#marble manicure ideas

[universodonna-official]

CRYSTAL MANICURE: ECCO COME REALIZZARLA!

[glamnails]

Sweet treat nails @presstlondonnails

[unstable-samurai]

Instructions

Irene x Male Reader

word count: 3.2K

—

You drive up to Irene's mansion, where every inch of the lawn looks meticulously manicured, and the fountain at the entrance shoots water in a pattern that can only be described as "obscenely expensive." You still can't believe you were hired to train a woman who doesn't seem to need a single day in the gym, but money is money, right?

You step out of the car and walk to the front door, a massive wooden structure that probably weighs more than your car. Before you have the chance to knock, the door opens as if the house has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Irene appears, and the first thing you think is that the photos simply don't do her justice.

She's like an upgraded version of a classic diva, someone with a beauty that would be admired in any era of humanity, now enhanced by all the improvements time could offer. Black hair cascading in soft waves, feline eyes that devour you in a fraction of a second, and a posture that makes you wonder if you're standing before a queen or a trap disguised as a woman.

"Oh, I was excited to finally meet my personal trainer," she says.

"Ms. Irene," you reply, offering your hand in a gesture that feels outdated in her presence. Her hand is soft and firm, and the grip is just enough to make you feel that you are, without a doubt, in foreign territory.

"Come on, I'll show you the house," she says, turning quickly without waiting for a response. You follow her, walking through a house that is a maze of marble, stainless steel, and glass. Every piece of art on the walls screams in a flamboyant way, "I have more money than you can imagine," and the faint scent of fresh flowers lingers in the air, as if even the aroma of the house was custom-made.

"This here is the living room," she says, passing through a room larger than your entire apartment, and you pretend not to be impressed. "And over there is the kitchen. You might need something to drink after the workouts. Or during, if I decide to tire you out too much."

She smiles again, and this time you can’t help but smile back, with that kind of irony that only arises when you know you're in trouble.

"This is the bedroom," she says, stopping in front of a closed door. You feel the tension rise a bit, and she notices it. "Not that you’ll need it, but I thought you'd like to know where it is." She opens the door and reveals a room that looks like it came straight out of a decor magazine: an immense bed, silk sheets, and a view of the garden that seems hand-painted.

"Nice place," you say, more out of politeness than anything else.

"Thank you. Now, the gym," she says, as if this was the true purpose of the entire visit. She leads you to a room where all the exercise machines seem to shine with newness. "I need to stay in shape, after all," she says, leaning casually on a treadmill, her posture suggesting that the idea of sweat is something completely alien.

"Shall we begin, then?" you ask, already pulling out the water bottle from your bag, trying to appear professional.

You decide to start the session with the basics, which seems like the best approach when dealing with someone whose idea of physical effort probably consists of reaching for the remote control.

"So, Irene, have you trained before?" you ask, but in your mind, she doesn’t exactly look like the type who frequents a gym.

She smiles, that smile you're already beginning to associate with trouble. "Only if you count marathon shopping trips and half-hour Pilates sessions with my instructor who told me to breathe deeply and think of happy places. Does that count?"

You smile back. "Well, let's start with something simple. A warm-up. Just to prepare the muscles."

"Oh, I love a good warm-up," she replies.

You guide her through some basic stretches, and of course, she starts asking for help. "Can you show me how to do this one? I've always had trouble with it," she says while trying to touch her toes.

You approach, placing your hands on her waist to guide her, trying to ignore the fact that she’s perfumed for a workout. "Like this, push a little further forward... That’s it."

She lets out a soft sigh, almost inaudible, but you notice. "I don't think I've ever had someone help me like this," she says, making you realize that "help" has multiple connotations for her.

"Practice makes perfect," you respond, trying to stay focused.

After the warm-up, you lead her to the weight machines. "Let's start with something simple, like the leg extension machine. This will work your quadriceps."

She looks at the machine as if it were some kind of medieval torture device. "Quadriceps... Right. And this does what exactly? Makes me gain muscles?"

"Exactly. You sit here, adjust the weight, and lift your legs to extend the knee. It’s great for toning the thighs."

She sits down, but instead of following your instructions, she just pretends to be confused. "I don't think I'm getting it. Can you show me again?"

You lean in to help her adjust the position of her legs, and you feel her gaze fixed on you. "Like this? Is it good now?" she asks, her voice softer than it should be for a simple exercise instruction.

"Yes, it's perfect," you reply.

"So, have you been training for a long time?" she asks as you guide her through the exercise. "It’s noticeable, you know... by your physique, the way you explain…"

"I’ve been training for a few years. It’s a passion of mine."

"Passion? Interesting," she says. "And are you single? Or is there someone waiting for you at home after you spend the day helping women like me stay in shape?"

You hesitate, realizing that the conversation is veering off course.

"I'm single. I guess my work takes up most of my time. What about you? You told me your husband is always traveling, right?"

"He's away most of the time, yes. His work is... demanding. But luckily, I know how to take care of myself," she says, lifting her legs on the machine with a little more enthusiasm. When Irene was done, she paused to drink water, then walked between the machines until she chose the next one. “Hey, help me here. I don't want to mess up the movement, I need your guidance." She says, standing in front of the lat pulldown machine.

"Oh, great. This one’s for your back and shoulders," you explain, adjusting the weight. "You hold here, pull the bar down, and then release slowly, feeling the resistance."

She looks at the machine as if it were an abstract art piece.

"Looks complicated. Show me how it's done?"

You demonstrate the movement, feeling her eyes on every motion of your body. When you finish, she positions herself, but instead of pulling the bar, she holds it for a second, looking at you with a false expression of confusion. "I think I’m not doing it right. Can you guide me?"

You approach again, this time placing your hands on her arms, helping her execute the movement. "Like this," you say, your voice a little lower. "Pull with your back muscles, not just your arms."

"Since you’ve been working out for a long time, you must be very strong," she comments as she pulls the bar, her muscles tensing softly under your hands. "And you must be used to lifting heavy, right?"

"It depends on the workout," you respond, trying to ignore the fact that every word she says seems to have a double meaning. "But it’s always good to vary, to do a bit of everything."

"So, how many of these should I do?" she asks, as if she’s genuinely interested in the answer, but her eyes say something else.

"Let's do three sets of twelve reps," you reply, trying to keep a professional tone. She does the first set with you close by, watching every movement, and then asks for your help with the next machine.

The dynamic continues until, by the end of the workout, she’s sweating, but in a way that looks more like a healthy glow than discomfort. She stretches, her muscles relaxing, and looks at you with that same smile that started everything. "I think you made me work pretty hard today. Maybe I’ll need a massage afterward," she says, her tone provocative.

You smile, unsure whether to take her seriously or laugh. "Massages aren’t part of the package, but we can talk about a relaxation stretch."

"We’ll see," she says, stepping closer with that smile that always precedes trouble, the kind you should have learned to avoid. “It seems like I’m the only one sweating here,” she says, with a sweetness that’s pure venom, before leaning in and, without warning, licking your cheek.

You take a step back, your heart pounding in your chest. "Ms. Irene, what is this?!"

"I told you, you’re not very sweaty. And I licked you to prove it," she responds with the casualness of someone asking the time.

"But what the hell does that mean? I came here to work—"

"And you’ll get paid at the end, of course!" she interrupts, her smile widening in a way that only makes things worse. “I just want… to have a little fun with you. Include that in the deal. You could earn a bonus for it, if you’d like.”

She takes another step forward.

“Irene, you’re married. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not a good idea.”

“No one needs to know, sweetheart,” she whispers, as if it were a secret you truly wanted to hear. “You’re too young to be so worried about life.”

You try to speak, but the words come out jumbled, as if your mouth forgot how to work.

“I-I… This isn’t right.”

She laughs, a sound that makes you feel like a mischievous boy caught in the act. “I bet I’ll make you change your mind once you see what you’re missing.” With a quick, decisive movement, she removes her top, revealing small, pale, perfect, and provocative breasts. Her smile widens, and you feel your face flush with heat. Worse than that—you feel your cock pulse in your pants.

“What do you think?” she asks, each word dripping with irony and certainty.

“Cover yourself, please!” Your voice comes out louder than you intended, but the plea is almost pathetic.

“Oh, don’t play the saint with me,” she retorts, suddenly stepping closer, grabbing your hand with firm resolve and placing it on her breast. The touch is warm and soft. You swallow hard, but it feels like the lump in your throat is stuck there for good. And the worst part? You can’t pull your hand away.

“What do you think? My boobs are small, but they fit perfectly in your mouth,” she teases, her voice lower, more intense.

“This isn’t right, Ms. Irene…” you try, but your resistance is fragile.

“Shh! Just call me Irene,” she orders, and before you can protest again, she seals any chance of escape with a kiss—warm and commanding, as if she already knew you wouldn’t say no.

Before you could even process what was happening, Irene had already wrapped her hand around your cock. With force. With a desire that you felt reverberate down your spine. “You’re so hard for me,” she whispers, her lips pulling away from yours, but the heat of her proximity still clinging to your skin.

“Irene…” you murmur, the name escaping as a whisper, almost a plea, but for what? For her to stop or to keep going?

“That’s right,” she continues, giving you no room to regain control. “I want to hear you moan my name while you fuck me good.”

Before you could refuse—or worse, agree—she pulls you toward a weight bench like she’s practiced the move a thousand times. It’s astonishing how a woman so small, so delicate, can exert such absolute control over you. You feel like a toy in her hands, powerless to resist.

You take off your shirt while she kneels to untie your shoes, making sure every detail is perfect, that you’re comfortable—but not for you, for her. When she asks you to take off the rest, you comply without question, feeling the cool air caress your exposed skin. She compliments your physique, her words sliding over your skin like hot oil. Her hands roam over your muscles, her fingers tracing the contours of your biceps.

“You’re so hot,” she murmurs, kissing your chest, her lips warm and soft. The excitement builds within you, uncontrollable, wild.

You sit back down on the bench, Irene kneels between your legs, her smile a mix of wickedness and pure desire. She takes your cock with a confidence that makes you hold your breath, her touch firm, almost possessive. “Wow… you’re much bigger and thicker than my husband,” she murmurs, licking the tip, teasing, while her eyes remain fixed on yours. “I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have something like this… I’m going to love gagging on this cock.”

She slowly opens her mouth, her lips stretching around the head of your cock, and the sensation is mind-blowing. You watch, mesmerized, as she starts to take you in, inch by inch, until her mouth is completely full. “Oh, yes,” she mumbles with difficulty, her words muffled as she struggles to accommodate your size.

She begins to move her head up and down, faster and faster, the wet, warm sound of her mouth creating a steady rhythm. Her small mouth adjusts to your cock, fighting the instinct to pull away, but instead, she pushes forward, making it clear she wants more.

The sight of her, drowning on your cock, is almost unbearably arousing. You can’t resist, your hands go to her hair, pulling to gain more control. With a decisive move, you push deeper into her throat, and the muffled moan she lets out is a mix of pleasure and challenge. “Just like that,” she moans, tears welling in her eyes from pleasure and effort, but with no intention of stopping. She wants this as much as you do.

You feel her throat tightening around your cock, each movement sending waves of pleasure through you as she takes you as deep as she can, not giving up even when her air becomes scarce. The mix of pain and pleasure on her face only fuels your desire further, and you continue, deeper and deeper, until she finally has to stop to breathe, gasping, but with a satisfied, lascivious smile on her face.

Irene stands up, her gaze burning with a desire that mirrors your own. She starts to take off her leggings, revealing she’s not wearing any panties. The sight of her like this, naked and ready, is enough to take your breath away.

Without a second thought, you grab her firmly, your hands holding her slim waist as you lift her off the ground with an ease you didn’t even know you had. Irene lets out a low, sensual moan as she wraps her legs around you, locking her ankles behind your back, pulling the two of you even closer. With a decisive movement, you press her against the nearest wall, the cold concrete contrasting with the growing heat between you.

“Ohhh, yes,” she moans as you penetrate her for the first time, her head falling back, hitting the wall, but she doesn’t seem to care. “You’re so thick!”

With each thrust, Irene responds with louder, more desperate moans. “Just like that, baby… more, please, more!” Her voice is a mix of command and plea, her nails digging into your shoulders, pulling you closer, as if she wants to merge with you.

“That’s it! Oh, God! You fuck me better than my husband!”

That somehow spurs you on, every movement becoming deeper, stronger, as if you’re trying to shove every inch of yourself into her. Irene bites her lip, her face in pure pleasure, and then she starts babbling, as if facial expressions weren’t enough to describe what she’s feeling. “Yes… fuck me… fuck me hard… do what my husband never could…”

But she’s not the only one on the edge. The heat of her body, the almost painful tightness around your cock, every moan and sigh, it all makes you want more, makes you lose control.

After what feels like both an eternity and an instant, you feel like you need more. With a quick move, you pull away from the wall and carry her to the bench. Irene drops to the floor, turns around, positioning herself on all fours while you sit down. She positions herself, slowly lowering onto your cock, moaning as she feels you stretch inside her, filling every inch.

She leans back against you, her head resting on your shoulder, her body sinking even further into your lap. Your hands immediately move to her small breasts, squeezing them, while your lips find her delicate neck, biting and sucking the soft skin. Irene lets out a loud moan, the sound of pure satisfaction, and arches her body, pushing herself even deeper.

“Yes… leave a mark… mark that you were here… that you fucked me like no one ever has,” she pleads, her words breathless, interrupted by moans that only grow louder as you squeeze and thrust into her.

You don’t hesitate, biting harder, leaving a visible mark on her neck, a testament to what’s happening. Irene shudders in response, her pussy tightening even more around you, each of her movements sending waves of pleasure through you, making you forget any shred of morality. She moves against you, her rhythm frantic, the need for more, always more, evident in every gesture.

“Yes… yes, baby… fuck me until I can’t take it anymore,” she moans, her hands reaching back, grabbing your neck, pulling you closer as she continues to move, to lose herself in the sensation.

Irene, breathless, leans in closer, and with a soft voice, almost a whisper, says in your ear, “I want you to fuck my tight ass.”

Her words are like a match striking the box, igniting something fierce within you. Irene rises off your lap and walks to a corner of the gym, where she grabs a bottle of lube. She returns with a mischievous smile, shaking the bottle in the air. “I brought this just for this moment,” she says.

“You had this in mind from the start, didn’t you?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Irene doesn’t bother replying. Instead, she kisses you before lying down on the padded floor, her pale skin contrasting with the dark material, her body exposed in a posture of pure submission, but with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they want. “Come here, you naughty boy,” she calls, her voice like poisoned honey.

You kneel beside her, your hands trembling with desire as you reach for the lube. Irene smiles at you, then gets on all fours and arches her back. With steady movements, you pour the gel into your palm and begin applying it to her ass, feeling the warm, soft skin under your fingers. Irene lets out a low sigh, closing her eyes, savoring the sensation. "That's it... get me ready, I want to feel every inch of your thick cock inside me."

You don’t waste any time. With one hand, you spread the lube around and inside her ass, your fingers gently penetrating to prepare her. Irene bites her lip, her body slightly writhing, a mix of pleasure and anticipation. "Feels good, keep going... make me ready for you."

When you feel she’s sufficiently lubed, you apply the rest to your cock, rubbing it until it’s fully coated, hard and throbbing.

Irene changes position, lying on her back on the floor. You position yourself between her raised legs, and she looks at you with eyes full of desire. "Come on, don't wait any longer," she begs, her voice low and sweet. You press the tip of your cock against her tight entrance, pushing slowly, feeling the initial resistance. Irene lets out a moan of pain mixed with pleasure, and you keep going, advancing inch by inch, feeling the heat and pressure around you.

"Ahhh… yes," Irene moans, her eyes closed, her hands gripping the padding beneath her as you penetrate her slowly. "It's so big… so tight…"

You keep pushing, feeling her ass open up, millimeter by millimeter, her body adjusting to your size. The heat, the pressure, the sensation of filling her completely is indescribable, and the low moan she lets out only fuels your desire. "Yes, yes, yes! Fuck me deeper," she pleads.

You obey, pushing deeper until you're finally all the way inside her. Irene lets out a muffled moan, a sound of pure satisfaction, her body arching with pleasure. "Yes… like that… don’t stop," she begs, her eyes shining with wild desire. You start to move, slowly at first, savoring every second, every contortion of her body, every moan that escapes her lips.

As you gain rhythm, Irene’s moans grow louder, more desperate. "Yes… fuck my ass… do what I never let my husband do… ahhh… harder… please," she moans, every word an encouragement for you to go deeper, to push both of you to the limit.

And you do, increasing your speed and force, your hands gripping her thighs firmly, guiding each thrust with precision, feeling her body tremble with pleasure until it all comes down to heat, sweat, the pure desire consuming you both.

Irene then begins to tremble, her body stiff with imminent pleasure. She looks at you, her eyes burning with lust and urgency. "Mmm, I’m about to cum, babe… Let’s cum together?" she asks, her voice broken by moans.

You feel her body pulsing around you, each contraction almost pushing you over the edge.

"Do you want to come inside my pussy? Fill it with your cum?"

The desire and madness of the moment take over you. “Can I?” you ask, your voice tense, almost disbelieving.

“Of course you can,” she replies with a wicked smile, "I'm on the pill, darling. I want to feel you unload everything inside me."

With that, you both move into the classic missionary position. Irene spreads her legs and bends them, her feet planted on the floor, while you kneel between her thighs, your cock positioned exactly where she wants it. Irene wraps her legs around your waist, pulling you closer. The warmth and tightness of her pussy confirm your decision: you need to cum inside her.

You start thrusting into her, each stroke deeper and faster than the last. Irene moans loudly, the sound of her moans echoing through the gym. “Ahhh, yes… more… harder…” she screams, her eyes closed in pure ecstasy. “Fuck my pussy… Make me your cum dump.”

You’re on the verge of exploding, your entire body tense with the anticipation of climax. Irene feels it and, between moans, murmurs, “I’m almost there… I’m going to cum…”

“Me too… I’m almost there…” you reply, your breathing fast.

She opens her eyes, her gaze burning with intensity. “Have you ever cum inside a stranger before, huh? Ever filled a married woman with cum, you pervert?” She asks, her words hitting you like a wave of heat.

Those words make you lose control. With one last, powerful thrust, you bury yourself deep inside her, feeling your cum release into the depths of Irene’s pussy. She screams as she cums at the same time, her body writhing beneath you, her legs tightening around your waist.

“Ahhh… I can feel it all… it’s so warm… so good…” Irene moans, her words loaded with pure pleasure, her breathing ragged as she feels every hot stream filling her. You keep moving, even as the orgasm leaves you breathless, prolonging the pleasure for both of you.

When you finally pull away, your cock slipping out, cum begins to slowly drip from her pussy.

Irene smiles, a satisfied and wicked smile, as she looks at you, her breathing still uneven. "That was… exactly what I wanted," she says, her eyes gleaming with contentment, as the cum drips between her thighs, and you watch, fascinated, as she uses her fingers to spread her lips, letting the cum flow freely. She collects some of the semen with a finger and brings it to her mouth, tasting the result of your mix.

Irene kneels beside you and leans in for a deep kiss, her lips warm and moist against yours, while her hands glide over your body, caressing you with a certain tenderness.

“So, handsome, what did you think of the workout?” she asks.

You, still with your body pulsing with residual pleasure, respond with a smile, “I loved it. It was… incredible.”

Irene smiles back. “Good to hear that,” she says, with a note of amusement, “you can consider yourself my official personal trainer now. And the best part, you’re still getting paid for it. Isn’t it the best job in the world?”

You laugh, a mix of incredulity and amusement, realizing that your concept of ‘job’ will never be the same. “So that’s it? Daily sex with a gorgeous woman and I’m going to get paid for it? What are the downsides?”

“There aren’t any. As long as my husband never finds out, of course. But that’s my problem. Your only requirement and concern is to keep me satisfied.”

With that, she gets up nonchalantly, and starts gathering the clothes scattered on the floor.

You also get up, and as you’re dressing, you can’t help but think about the absurdity of the job you’re accepting.

When you’re almost ready to leave, Irene approaches, casually adjusting her hair.

“Don’t forget, tomorrow is training day again,” she says, her voice full of light arrogance. “Same time. Don’t be late. I want more of that… energy,” she adds with a smile.

You nod, laughing to yourself as you try to regain some of your composure.

“Sure, I’ll mark it on the calendar.”

[cece693]

Me, Jealous?

