hope you enjoy ^^

[ the perfect debutante series | or read on ao3 (coming soon) ]

There wasn't much left to do for Yuu when they finally got permission to start working again. (That was an arduous process on its own.) It appeared that Azul, Jade, Riddle, and even Jamil had pitched in to take care of any last-minute preparations.

Now that everything was decided, the previously fast-approaching ball seemed to approach at a snail's pace. On top of that, Yuu had even more free time than usual because the Duke had taken over their work to "give them more time to plan". They did come up with an idea for something special at the Debutante, but it was undergoing some final review from the head butler, so it was a waiting game.

That was why they were strolling the halls, looking for something that they could do. A cheerful tune floated down the halls catching Yuu's ear. They instantly recognized the singer's voice, approaching the open door carefully.

Inside the grand room was Kalim, silverware and dishes spread out in front of him. The silver haired maid looked more put together than usual, his short skirt fluttering over stockinged legs as he spun. A white and gold bandana laid over his silvery hair, ribbons trailing down his neck.

"A whole new– Master?!"

Yuu suppressed a laugh when Kalim finally noticed them, "Hello Kalim, that was a nice song you were singing."

"Oh, I think so too! It's a classical ballad from Scalding Sands. But, Master," The maid blinked, his earrings clinking when he tilted his head. "What brings you here?"

"I was bored." And wasn't that the truth? It was easy to be a little more unfiltered with Kalim. Red eyes sparkled knowingly at their words.

"Hmm, then Master," Kalim very gently grabbed a plate. "What do you think about this plate?"

The plate was...shiny. So shiny, in fact, that Yuu felt a bit dazed, "Er, why did you pick that one out?"

"Well," Kalim set the plate aside. "Jamil and Azul told me to pick something perfect. It's Master's debutante after all!

Kalim started listing on his fingers, "They said, 'pick something that shows off the dukedom's opulence, elegance,' and..."

"Humility?" If it was those two that gave Kalim advice, they would know a thing or two about not going overboard on the flair. 

"Yes! Something like that," Kalim pouted. "But it seems that this set isn't to Master's liking." They could see the metaphorical puppy ears droop as he picked up the plate, going back to the display cases.

"It's only a little bit too shiny," Yuu said quickly, trying to soothe Kalim's mood. "There are plenty of other options."

"Theb how about this one?" Kalim picked up a dish with flowery vines adorning its rim. The gold tipped edge made it look all that elegant. "I think it's very pretty."

"Hmm, but I don't think it would fit with the interior decor of the ball," Yuu offered. "It would be very nice to use for the gardens area, but the plates should be uniform."

A thoughtful look crossed Kalim's face, "How about using it as serving plates? It would also make it easier for the chefs if they knew which plates would go to the hall and which will go to the garden."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Yuu said, and Kalim all but beamed at the compliment.

"I heard Jamil complaining about it before," Kalim said, taking out some serving plates. "One of the times that he was helping out at a party my Baba held, the servants weren't given clear instructions on which food was for which hall and it was a mess."

"Okay, now we have some flowery serving plates and trays!" Kalim dusted off his skirts. "Do you have any suggestions, Master?"

"How about choosing something with Night Raven colors?" Yuu took a seat on the bench beside the tray of plates.

Kalim perked up at that, "That's a great idea! The grey plates are somewhere on this shelf..." The silver-haired maid crouched, reaching for another plate, "This one seems very Night Raven colors." The plates had a grey base, and symmetric white lines crisscrossing to create an intricate pattern.

It was certainly an elegant choice, "That's a bit..."

"...too serious," Kalim concluded, sliding the plate back to its spot. "I guess I'll look at the top shelves."

They watched as Kalim dragged a rolling wooden ladder toward the shelf, "Don't forget, to lock the wheels." Yuu stood up, approaching the shelf as Kalim started climbing the ladder. He made it to the platform, opening the doors to the cabinet.

"It's alright Master, I've been doing this all morning," Kalim called out, as Yuu braced an arm against the ladder. Suddenly, Kalim shouted, "Oh! I found the perfect one!"

Kalim spun in his excitement and that was when it happened. Yuu could do nothing but watch as Kalim's body tilted unnaturally to the right, and—

Yuu lunged forward.

