#solid gold link chain

[heatherbmoore]

Statement-Making Chains: Your Top 5 Reasons Your Fine Jewelry Collection

For those who’ve spent time curating a fine jewelry collection, you probably have at least one high-quality chain in the mix. Even if you’re just starting to build a great jewelry collection, a chain is one of the first pieces to consider getting. Your treasured jewelry is part of your personal expression, and well-chosen chains hold a unique place within your collection.

From timeless appeal to versatility, chains are big parts of a well-rounded, sophisticated jewelry collection. Let’s explore some compelling reasons everyone should consider chains, including a classic goldlink chain, in their fine jewelry collection. 1. You Love Low-key Elegance Fine, hand crafted jewelry is often synonymous with timeless elegance, and a chain embodies this quality perfectly. You can usually tell when someone is wearing a high-quality chain, whether it’s sterling silver or solid yellow gold. It catches the light just right. Well-made chains also add an element of sophistication to any ensemble. You don’t have to try too hard with a beautiful chain. Its refined elegance speaks for itself. 2. You Seek a Signature Piece Have you ever worn a simple but elegant chain and had someone compliment you? It’s a testament to the understated beauty a chain can create. The simplicity of your chain resonated with you, too, which is why you chose it to begin with! Just as a signature piece of art can define an artist, a delicate 2mm gold chain can become a signature accent in your fine jewelry collection. But whether it’s a classic cable chain, unique charm necklace on a sterling silver chain, or something else, your necklaces can be your signature aesthetic. 3. You Value Timeless Versatility When a necklace can blend seamlessly with most of your wardrobe, you know you have a winner. You don’t have to worry about taking off a necklace because it doesn’t match. That might seem insignificant, but if you’re choosing an everyday chain, you want it to be one of your worry-free classics. Timeless chains that are relevant for all occasions and outfits are the workhorses in your jewelry collection. 4. You Invest in Craftsmanship Chains made with heirloom-style quality will last a lifetime, and you can even pass them down to loved ones, which is important to many jewelry lovers. You’re also investing in craftsmanship and longevity. Whether you’re choosing a more contemporary style or a classic gold cable chain, you want your piece to stand the test of time and enjoy wearing it for years to come. 5. You Want a Statement Chain If you have a 14k gold chain or a solid sterling silver chain in your rotation, you might consider trying different chain link styles and even various colors. Shiny black chains made of stainless steel are chic, durable, and can carry on a legacy just as well as your classics. You could also customize your chains with initials on flat bars, diamond bezels, and a hinge to support charms. The finest quality and designs are what will matter most in your collection. About Heather B. Moore Experience the artistry of Heather B. Moore fine, hand crafted jewelry—a celebration of your individuality, family, and a life rich in stories. The brand’s heirloom-quality pieces, customized to your personal style, transform each creation into a genuine treasure to be worn for years to come and passed down to the next generation. Explore a meaningful collection of charms, chains, bracelets, rings, and accessories, each a timeless piece of jewelry with distinct personality. Through a freehand technique, every letter, symbol, and number is hand stamped into the fine metal of your choice. Bring your cherished memories to life with meaningful names, phrases, quotes, a loved one’s exact handwriting, or a child’s drawing. Cherish Who You Are® with the extraordinary beauty of Heather B. Moore jewelry. Build a beautiful, meaningful jewelry collection with Heather B. Moore at https://www.heatherbmoore.com/ Original Source: https://bit.ly/3OB6B35

[exotic-diamonds]

Exotic Diamonds | 14 karat gold Cuban link chain in San Antonio

Exotic Diamonds gives you a 14 karat gold Cuban link chain in San Antonio, a piece of jewelry that combines the beauty of gold with the durability and strength of other metals. The chain is made of 14 karat gold, which is making it a perfect accessory for anyone looking for a stylish and durable piece of jewelry. We have a fantastic collection of jewelry have a look at our items: men's diamond earrings, a diamond tennis necklace, an engagement ring, a diamond Cuban link chain, Grillz in San Antonio, solid gold Cuban link chains, 14 karat Cuban link chains, and many more items.

[wjdexclusives]

Why Solid Rope Chains Are the Superior Choice for Longevity and Investment

https://www.wjdexclusives.com/blog/why-solid-rope-chains-are-the-superior-choice-for-longevity-and-investment/

Why Solid Rope Chains Are the Superior Choice for Longevity and Investment

When it comes to purchasing jewelry, especially rope chains and bracelets, it's crucial to make an informed decision about the type of links you choose. At WJD Exclusives, we offer both hollow and solid rope chains, each with its unique characteristics. However, for those seeking longevity and durability, solid rope chains are the superior choice. Here's why:

The Fragility of Hollow Rope Chains

Hollow rope chains are crafted with super tiny links interconnected into a 4mm rope. While they might appear delicate and intricate, their structure makes them inherently fragile. The gold links are susceptible to damage from regular contact with clothing, leading to wear and tear that often goes unnoticed until it's too late. Additionally, repairs on hollow links are challenging and often leave visible 'scars,' compromising the chain's aesthetic.

Explore Our Hollow Rope Chains Collection

The Durability of Solid Rope Chains

In contrast, solid rope chains are made from continuous, sturdy links that are far more resistant to everyday wear and tear. These chains offer a significant advantage in terms of durability and longevity. When it comes to repairs, solid links can be mended without leaving noticeable marks, maintaining the chain's pristine appearance.

Browse Our Solid Rope Chains Collection

The Investment Value

Investing in solid rope chains not only ensures a piece of jewelry that will last but also retains its value over time. Solid gold chains are less prone to damage and require fewer repairs, making them a better long-term investment. Whether for daily wear or as a cherished heirloom, solid rope chains stand the test of time.

Shop Our Premium Rope Chains

Customer Experience

We've encountered numerous situations where customers experienced issues with hollow chains. For instance, one of our valued customers faced repeated problems with their hollow rope chain. Despite multiple repairs, the chain continued to suffer from damage due to its fragile structure. This highlights the importance of choosing solid rope chains for those looking for reliability and longevity in their jewelry.

Read Customer Reviews

At WJD Exclusives, we are committed to providing high-quality jewelry that meets your expectations. We offer a wide range of both hollow and solid rope chains to cater to different preferences and budgets. However, for those prioritizing durability and a lasting investment, solid rope chains are undoubtedly the better choice.

Discover Our Full Range of Rope Chains

By choosing solid rope chains, you're making a wise investment in a piece of jewelry that will remain beautiful and intact for years to come. Visit our store or browse our online collection to find the perfect chain that suits your style and needs.

[fivestarjewelers]

Say I Do in Style: Dainty Necklaces for Your Wedding Day

If you’re the type of bride who’s looking for dainty hip hop jewelry stores in Miami, then investing in necklaces is the ideal choice. Necklaces are versatile and elegant and can add a touch of class and shimmer to your big day. These pieces while minimal can still get you a ton of attention and elevate your wedding gown. Here are some things to keep in mind when choosing the ideal necklace for your big day.

[starkeyisthelastname]

thank you to my stunning babe @starkeysprincess for this idea! 😻 riding dealer!rafe while wearing his chain. 🥶

Rafe had many different chains, from silver cuban links, to solid gold rope chains. All expensive and all taken care of. Your favorite one though was the diamond one, the one he wore usually only for special outings or occasions. He had taken you to dinner, dining you with a pricy meal and too many glasses of Dom Perignon.

The flick of a lighter could be heard along with the sounds of your whimpers as you slid down onto his dick. Your manicured hands set perfectly on his toned chest, glittering diamond chain of his resting on your smooth neck. Your hazy eyes watched as he took a hit of the joint, inhaling the smoke as he rested his head against the headboard. His blue eyes were hooded, already high from smoking earlier and a little tipsy from his own choice of drink at dinner. One hand came to rest on the curve of your hip, a cloud of smoke hitting your face as you began to slowly bounce yourself on his thickness.

“Shit… so motherfuckin pretty wearing daddy’s chain…” Rafe’s sexy voice rasped out, glassy cerulean irises raking over your face and down to the sparkly jewels around the neck he wanted to wrap his hand around.

You moaned louder, loving when he called you pretty when you take dick. He filled you up to the point where it was hard to move, his length thick and long. You wanted to make daddy proud though, and began moving your hips the best you could all with a little encouragement from him.

“Fuck yeah, there you go mama. Make that shit bounce for daddy.” Rafe’s voice mumbled as he inhaled another hit of the joint, eyes focused on your pretty tits and round ass as they jiggled.

“Daddy… you feel so good.” You mewled, feeling him in your tummy as this position had him in deep. It didn’t help that the man you were riding was too damn sexy for his own good.

Rafe took another drag of the joint, before leaning over to put it out to leave him with two free hands. The other one then slapped your ass, before coming to rest on your hip, giving it a squeeze. “Yeah? Daddy’s big dick making that tight little pretty hole wanna make a mess?” He husked out, always having a thing for dirty talk to make you go over the edge.

Your body shuddered at his words, cunt fluttering around his monster as he began to thrust up into you, all while admiring how gorgeous you were wearing that chain of his that cost him several racks.

[sajidhaji]

[backjustforberena]

When I call Rhaenys and Corlys's outfits at the weddings basically "his and hers", this is what I mean:

They feel like they match. They are masculine and feminine versions of a very similar outfit or aesthetic. They are mirrors of one another. A power couple. They match far more than anyone else does in that scene (bar Joffrey and Laenor who are opposites to one another colour-wise but a similar silhouette, there's still visual disconnect as much as connection for obvious reasons) and present a stark contrast, for example, to Viserys and Alicent, the other married couple at the royal table.

Even though they don't use the same fabric (Corlys's is more geometric, Rhaenys's more evocative of the natural world), they use the same colour palette and scheme and they use it in the same way, broadly speaking. Gold on top of dark. Mostly gold. Dark fabric in the middle. And both of thie outfits are made up of very similar elements, just made masculine or feminine.

We have, amongst other things, both of them with rounded shoulders, both with long sleeves. Both have embroidered cuffs that are square and blocking and made of the same stuff as the border of the central panel. Both outfits have that big panel in the middle as well, though Rhaenys's goes in and then flairs out again to show off her waist. Both panels go up into the shoulder; Rhaenys's into the neckline of her dress that shows off her shape, but Corlys's is more solid, showing off his broadness rather than his collarbones/bosom. Masculine and feminine.

You could argue regarding the gold around their necks as well, being another element of similarity - Corlys's is his (this is just what I call it) "lord's chain" which we see with various outfits throughout both seasons, and Rhaenys wears a necklace of gold spikes. Again, if you wanted to, you could correlate that necklace of gold spikes as evoking Meleys, and evoking Rhaenys's heritage as a Targaryen and hold that in contrast to Corlys's seahorse. But that's a bit more tenuous.

Both also wear belts. Corlys's is very thick, Rhaenys's is more dainty. Both are trimmed with gold, both have leftover strap falling down. Again, masculine, and feminine.

They are dress complimentary, they walk in lockstep but not dependent on one another, they are presented as equal and presented also as people who both have power (no other wife of a lord is announced to the room). There is no sense of imbalance. There is physical distance and independence but again, always linked by costume. And then, physically linked, when Corlys takes Rhaenys's hand in his.

Power couple. <3

[risingchaos]

Explanation of Cuff Bands in Star Trek (The Original Series and Strange New Worlds)

Pips TNG onward explained + details of what each rank does

In TOS, they hadn’t figured out the pip system yet, so they did wrist bands to signify rank instead. It’s not nearly as straightforward as the pips, but once you get a hang of it, it helps tons. Plus they rarely call anyone by their rank in TOS, often going by mister or miss. This will mostly have close ups of TOS characters.