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: jealous hannibal lecter, reader is amused, not hannibal (nbc) canon,

A date at the opera was hardly what you would call romantic. The venue itself might’ve been grand—old, world architecture with gilded flourishes on the ceiling and plush velvet seats arranged in perfect rows—but everything about it felt like a stage set for egos. Brighter-than-necessary overhead lighting illuminated acres of expensive fabrics—lustrous silk gowns and tailored tuxedos that cost more than what most people made in a month—and you could all but taste the arrogance in the air.

It wasn’t your ideal location for a date by any stretch, but your husband had turned on his rare brand of doe-eyed pleading, sweetly murmuring “Please?” in that honeyed timbre that usually meant he had something up his sleeve. You should have guessed there was more to his insistence. In fact, you’d sensed an undercurrent of excitement radiating off of him from the moment you’d left your shared home. It became painfully obvious why he was so eager once you arrived and found him being whisked away by a woman whose understanding of personal boundaries seemed nonexistent.

You didn’t recognize her, and maybe she truly had no idea Hannibal was spoken for—or maybe she was fully aware and enjoying the attention anyway. Possessively, she clung to Hannibal’s arm, her manicured nails splayed like a decorative cuff on his impeccable suit sleeve. Her laughter at his every remark was irritatingly saccharine, the type that left you rolling your eyes behind the rim of your champagne flute.

Hannibal, naturally, glanced your way every so often. He had a certain glint in his eye—like a cat playing with its prey—anticipating your jealousy. A lesser spouse might have felt their heart clench, might have shot daggers at the other woman or stormed over to reclaim their partner. But you’d been through these small tests before. This was Hannibal’s game, and he loved to provoke a reaction just to study it, to taste it the way he might taste a fine wine. But you knew better than to give him exactly what he wanted without having him ask sweetly.

Leaning against a marble column, you let your gaze skim over the crowd. Most of the attendees were too busy boasting about their knowledge of obscure operas or discussing the perfect brand of caviar to notice you, but you still felt a few curious stares. Being Dr. Lecter’s husband was a precarious sort of prestige—people either hovered like anxious sycophants hoping to impress you, or they observed you from a distance with feline curiosity. Tonight, though, you simply had no patience for idle chit-chat. If Hannibal wanted to play, let him. It wouldn't cause a rift in your relationship like others might believe. Because that was the unspoken truth: no matter how many admirers clung to his arm, Hannibal’s nights were solely yours. It was you he felt anything akin to love.

Your eyes continued to roam the opulent hall: heavy drapes fell from high windows, shimmering under the bright chandeliers. The murmur of voices rose like tidal swells, and snippets of classical music drifted in from the stage where the orchestra had tuned mere moments ago. It was then that you caught sight of someone else—a man with neatly combed dark hair and a tailored suit that fit him so flawlessly it seemed hand-stitched. You recognized him vaguely; he’d been polite when you first entered, a quick hello exchanged in passing while the audience was still finding their seats.

Now, he stepped away from a small group he’d been conversing with and headed in your direction. Despite the chatter around you, his voice was pitched low when he finally spoke, creating a sense of intimacy amid the bustle. “Good evening,” he greeted. “I see we meet again.”

You inclined your head politely. “We do. Enjoying the performance?”

“I’ll be honest—I’m not much of an opera fan. But I make appearances when necessary.” He motioned around him, lips curving in a self-aware smirk. “Comes with the territory, I suppose.”

You let out a laugh—short, genuine, and surprising even to yourself. “I can relate.” You took a sip of champagne, feeling its effervescence linger on your tongue, and cast a glance across the hall to find Hannibal watching you. He stood a few paces away from his clingy companion, but his gaze was entirely fixed on you. You could practically feel the heat of his scrutiny.

The newcomer followed your line of sight. “Husband?”

You nodded. “That’s him,” you confirmed, swirling the champagne in your glass to give your hands something to do. “He’s…quite sociable tonight.”

“Lucky man,” the stranger said, his brown eyes gleaming with sincere admiration. He leaned in just enough to keep his words between the two of you. “I hope I’m not being too forward, but I’d much rather chat with you than half the people here. You seem—” he paused, searching for a precise term—“less rehearsed.”

Your lips curved into a small, wry smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

And honestly, it was. In a sea of plastic smiles and pretentious laughter, Adam was a breath of fresh air. He asked about you in a way that felt genuine—inquiring politely about the arts, about your tastes, about what you liked doing in your free time. The conversation flowed so effortlessly that you didn’t notice the time slipping by.

For nearly an hour, you and Adam talked, a soft bubble of quiet warmth in the midst of the bustling foyer. Eventually, the bell sounded to signal the final act was about to start. Adam extracted a slim black business card from his wallet and handed it to you, smiling. “Let me know if you ever want a less formal chat. I’d like that.”

You looked down at the card and then back at him, feeling amusement dance along your features. “I’ll consider it,” you said, inclining your head in gratitude.

He nodded his goodbye, rejoining the flow of people returning to their seats. Suddenly aware of how your heart beat just a bit faster, you turned and found Hannibal already at your side, the tension emanating from him as palpable as the hush that once again fell over the audience. He offered you a measured smile—overly polite. The humor never touched his eyes, and his hand came to rest protectively (or possessively, depending on perspective) around your waist.

As the two of you made your way back into the darkened auditorium, Hannibal’s grip did not loosen. It was as though he wanted the entire opera house to see exactly to whom you belonged. His free hand brushed down the front of his suit in an almost nervous gesture—though he’d label it a mere habit. The moment you settled into your plush seats, you could feel his gaze flicker to the business card in your hand. There was a storm in that glance, a controlled fury that might have burst into a full hurricane if not for the need to maintain civility in public.

Slyly, you slid the card into your pocket without breaking eye contact, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. You could imagine the wheels in Hannibal’s mind spinning: envy, curiosity, possessiveness, all swirling like a tempest. And you? You were calm—steady. His petty pageantry in parading around with another woman felt all the more transparent now that he watched you with such thinly-veiled anger.

Yes, Hannibal Lecter was a possessive man, a petty, petulant prince if ever there was one. But you knew just how to handle him. Smoothing the lapel of your own jacket, you let the lights dim around you. The orchestra swelled, the final act beginning, and Hannibal’s hand tightened over your own. You felt a rush of satisfaction that cut through the boredom of the night, a sense of triumph in how quickly the tables had turned.

By the time you and Hannibal exit the opera house, the swell of applause still echoing behind you, the tension between you is palpable. You trail after him through the opulent lobby—your pace unhurried despite the stony silence radiating off his shoulders. Outside, the Bentley gleams under the streetlights, and Hannibal unlocks it with a snap of his wrist that betrays his simmering mood.

He slides behind the wheel, and you settle in the passenger seat. There was no music playing, not even the subdued hum of classical radio that Hannibal often preferred. He eases the car away from the curb with smooth precision, but his knuckles stand out white on the steering wheel, his maroon eyes fixed ahead. In the hush of the Bentley’s interior, you can almost feel his anger swirl like a tangible thing. Where others might quake at that quiet fury, you find yourself quietly amused. You’ve seen the beast’s temper before; this is just another piece on the chessboard.

The drive home feels longer than usual, the only sound the rhythmic hum of the tires and the low purr of the engine. You steal a glance his way every so often, noting how his jaw tightens, how his lips press into a line. He’s stewing. But you allow the silence to remain unbroken, letting him feel the full brunt of his own jealousy. If Hannibal truly wanted this result—wanted to provoke or be provoked—he can drown in it for a while. A small, satisfied smirk forms at the corner of your mouth before you quickly wipe it away.

When the Bentley glides up the winding driveway to your home, Hannibal parks with more force than necessary. The headlights cut off abruptly, and for a moment, neither of you moves. You can sense him hesitating, perhaps wrestling with the possibility of speaking first. Then he sets his jaw and steps out, slamming the door behind him with quiet aggression.

Inside the house, the familiar warmth of low lamps and the faint aroma of polished wood greet you. You shrug off your coat and hang it neatly by the door. Hannibal’s own coat is flung onto a nearby chair with none of his usual precision. He’s already stalking through the foyer, shoulders rigid, making a pointed show of ignoring you. That’s how you know he’s furious: Hannibal never leaves his clothing in disarray without intending it as a message.

You follow him into the sitting room, where he has paused in front of the fireplace, one hand curled at his side. “Was it fun?” he asks without turning around. His voice is taut, every syllable thick with petty jealousy.

“Surprisingly, yes,” you reply, taking measured steps toward him. “Given the circumstances.”

He swivels to face you, maroon eyes narrowing. “I suppose I should be pleased you enjoyed yourself.” There is no pleasure in his tone—only an accusation, a reminder that his own orchestrations haven’t played out the way he intended.

You hold his gaze, refusing to rise to the bait. “I’m not the one who spent half the evening being clung to by someone who didn’t know how to keep her hands to herself.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch, and for a moment, you think he might admit to his mischief. Instead, he inhales slowly, as though collecting himself. His voice drops. “I want to see that business card.”

A short laugh escapes you. He’s come straight to the point, then—jealousy still raw. “What business card?” you ask innocently, already knowing he saw the whole exchange.

“Don’t pretend with me,” he snaps, more sharply than usual. “This—this Adam, or whatever he calls himself. Why would you need to keep his details if you have no intention of—?”

You step closer, crossing the room until you’re mere inches away, resting a hand lightly on his lapel. “I assure you—I merely think he could be a good friend,” you say, your tone calm, soothing. “And please don’t pretend it doesn’t suit you to have me cultivate connections. You’ve pushed me into social circles all this time; was it only acceptable when you pulled the strings?”

Hannibal’s eyes flick to your hand on his jacket, and in that micro-moment, you sense the conflict in him: the desire to shake you off versus his need to feel your touch. When he speaks again, his voice is clipped. “You don’t need a friend like him. I know his sort.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Considering you barely spoke to him, that’s quite an assumption.”

His expression darkens. “I’m not asking for your opinion. I’m telling you. Give me the card, and forget about him.” He’s trying to reassert control—like a child demanding a toy be taken away so nobody else can play with it. You let the silence stretch, your fingers sliding up to smooth the lapel of his suit. You’re not trying to antagonize him, not exactly. But neither are you in the habit of rolling over for his demands.

“Hannibal, you know that I love you. But no, you can’t have the card.”

His nostrils flare; he’s on the precipice between fury and something else—hurt, maybe. You lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, an unspoken assurance that all his insecurities don’t need to exist. He’s still yours, and you are his. “I’m not keeping it from you to be cruel,” you murmur. “But I do enjoy his company. Don't kill him just because you felt threatened."

His response is a quick, sneering exhale. “Threatened,” he repeats incredulously, as if the concept is beneath him. But the tension around his eyes says otherwise. You guide him backward until his legs meet the edge of the armchair, urging him to sit. He settles, still bristling. Standing before him, you slide one hand through his hair, letting him feel your affectionate calm.

“I don’t want to fight,” you say quietly, “especially not about something so small.”

“There wouldn’t be a fight if you would just—”

“—hand it over?” you finish for him, smiling ruefully. “Let it be, Hannibal. If you want to grill me about Adam, do so tomorrow. Right now, we’ve both had a long day.”

He looks up at you, and for a moment, the flash in his maroon eyes reminds you of a predator debating whether to lunge or retreat. But then his gaze softens, ever so slightly, and he exhales. You recognize this as a truce—a temporary surrender in a war of wits and possessiveness that defines your relationship.

Slowly, you lean down, capturing his lips in a quiet kiss meant to soothe. After a second’s hesitation, he kisses you back, and you feel the rigid line of his shoulders relax beneath your touch. The two of you remain that way for a breath or two—locked in a silent détente—until he finally pulls back. The storm in his expression still lingers, but there’s the promise of a calmer tomorrow.

You trace your thumb along his jaw. “Come to bed,” you suggest gently. “We can talk in the morning if you still feel so strongly.”

Hannibal nods once, gaze flickering with unresolved emotions. He stands, tugging you closer by the waist in a gesture that speaks of both affection and ownership. “Just remember,” he murmurs, voice low and controlled, “you belong to me.”

[buckets-and-trees]

Chosen, Part 1: Arrival

Characters/Pairings: eventual Bucky x curvy Millennial Female!Reader, Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Word Count: 3.4k Summary: After surviving three rounds of interviews, you have been invited for a full-day to tour and interview at the estate and headquarters that belong to the Winged Heritage Foundation.

SERIES Content Warnings: SOFT!DARK STORY, cult themes, explicit smut, dubious consent and enthusiastic consent, veiled truths, gaslighting

CHAPTER Content Warnings: none

Notes: I started writing this story with the intention for it to be a long one-shot, but after it shot past 18k, I realized I would need to break it up into installments, so ... expect sort of a slow burn for the plot? Installments will be posted on Mondays and Thursdays.

Shout outs to @stargazingfangirl18, @witchywithwhiskey, @biteofcherry, and @vonalyn for helping me get my ideas sorted out for this trip!

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You scroll through the note in your phone with questions to ask during a final interview as the car pulls off the interstate and starts down a country highway lined with trees.

At least you hope this is the final interview.

You had applied for a basic administrative assistant position with the Winged Heritage Foundation, but after your first interview you had been called by a recruitment officer and asked if you would consider a different position with the organization, one that hadn’t been posted publicly.

You still don’t know what the position is you’re being considered for, but after two more interviews, you had been notified that you were a finalist and invited to a full-day interview and tour of the Foundation’s headquarters – an estate outside of the city. They had even arranged for a professional car service to pick you up and take you there. The offices in the city, where your previous three interviews had taken place, evidently handles most of the business operations for the Foundation, and the estate is where the more focused work takes place.

You are naturally a bit nervous for a fourth - and full day - interview, but you feel you like your nerves are at a healthy level - present but not paralyzing, a small buzz that will keep you focused.

The car slows as it approaches a break in the trees, and your driver signals to turn. As you round the corner, your breath catches in your throat. A wrought-iron gate stretches across a wide driveway, its intricate scrollwork spelling out "Winged Heritage" in elegant script. The gate swings open silently as your car approaches, as if by magic.

The driveway stretches before you, a winding ribbon of pale gravel cutting through a verdant landscape that takes your breath away. Ancient oaks and maples line the drive, their branches reaching across to form a dappled canopy overhead. Bright morning sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground.

As you travel deeper into the estate, meticulously manicured gardens unfold on either side. Vibrant flower beds burst with color - deep purple irises, sunny yellow daffodils, and blood-red roses. The gardens give way to rolling lawns of emerald green, dotted with sculpted topiaries in fantastical shapes.

As the car rounds another bend, a shimmering pond comes into view. Its surface is like polished glass, reflecting the azure sky and fluffy white clouds above. A family of swans glide gracefully across the water, their long necks arched in elegant curves. At the far end of the pond, a delicate bridge of white marble spans the narrowest point, its railings gilded with gold.

The driveway begins to climb a gentle slope, and as you crest the hill, your jaw drops at the sight before you. A magnificent mansion rises from the landscape, its pale stone walls glowing warmly in the morning sunlight. The architecture is a stunning blend of classical elegance, with graceful arches and intricate stonework that seems to ripple and dance as you approach.

The central facade is a masterpiece of symmetry, with wide steps leading up to a grand entrance flanked by towering columns. Ivy climbs the walls in artful patterns, as if guided by an invisible hand to accentuate the building's most beautiful features.

The car follows the curve of the driveway as it sweeps up to the grand entrance before coming to a stop. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself for what lies ahead. The driver opens your door, and you step out onto the gravel, the crunch beneath your feet grounding you in the moment.

A figure emerges from the ornate double doors at the top of the steps, and your heart skips a beat as you recognize her instantly. Natasha Romanoff, the Chief Recruitment Officer, descends the stairs with astonishing grace. Her vibrant red hair catches the sunlight, creating a halo effect that seems almost otherworldly. She's dressed in a sleek black pantsuit that exudes both professionalism and an air of mystery. As your eyes meet hers, you're struck by the intensity of her gaze - piercing green eyes that seem to look right through you.

As she draws closer, you notice a subtle smile playing at the corners of her mouth, a mix of confidence and what you suspect to be mischief. Over the course of your brief interactions up to this point, she had been nothing but professional, but you could feel some alluring pull or energy that seemed to run deep beneath the surface of her controlled demeanor. She had been present in your second interview, conducted the third with one of her associates, and had been the one to schedule you for this.

"Welcome," Natasha says, her voice smooth as silk. "We're so pleased you could join us today." She extends her hand, and you shake it, noting the firmness of her grip.

"Thank you for having me," you reply, proud that your voice doesn't betray your nerves. "The estate is absolutely breathtaking."

Natasha's smile widens slightly. "It is, isn't it? We find that beauty inspires greatness. But come, let's not linger in the driveway. We have a full day and much to show you."

She gestures towards the entrance, and you fall into step beside her as you ascend the stone steps. The massive doors swing open silently, revealing a grand foyer that takes your breath away. The ceiling soars overhead, at least three stories, adorned with an intricate fresco depicting a beautiful sky, birds in flight, and towering trees, bringing the beauty of the grounds into this entry.

Natasha guides you through a doorway off to the side of the foyer, leading you into a small sitting room. The space is elegantly decorated with plush couches, rich mahogany furniture, and intricate paintings on the walls.

"Please, have a seat," Natasha gestures towards one of the couches as she takes a seat in an armchair across from you. You sink into the soft cushions, trying to take in everything at once - the opulence of the room, Natasha's presence, and her piercing gaze.

"First things first,” Natasha says, a professional smile on her face, “the nature of what goes on here is very sensitive and so I'll need you to sign this NDA before we continue." She hands you a stack of paperwork and a pen.

You quickly skim through the document before signing it, feeling slightly uneasy about signing something so quickly without fully understanding what the day ahead of you will entail. But your curiosity outweighs your hesitation and when Natasha takes back the signed document, she slides it into a briefcase by her side.

"Now that's out of the way," she says smoothly, "let me tell you more about our foundation."

She proceeds to give you an overview of the Winged Heritage Foundation – an overview of its history, mission, and values. It's all very intriguing and impressive - but although what she shares is engaging, outside of supporting initiatives identified as important to its founder and possibly something to do preservation of history or historical places and artifacts, you still feel you don’t have any clearer of an idea of what the Foundation’s actual purpose is. But since you have an entire day here, you don’t press the point now, assuming some part of the day will be dedicated to diving deeper into the work they do.

"But enough about us," Natasha says with another enigmatic smile. "Let's talk about what brought you here today."

She pulls out your resume from her briefcase and goes over your experience and qualifications with sharp attention to detail. She asks probing questions that make you feel like she's reading between the lines of your professional achievements.

"Impressive," she comments once she's finished going over your resume. "Your professional and personal character references also speak very highly of you."

Your brow furrows slightly. “Sorry,” you interject, “I don’t remember giving personal references?”

“No, you did not. But we do a lot of work on our end to vet candidates at this point for positions like this. Surely you understand.”

You nod slowly and train your face back into a smile. At least whatever homework they seem to have done on you came back with a positive result.

She leans forward slightly, and you can feel the intensity of her gaze. "We need someone who's truly suited for the responsibilities, but personnel fit is also incredibly important to us.”

“Of course,” you respond. “And what responsibilities exactly would you be looking for me to fulfill?”

Natasha presses her lips together and seems to scrutinize your face more closely. “You’re being considered for two opportunities. Until later in the day when I’ve made a determination on which I’ll recommend you for, I won’t be disclosing that information to you.”

“Oh,” you’re a little surprised at her directness, but you suppose her reason for withholding the information is logical.

“As the Chief Recruitment Officer, I’m very good at what I do, so I’ll know your future with us by the end of the day.”

Natasha rises from her chair with fluid grace. "Shall we begin the tour?" she asks, extending her hand to help you up. You take it, noting the surprising strength in her grip. “I'm eager to show you the wonders of our estate."

She seems to hold your hand longer than necessary, or maybe it’s just your nerves, maybe you looked unsteady standing up and she was only ensuring you were okay.

As you follow her out of the sitting room, you're once again struck by the grandeur of the foyer. Natasha notices your gaze lingering on the fresco above. "That was commissioned by our founder," she explains. "It's said to depict the view from the highest peak of a mountain range that no longer exists."

She leads you down a long corridor, its walls lined with portraits of distinguished-looking individuals. "Our benefactors and notable members throughout the years," Natasha explains. "Each one has contributed significantly to our mission."

The corridor opens into a vast library that takes your breath away. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretch as far as the eye can see, filled with leather-bound tomes. The air is heavy with the scent of old books and polished wood. Sunlight streams through tall windows, casting a warm glow over the room. The library is a bibliophile's dream, with rolling ladders affixed to the shelves, gorgeous wooden tables for spreading out books for research, and cozy reading nooks tucked into alcoves.