It was instinct, and they could barely think before their back was hitting the ground. A burst of pain hit their shoulder as they rolled before finally coming to a stop.

Their chest rose and fell, the blood rushing in their ears. Kalim's weight was keenly on top of them. That much they could figure out. Yuu pried open their eyes, their chest feeling stifled when—

Oh. Kalim's eyes were such a startling shade of red. Yuu had never seen his eyes that close before. The maid's head jerked back, his earrings chimed at the action. His ribbon brushed against their neck. The sensation was strange. A little ticklish, making them huff out a short breath.

Kalim blinked, his mouth falling open. He reeled backward with a shout and they winced as they heard another thump. Yuu sat up, gingerly touching their shoulder. Kalim was still lying on the ground, his skirts in disarray, still seemingly shocked.

And then Kalim shot up, hands clasping their own, "Master! This– I'm so– this maid apologizes for such a blunder, the ladder was— I-I should've been more careful, but— Oh, the others will kill me if they—"

“The others won't find out," Yuu reassured, glancing at the spotless floor. "None of the plates are broken, and we are both fine, save for our clothes."

"But—" Kalim seemed to sputter, hands gesturing wildly. "But Master, you—"

"Instead of arguing, why don't you show me the plate you found?" Yuu stood, dragging Kalim with them.

Kalim looked conflicted, his stare swinging between the cabinet and them, "Still, you... Master shouldn't do anything dangerous like that again. Promise?”

“I promise,” Yuu nodded toward the shelf. “Let’s see the plate that made you so excited.”

Kalim climbed up the ladder— but not before double-checking all of the wheels to the ladder— before returning with a white plate, with grey flowers and gold patterns lining the border, “Isn’t it perfect?”

“It is,” Yuu agreed, taking the plate into their hands. “You found the perfect plate.” Kalim pumped his fists in the air, before going back to grab the rest of the set. They grinned at Kalim’s quite antics, nodding along to the happy tune he was humming as he placed the plates onto the cart. 

“Should we go have a treat to celebrate?” Yuu suggested, and Kalim’s eyes grew even more shinier than before, his previous mood forgotten.

“Oh! Jamil was cooking up some tester desserts last night!” Kalim gushed, grabbing their hand. “Let’s go and ask him for the rest!” Yuu laughed as they were hurriedly led down the hallway. They had all but abandoned the plates there, but oh well. Maybe having fun and letting loose with Kalim was exactly what they needed before the debutante. (And sweets. Sweets made everyone’s days feel better, right?)

thank you for reading ^^ if you’d like to read more, check out my masterlist ! like the art ? look at more of dumple's works on insta !

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[things-about-cars-in-posts]

hey silly question maybe. do you know why cars are so boring now? like im on the wikipedia page for the cadillac eldorado for Reasons and it's a really visually interesting car through all the generations up until like. the tenth in 1979 when it just kinda looks like. every other car (if a bit more square) is this just like, the Capitalism Thing of shit getting more and more boring and samey over the years? or is there like a reason. idk much about cars but this has always annoyed and confused me, i miss interesting looking cars :(

Well, it should be noted that the tenth generation Eldorado's case is a peculiar one. As I've gone over, old American cars tended to be refreshed every other year, and the Eldorado, meant to represent the top of the top of that uniquely American idea of opulence, was perhaps the car most supposed to do so. Hence, as you'll have found, its ninth generation launched in 1971, just 18 years after the first - thats' how long the only generation of Italy's best selling car at the time, the Fiat 500, was sold for.

You wouldn't have expected that generation to stick around for more than four years - no other generation did, and almost all lasted half that. However, 1973 had other plans. Namely, the fuel crisis that completely eviscerated demand for mastodonic fuel guzzlers.

Sales would decline the following years, with little tweaks here and there but no major update, which would have been money down the drain as existing owners could barely afford to fill up the damn things, let alone upgrade, and what were potential customers before couldn't afford to fill up the damn things full stop. So when the new model finally came, this big aspirational car was shrunken down to get on with times of shrinking aspirations.

Nigh on 5.20 meters (for yankees, that's roughly 4/207ths of a Titanic) will hardly seem short to European sensibilities, but let's remember, that's coming from 5.70. You could walk between two walls that far apart. The width, too, decreased by a whole 20cm (for yankees, that's roughly half a rabbit), which in car width terms is massive - like, it's the difference between a Mini and a Mustang.

