#eight light chandelier

[zaynmajor]

Transitional Living Room Inspiration for a large transitional open concept light wood floor, beige floor and vaulted ceiling living room remodel with beige walls, a standard fireplace, a stone fireplace and a wall-mounted tv

[customgirls]

Eclectic Entry in Kansas City Example of a medium-sized eclectic entryway with a white front door, beige walls, and a dark wood floor.

[kkami-writes]

waiting for us — chapter fifty one. the wedding cw. smut!, semi-public sex (bathroom), piv, protected sex (shout out to condoms) wc. 1,965 + 4 ss a/n: THIS IS UNEDITED. I FINALLY FUCKING FINISHED THIS MY GOD. I'm so sorry this took forever...that's my bad <3 hopefully the motivation keeps rolling and i'll finally finish this fic.

The ceremony had been perfect, something right out of the pages of a fairy tale. The venue had been small since they had kept it to close family and friends but it still had been breathtaking. Minghao had made you his best “man” and there was no place you’d rather be than next to your best friend on the most important day of his life. (and if you cried while they were reciting their vows, you’d never tell. Though Minghao had taken plenty of pictures of you ugly crying to store in his blackmail folder.)

It was probably inappropriate to daydream during a wedding, but Jeongin couldn’t help himself. You were standing up there, looking absolutely breathtaking, it was hardly his fault that his mind had wondered what you would look like, dressed in all white at their own wedding.

If he was honest, he never expected to get married. Well, he supposed that’s wrong. While he does in fact plan on getting married eventually to all his soulmates, before you had come into the picture that had agreed that a ceremony between eight people would be a little hectic. He didn’t need some grand ceremony to show his love but for now, he could dream of seeing you in a wedding dress for now.

The reception is just as gorgeous as the actual wedding, with lavish decorations and a crystal chandelier.

Currently you were being dragged from table to table, both Minghao and Jun introducing you to people like you were their child. (though Minghao would argue that him and Jun were indeed your dads).

From across the room you can feel a pair of eyes on you, practically burning a hole into your flesh from his heated gaze. Jeongin was sat at your assigned table, a drink forgotten in front of him while he stared you down. His gaze is enough to set you aflame, cheeks reddened from how intense his eyes felt against you, not so subtly running along your body. The boy was practically eye fucking you from across the room, not a shameful bone in his body. It was quite distracting as you tried to introduce yourself to Jun’s grandmother.

The two of you make eye contact and it’s impossible to look away, his deep chocolate eyes captivating you. Jeongin’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, your eyes following the movement and the cheeky fucker smirks, knowing he’s caught you in his web. With a subtle nod towards the bathrooms, he gets up, suddenly paying you no mind before striding in the direction he directed you to. It leaves you a little mystified, blinking and frozen in place. You clear your throat, turning to Jun with a small smile.

“Excuse me Junnie,” You mumble before escaping the male’s grasp, but he lets you go easily enough, too caught up in a different conversation.

As you make your way towards the bathrooms there’s a sense of heat that starts to fill your lower belly, a wave on anticipation for whatever Jeongin has up his sleeve. It fills you with excitement, hands practically shaking as you open the door.

The bathrooms are one of those fancy single ones, lights dim and fancy expensive soap. You don’t have time to admire the decore as Jeongin pins you back against the door, the tell tale click of the door being locked. He doesn’t hesitate to press his lips to yours, practically devouring you. It’s all teeth and tongue, groaning into your mouth desperately. The sound goes straight to your pussy.

Jeongin presses against you, already hard in his slacks, hips rutting up against you.

“Fuck. Do you even know how good you look?” His voice is raspy and deep, sounding already so gone. You can’t help but giggle, rather enjoying the effect you have on the boy.

“Mm, I have no idea,” You singsong. “Maybe you should tell me,” Your words illicit another groan from the boy before he’s picking you up and carrying you over to the counter and setting you down there. Perhaps the way he had lifted you up like it was nothing turned you on further, it would seem your baby bread has been accompaning his hyungs to the gym more often.

Jeongin runs his hands up until they’re splayed across your thighs, easy access thanks to the slit in your dress. His lips are on yours again, this time much softer, taking his time to savor your taste. Meanwhile his hands grope and squish at the soft flesh of your thighs, fingers running up until they hook under the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to your ankles.

You let out a gasp as his long fingers make contact with your wet core and Jeongin takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your awaiting mouth. You’re completely at his mercy, deft fingers circling your clit and his tongue stealing your breath away.

“So wet,” His voice is deep, slightly gruff as he nips at your now swollen tiers. “Eager are we?” The cocky tone makes you want to roll your eyes at him, but they’re rolling to the back of your head anyway as he easily slides a digit into your core, a whine falling from your lips. “Look so good like this for me,”

You can vaguely hear the sound of the music that’s blasting in the venue, the walls of the bathroom muting it but even then, the sound of your slick echoes lewdly in your ear and it heats your body up.

Jeongin is so content like this, watching you fall apart on the counter, soft moans filtering from your lips as he’s lazily thrusts his fingers into you. As much as he would love to take his time with you, his cock is starting to ache, still trapped in the confines of his slacks.

“Can I fuck you baby?” He asks against your ear, pressing soft kisses to your earlobe and trailing them down your neck. You nod your head, probably a little too eagerly but there’s pretty much nothing on your mind besides Jeongin’s cock splitting you in half. But then you remember something important and it makes you whine.

“Innie…you don’t have a condom do you?”

The question makes him freeze and if he wasn’t literally two fingers deep in your cunt you would have laughed at his bewildered facial expression. But then suddenly he’s pulling out of you, a whimper leaving your lips at the loss of his fingers filling you up. Jeongin is frantically patting at his slacks, as if searching for something, leaving you slightly baffled at the sight. Finally he pulls his wallet out and from it, produces a singular condom.

“Seungminnie hyung said I should keep one in my wallet just in case…never really thought anything about it. I’m gonna kiss that man later,” His words make you snort, shaking your head at how silly he is. But if you were honest, you’d probably kiss Seungmin later for the same reason.

The two of you don’t waste anymore time, remembering you are in a public space, at your best friends wedding for goodness sake. In your defense, your brain is no longer working, especially when Jeongin is bending you over the (very nice) counter, moving the skirt of your dress aside and slipping your panties down your legs.

You arch your back just slightly, legs spreading to give the boy a peak at your glistening folds and Jeongin swears he could probably cum in his pants. He’s quick to slide the condom over his almost painful erection, coming close to press his chest to your back, trailing kisses along your shoulder. He ruts his cock against your soaked core before positioning in front of your entrance. With how aroused you are, it’s an easily glide in, just a slight stretch that feels all too good.

Jeongin lets out a borderline pornographic moan when he bottoms out, your wet warm heat squeezing his cock feels heavenly and he already knows he’s not gonna last very long. He shudders against your body as he holds you tightly, large hands splayed across your torso.

“Fuck- You feel so fucking good,” He groans, needing just a second to calm himself down before he blows his load already. You can barely register his words, not faring any better. The sensation of being so full, of having your soulmates cock buried inside your heat is a feeling you don’t think you’ll ever get used to.

The two of you simply relish in the moment for a second and while maybe Jeongin might have jumped the gun on your first time together, he promises that the next time he’ll take his time to savor you. For now he just wants to feel you coming apart on his cock.

He moves his hips rather expertly, rocking into you with strong thrusts and you feel yourself further melting into the cool counter, the drag of Jeongin’s cock against your gummy walls feels too fucking good. Any and all thoughts are leaving your head, the only thing you care about is the heady pleasure that builds steadily in the pit of your stomach.

Jeongin is pressed flush against your back, sucking marks into your skin and whispering sweet dirty words into your ear and you feel yourself getting closer and closer to your peak.

“Such a good girl, hm? Taking my cock so well. You feel so good baby…I’m not gonna last long,” He nips at the back of your ear and you nod your head in agreement.

“Innie! I-Innie…” You’re mumbling his name over and over like a chant, your walls clenching around his length sporatically. “I’m so close…gonna, gonna cum,” You gasp out, the rubber band threatening to snap each time the tip of his cock hits that spot deep inside of you. He brings a finger to your clit, rubbing the swollen button in circles.

“Go ahead baby, cum all over my cock,” He says with a grunt, thrusts somehow getting even harsher and the sound of skin slapping reverberates against the walls.

It doesn’t take much longer before you’re gushing around his cock, coming with a whimper. Jeongin does his best to fuck you through your orgasm but with the way your walls clench around him has him spilling into the condom not too far after you. Both of you need a moment to catch your breath, slowly coming down from the euphoria of such an act. Jeongin seems to collect himself before you, not even noticing him pulling out. You only finally come out of your haze when you feel something damp against your skin.

Jeongin is cleaning you up, even if he didn’t cum inside, you can still feel your own release against your thighs. Slowly, he also helps you pull your panties back up before picking you up to settle you on the counter. He fusses over you, smoothing your hair down and fixing your dress and your heart flutters in your chest at how attentive the younger boy is after having just dicked you down. You giggle before wrapping your arms around him, pulling him into a sweet kiss, one that he happily melts into.

When you two pull away, he’s giving you that bright fox-like smile, dimples practically blinding you as he helps you off the counter.

“C’mon baby. Let’s go dance and hope that your friends didn’t notice your disappearance,” You snort.

“Even if they didn’t, I think the hickies speak for themselves,” Jeongin has the gall to blush, his tongue running along his teeth.

“Sorry, not sorry,”

“You are such a brat,”

“Guilty!”

You roll your eyes, spanking him before moving towards the door.

“Let’s go dance baby bread,”

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waiting for us taglist (50/50) @abbiestearsricochet @boo-ven9eance @adorawritesalot @inlovewithallmusic @alnex05

@borahae-reads @zonked-times @loverlixie @katsukis1wife @0325tiny

@adestayskz @minhwa @littleaprilcherryblossom @soobery @lillithathecat

@everglowdaisies @boi-bi-ahaha @popcatx0 @stayinhellevator @jaiuneamesolitaiire

@enchantedgrunge @corrodedthorn @143lix @ashitshowforalot @lynlyndoll

@txtandroll @kawennote09 @liknws @ritzy-dream-boy @vampcharxter

@puppy-minnie @freckleboilix @turtledove824 @fylithia @jutdwaekkigym

@hyunestrella @blackrowses @chlodavids  @reallysparklychaos @sunnibearr

@chili-crab0811 @stickycrusadecollective @lucidliving1205 @princelingperfect @leemidnightmoon

@shakalakaboomboo @nykto-philia @mixtape-racha @lovestayforev @the-simpy-simp

[whatsnewalycat]

mindfuck

Dave York x f!Reader

Summary: Dave hypnotizes you.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 2.8k+

Warnings: hypnokink, not entirely good praxis of hypnosis, humiliation, implied infidelity, praise, smut, unprotected piv, D/s dynamic, dom dave, literal mind fucking so like a bit of body horror get into it

Notes: For @iamasaddie kinky May writing challenge. Prompt was hypnosis + Dave York. I found a lot of inspiration for this from a post in r/EroticHypnosis about mindfucking (can find again if anyone wants the link - lemme know!). Posting this in a hurry bc I am late to a thing so hopefully not tooooo many missed mistakes. OK THANK YOU FOR READING!!!

[ my masterlist ]

-------

All your life you wished you could turn off your thoughts at will. 

Growing up, on those nights where your crowded head wouldn’t let you sleep, you would imagine twisting off the top of your skull like a jar lid and plopping your brain on the nightstand. It even worked sometimes, too, if you tried hard to convince yourself. When reminders of an upcoming math test or images of that cute boy in class crept into your purview, they had nowhere to go. They evaporated, and you slept. 

Dave says you’re too smart for your own good. Sometimes when you’re lost in thought, he tells you he wants to empty that pretty little head of yours. Not in a condescending way, although you can see how someone might interpret it like that. 

What he means is that he wants you to be with him when you’re with him. What he means is that he wants you to be present. Not thinking about the past or the future. Not reminding yourself of deadlines or analyzing the data stored in your brain or wondering what you mean to him exactly. 

The first time he suggested hypnosis, you balked. Even after he explained how it worked, you were hesitant enough for him to drop the subject. 

When he brought it up again, though, your skepticism swayed. You asked him for more details, so he dispensed the pros and cons and the step process. He could do it for you, he said. He knew how. He said he could rattle the bees from your buzzing honeycomb brain. All you had to do was trust him with this power. 

So you did. 

And you do. 

Your valiant beekeeper meets you at this hotel every other Tuesday night, except on holidays. This isn’t the only one-on-one time he dedicates to you, but it’s by far the most reliable. He doesn’t always hypnotize you, either. 

Regardless of whether he puts you in a trance or not, this standing date always starts the same. He slips you the keycard at some point throughout the day, only after he’s adorned it with a vase full of seasonal blooms and laid out something for you to wear. 

Tonight he left you lilacs and matching lingerie. Intricate floral appliqués embellish the pastel nightie he laid out on the bed. 

Opulence becomes you when you slip it on and pour a glass of champagne from the bottle Dave left to chill on ice. You mosey around the spacious high-end suite, sipping frosty bubbles as you admire the birds-eye view of downtown, the tall buildings and bustling city life all drenched in golden light from the setting sun. 

As the time nears eight o’clock, you empty your champagne flute and make yourself comfortable on the plush bed. Crystals hanging from the chandelier fragment soft white light into dazzling tiny spectrums, sparkling rainbow when the door to the suite opens, then closes. 

Dave enters the room with an air of authority that makes you straighten your spine and draw back your shoulders. After chucking off his jacket, he empties his pockets on the dresser and loosens his tie, then turns around to meet your gaze. 

His stern expression melts as he looks you over, seeming to appraise how your body fills out the lilac nightie. Heat sparks in the middle of you when he greets you, “Hey beautiful.” 

“Hi.” 

He approaches your side and takes a seat at the edge of the bed, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt, “Comfortable?” 

Nodding, you sit up to pull him in for a kiss. His plush lips respond without hesitation, firm but generous as he slips a wide palm around your body and brings you even closer. 

When he pulls back, he asks, “Are you ready?” 

“Ready.” 

He cradles your jaw, searching your face with blatant admiration before separating his body from yours. You lay back into the soft embrace of the pillows and wiggle around until you find the sweet spot of comfort while Dave drags an armchair to your bedside and sits down. Once you’re both settled and still, he begins. 

“Close your eyes.” 

You close them. 

“Take a deep breath in…”

You take in air until you can’t. 

“…and slowly release it.” 

You exhale, rationing your metered breath through a straw-sized ‘o’ formed by your lips. 

“Good. Take a deep breath in… two three four… and slowly release it. Deep breath in… two three four… now slowly release it.”

Behind closed lids, you concentrate on the rhythmic ebb and flow of your lungs contracting and expanding. His warm voice surrounds you. Envelops you. 