As you walk between the towering shelves, you notice that some of the books look ancient, their spines cracked and faded with age, some even appear to be bound in unfamiliar materials. Others appear to be in pristine condition, despite clearly being very old.

"Our collection is quite extensive," Natasha says, running her fingers along the spines of nearby books. "We have texts dating back centuries, some of which are the only surviving copies in the world."

"How do you preserve them so well?" you ask, unable to hide your fascination.

Natasha's lips curl into a mysterious smile. "We have our ways. Mostly it’s all down to our librarian Jarvis.”

She leads you through a set of double wooden doors at the other side of the library. Once you exit, Natasha leads you through a series of grand hallways, each more breathtaking than the last. The walls are adorned with tapestries and paintings that seem to come alive as you pass, their subjects' eyes following your movement. You could swear you see a figure in one portrait shift slightly, but when you look back, it's perfectly still.

"This wing houses our main offices and research facilities," Natasha explains as you walk. "We have state-of-the-art equipment for analyzing artifacts and documents, as well as a world-class conservation lab."

You pass by rooms filled with people working diligently at computers, their screens displaying what look like ancient texts and complex diagrams. In one room, you glimpse a team carefully examining what appears to be an old manuscript under specialized lighting.

As you continue down the hallway, you notice a door that seems different from the others. It's made of dark, heavy wood and adorned with intricate carvings. Unlike the other doors which are open or have glass panels, this one is firmly shut.

Natasha catches you looking at it. "That area is off-limits, I'm afraid. Some of our more... sensitive projects require absolute secrecy."

You nod but can't help feeling a prickle of curiosity. What could be behind that door that requires such concealment?

Natasha guides you to an elevator at the end of the hall. As you step inside, you notice there are more floors than you would have expected from the outside view of the mansion.

"We have quite extensive facilities underground," Natasha explains as she presses a button for one of the lower levels. "It allows us to maintain the historical integrity of the mansion's exterior while having all the modern amenities we need for our work."

The elevator descends smoothly, and when the doors open, you find yourself in a sleek, modern space that contrasts sharply with the ornate decor above. The walls are a pristine white, and the floors are polished concrete. The lighting is bright but not harsh, giving the space a clean, almost clinical feel.

Natasha leads you down a corridor lined with glass-walled rooms. In one, you see people in lab coats hunched over microscopes. In another, a group is gathered around a large touch screen, manipulating 3D models of what look like ancient artifacts.

"This is our primary research facility," Natasha says, leading you down a wide corridor. "We have some of the most advanced technology in the world at our disposal here."

As you walk, you pass by rooms with glass walls, allowing you to see inside. In one, you spot what looks like a holographic projection of a complex molecule rotating in mid-air. In another, a team of scientists in white lab coats huddle around a table, examining something you can't quite make out.

You pause for a moment, trying to take it all in. The contrast between the classical architecture upstairs and this futuristic facility is striking. "This is incredible," you say, unable to keep the awe from your voice. "I had no idea the Foundation had such advanced capabilities."

Natasha's lips curl into a satisfied smile. "We pride ourselves on being at the cutting edge of research and technology. It's essential for some of our work. We’re also one of the few science labs in the world that still is granted an affiliation with the nation of Wakanda."

As you continue down the corridor, you notice a few doors that aren't made of glass like the others. These are solid metal, with keycard readers and what look like biometric scanners next to them.

"What's behind those doors?" you ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

Natasha's expression doesn't change, but you sense a slight shift in her demeanor. "Those are our most sensitive research areas. Access is strictly limited to senior researchers and leadership."

As if orchestrated for this precise moment, the doors slide open, and two men emerge, engaged in a heated discussion. Or, rather, one of them is heated, and the other is shooting back casual, sarcastic comments.

Natasha clears her throat, “Gentlemen.”

They both stop.

“We have company,” she says, gesturing to you.

The two men turn to face you, and your jaw nearly drops as you instantly recognize them. Standing before you are none other than Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, two of the most famous figures in the world and certainly at the Foundation.

Tony Stark, looking every bit the billionaire genius he's known to be, is dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that probably costs more than your current yearly salary. His goatee is perfectly trimmed, and his hair is styled with just the right amount of casual messiness. There's a faint blue glow visible beneath his shirt - the arc reactor that's become his trademark.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Tony says, his eyes sparkling with curiosity and mischief. He steps forward, extending his hand. "Tony Stark. But you probably knew that already."

As you shake his hand, you can't help but feel a bit starstruck. Tony Stark's grip is brief but firm and confident, his smile charming yet slightly calculating as he sizes you up.

"And this strapping specimen of American values is Steve Rogers," Tony adds, gesturing to the man beside him.

Steve, standing tall and broad-shouldered, offers you a warm smile that seems to light up the room. He's dressed more casually than Tony in khakis and a fitted blue shirt that barely contains his muscular frame. His handshake is strong but gentle, and his blue eyes radiate sincerity.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Steve says, his voice deep and reassuring. "I hope you're enjoying your tour of our facilities."

You manage to find your voice, introducing yourself. “The tour has been nothing but fascinating and impressive so far,” you affirm.

Tony's eyes gleam with interest. "Oh, you’re the one they’ve been wooing, eh? I was sent no less than five reminders this morning that I was to be on my best behavior,” he discloses with a wink.

Natasha rolls her eyes, and you have the suspicion Steve only barely restrains himself from doing so.

"Anyway, welcome to the Foundation," Tony says.

"Stark is supposed to be one of our most valuable researchers," Natasha explains.

"Eh, that’s why you send Steve down to get me back in line when I’m pursuing tangential projects."

This time Steve does roll his eyes.

You can't help but chuckle at the banter between Tony and Steve. Their dynamic is exactly as you'd imagined from what you've seen in the media - Tony's quick wit and sarcasm playing off Steve's more serious demeanor.

"So, what do you think of our little operation so far?" Tony asks, gesturing broadly at the surrounding facility. "Pretty impressive, right?"

Before you can answer, Natasha interjects smoothly. "I'm sure our guest is finding everything quite fascinating, but we should continue the tour. I'm sure you both have important work to get back to."

Tony raises an eyebrow at Natasha, a silent exchange seeming to pass between them. "Right, right. Important work. Can't keep the world waiting, can we?" He turns back to you with a grin. "It was a pleasure meeting you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around."

“You’ll at the very least be seeing me,” Steve says. “I believe I’m scheduled to join you for lunch.”

“And I’m not invited?” Tony protests, but he sports an unrepentant grin rather than any genuine offense.

Steve puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder to steer him away, “You’re not the Executive Director of the Foundation, so, no.”

Tony shrugs out of his grip, “And remind me why that is?”

“‘All administrative, no science,’ as you aptly put it so many times when you remind me why you don’t want to listen to what I say.”

“Right,” Tony replies, but does fall into step with Steve heading down the corridor.

As they leave, you can't help but feel a mix of excitement and bewilderment. Meeting two such prominent figures so casually during your interview process only adds to the surreal nature of this experience.

Natasha gently touches your elbow and guides you away from the metal doors and continues down the corridor. "My apologies for that interruption," she says, though her tone suggests she's not entirely displeased. "Mr. Stark has a tendency to... make an impression."

You nod, still processing the encounter. "It's no problem at all. I'm just surprised to see them here. I knew they were involved with the Foundation, but I didn't realize they were so hands-on."

Natasha's lips curl into a knowing smile. "The Winged Heritage Foundation values the direct involvement of all its key members. You'll find that everyone here, regardless of their public status or their position in our organization, contributes actively to our mission.”

She leads you through more state-of-the-art laboratories and research facilities, each more impressive than the last, before returning to the elevator to bring you surface-level again.

As the elevator ascends, you find your mind racing with questions. The encounter with Stark and Rogers, the glimpses of cutting-edge technology, and the air of mystery surrounding certain areas of the facility have only heightened your curiosity about the true nature of the Winged Heritage Foundation is, showing you so much, but not truly illuminating any answers.  

NEXT PART: LUNCH

Welcome to the Winged Heritage Foundation, lovelies. This is only the beginning... Where will this day take you? And what is going on here?

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[hypnogold]

The Ridgewood Golf Club - Part 1

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over Ridgewood Golf Club. The club was nestled in rolling hills, with manicured greens that looked too pristine to touch. It was the kind of place you’d expect to see people in pastel polos and pleated khakis sipping iced teas on the patio.

But Tyler, Zach, Chris, and Ben—a close-knit group of guys in their early twenties—weren’t exactly the preppy type. They were more into basketball shorts and hoodies, and none of them had ever set foot on a golf course. That was Zach’s idea.

“Dude, I got us a deal,” Zach had said earlier that week. “Ridgewood’s running this promo for new players. We get the gear, a free lesson, and a round for like fifty bucks. How hard can golf even be?”

So there they were, standing awkwardly in the clubhouse parking lot, feeling out of place as men in crisp white pants and pastel shirts strolled by with polished clubs slung over their shoulders.

“I feel underdressed already,” Tyler muttered, tugging at his faded band T-shirt. He glanced at Ben, who was scrolling through his phone. “You sure this is a good idea?”

Ben shrugged. “It’s one round, Ty. What’s the worst that could happen? We embarrass ourselves and leave. Big deal.”

Chris, the loudest of the group, threw an arm around Tyler. “Come on, man. Maybe we’ll go viral as the worst golfers in history. Now let’s get in there.”

The clubhouse was immaculate—marble floors, leather armchairs, and framed photos of serious-looking golfers lining the walls. The boys were directed to a side room where they were greeted by a sharply dressed man in a pastel yellow sweater draped over his shoulders. His name tag read “Trevor - Member Coordinator.”

“Welcome to Ridgewood,” Trevor said with a wide smile, his voice smooth and almost hypnotic. “We’re so thrilled to have you gentlemen join us today. First-timers, I assume?”

Chris grinned. “Yeah, but don’t expect much. I’m better at sinking beers than putts.”

Trevor chuckled politely, but his sharp eyes seemed to linger on each of them for a second too long. “Don’t worry. By the time you’re finished here, you’ll feel like you’ve belonged all along.”

The words hung in the air, almost cryptic. Trevor motioned to a rack of golf gear along the wall.

“As part of our promotion, we provide everything you’ll need—clubs, balls, and even attire. Feel free to pick out a polo, slacks, and a cap. It’s important to look the part, gentlemen.”

Chris eagerly rummaged through the rack, holding up a baby-blue polo. “Check me out. Classy, right?”

The others hesitated. Tyler in particular felt uneasy. Something about Trevor’s smile, his tone, seemed… off.

Each guy picked a polo and slacks, joking about who looked the most ridiculous. Tyler lingered behind, still clutching his folded clothes.

“Hurry up, man,” Zach called from inside the changing room. “We’re all gonna look dumb together. Embrace it.”

Tyler sighed and stepped into a stall, but as he unfolded the cream-colored polo, a strange shiver ran down his spine. The fabric felt unusually cool to the touch, almost alive. He shook off the feeling, chalking it up to nerves, and pulled it over his head.

As soon as the shirt settled on his shoulders, he froze. For a moment, it felt like the room spun. His reflection in the mirror seemed to flicker, like static on a TV screen. He blinked, and the sensation passed. The shirt fit perfectly—too perfectly. It was snug in all the right places, making him look sharper, more put-together than he’d ever been.

“Ty, you good in there?” Zach called, snapping him out of his daze.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tyler muttered, stepping out. The others hooted and laughed, posing in their new preppy outfits.

The group was led to the driving range, where an older man in a crisp shirt introduced himself as Coach Malcolm. He spoke with the confidence of someone who’d been born holding a golf club.

“Alright, gents,” Malcolm said, his eyes twinkling. “Let’s see what you’ve got. One by one.”

Chris went first, his swing wild and awkward. Zach followed, smacking the ball off-course. Ben was the best of the bunch, managing a decent shot down the range. Tyler was last.

As he approached, Malcolm placed a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, son. Let the club guide you.”

Tyler swung, and to his surprise, the ball soared straight and true. The others cheered, but Malcolm’s expression was unreadable.

“Well done,” the coach said softly, his grip tightening briefly on Tyler’s shoulder. “You’ve got potential.”

As the group moved through the lesson, Tyler began to feel… different. His focus sharpened. His movements felt smoother, more deliberate. He caught himself standing straighter, adjusting his posture without thinking. The banter between his friends started to fade into background noise. The only thing that seemed to matter was the game.

“Dude, you okay?” Ben asked, noticing Tyler’s silence.

“Yeah, just… really into it, I guess,” Tyler replied, though even he didn’t fully believe it.

By the time they finished their first round, the sun had dipped lower, and the group headed back toward the clubhouse. But as they neared the entrance, they realized someone was missing.

“Where’s Chris?” Zach asked, spinning around.

They retraced their steps, calling his name, but there was no sign of him. Finally, they spotted Trevor standing by the patio, sipping iced tea.

“Looking for someone?” Trevor asked, his polite smile never faltering.

“Yeah, our friend—he was with us all day,” Ben said, a note of panic in his voice.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Trevor replied smoothly. “He’s just finishing up some paperwork. Happens all the time with new members.”

The group exchanged uneasy glances. “New members?” Tyler echoed.

Trevor’s smile widened. “Of course. Ridgewood has a way of making an impression.”

As he spoke, Tyler felt a strange pull to the building. Something was calling to him, tugging at the edges of his mind. And as they waited, the sinking feeling in his chest grew. Something wasn’t right at Ridgewood.

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

Nick and Elliot had been working at Ridgewood Golf Club for almost six months. It wasn’t glamorous, but the tips were decent, and the job was easy enough—polishing clubs, setting up carts, and occasionally helping pretentious members find their balls in the rough. The two were inseparable, often passing time by making sarcastic comments about the clientele.

The Friday shift had been quiet so far, and Nick was leaning against the clubhouse counter, staring out at the pristine greens through the window.

“Do you ever feel like this place is too perfect?” Nick asked, breaking the silence. “Like, it’s almost creepy.”

Elliot snorted, wiping down a rack of golf balls. “What’s creepy is the members. Did you see that guy in the purple sweater yesterday? Looked like a mannequin at a yacht store.”

Nick laughed. “I bet he had boat shoes glued to his feet.”

Their banter was interrupted when a group of four walked through the main doors. They were younger, more casual than the usual crowd. Hoodies, sneakers, and an overall air of “we don’t belong here.” Nick raised an eyebrow.

“Well, well,” he said, nudging Elliot. “Fresh meat. Bet they got suckered into that first-timer deal.”

Elliot smirked. “I love seeing guys like that here. All loose and clueless. They’ll hate it, and we’ll get some entertainment.”

As they watched, Trevor—the club’s overly polished member coordinator—stepped forward to greet the group. His exaggerated charm was in full force, and even from a distance, Nick could see the slight unease on the newcomers�� faces.

“Trevor’s gonna eat them alive,” Elliot said. “Five bucks says one of them chickens out before the lesson.”

“You’re on,” Nick replied.

Nick and Elliot busied themselves with their usual tasks, occasionally glancing toward the changing rooms where the group had been directed. They chuckled as the guys emerged one by one, awkwardly adjusting their borrowed polos and slacks.

“Look at that guy,” Nick whispered, pointing at Chris, who was flexing dramatically in front of his friends. “Thinks he’s a model now.”

Elliot laughed. “Bet he’s never worn anything that didn’t have a logo bigger than his head.”

They watched as the group headed to the driving range, led by Coach Malcolm. The friends were a mess—wild swings, laughter, and plenty of missed shots. Chris, however, seemed to be settling in faster than the others.

“Dude’s getting into it,” Elliot noted, watching as Chris lined up another shot. “Kinda weird. He was the loudest one when they walked in.”

Nick shrugged. “Maybe he’s one of those guys who gets obsessive about random stuff. Let him have his moment.”

They turned their attention back to their work, but every so often, Nick found himself glancing at the group. Something about the way Chris was standing, the way his posture changed, was… unsettling.

By the time Nick and Elliot finished their shift, the sun was setting, and the clubhouse was winding down. They grabbed their things and headed toward the employee exit but paused when they saw something through the glass office window.

“Is that…” Nick started, squinting.

“It’s Chris,” Elliot finished, stepping closer.

Inside the office, Trevor sat at a polished mahogany desk, his signature smug smile plastered on his face. Across from him sat Chris, his once casual demeanor completely gone. His cream polo was perfectly tucked into freshly pressed khakis, and his hair, once messy and unkempt, was now neatly combed. He leaned forward, pen in hand, signing a stack of papers.

“What the hell?” Nick whispered. “Why’s he in there?”

Elliot tapped the glass, but neither Trevor nor Chris reacted. Trevor was speaking, his gestures animated, while Chris nodded along, a faint smile on his lips. The younger man looked… content. Relaxed. Almost like he belonged there.

“I don’t get it,” Nick said, his voice rising. “He was goofing around all day. Why’s he acting like a member now? Why is he wearing the same polo as us?”

“Dude,” Elliot said slowly, his face pale. “He’s not acting like a member. Look at the paperwork. He’s signing on as an employee.”

Nick froze, staring at the Ridgewood logo on the top of the papers. “You think he… volunteered for this?”

“No way,” Elliot muttered. “Something’s not right. He wouldn’t just—”

Before they could finish, the office door opened, and Trevor stepped out, his sharp eyes landing on the two of them. His smile widened.

“Ah, Nick, Elliot,” he said smoothly. “I was just about to call you in.”

“What’s going on?” Nick demanded, his voice wavering. “Why’s he in there?”

“Chris has decided to join the Ridgewood family,” Trevor replied, his tone sickeningly pleasant. “We’re always looking for fresh faces to represent our club, and he fits perfectly, don’t you think?”

Elliot took a step back. “But he’s… he’s not—”

“He is now,” Trevor interrupted, his gaze sharp. “Perhaps you two should take note. Ridgewood has a way of bringing out the best in people.”

Chris emerged from the office then, his expression eerily calm. He adjusted red blazer and tie and smiled at Nick and Elliot.

“Hey, guys,” he said, his voice steady but almost… hollow. “Guess I’ll be seeing you around more.”

Nick opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. He could only stare as Chris walked past them, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor. Trevor followed close behind, leaving Nick and Elliot frozen in place.

“What the hell is happening here?” Nick finally whispered. "Why was Coach expecting us too? Why a dark red blazer?"

Elliot didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at the stack of Ridgewood blazers and ties sitting neatly on the counter—one in Nick’s size, one in Elliot’s.

[chocolilies]

okay i caved here's an extract of my toji x babysitter!reader fic I started but never finished... i'm still not sure about continuing it or not so lmk if I should! (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

the jarring sound of the doorbell cut through the strangely calm atmosphere, forcing toji to get up and face the dreaded “interview” shiu had put in place for him. behind him, megumi pulled himself up to a seating position, chubby hands wrapping around the plastic bars of his confine, lower lip trembling from the combination of the loud sound and his father walking towards the door, thinking it was time to be once-again left with toji’s tobacco-stinking friend. 