This to say, the tenth generation Eldorado is oft maligned as a fall from grace, one of the most popular examples of why the malaise moniker stuck to this era of American cars - so not exactly the fairest assessment of how cars changed with time. How about, then, we start our analysis by looking at a car with a much better received update, shall we?

Of course, the Mk1 Volkswagen Golf (for yankees, that's roughly a Rabbit) was a smash hit the world over, so much so that in Mexico it remained on sale as the Citi Golf as recently as 2009(!), and if I didn't think it the best looking Golf that ever was I probably wouldn't own one...

...but unless the only kink you're into is the Hofmeister, I don't see how the second generation's styling is such a downgrade as to bemoan the state of things. And frankly...

...maybe it's just the boiled frog syndrome, but I can't spot a point in which anything 'went wrong', so to speak. Which leads to the all-important question:

You say you miss interesting looking cars, but I do have to ask - when did they ever leave?

Have a browse of my pride post (no, really, go read it, I think it's one of my best ever) and point me to the boring cars within it, because me, I don't see any. And I suspect the reasons are similar to why you see older cars as more interesting.

For one, given the point of the post, all the cars shown are some flashy color, and each is different from every other. This, however, is increasingly becoming an anomaly as greyscale gobbles up an ever increasing share of the market, meaning on average, modern cars are less colorful, and thus less visually interesting. I've written about cause and effect of the greyscalification of cars, and suffice to say I'm not a fan of it - but I feel like that is a discussion separate from car design itself.

Then, of course, there's that those in the post are all cars that I like, so that selection was curated (albeit only by my personal taste). But that is also the case when we look back at older cars: what you see around and what you hear about is what people cared enough about to preserve and to discuss - not just in terms of models but of versions, specs and even colors. If you look at car shows like Radwood or Oblivion, which celebrate 80s and 90s cars, the very time period you referred to as the beginning of the end for interesting design looks like its heyday!

Yes, that trailer is factory.

Unfortunately, it must be said that unique and interesting cars have become fewer and fewer, as the ever increasing regulations make it even more expensive than it already was for smaller brands to emerge and the economic status of things makes it increasingly harder to justify a funky, daring picks for the biggest purchase of the average person's life - let alone the purchase of a second car, which tends to be what more extreme offerings were bought as. A brighter future seems to be ahead, though, with Toyota's incredible GR Corolla/Yaris and 86 apparently about to be joined by yet more spicy goodness and Mazda teasing a return of the rotary engined sportscar. For the twentieth time, sure, but after having seen the Motocompo revival actually happen, I am ready to kick that football.

(because you knew about the new electric Motocompacto, right?)

But there's another thing that post's selection had going for it: variety. Pretty much every car in it was in a wholly different category from all the others, and that is bound to make each car within it seem a lot more interesting than if it had been surrounded by cars of its same segment.

The survivorship bias outlined above also results in far more variety than you would find in normal traffic: even setting aside the halo car dynamic whereby the most special -and therefore most interesting- cars are usually niche offerings with very low sales figures, people tend to remember, discuss and seek out cars that represent some extreme - be it the fastest, the most expensive, the greatest, but also the slowest, the cheapest, the worst... and the tallest, the lowest, the biggest, the smallest, and so on. In short, the cars you'll find the least interest for are the everyday, quietly competent cars that make up the bulk of vehicles on the road.

Although, going far enough back in time, even those appear interesting to us, because their context's norm was so different from ours that even the cars that most adhered to it seem exotic to our sensibilities.

But when actually viewed in their own context...

...that impression tends to be stifled.

Unfortunately, it seems to me as though variety is also being stifled nowadays, with a growing share of body styles on sale becoming SUV/crossovers, and the increase in platform sharing reducing automotive outliers (for better and for worse).

And I should note: as for the other industry shifts I mentioned, the driving force isn't Big Capital or The Evil Economic System or what have you. It's the consumers. Sure, we can blame manufacturers for turning every model into a more profitable SUV, but they couldn't do this if they didn't sell, and they wouldn't do this if people didn't see them as more prestigious vehicles worth paying more for. We can blame manufacturers for killing weird car projects, but usually they get axed because people don't buy the things. Dealerships still order grey cars because no one digs their heels about having theirs yellow. So on.