Now, Starfleet is based upon the U.S. Navy, so the names used are those. I’ve broken down the ranks in greater detail in the post linked above, so this one is just for knowing the ranking of each band and a brief explanation.

If you just want to know the look, there is a guide at the end for you. :)

—————

Description of the line looks for anyone who needs it: Dashed lines are long gold dashes perpendicular to the cuff, curving slightly upwards on one side and downwards on the other for each dash, like the shape of an eraser on its side. Solid lines are a straight gold band perpendicular to the cuff with another solid gold line wrapped around it. It almost looks like the two are intertwined. Bars are explained briefly later for Admirals, but they look like one straight gold band with two of the previously mentioned solid lines pressed against each side on the top and bottom with no space between.

For Strange New Worlds, replace any mention of a dashed line a thin straight line and any mention of a solid line as a thick straight line. I have not found any actual explanation for Admirals in SNW, but they have different Starfleet badges.

Cadet - Uniform Distinction

As far as I know we don’t actually meet any in TOS, but we do in SNW. In basically all Star Trek media, cadets wear red/all red uniforms. Cadets are people still in the Academy, not yet graduated. They can still serve on ships for training, however. Cadet Uhura is a lovely example of this.

Petty Officer - Insufficient Information

I am not sure if Petty Officers exist in TOS or appear in SNW, I searched for a while to find solid proof. The closest I could find for TOS was that maybe in The Motion Picture there was a Petty Officer with a triangle insignia, and that there was a character named Samno in Star Trek VI who was a PO and a Yeoman. If anyone can confirm/deny/offer anything, I will add it to this.

Yeoman

Yeoman are assistants in Starfleet. They’re only used in TOS, and their system is kind of strange. You can hold a ranked position while still being a Yeoman, shown through an unnamed character who had Junior Lieutenant markings on her sleeve while being addressed as a Yeoman. They generally are Ensigns, however.

Ensign - Blank sleeve

Ensigns have blank sleeves. I think this is probably for practicality for budget reasons in TOS, but most background actors are ensigns. Ensigns are graduates from the Academy and just anyone who hasn’t climbed the chain yet.

Lieutenants

Junior Lieutenant - Single dashed [•]

The only example I could find was a man named Joe Tormolen from the episode “The Naked Time” as the guy who dies at the start. Junior Lieutenants feature a singular dotted line on the cuffs.

Lieutenant - Single solid [~]

Most crew members we see are Lieutenants. Lieutenants are working consoles, navigating, going on away teams. Hikaru Sulu and Nyota Uhura in TOS.

Lieutenant Commander - Single dashed, single solid [•~]

Lieutenant Commanders are integral to running the ship. Heads of departments and the ones who run day to day activities aboard the ship. Chief Engineer Montgomery “Scotty” Scott was one of these.

Commander - Two solid [~~]

The First Officer on the ship. This is second in command, the right hand to the Captain. In TOS, our Commander Spock is also the head of the science department.

Captain - Single solid, single dashed, single solid [~•~]

Captains we all know. They are the head of the ship, the man who has to keep it level and realistic at all times, though our lovely Captain Kirk isn’t exactly known for level-headedness. He also has the green wraparound shirt that has the V shaped gold detailing by the neckline with a small gold line between.

Admirals

Admirals have an extra silly thing. They have a bar. It looks like if you smushed two of the solid bars together with a straight gold piece between. Admirals usually have different uniforms but they honestly change rather frequently. We meet Admirals few and far between in any ST show, but I’ve put them below nonetheless.

Here is a complete guide to each wrist cuff design in Starfleet’s early days, excluding Cadets, Petty Officers, and Ensigns.

A dot • indicates a dash line, a squiggle ~ indicates a solid line, and a hyphen - indicates a bar.

Junior Lieutenant - [•]

Lieutenant - [~]

Lieutenant Commander - [•~]

Commander - [~~]

Captain - [~•~]

Commodore/Rear Admiral (lower half) - [-]

Rear Admiral (upper half) - [~-]

Vice Admiral - [-~-]

Admiral - [~~-~]

Fleet Admiral - [~~-~~]

—————

Hopefully this helps you understand as much as it did me when I first figured it all out. Took a minute to get some research done. Let me know if anything is worded strangely or if the descriptions aren’t clear enough. I tried to be detailed with it at the start. If anyone has extra information or needs more, please comment or message me! I will answer/clarify to the best of my ability.

I love putting together this kind of thing so if anyone wants more lists like this, let me know. Enjoy.

[liyawritesss]

ᴄᴏʟʟᴇɢᴇ!ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟᴇꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ

Characters: College!Spider-Verse!Miles Morales 

Type: headcanons

Synopsis: What would our lovely boy Miles be like as a grown up college student? Does he change or does he still keep his dorky, boyish demeanor?

A/N: HAPPY JUNETEENTH TO MY FELLOW NEGROS!!! In honor of Juneteenth and the release of ATSV, I'm dumping some headanons on yall, and I'm so proud of how these turned out. I was talking with my friend how we heavily believed that we would see a grown up Miles but when we found out only a year passed in Miles’ timeline for him, the topic of college!Miles came up. So these headcanons are pretty much a product of how we thought miles would be as a college student around our age.

Note: the first pic is of Shameik Moore, I just used a cartoon filter over it to try and make it look like the art style in the spiderverse franchise. The third one is not Shameik Moore but I use the same cartoon filter over it for the same effect

Warnings: Some cursing but that’s about it. KEEP IT CUTE PG-16 CUZ THIS IS NEPHEW WE TALKIN' BOUT HERE!!!

Tags: @6-noir @babyboiboyega @badass-dora-milaje @jacuzziwaters @venusdraco @mbakuetshurisprincess @shuriszn @verachii @writingintheshadowsforever @cafehyunji @lulu-network @niyahwrites @pantherheart @marsfunzon22

Sign Up For My Taglist Here!

College!Miles isn’t a complete one-eighty of his mid-teen self, but rather, he builds on the defining attributes of his youth and matures them. He’s still pretty self-effacing, modest and humble, but he’s more confident in himself and the man he wants to become. He’s selfless and courageous and loving to a fault, and anyone who’s anyone who has been in his presence can say that Miles is a great person all around.

College!Miles ends up going to study in New Jersey, majoring in Physics Engineering, but also minoring in African Psychology on the track for social work. He knows that he can only do so much good behind his Spiderman mask, and believes that he should also be putting in the work when he isn’t wearing it. It’s an obligation for him to put his best food forward for his community and his people.

College!Miles who mixes his style with 90’s black streetwear and modern day. He’s a sneakerhead, so his dorm room gradually accumulates with boxes upon boxes of shoes damn near reaching the ceiling. His room back home is much worse though (Rio can’t even clean his room anymore because everywhere she looks, it’s a box of shoes chucked somewhere. Mama has given up lmao). And similar to the first outfit we see him in in ATSV, he loves the sports-jersey-over-solid-color-shirt combo, but has a decent amount of hoodies and tee’s both graphic and plain, that he likes to throw on with a pair of jeans and shoes. He knows how to dress, and he knows that he looks good in what he wears too.

College!Miles who never steps out the house without a chain on. He’s got two specific ones that he wears primarily - a silver cuban link his parents got him for his eighteenth birthday that he wears daily, and a gold snake chain that he bought for himself with his first check from his first big boy job. There are other necklaces that he has that he’ll throw on it he wants to switch things up. He’s not a big fan of things on his wrist (he’s gotten too used to the web shooters that everything else just feels funny or wrong), but he has a watch that he only wears to be fancy and a couple of rings that go on his middle or forefingers. He also has a few pairs of studded earrings he switches between every now and then to keep up a fresh look.

College!Miles who starts to take special care in his appearance as he reaches his late teen years. He can only go to his mom when he’s on breaks or vacation when he travels back to Brooklyn, but he’s learned enough from Rio to do his own line-ups and touch ups to make him look decent. It took him a minute to get used to doing it on his own, but he was adamant on learning because he was firm on not letting anyone else into his head besides his mother. He’d recently gotten into cutting slits into his eyebrows too, as they make him feel super cool

College!Miles who knows he’s got girls & guys coming left and right waiting for the opportunity to get with him, but as much as he’s a loverboy, he’s also very intentional with how he moves and is very perceptive of people (his Spidey senses enhance it a lot more than what he wishes sometimes) that he peeps that a lot of them are only attracted to his looks. He doesn’t date for the first few semesters of college, and when his parents ask if he’s gonna bring someone home soon, he tells them that he’s too busy making gateways to dimensions to open the gateways to dating

College!Miles whose love for hip hop never dies over the years. Instead it seems to grow. He adds a few new artists to her playlist - JID, Young M.A., Tobe Nwigwe, & Kendrick Lamar from the hip hop and rap scenes (Miles uses many of Tobe’s songs as hype music to gas himself up). Though he’s also found an appreciation for other genres, like R&B and Neo-Soul. Some of these artists include but are not limited to: H.E.R., UMI, Ari Lennox, and Bryson Tiller.

College!Miles who still holds on to his art as a hobby and destresser from his many classes and double-identity. His street art follows him wherever he goes, tagging new places that have people wondering who the hell made it all the way up there to tag that. There’s a secret pride that swells in him when he sees passersby admiring the artwork.

College!Miles who, when the world gets too much and he feels like everythings going wrong, he climbs the tallest building he can find and just watches the sunrise or sunset. He lets the breathtaking view ease his mind and the warm sun soothe his worries away. Being so high up and away from people allows him to actually think about the troubles that plague him, so when he comes back down, he can address them accordingly

College!Miles who’s still very much a momma’s boy. He calls Rio almost every day, either to just talk or to rant about something silly. She’ll put him on speaker for Jefferson to hear and just looks at her husband like “Listen to your son” when he’s being silly. But it’s so sweet that Miles always has his parents on his mind when he’s away at school. He also calls his dad to have ‘guy talk’, which ain’t nothing but Miles and Jefferson either talking about sports, his academics (which Jeff is really supportive of, even if he doesn’t understand the physics part, he loves to hear his sons ideas on the psychology minor he’s taken on) or random funny shit the guys that they hang around do every day.

College!Miles who grows more confident in his Spanish and uses it more and more in his day-to-day life. He’ll speak it when he’s talking to himself, when he’s angry or if he’s hurt himself (which happens the same amount of times as it did when he was a teen), or he’ll try and surprise his mom with a conversation in complete Spanish (which he does succeed in sometimes).

College!Miles who’s barely changed from the loveable boy who we all know and love as a teen. He just grew some more and became cooler, but he still radiates the same dorky, intelligent, and loving energy he’s always had.

[novoaa1writes]

day 0

image source

pairing(s): softdark!natasha romanoff x gnc!reader, natasha romanoff & tony stark (platonic)

summary:

“I trust they were well-behaved?”

“You know they weren’t,” Stark disputed, letting out a derisive snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t let me fix that.”

Natasha shrugged. “Chemically-induced submission is all very well and good,” she mused, sounding vaguely preoccupied. You could still feel her gaze upon you, boring through your skull. “But I’d prefer to earn theirs.”

“Your funeral.”

Or: Natasha wants a pet. Lucky for her, she knows a guy who can help with that.

contains: non-con dynamics, pet play, dehumanization

[cross-posted on ao3]

word count: ~3,300

rating: mature

warnings: non-con dynamics, forced pet play, dehumanization, non-con bathing, referenced non-con body modification, referenced non-con medical experimentation/surgery, referenced physical and psychological abuse, discussions of administering post-op painkillers (morphine, oxycodone, anti-inflammatories, etc.)

notes: reader’s gender is not specified here, and as with every reader-insert i write, the reader is intended to be ethnically ambiguous! also, no use of y/n... i don't personally mind it much, but i understand it's typically preferred without

translation for russian terms in the end notes!