“That’s it. Keep breathing just like this. Each time you inhale, draw the life from your breath, and exhale the rest. Notice how cleansing it feels to let it go. How the tension melts from your muscles every time you take a deep breath in…”

You inhale. 

“…two three four…” 

Hold it. 

“…and slowly release it.” 

Then exhale.

“Perfect. Keep doing that. Now imagine that every time you take a deep breath in, a warm wave washes over you… and as you slowly release it, the tide carries away tension, allowing your muscles to soften and relax…”

Each big lungful heats the tar holding your body together. You dissolve into the mattress as Dave’s deep, honeyed voice resonates through you. 

“Again, take a deep breath in as the warm wave of relaxation washes over you, two three four… and slowly release it as the tide carries away your tension, allowing your muscles to soften and relax. Concentrate on my voice. Recognize it as a touchstone. If your mind starts to wander, have it return to the touchstone, return to my voice, and relax even deeper.” 

Trees tower above you, stretching high into the pale blue sky. The moss-covered rock before you glows as he speaks. 

“Notice how relaxed you feel. Notice that every time the warm wave of relaxation washes over you, two three four… tension melts from your body as you allow yourself to sink deeper and deeper into the sensation. Allow the relaxation to seep from your muscles into your bloodstream… to course through your veins and calm every cell in your body.

“Focus on your face. All those tiny little muscles in your forehead and around your eyes, notice how relaxed they are. Notice how the relaxation melts the muscles in your cheeks and jaw, letting your mouth go slack. You might feel as though you want to speak, but find yourself so relaxed that you can’t. That’s ok, because it feels good and safe to let the words dissolve on your tongue. Doesn’t it?” 

When you try to respond, your lips don’t move. This fact doesn’t bother you. It feels good and safe in the forest, staring up at the treetops. 

You realize you’re floating in a pond. You hear birds peacefully chirping and know it’s just you and them and the touchstone for a million miles. 

Everything feels profound, but simple. You are small and big like a speck of dust or a galaxy. You are safe. You are at peace. 

“Doesn’t it feel so good to relax, darling?” 

Your fingertips rest against the soft moss of the touchstone. 

“Yes, it does,” you tell it. 

It glows with a satisfactory hum that vibrates through you.  

“Perfect. Continue to focus on my voice. Soon, I will ask you to open your eyes, then close them. When you close your eyes, you’ll notice a warm wave of relaxation washing over you, turning knots into snarls and snarls into strands, every muscle in your body gently untangling as you allow them to go limp and heavy…”

You understand and follow his instructions. 

“Open your eyes and take a deep breath in, two three four… and slowly release it, closing your eyes, letting the warm wave wash over you and pull you in deeper. 

“Soon, I’ll ask you to open your eyes again. When you close them, you’ll notice the warm wave of relaxation wash over you even stronger than before, pulling you even deeper. 

“Open your eyes, two three four… and close your eyes, sinking deeper and deeper. Good job. We’ll do it one more time, and when you close your eyes and relax, sink as deep as you can, all the way to the bottom. Open your eyes, two three four… and close your eyes.” 

You’re lying in a meadow of wildflowers outside the forest, looking up at the serene blue sky. The earth beneath you is solid and brings you an immense sense of comfort. 

“I want you to think about desire. Think about that warm, lush longing inside you. Concentrate on how good this sensation feels in your body, pleasure swelling thick at the center of you.”

His voice surrounds you, but you don’t see its source. The soothing timbre resonates from the wildflowers and the earth and the sky, from everywhere and nowhere all at once like how you imagine God sounded to Old Testament prophets. 

You bring your focus to desire. It does feel good. Amazing, actually. Tangible like a glowing ball of heat between your thighs that throbs with each syllable he speaks. 

“Allow the sensation to grow. Let it stretch and pulse and heat your skin. Let your mind empty of everything except this arousal. When thoughts arise, you let them fall away and arousal fills the empty space. You’ll let this happen over and over again until your head is empty of everything but arousal. Do you understand? You can speak now, darling, go ahead and answer.” 

“Yes.” 

“Try it for me.” 

You acknowledge the cognitions that populate your mind. When you think about how you need to put gas in your car, you imagine the reminder dropping away, then imagine the warm wanting glow of desire branching up through your body to take its place. You think about a work project, but it loosens and falls into an abyss. Desire floods the space in its wake, a thick hot liquid that glows with light like lava, spreading to each new vacancy with ease as the thoughts drop from your consciousness. 

“How does it feel?” 

“Good,” you breathe, voice faint on your tingling tongue. 

“Do you like how it feels, being horny and mindless?” 

Your husband’s face appears, taking up your whole mind, then falls away. Rich, bubbling pleasure surges through you to fill the gap. You have to suppress a moan to respond. 

“I like it,” you nod, “Fuck, it feels amazing.” 

“Good girl. Now, you might notice something interesting happen when I ask you a question. You might notice that when I ask you a question, you’ll try to form a thought to answer. When you do this, you’ll feel my cock enter your mind. It’s bigger and harder than you’ve ever seen it, swollen and thick and so fucking ready for you, darling. When you try to form a thought, it pushes forward into the wet hot folds of your brain, severing the connections that typically allow you to think, preventing a response from forming. My cock pulls out, and slowly thrusts forward again, pushing out the thoughts, over and over for as long as you consider a response to my question. It becomes impossible to focus. You might notice that this penetration feels like it would in your pussy. My hard cock rutting in and out, sending waves of arousal through your body, fucking the thoughts from your head. Every time my cock moves, you’ll try to respond but cannot make yourself focus. It feels amazing. You give in to the sensation, allowing it to overtake you completely. When you’re fully saturated with arousal and nothing else, my cock pulls out of your mind.” 

Your skin feels static and warm when you imagine him pushing his smooth, throbbing length into your brain. A shaky whimper croaks in your throat. Your heart thuds heavy within your chest, circulating desire, warm and wet, to every cell in your body. 

“You might notice that when I ask you another question, any attempts at thought or sensations that come up except arousal will be fucked from your head until you surrender to the arousal. It feels good to be dominated in this way. To let pleasure consume your entire being.” 

Licking your lips, you nod to show you understand.  

“Now when I ask you a question, you’ll allow your subconscious to follow my instructions. Are you ready, darling?” 

“Yes.” 

“How was your day?” 

When you try to recall your day and formulate an answer, the tip of his cock pierces the equator of your brain, splitting the hemispheres. He drives forward slowly, steadily, making you moan as he stretches you apart and tears all those delicate tissues that generate thought. Still, you try. 

My day, how was my day…

He drags his cock out, then drives it deeper inside you. 

Day… how was…

Your nerve endings buzz as he pulls out, gooey arousal shines on the shaft of his thick cock. He plunges forward into the hot center of you. You work your hips and whine. You can’t remember what he asked. It doesn’t seem as important as the pleasure clinging to your insides as he fucks you, so you give up. 

His cock pulls out of your mind completely. 

“What’s the weather supposed to be like tomorrow?” 

You consider the question. The tip of him breaches your brain, forcing out forecasts and clouds and sunshine. Fragments return as you attempt to answer again. 

The weather tomorrow…

He pumps in and out of you, obliterating whatever it was he wanted to know. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the insatiable pleasure thrumming through you as he rubs against all your hungry nerves, giving them what they want. 

“Oh my god,” you hear yourself gasp. 

“How often do you think about fucking me?” 

Seeds of embarrassment sprout the tender beginnings of thought, then he fucks them out of your head until you’re rolling your hips, moaning and nodding for more. 

“Do you make yourself come when you think about fucking me?” 

Only a loading screen appears before he’s inside you again. His perfect, thick cock pumps you full of this throbbing heat. You wish it would never end. You want to feel this and only this forever. 

“That’s it, that’s my good girl. So horny and mindless for me. Letting my cock push deep and hard into the folds of your brain, fucking out all your thoughts, leaving your head empty to stuff you with arousal until you’re swollen and ripe, nothing else left but how fucking horny you are.” 

“Sssooooo fucking gooood,” you slur. 

“How would your husband feel if he saw you like this? In this hotel room, all dressed up in lingerie I bought for you, moaning and writhing on the bed?” 

A thought starts, and he pounds it out of you, merciless in its rhythm as each thrust pushes you higher and higher. Horny and mindless, that’s all you are. Nothing matters except this.

“Do you really think we’ll run away together? Do you really think I’d leave my wife for you?” 

A rotten sensation tingles in your chest before you feel him enter you from both ends, the cock in your mind working in tandem with the cock in your pussy. You choke out a moan and nod, body vibrating with a thick, hot sensation you can’t find the beginning or end of. 

“Fuck fuck fuck, holy fuck—” 

He groans, rolling his hips faster, fucking your entire being so hard and fast that you become pleasure itself. It’s everything and everywhere for eternity and you gladly accept this fact, wanting to forever exist in this moment. 

“That’s so good, darling. So fucking good. You want me to let you come, don’t you?” 

You nod frantically as the edges of you start to fray.

“Go ahead, come for me.” 

His permission completely unravels you, ripping away the last delicate thread holding you together. You sob as you fall apart into a thousand pieces. His hips stutter and he moans, giving you a few deep thrusts before pulling out. 

Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath. You float in the peaceful pond, staring up at the towering treetops that kiss the sky. 

“Now in a minute, I’ll bring you back to your normal state. When I count to four and tell you to wake up, you’ll come out of the trance relaxed and refreshed. Your mind will feel spotless. You’ll know that I adore you and hold you close to my heart.”

You hear birds peacefully chirping. You know it’s just you and them and Dave for a million miles. You are small and big like a speck of dust or a galaxy. You are safe. You are at peace. 

“And one two three four… wake up.”

[mxnsterbabe]

Male Drider/Female Reader SFW Wordcount: 3,430 Commissions | Ko-fi | Masterlist

You're invited to a masquerade ball, hosted by the mysterious Lord Iskinder. A mysterious drider catches your eye, and it turns out that these two may have more in common than you think.

You stood at the edge of the ballroom hosted by the mysterious Lord Iskinder, the grandeur of the space unfolding before you like a scene from a storybook. Opulent chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their light cascading over the guests and illuminating the room with a warm, golden glow. The walls, adorned with golden tapestries and gilded mirrors, echoed the laughter and music that filled the air.

Around you, the guests danced, the epitome of elegance and grace, their masks glinting in the light from the tall windows. Feathers, jewels, and intricate patterns disguised familiar faces, adding an air of mystery and intrigue to the evening.

Your own mask, a delicate creation of lace and pearls, felt like a second skin, its design both concealing and revealing. It was a perfect blend of mystery and allure, designed to intrigue yet allow you to blend seamlessly into the crowd.

Iskinder lingered in your mind as you navigated through the throngs of dancing couples and clusters of chatting nobles. The ball was a rare occasion where the norms of society could be bent, where one could indulge in the freedom of anonymity.

Amidst the swirl of gowns and the soft rustle of silk, your attention was caught by a figure unlike any other. The mystery man was a drider of remarkable presence, standing on the fringes of the dance floor. His upper body was that of a man, his skin a rich, dusky hue that complemented his flowing black hair; but from the waist down, he was a creature of legend, his eight, elegant legs belonging to that of a pinktoe tarantula.

His mask, a masterful creation of silver and obsidian, framed piercing eyes that seemed to see through the frivolous facade of the ball.

The sight of him, so regal and otherworldly, sent a shiver of excitement down your spine. The ballroom, with its gilded opulence and the sea of masked faces, suddenly seemed to fade into the background. The air around you thickened with anticipation, the moment poised on the edge of something transformative.

The concept of a drider, those beings of legend and whispers, had always seemed like a fanciful tale to you, stories meant to entertain and intrigue. Yet, there he stood, living proof of their existence.

His presence in the heart of high society was as breathtaking as it was unprecedented, drawing curious glances and hushed tones from the surrounding guests. Despite their stares, none dared voice their wonder or disdain aloud; the drider's demeanor, poised and unyielding, commanded respect and held a challenge in its stead, as if daring anyone to question his right to be among them.

As your gaze met his from across the room, the world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis. His eyes, bright as molten gold, burned with an intensity that pierced through the sea of masks and whispered conversations. In that brief exchange, something sparked to life, fleeting yet undeniable.

A flush of warmth crept up your cheeks, and you found yourself looking away, overwhelmed by the sudden depth of emotion that single glance had evoked. Your heart fluttered like a caged bird. It was an unfamiliar sensation, this desire to know more.

When you dared to glance back, hoping for another glimpse of the drider who had so captivated your thoughts, you found only the swirling mass of guests. He had vanished, blending into the crowd with a grace and speed you hadn’t expected.

Seeking respite from the press of the crowd, you drifted towards the refreshments table, the drider man still rattling about in your mind. The clink of glass and the murmur of conversation was a welcome distraction.

As you reached for a glass, the animated voices of two women nearby caught your attention, their topic of discussion sending a shiver of curiosity down your spine.

"... and they say Lord Iskinder, the host of tonight's ball, hasn't been seen by anyone this evening. It's all so mysterious," one woman whispered, her voice pitched with curiosity. "In fact, few have ever seen him at all. Those who have are sworn to such secrecy that no one knows what he truly looks like."

The other woman leaned in closer, her interest piqued. "A reclusive lord hosting a grand masquerade? It's the perfect setting for him to wander amongst us unnoticed. The anonymity of the masks, the mingling of guests... it's all by design, surely."

Your curiosity, already kindled by the encounter with the strange drider, flared into a blaze. With a polite interjection, you joined their conversation. "Excuse me, did I hear you correctly? Lord Iskinder has orchestrated this evening's affair yet remains unseen? How peculiar for a host."

The first woman nodded, her eyes alight with the thrill of gossip. "Indeed, it's the talk of the evening. A lord who is more shadow than substance, his presence felt but not seen. This masquerade could very well be his way of hiding in plain sight, observing his guests from behind the veil of anonymity."

The second woman added with a conspiratorial smile, "Some even speculate that the masquerade is a test of sorts, a way for Lord Iskinder to seek out those with a keen eye or perhaps a kindred spirit, without the constraints of societal expectations."

The idea that the elusive lord might be among the guests, shrouded by the anonymity of his own masquerade, sent a thrill through you. The possibility that the ball was not just a social event but a personal quest for the host, a search for connection amidst the pageantry, gave the night an air of unpredictability.

It was all so romantic, wasn’t it?

With a glass of champagne in hand, you retreated to a quieter corner of the ballroom, the golden liquid sparkling under the chandelier's light as you gently swirled the glass. The conversation with the two women lingered in your mind. The idea that Lord Iskinder might have been mingling among his guests incognito, perhaps even observing you at this very moment, lent an exhilarating edge to the night.

Your mind wandered back to the drider, whose presence had so captivated you earlier. If the women's musings held any truth, and Lord Iskinder was indeed among his guests incognito, then the appearance of such a rare and remarkable creature at the ball was no mere coincidence. Perhaps the drider was one of the lord's exclusive guests, a confidant or even a friend, invited to the ball for reasons known only to them.