So in short, old cars have always looked more interesting, because time alters our perception of them in ways that make them seem as much - and it also happens that lately the car industry has gone in the opposite direction to those alterations, causing new cars to seem less interesting. So, in short, the problem is the comparison just isn't apples to apples.

I think this is why that Golf evolution does not show any trend towards boring or away from interesting in my eyes - because it mostly strips those factors away. Here's a bunch of generations of the same car, all silver, all presented with no context bar the version before or after, all in the same body style which, for its entire history, was a common sight pretty much anywhere. (Also helps, of course, that the Golf's evolution had no wacky twists and always nailed the zeitgeist.)

This not to say that I can't complain about modern car designs - but for that, don't compare apple to apple... compare it to Microsoft.

See, I can think of many modern designs I find bland and devoid of personality, not because of a lack of styling effort but precisely due to an overabundance of it: so keen were the designers to put a crease here and a fold there and a kink somewhere to make the brand's seventh SUV set itself apart from the other six that the design became too overburdened with details to have a clear message - like a story with too many events for them to express a cohesive point.

Or, indeed, like this parody of Microsoft packaging in which their design principles are applied to the iconic, nay, legendary packaging of the original iPod.

This is an actual Microsoft video btw. This was made internally by Microsoft's marketing department.

Links in blue are posts of mine about the topic in question: if you liked this post, you might like those - or the blog’s Discord server, linked in the pinned post!

[wolven91]

Drifting - Part 1

Geckins and chintians are very good mechanics.

Watching either species work, it would be easy to assume that all either of the one-foot-tall species had to do was glance at an engine and they'd be able to say 'oh, that's how that works'.  That wasn't true of course, but their knack for mechanics and ability to build, repair and design machines was unparalleled amongst the stars.

The one thing both species did better than any of the larger species of the galaxy was mechs. To the humans, the moment they glimpsed a hulking walking machine, all their science fiction dreams came true in one moment. As to why it was the diminutive species that invented machines that made the taller and larger species have to look up, no one wanted to really say out loud. The geckins almost proudly wore the chip on their shoulder about their size thanks to the far larger ssypno struggling to convert the geckin people into a vassal state before seemingly giving up. The chintians on the other hand always had their eye on their neighbours; the canids. Neither species had a good introduction in the Galactic Community and had paid for their membership in blood.

 The design of their machines however, differed depending on who made them.

Chintians piloted their mechs via the use of artificial intelligence, two separated minds working in tandem with one another. Talking, communicating and planning their goals together. The geckins however, used direct connection with the machines themselves. There wasn't an intelligence within the machine like the chintians, but the pilots often reported that the machines had a personality beyond their own.

The short comings of the chintian design was the delay in between seeing and reacting to something, not to mention the separation between mech and pilot. The issues with geckin design was the draining aspect of piloting their mechs on the pilot itself. Geckin pilots were often geckins who appeared sickly, tired or gaunt. As if they were being drained of their very life force.

But, for the time being, these mechs were not heavily used in fighting. At least not officially. The Galactic Community government had no mechs in their standing army, regardless of what reports from separatist forces suggested. The GC merely pointed out soldiers of fortune were a thing and they could utilise whatever hardware they had access to.

It was when Casper had been practically dumped in Geckin territory with his meagre belongings that he shortly afterwards discovered all of this. The fact that they greeted him atop walkers that put them at his height was not lost on him. The fact he reacted with unconcealed amazement and awe meant that Casper, very quickly, became a celebrity on the Geck home world, his reaction and gushing about the walkers broadcast over and over to all corners of the planet.

It was a mere three weeks later, when Casper was in his quite opulent home a top a tower in the main city, surrounded by a good thirty geckins that they discovered yet more things they liked about humans.

"What's this one say?" Asked a yellow geckin, Casper had given up trying to remember all their names and they simply didn't care. Most seemingly just shouted 'oi, you' and the geckin they were talking to looked round. The young man looked round and observed the DVD that the geckin had pulled out of the pile. Casper had merely seen what was happening on the horizon the other month and swept his had across his shelves of DVDs and tossed them all into a bug out bag along with his books and anything else to hand.