“don't be too mean,” toji remembered shiu’s words as the handler forwarded your contact to him. “she’s a sweet girl. not the smartest tool but definitely one of the kindest.”

his stupid analogy didn't even make sense. 

before he even started to open the door, toji angled his head to peer through the peephole, being greeted with a skittish expression pulling at a pretty face. 

he felt his mouth go dry the moment he laid eyes upon you, the tiny, blurry picture he’d seen on shiu’s phone doing you no justice whatsoever. despite the fisheye lens he was staring through, he could still tell you were absolutely gorgeous. 

too gorgeous to be working for him.  

he hoped you’d come to the same realisation once you saw him, the bratty infant or the neglected flat, that you’d take one look at them and turn right back around, as toji didn't know how the hell he’d be expected to behave with someone as tempting as you around. 

maybe it was the loneliness speaking, or maybe you were just that attractive that you were causing toji’s brain to short-circuit with a single, not-even-proper glance at you, but toji didn't care to elaborate, not when you were waiting so patiently for him to greet you. 

you were taking deep breaths, clearly trying to shake away the nerves written on your face, bringing up your manicured hands (had you really gotten a manicure for this?) to your artificially blushed cheeks, makeup shining beneath the fluorescent lights of the corridor.  

unbeknownst to him, you were actually silently debating whether to stay or turn on your heel and run right back down the funky-smelling corridor you'd initially hesitated to walk through, especially in the new heels you'd impulsively bought the moment shiu had told you of his friend's offer. 

now, you were truly thankful for this opportunity, excited at the prospect of finally getting to do something with your life except mope around shiu’s apartment thinking about your stupid ex-boyfriend, but that feeling of hope didn't cancel out the borderline fright that filled you at the idea. 

despite this not being an official job interview, you had spent the last few days straight up stressed at the notion of meeting toji. 

you didn’t know him. yes, you’d heard his name mentioned by shiu, but you'd never formally met him. 

which, of course, only added to your already frazzled nerves. 

you didn't know what to expect when you rang the doorbell, giving your cheeks a few slaps as a way to get yourself focused, blush and highlighter sticking to your palm due to the sweat your body was creating in response to your anxiety. 

you cursed out loud, attempting to wipe your hands down on your skirt, but were interrupted as the sound of the door unlocking reverberated around the hallway. when nothing happened after the few clicks, you subconsciously leaned into the wooden door to get a better hearing of whatever might be going on inside, wondering whether you'd imagined the sound or it was actually someone locking the door, and you'd gotten the wrong apartment. 

you straightened up with a jump as the door pulled back open into the flat, an action that sent you reeling backwards, heels clacking against the faux-marble floor as you skittered back into a wall, lifting your embarrassed gaze towards the man who'd pulled it open. 

what you certainly hadn't expected, was for toji to be absolutely stunning. 

you noted the shaggy bangs messily cut above his crinkling green eyes, the sharp jaw that framed the lips that were twitching up into an amused smile, a tiny scar at the corner of his mouth that only added to the raw attractiveness he radiated.  

although… as you looked him up and down, taking in the outfit he was sporting, you noticed he clearly hadn't put in as much effort as you had in dressing up nice for this “interview”. you felt your palms grow sweaty in embarrassment, looking down at your own clothes in comparison, mortified that you’d dressed up this cute and presentable only for your possible employer to show up to the door… like this. 

you let the slippers, the joggers, the eyebag that framed his eyes, the dishevelled state his hair was in soak in before fully committing to an idea of him in your head… 

normally, a man wearing such an outfit would make your face scrunch up in disgust, but toji… somehow made it work. 

he said your name, clicking his fingers a few times and forcing you to stop gawking, staring down at you with an unreadable expression on his worn-down face.

[drghostwrite]

Your work is amazing!! My obsession with Regina mills is so bad and I need your help because I swear I see her as a power bottom 😫😫 AND NO ONE ELSE DOESSS. If it’s okay please could you write a Regina and reader fic where the reader is a service top? LOVE YOUUUU

Omg hehe YES!! I can so see her being a power bottom, mmm yes okay so here we go. I’ve never intentionally written this dynamic so here goes nothing, let me know whatcha think. Also thanks for the suggestion love. 😙

Pairing: Regina Mills x wife!reader

Summary: Regina’s lover brings her breakfast, a visit that turns… steamy.

******************************************************** Your heels clicked on the hard marble floors as you made you way to your wife’s office. When you got up this morning she wasn’t in bed and her car was long gone so you assumed she had gone into the office, on your way to the station your assumption had been right. So being the amazing wife you were you stopped by Granny’s picking up some pancakes and coffee and made your way to her office.

You stopped outside the door and read the bold letters, Mayor, you knocked softly hearing a very annoyed ‘come in’ from the other side. You could almost feel the eye roll from the woman behind the desk.

You slowly opened the door to see her reading over some paperwork, her elbow on the desk holding fingers pressed against her temple as her other hand held a paper and pen. She didn’t even bother to look up as she heard you enter.

“This better be important or so help me…” she started, looking as annoyed as ever.

“Well that’s no way to greet your lover, is it?” You teased as you walked towards her desk. She looked up at you surprised, her eyes raking over your body as you walked in. You were wearing all black, her favorite, a vest and pant combo, the black shirt underneath to match, your holster and badge displayed on your hip.

“Hello darling.” A smile playing at her plush red lips.

“My love.” You nodded and came around to her, bending down to kiss her soft lips, your hand softly ghosting her cheek. “I missed you this morning.”

“Well duty calls, especially when you work with idiots.”

“Hmm…” you chuckled leaning down to kiss her more passionately.

“So tell me detective, to what do I owe the visit?” She teased, grinning against your lips.

“Can’t I just bring my wife some breakfast?” You poked, kissing her again. Setting the bag and cups on the desk, taking your badge and gun off laying it to the side.

“Mm, depends on what else comes with the breakfast.” She pulled you closer by your belt loops, finally standing to meet you.

“Well whatever her majesty wants she gets…” you trailed, as she pushed her tongue into your mouth, you fought for dominance before just letting her take over.

“Rough morning?” You asked kissing her neck, her perfect red lipstick now smudged.

“Darling you have no idea…” her breath warm against your lips, as you picked her up setting her on her desk

“What can I do to help?” You said pulling back and looking into the mischievous brown orbs as she grinned back at you. She wrapped her toned legs around your waist as her well manicured fingers played with the buttons of your vest.

“I think you know…” she trailed with a smirk, running her tongue seductively along her perfectly white teeth with a smirk.

“Mm… maybe you should lock the door first, wouldn’t want anyone to catch the mayor with her thighs wrapped around my head.” Your low sultry tone gracing her ears.

“Mm…” she chuckled, “why not let everyone know who you belong to, show everyone that you’re the only person that makes me feel this good.” She raised her hand with a little purple wisp and you heard the door lock.

You chuckled, “doesn’t mean they won’t hear you…” you trailed bites and kisses down her neck as her hand tangled in your hair. She pushed your vest off, you leaned back helping her as she ripped your shirt open, buttons hitting the floor and rolling under exquisite furniture, exposing the black lace bra underneath. Black was her color but God did she love seeing it on you.

“I liked that shirt…” you whined while leaning to kiss her. Soft hands were running up your exposed sides, pulling you closer.

“I’ll buy you another one…” she smirked. In between heated kisses you reached back undoing the zipper of her top and pulling it down. Her perky breasts spilling over the exposing black lace lingerie that she wore underneath, you could see her nipples perfectly through the lace.

“Damn you’re gorgeous…” taking in her beautiful body, undoing her bra and tossing it to the side, placing open mouthed kisses down her collar bones and over her luscious breasts. You used your tongue to lightly ghost over a hardened nipple, before pulling it into your mouth, a string of saliva connecting you before moving to the other pulling the soft flesh into your mouth, your fingers moving to the other to tease. Pinching and twisting her nipple between your fingers at first softly but then harsher the pain turning to pleasure for her. The first of many erotic moans falling from her lips. You started leaving little nips, forming little red marks that would be purple by morning. Something that Regina typically didn’t mind, unless she had no way to cover them up and hide them from the office for the rest of the day.

“Y/N, dear…”

“Yes my love?”

“Behave…”

“Or what?”

“I’ll make you…” she groaned out. And you chuckled leaving another mark along her chest, she cocked an eyebrow at you seeing the defiant smirk you had on your face.

“hmm…” you chuckled against her chest and placed small kisses over the now reddened marks. You felt her hand that had been tangled in your hair reach around and grab your neck, slightly squeezing as she lifted you to meet her eyes, her bottom lip trapped under her glossy pearly white teeth, she loved when you mouthed off cause it meant she could put you in your place. One of her legs moved up and settled on the chair behind you, her red bottom stiletto clicking against the handle, you ran a hand up the smooth olive skin slowly pushing up the fabric of her lifted skirt.

“Why don’t you be a good girl and show your queen what that tongue can really do?” She whispered out in a low growl, spreading her legs even wider in front of you as she perched on her desk.

You met her hooded brown eyes and slowly bent down, pulling the chair closer, weaving your arm under her leg that was up on the chair arm, letting it rest over your shoulder while your skilled fingers lifted her skirt. You slowly ghosted your fingers over her clothed core, feeling the small spot of wetness, “so wet for me…” you said breath hot on her thighs as you nipped at her, snapping the waist band of her black lace panties against her hip before slowly sliding them off. She let out an approving moan as she watched you place open mouthed kisses up her thigh, she let her head fall back her mouth open as she chuckled to herself.

You worked your way up her inner thighs, drawing it out the best you could before you felt her hand weave through your hair, forcing your head down closer to her dripping core. You ran your tongue flat against her tasting her. Pulling your fingers through her folds and collecting her slick, looking at it glisten on your fingertips, setting up and watching her through your eyelashes you sucked on your fingers and released them with a pop. “You taste amazing…” you said as she looked into your devious eyes, biting her lip once again. The hand currently in your hair tightened demandingly as you bent down and pulled your tongue over her again, this time coming dangerously close to where she needed you most, watching her as she bit her bottom lip and then pulling her clit into your mouth. Her head fell back in pleasure with a small whine of relief that turned into a groan of pleasure as you used skilled licks and sucks to bring her closer and closer to the edge.

“You look so perfect down there between my legs, eating me out like a good girl.” lewd moans filling the room as you moaned into her sending vibrations through her core.

Thankfully no one was actually around to see how perfect you looked between her legs. Regina was sitting legs spread on her desk, upper torso exposed to the world decorated in an array of reddish purple marks as you were in front of her, her perfectly manicured hand gripped your shoulder as the other tangled in your hair, your hand held her hip steadying her. Her toned leg in her perfect designer heels over your shoulder.

You reached down using two fingers and curling them into the spongy spot that made her go wild, pumping in and out slowly adding a third. You could feel as her thighs clenched around you, her hand forcing you closer and closer, you started to feel lightheaded but you were determined to please your wife.

You felt her thighs begin to shake and her moans become more breathy and frequent as she got closer, chasing her high. You snaked a free hand up and pinched a nipple between your fingers before grabbing her entire boob in your hand. Letting one last low vibration come from your throat as you worked on her clit, you heard her let out one last soft moan working her through her orgasm. Coaxing her until she was lifting her hips away from you, overstimulated by your tongue on her clit.

You sat up and pulled her down into a kiss, feeling her soft plump lips on yours, she could taste herself still on your tongue. Thinking about the fact that she could taste herself when kissing you drove you both wild, a sign that you belonged to her and her only.

“Next time you bring me breakfast I prefer it be in bed, instead of my office…” she chuckled, finally breaking the heated silence and chuckling against your lips.

“Well maybe next time I can fuck you senseless over your desk and I won’t have to worry about going back to work.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged… you are married to the mayor after all.” She smirked, pulling at you ripped shirt, still partial tucked into your pants, pulling you closer and sliding her hands over your smooth skin exposed to her.

Before she could do anything else her desk phone rang and she picked up, “Hello?” She eyed you cautiously.

“Yes, if you don’t mind sending it over…” you eyed her mischievously and bent down to place soft kisses on her thigh before placing one bite drawing a gasp from her lips, risking her wrath for later that night. She hung up the phone and glared at you playfully.

“if I didn’t have to get back to work I would punish you right now…”

“Saved by the mayor then?” You poked sarcastically knowing what would be waiting for you later. With a wave of her hand your outfit was put back together and she was smoothing out her clothes.

“I will see you later tonight my love.” You said kissing her before making your way out.

“Y/N dear?”

“yes?” You turned.

“I seem to be missing…”

“these?” You asked holding up a black lace pair of panties as your trophy, “you’ll get them back later.” You said folding them in your pocket with a smirk.

A stern but excited look crossed over her face knowing you were being a brat on purpose, “you’ll get your punishment tonight.”

“On that note…I love you.” You said with a wink and sly smirk, sliding out of her office as she called a stubborn, I love you, after you.

******************************************************** @poisonappleeater @gayestswiftie @thesamesweetie

[thollandneedy]

Ghost face mask- Tom Holland

A/N: My friend came up with the idea and i love it. Honestly, i don't have this mask kink, but i think i turned out good. Btw, more halloween themed oneshots to come this week

Summary: Tom catches you seeing a specific tiktok video, and decides to try do the same, but on you

Warnings: Sexual activity (Fingering), and descreption

Don’t forget to share, like, comment and leave your ideas here

Bellah’s Masterlist 🪻

His slender fingers with freshly manicured black nails slid across the shiny screen of his cell phone, which was already completely addicted to TikTok. If I were to see how much time he spent on that app, it would be worrying. Y/n spent most of her time on her cell phone because of her work, but like any other drug, her cell phone also got her hooked on short videos. The days were numbered for Halloween, and most of the suggested content was on the same theme. The idea of shirtless men masquerading as Ghostface had been circulating on the app for a long time, but this was the first time she felt something different at the thought of trying something like this with her boyfriend. Even though they had been together for a long time, her shame seemed to be greater.

The girl shook her head, trying to rid herself of the idea, but every time she thought about it, she became more alive. To think that she wouldn't be able to read his expression, let alone understand his intentions with his striking brown eyes. At an unexpected ring of the doorbell, the woman left her cell phone open on the sofa in the living room and quickly got up to answer the door. Holland, at the same time as his girlfriend, went downstairs to answer the doorbell, but realized that she had already answered it. The loud ringing of his cell phone drew his attention to the device on the sofa and he was confronted with the image of a muscular man wearing the mask of the villainous assassin.

The brunette tilted his head to one side, coming closer to make sure he knew what he was looking at. Maybe it was just a coincidence, or maybe she was drawing his attention to something she wanted?

“ Honey! Your package has arrived.” The girl in the white sweater caught his eye, causing him to turn away from his cell phone, straightening his posture as he followed her sweet voice. “Why did you order a skeleton in a Captain America costume?” The girl laughs

“To decorate the house” The dark-haired man in the olive green shirt replied, taking the package from her hands.

“I thought we'd finished decorating here at home.” The girl looks around.

Holland had been a great Halloween enthusiast since he was a child because of his parents' tradition of always decorating the house with the theme, and when he grew up, that didn't change. The bedrooms were decorated with pumpkin latte scented candles, the bathrooms with mirrors decorated with spider webs, the living room with decorative cushions, and especially the entrance to the house with various images of the dead post-endgame Avengers. Although it wasn't the best idea in the world to put superheroes in pieces in the garden of his the idea was already in the actor's hands.

“Is your battlefield complete now?” Y/n asked, picking up the unprotected cell phone and stowing it in his pocket without expressing any reaction. “Almost. We just need to turn on the lights at night to see if it turns out the way I imagined.” The man crossed his arms, trying to decipher whether his girlfriend was going to say anything about the video, and he was wrong.

“Of course! We need to go to the costume store to buy my apron for my Love Quinn costume for tonight's party,” Y/n mentions, passing by her boyfriend and heading for the kitchen.

Shit

“We have several aprons in the kitchen.” The man mentions, following his girlfriend who sits on the worktop, leaning her weight on the marble of the table, following with her eyes her boyfriend who sits in front of her.

“We have three.” The girl replies. “And I'm not going to get fake blood on a good apron”

Holland kept staring at her, as if he was trying to draw something out of her that was hidden in his sweet eyes. The girl frowns, squinting in an attempt to read her boyfriend's mind, who repeats the action without breaking eye contact. Maybe she hadn't really meant it, and he was crazy, but if she wanted to, it would be hard to get the idea out of her, unless she was drinking wine or was quite comfortable sharing the idea without even thinking about the Brit's reaction.

“What are you staring at?” Y/n confronted him.

“Nothing.” He replies quickly. “Let's go and buy your apron”

(...)

The sound of keys opening at two in the morning was almost violent, given the silence of the entrance to the house. The floor of the room was cold, but the couple's bodies were warmed by the coats worn over their last-minute costumes inspired by the series they were watching together. The man opened the door for his girlfriend, who was still on edge from the party, while the actor had only had non-alcoholic drinks because he was going to drive. Y/n took off her shoes, held them with her hand and headed for the beginning of the staircase with its light wooden handrail.

“Come on, love.” The girl caught the eye of the brunette, who was wearing a dark cap and a white shirt with fake blood on it.

“I'm coming.” He says, locking the door behind him. “I'm just going to get something from the kitchen. Wait for me in the bedroom.” The Brit says.

“Take this roll to the kitchen for me and wash it. It's got red dye on it, but I think if I leave it to soak it'll come off tomorrow morning.” Y/n holds out a wooden spool that she used to make up her costume, hands it to her boyfriend who nods in agreement, then goes into the kitchen.

The lights are turned on by Alexa, and then the man prepares a mixture of soap and warm water to leave the roll resting. Scrubbing his hands in the running water in the kitchen, he wipes them against his dark-wash jeans, walking to the opposite side of the sink and fixing the worktop overlooking his backyard swimming pool, also decorated with ghost-shaped lights and a few buoys floating in his pool. Reaching out to open a drawer, he pulls out a white bag from the same costume shop he had gone to with his girlfriend. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out the mask he had seen on his girlfriend's cell phone, wondering again if it was a good idea.

The brunette tried to think of possible ideas as to why she was so attracted to the idea of not seeing his face. He didn't understand what her intention was, or even why she had never mentioned anything so different from her sexual routine.

Y/n was in the bathroom washing her face after removing her make-up with make-up remover. The girl was looking at herself in the mirror, observing her body and having a brief idealization of her boyfriend behind her, holding her waist tightly, making her feel his hardness against her perky ass. Her eyes closed briefly, allowing that fantasy to develop, and once again that mask was there.

“Fuck, Y/n. What the fuck?” The girl scolds herself, nodding and adjusting the strap of her black bra.

The girl loosens her hair into a ponytail, running her hand through the strands to get rid of the elastic mark. Taking a deep breath to herself, she made her way to the bathroom door, feeling the cold golden knob between her palms, opening it slowly and turning her back to the bed, trying not to make a sound, as she didn't know if her boyfriend would go straight to sleep due to his apparent desperation to get home soon.

Her eyes widen, allowing her lungs to lose air in a startled cry as she sees the image of the actor lying on the bed, his forearm resting against the bedspread and his muscular abdomen exposed while his waist is hugged by black sweatpants and the black and white mask of the killer character, Ghost face. The girl didn't say a word, still processing whether she was imagining too much or whether her boyfriend really was psychic. The room was dimly lit, with only a few candles to complement the mysterious, warm air.

A smile broke out on the younger woman's pink lips, still enraptured by the image of her boyfriend in bed. It was a mischievous smile, but at the same time he seemed surprised. The image of the Brit gets up from the bed, without saying a word, projecting his body forward and tapping the bed three times, like a silent request for her to obey him. The girl nodded in agreement, moving towards the masked man and sitting down in front of him, with her eyes fixed on his image. Holland wasn't quite sure what to do, or even what to say, but the one thing he did know was how to turn his girlfriend on.

In a gentle movement, one of his hands finds the cheek of the girl, who is still watching him curiously and submissive to his actions, allowing his thumb to caress it. Y/n tilts her head to the side, allowing herself to be touched gently. In a slight movement, the same hand that had been caressing her was now lightly squeezing her neck with force at the ends so that her breathing could be controlled. With the weight of the actor's body closer to his girlfriend, the girl stretched out on the bed and lay down. Thomas placed himself on top of her, on top of her legs so that she couldn't escape his movements. There was absolutely no noise, and perhaps that's what made the room warmer than usual, because it wasn't known whether he was enjoying or disapproving of her actions, and not even if she was allowed to speak.

“Spying on other people's cell phones is ugly, masked man.” Y/n says, having her covered breasts groped as a gentle caress against the bulge factory.

“And so is talking without permission.” Holland says.

Y/n smiles to herself, nodding and closing her eyes as soon as she feels the strap of her bra slide down her shoulder.

“Open your eyes.” The man orders."I know you can't see me, but I want your eyes open.” His voice sounded thicker than usual, but his accent was still strong.

The brunette pulls her up by placing one of his hands on her back, holding the weight of her exposed body and reaching into the back of her bra, removing it with a single “click”. Her breasts were exposed like a work of art, and her clitoris seemed to be swollen more than usual from the excitement that was coursing through her body like lightning. Unable to respond, the black bra is thrown across the room. Holland feels the factory of his sweatshirt getting tighter and tighter because his cock is already begging to be put inside his girlfriend.

“What were you thinking when you watched the videos, Y/n?” The voice caught her attention. “When you thought about the idea of not being able to see me?”

Y/n opened her mouth, wondering if the words she was about to say were really hers.

“I don't really know.” The girl admits, watching the older man's fingers trace a line down to the edge of her panties. The way it was touched was so careful that it even felt like a feather landing on her belly. Her hips rose, as if asking to be touched. “I couldn't see your face. Your hungry eyes when I use something you like, and especially your expression when you come. It's like you're selfish enough to let me taste it, but not see it all.”