(previously named “build-a-pet”)

— —

Natasha had been on mission when she received the call. 

Burner #1—professional access. A select handful of people had the means to call it. Phil, Clint, Nick, Maria. Pepper, too. 

Burner #2—a separate, off-books agenda. Personal in nature. Accessible to none save for one individual. 

It was the second of the two that rang to signal an incoming call.  

Eyeing her target—Pavel Mikhailovich Novik, Bratyerstva head and prolific serial killer—intently through the tac scope, she brought the phone up to her ear and answered the call:

“Romanoff.”

“Gah! Always business with you, huh?” Tony Stark’s conversational—if not somewhat indignant—tone filtered through the speaker. “That’s no way to greet a friend.”

Were Natasha not otherwise occupied at the current moment, she might’ve scoffed. As it was: “A little busy, Shellhead,” she muttered, shifting her aim in time with Novik’s uneven stride as he made his way across a municipal street. “Why don’t we skip to the part where you tell me what you’ve got?”

“I’m doing just swell, thanks for asking.”

He was a short, stout man. Novik, that was. Flat-footed gait, the kind that had long since ruined the arches of his well-worn shoes. Broad shoulders; barrel-chested torso. Thick dark hair cut short on his scalp and, in the case of his square-shaped jaw, removed completely—but permitted to grow to damn near cat-whisker length everywhere else. 

A wheat-link chain hung loose around his short neck; the chunky watch on his hairy wrist gleamed when it caught the light. Both solid gold.

He was dressed nicely enough in a red button-down that looked soft as satin, and charcoal black trousers with a matching blazer to boot.  

Natasha had to bite back a disapproving hum as he strode into the establishment—a pub, no less—and hoisted himself up onto a barstool with little ceremony. 

He was armed, of course, but only barely; a pistol in one inner coat pocket, a switchblade in the other. He also wasn’t entirely clueless, as evidenced by his company: a pair of stern-looking men who stood flanking him on either side, the material of their cheap polyester suits straining to contain their hulking figures, jackets bulging with poorly-concealed semi-automatic weapons. They watched the bartender like hawks as he set a clear bottle—Dębowa—and an empty glass in front of Novik before promptly scurrying away.

They turned their matching glowers away from their boss as he began to drink, surveying the small, dimly-lit pub with heavy-browed suspicion.

It was a clear message. A bit garish for Natasha’s tastes; but clear nonetheless. 

As it was, she barely had to shift herself any further to catch him in her crosshairs through a series of high, rectangular windows lining the interior of the grimy pub. 

All bark, no bite. 

A far less jaded woman might have snorted. 

A far less jaded woman Natasha was not. 

“… Long story short, we’ve made some serious progress. I want to check in, though, if you could swing by for a quick visit. We’ve only got a short window before some of these alterations are irreversible. Plus, I figured you’d want to see them.”

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, her pulse thrumming wild and fast beneath her skin. “You figured right,” she managed to answer, her mouth dry. It was all she could do to keep Novik unharmed in her crosshairs, her finger from squeezing the trigger. 

“So, when can we expect you?”

Natasha flit her gaze to the clock face fastened atop a tall, spindly spire on the nearest street corner, then back to Novik. “Give me six hours.”

— —

“Boss, three reports intercepted from secure, heavily-encrypted channels. All high-profile killings, all on European soil.”

Tony Stark, though intrigued, did not look up from the task at hand: himself perched adroitly along the rim of the tub, lathering your naked body in sweet-smelling soaps; you, slumped uncouthly in the cradle of the bath, glaring up at him with defiant eyes and murder in the tick of your jaw. 

“Time window?” he questioned after a pause, lowering one sudsy hand to knead at your lower belly and grinning wolfishly when you couldn’t smother a quiet whine. 

“Six days.”

“Locales?”

“Qormi, Malta; Kutaisi, Georgia; and Gomel, Belarus.”

Stark hummed in lieu of answer, a vaguely preoccupied look in his narrowed gaze. His large, calloused fingers didn’t cease their humiliating ministrations over your quivering belly, making you pant in an effort to hold back a low, guttural trill. 

“In that order?”

“Yes, boss.”

You hated him. You fucking hated him. 

“Walks like Natasha, quacks like Natasha…” he trailed off, giving your belly one last squeeze before withdrawing slightly to cup your other hip with his palm. “Probably Natasha.”

You’d only just begun regaining your strength following the latest procedure, though not nearly enough to do anything other than glare.

Stark slanted his gaze back over to you. If he was at all cowed by the force of your glower, he did well not to show it. “You’re adorable when you’re plotting my demise, y’know that?”

It took everything within you not to roll your eyes.

— —

“So, how was White Russia? Eat any draniki?” Stark questioned as he settled bodily into an armchair, gesturing for Natasha to seat herself on the settee across from him. 

She did, her features calm and impassive. Her shrewd gaze flit to you once, but was quick to refocus. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“C’mon, give me something,” Stark carped, huffing petulantly. You couldn’t see his face from this angle, only the back of his head and a bit of bearded cheek, but you imagined he was probably pouting like a third grader. “For old times’ sake?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Guilty as charged,” Stark quipped. “Though, I suppose I can’t say the same for Novik. He didn’t even get a trial.” 

Natasha’s placid expression did not falter. “Who?”

“You know what, I’m just gonna give you this one—”

“Generous.”

“—but only because we’ve achieved a mind-blowing amount of progress within the past couple weeks. Like, seriously: mind-blowing.”

You felt yourself shudder at the reminder. Progress, indeed.

“Oh?” Natasha queried lightly, brows raised. Once more, her gaze dipped to you… and stayed there. 

You ducked your head and averted your eyes, cheeks aflame. You’d grown accustomed to being naked around Stark—mainly because you didn’t have a choice. But Natasha… 

For the first time in years, you found yourself missing your long hair, the way you could cower behind it at a moment’s notice. Now, you were exposed. Vulnerable. 

“I trust they were well-behaved?”

“You know they weren’t,” Stark disputed, letting out a derisive snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t let me fix that.”

Natasha shrugged. “Chemically-induced submission is all very well and good,” she mused, sounding vaguely preoccupied. You could still feel her gaze upon you, boring through your skull. “But I’d prefer to earn theirs.”

“Your funeral.”

Natasha’s lips twitched, though she remained silent. Then, after a beat or two— “Your progress?” she prompted.

“Right, so, here’s the run-down…”

— —

You’d tuned out for the most part as Stark began his long-winded, vainglorious speech to Natasha about his—your—successes since last they’d spoken. Much as you understood it was likely prudent to listen in, acquire a little more knowledge on what exactly he’d done to you, you’d also been there long enough to know that it probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyhow. 

Natasha would do with you as she pleased. Stark, too, provided Natasha was the one asking. 

In the beginning, that intrigued you. Made you want to learn more about them and their dynamic; to understand why it was what it was. You didn’t get why Stark would run, jump, and heel for the likes of her—intimidation factor notwithstanding. 

By this point, that intrigue had since dwindled, if not dissipated entirely. It was what it was; consequently, they were, too. 

You were still angry and strong-willed and a far cry from broken, but you weren’t stupid, either. Just because they treated you like a chained-up dog didn’t mean you had to gnaw off your own limbs in a desperate bid to escape like one. 

And, besides… it wasn’t often you got moments like these. Moments where you weren’t being poked and prodded and shot up with God knows what. You were collared, sure, your body riddled with all kinds of aches and pains, but none of it held a candle to the agony you’d known in days past. 

Lost in your head though you were, months’ worth of training ensured you didn’t miss the moment Natasha called you over. 

“Ко мне,” she spoke, pitching her voice just above appropriate speaking volume.

It was like someone lit a fire under your ass. The second you heard it, you shot up on all fours. Pain came fast on its heels, but you grit your teeth and bore it, swallowing down a cry as soreness shot through your hands—you flat-out refused to call them ‘paws’—like wildfire. Every heightened reflex stood on high alert. Your back, too, felt like it was on fire, spinal column alight with tenderness. 

Still, it wasn’t nearly so bad as it’d been a week back, when you awoke in observation all bandaged up and so acutely in pain, you feared it might kill you. You also knew better than to dawdle. Clenching your jaw tight, you shuffled forth on sore palms and bruised knees. Your muscles burned. 

You were grateful to feel the tip of your nose graze Natasha’s jean-clad knee, signaling a justifiable stopping point. 

“Молодец,” she praised, her voice pitched an octave (or two) higher, and you felt like singing. 

You even arched your poor, aching back in a shameless effort to attract… well, something, you supposed. Head pats, perhaps. An open-handed stroke down your spine, even.  

Damn that animal, desire-seeking hindbrain.

Fortunately, Natasha seemed to understand. Her palm met the nape of your neck, slender fingers curling their way into the mess of hair at the back of your scalp—God, but that felt divine. A mounting hum in the back of your throat was all the warning you got before—

Fuck. Immediately, you clamped your mouth shut, and the sound—along with the pleasurable vibrations—stopped altogether. 

Not again. 

“Ah-ah-ah, puppy,” Natasha tutted, her free hand descending to squeeze your nose tight—effectively cutting off your air supply. And still, the other remained; combing through freshly-washed hair at the base of your skull, occasionally scritching your scalp with the tips of her blunt nails until the insides of your throat quivered and your jaw hurt from clenching it so hard. It was all you could do to keep from opening right back up and giving her a nice long purr. (Which, you’d deduced, was exactly what she wanted.) “None of that.”

She was using English now, you noticed. 

And, just like that, the realization hit that she hadn’t been before. 

Now, you could… you could hear her words and understand them, and from that understanding know their meaning. Before, it was like… like hearing the words and knowing what they were supposed to mean, then acting accordingly. You couldn’t take apart the syllables, the letters in your head, not like you could with English. 

P-u-p-p-y. That spelled ‘puppy.’ When you tried to conjure the word she’d used to summon you over, there was just… nothing. A blank space. A short one, telling you you knew the approximate length of the word you were looking for, but… empty. 

Your gaze darted to Stark, who just slouched back in his cushy armchair looking immeasurably pleased with himself. At any other time, the mere sight would’ve been enough to spark some measure of annoyance within you. 

Now… Now, all you could feel was fear. 

He didn’t do that, did he? He… he couldn’t’ve. 

All the rest of it: the obedience, the meekness—that? That was conditioning, plain and simple. You weren’t exactly a PhD, but it didn’t take a genius to note down from the very start that some behaviors got you alone time in a small, dark room without food or water or sunlight for days on end, and others got you… well, not that. By a certain point, you would beg him to yell at you, choke you out, take you over his knee and spank your ass raw when you misbehaved; something, anything, so long as it wasn’t that. 2 times out of 10, he’d take you up on that. As for the other 8… well. 

But this—implanting knowledge in your subconscious, tuning it to mimic compulsory behavioral urges, all while you remained none the wiser? That was a hell of a lot more complicated than reworking your spine, or tweaking sensory receptors, or even altering your vocal tract to make that obnoxious purr. 

It was like he’d rewired your brain. 

You didn’t even notice that you’d since relented: gasped out what little breath remained and began wheezing, all doubled-over, sucking in new breaths of air like a half-drowned cat. Though, you sure as hell noticed how that rattling, restless, vibrating sensation arose in your throat with every shuddering inhale; how, on every exhale came exactly what you’d feared—that pathetic, trilling purr. The one that warmed your body from head to toe while simultaneously making you wish you had never been fucking born. 

God, but Natasha’s hands were like magic…

Your head still spun. Was it from the oxygen deprivation, or the realization that Stark had been inside your head? Probably both. 