With each sip of champagne, the possibilities seemed to expand, the boundaries of the ordinary stretching to encompass the magical and the unknown.

Your contemplation was abruptly shattered by a voice, soft like silk and honey. The unexpectedness of it sent a flutter through your heart, a sensation akin to the gentle touch of a butterfly's wing against your skin.

Lifting your gaze, you found yourself once again locked in the captivating stare of the drider from before. His molten gold eyes, gleaming with an inner warmth beneath the intricate mask, held yours in a gaze that was somehow both soft and so intense, it made your toes curl. The mask, an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, could not conceal the expressiveness of his eyes, nor the gentle curve of his lips that hinted at a smile.

"Would you care to dance?" he asked, his voice weaving through the din of the ballroom to reach you, clear and resonant.

The invitation, unexpected yet undeniably thrilling, sparked a mixture of excitement and apprehension within you. The thought of dancing with someone so fundamentally different, whose very form defied the conventions of the dances you knew, had your heart quickening in intrigue.

"I would be delighted," you replied, the words slipping out almost of their own accord, driven by the allure of the unknown. "Though, I must admit, I'm not entirely sure how to dance with... someone as unique as yourself."

His chuckle, a rich sound that seemed to resonate from deep within, was both reassuring and infectious. "Fear not," he assured you, a playful glint in his eyes. "When one possesses eight legs, one learns to make quite a few adjustments. I shall lead, and all you need to do is follow."

With swift grace, he offered you his hand, his movements as fluid and assured as they were gentle. As you placed your hand in his, the contrast between his strength and the careful tenderness of his touch was striking.

Together, you moved towards the dance floor, the thrum of anticipation building with each step. The crowd seemed to part for us, their curiosity mingled with an unspoken respect for the majesty of his presence.

As you reached the center of the dance floor, the music swelled, a lilting melody that seemed to wrap around you, inviting you to lose yourself in the rhythm. With a grace that took your breath away, he began to move, leading you into the dance with an ease that made your earlier apprehensions seem distant memories.

The world around you faded, the grandeur of the ballroom, the whispering guests, even the constraints of your own body seemed to dissolve in the magic of the moment. Iskinder's movements were a marvel, lithe legs strangely delicate. He was beautiful.

As the dance reached its crescendo, he executed a twirl, his movements orchestrating yours with such skill that you found yourself spinning, the room whirling around you in a blur of lights and colours. In that moment, suspended in the dance, you felt a joyous abandon that had your heart in your throat.

As the momentum of the twirl gently subsided, you found yourself momentarily unsteady, the world still spinning slightly around you. In an instant, one of the drider’ss slender spider legs moved to steady you against his chest. The unexpectedness of the gesture, the feel of his leg against you, might have startled you under different circumstances, but in that moment, it was nothing short of a saving grace.

"I do apologise," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble that resonated through the close space between you. "I sometimes forget how... unconventional my form can be."

You shook your head, a small smile playing at your lips, your heart still racing from the dance and the near fall. "No, I should be thanking you. Without your quick reflexes, I'd have been the evening's spectacle, tumbling across the dance floor."

The thought alone was enough to bring a flush of embarrassment to your cheeks, the imagined titters and whispers of the assembled guests a mortifying prospect. Yet, his next gesture swept away any lingering discomfort.

With a tenderness that took you by surprise, he reached up to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The contact, brief though it was, sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

"You are quite a spectacle, though for entirely different reasons," he said, his voice low, imbued with a sincerity that made you lift your gaze to meet his. In the gold of his eyes, you saw a warmth, an admiration that held you captive, and for a fleeting moment, the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of you.

The air between you charged. There was a pull as undeniable as it was unexpected. You found yourself leaning in, drawn by a force you couldn't quite name, the distance between you diminishing with each passing second. The possibility of a kiss, the mingling of breath and the meeting of lips, hovered in the space between you, tantalizing and terrifying in equal measure.

As the reality of the moment, of the public setting and the eyes that might very well be upon you, crashed back in, you took a step back, breaking the spell. The loss of proximity felt like a cold draft, a reminder of the boundaries that society, and your own caution, imposed.

Sensing the shift, Iskinder's expression softened, a note of concern creeping into his voice. "Perhaps you need some fresh air," he suggested, his gaze searching yours for signs of distress.

You shook your head, the rapid beat of your heart beginning to steady once more. "No, truly, I'm fine," you insisted, though the lingering warmth of his touch and the nearness of what might have been left you feeling anything but settled.

Seeing the hesitation in your eyes, he proposed once more, his voice gentle yet insistent. "Perhaps a moment of fresh air would do you good," he suggested, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made it difficult to look away. "And, should you wish for company, I could join you outside in a few moments. It might afford us the opportunity to converse away from the crowd."

The idea of retreating to the relative solitude of the gardens, especially in the company of such an intriguing figure, sparked a flicker of excitement within you. Yet, the impropriety of the suggestion, the departure from the strictures of decorum that such a meeting would entail, gave you pause.

Sensing your reluctance, he added, "At events such as these, draped in masks and shadows, propriety often takes a back seat to intrigue. We are all here to escape the mundane, if only for a night."

His words, spoken with a confidence that bordered on persuasion, tipped the scales. The allure of stolen moments under the cover of night, away from the prying eyes and whispered judgments of the ballroom, proved too tempting to resist.

Resolved to take a chance on the unexpected, you agreed to meet him outside. Yet, before you could part ways, a sudden thought struck you. "I realise I don't even know your name," you said, a blush colouring your cheeks at the oversight.

With a smile that was both enigmatic and disarmingly genuine, he replied, "My name is Lord Iskinder." The revelation, delivered with a flash of sharp, predatory teeth that glinted in the ballroom's light, sent a jolt of surprise through you.

Lord Iskinder. The enigmatic host of the ball, the subject of whispered speculation and rumour, stood before you, not just a figure of myth but a living, breathing presence.

As the significance of the revelation settled over you, Iskinder offered a nod of acknowledgment, as if he understood the weight of what he had just disclosed. Then, turning delicately, he turned and vanished into the crowd.

As you stepped out into the crisp embrace of the evening air a minute later, the gardens unfolded before you like a scene from a dream. The lawns were bordered by beds of fragrant flowers, their sweet scent mingling with the earthy aroma of the night. Lanterns hung from the boughs of ancient trees, casting a soft, dappled light that danced on the pathways, guiding your steps and painting the scene with an ethereal glow.

Ahead, a gazebo, draped in climbing ivy and delicate blooms, stood as a focal point within the garden's design. It was there, under its latticed roof, that you noticed two orcish women, their forms silhouetted by the lanterns' gentle luminescence. They were locked in an embrace, sharing a kiss as the shorter woman titled her head back.

The sight, tender and unabashed, stirred a curious longing within you, a whisper of wonder about the sensation of Iskinder's kiss, the press of his lips.

Lost in thought, you scarcely noticed the approach of a presence until it was nearly upon you. The air seemed to shift, charged with an anticipation that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Turning, you found yourself once again in the company of Iskinder, his smile ravishing.

Under the moonlight, he appeared transformed. The soft silver light lent an ethereal quality to his features, highlighting the angularity of his face and the deep pools of his molten gold eyes. His hair, a cascading waterfall of black, shimmered with a lustrous sheen. The spider half of his form, though shadowed, moved with a silent grace that was utterly mesmerising.

His voice, when he spoke, was a soft murmur that seemed to caress the night air, a contrast to the visual ferocity of his form. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," he said, his words tinged with warmth.

The sight of him, so formidable yet so gentle, made you squirm. The flash of sharp teeth as he spoke, far from deterring you, only served to heighten the allure. Gods, you wanted to kiss him.

As if attuned to your thoughts, Iskinder leaned in, his proximity erasing the remnants of the evening's chill. The scent of roses, a natural, earthy fragrance that seemed to emanate from his very being, mingled with notes of champagne. His hair brushed against your skin, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine.

The air between you was charged with anticipation, every breath you took laced with the promise of what might come. His eyes, glowing softly in the moonlit garden, held yours with an intensity that seemed to pierce through to your very soul. You found yourself caught in the gravity of the moment, the world around you narrowing to the space where you and Iskinder stood, teetering on the brink of a kiss.

Yet, just as the distance between you dwindled to nothing, as you braced for the contact you both sought and feared, Iskinder pulled back. The sudden absence of his warmth left you momentarily adrift, a silent plea on your lips. He didn't move far; instead, his hand found yours, his grip firm and reassuring as he led you deeper into the garden.

The path wound through the garden, each step taking you further from the ballroom's echoes and closer to a solitude you hadn't realized you craved. When you arrived at a secluded flower garden, embraced by latticed walls that seemed to hold the night at bay, Iskinder stopped. Here, surrounded by the gentle fragrance of blooms and the soft rustle of leaves, he turned to face you once more.

This time, there was no hesitation. Iskinder pulled you into his embrace, his arms encircling you with a strength that was both protective and inviting.

Then, he kissed you.

The kiss was everything and nothing like you'd imagined. His lips were softer than you'd expected, their touch igniting a fire that raced through your veins, leaving you breathless and wanting. The taste of him, masculine and sharp, was tempered by the sweetness of champagne on his tongue.

As Iskinder deepened the kiss, the world around you seemed to dissolve, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on yours, the gentle yet insistent press of his lips, and the intermingling of your breaths. The sharpness of his teeth grazed your lip in a fleeting caress, a thrill of danger that made you sigh almost wistfully.

Finally, necessity compelled you to break the kiss, the need for air pulling you back to the present. You were left breathless, your cheeks flushed with a rosy hue - you knew by how hot you felt, burning up.

Iskinder, ever attentive, placed a lingering kiss at the corner of your lips. His arm remained securely around your waist, sharp nails just grazing your hips.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, the words a tender echo in the secluded garden. The sincerity in his voice made your heart swell.

In a moment of boldness, fueled by the magic of the night and the undeniable bond you felt, you replied, "So are you, Lord Iskinder. Beautiful."

For a moment, Iskinder seemed taken aback, a bashful light touching his eyes. "People rarely call me beautiful," he admitted, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "Yet, coming from you, I believe it."

You reached up to flutter a hand across his cheek, where the cool mask met his skin.

As the night air began to cool, Iskinder pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Shall we go back? I find myself eager to dance with you again, under the watchful eyes of my guests."

The prospect of rejoining the throng of guests, of stepping back into the public eye where the magic of your secluded encounter might fade, filled you with a quiet disappointment.

“Can’t we just stay out here forever?”

Sensing your reluctance, Iskinder offered a compromise, his voice low and inviting. "If you would grant me the honor of your company tomorrow evening, you could return to my home. There, away from prying eyes, we could spend the night… just the two of us."

The invitation sparked a flame of anticipation within you. The promise of more time with Iskinder was an offer too compelling to refuse.

With a grin, you nodded - and stood on your toes to pull him in for one last, lingering kiss.

[whateverisbeautiful]

♥️Reveling in Richonne - TOWL

#34: The Trapped (1.04)

gif cred: @machonnes

Who knew it would take getting trapped to help Richonne finally let some of that tension between them get released 👌🏽...

After Rick basically breaks Michonne’s heart far worse than he tried to do in ep 3, the two still have to work together to make it past these walkers. And one thing about Richonne is that adrenaline-heavy activities always seem to bring them closer together..and also get them in the mood. 😌

So Richonne is in a hall taking a bunch of walkers out like only they can but then they both go for the same walker at the same time. A rare moment of Richonne being in sync but not in sync.

gif cred: @perryabbott

Michonne looks at Rick and says through gritted teeth, “I had this.” And then Rick is all snarly and defensive saying, “I had this.” And I was like if this man does not fix his tone. 🙃 He already has eight strikes at this point. Plus I was like…Rick, why are you having this annoyed energy with her, when you’re the one who has been doing the most hurtful stuff?? 😑

gif cred: @perryabbott

And then Rick wants to try it even more by removing his blade from the walker and splattering some of the gunk on Michonne’s face. Now y’all, this was nawt funny to me when I first watched it cuz I was so in my feelings. 😂

gif cred: @perryabbott

I quickly could see the humor people see in it of course, but when I was in the thick of my feelings during that first watch my extra self was like excuse me Rick, didn’t Father Gabriel go blind getting that stuff in his face?? 😑 Out here all willy-nilly with your wife.

Lol, I was all out of strikes to give at this point.

But, now watching this, I smile because these two are genuinely comedians together. 😂

Michonne looks at him ticked and says, “Really?” And fortunately, Rick has enough sense to know he was wrong for that when he says “Sorry” and then quickly scurries away to kill more walkers. That was cute I admit lol. 🤭 Rick looks like for a brief moment he finally realizes he tried it and is in trouble with his wife.

gif cred: @perryabbott

I also like the use of clashing red and blue light in this scene both for the visual and because I feel like Rick has been associated a lot with red light throughout TOWL and Michonne with more of blue lighting - i.e the difference in their lights during the tunnel scenes in ep 3.

And the way these red and blue lights are making purple here (fittingly, the color of royalty 👑) it’s almost like it paints the picture of how Rick and Michonne are clashing but still somehow on the verge of merging and coming back together. That might be an extra-as-hell observation but hey I told myself I was gonna try to write out every observation I have. 😋

gif cred: @figmentof

So then Richonne run up these stairs as the building continues to aggressively buckle and crack. A walker nearly grabs Michonne and Rick tells her to hug the wall with that irritated tone again and I was very much not here for that, cuz like why does it sound like he's scolding her or something? 🤨

I get Rick is also antsy cuz he’s not trying to have anything happen to her but still I feel like this was giving early season 3 Rick when he’d occasionally have that little posturing sternness with Michonne...and we’ve done come too far to be reverting back to that.

Michonne retorts, “I know that” cuz she doesn’t need the reminder. And then that huge chandelier comes falling down on them. That chandelier ends up being a blessing in disguise y’all, cuz Richonne needed something that was going to snap them out of this funk.

And whenever I hear Michonne still yell that concerned "lookout!" I’m just like aw even when Rick is being mean as hell she still looks out for him. 😊

gif cred: @ricksmarlene

After the fade to black, it’s shown that the chandelier has trapped Michonne’s leg so she’s stuck. I do like that the first thing we see is Rick right by her side tucked away in that corner with her because you know he probably was real panicked thinking this chandelier hurt Michonne and of course, he wants to try to fix it.

At first, you just hear their breathing and then Nat comes to his girl’s aid once again when Michonne uses his lighter to see better. Rick asks if she can move her leg and Michonne softly says, “Yeah it’s just trapped. If I can just…” and she tries to lift it but this thing is heavy and it won’t budge.  

gif cred: @nerd4music

Rick says, “Okay on the count of three” and they try to lift it together but it still won’t budge. They can see and hear walkers coming up the stairs and so Michonne shows that she too can make unserious statements like Rick when she says, “You should go.”