To this day he couldn't say why he'd saved the media, he hadn't thought about it. He just did.

"That one is... Ha... Casper the friendly ghost." He replied with a grin, the translators not having his written language yet meant anything written had to be translated for them.

"You have a story written about you?!" A green geckin exclaimed, jumping from the shelves onto Casper's back. One had to get used to geckins clambering all over oneself if they were staying in geckin space. He could feel no less than three geckins in the various pockets of his cargo pants, fully asleep enjoying the heat of his legs through the material.

"No, just a coincidence. He's about a dead human." That immediately lost any interest in the tale.

"What about this one? Looks like a Tax Two?" Asked a red geckin, holding up a different case.

"Oh, Pacific Rim. Giant monsters attack and the only way to beat them back is giant mechs. What's a Tax Two?"

Casper's question was initially ignored as a surge of multiple-coloured scales across many different creatures ran towards the one holding the approved DVD. It was amazing to the man how quickly they had reinvented a device capable of reading the DVD correctly, but again; it was a species of engineers.

As they settled, Casper's lap becoming buried in the geckins and the rest of the oversized furniture, at least to them, was likewise covered.

"Oh and a Tax Two is a heavy loader. Manipulators instead of weapons. Good for tearing vegetation out and clearing areas, although I bet it could knock out an ursidain if you gave it a swing."

"Huh... I think you'll like this one then..." Casper promised, shuffling down into the seat, content to be a climbing frame for the various blighters for the time being.

"Huh... I wonder how well humans mesh with a suit that big..." asked one of thr geckins turning to fix Casper with a look that was not one Casper had seen before.

For a brief moment, he felt as if the geckin only saw an important cog that needed to be fit somewhere, not a human.

[r/WolvensStories]

[Ko-Fi]

[6azia]

Faking for real?| Chuuya x Dazai

—summary. It's only a mission, so why was Chuuya feeling that way to Dazai

—content warning. only light angst

—word count. 1,2k

—azia‘s notes. @pill0wc4se I finally finished it and I will continue watching bsd after finishing arcane <3

The dim room buzzed with the tension of an unasked question, but the answer was already on Kunikida’s clipboard.

“The two of you will need to attend the Black Sun Gala as a couple.”

Chuuya froze mid-eye-roll, turning toward the stern-faced detective. “What?”

Kunikida adjusted his glasses. “The syndicate hosting the gala values appearances of commitment in its ranks. They’ll only let in established pairs. You and Dazai are the most believable option.”

Dazai, who had been lounging in his chair with his usual lack of enthusiasm, suddenly perked up. A mischievous smile spread across his face as he leaned toward Chuuya. “Hear that, Chuuya? We’re finally making it official.”

“Shut up, you idiot!” Chuuya barked, his hands already curling into fists. “Why can’t someone else do it? I don’t even like him, let alone—”

“You’re the only ones with enough chemistry to sell this,” Kunikida interrupted. “Chemistry?” Chuuya snapped.

Dazai smirked. “You hear that, darling? We’re practically meant to be.”

“I swear to God, Dazai—”

“Enough,” Kunikida barked. “The gala is in two days. Practice your... dynamic. That’s an order.”

Chuuya groaned, dragging his hand down his face. This mission was going to kill him.

—

The rehearsal began in Chuuya’s apartment, a space he quickly regretted allowing Dazai into.

“Alright, listen up,” Chuuya said, pacing the room like a commander preparing for battle. “We’ll keep it simple: hold hands, maybe a kiss on the cheek if we have to. None of your over-the-top, attention-grabbing crap.”

Dazai, sprawled on the couch like he owned the place, propped his chin on his hand. “Oh, Chuuya, where’s the passion? The romance? If we’re going to do this, we need to make it convincing.” Chuuya glared at him. “Convincing? You couldn’t convince a blind man you’re serious about anything.”

“Harsh,” Dazai said with a pout. “But I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent actor. Want a demonstration?”

“Not really.”

Too late. Dazai stood and closed the distance between them in a single, fluid motion. He took Chuuya’s hand in his and gazed into his eyes with a level of sincerity that caught Chuuya off guard.

“My dearest Chuuya,” Dazai said, his voice low and smooth, “from the moment I saw you, I knew I couldn’t live without you.” Chuuya’s face turned red, and he yanked his hand away. “Cut it out, idiot!”