Terrified, dazed, and overwhelmingly confused, it took you some time to re-center; tuning back into Stark and Natasha’s conversation, if only to posture yourself accordingly. You could figure out the rest later, you reasoned.

“… The spinal alterations don’t inhibit their ability to stand upright, by any means, which is the exciting thing,” Stark was saying, damn near perched at the edge of his seat—almost vibrating with renewed vigor. Weirdo. “They just enhance their natural capacity to remain down on all fours and go about their day for extended periods of time: a day, a week… hell, indefinitely! Which, for humans, would be pretty much unthinkable. I mean, can you imagine?”

Without allowing a moment’s pause for Natasha to respond (which you’d come to understand was quite typical), Stark wasted no time in steamrolling on. “‘Course, the process of transplanting new bones was rather tricky, and we had to do a couple of them more than once. Dr. Cho estimates a week—at most—before they’ve healed enough to allow for more… strenuous physical activity.”

Natasha snorted. Her hand had long stilled its pleasant ministrations in favor of resting inert at the base of your skull, slender fingers curled loosely around your nape. You felt how they twitched and tightened their grip ever-so-slightly when Stark spoke of what he’d done to your spine. “Are they in pain?” 

Funny. If you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought she cared. 

Stark raised a brow. “Ballpark?”

Natasha must’ve nodded, or dipped her chin in confirmation, because a beat later, Stark spoke again.

“Imagine you got ripped open, rearranged, then stitched back up,” he summed up. “Twice.”

Dimly, it registered within you to be struck by his forthrightness, though you did not dare mistake it for empathy. 

Natasha was quiet for a beat. “Sounds about right,” she said eventually. 

“It doesn’t have to be this bad,” Stark offered, though there was a curious shift in his intonation, this time; a knowing and almost resigned look in his eye that made you wonder if he and Natasha had had this conversation before.

The way Natasha’s hand twitched, blunt nails digging into the skin of your nape, was answer enough. 

“Were I their doctor, I’d be prescribing some serious pain meds,” Stark continued on dryly, making a show of tilting his head and gazing off into the distance as though he was deep in thought. “Morphine, oxycodone—“

“No.”

“—maybe a local anesthetic or two,” he mused, beginning to count them out on his fingers. “Anti-inflammatories. Anticonvulsants. Something for the anxiety, even—”

“I wanted a pet, not a vegetable.”

Stark’s lips twitched—though with exasperation or humor, you could not tell. “Do you realize how quickly even the most powerful anesthetics will metabolize through their system? They’re not human anymore, Red. At least, not entirely.”

Now, that piqued your interest. 

“Neither am I.”

“It’s different for them. You know that. You got Erskine’s serum. Some unrefined bootleg variant, granted, but that man was nothing if not brilliant. Everything he touched, he turned to gold.” Stark spoke of him—this ‘Erskine’—as though he put the very stars in the sky. You wondered if he was truly brilliant, or just insane. You wondered if for Stark, there was any difference. “As for them… well.” He gestured vaguely towards you. “They got some anthropomorphic whack job’s bone marrow.”

You blinked. You got what now?

“He has a name, you know,” Natasha commented archly, the earlier indignation having dissipated from her tone. 

“Point being—I’ve met the guy. He’s seriously unhinged.” He paused there, as if expecting Natasha to argue. When she didn’t, he steamrolled on: “I had F.R.I.D.A.Y. scavenge some digitized medical reports and psych evals from his time at the facility, along with anything else they could piece together after he escaped. Violently, I might add.”

“I won’t say he’s devoid of empathy, or a moral compass, because we both know that that’s not true,” Stark explained, then muttered under his breath: “Even if his senses of both concepts are seriously skewed.”

“Tony,” Natasha interjected, a note of warning in her voice. 

“Just listen, alright? I’m getting there.” Stark huffed out a sigh, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “My point is that he wasn’t like that, at the start. He was no saint, to be sure, but he wasn’t like that. It wasn’t until they started a particularly ill-inspired series of ‘tests’—though I’d argue a better term would be ‘torture sessions’—to assess his healing capabilities that he really started losing his marbles.”

You head was beginning to spin. Your jaw ached from clenching it so hard. Who were they talking about? 

“See, because his capabilities—extraordinary as they were—weren’t superhuman. They didn’t transcend healing itself, let alone make it any less painful to endure. In fact, I think they actually concluded that it was made more painful by his body’s ability to undertake those processes at such an expeditious rate.” Stark breathed out another heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he could feel a headache brewing. 

He wasn’t the only one. 

“He nearly went insane, Natasha. Joking aside, it almost beggars belief that he’s as high-functioning as he is,” Stark asserted, no longer pulling his punches. “I know you don’t want that for them.”

It was silent for a beat… Then two. 

“Fine.”

Stark promptly quieted, renewed interest sparking itself alight in his gaze. “What was that now?”

“I said, ‘Fine.’”

A slow grin spread across his clean-shaven features. 

“No opioids,” Natasha was quick to amend. “Nothing addictive. Just… anything that’ll help more than it’ll hurt.”

Silence for a beat. Then two. 

Stark squinted at her. “You sure you and that bleeding heart of yours are up for this?”

Natasha’s grip around your nape tightened even further. “Shellhead,” she gritted out, her tone hard as weathered steel. Even the sound of it was enough to send chills down your spine. 

Stark, in contrast, was not at all similarly affected. He simply tilted his head to one side and made a show of continuing to appraise her with shrewd, assessing eyes. Then, finally: “You should try yoga.”

— —

end notes: L O fucking L

also the anthropomorphic whack job they’re talking about is logan (wolverine) from x-men, in case you’re wondering 

edit: i’ve since written a continuation of this, linked below!

translation of russian terms (with stresses bolded):

ко мне | ko mnye | “come”

молодец | molodyets | excellent, good

sources:

“organized crime in eastern europe” | to be so clear, i just made up “bratyerstva” from the term “братство” (bratstvo) which means “brotherhood” or “fraternity” in bulgarian, macedonian, russian, and serbo-croatian dialects. it is also the name of a ukrainian political party (ukrainian: братство, romanized: bratstvo), but it is not an actual belarusian word. it also bears some resemblance to братва, a slang term used to refer to criminal gangs in russia and other ex-ussr states. honestly, the closest you’d probably get to an actual word with this would be the polish “braterstwo” (brahterstvo) which also means “brotherhood” or “fraternity.” (however, in some informal contexts, the term “братерство” has been used in ukrainian dialects to convey synonymous meanings.) anyway, this is a brief snippet (~10 pages) from an academic article about organized crime in eastern europe, if the precedent behind all that intrigues you. i thought it was pretty informative!

white russia | another name for belarus, though there’s some controversy/nuance to that (and big surprise, it’s got everything to do with russia). this links to an article from euronews talking about... all of that

draniki | an immensely popular dish in belarus. they’re basically potato pancakes. several other european countries have close equivalents. 

— —

next part: come, sit, stay

link to masterlist

[dozydawn]

Vintage Etruscan Revival Italian Solid Gold Chalcedony Turquoise and Coral Chain Link Fob Bracelet

[sonofarathorn]

Okay, hear me out. I would love to see a Hangman drabble where it's like rough and dirty, trying not to get caught, sex. And there's definitely mentions in there about his dog tags or a chain or something... 🙏❤

Risky

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Smut 18+ [minors do not interact]. Semi-Public Sex. Unprotected Sex. Gagging (w/fingers and his chain). Light Choking. Dirty Talk (like he says some really filthy stuff). Pet Names.

A/N: Not 100% sure what came over me. I blame this on @ussgallifrey again. Seriously, they're an enabler. Heed all the warnings before beginning.

“Jake.” 

“Shh, baby. I know,” he mumbles low in your ear. “But ya gotta be quiet. Wouldn’t want the others to hear us, would we? We’d be in a lotta trouble.” 

The others. You can hear them all the way from downstairs. Their attention drawn towards the giant TV mounted on Mav’s wall. The Army-Navy football game was on, and though it seemed to be a sure victory for the Midshipmen, all eyes were completely focused. 

All eyes except four. Yours, slightly closed and out of focus, and Jake’s, glued to the reflection of your face in the bathroom mirror. 

Did you really intend to find yourself bent over the sink of the guest bathroom in the middle of the 3rd quarter? No, and Jake swears he hadn’t planned this either. 

You want to believe him. You almost do. But then you think of the lewd looks he’d given you out of the corner of his eyes. How he’d pulled you on his lap– much to the protest of Fanboy and Coyote who told y’all to take it somewhere else– and kept a hand glued to your inner thigh for the first half of the game. His not so innocent comments on the car ride over. And that damn chain of his that he kept fiddling with the entire time.

It was a weakness of yours. The solid gold links that nestled on his tan skin, accentuating the curve of his neck and strong collarbones. It was one he knew damn well, and always tried to play on. He loved your reaction to it. Loved when you used it to pull him forward so you could kiss him senseless. 

  And you loved when it dangled in your face while he fucked you, so win-win. 

A loud cheer from the others snaps you back into the present. The very real present, where Hangman’s hand is shoved down the front of your jeans. 

You bite your lip, stifling the loud noise that bubbles up in your throat. “Fuck,” you whisper. 

Jake pulls you back against his chest. He hooks his chin on your shoulder. “Just had to have you, baby. Couldn’t wait anymore.” He kisses the shell of your ear. “You look so good.” 

“A jersey and jeans did it for you?” You tease, though it takes a lot of effort to form coherent words. 

“My jersey.” Jake’s hand slips up your shirt to squeeze your breast. He rolls your pebbled nipple between his middle and ring finger. “And you know what these jeans to do me.” 

Yes, you did. Maybe you weren’t completely innocent either.

Your eyes meet his in the mirror, and you smile a little bashfully.  

Jake grins and nips at your jaw. His fingers swirl deftly over your clit. “Oh, honey. Don’t get all shy on me now. You put us here. Now what?” 

You want to say that he was the one that suggested your shared bathroom break after discreetly feeling you up for an hour, but the only sound that left your lips was a strangled moan as he put more pressure on your clit. 

“Huh, baby?” Jake presses an open mouthed kiss to your throat. “What’s it gonna be?” He starts to pull his hand away, and you grab his wrist. 

“No.” 

“No?” 

You shake your head. “Finish what you started.” 

His grin spreads. “Always do, darlin’. Always do.” Jake turns your head into a messy kiss as his hand resumes their movements between your legs. 

In no time, you’re close to coming. Such is the magic of your pilot’s hands. Your knees shake, head dropping back against his large chest. A couple moans slip through the cracks of your splintered sanity. 

By the third, slightly louder one, Jake slips two fingers in your mouth. You bite down on them, and a choked moan slides from Jake’s lips despite his best efforts.

“Ah shit, baby.” He grinds his hips against your ass. “Drive me fucking crazy.” 

Jake’s gaze holds yours in the mirror, green eyes boring into your soul. You can’t look away. You don’t want to. Hunger and desire is written all over his features. In the clench of his jaw, in the dark, thin ring of emerald almost completely eclipsed by his pupil. 

Trapped there under the weight of his stare. Held in place by the rock of his hips and the insistent rub of his fingers. It tips you over the edge. 

You’re grateful for the fingers that muffle you as your orgasm crashes over you. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, your jaw falls slack. 

“Holy shit,” Jake mutters, his voice slightly hoarse. “You’re so fucking hot. Practically dripping on my fingers” He pulls his hand from your jeans and sucks his finger into his mouth with an appreciative groan. “If I had more time I’d get my mouth on you, honey. Clean ya up.” 

But you don’t have more time. Someone’s bound to have noticed the two of you were missing, and if they haven’t asked questions yet, they would definitely start asking soon. 