But that’s not even remotely an option to Rick so he doesn’t respond to that and just tells her, “Grab that. Handle those, while I get this thing.”

Michonne says, “Rick, how? There’s no time. You’ve got to go.” And I knew no matter what version of Rick this is, no version’s leaving her here to die. He’d rather die 1000 times himself than let that happen.

gif cred: @coolpartytimefan

There may be a part of Michonne that is genuinely telling Rick to go because she doesn't want the love of her life to die here on the stairwell if she can't break loose. But I also could see that, because Rick has been continually suggesting they have to just part ways and essentially never know each other's fate anyway, she might be feeling like 'What's the difference between leaving me here now or leaving me later?'

However, above all, she knew Rick would never just walk away from her here because they love each other and because - do I even need to reiterate it? - Richonne are...

I like how once again, Rick does not even address the idea of leaving her behind and just starts talking about how the bolts are holding this thing together. And when a walker comes Rick swiftly takes it out and then intently returns to trying to remove the bolts. Michonne turns some walkers into a kabob using her stick and when it gets particularly dicey Rick comes through to give her a knife to use. 

More walkers start making their way closer and so Michonne again tells Rick, “You’ve gotta go.” And this time Rick does respond to it and I love the response.

He just looks right at her and tells her, “That is never happening.” Y'all, I was so mad at him and then I heard him say this and was instantly smiling. This was a heartwarming line.😊

I like how Rick didn't just want to say 'that's not happening," but rather said 'that is never happening" because he knows there are literally zero scenarios where he'd ever abandon her in this state.

gif cred: @nat111love

Now, don’t get me wrong, I still felt some major apologies were needed from Sergeant Major Grimes after the gym scene, but it was nice to hear him say he'd never leave her here, especially because you know that’s what he was thinking in his head every time Michonne suggested he should go.

Rick immediately positions himself to be on the other side of her so he can shield her and take out the walkers. And Michonne is glad Rick was able to articulate that he’s never leaving when she says, “I just needed to hear that.” 

All along she knew telling him he needed to go was crazy and not something they’d ever do. She just needed Rick to see that. She turned this near-death experience into a helpful learning experience for him lol. And the lesson of the day: We don't leave each other behind. 😌

I love the way this episode uses Michonne being literally trapped by the chandelier to parallel Rick being trapped by the CRM. And just like Rick said he’d never want to leave Michonne trapped like this, she’s not trying to leave Rick trapped in his form of imprisonment either.

Honestly, Michonne should have a counselor certificate because all her methods this ep are slowly but surely helping Rick deprogram and see the light. 👌🏽

They keep trying to lift as Rick takes out walkers and eventually they’re able to get the chandelier off her together. I like how the only way it works is through Richonne working together and how with Michonne in a state where she can’t save herself, she’s able to have Rick here wholly determined to protect her. 😊

gif cred: @coolpartytimefan

And while of course for us we have no fear of either of them meeting their demise in this scene, it is technically a life or death situation and it’s nice seeing Rick be so committed to either saving his wife from this situation or dying trying.

gif cred: @nat111love

Michonne stands up and Rick again checks on her asking, “You okay?” Michonne looks in his eyes and says, “Yeah. Thank you.”

gif cred: @machonnes

And then the Rick we know makes a return as he softly and sincerely tells Michonne, “You never have to thank me ever.” 😭 I loved this line so much when I first heard it and love it every time since. 👏🏽🥹

I appreciate how much Rick feels like protecting her is not a burden or obligation. He literally feels that it’s his design to do so. So to Rick, thanking him for this is like thanking him for breathing.

And it’s just really sweet to me that Rick who is known to thank Michonne every chance he gets for everything, doesn’t even feel Michonne needs to tell him thank you once. Like he really said never ever. 🥲

gif cred: @nat111love

He knows and reveres the absolutely priceless gift Michonne is in his life and in each of his children's lives and that’s more than enough to him. So yeah that line was great. 🥰

And Danai knew what she was doing because I wasn’t sure how she was gonna be able to get Rick back in good graces after the gym scene but “that is never happening” and “you never have to thank me ever” were very effective in reminding of the lovable man Rick is underneath who he's been presenting to be the last 30 minutes.

As disappointed as I was with Rick's gym behavior, those two lines on the stairwell made me check myself and say let me not forget that at the end of the day...

He's not completely in the clear yet, but these moments were signature Rick Grimes, loving and being there for Michonne and it was refreshing to see that undying devotion.

That bonding moment of nearly dying together on a stairwell brings Rick and Michonne more in sync as they run upstairs and take out walkers. It’s nice to see them a bit more in unison. It’s like getting literally unstuck from that chandelier made them start to get a bit more unstuck with each other as well. 

Rick notes they need to go back to the room since that side hasn’t started bumping and shaking yet…but honey, it will. 😏

And it will all be because of Richonne and their much-needed, highly anticipated, long-awaited, so-hot-it-could-melt-your-screen, unforgettable moment of reconnection. 😌👌🏽 

[chimielie]

i swear that i will hate you 'till forever

summary: Yaku x F!Reader. sometimes divorce is what you really need to strengthen a marriage

word count: 1.2k

cw: angst, alcohol, pr marriage gone extremely wrong, yaku is older by six years, reader is a socialite with no life skills or healthy coping mechanisms, yaku also has no healthy coping mechanisms, no one in this story is doing well, The Judgment of God Himself, also blasphemy

a/n: heeey long time no see. i actually genuinely don't know when i wrote this, i'm just emptying my drafts of all the half-written fics i have locked in jail. i do still like this concept a lot so shoot me an ask if you want to know more about what i had planned for the full thing :)

Morisuke hates weddings.

He stares up at God, who is trapped in a little circle in a bigger circle, surrounded by gorgeous, centuries-old paintings of angels and saints and little red devils. Everything is gold, the flickering light of hanging chandeliers shining down to gild a rapt audience, even as the real people seem to pale in comparison to their artistically rendered counterparts. Standing here, surrounded by ornate displays of divinity, Morisuke has never felt so wealthy in spirit and physicality. He wasn’t raised in this religion, nor was he ever baptized into it as an adult, but he doesn’t find a seed of objection in himself he’d though he would. The icon he thinks is God looks both mournful and benevolent. All the shining things make Morisuke feel as though he’s looking into a mirror.

The people rustle, whispering among themselves. A stray string instrument sounds, alone and twanging into a silence far greater than itself, and Morisuke almost misses it when the orchestra starts up moments later. He has a headache, the kind that gets worse because he’s so irritated that he has one at all.

He looks down and away from God, straight into the blinding flash of a camera. His only reaction is a slight narrowing of the eyes, the closest he’s come to flinching in years. When the spots clear from his vision, you’re there, an angel from the fresco come to life, a goddess in the church.

Morisuke folds his hands. It feels only right to pray, the way he’s seen it on television, the way some of his teammates do before matches. You stare at him as you walk down the aisle, light playing over your dress in shining bursts that make his head throb harder. He can’t find any bridal tears in your eyes.

He shifts in his dress shoes, fights not to run his hands through his carefully-styled hair. The air-conditioning is too strong, meant to keep a thousand pressed-together people from overheating, or perhaps it’s the winter air leaking in through the great doors. You reach the stairs to the altar, wobbling a little on your first step up, though the movement is so minuscule anyone but him wouldn’t have noticed. Without thinking, Morisuke reaches a hand out to steady you. Your fingers press hard into the flesh of his palm, gripping him bruisingly tight. He can barely pull his hand away fast enough. The music stops, and Morisuke takes in a deep breath, while your chest doesn’t move to inhale or exhale. This is the last moment before you are knotted together irrevocably for life. A groom who hates weddings for a bride who doesn’t cry.

one year, eight months later

If you tilt your head up and almost close your eyes so that you’re looking through your lashes, you can pretend that you’re floating among the stars. You do so, walking backwards, tipping champagne down your throat as you go, trying to envision yourself as a constellation. You’re pretty sure you are one—Morisuke’s gift to you on your birthday, the first one after you’d married. The tabloids had eaten it up. You, watching him board a plane through the social media stories of your so-called friends, hadn’t felt quite as romanced as your picture in the news claimed.

You had forgotten about the constellation. Perhaps it had stuck in your subconscious, though; it was awfully romantic. Perhaps that’s why you had chosen the planetarium as a venue for tonight, though in the light of day it had been the midnight blue velvet and shadowy, domed ceilings that had cinched it for you. But you throw a lot of parties, and you don’t need any more sentiment in your life than what you’re currently suffocating under. You’ll come back on your own, you decide, finishing off your glass and plucking another from the nearest hand to you. You like being lost amongst your guests, freewheeling in space even without oxygen to breathe.

You stumble as you continue your backwards, meandering path through the party. You kick off your shoes, lab-grown crystals chipping off as they bounce. You don’t notice. You’ll buy more. You could buy the whole stupid world, with your husband’s money that he throws at you so he doesn’t have to come home and face you. Your husband who leaves you alone to do whatever you please. Alone, dancing among the stars.

Morisuke was twenty-eight when he proposed to you; you had just turned twenty-two when you said yes. You had been officially seeing each other for three months and acquaintances for nearly a year prior.

The story of your first meeting the interviewers knew was one you and your husband had told many times. A mutual friend had introduced you at a high-profile event and said, blatantly, that the two of you should “make babies.” Morisuke was smooth; you were flirtatious. The story played out like a romantic comedy, ending in a fairytale wedding.

You and he had kept the real story for yourselves, to take out and admire in times of trouble, to tuck away in your pocket like a note between secret lovers.

You were running through a rose-garden maze, eyes over your shoulder, hands fisted in your skirts. He had been walking a perpendicular path to yours (looking for someone else, another lover, you’d later learn) when you had tripped right over him, tumbling head over heels through the flora and into a new sector. Your breath knocked out of you, it was all you could do to stare up at the sky and try to laugh.

“Miss?” He’d called, ducking through the opening, pushing stray rose canes away. “Miss! Are you alright?”

He sounded so formal. You accepted his hand up, but only pulled yourself into a sitting position, trying desperately to catch your breath. He was so handsome, it was making things much harder. Inconsiderate of him, you thought

“I’m fine,” you managed, eventually. “Are you?”

“No more bruised than usual,” he’d returned, teasing. You cocked a brow. “I’m an athlete. I dive face-first onto hardwood floors all day."

For reasons you couldn’t recognize, you’d taken his hand, pushing up the sleeve of his shirt. His forearm toward the elbow had a nasty bruise, as he had said. You ran a careful finger over the discoloration, and he hissed.

“How was my form?”

“Awful,” he said frankly. “But—“ He’d seemed to get lost there, watching the way the sunlight filtered through the clouds and played across your features. With all the raw honesty of someone saying something they hadn’t even known they were thinking, he opened his mouth and said: “I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

On a slight breeze, the petals you’d knocked off drifted around the two of you, catching on his shirt, in your hair. They pooled between you, and when you ducked your head down they were all you could see.

You fell in love during that first meeting.

He never fell in love with you at all.

[violet-harmon2011]

going to a party with frat!kyle

kyle the type of guy to never let you go out alone at night

you need to be with your friends, or he's coming with you

WILL beat up anyone who even looks at you wrong

hates going to parties without you

and if you get intoxicated, he's super protective

obvi he isn't overbearing, so when you slip away from him, he doesn't notice how drunk you are...

...until one of his frat bros points out that you're dancing on top of a table

and then it's like that scene from 10 things i hate about you (!!) and you bonk your head on the chandelier and kyle being the chivalrous hero he is catches you when you fall and takes care of you when you have a concussion even after you vomit on his shoes

deals with all your drunken antics

"get away, mister! i have a boyfriend, you know"

"is he blonde and about a foot taller and do you call him ky?" he would chuckle at the way your eyes light up

"he's only like...(counts on fingers) eight inches taller. hey! how do you know what my boyfriend looks like, stalker?!"

five minutes later, you would pass out in his arms and he would carry you home

lays you in bed and kisses your forehead, "love you, sunshine"

dotes on you even though you aren't awake just bc you look so peaceful and gorgeous asleep

takes your makeup off for you

"ahh cold" you try to push his caring hands away

"sorry, baby, it'll feel better in the morning, promise"

will only ever have eyes for you

and oh, those gorgeous chocolate brown puppy eyes

<3

[thatbloodymuggle]

READY TO RUN (viii)

EIGHT - AFFETTUOSO

SUMMARY: in a world where everyone has a predetermined match, JJ Maybank and Y/N Montgomery want nothing to do with theirs. it has to be a cruel joke; the universe forcing two people to love each other when they don’t know how.

PAIRING: jj maybank x reader / soulmate au

WORD COUNT: 8.4k

SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: none this time :)

✰✰✰

According to Urban Dictionary, Sunday Scaries are the phenomenon by which you question your entire existence after a Saturday full of binge drinking. In your 18 years of existence, you had experienced a number of Sunday Scaries. But none could rival the torrent of dread, regret, and everything else in between that swept over you when you stirred awake on Kate’s couch the morning after your unfortunate blunder in the ocean.

You usually woke up foggy-minded after drinking. But today, the vivid memories flooded you before you even opened your eyes. You could see the vein protruding from Topper’s neck as he yelled at the Pogues. You could smell the stale beer spilled down your chest. You could feel the water dripping from JJ’s hair onto your face as he carried your limp body to shore. 

Suddenly, and all at once, you forced your eyes open, letting the harsh light of Kate’s living room drown out the onslaught of memories.

Your head lulled to the side as you assessed your surroundings. Topper’s zip-up was discarded on the chair across from you, but there was no sign of either of your friends. You lazily glanced at the ticking grandfather clock. 8:03 A.M.

You sucked in a deep breath as you reached for your phone, preparing yourself for the missing calls and texts from your family. Your brows cinched as you were instead met with an empty home screen. Much to your displeasure, your gut twisted when you didn’t find a certain blond-haired Pogue’s name flash across the screen. Against your better judgment, you sunk your nails into your thigh, just hard enough to wince. You waited a beat, and couldn’t help but feel disappointed when the action wasn’t returned.

You sighed and tossed your phone aside. You stared up at the ornate chandelier dangling above you. You gnawed your bottom lip as you mulled over your options. You could wait for Kate and Topper to wake up. But then you’d inevitably be badgered with questions you didn’t have the energy to answer yet. Alternatively, you could walk home, back to the place and people who had sent you spiraling yesterday. 

Both options sounded equally treacherous. Maybe you could sneak into your house, just long enough to freshen up. You could figure out the rest from there, you decided. You shut out any anxiety-inducing thoughts, and instead focused on your footsteps as you gathered your belongings and crept out of Kate’s house.

The beating sun was a welcome distraction as you stepped out into the Carolina heat. You moved mechanically along the side of the road, counting your steps in twos. You focused on the crunching gravel beneath your feet, the beading sweat kissing your forehead. Anything to keep the whirlwind of thoughts at bay.