Holland's fingers come into contact with her sensitive, throbbing spot. He didn't need to dip his fingers into his mouth to lubricate her, as her body was already doing that for itself. Her clitoris is stimulated by the actor's middle finger, which is then joined by his ring finger so that it can take up more of her hard-on. Holland had one of his hands resting on the side of the girl's head, who tilted her head to the side, getting a 4k view of his veiny arm. Her chest rose rapidly each time his movements seemed to connect with the speed of her heart, as they became strong and hurried.

“Why are you moaning quietly, hm?” The brunette asked, biting his lip behind his mask, trying to put all his sexual desire into satisfying his partner.

“Because you haven't given me a reason to moan loudly.” Y/n challenges him, receiving the same two fingers in her wet pussy.

His fingers curved in a movement as if he were calling for an orgasm to hit his girlfriend. The girl held on tightly to his wrist, letting out the pornographic sounds she had been holding in for ages, and the neighbors couldn't complain. The actor moaned quietly as he listened to his girlfriend, still wanting to get out of those clothes and put her on her back, so that he could feel her getting tighter and tighter around him. Y/n tried to move one of her arms so that it could find her breast in order to be stimulated, but a strong hand held her down, preventing her from pleasuring it.

She grunts in frustration, attracting the attention of the masked man, who immediately increases his movements, making her squeeze the pillows.

“Yes, my love. Come for me,” he ordered, and she complied.

He was majestic, brutal and thirsty.

Her fingers were squeezed by the force of her wet walls, while the man moaned to himself in approval of her attitude.

“Fuck, Y/n. You're so good at what you do, aren't you?”

Y/n agrees in a sly moan, catching her breath. The girl lifted her posture towards her boyfriend, who was now wearing only a pair of boxer shorts to show how long and thick he was. Y/n frowned, holding back her desire to attack him right there without permission. The brunette brought his cum-soaked hand up to his girlfriend's lips, which opened, sucking in the warm, sweet liquid.

“Good girl. Now get down on your knees. I want you to take care of me, darling.”

[ateez-himari]

[240927] LOVE & LUST

...

Oh please stop looking at me like that You put me on the spot, wait, wait

CW: Very suggestive contents ahead so MDNI!

The sound of running water crashing against marble tiles echoing across the dimly lit bathroom made the rhythmic scrubbing of the young woman's toothbrush fade into nothing more than background noise, the two lovers simply basking in one another's close proximity. Sleep hazed eyes absent mindedly drifted towards her boyfriend's toned form reflected in the mirror, though the shower's fogged glass allowed nothing more than his blurred figure washing soap off of soft skin to be admired.

"I can feel you staring, angel." Mingi chuckled, knowing her much too well. "It's nothing you haven't seen before...you can take your eyes off me for a second, no ?"

The bold teasing remark sent a burning blush to her cheeks, gaze rapidly flickering down onto the white sink below as she spat out the mint flavored substance, the lack of a hearing aid making the sliding door's opening go by unnoticed. Without much auditory warning wet hands slowly slid around her waist and soon enough one of them strayed from the set path in order to grasp her chin, tilting it up towards the mirror so that their eyes could meet while his thumb wiped away leftover toothpaste.

"Now you can look at me..." He rasped in her ear. "Enjoying the view ?"

Water beads rolled down their matching silver chain adorning the rapper's neck, damp black hair framing an almost starved gaze as his glistening bare chest pressed against the startled vocalist's back, the airbnb provided towel hanging low on his pelvis not leaving much to her imagination. Warmth spread throughout his girlfriend's scantily clad body as thin manicured fingers made their way onto muscular forearms, and within moments soft lips brushed against his neck to trail lustful kisses.

"I'm enjoying much more than the view." She whispered, leaning back against him to sink into their embrace. "It's a good thing it's just us in this house..."

Those words served as enough consent and in one fluid motion his palm wrapped around the young woman's neck, the careful yet firm grasp letting him turn her body around before setting her on the wooden countertop in one fluid motion. The much too wide distance between their bodies was closed by the man's mouth finding her own with an almost feverish sense of desire, their lips moving against one another desperately as she found support against his strong chest.

"How can an innocent thing like you drive me so crazy." He mumbled when they parted briefly. "You're deadly, angel."

His large hand slowly slid the borrowed shirt along the vocalist's body as she giggled only to stop abruptly when catching sight of the undergarments that had been chosen for the night, his rapper tag carefully drawn across the lacey material bringing a smirk to his lips. Having the slightest idea regarding the lingerie covering her upper body, the rapper carefully wedged the white fabric between his girlfriend's lips and let out an involuntary groan while taking in what was separating hungry touches from her skin - his own handprints marking black material right over her chest.

"What can I say, being yours looks good on me~" She teased.

The maknae's dangerously sweet doe eyes flickered up to the man already struggling to keep this sensually slow pace, and the gentle tug at his chain seemed to finally make whatever restraint was there snap for good. Large hands wrapped her soft legs around his barely covered hips without daring to part from their heated kiss for a moment, neither of their lust clouded minds registering the soft mattress now pressing against Himari's back.

"Mingi-" She needily whimpered, fingers trailing down to discard his towel only to be stopped by his own.

"I know angel, but I want to take my time with you tonight...need to feel every inch of you. Be patient for me, okay~"

...............

Streaks of silver moonlight filtered through partially opened blinds, illuminating the couple wrapped in one another's embrace as the vocalist traced the outline of her boyfriend's nose before moving down to his full lips. The man mesmerized by these sweet ministrations absentmindedly ran the hand not serving as a makeshift pillow across her naked waist, the warmth between their bodies only adding to the moment's silent yet loving intimacy.

"Will you marry me one day, my angel ?" Mingi finally asked, loud enough to catch her clearly divided attention.

"I'd be willing to marry you right now in this bed." She hummed in response, dropping her arm down to his chest. "My answer will always be yes to an eternity with you."

The tears brimming the rapper's eyes nearly fell when seeing the cute feline smile adorning her lips, his mouth immediately latching on to her shoulder to pepper tender kisses onto her body, filling the room with soft giggles and squeals. The love between the two artists took many forms, lust, melodies, lingering gazes, but it always held the same meaning; destiny.

[universodonna-official]

CRYSTAL STONE NAILS

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

I hear you want to write but are having a hard time answering prompts. Don't feel obligated to answer this one either, this is free labor, you never have too!!!! But maybe it would help by giving you a free space. What's eating at you [pun intended hehe]?

Me and this anon be like:

You are so thoughtful, thank you! ❤️❤️❤️

And you know what has been eating at me 😂 for whatever reason, I have no idea what turned me onto this idea, or why I can't stop thinking about it but there is something about the idea of completely, entirely spoiled Bucky that's been heavy on my mind.

Unbeta'd stucky belly kink under the read more, complete with lots and lots of stuffing, weight gain, and teasing/fat-shaming, too.

I'm talking about silver-spoon, generationally wealthy Bucky. He never has known what it is to want, yanno? Everything he could ever dream of, he gets immediately. He's never had a job other than learning what fork to use during meal times and which to use during dessert.

He looks like Wakanda, Jesus Bucky in spirit.

His hair is lush and shiny but his is proper, high-society style. So, it's cropped short at the sides and marginally longer at the top, coiffed back into stylish, fluffy waves. His face is clean-shaven, not beared, but his skin still glows and his marble-carved bone structure has been filled out by good food and constant pampering. He's always in the latest fashion, too. He looks the part of his high-maintenance, rich lifestyle.

When he was a kid and then a teenager it was totally fine that he fit so, so well into his lavish upbringing - including his taste for excessively sweet food and excessive amounts of food - because he had a speedy metabolism and the whimsy of a child, always running through his parent's expansive mansion or spending hours in the endless, deep green lawns playing by himself or roping one of the servents or his tutor into his games. His parents always were too busy with their socializing to raise their own messy child, instead passing responsibility off to someone, anyone else.

For a while, Bucky also took an interest in polocrosse, so he stayed slim for his elegant, equestrian sport. Loping through open, well-manicured fields on horseback, going after the ball with his racquet. But, as he grows and matures into a snooty young adult, with his twenties comes a slowing of his hummingbird metabolism and a boredom of sport. He has more important, more luxurious, relaxing activities to attend to than riding some beast that he doesn't even pick up after or care for - that's what the help is for. Besides, the medals mean nothing to him. He knows he's deserving and is a blue-ribbon winner without the physical reminders. Naturally, it's in his genes, he may as well be a hot-blooded, thoroughbred himself.

Bucky's metabolism slows and his activity level wanes but neither can be said about his appetite - not slowing, nor waning.

His hunger was one of those wants he's always, always had met through his generational wealth. His dire want for sweets. When he was younger, he always got a slap on the wrist for gorging himself on sugary sweets - pastries, candy, and the like - but never truly punished. His love affair wasn't tamed no matter how often he "spoiled" his own dinner, charming the cooks to feed him more than he needed, secretly getting their driver to go and retrieve him something from the city's candy shop, or even simply tiptoeing into the well-stocked pantry at night to give himself a tummy ache.

Now, his appetite is insatiable and he is growing more and more unfit seemingly like the hour. All because his days aren't spent working - he's never had to lift a finger for anything - but, instead, his hours are filled to the brim (and then some) with wine tastings, occasional tours of the winery grounds, cheese samplings, fine dining reservations or world-class chefs inhabiting his home for a few nights, and more. As soon as he's allowed by Mommy and Daddy, he moves off the sprawling family property to buy his own. He comes in and sweeps up a swath of land, putting a huge, pretty house on it and filling the rooms with staff. Most of the time, he doesn't leave his home. His driver's chauffeur experts in drink and food back and forth, bringing waves of delicious, expensive delicacies straight to Bucky's beautiful abode from the private airport nearby.

He. is. spoiled.

As he grows, he becomes rich fat, not poor fat - which becomes an important, prideful distinction in Bucky's spoiled, snobby mind. He is high society. He is well taken care of. So, of course, he's large.

Rich fat is fat that's undeniably plump and round with perfect curves. Rolls. Pale and smooth. No cellulite. No stretch marks. No blemishes. Just milky, pale swells of flesh that are soft but still firm and high. Something of a cherub straight from a masterful Renaissance painting.

His body tells the truth of his life - he doesn't lift a finger. He's practically a Roman Emperor, lounging on his side, draped in a sheet that barely fits over his bulging, excessive curves, fed the finest wine and offered peeled grapes that he lazily consumes until he's so full and drunk that he has to stop his servants by lifting a dainty hand, breathily moaning. No more. He can't take anymore now, he's so full that his fat, normally plush, soft belly has swelled to be as firm as a drum. But... give it an hour and he'll be snapping his fingers, rolled onto his back, under the weight of his belly, needing more. He won't even bother to get back up unless his servants help him, at that point, all he wants is more.

Always more.

Bucky becomes so insatiable with his life of luxury orbiting his round belly (rapidly transforming to be so large and spherical that it might be its own planet with a gravitational pull, keeping his hands to it at all times, unable to stop rubbing and touching his big body), that he hires someone new to live on his estate with him.

A masseuse.

Bucky becomes accustomed to eating until he feels fit to pop, stuffing down delicacies as if they're commonplace. Then, when he's so achingly tight, it's only natural to crave hands on his belly. He needs all the help digesting that he can get on a steady diet of peeled grapes, chocolate-coated strawberries, and other delicate fruits alongside the finest cheeses in paper-thin slices (but so many of those slices that he may as well have eaten the entire wheel by biting hunks off rudely) paired with jam and honey and bread and meats cured and prepared just so, plus bubbly champagne to wash it all down. That excessive diet leaves his tummy churning, groaning, and gassy. He has to stifle his burps behind one hand while the other works to soothe himself - it's instinctive, those rubbing motions.

Working? Aching? That just won't do. Bucky isn't dumb enough to expend energy when he doesn't have to. His private education afforded him better common sense. And he often goes to the spa, so he's familiar with massages. One plus one is two. Bucky needs a masseuse to rub his belly.

His masseuse is a tall, broad man - muscular and handsome with bright blue eyes and blonde hair. He has a pleasantly pale complexion with freckles but his nose that like it's been broken once or twice, bumped in the middle, and his hands are certainly the hands of a working man. He has obviously worked hard to get where he is with veins obvious in his arms and the backs of his hands and callouses on his palms. Even with all the lotion and oils, his hands are just the slightest bit rough thanks to those callouses.

If he weren't so handsome and hadn't proved himself to be so good at his job, Bucky might not keep him around. Thoughtlessly he could fire him, or any of his staff, and hire someone else.

Bucky doesn't like anything rough. He likes simple, easy, and luxurious. He likes softness. He reclines in overstuffed chairs and couches, expensive and sink-into-the-softness, and sleeps (and eats) on a perfectly swallowing-up bed. His body is currently being transformed into the same type of sensation - plush, soft, overstuffed. He likes that. He's becoming as excessive as his lifestyle - shaped perfectly for it.

He doesn't enjoy roughness.

He doesn't enjoy the bit of resentment on his masseuse's face and weaved secretly into his voice when they first meet.

Steve is a good worker, though, and Bucky appreciates that. He's accustomed to throwing money around, but he only throws it when it's what he wants or something he needs that he's having done his way. If a gardener, cook, or tailor doesn't work as fast or as hard as Bucky thinks they ought to - they're gone. Simple as that.

Steve works hard, Steve works fast, Steve is... interesting. He doesn't approve of Bucky's lifestyle, that much is clear, so he must need the money. But also, he doesn't complain. Not really. He does tease Bucky, though. It seems they both know their differences and there's something there. Something exciting. They both have their tastes and the clash of their differing tastes becomes electric.

Bucky learns to enjoy a little bit of roughness because of Steve.

Steve is called in to support Bucky either nearing the end of a massive meal or after his meal has been finished. His job title is "masseuse" and he does massage Bucky but, just, one part of him -

His belly.

His job is to aid Bucky's body in digesting after a splurge... if you can call his gorging meals and oversized snacks that happen every day, multiple times a day like clockwork "splurges." Splurging implies you don't do it all the time. Bucky is consistently stuffed to the gills. The only time he's not full is when he wakes up, first thing in the morning, and that's not always a guarantee - Bucky has gotten especially fat recently, it's why he needs Steve, and now, he can't always make it through the night without a snack. If he needs one, he snaps his fingers or rings the little bell he keeps by his bedside, rousing his live-in servants and making them retrieve a "light" snack for him from the kitchen. If he's had a midnight snack, his belly might still be firm and bloated when he wakes up. Regardless, Steve helps settle his belly.

At first, when Steve was hired, he did his job without comment. Now that they know each other a little better and each of them is rubbing off on the other with Bucky enjoying a little bit of roughness and Steve learning to embrace comfort and a taste of luxury - now, Steve prods and pushes verbally while he does the same physically. He rubs big circles on his big tummy, presses into the parts where he's the tightest to release pockets of gas and make him more comfortable, giving him more room (that he often immediately fills with more food), and kneads his soft flesh, using lotion and oil to keep his flesh supple and stretch-mark free. He lets his mouth run, too.

In low tones, just for the two of them to hear, he murmurs roughly about how he's never had so much to work with. Bucky knows under those sugar-coated words, he's calling him fat. Then, he goes on to say that Bucky feels especially tense today, is there anything particular on his mind? That's Steve telling him he's bloated as fuck, just a bit of sting behind his "polite" tone to communicate, oh my fucking god, you're a blimp. Or, he asks how his tailor is doing, the vague way to ask how he fits into any clothes at all. It's a damn mystery to Steve, after all, he only ever sees Bucky when he's naked with all of his soft, pale, thick fat on display. Round. Firm. Ready to be massaged until he's not so tight he could burst which, to Bucky, means he's ravenous. Bucky has no understanding of hunger. He doesn't remember what it's like to be empty, so when he isn't gasping in pleasure and pain, so full that his stomach is strained and there's food packed into him all the way up his esophagus to the back of his throat, he thinks he's starving.

Bucky savors those comments in a way he doesn't savor food - he just shoves it down. More.

More.

Bucky starts eating even more, pushing himself further, to make sure he can see Steve regularly. Weirdly, for someone who's never needed a damn thing from anyone else, he aches to impress this guy. It's strange, how much he wants to preen and parade around. He makes even more of a gluttonous mess of himself just so Steve can come in and berate him underneath his professional, light tone. It's embarrassing. Bucky has never been able to deal with humiliation or shame or anything other than resounding acceptance because of his high status, so it's strange for him to go after it now but...

God, is it good.

Steve commenting on needing another set of hands to reach and work on all of Bucky's glutted tummy sends a shiver down his pinned spine in spirit, in reality, he can't fucking move. He's so fat. Bucky almost moans at the thought of more hands groping and kneading his fat, working his cramps and burps out of him, easing the way for those calories to smoothly transform into more fat but, strangely, he only wants Steve to do this. He's used to hiring more help, having so many people around him, watching and aiding him in even the most intimate, private moments. This feels too intimate to share, though. He just wants Steve's big, strong, rough hands on his fat. He wants it bad. So, of course, he gets it.

He feasts on multiple rich, large courses. Steve massages him. He snacks on foods that would be enough for a meal if he were anyone else. Steve massages him. He gorges until he's hiccuping, whining, and curled around his fat belly like he can hold himself together, preventing himself from bursting at the seams with too much, too good of food. Steve massages him. He wakes up, belly gurgling with digestion that he can delude into being hunger, so he stuffs himself late at night into early morning. Steve massages him. Steve massages him through it all, witnessing him at his fullest and watching, judging, as he packs on more and more weight.

Bucky has been drilled to follow etiquette and be polite, but with Steve, he slips. He's just so full. And Steve's so good at his job. He can't deny himself the pleasure of moaning and burping loudly as Steve works.

"Buuuurpp-"

"Hic! Ah! Oh! Hic! Ouch! Hic! Hup! Oww!"

"Ooooohhh, yess. That's good."

"Uuuuuuurp!"

"Yes! Right there, press there, it's so tight, oh, oww-"

"Hnnnn-"

"M-mmmph- more. More pressure. Yes! Like that! Oh-uuurp!"

"C-cahhh, careful, I'm, oof, I'm soo full. Mmngh, I might - hic! - pop!"

Steve might disguise his interest well under a judgy, almost resentful exterior - which is truthfully how he felt when he got here, like, look at this fat asshole, Steve grew up struggling with a single mother making tough decisions between feeding her child, buying the medicine her child needed badly, or keeping the heating on to keep her child from getting sicker, no good options and no compromises - but he is interested. Bucky is miles and miles of plush flesh that jiggles and ripples. So much for Steve to sink his hands into. He's just fat. That's all he is. Greedy and oversized. He deserves a little shit for it. It's fine. He can squeeze a little harder than necessary, he can relentlessly push down on the part of his tummy that hurts the most just to hear him groan through a painful yet releasing burp, he can see his face pinch in pain when Steve goads him into finishing the last scraps on his plate despite having called Steve in expressed because he's too full for more, he can make comments about how he's getting fatter, bigger, and more spoiled. He can snidely inquire if Bucky has gotten his bed reinforced yet or wonder out loud how his personal tailor keeps up with his expanding waistline, actually, how does his tailor measure his waistline these days? Does he have to make a custom tailors tape or have they given up on numbers by now? He can pretend to be a little weaker than he is, just for an excuse to call the other staff into Bucky's master bedroom, "needing" help with rolling his big, voluptuous body or sitting him up as much as possible under that heavy, fat belly that overflows his lap.

It's fine for Steve to look over his shoulder as he leaves, his job well done, to smirk like a shark at one food-drunk Bucky moaning through a bite of buttery, flaky pastry, telling him off, "haven't you had enough, Mr. Barnes?"

He's the only one willing to challenge Bucky. The other staffers suck in shocked breaths and duck their heads, embarrassed and trying to stay out of the way, assuming Steve's about to be fired. It's going to get ugly. Right?

But it doesn't.

Bucky likes it. His stomach is groaning - only barely soothed thanks to Steve, complaining with heavy sloshes, deep gurgles, and loud glorps - but Bucky doesn't care. All he cares about is more. More food, stuffing his gob. More of Steve's merciless touch, his mean words, and his judgemental eyebrows. More.

"Nu-uh," Bucky moans petulantly.

"Only you would think that," Steve's eyes flick down to his gut like the big, round thing is offensive, "isn't enough."

Bucky crams the rest of his pastry into his mouth, puffing out his cheeks and dusting crumbs down his double (closer to triple) chins and heaving moobs, it's a challenge.

Steve rises to it, stepping back into his bedroom to slap his blubbery belly hard.

Even though all the others have scuffled away, leaving the two of them alone, they must be able to hear the clap of his hand against his fat. That, or, they hear the guttural way Bucky moans. His white, pale flesh is stamped red with Steve's handprint.