Jake turns you around, lips messily slotting against yours. You can taste yourself when he licks his tongue into your mouth. His hands grip your hips tight, and he helps you up onto the granite counter. He messily yanks your jeans the rest of the way down your legs and steps between them. 

You tug at the waistband of his jeans and undo his belt buckle with shaky fingers. You get it undone eventually, and Jake just barely has time to push them down slightly before you’re wrapping your fingers around his aching cock. 

His eyes flutter shut, long blonde lashes fluttering against his cheek. Jake huffs out an expletive, rocking his hips forward into your hand. You kiss along the base of his throat, tongue peeking out to taste the sweat that dots his skin. 

“Fuck, baby. We don’t have a lot of time,” he says. 

You wrap a leg around his waist to pull him closer. “Well, you put us here,” you mimic his earlier words. “So, what now?”

Jake gives you his signature shit-eating grin. “Gonna finish what I started.” He pushes your hand away, and notches the head of his cock against your dripping pussy. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” You spread your legs a bit more. “But if you don’t fuck me, I think I’m gonna lose my mind.” 

He nudges his nose against yours. “Alright, alright. Easy, baby. I got ya.” He pulls your hips to the edge of the counter, and thrusts into you slowly. 

Your twin chokes of reverence echo through the bathroom, and you’re thankful for the distance between the bathroom and living room. Jake’s hips move slowly at first. A steady roll of his hips that allows you to feel every bit of him. It’s breathtaking. The sinful drag of his hips. The friction as skin meets your clit. His fingertips roaming your body, touching and squeezing all over. 

But it’s not enough. Not for your insatiable husband. Not for you. 

“More,” you whimper. “Harder, Jake. Faster, please.”

Jake breathes harshly through his nose. “Okay. But you gotta be quiet for me, honey. Can you do that for me?” 

You nod, but already your strength is fading. Sure, it would be downright mortifying if you were caught in such a compromising position, but you weren’t too confident in your ability to multitask at this point. 

He can see that tiny flash of indecision in your eyes. “You can do it.” He holds you close against him as his hips pick up in speed. “I know you can.” 

You pull his lips back to yours, tangling your fingers into his hair. He’s been growing it longer lately, and you’ve been loving the shagginess of it. Especially when the strands messily fall into his face like they’re doing now. 

The kiss is messy. A clash of teeth and tongue. Jake tucks little grunts into your mouth, and you give him a fair share of your own desperate noises in return. 

His hand slides down your body, and fits into the hallowed space between your thighs. The pressure on your clit sends lightning crackling down your spine. The high-pitched, breathy sigh leaves your lips before you can stop it. 

“Darling,” Jake drawls in warning, but also makes no move to stop.

You think he enjoys this, actually. Watching you struggle to stay quiet as he does all the things that would normally make you scream. Of course he does. Why else would he sneak you to the bathroom of a full house to have sex with you, if not for the thrill of it all?  

“I’m sorry. I’m trying.” 

“I know, I know. It’s hard, isn’t it? Staying quiet,” He whispers, a teasing edge to his tone. “Why’s that, honey? Feels too good, doesn’t it?” 

You nod. 

“Need something to keep your mouth busy?” He asks with a smirk.

Again, you nod. 

Jake pulls the chain out from under his shirt. “Here. Suck on this.” 

Your eyes widen. It’s not the first time you’ve had this thought, but his blatant offering makes your cunt clench. 

His hips stutter. “Jesus. Go on, sweetheart. I know you want to.” 

You lean forward, eyes locked, and suck the golden chain into your mouth. 

Jake groans with approval. “Good, baby. You’re so good. Just keep doing that while I fuck you– ah fuck.” A sudden gush of warmth floods your body at his praise. “You’re so wet.” 

The filthy sound of your writhing bodies fill the room. Your cunt squelches with each snap of Jake’s hips. You’d feel embarrassed about it if it didn’t feel so damn good. 

Jake’s free hand slides to the base of your jaw. He tilts your face up. “Look at me.” 

With great effort, you meet his gaze. Jake looms over you, body completely covering yours. When he speaks, his lips nearly brush your own. His warm breath fans over your breath, cinnamon and whisky heavy on his tongue. You’re so close you can see the brush of freckles over the bridge of his nose.  

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” His fingers lightly squeeze your throat. “Feel so goddamn good, honey. Gonna make me come. Gonna fill your pretty pussy up right here. Make you walk around with it inside you all day, so you can think of me with every step you take. You want that?”

Your answer in the affirmative is a small squeak.

“Dirty girl,” Jake whispers with gravel in his voice. “My dirty girl.” 

The effect his words have on your body is nearly instantaneous. Dirty talk is not a foreign concept in the bedroom, but this was a whole new side of Hangman that you definitely wanted to see again. 

“Think they know we’re up here?” Jake mumbles, lip loosed by the desire that twists low in his gut. “Do they know I’m fucking you like this? That you practically begged me for it? Begged me to fuck you here, even though anyone could walk right in and see. You like it don’t you?” His question is cut off by a shameless groan. He’s not even trying to hide it anymore. 

You nod. Jake is spiraling deeper into lust, and you’re just along for the wonderfully sinful ride. All you can do is hang on tight, while the thrust of his hips and his wicked words drive you insane.

“S’okay, darling. S’alright. I like it too.” His jaw clenches, eyes screwing up. His hips meet yours in a sloppy rhythm. “Don’t we make quite the pair?” He chuckles. 

Your head spins. You feel like you’re on a merry-go-round going a thousand miles an hour. Each snap of his hips makes your blood boil. Each swipe of his thumb on your clit, brings you closer to that wonderful warmth. 

“I’m gonna come, honey.” His voice is strained. “Want you to come too. Can you do that for me? Can you come all over me?” 

The chain falls from your mouth, slick with spit. “Yes. Please.” 

“I got you,” Jake whispers. “Just come for me.” 

You do. You rocket over the edge. Your whole body shakes with the force of it. It shocks you into silence, that’s the only reason the bathroom isn’t filled to the brim with your hoarse cries, the only reason you’re not caught then and there. 

Jake bites his knuckle, hips stuttering forward as the knot unravels in his stomach. He comes with a muffled grunt, toes curling in his boots. Fills you up to the brim and then some in waves that seem never-ending. His hips don’t stop moving, don’t stop fucking his cum back into you.

Your legs snap shut around his waist, holding him deep within you. “Oh fuck.”

“Godfuckingdammit.” Jake groans, and his hips finally still. He presses his face into your shoulder, trailing gentle kisses across his skin. Jake laughs. “Oh, Christ.” 

Neither of you move for a moment, you just bask in the post-coital bliss until your ragged breathing becomes even again. You’re too full, and Jake’s too warm to pull away. Lethargy fills your body, weighing down your limbs, filling your head with smoke. You know eventually you’ll have to face the music, but you don’t want to just yet. 

Jake cocks his head to the side. “I think the game’s over.” 

“Probably.” 

“It’s a miracle they haven’t started looking for us yet.” 

“I think they know better. They might not like what they find.” You grin up at him. 

Jake kisses your nose. “And uh…did you like it?” 

“I did.” You brush his hair from his face. “Didn’t know you were into that.” 

Despite everything he’s said and done, Jake blushes. “Yeah, I uh–” He rubs the back of his neck. “I got a little carried away.” 

“No, no.” The corner of your mouth ticks up. “I liked it…a lot.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

Jake moves to speak again, but a knocking on the door makes you both jump. And the jump presses Jake’s still-seated cock deeper into you. Jake covers your mouth immediately, muffling the squeal you let out. 

“Hey guys!” Rooster calls. 

Your eyes widen. Jake shakes his head. He presses a finger to his lips.

“I know you’re in there. Everyone knows you’re in there.” 

No response. 

“Okay, well people are starting to ask questions, and I can only distract them for so long. Time to join the party,” he says. “Oh! The Navy won by the way. Seems like they’re not the only ones who scored.”

You don’t unfreeze until you hear his footsteps recede down the stairs. 

“Shit. I guess we’re lucky they didn’t come looking for us earlier,” Jake says. “‘M gonna pull out now, honey, okay?”

You bite your bottom lip and nod. Jake slips his softening cock from your cunt. You both groan quietly– you from the emptiness that aches after being so full, and he from the sight of his cum slowly dribbling from your folds. You don’t miss the hitch in his breath, and the slight twitch of his cock. 

“Don’t even think about it.” You press your hand to his chest. “We don’t have time.” 

You hear the opening keys to Great Balls of Fire. Rooster really was pulling out all the stops. 

“You’re right,” he admits, though he doesn’t look particularly happy about it. Jake grabs a spare washcloth and helps you clean up. “I should leave first. Probably less suspicious than if we show up together.” 

You watch him tuck himself into his jeans. He’s still hard. The realization makes your mouth water. 

“I’ll think of a lie on the way down. Say you weren’t feeling well, or something.” 

“Good luck.” You slide off the counter and pull your jeans back up. 

True to his word, you can feel Jake’s cum pool in your panties. You rub your thighs together in a way you hope is inconspicuous, but of course, Jake catches it.  

He kisses your cheek. “Everything alright, baby?” 

“Peachy.” You smile at him.  

“Alright. I’ll see you down there.” His hand lingers on the waistband of your jeans. “Try not to get distracted.”

Jake throws you a wink over his shoulder and shuts the door behind him. 

Bastard. Smug bastard. Smug bastard that just fucked you within an inch of your life in the bathroom while his friends and boss watched football. Smug bastard whose cum you can feel sliding down the inside of your thigh.

As you dab at your face with another washcloth, and try to make yourself look somewhat presentable, you say thank you to whoever ruled the universe, and a quick prayer that this won’t be the last time you see this wonderfully filthy side of your husband again. 

[ezlebe]

If you're still doing prompts - the roys and greg are all vampires but tom is not

“Are you nervous?” Greg asks, turning over the black and gold half mask in his hands, as he paces down the length of the room. “Like. You’re prepared, you know. You shouldn’t be nervous.”

Tom rolls his head back and forth, not quite looking back, and definitely not responding to the question. He threads a cuff link through his shirt, a flash of gold between his fingers, then reaches for the next.

“I mean, it’s…” Greg swallows, thickly, lifting and spinning a hand with a weak lift of his shoulder. “It’ll be easy?”

“What makes you say that?“ Tom asks, in a bright, biting chirp, as he reaches now for the cravat pooled on the vanity. “You didn’t have to go through the wringer, proving to every fang for seventeen generations that you’re worthy of low blood pressure, solar allergies, and eternal hunger – you just hatched.”

Greg grunts low under his breath. “Sort of? But they still tried to drown me when I was born.”

Tom looks up with a blink through his lashes. “What?”

“Because my mom like did it in secret, I guess?” Greg says, looking down while digging his fingernail into the leather edge of his mask. “So you know, I technically did have to pass a test. By like not dying from that.”

“What the fuck – ? No, I did not know that,” Tom says, voice pitching, as he wraps the silk around his neck with a derisive grimace. “I thought that… Jesus, Roman’s said as much, but I thought it was a fucking turn of phrase.”

“Oh,” Greg intones, briefly letting his eyes sweep the ground in discomfort. “Yeah, I mean – No? Obviously, it turned out okay. I don’t remember it?”

“And neither the fuck will I. You’re really not making me feel like I’m standing on any more solid ground,” Tom says, as he looks up, then he sighs, offering a jerk of his chin to gesture for Greg to step close. “Come here. The little chain is all looped across – ” He lifts his hands, gently tugging at the collar chain Greg is using in place of a tie. “There. Now you’re respectable.”

Greg peeks down at the edges of the antlers framing his throat. “It doesn’t look lame?”