Your calculated steps faltered as the Montgomery Mansion came into view. Still, you proceeded toward the ghastly Antebellum home, your head held high by a facade of confidence. You fought to keep your breathing steady as you approached the entrance. Your eyes flicked towards the side of the house, and you frowned upon noticing that your bike was missing from the rack. Strange, you thought to yourself.

You sucked in a deep breath before pushing the front door open as quietly as possible. Your shoulders slumped as you found no one in the entranceway.

However, your stint of relief was short-lived. A dreadful sinking feeling gripped you as you passed by the ballroom. The center of the marbled floor once occupied by an elegant Steinway grand piano was notably empty. Your knees buckled at the sight. Still, you propelled yourself towards the kitchen where you heard the unmistakable sound of your father’s bellowing cough. 

You could almost feel your cortisol levels spike as you turned into the entryway of the kitchen. Clyde and Margaret sat at the table, unbothered by your presence, as they indulged in their morning coffees and newspapers. 

"Where's my bike?"

Margaret paused momentarily before continuing to sip on her coffee.

"I sold it."

Her icy tone made your heart plummet to the pit of your stomach.

"And the piano?" your voice trembled as you spoke.

Margaret cleared her throat before taking another sip, "Sold that too."

You clenched your fists as you stood with your mouth agape. A cascade of anger and despair simultaneously engulfed you.

"You're fucking kidding me," you seethed. 

"Don't speak to your mother like that," Clyde snapped. You jumped as he slammed his mug down on the table, black coffee sloshing over the edges. "Seeing as empty threats mean nothing to you, your mother and I decided to take direct action."

You spoke through gritted teeth, "And how exactly do you expect me to practice for the showcase?"

"Not my problem," Clyde muttered as he mindlessly flipped through the newspaper on the counter.

"You can't," you blubbered, "You can't do this to me. This isn't fair!"

Margaret laughed dryly, "You want to talk about fair? Your father and I work tirelessly everyday to provide for you, and you have the nerve to drag us through the mud," she spoke sharply, "So long as you embarrass the Montgomery family name, you will not reap its benefits. If you're so determined to be independent of us, then have at it, Y/N. Be independent."

You fought back the tears welling up in your eyes, but couldn't stop your jaw from falling slack as Clyde shoved the pieces of your cut up credit card on the counter towards you.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. You fumbled for your phone, and nearly dropped the device at your father's next words.

"Your removal from the Verizon plan will be effective at midnight."

Your hands trembled and your knuckles turned white with rage. 

"Fine," you spit, "Have it your way. See if I care."

They did not, in fact, care. Neither Margaret nor Clyde so much as twitched an eyebrow when you stomped out of the room and slammed the door shut behind you, shaking its hinges on the wall. Your previous plan of getting in and out as quietly as possible was long forgotten.

You sprinted up the spiral staircase and your chest heaved as you swung open the door to your bedroom. The smaller piano in your room was gone as well. Your heart dropped at the sight of the empty wall and carpet littered with pieces of sheet music. You fought back tears as you sank to your knees and gathered the discarded music pieces into a neat pile. You hastily shoved the pile of sheet music into your piano bag, and hauled a large suitcase from underneath your bed. You were frantic as you yanked clothes from your closet and threw them inside the open bag. Hangers clattered against the wooden floor, but you couldn’t care less.

The sheer shock of the situation allowed you to move on autopilot as you headed towards your bathroom. You shoved your bare necessities into another bag and tossed it inside the suitcase. You haphazardly zipped the bag shut and clambered out of the suffocating room. You didn’t care how much noise you made as you dragged the large suitcase down the staircase. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dixie’s disgruntled voice sounded from the top of the staircase.

You didn’t spare your older sister a glance and instead opted to blindly flip her off.

You ignored the profanities spilling from Dixie’s mouth. You sucked in a deep breath as you finally exited the house. The wet heat was a welcome escape from the prison you were unfortunate enough to call ‘home’. 

You could feel your heartbeat in your ears as you fumbled for your phone. You quickly found Kate’s contact card and pressed the call button. You waited with bated breath as the phone rang, and your shoulders slumped with relief when Kate’s disgruntled voice finally replaced the tone.

“Y/N, what–”

“Can you come pick me up from my house?”

You gnawed on your bottom lip as you heard Kate shuffling around.

“When did you even leave? I didn’t hear you,” Kate spoke through a yawn, her raspy voice indicating that she had just woken up.

“I didn’t wanna wake you,” you spoke hastily, “Can you please just come get me? I promise I’ll explain everything.”

You released a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as Kate finally responded, “Yeah, yeah. I can be there in 10.”

“Thank you,” you sighed, “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Kate swiftly replied before ending the call.

You sighed as you put your phone away and began hauling your luggage down the driveway. This wasn’t the first time you’d packed a bag and left the Montgomery mansion; but the last time you ‘ran away’ was when you were eight years old, and you lasted a whole 10 minutes on the curb before begrudgingly returning. This time was different. This time, there was a sense of cruel finality to it all.

You paused as your phone buzzed. You halted abruptly and dug it out of your pocket. Your lips turned downward slightly at the picture of Sarah Cameron on your screen. With your mind elsewhere, you swiftly rejected the call and continued your walk down the driveway. But before you could take another step, it rang again. Your thumb hovered over the ‘decline’ button, but your guilty conscience was too strong. With a sigh, you accepted the call before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Y/N?” Sarah’s voice rang through the device.

“Yeah, what’s up?” you spoke coolly.

“Thank God you picked up. I was so worried about you and I’m so so fucking sorry about last night, I never should have left you out there like that. It was so dumb and I–”

“It’s okay, Sarah,” you cut off her rambling, “Seriously, you don’t need to apologize.”

Sarah let out a sigh of relief, “Of course I do. But the most important thing is that you feel okay.”

You hesitated before replying, as you were reminded of the throbbing pain in your head the previous night, “Yeah, I’m feeling better. I’ve just got other things on my mind right now.”

“Oh, um, yeah. You know if you need anyone to talk to–”

“Not that,” you were quick to cut Sarah off. 

You knew the metaphorical cat was out of the bag, but the last thing you wanted to talk about in that moment was JJ. You had a feeling that if you even let yourself think about him, you’d spiral all over again.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, “It’s just, um, I might not be reachable for the next few days.”

“What do you mean ‘not reachable’?” Sarah replied.

You sighed and sat on top of her suitcase, “My phone plan’s getting cut off at midnight.”

“Okay,” Sarah dragged out the word, “Well I can just swing by your place until you get it fixed.”

“No, don’t,” you quickly interjected. 

“You know, if you don’t wanna see me you can just say that,” the hurt in Sarah’s tone was evident, and it made your stomach twist. 

“It’s not that, Sarah, I promise,” you sighed before continuing, “I just got into a fight with my parents and they’re cutting me off for the time being.”

You pulled your phone away from your ear with a grimace as Sarah’s shriek sounded through.

“The fuck do you mean ‘cutting you off’? They can’t do that! And I can’t possibly imagine anything you could’ve done or said to warrant that. This is insane, Y/N, you’ve gotta–”

“Gotta what, Sarah? What the fuck am I supposed to do?” your voice wavered as you shut your eyes to force back the tears threatening to escape, “I brought this onto myself, and now I have to face the consequences.”

Sarah spoke with a pained sigh, “Y/N…”

“Kate’s picking me up. I’ll be at her house for the time being, in case you need me,” you paused as you watched an unmistakable Range Rover pull into the driveway, “I’ve gotta go.”

“Wait–” Sarah’s voice abruptly cut out as you ended the call. 

The disgustingly large vehicle halted in front of you, and you didn’t hesitate to lug your belongings over to the trunk. A very messy-haired Topper was quick to jump from the driver’s seat, wordlessly helping you load the bags into the car. You all but ran into the car, swiftly shutting the backseat door behind you. You avoided Kate’s worried eyes in the rearview mirror, and instead opted to fiddle with your seatbelt. Topper coughed awkwardly as he returned to his seat behind the wheel and drove the car from the driveway back onto the street.

The car ride was filled with a suffocating silence that left you gasping for breath when you finally arrived back at Kate’s home. The crisp air gave you little reprieve as you swung open the car door. Kate and Topper silently helped you gather your things and bring them inside. You could feel their burning gaze, but you ignored them. As soon as they’d set down your bags in the living room, Kate softly grabbed your hand. You let her lead you down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the safety of her bedroom. Topper trailed behind, but upon Kate’s warning glance, he opted to occupy himself elsewhere in the house, leaving the two of you alone.

You crawled into Kate’s unmade bed, ignoring the lingering smell of Topper as you wrapped yourself underneath the covers. You waited until you heard the click of Kate’s door shutting behind her before finally breaking the awkward silence.

“I know you have a lot of questions. Just ask them,” you spoke slowly in an attempt to keep your voice steady.

Kate sighed as she crawled under the covers beside you, “I honestly don’t even know where to start, Y/N. I’m so worried about you.”

You swallowed down the lump in your throat as you turned your body to face Kate’s and met her wide-eyed gaze.

“I don’t know where to start either. I just feel so…so–” you paused as the quiver in your voice betrayed you, “Lost.”

The soft touch of Kate’s hand brushing back your hair was the straw that broke the camel’s back. You shut your eyes tight as you felt the first tear trail down your face, quickly followed by another. You allowed yourself to be engulfed in Kate’s soothing touch as you buried your face into your friend’s shoulder. The two of you remained entangled in one another as you silently sobbed, your tears soaking right through Kate’s sweatshirt.

She rubbed soothing circles into your back until your breathing steadied, and your tear ducts had emptied.

“You can start wherever you want,” Kate whispered once she’d sensed you had calmed down.

You gulped in an attempt to moisten your dry throat.

“I guess I’ll start from the beginning,” you rasped.

Kate listened intently as you detailed the events from the past few weeks, from the first night at the Kegger to your fight with Anna. Once you started speaking, you couldn’t stop. All of your pent up frustrations, your unwelcome thoughts, came tumbling out, all at once. By the time you had detailed the interaction with your parents that morning, you felt the weight of the world lift off your shoulders. For the first time in weeks, you could breathe a bit easier, see a bit clearer.

“I’m so sorry for keeping you in the dark through all this, Kate,” you whispered.

You studied the cinch between Kate’s brows and tried to decipher the emotion swimming in her big, brown eyes.

“Please, don’t apologize. You told me when you were ready and that’s what counts,” Kate paused before continuing, “You know you can stay with me for as long as you need. Betsy is in Europe for the summer so you can even have the whole guest house to yourself, if you want.”

You nodded appreciatively. You pulled Kate into a tight hug which was instantly returned. You allowed the scent of her lavender shampoo to flood your senses, providing you with some semblance of comfort.

“As for JJ…”

Kate paused as she felt you tense in her arms.

“I know. I know it’s not right. We’ll never work together and we’re no good for each other. I just need some time to navigate the soulmate bond, find a way for us to go on with our separate lives without–”

“Y/N, shut up.”

Your lips parted in shock as Kate shoved you away and held you firmly by your shoulders. You felt like shrinking under her resolute stare.

“That’s not how soulmate bonds work. You can’t ignore it or fight it until it goes away. It’ll only become stronger and more painful if you keep going like this–if you keep going like this, it’ll tear you apart,” Kate spoke with conviction.

You gnawed your bottom lip in thought, “So, what then? I just give myself completely to the biggest douchebag on the island? If I run off with a Pogue, I might as well kiss my family, my life here, everything I’ve worked so hard for goodbye.”

Kate sighed and ran a manicured hand over her face, “I can’t tell you what to do, Y/N. But I can tell you that what you’re doing now is not a solution.”

You groaned in frustration. You ran your hands through your hair, tugging harshly at the roots as if doing so would pull the right answer from your mind. 

“It has to be a mistake,” you cried, “Aren’t soulmates supposed to be the ‘perfect fit’? We’re anything but. We live different lifestyles, we have different values, we like different things–we have absolutely nothing in common.”

“Maybe you haven’t found anything in common with him because you haven’t allowed yourself to try,” Kate’s words crashed over you like the wave from the night before.

You opened your mouth to protest, but nothing came out. 

“You know, I couldn’t imagine resisting my bond with Topper. I know it’s different, but still. I can’t even begin to picture the agony that would cause,” Kate’s harsh tone had shifted into something softer, gentler, “I can’t tell you what to do, Y/N. You’ve gone through life for so long with other people making your decisions for you. And as agonizing as this whole situation has been, it’s something that you, and only you, have complete control over. This is one decision that no one else can make for you.”

You flinched as Kate’s words struck a chord deep within you. As much as you hated to admit it, Kate was right.

“I know you know I’m right,” Kate cracked a small smile at your awe-struck face, “You don’t have to say anything–just think about it.”

You simply nodded in response. Your shoulders slumped in exhaustion as you leaned back against the headboard of Kate’s bed.

You jumped slightly at the sound of a sharp knock on the bedroom door.

“Kate? You in there?” Mrs. Moore’s muffled voice sounded through the door.

“Yeah,” Kate called as she scrambled from her bed.

“You have some visitors.”

You subconsciously shrunk under the covers as Kate opened the door to follow after her mom. You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you mulled over Kate’s words, which seemed to echo ceaselessly in the chasms of your mind.

“Mind if we crash the party?”

The lilted tone of Sarah Cameron’s voice shook you from your thoughts.

Your eyes widened slightly at the sight of Sarah and Kie at the doorway, with a visibly tense Kate lingering behind them.

“We come bearing gifts,” Kie’s soft tone eased some of the tension in Kate’s shoulders.

You cracked a small smile at the basket of chocolate and Cheez-Itz in Kie’s arms.

“How’d you know Cheez-Itz are my kryptonite?” you teased.

Sarah and Kie grinned, taking your smile as an invitation to stay. You gratefully took the basket from Kie and gestured for the two girls to join you on the bed. Kate hesitated before joining as well so the four girls sat in a circle.

“Well you were practically on your knees begging for them last night so I took a gander,” Sarah giggled as you ripped open the box and greedily scooped out a handful of the orange pieces.

“We just wanted to check in, see how you’re doing,” Kie added. She shifted slightly under Kate’s warning gaze. You gathered that Kate must have told the two girls not to ask about JJ before entering.

You forced a tight lipped smile through your mouthful of Cheez Itz, “I’m doing okay.”

Sarah nodded and ran her hands nervously over her thighs. You could tell she was itching to say something.

“Spit it out, Sarah,” you rolled your eyes.

“I really hope you don’t mind, but I filled Kie in on your, um, situation with your parents,” Sarah spoke quickly, “And she had a really great idea to help you out.”

