antis wasn’t sure what to expect for lunch—lunch was the meal he had the most tenuous concept of, and what concept he did have was that of a light meal, which did not fit with being fattened up.
There was a cake—a whole cake, with two tiers!—on a pretty silver cake stand. It was beautifully decorated, with a delicate peony made of sugared peony petals on the top, and the buttercream was piped elaborately in swags and swirls and ruffles and flowers, in all shades of pink, with little green leaves. There were several three-tiered trays of sandwiches too, and two different quiches, a plate of devilled eggs, a cut crystal bowl of fruit salad, what must have been a soufflé… foods Mantis had forgotten about, it had been so long since he’d eaten them (or been able to eat them).
There was a different servant standing a little ways away, not in livery like the footmen, and about Lucius’ age. Mantis tried not to look at him; he’d been doing well not looking at the servants so far, he knew that was the polite thing, because they were working and he shouldn’t bother them with emotional labour, that wasn’t part of their job description.
He was handsome, though; he had his long, dark henna-dyed hair in a French braid (everyone in this world had long hair, which meant everyone was more attractive to Mantis at baseline), the tail of it gathered up in a protective black bag—but from the thickness of the braid going into it, his hair was long, like down to his hips or something. Lucius’ was also wound up in more complicated braids, but there was enough there, Mantis could tell, that when he took it down it was probably of similar length, if not longer.
Mantis envied them—because of the testosterone he’d been on, and his bloodlines, he was already losing his hair, and not in the attractive, tidily-receding-hairline sort of way, no—in the Italian way, the entire crown thinning first; which was universally considered unattractive, in Mantis’ experience, at least. He kept his hair long now, though numerous breakdowns meant it had only been growing out for a couple of years, and he wondered if there was magic for regrowing hair. It wouldn’t need to be very much…
‘What are you thinking about, pet?’
‘Oh, um, hair,’ Mantis said, embarrassed. He swallowed the urge to apologise, and put the serviette in his lap, turning his attention on the silverware, which was mirror-shiny and had a complex pattern that, he realised, incorporated both the letter M (expected) and a snake (unexpected). Was a snake on their Device, he wondered. Given their nobility, it was likely a proper Coat of Arms, really… well, or was it? ‘Who rules, here? Do you guys have your own king or queen, or… are you an autonomous collective?’ He knew the joke would pass unseen, but it amused him.
‘Don’t worry your pretty head about politics, my pet,’ was the answer, as Lucius filled his plate, as Narcissa had that morning. Mantis knew usually servants did the serving, but then again, the dynamic here was a kink one, so it made sense that it was more about the feeding kink than it was about manners. ‘Or your hair,’ he said. ‘It will grow.’
‘And fall out, once I’m back on testosterone,’ Mantis muttered. ‘And then I’ll have to shave it, because what the hell else can you do really, and then I’ll look like my father, which will be… deeply uncomfortable. Right, eating now.’ He shook his head. Why was he in such a terrible mood? Was it the heat? It couldn’t be that he was hungry, because he actually wasn’t what he would call hungry; what was it? Just the Depression again? He knew his depression manifested as anger and irritation exclusively….
‘Can I ask you what’s in the green potion? I have a theory and I just want to know if I’m right,’ he said, forcing himself to change topics, to be good at conversation. It was spotty and that was always disconcerting to other people, but Mantis figured if he was going to be thrown out on his ear it probably would have happened when he’d started complaining angrily a few moments ago, and Lucius had only kissed him for it, and then he’d cried and Lucius had only held him about it. So maybe… maybe that was why he was so irritable, maybe it was that he was so used to things being wrong and it was uncomfortable to be comfortable? Maybe. He did also have depression, but it was always situational….
‘Mantis,’ Lucius said, quietly.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m proud of you, for what you realised today, with Evers.’
The irritation melted, shockingly sudden, and Mantis said, ‘…Oh. I…’
‘I like that you speak truths,’ Lucius went on. ‘You’re an oracle, and I find that devastatingly attractive.’
Mantis couldn’t look up, and Lucius watched him blush.
‘You’re a good boy, Mantis. You needn’t worry about anything other than obeying, and being full, alright? Can you do that for me, precious?’
‘I… I’ll try, Daddy,’ Mantis said, quietly. ‘Can you—Evers said you could like… hypnotise me.’
‘Hypnotise you?’
‘He said there was a spell that put people in an… obedience trance… and that it was like when you’re deep in what I always heard called Submissive Trance, where you’re not thinking at all you’re just blissed out and following Daddy’s orders and not thinking.’
‘Ah,’ Lucius said, with a wicked smile, taking his elm wand from the sheath in his sleeve. ‘I happen to be the best at that particular spell, yes. Would you like me to do that now?’