“You’re insulting me, Greg,” Tom says, fussily straightening the rest of Greg’s shirt, down his lapels, then flicking at a closure on the vest. “I might not remember you, in an hour, but I think some part of me will just know I’m the reason you don’t look like a schlub.”

“That would be weird,” Greg says, though he’s got his own hopes about cracks in the spell.

“The whole ritual is weird,” Tom says, pulling away with a wide eye roll. He looks in the mirror to straighten his own outfit; it’s an antique silver one, so the space is empty next to him, proving it as little more than a costume piece for anyone else in the manor. “Forget your partner just to choose them, again? In masks? It’s a rigged carnival game – one of truest bullshit, considering the 100% divorce rate in the Roy cauldron.”

Greg feels a tight pull at the corner of his mouth, somewhat ducking his head with a weak lift of a shoulder. “Okay, so you – you’re ready, right? You, um – ”

Tom loudly sucks at his teeth, looking away from the mirror while stuffing his silk cravat into his vest. He stares for a few long, heavy seconds at Greg, then straightens, as he clears his throat. “If you ask if I’m ready one more time, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“I-I only want you to pass,” Greg mutters, somewhat irked, and he feels like somewhere over the last couple weeks, as the final test snuck up, he started being the only one to care if Tom went through with it. He shouldn’t even be the one here with Tom getting ready. “Do you want me to go see what Shiv is wearing?”

“It doesn’t matter, bud. But hey, corner me about the rules, after they’ve lobotomized me, will you?” Tom says, rather than answering the question. “I don’t feel like getting sabotaged by the old ghouls on a technicality.”

Greg tips his head back and forth, imagining how it might go meeting Tom a second time; it’ll be different, at least, since he won’t know Greg’s a vampire, so he can’t – probably won’t make a joke about asking for a bite. “Will you… be nice?”

“I cannot possibly promise that, buddy,” Tom says, picking up the last of his outfit for the masque, a gold phantom mask, from the settee with a crooked smirk. He reaches out and claps Greg atop the shoulder. “You’ll just have to get over it.”

~

It turns out that Greg doesn’t have to explain it at all, because the basis is given to an enthralled Tom and another dozen mortal hopefuls at the masque. They don’t get the truth, since no one is told they’ve been put under a forgetfulness spell, only simply that they’re there part of a singles event and everyone is to exchange a token with their choice of partner at the end of the night. The tokens that Tom and Shiv share are a pair of fine bracelets donated by Caroline, which had been something of a contention, since Tom repeatedly emphasized a desire for a favor more like a silk ribbon.

Or Tom had said as much to Greg, anyway, who admittedly isn’t sure he told this to Shiv, or anyone else.

The whole pronouncement of the ritual by Ewan at the start makes Greg somewhat inexplicably queasy, a feeling that just worsens when Tom and the others are announced and file in at the entrance, so he’s relieved not to have to actually talk to Tom after he begins mingling among the party. He chooses, at first, just to watch Tom from some distance away, but then it starts to sting not to have Tom look back at him, so he begins looking for places that Tom wouldn’t be able to see him from to pretend that it’s just a coincidental sort of disregarding, not that Tom has no clue that Greg is his friend.

He does start to worry, almost an hour into the masque, when he catches on that it seems like Shiv is also in places that Tom won’t happen to see her. It actually seems as if she is outright avoiding him, and Greg grudgingly works himself up to asking about it, after catching her slipping away a second time from a room that Tom happens to step into in an evident wander.

Shiv is easy to catch when she doesn’t know she needs to be watching, though it does mean blood wine nearly ends up down Greg’s black and gold vest. She lifts her unoccupied hand, palm up, in exasperation. “What the fuck, Greg?”

“What are you doing?” Greg says, then winces, as the question emerges a little more sharp than he intends, if not particularly as harshly as he means it. “You’re, like – you’re setting him up to fail.”

Shiv stares back for a pair of tense beats. “I am not,” she says, primly lying, as she takes a quick sip of her wine. “The point is for him to find me.”

“The point is for him to fall in l-love with you, again,” Greg says, clearing his throat, as his voice threatens to break around the reminder. “But he can’t like do that, if you’re totally avoiding him. The whole mask and spell apparatus is the finding part, not like, uh, like a really mean hide-and-seek.”

“He’ll find me if he’s meant to,” Shiv says, a marked tic in her jaw, as her eyes dart away and then back up. “Maybe he’s not meant to.”

Greg feels something lurch behind his sternum. It’s not a fresh memory, exactly, but Tom had made some roundabout… metaphor in a stressful moment that seemed like he was perhaps out of love with Shiv, but that’s not particularly the point at hand. “Do you seriously want him to die?” He asks, because it only really matters that Tom qualifies to be turned before it’s too late. “For Tom to get old, or just sick, and… he’ll just to be gone?”

“No, you dick, but – ” Shiv exhales a harsh breath and glances down with a quick sweep of her eyes on the other side of her mask. “I don’t need you to understand. Fuck off, Cousin Lurch.”

Greg crosses his arms, scratching at his elbows while he shakes his head. “I want to, actually, be-because I suspect that – ” He clears his throat, “I think you don’t even love him, do you?”

“Fuck you,” Shiv snarls, fangs briefly emerging from her gums in furor. “It’s not about love. You don’t fucking get it, do you? How when you turn someone you’re fucking conjoined to them; you’ve got this pulling thing hooked into your fucking soul like a leech.”

“It’s only until they’re… better, or whatever,” Greg says, hunching into his shoulders, as he looks around toward the rest of the party, though no one seems to be paying them much attention. “It never sounded that bad to me?”

“So do it yourself, then,” Shiv snaps, offering a goading jut of her chin. “Shocked that wasn’t your first instinct.”

“I can’t!” Greg says, hearing his voice pitch, tightening his hands around his elbows while feeling his own fangs threaten to rush his gums. “You know you’reTom’s only – ”

A familiar tut sets lifts hair at the back of Greg’s neck. “I hate to interrupt.”

Greg peeks over with a wince to find his mom loitering under a nearby painting.

“Were neither of you listening to my dad?” Marianne asks, typically sarcastic, scratching at the scarf she has tied around her neck in a gaudy crimson. “Or is it just totally wrong impression?”

Shiv rolls her lips tight together, turning them exceptionally pale. “This isn’t your business, Marianne.”

“He said…” Marianne continues, then trails off, as her eyes roll and she tuts, “Not to quote, because I wasn’t listening that close, but I know it was something like ‘should Thomas Wambsgans court an attendant of the masquerade, they may take him as mate’, right?”

Shiv shifts her jaw, then sends a sharp glance up at Greg, as if he’s got any control over his mom. “So?”

“So, Siobhan,” Marianne says, using her wine glass to gesture in a condescending circle between the three of them. “He didn’t say: ‘should Thomas Wambsgans court Siobhan Roy’ did he?”

Greg focuses briefly on Shiv, wetting his lips before looking back to Marianne.

“Hell, our Tommy could court…” Marianne pauses, again, eyes lifting with some too-obvious weight on Greg, then hums a pair of notes, lifting her thumb over her shoulder to wag at the milling party. “Any dolled-up fang, and they would be able turn him tomorrow morning under the decree.” She takes a sip, sucking at her teeth, unashamed about showing her fangs. “You two are still young, but the whole point of these stupid parties was to be a meat market that trapped members of royal families in mildly compatible matches and add their blood to the mix.”

Greg furrows his brow, then rolls his eyes over his mom’s head.

“And Dad would just love to piss off duplicitous Uncle Logan with a technicality,” Marianne says, then gestures with the glass at Shiv with a slight dip of her shoulder. “No offense, hun.”

Shiv sneers while she takes a sip from her own glass.

Greg weakly cocks his head, because… that’s true, except Grandpa Ewan is also steadfast when it comes to digging in his heels to disappoint everyone. He chews at his lower lip, not particularly comforted, but that is fairly typical for getting advice from his mom.

“Now don’t get me wrong,” Marianne says, as her eyes settle and narrow toward Shiv. “I don’t think anyone will especially approve that you brought a potential this far into the fold only to turn chicken.”

“It’s not like I just – ” Shiv all but growls, then visibly swallows, jaw tightening beneath her mask. “That isn’t what happened.”

“Uh-huh. The whole kit and kaboodle isn’t for everyone, obviously,” Marianne says, gesturing at herself while rolling her head back and forth, then exhaling an ugly snort with a short lean forward. “Hell, I’ve heard a lot of stories out of the last year – very surprised m’ athair got the invitation to this masque.”

Greg feels a tightening in his shoulders. “Mom, shut up.”

“I’m just saying that a lot of trying got us to this point, so clearly there’s some forces here that want Tom in the cauldron, alright?” Marianne says, as she takes a step out of their small circle. She gestures away, down the hall beyond the milling guests. “Now, I’m off to go eat my ego and try to convince daddy dearest that changing some parameters here is his idea. You better thank me,little cousin.”

Shiv peeks up at Greg, then focuses hard on Marianne, defiantly cocking her chin. “I will when it happens.”

“Oh, ever the doubter,” Marianne says, as she turns away with a lofty scoff. “Tata.”

Shiv throws back the rest of her wine, then looks up at Greg. “Now you just need to find him someone he could want,” she says, tone rolling in a mocking lilt around the words. “How very convenient for you.”

“Me?” Greg says, hearing temper flare in his voice, ugly from the back of his throat.

Shiv narrows her eyes, staring back for a solid beat, then seems to literally swallow her words, as she shifts a long look to Greg’s right arm. She eventually exhales a sigh, as her shoulders roll back to square. “Yeah, Greg. You.” She throws her hair across her shoulder with a low, embittered laugh. “You’re the one… who cares so much.”

“But I can’t – ” Greg shakes his head, lifting a hand, and nearly knocks his mask off when he unthinkingly attempts to run his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to set him up with anyone else.”

“Other than me?” Shiv says, flatly, while her mouth lifts in a crooked sneer. “Right?”

Greg wets his lips, feeling his gut clench. “Yeah, uh -yeah, obviously, I meant you.”

Shiv is predictably the first between them to lose her patience. “Are we seriously going to fucking do this, Greg?”

“I guess?” Greg stiffly resettles his mask against his nose with a shrug. “I can’t like imagine to what it is you’re addressing.”

“Oh, you can’t?” Shiv sneers, voice lifting mockingly, as she leans forward on the balls of her feet. “That’s a load of bull. Look at what you’re wearing, Greg.”

“Okay, maybe, but not like…” Greg clears his throat, lifting his nose a little while chewing at the inside of his lip. “You know, like you brought a concubine to your commitment ceremony, anyway, making you seem like not particularly committed.”

“A concubine?” Shiv repeats, while fangs frame a sharp upturn of a hostile smile. “You’re barely three hundred, you don’t know what the fuck a concubine is.”

Greg drops his chin. “I obviously do, because – ”

A throat clears. “Excuse me, gentleman and lady?”

Greg stumbles forward and nearly straight into Shiv, who offers a small, shocked yelp, hands lifting up in his direction with a wide, startled expression flashing across her face. He makes sure his mask is straight, as he looks back, seeing Tom looking bemused between them.

“Are you two in the middle of – ?”

“Cousins!” Greg interrupts, tightly, shaking his head and briefly catching an aghast grimace beside him. “We’re just cousins. The, uh – the totally non-kissing kind.”

Shiv exhales an exaggerated gag. “What the fuck, Greg.”

“Glad to hear it,” Tom says, brightly and bewilderingly, then thrusts out a hand, first to Greg, then to Shiv, nodding between them with a friendly, polite sort of smile. It is odd to be on the other side of it, since this isn’t really an expression Greg gets very often, or ever, and a glance over confirms that Shiv is just as discomforted by it. “Nice to meet you. I’m Tom Wa – Or, just Tom, right? No surnames.”