You frowned, “I don’t need charity, guys. Seriously. I appreciate the snacks and all, but I’m not taking anything from–”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Kie interrupted you, “When Sarah told me your parents sold your piano,” you shifted uncomfortably and Kate inched closer in a protective manner, “I thought about the piano we have at my dad’s restaurant. I asked him about it since no one really uses it, and although he said we can’t just give it away, he did say that he’s been trying to get a live music gig going at The Wreck for some time now. I told him how good you are at piano and that you’re looking for a place to practice. He said he’d love to have you play there a few nights a week, and in exchange you can use it whenever you want after hours to practice. And you’ll be paid, of course.”

Your eyes widened and your mouth fell agape. 

“I know it’s not perfect, but I thought maybe–”

“It is perfect,” you cut her off. You let out a breathy laugh, “It’s totally perfect! When can I start?”

Kie grinned and clapped her hands together in excitement, “Whenever you want. We have all the equipment set up, but if you need to take a few days to sort out what you’ll play–”

“Can I start tonight?” you cut her off again with an eager grin.

Sarah laughed, and Kate couldn’t help but crack a smile at the drastic improvement in your mood.

“Well, yeah, I just figured you might want some time to prepare.”

“She’s our little musical virtuoso. She doesn’t need time to prepare,” Kate chimed in with a soft smile.

You rolled your eyes, “Virtuoso is a stretch. But I’ve definitely got some tricks up my sleeve.”

“Don’t be modest. We all know you’re a shoe in for Julliard, and in five years time you’ll be performing in Carnegie Hall,” Sarah scoffed.

You flushed and shook your head with a laugh, “Only if you’re there watching.”

“Are you kidding? We’ll be sitting in the front row!” Sarah nudged you as she stole a handful of Cheez Itz from the box in your lap.

The group of girls continued chattering until their stomachs hurt from the combination of non-stop laughter and influx of chocolate and crackers. You were grateful for their company. Your heart fluttered as you watched Kate slowly, but surely, warm up to the two Kooks dressed in Pogue’s clothing. For a few hours, you were able to take your mind off your soulmate, your family, and your academic future. For a few hours, you were shielded from the dark cloud that seemed to follow you everywhere you went. 

And you embraced the fleeting escape with open arms.

✰✰✰

“So this is the musical protegé you two have been singing praises of?” Mike Carrera’s booming voice enveloped you like a warm blanket.

Sarah and Kie nodded enthusiastically behind you as you smoothed the front of your dress. You sent him a nervous smile and extended your hand, “Yes, Sir. Y/N Montgomery.”

The older man gripped your smaller hand in a firm shake and sent you a dazzling smile, “Mike Carrera. I’ve heard so much about you–it’s a pleasure to finally put a face to the name.”

You grinned, your nerves slowly settling at his welcome.

“Follow me, I’ll show you the set up,” he gestured a hand towards the opposite end of the restaurant where a lone, upright piano stood proudly in the center of a small stage. 

You trailed behind him. You had to stifle a giggle as you caught Sarah and Kie helping themselves to the tap beer at the bar while Mike’s back was turned.

“Got it tuned just last week, so should be in tip-top shape,” Mike rested an arm over the top of the Yamaha.

You nodded and ran your right hand lightly across the keys. You couldn’t fight the grin tugging at your lips as you played a few chords in succession. 

“Dinner opens at 5 and we start closing up at 9. 10 on Saturdays and Fridays,” Mike drummed his fingers along the oak wood, “We’d love to have you come in on Fridays since they’re the busiest, and two other days of your choosing.”

You nodded as you set your tote bag full of sheet music to the side, “That sounds perfect.”

“I was thinking $200 per night,” Mike added.

Your eyes bulged and your lips parted in surprise. 200? You had been expecting $20 per hour, at best. 

Mike’s brows furrowed, “If 200 seems too little, we could discuss–”

“No, no, 200 is perfect. Amazing,” you rushed out, “I can’t thank you enough for this.”

Mike flashed a toothy grin, “Thank you. We’ve been looking to get some live music back up in the joint for a while now. You’re just what we need to get this place really running again.”

You flushed and shook your head as you felt a rush of warmth creeping up your neck, “Well I sure hope I can help with that.”

Mike pushed off the piano, “Kie also mentioned that you need a place to practice. You’re welcome to come in anytime in between lunch and dinner hours, or before and after closing. Whatever floats your boat–the Wreck is your oyster.”

You giggled at his fatherly mannerisms, “Thank you so much, Mr. Carrera. Do you mind if I practice for a bit now before you open up for dinner?”

He raised his arms in surrender and took a dramatic step back from the instrument, “Don’t let me stop you. Have at it.”

You sat on the bench and fiddled with the knob on the side, adjusting the height so your arms fell at a precise 90 degree angle on the keys. You glanced over your shoulder and giggled at the sight of Sarah and Kie leaning across the bar with their heads in their hands, eagerly awaiting the sound of your playing.

You turned back towards the piano and dug out a few pieces of music from your bag, arranging them in the order you’d need. You took a deep breath to steady yourself before letting your fingers fall gracefully over the white keys. You breezed through a few warm up exercises to get accustomed to the unfamiliar instrument. The keys were a bit stickier than the ones you’d grown accustomed to on your Steinway at home, and the pedal a bit more finicky than the one at Madame’s house. Still, this instrument was marvelous in its own way.

You ran through a few pieces you planned on playing before pulling out the dreaded piece you’d neglected to practice the past few days. Your whole body trembled at the mere sight of Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu Op. 66. There was no chance in hell you’d be playing the piece that night. But as the events of the past 48 hours had kept you distracted from your duties, you knew you had to get at least a good 30 minutes of practice in.

You twisted your neck, rolled your ankles, and shook out your hands in a poor attempt to keep your Chopin-induced anxiety at bay. 

Unsure where to start with the monstrous piece of music, you decided a quick run through would help identify the problem areas that needed the most attention.

The issue? The whole damn thing was a problem area.

You drilled each measure, each line, over and over. You flicked on a metronome to help keep you on beat. You ignored the growing ache in your hands and kept on.

Minutes away from giving up, you flipped back to the first page of the music. You craned your neck behind you and called out, “Hey, Sarah?”

The Cameron girl nearly fell out of her stool in surprise, and you suppressed a laugh at the sight.

“What’s up?”

“Do you think you could come help me out for a minute?”

Sarah hopped from the barstool and skipped over to the piano with a grin, “I know I’m good at a lot of things, but music is not one of them.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, “I just need you to turn the pages for me. You don’t need to read the music or anything–I’ll nod at you when I want you to turn the page.”

Sarah shrugged, “Sounds easy enough.”

She set her beer down on the top of the piano, but quickly removed it at your razor sharp glare. Instead, Sarah opted to set it down beside her feet.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, and exhaled through your parted lips. 

You rested your fingers on the keyboard and counted off in your head before playing the opening set of notes.

Sarah watched you intently, careful not to miss your subtle cues to turn the page. 

Six torturous minutes later, you finally played the last chord. Sarah immediately erupted into manic applause and cheering.

“That was fucking incredible!”

Simultaneously, you released a guttural groan and slammed your hands down on the keyboard in frustration.

Sarah’s cheering halted abruptly and her brows cinched together in confusion, “What’s wrong? That was perfect!”

You shook your head and snatched the music book from the stand, snapping it closed.

“Far from it.”

“What do you mean? That was the first time you made it all the way through! I mean, I don’t know music but I didn’t hear you make any mistakes or–”

“I didn’t make any mistakes,” you sighed, “But it’s all wrong.”

Sarah cocked her head in confusion.

Your tired eyes met hers. You chewed on your bottom lip as you tried to find a way to explain your frustration, “It’s choppy–all cold and mechanical. Everything is right, but there’s no feeling. I have the technique down, but it’s just not flowing through me like I need it to.”

Sarah’s doe eyes swam with bewilderment. She nodded, although you knew she hadn’t understood. 

“Opening in 5!” Mike’s booming voice sliced through the air.

You sighed as you stood from the bench and cracked your back. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you smiled softly at Sarah, “I’m not planning on playing that one tonight anyways.”

Sarah smiled back and returned to her seat at the bar which she and Kie were soon to be booted from as customers came in.

You took a sip of water from the bottle you’d set beside the bench as you prepared yourself for a lengthy performance. Your gut churned as the minutes ticked by. You rarely experienced stage fright, as 16 years of playing had almost entirely numbed you to it. But you’d never been on stage for more than 30 minutes at a time, and 4 hours was a far cry from it.

As the clock struck 5, you settled yourself back onto the bench and prepared your first piece of the night: Chopin’s Waltz No. 7 in C-Sharp Minor, Op. 64 No. 2

The clinking of glasses and cutlery, and soft chatter of customers provided an ambiance you had never experienced while playing before–but one you enjoyed, nonetheless. 

As the closing chords sounded through the restaurant, you were met with a bit of scattered applause. You smiled and couldn't help but sneak a glance behind you. The restaurant was slowly, but surely, starting to fill up. A young boy, no older than eight, sheepishly approached you with a dollar bill in hand. He stood on his tiptoes and dropped the bill inside the tip jar Kie had placed atop the piano while you weren’t looking.

You grinned down at the boy and mouthed a ‘thank you’. A pink blush swept over his chubby cheeks, and he scampered back to his parents.

You returned your attention to the instrument before you. You moved on autopilot as you breezed through the first few pieces in your set for the night. You had carefully picked out a selection of classical, jazz, and contemporary pieces to ensure a variety of genres. You had even thrown in some modern classics everyone would know, from A Thousand Miles to Bohemian Rhapsody. You fought to contain your laughter as Sarah and Kie obnoxiously sang along to the famous Queen anthem.

Completely immersed in the music, you hadn’t even noticed the arrival of a familiar band of Pogues.

“So this is the surprise you two were going on about?” Pope grinned as he and John B approached Sarah and Kie’s table. 

“Isn’t she incredible?” Kie beamed.

Kie’s smile dropped as she noticed JJ lingering behind the two boys. His face was white as a sheet as he stared in shock at the stage.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked Pope and John B.

A cloud of tension brewed over them as JJ’s eyes snapped to Kie’s.

“You didn’t think to mention she was gonna be here?” he snapped.

Sarah frowned as her eyes set into a menacing glare, “We know if we said something you’d pussy out. Can you get over yourself, just for one night? There’s no point denying it, it’s so obvious you two are soul–”

Sarah yelped as John B elbowed her sharply, effectively cutting her off.

She narrowed her eyes further as a snarl accompanied JJ’s fury-filled glare, “Fuck this. I’m out of here.”

He swiveled on his heels, but Kie grabbed his elbow and yanked him back towards the table.

“Cool it, dude. We’re just gonna grab some dinner. You don’t need to talk to her.”

JJ opened his mouth to protest, but Kie cut him off, “And John B’s your ride, so you’re stuck with him.”

JJ glared at his group of friends. Pope and John B studied the menu as if they had never seen it before to avoid his menacing stare.

“Fine,” he spit. JJ made sure to take the seat furthest from the stage. “But you’re buying me a beer.”

Kie’s shoulders slumped with relief as she’d effectively deterred his impending explosion, “Deal.”

The Pogues immediately began chatting in an effort to brush past the awkwardness. But JJ couldn’t bring himself to focus on Sarah’s complaining about her brother, or Pope’s in-depth review of the most recent season of Survivor. Despite his best efforts to ignore the display behind him, the only thing he could hear was the ethereal melody of Liszt’s Liebestraume No.3. Although he couldn’t see you, his mind was flooded with pictures of you; memories of you at the piano in your room. He could see the curvature of your elbows, the grace of your fingers gliding across the keys, the crinkles of concentration between your brows, the–

“What the fuck is this?” JJ spluttered at the acrid taste of beer he had subconsciously sipped.

Kie stifled a laugh, “It’s a new IPA my dad’s testing out. This local brewery has been pushing to get on the menu.”

JJ fought back a gag and pushed the pint far away from him, “Well you should tell Mike this shit fucking sucks.”

“Ay, don’t be soft now, J. I thought you could handle your alcohol better than that,” John B teased his childhood friend with a grin.

“Piss off,” JJ grumbled.

He pushed himself out of his seat, and wandered over to the bar to replace the disgusting beer Kie had served him. JJ caught the attention of one of the bartenders he knew well, and waited patiently as the worker subtly slipped him his favorite Pale Ale. As he sipped on the pint, JJ couldn’t help but sneak a glance towards the stage. His lips pursed as he watched Pope approach the piano with a dollar bill in his hand.

“You take song requests?”

Pope’s deep voice made you jump in your seat as you rearranged the sheet music before you. You grinned widely at the Pogue towering above you.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not playing the Star Wars intro for you,” you teased with a subtle smirk.

He clutched a hand against his heart and stumbled back dramatically, “You wound me, Montgomery.” Pope dropped the crumpled up dollar bill inside your now nearly full tip jar, “How about Piano Man?

You laughed, “Didn’t take you for a Billy Joel fan, Pope.”

He shrugged with a smug grin, “What can I say? I’m a fan of the classics.”

Your joyful gaze lingered as he sauntered back over to his table. However, your gut wrenched as you noticed the absence of ruffled blond hair at his table. Still, you shot the rest of the Pogues a timid smile before turning your attention back to the instrument in front of you.

Piano Man. You weren't sure when the last time you’d played the Billy Joel classic was–it must have been years ago. Nevertheless, you straightened your slumped posture, shut your eyes, and let your hands fall along the keys. You could feel the crowd behind you perk up as you played the familiar opening melody. You were forced to stifle your laughter as you heard the Pogues singing along behind you. The onlookers in the busy restaurant broke into applause as the song ended. No one cheered louder than Pope, who had recruited the bartenders into a kick line by the end of the song.

“That’s my little virtuoso!” Sarah shrieked.

You turned back with a toothy grin to wink at your friend. But the curve of your lips faltered as you caught sight of the tousled blond hair you’d been searching for all night. You sucked in a breath as his head turned and his eyes met yours.

Something deep within you churned at the sight of his ocean blues–a sweltering desire only he could pull out of you. Although his eyes were trained directly on you, his gaze was elsewhere; somewhere far beyond the confines of the restaurant, or the island for that matter. Your brows furrowed as you surveyed him, trying to decipher the emotion hidden behind his glassy eyes. But the mask of indifference he’d adorned for the night was impenetrable.

Before you could locate any cracks in his hard exterior, JJ swiveled back towards the table. 

Your hands trembled with a swirl of anxiety, frustration, and longing. It had only been 24 hours since you’d last seen him. But his absence had felt striking. For years, you’d prayed to all things good and holy to be rid of his bond. You’d wished for just one day void of his every feeling. For the first time in your life, you realized, you hadn’t felt him all day. No punches, no stubbing toes, not not even the swift slap against your thigh when you cracked your knuckles. You’d finally gotten your wish. 

But you’d take the sickening crunch of bones underneath your knuckles a hundred times over not feeling anything at all.