"You just have to ruin my work, don't you?" Steve sneers, sitting on the side of the bed next to Bucky's immobilized form of rolls and curves, pinned in place by too much fattening, sugary food. "Nothing is ever good enough for you, so you just keep going, don't you? You're gonna pop, you know that, you fat, spoiled brat? You need to learn you have limits. You need to learn restraint. If you don't learn your lesson by yourself, you'll force my hand to teach it." Steve threatens, his hand raised again, on the cusp of slapping his tender, overstuffed tummy again.

Bucky whimpers, pouting at him, his bottom lip crumby and stuck far out, "don't need your help," he argues, mumbling, just to be contrary. He really does need him. He wants him too. So badly.

"You do, princess. You need me whether you like it or not," Steve teases. "You can't do anything by yourself, not with this-" Steve rears back to slap his belly hard a handful of times until Bucky's whimpering and squirming around like a turtle flipped onto its shell, inelegant and stuck "-in the way."

Bucky moans loudly. It hurts! But it hurts like it does when he pushes himself over his limits, his gut too full.

"I'm gonna put you on a diet," Steve threatens, "teach your spoiled, fat ass what restraint and hard work is the way Daddy and Mommy didn't, they just shoved a silver spoon in your mouth and called it a day 'cause you shut up."

It's terrible. It's awful. Bucky likes it.

"Please-!" The word falls out of Bucky's mouth for maybe the first time. He's Bucky Barnes. He doesn't beg. He has everything he wants and more! He's never had anything he had to plead for, he always just demands.

With one last hit right to the top of his belly, where the bulging is the worst, where he gets the tightest, Steve knows all too well, Steve leans in. His smile is all teeth. "Good boy," he rumbles, "that's a start. I might be able to whip you into shape after all, God knows you need some shape, too," he unkindly grabs a handful of fat, shaking it and thus sends jiggling ripples throughout Bucky's entire, fat body. He's all lard. "'Cause right now you're just a blob."

Bucky says it again, as it turns out, it feels good to say, "pleeease."

Steve gives him a dark look and despite what he was saying about shaping up and slimming down with a diet, he wastes no time reaching over to the tray of fine French pastries perched on Bucky's elegant nightstand, selecting one at random and shoving it into his face.

Bucky moans his way through every chew and swallow. With Steve's relentless force, massaging and now feeding, too, he's due for a growth spurt like he's never seen on his own. He's gonna outgrow his king-size bed in no time 🥵🥵

[separatist-apologist]

Long Live

Summary: All archeologist Elain Archeron wants is answers about the past.

Fate is determined to give them to her

MASSIVE thank you @abbadinfluence for having the idea AND allowing me to write - I've had the time of my life, this has been so fun.

And @octobers-veryown for being my personal Rome/Italy consultant- thank you for your knowledge, your time, and most importantly, catching when I used a particularly offensive and/or wrong swear word

For @elucienweekofficial | Read on AO3 | Chapter 1

Elain waited until she and Arina were alone to turn to her friend. Arina was one step ahead of her. “We’re fucked,” she said in English, face devoid of any true color. “He’s basically got us under house arrest.” 

“They don’t trust us,” Elain said, taking an anxious breath of air. The last three days had been something out of a nightmare. They’d been arrested, put in chains, and then transported from the country estate to Rome, during which they’d been groped and threatened with assault more times than she could count. Elain had never known true fear until that first night outdoors, camping with a group of leering, bored soldiers. 

She couldn’t enjoy seeing Rome, well aware of where they were being taken. Mamertine Prison was a church in the present day, built over the bones of prisoners sent to languish while they waited out their sentences. Elain had expected some low level judiciary to come and decide their fate. Not the newly crowned Emperor himself, accompanied by his older brother. Nor had she expected Arina to react so viciously once they were so close to freedom.

“We simply have to convince them they can trust us.”

“And how do you intend to go about that?” Arina demanded, picking through the clothes set out for the two of them. They knew enough combined history to get through this, she decided. If they could convince the Emperor they were no threat, Elain believed they could make their way back where they’d started and get back to their own home before they changed history. 

“Well, for starters maybe we should stop biting patricians?” Elain said, rounding on her friend sharply. 

“He’s no better than the soldiers who dragged us up here,” she snarled furiously. “He saw two unprotected women and decided we must exist for his pleasure.”

“Of course he did!” Elain hissed softly. “They’ve never even heard the word feminism. You know women are not on equal standing with men. Stop biting them.”

“If he puts his finger in my face again—”

“No biting.”

Elain turned, looking at the spacious room that belonged to her and her alone. Arina had been given a suite just down the marbled hall but had immediately followed after Elain, prompting two servants to lay clothes out for the both of them nervously. Elain knew what was waiting and was desperate to put her hands on true, Roman garments.

“Why aren’t you panicking?” Arina demanded.

“What good would it do to panic?” Elain asked, tennis shoes squeaking against the marble. The heat coming from the nearby hanging lamps made the room feel warmer than was comfortable, and Elain was quick to fling open the shutters of her window so cool air could push in. “Besides…haven’t you always wanted to see Rome as it actually was?”

“Not really,” Arina said, trailing after Elain apprehensively. “Not like this. What if we can’t get back, Elain? Or worse, what if the Emperor decides to make us some other man's problem?”

“This is Rome. We’ll simply kill him if he tries,” Elain said with far more bravado than she felt. Her room overlooked the garden, replete with beautifully manicured hedges, rows of olive trees, and flowers so vibrant she almost didn’t believe they were real. 

“Elain, I’m serious. Aren’t you afraid?”

“Yes,” she admitted, turning back to the room made of marble and gold. Elain knew if Arina wasn’t so scared, she’d be examining the pillars and telling Elain all about the brush strokes and how the tiles beneath them had been cut. Elain, too, wanted to examine the palace piece by piece, committing it all to memory. Her phone was still in her pocket, the battery at seventy two percent. She could take pictures if she was careful…and then, what? No one would ever believe her.

Maybe just to have once she got home. 

“We need to leave,” Arina hissed, her urgency echoing through Elain’s skull. 

“What we need is to be careful. We were spared once, but I don’t think they’ll be so forgiving the second time. Better to play pretend and wait for our moment than to rush out and get thrown back into prison. Or worse.

Citizens were made slaves all the time, after all. Lucien could make them prostitutes in the eye of the law if he wanted and no one would be able to stop him. Here, at least, they had access to means and the privilege that came from being a patrician woman. 

“He could do horrible things to us,” Arina reminded Elain, standing in the middle of the room with her arms wrapped around her chest. “Things he might think are kind.”

“Then we simply have to convince him not to,” Elain replied, thinking it was easier said than done. “Women might not be allowed a true voice, but there are plenty of Roman women who ruled behind the throne. If we can make him care about us, we can thwart the worst of his machinations. He’s a new Emperor, he’s about to meet his wife…he won’t have a lot of time to spend worrying about us.”

“You’re right,” Arina breathed, closing her eyes before exhaling slowly. “If we blend in and give them no reason to think about us, we can slip out in the night.”

“Or better, he’ll put us on a horse with gold in our pocket.”

“So what now? We just…play dress up?” Arina questioned, finally turning toward the stola. “Drink wine and lounge in the sun?”

“We could explore the city?” Elain suggested, reaching for the red dyed garment. “Tell me, doctor. Where do you think the fabric of this dress comes from?” 

“Egypt,” Arina said, rubbing her fingers against the lenin. “It’s not silk.”

“If we could bring this back—intact—think of—”

“Are you crazy?” Arina hissed, cutting Elain off before she could finish her sentence. “We can do nothing. Make no suggestions, inform them of nothing, do not rip any wings off a butterfly. We aren’t supposed to be here, Elain, and we can’t go around meddling.”

“It’s not meddling. It’s history,” she protested. “And if we’re not supposed to be here, why are we here?”

“Maybe we’re not. Maybe we just ingested something toxic, breathed in too much lead. We’re probably in the hospital having a really vivid hallucination.”

Elain sat on the edge of the bed, sinking into the feathers and straw with delight. Covered in blankets, the mattress was softer than she might have imagined. “This isn’t a hallucination. It’s real.”

She’d thought the same thing when they’d first come through. Elain didn’t believe it anymore, though. They’d been gone for three days and some of her panic was beginning to subside into excitement. They were in Rome at the height of its power and living with the current emperor. Elain knew, from having memorized Lucien’s journals, that he would be meeting Helena soon if he hadn’t met her already.

She didn’t need to meddle—she could merely watch, go home, and reconstruct what she knew. If she could just find out what family Helena belonged to, Elain was certain she’d could piece together whatever tragic fate the empress met. 

Like he so often did, Graysen’s face wormed its way into her memories, flooding her with guilt. She needed to get back—where was her urgency? Arina certainly had it, pacing the room like a caged animal. She’d become wilder by the day, viciously spitting curses at the Roman soldiers who’d dragged them to the prison cell, and again when Eris had tried to touch her.

She was afraid in a way Elain simply wasn’t. She ought to be—oh, how Elain knew she should be scared. They were at the mercy of a time period that valued women even less than the one she’d just left, under the care of a man who didn’t know them at all. They had no one to vouch for them, no refuge in which they could seek shelter in. No one to advocate on their behalf. If they angered the Emperor, he could have them exiled or worse.

And yet…Elain simply wasn’t worried about any of it. She believed they’d be fine, that Lucien would continue to be hospitable, and they’d make their way back no worse than they’d come through. If she was honest with herself, Elain felt a small measure of relief. She didn’t have to make a decision about her own life so long as she was here.

Sure, Graysen would move on eventually, but Elain didn’t intend to be gone for years. Maybe just a month—long enough to have one last, grand adventure. Maybe living in Rome would put some things into perspective for her, besides. Help her make a decision on her own life and relationship.

What did it say about her that she didn’t miss him?

Nothing good.

“Bath?”

Arina threw her hands up in the air with exasperation. “You’re not taking our situation seriously.”

“I am. I’m just realistic. We can’t go anywhere and I don’t want to sit in a bedroom all day. Don’t you want to see how they lived?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“The pipes here are made of lead, Elain. Lead. You’ll be drinking lead tainted water—”

“We’ve been drinking it for the last three days and I feel fine,” she replied, though it did worry her a little. “And we can drink more wine than water, if you’re really that concerned.”

“You want to bathe in lead tainted water?” Arina demanded.

Elain whirled on her friend, her frustration mounting. “There is no deodorant here and I smell like shit from two days of traveling and a night spent in an ancient prison. The water could have sharks in it and I’d still risk it.”

“You’re gonna dress up like a proper Roman lady?”

“Yes, because the alternative is letting them think we don’t belong, grow suspicious of us, and do something horrible. We need to play along, Arina…and we need to stop biting Consuls.”

“I hate him,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

Elain only shrugged, beckoning for her friend to follow her out of the bedchamber. The hall was brightly lit from both hanging lamps and nearby arched windows that allowed light and air to pour inside in equal measure. It was here that Arina seemed to relax a little, running her finger tips over the gold encrusted walls with awe. 

“Look at this,” Arina breathed, pausing beside a Corinthian style column. “To see it…just…wow.”

The pair touched the marble on the column, craning their necks to look up at the ornate estatis just at the top. The whole thing was pure decoration and though Elain knew it had been built a good several decades earlier, the marble was pristine and vibrant. 

“This is real,” Arina breathed.

Elain couldn’t help her smile.

This was real. 

LUCIEN: 

Lucien was having a difficult time focusing. He ought to be listening to important business of the empire…and yet his eyes kept sliding to the open window where Elena was, walking through his garden in a vibrant red stola. No one had done her hair and so she’d left it wild like a child, half hidden beneath a palla pinned into her dark curls. Lucien was so curious about why she wore it—he had it on good authority she wasn’t married. Was she widowed? 

Did she not know the custom? He was woefully uneducated about life in Brittana, perhaps all women wore the palla. Maybe she was worried about her modesty like a good Roman woman ought to be? The only way to know was to ask and Lucien couldn’t ask without revealing to the men around him that he’d rather spend his time talking to a woman rather than dealing with important matters.

But he did want that. He wanted to try and piece together her rather charming accent…and if Lucien was honest, he wanted to touch her. Wanted to touch the coils of curls blowing in the breeze, wanted to run a knuckle over her unblemished cheek just to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.

He wanted to do other things, too—things that were wholly inappropriate if he was to find a suitable husband for her and get her out of his home. And then he’d spend the rest of his life wondering what it was like to have a woman like that in his bed, until he inevitably took her as his mistress, pissing off whatever man he’d arranged for her in the first place.

Problems for future Lucien, certainly.

Turning his attention back to the room, Lucien’s eyes slid to the map laid out before him. He wanted to invade Germania and succeed where so many before him had failed. Taking that northern territory would allow him to hunt down the saxon’s that plagued his coastlines, too, and take back the treasure they’d been plundering. 

There were a few routes they could take in, but crossing the Rhine was Lucien’s preference. He’d been there during the first campaign and had assisted in building the bridge they’d used to cross—it had terrified the Germanic barbarians to see the might of Rome, sending them scattering further into the interior.

Lucien could build roads and bridges all he liked—getting through the forests was what plagued them. They didn’t have the tactical advantage and Lucien refused to go if defeat was the only path forward. If he was going to lose men, it was going to be in service of victory.

Agreeing to reconvene over wine that night, Lucien sent his advisors away for the time being, intending to meet with a few generals—and Jurian, who would lead his campaign—later that week. Just in time for the games to begin and spread the right amount of propagare that would convince the people of his authority.

Above all else, Lucien needed the backing of the people of Rome just as much as he needed the army. He was drowning in tasks, which didn’t explain why Lucien began his descent into the gardens the mere second he was alone. It was shameful to be so curious about a woman, especially one his brother had accused of being a whore and yet…Lucien’s father had always been especially taken with his mother. There had been no infidelity on his fathers end unless you counted the time he’d been sleeping with Amera while she’d been married to Beron.

Beron had divorced his wife for political reasons and Helion had merely swooped in and married her quickly and quietly before anyone could truly object. And then, when Beron was made Emperor, Helion took off for the outer provinces…just to be safe. It hadn’t been until Lucien had been a man and called back to the city that Helion dared to return, too.

Lucien just needed to know if another man had a claim to her. That was all—it was practical, he swore, adjusting his toga so the purple was especially vibrant in the afternoon sun. He knew he ought to cut his long, auburn hair to conform with the more fashionable short styles and yet…Lucien had left it long because he liked it. It had started on the battlefield, curling around his neck before the length straightened it all out. It had been a joke among the legion he was in—they always knew where Lucien was because of his lovely, effeminate hair. 

What had begun as a joke had somehow transcended Roman norms and though some of the older patrician’s threw him a dirty look now and again, the rest of them didn’t seem terribly bothered so long as Lucien kept it neat and pulled out of his face. No braids or beads like the barbarian’s wore, no adornments of any kind. When he worked, he often tied it off his neck in a bun to give the illusion of short hair.

At least it wasn’t a beard, he reasoned. 

He found Elain among the olive trees, one hand outstretched to touch one of the leaves. Lucien cleared his throat, hands clasped behind his back.

“Where is your friend?”

She turned abruptly, eyes wide. “She ah…” Elain bit her bottom lip. “She found the library.”

Lucien nodded. “Do you like to read?”

She shrugged. “I prefer being outdoors.”

“Do you spend much time outdoors?” he asked, noting the freckles dotting her nose. She must and yet her skin didn’t betray any of it. Most women preferred to stay indoors, far from the sun's vicious kiss that too often left their skin lined and leather-worn. 

“Do you?” she replied, looking up at him through thick, dark lashes.

Lucien offered her a lopsided grin. “Of course. Especially when I have diverting company. Walk with me?”

“Only if you agree to answer all my questions.”

Something warm spread through Lucien. As he’d risen through the ranks, women had begun treating him differently—respectfully. In his mind, he was always thinking of Jesminda and how he’d been just another nobleman’s son and no one special at all. She’d teased him, taunted him—had wanted him without any of the fake modesty he loathed. Lucien had been fortunate to marry for love, once, and having had a taste of true marital bliss, he didn’t want the Roman arrangement his peers often found themselves embroiled in. Jurian was all but married to a woman he barely knew. It was a good prospect for him, if for no other reason than it increased his social standing and available wealth. Lucien didn’t need to worry about any of that anymore, though he would be a fool if he thought he could snub the fellow patrician families and choose just anyone.

Including the beautiful woman standing beside him. She was Roman and yet he knew she had no connection to anyone of importance in the city. He might as well declare himself in love with a barbarian princess and be done with it.

And he wasn’t. In love with her, that is. He was merely fascinated by her mouth and the way her curls caught the sun, making them seem almost golden in the right light. And Lucien had to admit he liked the sound of her voice and the rolling way she spoke.

“I’ll answer anything you ask of me,” Lucien agreed, offering her his bare arm rather selfishly. He just needed to know if her skin was as soft as it looked. She beamed up at him, the prettiest thing he’d ever seen in his entire life, and accepted. Her fingers were warm, gliding over his bare bicep without a care in the world. What would she look like adorned in gold, he wondered?

“How are you enjoying yourself?” he asked before she could get one of her own questions out. He didn’t need to answer anything if he did all the talking. 

She considered his question and only after her silence stretched did Lucien consider that she did not speak Latin as well as he thought. He gave her space, walking her over a careful, stone laid path around the olive grove.

“Your hospitality has been generous,” she began carefully, fingers fidgeting in the pleats of her dress. “I’m sure Arina and I would be fine living somewhere on our own—”

“Who will protect you?” Lucien demanded, getting close to the question he was most interested in. “Two unmarried women shouldn’t be alone in the city.”

She nodded, not disputing his words.

Lucien pounced. “You’re not married?”

She glanced up at him, eyes narrowing. “No, I’m not married.”

“Why?”

She took a breath. “I have a fiance—”

“A what?”

She murmured something under breath in a language he didn’t understand. I forgot french hasn’t been invented yet. He didn’t like that Britanic language—it was too harsh, too angry to be coming out of such lovely lips.

“I am…sponsalia?” 

Lucien blanched. “To who?”

“He lives far from here.”

“And he let you leave unaccompanied?” Lucien demanded, thinking if he met this man, he’d kill him for his cowardice. What kind of man sent his future wife on the road alone where any number of horrible things could happen to her? No, that man was no man at all. Elain had been overtaken on the road and had she not found his home, who knew what might have happened to her?

Lucien didn’t want to think about it. 

“He trusts me,” she said foolishly. What did trust have to do with reality, he wondered?

“And look at how well that worked for you both,” Lucien replied, unable to keep the bite from his words. “You were set upon by bandits and then imprisoned for being a spy. If my brother had his way, you’d be working with the local prostitutes and your fiance would be disgraced to have ever been attached to you.”

Her cheeks reddened, not with shame like he expected, but anger. “Don’t do me any favors, Caesar.”

Why did he like it, he wondered? And yet… “Do you consider this a favor, Elena?”

“I did.”

“And now?”

She kicked a clod of dirt with her foot. “I feel like an imposition.”

“Disavow him,” Lucien commanded, halting in his tracks to look at her. “Say he means nothing to you.”

“I…”

“Disavow him and I will put the backing of Rome behind you,” he swore, wishing he had his sword to swear upon. 

“I can’t—”

“You will.”

It was wrong, perhaps, to force her into ending whatever marriage she’d been entered into. The bond clearly wasn’t strong if he was willing to risk his future wife. Perhaps he hoped something would happen to her. The thought angered Lucien.

“Please don’t,” she whispered, but Lucien’s mind was made up and he would not be denied. 

“Then call him to Rome to answer for his treatment,” Lucien ordered, certain she would not do that. Elain rounded on him, hands on her hips and he wondered with delight if she would deny him.

“So you can slaughter him?”

“You wound me. I believe in the rule of law—”

“What law did he break?” she demanded and oh. She had him there. Technically the man had done nothing other than offend Lucien. Wasn’t that enough? He was Emperor, why should he be offended by some man from Britannia that didn’t value his soon-to-be wife? 

“You broke laws,” Lucien reminded her, scrambling for anything that would give him validity. “Your father is responsible—”

“My father is dead,” she said, some of the fire in her eyes extinguished.

“Then your brother or uncle—”

“I have none.”

Lucien offered her a smile so saccharine it tasted sweet on his tongue. “Which leaves your soon-to-be husband to answer for your crimes. Call him or disavow him.”

Elain looked up at him, arms crossed over her chest. “And if I disavow him, what then?”