Greg nods with a weak hum to echo the sentiment. He is very quickly confirming that he doesn’t particularly like Tom not recognizing him; it’s been two blatant missed opportunities for heckling, and the air feels a little empty for it.

“I just have been seeing you around, actually, and I want – ” Tom pauses, oddly shaking his head. “I wanted to – ” He abruptly inhales a sharp breath, interrupting himself while lifting a hand to his forehead in evident pain. “Fuck.”

“Tom?” Greg says, feeling his voice pitch tight against the back of his throat. He can’t remember Grandpa Ewan mentioning any side effects, but no one really tends to pay attention to how magic affects mortals.

“Is your head okay?” Shiv demands, her voice rising urgently between them.

“Sorry, hah,” Tom says, voice tight, as he stiffly attempts to dismiss the question. “I’ve had this little ache starting up since I got here, but it’s nothing.”

“Does it feel like you’re having a stroke?” Shiv asks, tensely, as she lifts her empty wine glass and curls close to her chest. “Or is it more like a migraine?”

“O-or an aneurysm?” Greg says, flapping his hands up near his own head with a high lift of his arms crooked at the elbow. “Like, your head is actively exploding?”

Tom glances between blinks to Greg and Shiv, slowly pulling his hand from his brow. He offers a crooked, bemused smirk. “I really think it’s just that purple liquor, but I’m… flattered at the concern.”

“Sure,” Shiv says, reaching up and scratching at her brow. She looks at Tom for a beat longer, then back to Greg, expression tightening and conflicted, then it smooths out. “Fuck, Greg, I – ” She shakes her head, as she takes a step away, plainly again hesitating on her heel, but eventually does take a full stride away.

Greg slowly, carefully looks back at Tom, only to see he’s staring at him, rather than at Shiv’s retreating back. He blinks and feels his face color, scratching at the base of his jaw. “I’m, uh – I’m sorry? Did you… were you trying to ask to dance with her?”

“Not quite…” Tom winces, making a toothy, near-parody of a grimace, before he peeks back up as his lips shift into grin. “Actually, I was talking to you.”

Greg stares back for a pair of beats, feeling heat prickle more sharply under the mask. “You were?”

“Is that okay?” Tom asks, raising the brow not behind his mask, seeming more wry than particularly concerned.

“Yeah? Y-Yes,” Greg says, exhaling a brief stutter. “Of course, that’s – ” He should like probably chase Shiv back down, but… Tom is looking at him. Just him. “Yeah. It’s totally fine.”

Tom stares for a markedly charged beat, then his head tilts, as he wets his lips. “You still haven’t told me your name?”

“Oh, sorry,” Greg says, sweeping his hair awkwardly across his ear. “Greg?”

“Greg,” Tom repeats, in a fond, familiar sort of lilt – and a bit of a shock, since he’s not supposed to remember him. “As in Gregory, then? Suits you.”

“Does it?” Greg says, lifting his brows, as he looks away with a jerk of a nod. “I-I mean, thanks.”

The main ballroom swells with music, as they approach, and is filled with dancers of varying talent; slow and clumsy, to quick and spinning. It’s a comfort not to feel pressure to perform well, since Greg isn’t a hugely talented dancer, despite the cauldron’s best efforts through exposure, and Tom can’t remember that means he has had centuries to fail to practice.

“Would you like to – ?” Tom gestures his hands in a position further up than expected.

“No, no… Um, you can lead,” Greg says, hesitantly reaching out to wrap his hand at Tom’s shoulder.

“I thought so,” Tom says, breezy yet pointed, while he tips his head with a marked smirk. His hand settles solid and wide against Greg’s ribs, holding there in a way far different from the usual poke and prods he affords in general. “You look like you prefer to ask where to point.”

“Hah,” Greg mutters, rolling his lips together with a jerky nod. He feels something unspool beneath his ribs, as he realizes it’s definitely Tom underneath all the polite action. He is, briefly, a bit irked that he’s never really experienced polite Tom before; he definitely should have been given the opportunity the first time, but it… is what it is, and sometimes the deep end is the best place to fall.

“The costume really flatters you, Greg,” Tom says, voice low, in plainly some, fairly successful, attempt to flatter, as they begin to move with the music. It’s as close as they’ve ever been without some pretense, so distracting and unexpected, and the degree of their touch almost, somehow makes Tom hard to hear. “I don’t mean the mask. The brocade here… it was a superb choice – it’s like we came all ready to match.”

“Oh yeah, I know,” Greg says, absently, as they glide and step around other dancers, only to quickly find himself stiffening under a dubious stare. “I – I mean, thanks, but I didn’t actually pick it out? I’m mostly ever worried stuff won’t fit.”

Tom narrows an eye. “Your date?”

“No,” Greg says, shaking his head, feeling a harsh croak at the edge of his voice. “No date.”

“Just making sure,” Tom says, quirking a brow, then he tips his head, as he glances around them at the rest of the dance floor. “You’ve been talking to a lot of pretty masks tonight.”

Greg feels his face color, again, and worries he’s going to have to find somewhere to feed at the waste of energy. “I guess… you know, it’s important to blend in.”

“It’s definitely a formal fucking event, like playacting one of the paintings in this badly decorated museum,” Tom muses, as the music slows, prompting them to move slower and somehow closer, as piano gradually swells around them. “But you agreed to a dance with me, didn’t you?”

Greg offers a small lift of his shoulder. “You’re pretty, too,” he mumbles, then immediately wants to swallow his tongue. “I-I mean… You’re handsome? From, uh – from what I can see.”

“I’ll take either,” Tom says, smirking, as he offers a cocky tilt of his head.

The song blurs into another, and they keep going, easing Greg into some space where he can pretend the masque is going well, rather than having totally fallen apart. He catches Roman and Connor at the edge of the floor, but ignores them, turning his head while instead concentrating on counting the warm puffs of breath across his neck. He can imagine that it’s actually going to work out, standing so close, hands clasped together, like it was supposed to turn out this way.

The tactic doesn’t quite work for long, as his thoughts regroup to form another attack. What if Tom gets pissed? It would be okay, maybe, if he wasn’t going to remember tomorrow. It’s not a lot of time to come up with an excuse for what’s happening that doesn’t just make it more obvious that Greg leapt at the chance to essentially ruin Tom’s chances at becoming part of the cauldron.

“Hey,” Tom says, as his hand lifts across the back of Greg’s shoulder with a squeeze. The music around them is fading quickly, and his voice is consequently barely a mutter, as he lifts his chin to speak in Greg’s ear. “You need a breather, there?”

Greg feels a bit like that’s giving up, but he manages a jerking nod. He looks down, when Tom tugs him by the hands they had been holding to dance, and sees Tom’s is squarer than his, but just as large, and realizes with a hard swallow that he’s got a lot of thoughts racing that he’s been trying to avoid.

It turns out that Tom had actually meant air, not simply stopping their dance, as he leads Greg out onto a stone patio. He even takes a deep breath of the cool air, remarkably literal, as he lets go of Greg to lean on a stone half wall.

Greg stares at Tom’s back, rubbing absently at the lingering warmth in his hand. He lets his eyes trace across Tom’s broad shoulders, then down the seam of the jacket to his waist. It feels a little more lecherous than it normally might, more one-sided, since Tom would usually look back, then they’d both look away and pretend they hadn’t shared a thing.

“This is going to make me sound like some hopped up stalker,” Tom says, after a few moments of staring out across the green; he doesn’t see it though, it’s just dark for him, and now always will be, which feels like another point of failure. “Or a fucking moron addled by romance novels, but I… I’ve been drawn to you all night. Like a super powered magnet.”

Greg feels his jaw actually drop somewhat open. “You have?”

Tom hums a low confirmation, then he turns around to face Greg with an exaggerated, puffing sigh. “But maybe you’re just that tall.”

“Hah,” Greg mutters, dropping his head with a weak tilt of his chin. “Maybe.”

“Honestly, though,” Tom says, stepping closer, pushing away from the wall with a frustrated gesture of both his hands. “It was like my eyes went right to you whenever we were in the same room.”

“Oh, I – ” Greg shakes his head, but he really can’t remember Tom looking back at him. “I didn’t notice?”

“I hoped you wouldn’t,” Tom says, mouth flattening, as he offers a dismissive, flapping gesture. “It was…” He laughs, low, “It made my head hurt just a little. Literally.”

“I thought it – ” Greg takes a frustrated breath, as he shakes his head. “You said that was the, like – the plum wine?”

“I haven’t had that much,” Tom says, really seeming not to care enough, though he might if he knew about the spell. “But I really don’t think it’s a fucking aneurysm. I just keep… thinking about Romans, for some reason, as in the emperors.”

Greg briefly forgets about his own concern, as a croak of a laugh escapes him. “Really?”

Tom hums a confirmation. “Did you know the emperor Nero had a legion of men over 6 foot?”

“No,” Greg says, shaking his head while biting at his lower lip. He wonders if Tom had been saving that up and has accidentally just ruined it for himself. “I thought Romans were… sort of short?”

“They were a bit prejudiced when they were writing about Gauls, yes,” Tom muses, rolling his head back and forth, as a familiar condescending sort of smirk curves his mouth. “But Nero is a hundred years after Caesar kicked them hard.”

“Right,” Greg says, nodding with a weak lift of a shoulder. “I, uh… I really only know the history I live through.”

“That’s a pretty narrow window, bud,” Tom says, raising a brow, as he offers a plainly judgmental tilt of his chin.

Greg feels a wry smirk pull at the edge of his mouth. “…Sort of, yeah. But it’s getting wider.”

Tom holds his dubious expression for a beat, then breaks into a laugh with a shake of his head.

Greg can’t help when the smile grows wide and unwieldy across his lips.

“Look,” Tom says, taking a step back, then forward, lifting a hand oddly across his chest with a short lean into it. “You can take it or leave it, but I feel like I’ve got…” He exhales a weak puff, dragging his teeth hard across his lip. “I have to ask if you’ll take the stupid thing I’m supposed to give to someone I like, as if this is some rose exchange in middle school.”

Greg feels his expression collapse with surprise, hurriedly closing his mouth before his instinctually erupting fangs are visible along his smallteeth. He can’t help but think that it’s only been a dance and a conversation to Tom, and barely that, yet he already wants to exchange tokens? Greg isn’t sure if that … Is that normal? It can’t be.

“I know, I know, it sounds like I’m taking the cart here, and the rules said at midnight, yadda yadda,” Tom says, pacing a few steps one way down the patio, then turning and walking back, his hands spinning between them in a fussy gesture. “But I already know you’re the only could-be I’ve met tonight that I want to see again.”

Greg wets his lower lip, offering a weak turn of his head. “Are you sure?”

“I am,” Tom says, a sincere, tight sort of smile pinching at his mouth. “I really am, but… My ego can take it, if you want to do a little more looking.”

“I don’t, really,” Greg admits, scratching hard, then yanking into the small hairs on the back of his neck. “An-and I do feel the same, really, about like knowing you and looking at you, but… It’s just, uh… It’s complicated?” He shakes his head, slumping down onto a stone bench that the night makes cold through his thin trousers. “I didn’t even… I didn’t think I’d meet anyone.”

“Look, how about – ” Tom kneels down, which is absolutely awful, and then he makes it worse by pulling the actual tokenout of his inner jacket pocket. “We just do it, then figure it out later?”

“I – I don’t have a – ” Greg gestures, at a loss, as he stares at the bracelet with a tightness growing at the back of his throat.

Tom spins the bracelet around his fingers. “You really didn’t expect to meet anyone tonight? You’re hardly ugly, Greg. I can’t see enough of your face, but I think you’re probably put together just perfect.”