Dazai grinned. “See? You’re already blushing. I’m just that good.” Chuuya turned away, muttering under his breath. Idiot. It’s not because of you...

—

The Black Sun Gala was a picture of opulence: glittering chandeliers, golden drapes, and a sea of well-dressed criminals.

Chuuya hated every second of it. Not because of the danger, but because of the way Dazai’s arm rested around his waist, pulling him closer with every passing minute.

“Relax, love,” Dazai murmured in his ear, his breath warm against Chuuya’s skin. “You’re supposed to look like you enjoy this.”  

Chuuya gritted his teeth, forcing a tight smile. “Don’t push your luck.”

They moved through the crowd, playing their roles perfectly. Dazai was charming, effortlessly mingling with the guests, while Chuuya stayed close, his sharp eyes scanning for any signs of trouble.

At one point, a woman approached them, her gaze flicking between the two. “You two make quite the pair,” she said with a sly smile.

Dazai tightened his hold on Chuuya, pulling him even closer. “Oh, we do, don’t we? He’s my everything.” Chuuya’s face burned. “Tch. Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, though he didn’t push Dazai away. 

After some pleasantries they both went back. 

—

Back in their shared hotel room after the event, Chuuya sat by the window, a glass of wine in hand. “You were quieter than usual tonight,” Dazai said, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m just tired of playing pretend,” Chuuya replied, staring out at the city lights.

Dazai chuckled, flopping onto the bed. “Playing pretend is the easy part. It’s when the lines blur that it gets tricky.”

Chuuya glanced at him, his chest tightening. Do you even realize what you’re saying?

He turned back to the window, his grip on the glass tightening. Damn it, Dazai. When did I start... feeling this way? And why does it have to be you?

“Don’t overthink it, Chuuya,” Dazai said, as if sensing his turmoil. “We’re almost done here.”

“Yeah,” Chuuya muttered. “Almost.” With one big gulp he downed his glass.

—

The next and  final night of the mission brought a new level of tension. They were supposed to blend in, but Chuuya was struggling to keep his emotions in check.

Dazai, ever perceptive, noticed. “Chuuya, you’ve been acting weird lately.”

Chuuya scoffed, trying to deflect. “I’m fine. Focus on the mission.” Dazai grabbed his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. “Is that all you care about? The mission?”

Chuuya froze, his heart pounding. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He snapped back, trying to free himself of the grip without drawing too much attention on the both of them.

“You’re hiding something,” Dazai said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “And you’re terrible at it.”

Chuuya yanked his hand away, his frustration boiling over. “You don’t see anything, do you? You think everything’s just a game!”

Dazai’s expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “Chuuya...”

“Forget it,” Chuuya muttered, turning away. “You wouldn’t understand even if I explained it.”

—

Later that night, Chuuya sat on the rooftop, the cold wind biting at his skin. He stared up at the stars, his thoughts a tangled mess.

He heard footsteps behind him and sighed. “What do you want, Dazai?”

Dazai sat down beside him, his usual grin replaced with something softer. “You always run off to rooftops when you’re upset.”

Chuuya didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the horizon. They sat in silence for a while, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. Finally, Dazai spoke. “You’re not as hard to read as you think, Chuuya.”

Chuuya turned to him, his hands tensing on the concrete floor. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dazai’s gaze softened. “It means... maybe I don’t see everything, but I see enough.” He mumbled while tracing Chuuya’s fingers and finally cupping his hand on his own.

Chuuya’s breath caught. “Dazai, I-”

Before he could finish, Dazai leaned in, pressing a light, fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Chuuya froze, his mind blank. When Dazai pulled back, his usual smirk returned. “There. That’ll help sell it, right?”

Chuuya stared at him, his heart aching. You really don’t get it, do you?

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he looked away, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’ll do.” 

After that, Chuuya was left in his conflicted sea of thought, while Dazai made his way back inside to the gala.

“That has to do unfortunately for forever” Chuuya breathed out into the dark night. Looking up into the sky there were two bright stars beside each other, twinkling, reminding him no matter how close he will ever get it will never be enough for Dazai to understand his feelings fully.

A warm tear escaped his eye and landed beside his now relaxed hand. One day in the afterworld maybe. Chuuya mused around and stayed there till the gala ended.