‘Actually? Yeah. I’m… too many loud emotions in the past couple hours. I’m… emotionally exhausted, like dangerously so.’
‘Look at me,’ Lucius ordered softly, and smiled when Mantis did so. ‘Good boy. Imperio.’
The soft sigh of the victim, the dilation of the pupils, the way the body just relaxed, the connection of the minds, far more intimate and natural than Legilimency… Lucius adored putting people under like this, and it was largely sensual pleasure.
You’re hungry. Everything looks delicious, and you want to finish it all.
Lucius watched the boy eat—not with urgency, but with sensual pleasure, enjoying every bite, not fettering himself with thoughts of any kind, not feeling the need to socialise. His will was strong, but he wasn’t actually fighting with it, he was submitting even beneath the spell, and that was a whole new dimension to the pleasure Lucius felt.
Such a good boy, doing what I tell you….
The whole reason Lucius was the best at the Imperius Curse was that he reinforced obedience with praise, redoubling the pleasure already embedded into the spell’s effect.
It’s so arousing, being so full, filling yourself with so much lovely food… Every swallow goes straight to that little cock….
…he, also, had found out that the curse could control the entire body, including arousal—if you knew what you were doing, anyway. He watched the contents of the table disappear, and was pleased at how, even with all this, he felt Mantis blissful and relieved. This was no curse, not to him—it was balm to a lifelong pain, complete and total relief that he’d badly needed his entire life, it was rest….
Lucius felt Mantis’ sensation of physical tightness, as Mantis began to hit his belly’s maximum capacity, and Lucius soothed the discomfort just enough, hooked it to the arousal, moved his chair closer.
Stop. He ordered. There was only the cake left, now. Good boy. Lean back, good boy…. He placed a hand on Mantis’ bare belly—because the boy was still naked, and Lucius was pleased he wasn’t ashamed to be naked—and felt the firmness of the stomach beneath the flesh. There wouldn’t be room for the cake, not like this.
Luckily, there was a spell—designed by Lucius and Slughorn while Lucius had been a student—that loosened and relaxed the abdomen, the stomach included. Mantis’ sigh as Lucius cast it was beautiful, as was the shiver of pleasure from the relief; Lucius picked up a small bottle that had been sitting on the table. It was painted porcelain, matching the dishes, and had blended in with the salt cellar, especially with the lid being similar silver. He unscrewed this, and put it against the boy’s lips.
Open. Good boy. Swallow.
The potion was powerful, one of Horace’s best inventions, handed out only to those who shared his taste for fattening up pretty slaves. It tasted like butter and vanilla and dark sugar, and it converted half of the stomach contents into fat immediately, permutations of the formula—each with its own flavour-note—able to put it specific places, because Horace was a sculptor… This one, Lucius had picked out to grow that chest (dark sugar), and the apron (butter), and that pretty arse (vanilla)….
Mantis moaned, dizzy as the potion kicked in, using the fuel to speed up the creation of skin and fat, skin generating slightly faster, for safety; and Lucius felt him climax from the sheer feeling of swelling, of the press of fat outward on his skin, tight but not painful. Lucius hummed, his own body responding with arousal, and kissed Mantis’ temple.
‘Gooooood boy,’ he purred into the boy’s ear. ‘I think good boys deserve cake, don’t you…?’
‘What… what kind of cake…?’ was all Mantis wanted to say, and it was a thought Lucius allowed him to have.
‘Lemon with raspberry filling, my sugar,’ Lucius purred, having plucked the new endearment from Mantis’ mind, knowing it would make him—
Mantis moaned, melting at the sound of his very favourite endearment to hear from that accent…. Lucius’ wicked chuckle did nothing to relieve this, and Mantis felt the new order, through the thrumming connection of the curse:
You want to eat the whole thing… your belly isn’t full anymore, and we must fill it up for Daddy….
Mantis loved every moment of this, loved not having control, loved floating in this blissful haze, this beautiful man just gently forcing him into the most delicious pleasure—that felt so thrillingly forbidden, too, food being seen how it was by Americans particularly.
And, right now, while Daddy was nice, Master was currently more accurate, and deliciously so. He loved a gentle villain, he thought dimly, as he obediently opened his mouth for every forkful Master put to his lips, as he was told ‘Good boy’ over and over, until the thoughts were as quickly vanishing as the cake….
Once the cake was nothing more than crumbs on the silver platter, the last bite swallowed, Lucius kissed his new boy, stroking his serried belly lovingly, careful not to squeeze—he never handled his boys so roughly as others did—and just… kissed, and kissed, and kissed, tasting the buttercream in Mantis’ mouth, the hints of lemon and raspberry, the softness of his tongue, the lazy, contented submission of his kiss.
Good boy… good boy… good boy….