Lucien’s grin widened. “I would be delighted to accept responsibility for you and find a suitable husband.”

“A terrifying prospect,” she grumbled. Lucien was half decided on who he’d marry her to—no one he knew was good enough for her. Was he? He wanted to find out. The more she spoke, the longer he breathed the same air, only made him want her more. “Fine. I disavow him. He means nothing to me, I owe him nothing.”

“Would he mourn your death?” Lucien asked curiously, tilting his head to the side. She blinked, eyes strangely glassy.

“I don’t know,” she finally said as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Lucien’s body went taut for a moment, eyes tracking the way she moved. He felt like a predator back on the killing fields, sword in hand even as he prepared to have his life ended. She could end him, too—not with a weapon but her words, a look, a touch. If she would not marry him, Lucien would take her in any way he could get her. He would deny he’d touched her if that's what she asked, would keep her as an ornament in his home and raise their illegitimate children. She had no father, no brother, no husband. No man who could deny him, though Lucien could not have been denied even if she did. 

Reaching for her chin, Lucien forced Elain to look at him. Elena, he thought with pleasure. She’d need a more Romanized name to be accepted by the people. Would she like Helena, he wondered? He was getting ahead of himself and yet Lucien felt settled.

Pleased, too.

Holding her gaze, he said, “I would mourn you.”

“You don’t even know me,” she replied, drawing a soft, shaking breath.

Lucien shook his head. “I feel the opposite. I feel as if I’ve known you my whole life.” Like he’d been waiting for her. Guilt slithered through him, hot and oily as he remembered Jesminda. He’d once said the same thing about her. Was he the kind of man who could forget love so quickly? Lucien couldn’t help his foolish heart. Looking at the woman beside him, far paler than she’d been when they’d first begun talking, he knew he had his work cut out for him.

He could demand her hand—could assert himself as the sole authority over her and then demand she wed him. And Lucien could imagine just how well that would go. He’d have her in his bed, but she wouldn’t be willing, wouldn’t want him. He knew plenty of men with disinterested wives, who submitted out of duty but not desire. Having tasted love with Jesminda, Lucien wanted it again. Wanted it so badly he was willing to toss out tradition, at least until she got to know him better. 

“Come,” he said with an easy smile, “let me show you the fountain. It’s my favorite.”

—

Arina didn’t care what Elain said—they needed to leave. Elain was too struck by the history of it all that she’d forgotten they were living in an ancient human civilization that was so far removed from their own that any number of horrible tragedies might befall them. Elain had, if nothing else, seen the toilet situation.

Holed up in the Emperor’s library, Arina forced herself to sit in a chair that was deeply uncomfortable, a book laid across her lap. On any other day, finding a first edition transcription of Aristotle’s teachings would have been a dream—she could touch it. Now, though, Arina couldn’t even enjoy herself. 

In truth, she was terrified. Obvious problems aside, they had no way to get back, no way to escape. There were far worse things between Rome and the estate they’d broken into beside just Lucien and his army. But if they could steal a horse, could get some coins…well. Arina figured they could be long gone before anyone in the capital even realized they were missing.

And with some knives—ideally with poisoned blades—they’d be in decent shape. They couldn’t take on a good swordsman, but how many highway robbers were any better than them?

Arina heard the sound of leather on marble, heard the high, bronze doors open and without seeing who came in, she just knew. Eris. He was the blueprint for all modern Italian men—arrogant, certain of his own greatness, and desperate for a woman to subjugate. Just like her father, she thought darkly. He strolled in, dressed like the immaculate senator he was. Did he know that Arina knew everything about him? The would-be Emperor, ousted by his own father who knew ahead of time, had planned to kill his son. He hadn’t suspected Eris had conspirators, but he had destroyed every soldier who might have taken the city for Rome and alerted Helion who then moved quickly to ensure his own son took the city before it could fall into the hands of some hated rival. 

Eris survived—thrived, even. He lived just as long as his brother, had a whole host of children with a foreign born woman known only to history as Agripina, and seemed generally happy in his later writings. Arina had never cared much for this period of time outside of the art, the sculptures, the architecture. Now, though?

Well, Arina would be an expert at this rate. 

Eris made his way into the large atrium, amber eyes finding hers. His impassive expression shifted into a frown, his disdain plain. 

“Who taught you how to read?”

Arina cocked her head and smoothed her blue stola beneath her hands. “Are you looking for lessons?”

She really shouldn’t test him—knew that he could make her life exceptionally difficult. And yet it was fun to see his gaze sharpen and his spine straighten as he recognized the challenge. 

Striding toward her, Eris plucked the book from her fingers to examine the writings. “What do you know of Aristotle?” Arina wanted to laugh in his face. More than he did, she’d wager. “Enough.”

He handed the book back, closing the leather bound cover carefully before doing so. It was tempting to tell him that his own wife would be so literate that in his final years, she was the one who wrote down his every thought. 

“You’re excused,” Eris informed her dismissively, turning toward the arching windows overlooking the garden. He made his way toward them, hands folded behind his back, to do the same thing Arina had been doing—spying on Elain and the Emperor. 

Elain was so beautiful that every man who saw her fell a little in love with her. It wasn’t unusual for men to stop Elain on the street spouting sonnets about her beauty or begging for just ten minutes of her time. If Elain wasn’t careful, he’d be demanding she marry him before the week was out and they’d be in real trouble. 

Arina rose to her feet, unwilling to argue with Eris. She couldn’t argue with him as far as she remembered. His word was law even in this place, and even over her. 

“Che cazzo,” she hissed under her breath, well aware Eris had no hope of deciphering the actual meaning of her words. Italian wasn’t a language anyone spoke yet. Eris’s head whipped around all the same, eyes narrowed to slits.

“What barbarian tribe are you actually from?” he asked, crossing his arms over a broad chest.

Adopting her most brain dead smile, Arina said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“That language…” he wrinkled his nose with disdain. “Is lingua latina not spoken even as far North as Britannia?”

Arina couldn’t help her laugh. If only he knew. “But of course.”

“Tell me.”

“Why? So you can accuse me of any number of untrue things?”

Eris took a soft breath, nostrils flaring. “If I swear not to accuse you?”

“I would still lie,” Arina replied with that same saccharine smile. “Surely you understand the importance of speaking multiple languages? Or can you not speak Greek?”

“I don’t speak any of the barbarian languages—”

“Yet,” she interrupted, holding his gaze. “But who knows? Maybe in five years you’ll need someone who can.”

“What were you really doing in my brother's home?”

Arina’s eyes slid over his shoulders, toward the dots that were Elain and Lucien standing before a marble carved fountain. Studying it. She so badly wanted to tell him the truth—to tell someone all of her fears, of the nightmare she currently found herself in. She couldn’t. Arina pressed her lips shut, eyes returning to the man standing before her.

“I’m going to find out,” he warned her softly. “I’m a terrible enemy to have.”

She only shrugged, heart thudding roughly in her chest. “I’ve already told you everything. I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

She was nearly at the door when he called out, “‘Che cazzo.’ What does it mean?”

His Italian wasn’t awful—certainly less offensive than when Graysen had bid her a good day in the choppiest drawl she’d ever heard in her life. Arina knew better than to tell him the truth, and yet…

“Capitium,” she said, using the Latin for little head as Eris’s expression darkened. Dick. She could call a man a dick in every language. 

Pleased with herself, Arina attempted to flounce from the room, satisfied she’d at least cut Eris down to size. It didn’t solve any of her problems but it did make her feel better.

She was nearly to the hall when strong fingers wrapped around her bare arm, pulling her back flush against his chest.

Lowering his mouth to her ear, Eris murmured, “The next time you reference my cock, I’ll assume you’re asking to see it.”

“You disgust me,” she whispered without thinking.

He only chuckled, low and soft. He smelled nice, a mix of spices she didn’t immediately recognize. Shouldn’t all men reek of body odor? This one, especially, ought to smell like sewage given how handsome his face was. 

“I’ll bet you’d say that on your knees.”

Arina elbowed him roughly in the ribs, certain he would do nothing but let her go. There was the faintest echo of outrage etched on his features, but more horrifyingly, she found something that read like a challenge gazing back at her. That was dangerous, especially in a place where men could do whatever they liked to women under their protection. 

Forcing herself to smile, Arina wrenched from his grasp to look up at the tall warrior gazing back at her. “If you put your cock in my face, you’ll regret it.”

“Such a filthy mouth,” Eris all but crooned, undeterred by the threat. “I look forward to using—”

She knew better. Oh, Arina knew better even back home, than to slap a man. It was dangerous back home where men were prone to violence when provoked—and literally anything might provoke them.

It was worse, here. He already thought her a barbarian, knew she had no male relative to watch over her, and just barely tolerated her. The two of them stood there, chests heaving as a patch of red bloomed across his cheek. Arina’s palm stung from the force of the blow, hidden behind her back as if she could take it all back.

Bracing herself for his fury, Arina steeled her spine even as she flinched back. Eris watched, head slightly cocked, his own hand rising not to strike her back, but to touch his face. Arina wasn’t going to apologize—he had no right to speak to her that way.

And still, she was scared. 

Eris exhaled through his nostrils. “Watch yourself,” he warned her, lifting his chin as though that might salve his wounded pride, “or I’ll put you in the military since you want to fight.”

Arina exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “I—” I’m sorry. “Of course.”

Eris gestured for her to leave, turning his head and Arina, not willing to stick around and test his good will, tripped over the skirt of her dress in her haste. At the end of the hall, she turned to look over her shoulder, surprised to find him still standing in the archway.

Watching.

[the-kr8tor]

(Un)Lucky

Pairing: Hobie Brown x Blackcat! GN Reader / Spider-Punk x Blackcat! GN Reader

Word count: 1.9k

Tags: FBW, smut Implied, TW blood, TW violence, TW death, cursing, hurt/comfort. No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader. Idiots in love.

Synopsis: Unlucky in life, unlucky in love. You question your situationship with Spider-Punk.

* I don't consent to having my work translated/ published on other platforms*

Black silhouetted shadows dance around the moon lit mansion, your feet expertly landing on the marbled floors without a sound. Slinking around the fancy beige colored furniture, your focus is on one thing – The safe hidden behind a large modern painting, how very cliché you thought. Swiftly dodging security cameras by climbing up the ceiling using your manicured claws, you finally drop down next to a large pair of concrete doors. You raise your brow at how atrocious it looks compared to the colorful modern paintings you've seen around the mansion.

"God, I hate brutalist architecture" you whispered to no one. 

Bringing out your index finger, you admire your sharp claws for a second before bending down to pick the door's lock. You feel the soft leather of your suit expand at your movement. But before you could pick the lock, you felt a presence behind you. Stopping for a brief moment to slowly grab one of your throwing knives, unclipping it from its holster - you fling it at the presence behind you.

The figure hanging upside down from the ceiling catches the knife's handle gracefully before it could stab him in the face. He lets it fall to the ground, impaling the oak table below.

"Woah, Don't mind me just enjoying the view" the spikes on top of his mask shine in the moonlight, bathing his suit in a soft blue light. 

"Of course it's you, hello to you too, beanpole" You scoff at his appearance, Pretending to be annoyed. 

Spider-punk drops from his web, softly landing on his feet. "I'm offended, after our last encounter I thought we're past the mean nicknames" He detaches the knife embedded into the table and plays with it.

"Oh so that's why you're here, you missed me, web-slinger" your voice saccharin smooth as you confidently stride towards him, your hand reaching out to him, non-verbally asking for your knife back.

"In your dreams, love. The owner hired me to watch over his place, you've been hitting a lot of his friends' places, he figured he's next" he says with a scoff.

Instead of the knife, Hobie puts his hand on your waiting one, You stare at your joined hands, and raise your eyebrows questioningly. Your eyes soften as the whites of his mask widen at his realization. 

"I beg to differ, you dork" you smirk at him. 

He lets go of your hand, and puts the knife on your palm. Hobie's thankful you can't see his face, albeit he still stares at you directly, challenging you to have a go at him like you usually do, you can definitely do better than call him a dork. But you don't for some odd reason.

Putting the knife back in its place you turn your back at him, you continue working at the lock. You bend down again.

"Fuck'n hell, love" he unashamedly groans at the sight of you.

Fully aware of his eyes on your ass. It doesn't bother you, quite the opposite actually, you liked the attention he's giving you, and dare you even say you like the guy. But the words 'I don't like labels' echoes in your mind. You don't like it either, you liked just having fun with him, but the memories of your last encounter with the man behind you keeps playing in your mind. 

The way he kissed and touched you that night, it felt different, a good difference, you think. The entire time It felt like there was an underlying emotion other than lust prevailing that fateful night. You have no idea how to make sense of your situation, or how to feel about him. So you do what you always do, shelf it in the back of your mind, keep piling similar memories on top of it, until one day it bursts out of you like Vesuvius. Hopefully no one's there with you to witness it when it finally happens.

"Oi, cat got your tongue?" His voice snaps you back to reality. You can't see his face with your back turned but you imagined him with a smirk under his mask, the same way you imagined what he would look like. You've only seen the bottom half of his face, the same way he's only seen your face clad in your domino mask. 

"I'm busy" you bite back as you feel for the mechanism to finally unlock with a click. 

"Right, no cat puns when working" he says.

You push the heavy doors, satisfaction on your face. You look over your shoulder to look at him. 

"If you're gonna web me and sell me out to your boss just do it already" you pointedly tell him.

"As much as I'm into the first part, it's a no to the last bit" His comment gets ignored. 

You head inside the office, with Hobie not far behind. You glare at the expansive yet unnecessary room. 

The room's marble flooring is covered in various animal furs, the walls lined with tacky paintings of the owner. A few of the paintings show the greedy man hunting wild animals, you glare at the painting as if your eyes would suddenly cause it to combust into flames. 

"With all the money in the world, he couldn't hire an interior designer?" Hobie grimaces at the various décor around the room. "No cameras" he pointed out.

"Probably to cover his shady dealings with Roxxon" you tell him.

"Tsk, nasty, nasty old man." Hobie finally looks at you taking down the huge painting to reveal the large metal safe. 

He sighs annoyed at your attitude. "Y'know me, cat, I would never actually help people this rich, hell I'd even help you if you asked" 

"Why'd you take the job then?" You ask as you try to crack the safe's code.

Hobie leans against the doorway watching you. "Unfortunately we live in a capitalist society, and I need money to eat. He didn't ask me to catch you anyway, just watch the place. No matter how much I want to burn down this bloody eyesore" And I was hoping to see you again. He also wanted to add.

You didn't bother to reply, you hum at his explanation. You hear the satisfying click of the safe's lock finally unlocking. Why was it so easy?

"What's up with the stick up y –" He cuts himself off.

His spidey-sense kicks in. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion for Hobie, a wave of red hot fear floods his entire body as he sees you slowly open the safe. His mind seems to be stuck in the moment, thankfully his body moves with muscle memory, he swiftly moves away from the doorway, one hand reaches out to web you towards him, his other hand reaches behind him, he webs the wall to pull you both out the room. 

The subsequent explosion can be heard, smoke and ashes fill his vision. The once heavily decorated room now looks like ground zero. 

Hobie's ears are ringing, but he doesn't care, he needs to find you. His eyes pull towards the room where they were both in. The large concrete doors closed, their edges burned from the explosion. The force from the explosion must've closed it.

The heavy doors accidentally saved them, he didn't have time to think how it happened, he just needed to find you, he needed to know that you were okay.

He screams your alias with a gutteral screech. Hobie stands up, his stance wavers but he continues on. He winces when some of his blood gets into his eye, realizing his mask now torned up from the side, only hiding half of his face. His eyes roam around the damaged mansion looking for your figure, his eyes stop once again to the concrete doors. 

His heart sinks at his realization.

"No, no, no!" He limps towards the large doors.

He didn't notice if his web actually reached you in time to pull you both out. 

He pulled and pushed at the comically large doors. It doesn't move.

Hobie's mind plays tricks on him, he keeps seeing in his mind's eye - your charred body, skin turned to ash, eyes burned into your sockets, your jaws permanently set in a scream. His own mind mocks him. Hobie ignores the vision. He kicks and screams for the doors to magically open.

He has no idea how long it has been since the explosion, with his ears still ringing, smoke and dust clinging around the room. His hope dwindles. 

Hobie falls to his knees, eyes unblinking and wide, crimson seeps from the cut on his head. He ignores it and just stares blankly at the gray doors.

It was his fault.

He can't believe he left you, he was too slow. Of all the people in the world why you. Memories of you keep playing in his mind, trying to push away the image of your death.

In his stupor he doesn't notice a shadow enveloping him, arms finding its way to his shoulder hugging his twitching form. For a second he thought you were haunting him.

He finally gets a grip on reality and looks behind his shoulder.

Your domino mask now clinging to one side, mirroring his own damaged mask. Blood seeps from the side of your cheek. Your eyes are dull but open. 

Your eyes are open.

He turns around lightning fast, Hobie clings to you like velcro. His shoulders sag from the relief, as if he can finally breathe again. You sigh at the contact, and let out a small laugh. 

"Oi, what's so funny" he pulls away from you slightly, he looks at your head to assess the damage. 

"I'm not brain damaged," you smile at his concern, you grab his face, cradling it. "I'm fine, we're both fine, you saved me" you look at each other, affection prominent in every crevice of your bodies.

You both now have a clear view of each other's faces. 

"You look better than I imagined," he softly says. 

You giggle at his comment "And you look so much cooler than I thought, it's unfair, I thought I was the cool one" 

"I was this cool the whole time" he teases. 

You grab his neck to carefully put your foreheads together. To calm the lingering tension from it, you rub circles on his skin, In turn Hobie cranes his neck to look at your lips asking for permission. You nod and let him ground you both back to reality with his kiss. 

Hobie reluctantly pulls away "Let's go before they find us, yeah?" He helps you stand up. "You up for a swing 'round the city?"

You give him your signature smirks "your place or mine?" 

"Yours" he grabs your waist. "There's a first time for everything right?"

"Oh you're gonna love my cats" You smile wildly, you don't know if your face hurts from the cut on your cheek or from smiling too much. 

He memorizes the look on your face as if, all of this was just a dream, and he'll forget what you looked like once he wakes up. He grabs you by the waist, and swings out of the wreckage. Just in time before sirens could get closer to the mansion.

As you swing away towards your home, you think about where your relationship currently lies. There might not be a label for your relationship yet, or what this all means in the future. But at least now you know how he truly feels, how you feel.

As for the bastard who tried to blow you both up, revenge can wait, for she is patient.

You'll think about everything later, but right now you enjoy the moment as you cling to him.

A/n: Hope you enjoyed reading it! Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♥️

[inknopewetrust]

𝐔𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐝 [𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮]

summary: grief puts those in its grasp in precarious positions: those of loyalty, and those of spite and those with love, well, they flounder amongst the hurt. [WC: 1.8k]

pairing: stewy hosseini x fem!roy!reader

warnings: angst, exes to lovers (potentially!), language, vignette on grief and love lost.

quick links: masterlist [a/n: possibly part I of a small vignette series of stewy and fem!roy reader. thoughts, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!)

Entombed in marble, the note reverberated throughout the church in poetry. 

The scaffolding of grief had been built. Sitting in rows for as far as the eye could see, a family rested scorched amidst the sorrow. 

You felt like a stranger in the room. 

The suddenness of pain revels in the commonality it inflicts. A sweeping, precipitous moment of immense breadth swallowing the weak for what they are: people. 

And the people inside that room—ornately defined by cultures and individuals who gave so much to a city where one human can overtake and limit their worth— were flooded by an insurmountable loss that could only be explained by the static of a draining phone and the choppy voice of your sister’s estranged husband. 

Those two words, simple, rolling off his tongue with difficulty and a wish that the call would drop and everything would go back to the way it was before he walked away. 

“He’s gone.” 

The tone in his voice had remained buried in the darkest parts of your mind. You felt as though you could hear it clearly as the small conversations of visitation began to settle and you couldn’t bear to look at the center of the alter. 

The sudden ringing in your ears suffused every sense you were able to muster in that moment. 

But your ears rung. Manicured hands began to shake and tempted you to stand and run away because grief worked in silly circles. The disbelief that something could occur so quickly, the naivety of realizing that the world was suddenly different than the one that existed before, and the pain of faltering to the idea that even if he was Satan, he was still your father and grief felt indebted to it. 

It was lonely, grief. 