Greg bobs his head while he exhales a weak croak to clear his voice. “Okay, uh-uhm – ?” He lifts a hand, clumsily tugging at the pins holding the chain across his shirt collar. He looks down at the antlers, then up, offering them. “Is this okay?”

“Only if you’re willing to part with it,” Tom says, quiet and sincere, then he breaks the tension with a small snort. “Those’re definitely more your style.”

Greg answers with a weak huff. He only has them because of Tom, who he had been shopping with when he had seen a similar set in a display apart from the other jewelry. He had been interested, but concerned they were silver, so waved off the offer to pull them from the case; he’d gotten a surprise weeks later, when Tom presented him a near identical set cast in platinum.

He weaves the antlers between the chain and leaves them bound at Tom’s wrist. The points dig into his skin, leaving little rosy scratches of pressure, but Tom doesn’t seem to notice. “You can give them back.”

“Sure, I can,” Tom says, then he wets his lips, as he seems to hesitate with the token in his hand. He narrows his eyes at it, then throws it onto the bench. “You know what? I hate that.”

“Um?” Greg says, staring at the bracelet on the bench.

“If we’re using whatever, you can take this,” Tom says, as he begins to pull at his cravat, yanking it from his throat and leaving it somewhat indecently exposed for company. Of Greg. “A traditional sort of thing, like a knightly favor. I can’t even remember why I have that… bracelet.”

“Oh,” Greg intones, nodding in a jerky drop of his chin.

“No, no – Up,” Tom says, as he shakes out the cravat, only to just as quickly twist it back up. “You’re looking naked now.”

Greg slowly tilts his head back, anxiously wondering if he can have a heart attack, because it feels like it’s making a go for crawling up his throat. The feeling becomes especially bad when Tom straightens his shirt, as he ties the silk around it, because it feels… just like it had earlier in the night when he straightened the antlers.

“That’s funny,” Tom says, quietly, as he finishes tying the knot.

Greg hums a confused note.

“I thought it was just your hands, but you run pretty cold,” Tom says, as his knuckles gently press against Greg’s jaw, swiping up to the point of his chin. “Are you chilly?”

Greg feels his eyes widen. “Uh – ?” He slowly drops his head, wincing while he looks into Tom’s openly curious face, as he fails to come up with an excuse. He finds himself swallowing hard, thud getting worse, then he leans in and clumsily presses his mouth to Tom’s before he can think any more about it.

Tom inhales deep, pushing back with a rock forward on the balls of his feet. He seems to nearly lose his balance, as well, hand flattening on the bench beside Greg, while the other that had previously been across Greg’s jaw settles heavily onto his neck. He turns his head, seeming to try to deepen the kiss, mouth opening in a gasp between them, only for their masks to clatter together with dull thunks of leather and metal.

Greg pulls away with a small duck of his head, a flush in his face that’s probably the worst he’s ever had it.

“God, these things really get in the way, don’t they?” Tom says, reaching up and knocking a pair of knuckles against the cheek of his own. He stands from the ground, shaking out his hands with a shuttering sort of a laugh. “I’m glad to have met you and all, Greg, but I must have been real lonely and schnookered to sign up for this costume party.”

~

Tom jolts awake to a sharp series of honk from a car outside the window and covers his face with a groan, only to feel a dragging weight across his wrist. He peeks open his eyes, staring blearily at a pair of familiar platinum antlers locked across their chain. “Oh,” he chokes, shoving himself up on the mattress in a fumbling hurry. “Shit. Shit.”

The hazy memory filters in and what happened, how it happened, is all good, in a way – maybe even edging into great – but it’s so totally fucked. He let his heart get in the way of a plan he’s suffered and bled over for half a decade; how goddamn romantic.

He slumps back, playing with the chain, and manages somehow not to immediately reach for his phone. It eventually rings, anyway, as he’s spiraling with his eyes following the spinning ceiling fan, and it nearly startles him into the other side of the bed.

“Thomas,” greets an aged voice, once the line connects, tinged with ever-present gripe.

“Sir,” Tom says, closing his eyes for a few beats; evidently, his failure is worthy of a personal boast from the great hermit himself. “Good morning.”

Ewan grumbles out a rasping sigh. “Congratulations. I have been…” He pauses, exhaling another lengthy breath. “Convinced that you’ve passed.”

Tom peeks up at the shifting shadows of the curtains and the fanblades. …He what? Wait, does that mean he’s –

“I do not envy your position,” Ewan continues, “Gregory is not particularly… accountable, so you will likely have to be very explicit with him during the acclimation period if you want your needs met.”

Tom covers his face with a hand, breathing hard into his palm, then cracks his fingers open across his mouth. He’s pretty sure his smile would put the Joker to shame. “Shouldn’t be any trouble.”

“I’ve been convinced of that, as well,” Ewan says, in a way that might be wry, if it contained any particular humor.

Tom taps his fingers heavily against the side of his cheek. “Could I risk it all by asking why the special case?”

“No special cases,” Ewan says, sternly, setting hair up on the back of Tom’s neck from miles away. “The masque was used this way for centuries, not wasted on a single potential.” His voice resettles into an apathetic note. “And Marianne is to be head of the family, eventually, she’ll need backing unrelated to my brother, when the time comes.”

Tom raises brows with a bitten back choke of laughter. He thinks Logan must love that succession plan, after spending centuries grooming his own spawn. “I can… understand that position.”

“Good,” Ewan says, decisive, “She will also schedule and handle your conversion.”

Tom thinks he hears a protest in the background, just before the line goes dead, which explains a lot – he’s a test in responsibility, how fun. He’ll be shocked if the upcoming most-painful-experience-of-his-life-bordering-on-actual-death is any more formal than her showing up at the door with Greg at some random time between today and two months from now.

He rolls the phone in his hand, then tosses it up, grabbing it, and switching between apps until he finds the right name to tap. The phone rings in his ear far longer than usual, and that’s to be expected, but it finally connects on what must be the final ring.

“Gregory, hello there,” Tom says, raising his voice over a familiar mumble attempting to greet him down the line. “Tell me, did I suffer a wet dream, or did you really kiss me like a damsel under the moonlight?”

“Um, I…” Greg sighs, and it’s too easy to imagine his conflicted expression while he weighs his options. “It was a new moon?”

Tom exhales a quiet laugh through his nose.

Greg continues to hem and haw, to some concerning degree. “Sorry.”

“Are you?” Tom asks, pitching his voice in a taunt, trying to cover the small lurch in his gut.

“Yeah? I… I want you to be one of us, too, but I –” Greg exhales, rasping and harsh, down the line. “I didn’t try hard enough to…” He pauses, again, then clears his throat. “To shift your, uh – your amorous attention.”

Tom shoulders the phone, looking down and toying with the chain at his wrist. “Have you talked to your esteemed head of bloodsucking bastards?”

Greg is quiet for a beat. “Like, ever?”

“Like today,” Tom says, rubbing hard between his brows.

“Oh,” Greg intones, then clears his throat, preemptively weedy in the act. “No. My mom said she would. I-I don’t think he’s… he’ll really care about what I have to say? I can try, though – I should try, I mean. Yeah.”

Tom can hear the same note that Greg had in his voice last night, as he’d put the chain around his wrist. “I’m getting offended by how much you sound like the world is ending, bud,” he says, quirking a brow with a short click of his tongue. He knows Greg kissed first last night, which is doing a lot to bolster. “Was it that bad last night?”

“No, Tom, but if you’d… You know, pursued Shiv, then it wouldn’t matter, because after the setting period, we’d – ” Greg stutters into a pause, somewhat hissing into the receiver. “We could’ve probably worked it out sometime in… you know, essentially forever, but you didn’t, an-and now…”

Tom scrubs his face and is astonished how Greg can be both naïve and an absolute viper at the same time.

“Shiv was… really lame, too,” Greg continues, low and as derisive as he ever gets, being an enormous, centuries-old killing machine ever concerned someone might overhear him being unkind. “She likes you, she said, but she couldn’t do it. She said it would be – be like, a suckling on her soul, or something, like she was scared of having a mate like that. She didn’t even want to give you a chance.”

Tom drags his lip harsh against his teeth, a bit stung, a bit annoyed, too, but not exactly surprised. “Would you?”

Greg is quiet a few beats, then exhales a sullen, offended grumble. “I gave you a token.”

“And…” Tom says, slowly, dropping his voice into what he likes to think is a fairly friendly sort of patronizing developed just for Greg. “I didn’t give Shiv a second glance when you were standing next to her.”

Greg is quiet for a few seconds. “I guess.”

“Honestly, I…” Tom shakes the chain back around his wrist with a tut. “I think Shiv and I might like each other about the same.” He rolls his eyes across the room to the door, then over toward the window, exhaling a humorless laugh. “We don’t even sleep in the same room, anymore. It was iffy that we even applied for the masque.”

Greg mutters something tiny and unintelligible down the line, but it sounds a little derisive.

“But I’m ecstatic to hear you’re not wary of having a suckling babe on your soul,” Tom says, spinning the antlers around his wrist, delicately trying to unwrap them without further turning his skin patchwork or bending a delicate chainlink. “Because I have spoken the grand poobah treant – I passed.”

“Y-You did?” Greg says, voice pitching through the speaker, plainly blindsided by the news.

“He also implied it was mostly so I could white knight your mother, but that’s…” Tom feels a wide grimace pull at his mouth. “Pretty far out, one can hope.”

“No, but he – ” Greg exhales a breathy, hitched laugh. “Like, with me?”

“Yes, Gregory,” Tom says, leaning his head up and wedging his forearm against the pillow beneath it.

“I, like – I’ve never totally drained anyone,” Greg says, in a quiet, thoughtful mutter. His voice pitches, “What if I can’t stop… What if I like kill you?”

Tom rolls his eyes, as a bark of laughter edges around his voice. “Could we have a single good thought this morning?”

“…Sorry.”

[fivestarjewelers]

Say I Do in Style: Dainty Necklaces for Your Wedding Day

If you’re the type of bride who’s looking for dainty hip hop jewelry stores in Miami, then investing in necklaces is the ideal choice. Necklaces are versatile and elegant and can add a touch of class and shimmer to your big day.

These pieces while minimal can still get you a ton of attention and elevate your wedding gown. Here are some things to keep in mind when choosing the ideal necklace for your big day.

Reasons to choose dainty necklaces

One of the main reasons why a lot of brides tend to prefer heavy solid gold Miami Cuban link chain customizable is that it will easily stand out among the rest. Always think about your desired theme and palette especially if you plan to go for something colorful like sapphires or rubies.

Another thing to keep in mind is the neckline of your dress. If your dress is set with ornate details, intricate designs, and beadwork you can choose something simple. However, if your dress is simple and solid, you can opt for something ornate.

Certain pieces like a half-moon pendant necklace will work well with a cowl neckline while a longer chain is great for a backless or deep V gown. Choker necklaces also work well with an off-shoulder or strapless gown.

The type of metal you choose for your hollow Miami Cuban link chain is also important. If you’re looking for something affordable,  sterling silver- or gold-plated pieces can be a good option until you are ready to upgrade your piece.

Always look at your lifestyle before you choose your pieces. If you tend to be active, outgoing, and lead a high-impact lifestyle, choose platinum and gold pieces set with diamonds, rubies, or sapphires that can easily weather daily wear and tear.

Choose something that paints a clear picture of your unique style, instead of simply choosing something trendy. This will help you in the long run and you will adore wearing your piece daily.

The Takeaway

Caring for your jewelry is also essential. Remember, you need to take your pieces to a professional jeweler to clean, repair, and maintain them every couple of months so that they looknew and shiny for years to come.

Your jeweler will polish the metal band, tighten the setting, and check the gemstone to make sure that it stays in good condition.