A switch flipped within you. You forced your eyes away from the back of JJ’s head, and instead looked at Sarah. You cocked your head, gesturing for the Kook princess to come over. Sarah swiftly set down the beer she’d been sipping on and approached you.

“What’s up? Are you okay? I can tell him to leave–”

“No, don’t,” you cut her off, “You mind turning the pages for me again?”

Sarah’s eyes widened as you pulled out the piece you’d been pouring over earlier before the restaurant opened.

“I thought you said you weren’t ready to play that one yet?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel ready,” you mumbled as you placed the book on the stand, “But now’s as good a time as any to try.”

Sarah nodded and positioned herself to the side, staring intently at you to ensure she didn’t miss your head nodding cues.

Your eyes fluttered shut. But this time, you didn’t count down in your head. You didn’t visualize the opening phrase, or the notes on the page. Instead, you let yourself think back to the night before. The feeling of JJ’s strong arms wrapped around your sobbing body. The fear in his eyes as he carried you to shore. The snarl on his lips as he yelled at you in the country club bathroom. You lowered the carefully constructed levee in your mind, and let all your memories of him come flooding in. 

Your eyes flicked open, and you began without a second thought.

This time, the notes symbolized each word you’d exchanged with JJ. Your right hand played your biting tone, and your left played his gruff voice. They spoke to each other. They fought, and they cried. But they sang together in perfect unison. 

Sarah watched in awe as you moved with a fervor she had never seen before. She swiftly flipped the page at each subtle nod. Sarah wasn’t the only one captivated by your performance–the previously uninterested customers had diverted their attention to the piano player on stage, and every conversation seemed to hush. 

As you played the ending phrase of the piece, you released a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. Your eyes remained shut as you let the final notes ring through the restaurant until they naturally concluded.

You were brought back to reality when the remaining customers erupted into applause. 

“That was perfect,” Sarah gleamed down at you.

You let out a breathy laugh, “Yeah. It was.”

You craned her neck back towards the table of Pogues. While the smiling faces of Kie, John B, and Pope warmed your heart, JJ’s empty seat chilled your veins.

“What’s the time?” you asked Sarah.

The Kook fumbled for her phone, “8:40. You’re here ‘till 9?”

You nodded and put away the book of Chopin pieces, “You guys can head out, if you want. There’s no need to wait for me.”

Sarah shook her head, “No way we’re leaving early on your opening night! Besides, John B can give you a ride home in the Twinkie.”

“Don’t worry about me, Kate and Top are coming to get me at 9:15,” you smiled appreciatively.

Sarah conceded and walked backwards to her table, “As you wish. But we’re here for the whole show!”

You let out a half-hearted giggle and sighed as you turned back to the piano. Exhaustion seemed to finally set in as you became acutely aware of the ache in your lower back and the cramping of your fingers. But you still had a job to do. So, you relied on muscle memory to get through the last few pieces of your set. You deliberately chose songs you knew like the back of your hand, as you had a feeling you’d be drained of energy by this point. As you continued playing, the crowd slowly filtered out until just the Pogues remained.

“That was pretty incredible, Miss Montgomery,” Mike Carrera gleamed as he approached you. 

You sent him a tired smile as you gathered your sheet music back into your bag, “Thanks, Mr. Carrera.”

“You’ve outdone yourself. Why don’t you head home and get some rest?” he handed you a white envelope as he spoke.

You nodded and stuffed the payment at the bottom of your bag.

As soon as he’d retreated, you were instantly bombarded by the chattering group of Pogues. You weakly returned their hugs and tried your best to match their high energy, but to no avail. You were completely and utterly drained. Instead, you found yourself looking around the restaurant, hoping to catch a glimpse of blue eyes and blond hair.

“He went out back,” John B mumbled into your ear.

You jumped, startled by his voice. You fought the blush creeping up your neck as you’d just been caught red-handed looking for JJ. Still, you sent John B a soft smile, and slipped away from the group while they were distracted by something Pope said.

Your heart thumped in your chest as you snuck towards the door leading to the back porch. The salty breeze engulfed you instantly as you pushed it open, and you greedily breathed in the soothing sensation.

You spotted JJ leaning on the railing, staring out at the rolling waves of the ocean. His untamed hair billowed in the breeze, and the full moon above seemed to kiss his nose. You wiped your sweaty palms on your dress as you approached him quietly. You mimicked his stance leaning against the railing, making sure to keep a comfortable distance between you two.

“Avoiding me now?” you spoke gently, as if approaching a wild animal.

He simply grunted, his eyes unmoving from the ocean before him.

You sighed, and diverted your gaze to the crashing waves as well. Your mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. But nothing came out. There were so many things you wanted to say–but your brain seemed to be short circuiting.

You snuck a glance at him. You observed the bump on the top of his nose, and the strain of his biceps against his white t-shirt.

“I like that shirt on you,” you lamely stated.

You cringed, and kicked yourself internally.

JJ snorted, but the frown etched on his lips remained.

“Please, don’t try to make nice with me,” his scratchy voice tickled something in your brain.

You huffed, “What? You’d rather I curse you out?”

His silence made your blood boil, but you forced yourself to remain level-headed.

You sighed before making another effort to engage him, “Look, I think we should at least talk about last night. I’m sorry for–”

“Talk about what?” he snapped, turning to face you. You shrunk underneath his menacing glare. “I sent you spiraling, you tried to drown yourself in the ocean. I saved you, and then you tried to drown yourself in alcohol instead. You see the running theme?”

You flinched at his razor sharp tone, “That’s not–”

“The truth? It is. Don’t be fucking dumb, Montgomery. Don’t delude yourself into thinking anything good has come from me coming into your life.”

Your stomach lurched. You opened your mouth to respond, but JJ cut you off again.

“You were right. We’re no good for each other. And I don’t wanna be the one responsible for ruining your life, crushing your hopes and dreams. So let’s just leave it at that.”

For the first time that night, his facade slipped. And the glint of agony in his troubled eyes was unmistakable.

“What about what I want?” your voice trembled.

JJ’s eyes narrowed as he tried to maintain his mask of indifference, “What do you want?”

“I…” you paused. That was the question you’d been trying, and failing, to find an answer for all day. 

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

JJ scoffed. He pushed himself off the railing, and turned to go back inside.

Panic seized you as you watched him walk away. 

Maybe you haven’t found anything in common with him because you haven’t allowed yourself to try, Kate’s words from earlier rang through you.

With a sudden surge of courage, you lurched forward and wrapped your fingers around JJ’s wrist.

The feeling of his skin against yours was as electrifying as your first touch.

“Take me out,” you blurted before you could talk yourself out of it.

JJ’s hard glare softened slightly, and his brows furrowed. Anxiety gripped you as you watched his chapped lips part in surprise.

“We can’t possibly decide this won’t work when we don’t really know anything about each other,” you spoke with conviction despite the fear twisting your insides, “If by the end of it we still feel the same way, then at least we have the peace of mind that we tried.”

You could practically see the gears turning in JJ’s head as he mulled over your words.

“So let’s start over. Take me out on a proper date,” you concluded your long-winded speech.

You were certain he could feel the heavy thump of your heart in his own chest. His silence made your knees buckle, and you wanted nothing more than to bury yourself in the fine sand below. Just as you let your fingers slip from his wrist, his hand shot out to catch yours.

“Okay,” JJ whispered.

Your shoulders slumped with relief. Okay. He said ‘okay’.

“Okay,” you breathed out, “Tuesday?”

“Can’t. I have work,” he replied.

“Wednesday?” you countered.

“6:00?”

“I have piano until 7:00.”

“Then 7:00.”

“Okay.”

The blaring sound of a car horn cut the awkward exchange short. You whipped around to the source of the sound, and caught sight of Topper’s unmistakable Range Rover waiting in the parking lot. Reluctantly, you released your hand from JJ’s.

“That’s my ride,” you whispered.

JJ nodded and took an awkward step back. You hiked your bag on your shoulder and turned to leave.

“You were incredible tonight, by the way,” JJ rasped as you walked away.

You paused as your heart skipped a beat. You craned your neck and sent your soulmate a sincere smile over your shoulder. You wanted nothing more than to turn back and give yourself completely to the bond. But you let the rational part of your brain take over, and beat on towards the waiting car. 

And as you strolled towards the black SUV, the ethereal melody of Fantaisie Impromptu played in your mind. It echoed through you like never before. Affettuoso. With feeling. 

What was once created by Chopin was now yours, forever branded by JJ Maybank.

[kombuuuu]

oh I have a request! Miguel x reader where he teaches you how to dance? your so bad at ballroom and Miguel was trained in it when he was younger and can't help but intervene when he sees you messing up the steps.

Hold my swaying Heart.

Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

“I don’t know how to dance..” “I’ll teach you.”

i had to research how to waltz and why is it so confusing

He’s so baby 😻 (there’s bugs whispering in my ears)

To say that Miguel didn’t like a lot of people would be an understatement.

He thought most of the people he was protecting, the people he’d risked his entire life for—,

,We’re at best naïve, and worst, plain stupid. Believing that they were out of harms way because of the gift they’d been given.

You were an exception.

He didn’t see you as a burden, or an idiot. Naïve, maybe a little. But not in the way where you could get hurt physically, but more emotionally.

He rather saw you as someone he could care for, as you had done rather terribly caring for yourself.

Being dependent and trusting compared to the Spidey people he met day by day. You were sweet, loyal, and god you would not leave his head.

So when Peter had invited him to some stupid dance, and said you were coming with a sly smile on his face, he’d begrudgingly agreed.

Which is what led him to right now.

—

God you looked gorgeous. A sleek white dress complimenting your features, slit running down from your thigh. It hugged every sweet form of your body, giving him a view he was rather thankful for. Sheer white gloves covered your hands, and the pearls you wore sat nicely against your collarbone.

You looked elegant, and he couldn’t get enough.

Off dancing with Hobie, stumbling and stepping on his toes. Laughing with him while he told you how dancing was just a social construct, anyways. Though he laughed with you.

The scene was pretty, he’d admit. It was a gorgeous hall, oak wood floor expanding enough room for eight seat rounded dining tables with tea light candles on white cloth, and a dance floor. The band was set on the elevated stage at the corner of the room. Playing nice, easy classical.

Roses and fancy spoons, along with an over the top chandelier.

Everything looked rather expensive, it suited his taste.

He caught Hobies stare from across the room and the brit smirked.

Miguel glared at him.

Don’t.

He watched as Hobie leaned down to whisper in your ear, making eye contact with him the whole time. His fingers twitching in anger and jealousy.

The brunette’s back straightened, his figure hulking over most in the room. Adorned in such a restricting suit probably wasn’t helping his case. Biceps straining against the thick fabric, he wondered if something had gone wrong at the tailor, or if the woman who had done his measurements had also done this on purpose.

His attention refocused when a new song had started, a song he knew very dear to himself. Years of his childhood as a dancer paying off, his memory jerking at the familiar notes.

Waltz of the Flowers.

He watched as Hobie tried to lead you through the steps, a sort of urgency running through him. You stumbled again, further into the brit before you, and Miguel gave up trying to stop himself.

Slowly making his way over, he did nothing to stop the confident expression Hobie wore, the kid was doing this on purpose, this was bait.

And yet he can’t stop himself.

“Mind if I step in?”

You looked up at him in surprise, eyes twinkling. “No, of course not,” Hobie snickered for a second before covering it with a clear of his throat. “,Be careful with ‘is one. She needs a little teachin’.” “Hey!”

You lightly smacked Hobie’s arm, grinning all the while. And as Hobie detached himself from the both of you, he clapped a hand over Miguel’s shoulder, not having to lean to whisper to him. “Don’t fuck it up, mate.”

Before Miguel could reprimand him, he waltzed off somewhere to find Pavitr.

Turning his attention back to you, he’d realised you’d been staring at him. Getting caught leading to your eyes quickly darting to his chest, before you realised that kind of made you look like a creep and ended up just shutting them for a moment. He laughed lightly, stepping closer to you. “You ok to dance, Conejita?”

“Yes! I uhh—,” Your sentence broke for a second and you opened your eyes, clearing your throat. “,I don’t know how to dance.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“Okay.” Breathless, you agreed.

He hummed, settling his hands in yours and guiding your feet into position.

“You know how to Waltz?”

He looked down at you, eyelashes fluttering pretty against his cheeks as he blinked.

“Didn’t spend 17 years learning not to know.” He chuckled, a lighthearted jab, something you were both comfortable in participating.

“Hmm..—“ You giggled before you could stifle it, “,Damn.. If it took you 17 years to learn, I think I might want a new teacher.”

“Oh—,” He laughed a challenge. “Oh, you wanna go down that route, Querida?”

You hummed through your humour.

“No— No.. I’ll learn.” You looked up at him, the light of the chandelier haloing his outline.

A smile danced across your sweet face.

“Good.”

His voice dipped lower, hand squeezing yours just a little tighter, a little more possessive.

“Now pay attention.”

“I am paying attention.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah—, I’m not.”

He snorted, redirecting his focus to where you were slowly swaying to the song.

“Move your feet just like this, C’mon.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect, you’re doing good. Follow my lead, just like that.”

The praise made you shiver, you willed away the feeling to focus.

“Good, you’re a quick learner.”

“Thank you.”

“Mhmm.”

He watched the fabric of your dress sway when you moved with him, tripping over your steps every now and again and muttering simple apologies to him. Which he promptly shut down.

He guided you through the waltz, telling you when to break off and when to halt in a pause. He talked you through every step, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t have an effect on you. By the end of it, you were a flustered mess.

The song came to a close, Miguel leading the whole way through it. When there was no more music, and the other dancers around you had started to disperse—,

Miguel dropped on of his hands from yours, letting it come to rest on hi shoulder, the other sliding to your hips.

“You’re pretty good, for a learner.”

You snorted, “Yeah?”

He hummed his affirmation.

“Well, you’re a pretty good teacher.”

He scoffed back, rolling his eyes and smirking.

“Think I should become a dance instructor?”

“For spider people?”

“Well, feel like they’d be a bit more clumsy.”

“Mm, it’s either that or save the multiverse so—, choice is basically already made.”

“Dance instructor.”

“Definitely.”

He smiled and laughed, avidly ignoring the relieved expressions of the small group of teens, along with Peter and Jess.

When another slow song started up again, instead of waltzing you. He’d decided just to let you slow dance with him.

Your head resting on his chest, and your deft hand in his—, something changed at that moment.

He knew you both felt it, a spark of some kind. And if five years in future “Waltz of the Flowers” was the song he chose for a wedding, it would only mean so much to you.

—

this probably SOOO ooc i have no clue how to write babydoll 😖

(pookie bear 🐻 ⬇️)

[604to647]

Safest with You - Ch. 15 (The BBQ)

7K / Modern AU Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!reader

Summary: You and Din attend a very special Fett Family BBQ hosted by the Damerons and you grow closer to the clan.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). F!oral, semi public car sex, unprotected PiV, rough-ish sex, established relationship, pet names as usual (pretty bird, baby, etc.), light daddy kink (really just a nickname).