Even while hundreds of people spoke of their condolences, loneliness of death weaved itself into your bones and pulled you underneath the surface where bubbles of hope had long ceased. Everyone from Gerri to Colin to Frank to Karl, each face with the same look staring into your eyes with a pity you asked not for but knew belonged in your heart all the same meant little when the world felt tipped on its axis. 

And for the cruelty of the man, it was difficult to understand.

Kendall was holding his life together by a thin and shallow thread and remained so as the priest wallowed on about the supposed amazing man Logan Roy was. 

But even with an estranged family, Kendall was never as lonely as he appeared to be. He wasn’t like you. You, left alone to fiddle with your hands as Shiv sat without Tom and Roman sat beside Conner and Willa. The paper between your fingers became crinkled—the only partner you had in a moment like this. 

And how you wished it wasn’t the case. You wished you weren’t some lonely pretender who sat sorrowful at a wretched man’s funeral but there you were... strangely obliterated by the idea that life can turn in an instant and the Aeneas of an institution can vanish without so much as a goodbye.

It felt comical and tragic at the same time—the poets of civilizations past would be aching to tell a story such as that. 

And Kendall had reiterated such on that fateful day on the yacht because those who would write biographies were watching. Those who would ultimately shake their heads and scoff at the compounding confusion of losing a belligerent soul and making it appear as though a Saint had passed. 

Whatever was to be done in the moments following the death of the patriarch, history would be watching. As much as you hated the idea of history looming over the raincloud high above you, he was right. The institution built by Logan Roy did not need to be littered with the historical fact of the middle, forgotten child losing their sanity at his funeral due to loneliness that had, in truth, nothing to do with Logan dying but the unity death brought with it. 

However, you could argue, Logan was the crux of that loneliness. He had fostered it, just as well as your mother had when she left the four of you to fend for yourself against the vultures. Now Conner, Kendall, Roman, and Shiv all bask in that same attitude as if was normal to be a carbon copy of the most antithetical person to ever exist. 

You hated that being in the room; sharing the same last name, and sitting beside them meant you were likely no different. 

And that is why you could never have what the world granted everyone else: happiness. 

Loneliness was the path of salvation for those with the last name of Roy. Happiness, or love, whichever one truly came from the actions that preceded it had become foreign for decades of the power hungry struggle of men and women before you. 

It radiated throughout the room like Godzilla’s goddamn rays when the priest had ushered his final prayers and you couldn’t even put your hands together and bow. Beside Kendall, Shiv had extended her palm to rest on top of his as they prayed like the good servants of God they were, and you wished someone had sat beside you and done the same even for split second. Conner had Willa, Shiv still had Tom in the small capacity that she did, and Roman was so beside himself with romance that even he couldn’t admit that he needed someone too. 

How you ached for a hand to grace yours; how you yearned for someone to place an enduring kiss on your temple and say that they loved you even if you couldn’t believe the truth behind it. 

So the loneliness of that vacancy simmers. 

The cynical heart hears the organs begin to play and your siblings rose from their seats as it was time to pretend that you enjoyed the service and you wanted the sympathy of others as they shook your hand and gave you hugs outside of the church. But you didn’t want those hugs. You didn’t want those hands. 

You wanted one hug. You wanted one pair of hands. You wanted one sympathetic moment and one sympathetic kiss and pretend, for one simple moment, that nothing had changed. 

Dad wasn’t dead. Waystar wasn’t floundering in a shallow grave and the maggots of sheep herding to its demise wasn’t going to come next. Sorrow didn’t exist. You weren’t alone—hadn’t been alone. 

Across the aisle, donning a black overcoat and three-piece-suit, the simple moment waited. There was little that could have been done feeling maimed by actions unseen but it had been five months of radio silence between you both. One car ride home and the whole thing imploded like a fucking rocket ship.  

The congregation stood in solemn stature as the row of family filed out first. Kendall, followed by his small brood, then you. 

You took one last look at the coffin that held the once formidable Logan Roy. 

Flowers resting on the top, the flag of Scotland draped over it. 

For a man so powerful, the weakness of death was hard to ignore. Wilting away in a box for the rest of eternity while the world continued to spin without him. And yet, there in that room and within your own heart and mind, Logan Roy was twisting a footprint of pain deeper than it had before. 

Dad died without anyone truly loving him.

You did not want to die like your dad. 

Stewy Hosseini was a lifeline. He was a chameleon of couture culture and finessed fashion but within the idealized image of an investor, there was a man who cared for the people who couldn’t say the word ‘love’ or ask for help when they needed it. 

Stewy Hosseini was a good man wrapped up in a world that had people one step from going over the ledge but always looked for a solution to solve it. He was a good friend of Kendall even if the stubborn prick never noticed it when it mattered. He was a charming bastard who did lines in public restrooms and put his feet on conference tables during important meetings. 

He was the only one to say what he meant without ever getting burned by it but left you shriveling to ash in the corner. 

Stewy Hosseini was that solitary hope. 

As you looked away from your father's casket, you were frightened by the realization that what was once an outlet for relief had become something to depend on. That five months of absent feelings created a void of indescribable pain that found an outlet in your father’s demise. 

You weren’t lonely, no. You were filled with a love that shouldn’t exist with someone who shouldn’t have looked at you the way he did and the yearning for comfort only exacerbated the want. 

Maybe he should have taken the deal on Paxos. Maybe he should have said yes, that the package that was tied with a perfect little string matched the black little box that sat in the drawer beside the bed but he didn't.

As you turned toward the aisle to follow the precession, you couldn’t even get your eyes to cast forward because he was right there. Across the way and a row down beside Sandy in his wheelchair and Sandi in her Hillary Clinton pantsuit. 

You clutched the program tightly in your hand. Lip trembling, you watched your feet take you away and there was a second in time where you were alone before another hand inched its way into your palm and around your hand. 

Some people would never know the absence of love. 

They would be grown into it with a kind mother and good family that loved her because they were an innocent child who was not afraid of being the hand that met a lonesome one in the middle of a grand church.

Shiv’s hand crept into yours as the memories of Ewan’s harshness, Kendall’s stoniness, and her fierceness waddled to the background.

Her eyes met yours and for a minute of the day, you felt seen. 

And down the aisle, Stewy wished it was his hand comforting your own. 

One where he could trace a finger over yours and feel the ring that was supposed to sit there. He could hear the Phantom in that cathedral now:

'You've been asking me for three fuckin' years son so yeah, I'll even throw in my goddamn blessing if that makes you so fucking happy.'

Maybe he should have said yes and everything would be different.

But a Roy would always swallow their pride in moments of need and Stewy Hosseini would always chase the money. There were moments before: a bliss, a fight, a phone call. And then there were moments after: a funeral, a short escape, and a board meeting. But the seconds that lingered in between those events were always shroud in the belief in the former:

A Roy was a Roy, and a Roy never floundered until it was too late.

comments, thoughts, and reblogs are always appreciated. thank you for taking the time to read my lil 'ol fic.

Tagged: @mini-ranger @prettybirdi

[xdreamers-asylumx]

Unspoken Rule

Pairings: PM! Dazai Osamu X F! Reader

Callous remarks and sharp glares did nothing to deter you—cruelty was a love language you had become far too intimate with, and who better to indulge your little game than him? You despised his arrogance and he detested your mutiny. In the end, you were nothing more than two rabid dogs snarling at each other for dominance. A coy smile curved the side of your lips where they left a deep garnet stain on the collar of tonight's lover before linking arms as you made your way down a long stretch of hallway.

Your heels clacked noisily against the tiles leading to the grand doors sealing away the hum of music just beyond them. A party of sorts, you supposed. Dubbed an annual display of your organization's successes and luxury, in reality more of an excuse for Mori to show off Elise in her new dress. Tedious, but not entirely boring under the right circumstances.

"(Y/N)." One of the guards stationed outside the entrance acknowledged courteously. The other offered a forced nod—there was a prominent bead of sweat trickling down the dip of his temple as he remained resolute in keeping his eyes trained forward.

You rolled your eyes, reaching forward to seize the large man’s tie in a manicured hand. What was his name again…? Toru? Toshi? Tetsu?Perhaps it didn’t matter.

A sharp tug to his tie and he was brought down to near eye level. Your gaze flickered up to meet his through long wispy lashes, finally managing to break his seemingly unseeing stare. He swallowed thickly.

"Gentleman, really...” Suggestive fingertips trailed down his chest with a knowing smirk. He flinched. “No need to be so stiff."

A terribly misleading sentiment. One that the man draped across your arm didn't yet grasp the weight of nor even truly recognize; an unspoken rule. No one was permitted to touch you. No one save for one man—and anybody who disobeyed was swiftly dealt with.

The guard who wasn’t currently ensnared by your deceptively soft grasp shot your guest a quick, pitying glance. He wouldn’t dare do more than that. Instead, he asked, “Who might this be accompanying you tonight, Miss?”

You paused in your ministrations, cutting a sideways look to the other guard. There was a palpable moment of silence that followed where nobody hazarded a breath before you quickly alleviated the tension with an airy giggle and a wave of the hand; effectively releasing the man from your hold. “Oh, this is Sato. Such a lovely man, isn’t he?”

The guard sighed, indulging your antics with a curt “yes, Miss” and proceeded to push open the doors, allowing you entrance. You blew him a kiss over your shoulder as you walked in.

Jeweled tapestries clung to the ornate walls in intervals between floor to ceiling windows overlooking Yokohama's starlit skyline. A glittering chandelier high overhead caught and reflected the moon's silver beams in fragments onto the polished marble floor below, already crowded with its buzzing patrons for the night—none other than the most integral members of the city's most notorious crime group. The port mafia.

You were the last to arrive.

Weaving your way through the many wine filled glasses wobbling precariously in evidently intoxicated guest and executive hands alike, you lead your faux-lover by the hand to the bar in the back corner of the ballroom. You weren't oblivious to the lustful stare he had locked on you from behind, though you feigned that you were. Despite his conventional good looks, he was boring and the idea of entertaining him more than you already had outside of your own twisted charade disillusioned you. All golden hair and shimmering blue eyes, he was gullible and easy to seduce.

The complete opposite of him.

Pulling yourself into a barstool, you requested a whiskey on the rocks for yourself and your companion. The bartender nodded and poured you your drink from one of the many glass bottles lined up along the shelves behind the bar. With glass now in hand, you swiveled in your seat, gaze dragging lazily over the other people chatting and milling about.

You brought your glass to your lips and stopped short. There, across the room sat languidly atop one of the plush couches scattered about the room, was none other than the man you had been searching for—and splayed across his lap was a woman in a satin dress attached to his neck. His eyes locked with yours. Dazai.

A smirk pulled your lips back over your teeth, a thinly veiled snarl. So the game of cat and mouse begins.

“(Y/N)? What are you looking at?” Sato inquired, head swivelling to try to find what had you so fixated.

You grabbed him by the front of his button-down without a word, drawing his attention back to yourself rather than give him the opportunity to locate the man across the room. Dismounting your seat at the bar, you sashayed your way to the middle of the floor, lover in tow, completely ignoring Dazai.

This, however, only provoked the man. His eyes followed you the entire way across the room, a bandaged hand pushing the woman on top of him aside. You could hear the indignant sounds of her protest as his gaze burned into the side of your face. Smile like the Devil himself, you finally looked his way again.

Dazai stood and began making his way to you in the crowd.

Eyes ablaze with a growing wrath, you spun on the blonde man behind you and pulled his body flush against your own, staring up at him through your half-lidded eyes as you did so. Seemingly pleased with the sudden attention, he wound his arms around your waist, hands wandering up the curve of your spine to tangle in the hairs that fell at the nape of your neck. You wondered, briefly, if he knew he was being used and simply didn't care.

Sato’s lips descended upon your own, melding your mouths together with an unpleasant force that you tolerated only to get a rise out of Dazai. Your eyes met with his over your lover's shoulder. His demeanor was calm, calculated. A fire ignited inside you.

Wasting no more time, Dazai strode over to the two of you just as you broke away from the kiss. He was there in an instant, mere inches away from Sato with a humourless grin stretching his lips.

"I believe you have something of mine."

The man you were just kissing turned around at the sound of Dazai's voice, confusion furrowing his brow—but Dazai wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at you. His eyes were nearly black now as he stared down at you, gaze raking over your body clad in that dress he liked so much.

"You truly are an arrogant man," you mused.

“Hey—“ Dazai side stepped Sato, much to the blonde man’s chagrin. He had no care for what Sato had to say.

Slender fingers caught a stray strand of hair dancing across your vision. Dazai’s dark eyes bore into yours as the pads of his thumb and forefinger toyed with the loose curl before winding it back into place behind your ear. "And you are an insufferable woman."

"What is going on—?” Before Sato could even finish his sentence, Dazai had produced a gun from beneath his jacket. Without adverting his eyes from your own, he pressed the barrel to the head of the man who accompanied you to the party. There was a threat in the thin press of his lips. A promise.

“Stop interrupting.”

You stared back defiantly with the same amount of hostility tensing every muscle in your frame. “Come now, Dazai,” you purred, stepping closer than any other person would dare to a man like him. “It’s quite unbecoming of you to be so rude to my guest—“

“What the hell?” Just then, Dazai’s own companion decided to chime in, apparently having sauntered over a few mere moments before.

You had almost forgotten she was in the room at all until she grabbed your shoulder and jerked you to face her. She glanced between the two of you with hurt in her eyes—she must have truly believed that she had won his affections.

You almost felt sorry for her.

"Dazai, what the hell?” She repeated. “Are you serious? You left me just to come flirt with this—“ she gestured towards you flippantly “—this random girl?”

Almost.

Your eyes narrowed. In one swift motion, you had untangled the dagger from where it held back your hair and pressed it to the woman's throat. "I don't remember inviting you into this conversation,” you stated, plainly. “And I don’t like sharing.”

She gasped, eyes flickering to Dazai for help, but he was too preoccupied gazing at you. “You’re both insane!”

The butterfly hilt glinted under the soft lights, the ruby embedded in the centre winking as if anticipating another kill. You pressed it closer to her throat.

Suddenly, a loud theatric sigh rang through the room, alerting you to the silence that had overtaken it. “Come, children, must you always ruin my parties with your little charade?”

The voice was deep, amused, but there was an underlying edge to its tone. The sea of onlookers who had gathered around you began to part. Some, who were new to this fairly run of the mill debacle, were gawking—likely guests of other port mafia executives. Others, well acquainted with yours and Dazai’s tumultuous relationship, regarded the scene with tense fear. When the final person stepped back, none other than Mori himself emerged from the crowd.

“I think it’d be best if you and your…” he glanced between Sato at gunpoint and the woman currently pinned beneath your blade, “guests settled down. My dear Elise must be so frightened!” He wailed.

Elise, miraculously appearing by Mori’s side as if summoned by the man’s call, delivered a swift kick to his shin. “There you are!” She pouted. “I thought I asked you for cake!”

Mori glanced down at the young girl with adoration, apparently forgetting all about the situation he was attempting to diffuse. “Elise! I was just on my way to get you some, I swear! I just got a little sidetracked—“

Another kick to the shin. “Now!”

And with that, Elise was stomping away in the opposite direction. Mori stared after her, dejected.

“Yes, yes.” He sighed. His focus turned back to the both of you, renewed disapproval souring his face now that Elise was gone. “As you can see, I have my hands quite full with Elise. I really must insist you lower your weapons.” His eyes glowed dangerously. “You’re disturbing my guests.”

You straightened, allowing your dagger to fall to your side at the warning tone in Mori’s voice. The woman, who was all but a statue mere moments before, took this as her opportunity to advance on you, seemingly alight with a newfound fury. She had her hand raised as if to slap you, tears brimming in her eyes. You raised a brow in amusement.

Dazai was not so quick to oblige to Mori’s command. He never lowered his gun. And with a quick cock of the trigger, his index finger squeezed down.

Once.

Twice.

A final resounding bang followed by a cacophony of shrieks punctuated the thud of two bodies hitting the ground. Blood spattered your face.

Before Mori could react, your wrist was seized in a vice grip, fingers cold as ice digging into your pulse, and Dazai was heading towards the exit with you in tow. The room was frozen as you departed.

No words were exchanged as you were lead out of the building into the parking garage and began weaving through row upon row of flashy cars. You twisted in Dazai’s grip, trying to free yourself from his quick pace that had you stumbling behind in your heels. That was until you found yourself at a particularly expensive looking corvette. Sleek and black, windows tinted so dark that it was certainly not legal, and a jagged slash where you had keyed the driver’s side door in a fit of rage.

Dazai’s car.

He stopped suddenly, yanking you in front of him until he could trap your body between his car and his embrace.

“Belladonna…” he purred into your ear. “That was quite the stunt you pulled in there.”

His hands wandered over the curve of your waist, finding purchase in the loose silk around your hip and pulling you back tight to his chest. “Says the man with a purple bruise beneath his earlobe.” You growled.

A deep, sultry chuckle radiated from the man’s chest pressed firm behind you. “Now, now… there’s no need to be jealous, my love.”

Craning your neck to glare into those cruel, shadowed eyes you knew so well, you forcefully peeled yourself from his grasp and huffed. Despite the familiar flames growing hot in your belly, you removed yourself entirely from Dazai’s all encompassing heat to spin on him, jabbing a sharp nail into his chest. Dazai merely growled, eyelids lowering with lust as he gazed down upon your figure.

“I am not the jealous one here, Osamu—“ a deep groan escaped his lips at the sound of his name on your tongue, taking a calculated step closer to cage you further between him and the hood of his car, “—you are the one that shot my date.”

“The date you brought to get a rise out of me, (Y/N),” he whispered, bending to ghost his lips along the shell of your ear. “Lest we forget that you were the one who started this little game.”

His warm breath fanned over your neck making your knees wobble despite yourself. Bracing your hands on the hood of the car behind you, you turned your head away to avoid his now piercing gaze. “You participate just as freely, Dazai.” You growled. “Or was the lady you brought a mere coincidence?”

He chuckled, but did not dignify you with an answer which only riled you up further. Hands back on your waist, Dazai retreated from your neck to capture your gaze with his. Fingers like cold silk ghosted up your sides, along the swell of your breasts, the dip in your collarbones, all the way to the curve of your jaw where they stayed, finally forcing you to look up at him with a touch none too gentle.

The sharp sting of pain that ached through your neck at the abrupt pulling of your chin closer to his elicited a soft whimper, one that Dazai revelled in. It was only him who could see you like this. Submissive and meek. Eyes clouded with desire and a willingness to please. His nerves felt alight with fire as he slowly pressed the length of his lithe frame to your softer one.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he purred.

Your lips were a breath away, each letter enunciated by his tongue felt by the brush of his mouth ghosting over yours. You released a shuddering breath, resolve crumbling. He pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth and pulled away. You tried to reclaim the distance between the two of you with a quick move onto your toes, but Dazai was quicker. You whined, displeased.

“I’ll give you everything you desire in due time, Belladonna,” he promised, darkly. “But only if you say the words.”

Your teeth caught purchase in your lower lip, in turn dragging Dazai’s attention downwards. His own resolve was being shaken.

“Osamu,” you whispered.

A sharp breath slid between his clenched teeth. You grabbed him by the front of his suit jacket and yanked him down. The honeyed brown that began pooling in his irises had you entranced—but you wouldn’t cave to him so easily.

“I don’t belong to anybody.”

His lips crashed onto yours with bruising force, tipping your head back with thumbs pressed firmly into the underside of your jaw. Soft brown locks tickled your cheekbones as he dipped his head lower to deepen the kiss, parting your lips with an authority that had your body trembling. Tongues met, beginning a war for dominance, one that you knew you would lose but never seemed to mind.

Your fingers found purchase in the hair at the back of Dazai’s head, tangling and tightening until your knuckles were brushing against his scalp. It must have been painful, but Dazai only gasped quietly into your mouth and kissed you hungrily.

His teeth nipped at your already bruising lips, hands sliding down to squeeze at your throat until you were gasping for air and your eyes were glowing with lust. Dazai’s knee slid between you legs, pushing them apart and forcing your back down onto the hood of the car.

You stared up at him in the dim silver light of the moon straining to breach the darkness of the parking garage. His hair was mussed, bandages falling loose over his face, and blood blooming like a rose petal at the corner of his mouth where you bit just a little too hard. But as he knelt over you, unbuttoning his dress shirt torturously slow with eyes so dark and hungry you felt like you’d be swallowed whole… you could swear the angels above would weep at the sight of this devil’s beauty.

“You don’t think you’re mine, (Y/N)?” He said lowly. His hand trailed higher up your thigh until goosebumps were left in his wake and your dress was pooling around your waist. “I’ll make sure everybody else does.”