[anakin-vaders]

The role of Fashion in The Hunger Games saga a brief analysis.

Ok now with the hunger games renaissance we need to discuss the role Cinna plays in the whole series, and the role of fashion in the hunger games. I read this series when I was 11-12 years old, I grew to become a very, very queer fashion designer (I work for drag queens), I didn't think I truly understood how much THG series impacted me until very recently when I saw/read the whole series again. Like yes, Suzanne Collins makes the Capitol this shallow society, putting a real effort in making their citizens be superficial only caring about their looks, looking super extravangant and absolutely disconnected from the suffering of the districts. While their looks are vibrant, large, shimmery, and totally over the top (showcasing their opulence) the way they dress on the districts (specially 12 and 13) is minimalist, modest, the colors are washed, old. Their each other's antithesis. And of course Katniss expects only that from the people of the Capitol (classic Us vs. Them), and when Cinna, whom I think is very queer coded, comes in, and treats her like a human being, she starts to let her walls down, to let herself be guided trough this horrible thing she's got to endure. In the books when Cinna and his team are pampering her, she doesn't see herself as a symbol, she never really wanted to be one, she feels really dehumanized. Her only motivation upon this point is surviving and get back to Prim on her home, she still thinks everything on the Capitol in stupid and unnecessary. It's only when Cinna puts them in this very intricate and thought out looks inspired by their district industry (coal mining) that I think Katniss starts to understand the power of fashion, the power of symbols.

And later in her interview with Caesar we have the infamous red dress that catches fire and that lefts the audience gagged (if any of y'all have been to a drag show you know how amazing a good reveal is). This moment is so important because now fashion doesn't become something merely functional, or oppressive. Fashion is empowering, this moment is Katniss getting confidence in herself, asserting herself over her circumstances thanks to Cinna, thanks to fashion. It's also very brilliant because this is also catered to the Capitol, to the viewers and consumers of the games. One of the first things Haymitch tells Katniss is to make herself desirable, and this totally makes sense, the Capitol now roots for her, relate to her, so that later she can get sponsors and SURVIVE.

On Catching Fire we have another iconic fashion moment, fire is a very present theme for Katniss. She is of course the spark for the rebellion, and when she understood it, the message not only becomes clearer, it becomes a protest against the games, against the Capitol. The way she and Peeta are almost regal their second time on the games, shows how much she's understood the power of fashion, the power of the message it can send. They look like a piece of coal refusing to cool, refusing to stop burning. And this was all Cinna's mind.

And my absolute favorite. The wedding dress, such and iconic moment and dare I say, a pivotal moment for the rebellion. In the books Katniss and Peeta are doomed to keep their fake relationship for PR reasons, so they get engaged, and make their whole wedding (bear in mind they're both 17 ish here) a reality show-esque moment for the Capitol. Even after they've won, they still have to entertain them, a winner can never rest. The districts are never winners. So when Snow decides to make his personal quest that of making Katniss miserable, thus making his All Star version of the games, knowing district 12 only has 1 female winner...oh if that isn't some evil shit. On top of that, he is the one who request she wears her wedding dress to the interview, the dress that symbolizes all she never wanted (get married, have kids, loose her agency, being controlled by the Capitol). Snow does this hopping Katniss feels ALL THAT, and Cinna being the genius designer he fucking is, turns a 180 on it and gets the wedding dress as a façade, he uses the dress as a symbol of the tragic lovers that never got to wed, the wedding the Capitol never got to see because of the games. And it works. It fucking works.

And then, the dress burns up revealing a beautiful black dress with wings, a mockingjay, she literally becomes the rebellion, she embodies the rebellion and all that comes with it. The power of fashion in the middle of an uprising, and how much it strikes the Capitol because it's said in their language. All of these moments were essential in the history because the people on the districts already knew about the injustices, about the hardships of their conditions. But the consumers didn't. And Cinna, trough Katniss made them see that, he took everything that made the Capitol shallow and gave actual meaning to it. And without of all of it, who knows if the rebellion would've gestated as fast.

TL;DR: the hunger games saga made me a fashion designer, and fashion is really important in the story, dare I say it's a really clever use of fashion and Cinna is a FUCKING genius.