A/N: Din's back! This is mainly a world building chapter with some heat at the end 🤭; it's not perfect but I wanted to put it out and get back into the groove of this story again. Thank you to everyone who waited patiently while I took a little posting break for this series. I missed them a lot and hope you're ready to jump back in it with me!

Series Masterlist

“Do you think we should have brought anything else?”

“One item should be good, pretty bird.  Lisa always makes too much food anyways,” says Din, looking down at the casserole dish full of garlic knots that you’re holding.

“Okay.  I just always feel like more food is better than less food,” you say, unsure.

“I think that's enough garlic knots to feed an army, sweetheart.”

“But Mayfeld asked for them!”

Din stops you at the end of the walkway leading up to the Dameron house and plants a soft kiss to your lips, “Thank you for feeding Miggs, baby.  If his mouth is full of your garlic knots, then we don’t have to hear him talk as much.”

“Din!”

He laughs and takes your hand as you head up to the front of the house, “Come on, admit it.  Mayfeld is your least favourite Mando.”

“He is not!” you’re scandalized by the accusation.

“Okay... who is your least favourite Mando then?”

Looking at Din with a look of mock annoyance, you jest, “Sometimes, it’s YOU.”  You swerve the hand that drops yours in an attempt to at swat of your bum. 

Letting yourselves in through the front door, you follow the chorus of voices to the kitchen; spinning as you walk through the foyer, you take in the splendor of the Dameron residence.  Not sure what you expected the house of an heir to a mob empire to look like, but you suppose this is as close to anything you might have imagined.  The house is fairly grand and seems to boast an inordinate number of chandeliers; dark carved wood and marble line the floors and walls - it looks like a good place to set a live action game of Clue.  When you round the corner to the kitchen, you’re struck by two things:

1) Din was right, Lisa made too much food.  Nearly all the counter top space is covered with plates and platters filled with meats, salads, breads, pastas.  You count eight charcuterie boards – they might be delineated by cheese region.  There are warming trays that have their bright blue butane flames lit underneath, already full of steaming dishes.  The breakfast nook seems to have been converted into some kind of dessert station with a 3-tiered buttercream iced cake at its centre.

2) Poe is being yelled at.

Din leans over to whisper in your ear, “Yes, it’s always like this.”

Poe spies you and Din and must decide that this is the distraction he’s been waiting for, because he gestures at his wife to turn around and welcome her guests.  You meet Lisa halfway, somewhere between the cocktail shrimp and the gazpacho; after hugging you and taking the garlic knots off your hands, she sighs and asks, dejectedly, “You wouldn’t happen to have Caesar salad dressing in your purse, would you?”

“Not today, sorry,” you quip.

“We can use another dressing!” Poe is holding his head in his hands.

“No,” grits Lisa through her teeth, “we cannot. It was requested.”

She says the last word with heavy emphasis; you take it that Poe was supposed to procure the Caesar salad dressing.  Din looks at you with an expression somewhere between amusement and a grimace, then mime points at the empty plates before giving Lisa a friendly squeeze of the shoulder.

Not letting him escape quite so easily, Lisa directs her question at Din but keeps her eyes fixed upon her husband, “Din.  Please remind Poe how very important it is that we accommodate the literal one food request that our very special guests made for today’s BBQ?”

Oh.  That’s why the Caesar salad is a big deal.  Although, you’ve been told, Fett family BBQs are a regular festive occurrence, this particular iteration was going to be more than the usual casual get-together.  Din had already given you the heads up that a few members of the Pyke Syndicate would be in attendance tonight and for a very special reason: Boba’s niece (by which sibling, you embarrassingly could not recall.  Boba seems to have a lot of siblings) had gotten herself engaged to Rikard Pyke, son of the head of the Syndicate.  It could have all been very Montague and Capulet-esque, except that young folks tend to more pragmatic than their elders gave them credit for; there was no secret relationship or ignoring the realities of their families – the happy couple openly announced their decision to date years ago after connecting at some unsuspecting mutual friend’s birthday party and had been inseparable ever since.  They weathered all of their respective families’ strong attempts to discourage the relationship, some deeming it impractical if not downright dangerous, with grace and unwavering resolve.  Cassandra and Rikard simply ignored all the naysayers and family politics and proceeded as two people in love would under normal, non-mob related circumstances:  they courted, they moved together, they intended to marry.  Tonight would be your first time meeting them, but you’re already predisposed to liking them.  Everyone in both families seemed to love them quite well and Din’s opinion was that they seem to be very much in love, a nice couple indeed.  “Rikard has a good head on his shoulders.  Seems like a good kid,” he had said.  When you chucked that he said it as if he hadn’t done a deep background check on the poor kid, Din had simply shrugged, looking sheepish.  The happy couple, however, were not the special guests to which Lisa was referring. 

In an effort to support the engaged couple, the Fetts and Pykes have been playing nice, knowing (and perhaps in some cases, resigned to the idea) that their families were soon to be connected by marriage.  You’ve been told that tonight, a few members of the Pyke Syndicate would be attending the BBQ as Cassandra and Boba’s special guests.  An extension of trust, a gesture of good faith, a coming together of brethren.  And apparently, they wanted Caesar salad.

Din attempts to hand Lisa an empty plate, perhaps to encourage her to eat as a distraction, but Poe quickly snatches it out of Din’s hand, likely afraid of Lisa throwing it at his head.  It’s not often you side with Poe, but you think he might be on to something.  “Does it have to be a specific type of Caesar dressing?” you ask Lisa, drawing her attention away from Poe.

“No,” she sighs, “they just asked for Caesar salad.  I would make one but I don’t have all the ingredients.”

“I can make a simplified Caesar vinaigrette? We can even make it a little spicy if you want,” you offer; it’s actually a fairly easy recipe - people who have tasted it always marvel that it doesn’t contain any anchovies, “Why don’t I make a batch?  You can taste it and see if it works?”

Lisa looks torn between wanting to kiss you and not wanting to let her husband off the hook so easily, but eventually the need to get things done wins out.  When Lisa turns to the fridge to get you the parmesan and elephant garlic you ask for, Poe mouths ‘I love you’ at you before escaping out the back door.  Din brings you a glass of wine before leaving with his own tower of food. 

You make quick work of the dressing, all while listening to Lisa vent about her husband’s inability to remember the simplest tasks; you nod at her sympathetically which seems to calm her down significantly, “Oh, I’m so sorry for venting.  I’m just so stressed out!  This barbeque has to go well!  The wedding is in a few short months and there is still so much I have to do!”

“You’re planning the wedding?” you ask, somewhat shocked.

Lisa nods, “I have help, of course, but Boba and Rikard’s dad, Lom, decided that it might be easier to keep the peace if someone other than the parents or higher-ups was in charge of the planning.  Someone more neutral,” she rolls her eyes, “You know, if you had started dating Din a few months earlier, it might have been you!”

You both giggle uncontrollably at this. 

Lisa is giving your vinaigrette the thumbs up when Fennec comes in, carrying a little white pit bull in her arms.  Lisa looks like she wants to say something about dogs in her kitchen, but thinks the better of it; you, on the other hand, greet Fennec warmly and Mochi with scritches and kisses. 

“Everything okay in here?” asks Fennec, “The Mods say that the Pykes are about 25 minutes away.”

You grin at the mention of the Mods.  While you haven’t met any of Fennec’s personal team of spies yet, you’re terribly curious about them.  Where the Mandos handled physical security, which could sometimes include on-site surveillance and reconnaissance, the Mods were straight up digital sleuths; they could dig up online dirt on anyone and no one has ever been beyond their digital reach. Apparently able to hack into even the most secure systems, they never failed to locate and capture footage of even the most elusive of targets.  You once wondered if Fennec had them dig up info on you; it was probably their most boring assignment to date if she had.

Their stealthy online behaviour unmatched, the Mods were just as elusive in the real world, often hiding in plain sight and doing their jobs expertly, unnoticed by the crowds.  You’re not sure how they managed to blend in so well given that they were all supposedly gorgeous and impossibly stylish – which is how they had come to be nicknamed The Mods (short for “The Models”); a fun fact you learned when you asked if the name was somehow a play on the Mando moniker.  Your hysterical guess of “The Mondos?” had earned you a tickle attack from Din that took your sides the better part of an hour to recover from.  Nevertheless, they had all been at Boba’s birthday and you can’t say you noticed any of them; though perhaps with everyone at that party having been dressed up to the nines, you had a lesser chance than usual of spotting a Mod.  You’re going to be on the look out again tonight.

“Everything is perfect!” beams Lisa, spearing a few dressed romaine leaves and a crouton on a fork and holding it out to Fennec.  You giggle as you watch Mochi try to lap at the fork with his little tongue; booping him on his little nose to distract him while Fennec eats, you coo, “You can’t have that, Mochi – it has too much garlic.”

Fennec makes noises of approval as she chews, “Good.  Everyone is on high alert, but once our guests eat and get comfortable, hopefully things will relax.”

With Lisa satisfied, the three of you make up your plates to head out and join the others in the backyard.  Just before opening the backdoor, Fennec turns and shrugs at you, “Oh.  Mayfeld saw Din and asked about… garlic knots?”

You giggle while Lisa rolls her eyes.  “No problem,” you grab the dish with your free hand and Lisa holds the door open for you and her to join the lively scene together.  The backyard is huge – the stairs from the deck descend to a large patio area, currently home to several L-shape formations of patio furniture, one of which is arranged around a fancy gas fire pit.  Several barbeques sit on the border of the patio and lawn, heat waves and smoke emanating from the food being grilled; Brian and Poe currently doing their best grill master impressions.  The expansive rolling lawn is littered with tables and chairs, ending only where you can see a pool filled with laughing and splashing children.  The entire backyard is bordered by a beautiful flower garden that wafts a sweet, sticky floral scent atop the aroma of cooked food.  There are dogs everywhere and you wish you had brought Al.

It's around one of the tables on the lawn that you find Din sitting with Boba and some Mandos, talking probably in a manner probably more serious than you would expect for a BBQ, but that doesn’t stop him from pulling you into his lap when you approach and encouraging you to stay and eat with a squeeze of your waist.  You hand the dish of garlic knots to Mayfeld who is already making the grabby hands gesture at you; when he’s got a firm grip on the casserole dish, Paz reaches out and smacks him on the back of the head, without breaking from what he’s saying to Boba, “… Peli says she’s okay.  Had to talk her down from staying behind with a baseball bat though.  We got it patched up before coming over.”

You look wide eyed at Din, worried.  Paz sees your expression as well and with a nod from Boba, loops you in, “Just a little vandalism, Lil’ Lady.  Someone just broke the knob off the drycleaner’s front door so Peli thought she was trapped inside before remembering she has a back door too.”

Nodding, you try to make a face like you’re relieved it’s ‘just a little vandalism’, but that must have been scary for Peli.  You know about the flare up of these types of incidents and other similar skirmishes from Din, of course, but you’re mainly removed from it all except for what Din tells you.  But Peli’s is close.  You know her.  The low hum of something… something like escalation feels like it’s just around the corner. 

“Peli is okay, pretty bird.  Not letting her stay with a baseball bat is safer for everyone, really,” Din smiles gently at you.  You grin at the image of Peli brandishing a baseball bat with her excitable mannerisms and think you agree; a pensive look crosses your face shortly after however, “It’s so close to the gym, though.”

Boba nods, “Too close.  The gym is safe – no one would be stupid enough to come near it.  But those nearby may be targets just because of proximity.  Paz – I trust you and Din to draw up patrol plans.”  Paz and Din nod - both men realizing, as well, the significance of Boba feeling confident enough to speak on security matters in front of you.  The implication is lost on you though, as you continue to eat Lisa’s delicious pasta salad while Din draws circles on your thigh, grinning proudly. 

Boba shifts topics, “Ok, when the Pykes get here, I want the perimeter already covered and everyone in flank positions, but discreetly.  This is supposed to be a fun time, alright?”

Everyone around the table nods, Bo and Paz get up to prepare, but everyone else remains, eating and casually chatting until Fennec announces, “They’re here,” after getting a notification on her phone.

Man, the Mods are good, you think, as Poe and Lisa disappear into the house even before the front doorbell chimes.  Poe’s exuberant voice can be heard from the backyard getting closer and closer until the kitchen door opens and he and Lisa step out, followed by six strangers.  The first two must be Cassandra and Rikard, the happy couple; they’re both beautiful and their easy-going smiles as they wave and greet everyone give you the sense that they’re the ones really grounding this entire, very unique, situation.  Behind them are four men, ages ranging from mid-20s to Boba’s age, each holding a plate loaded heavily with food.  With amusement, you notice the abundance of Caesar salad on each of their plates.

You feel Din’s lips by your ear, as he quietly acquaints you with tonight’s special guests. “The youngest one is Gorak – that’s Rikard’s cousin.  Kind of a little hothead, dabbles a bit in the boxing circuit.  He’s not bad, but no discipline, so we don’t see him in fights often.  The two twins are the uncles, Mok and Dokk; they head up some business lines for the Pykes that… Boba isn’t involved in.  There's no business conflict, so they’ve always been friendly.  The tall one in the back, that’s Marg, he’s like the consigliere – the Fennec to Rikard’s father.  He’s going to be here on behalf of the parents.”

“Rikard’s parents didn’t want to come?” you ask, curious.

“It’s not that.  It was decided they shouldn’t attend; if they did, it might look like business, like the Families were coming together for more than a barbeque.  Could make some other players nervous.  Sometimes the perception of an action means more than the actual intent.”

Oh, you think you see.  You suppose you have a lot to learn about this world. 

Fennec is right, the initial moments of everyone coming together is sort of awkward and tense, but after everyone’s got some food in their stomachs, things start to relax and the vibes in the backyard mellow once again.  All of this is helped along by Lisa’s excellent hostessing and Poe’s charm. 

Din introduces you to Cassandra and Rikard, and you’re immediately taken with them.  They’re smart, funny, and just incredibly down to earth.  You can see why this is the couple that could lead the two Families to put down their pitchforks.  They’re both junior associates at a law firm downtown; it’s not a firm any of your clients use but you mention that you have a friend, Jen, who practices family law at another firm, and the three of you trade some funny case anecdotes.  When the conversation turns to wedding planning, Din and Rikard excuse themselves while you, Lisa and Cass (as she now insists you call her) join some others on the lawn.

Cass is stressed.  Wedding planning is no joke and time consuming - time she doesn’t have a lot of; you remember your days as a junior at your firm and the hours being indeed relentless.  Even with Lisa and her aunties’ help, you can see she’s feeling at a bit of a loss.  You don’t want to volunteer Rory’s expertise, but you do offer to do some research on some vendors, figuring you can always ask Rory if your research results are up to snuff.  Cass says she wishes she was marrying you.

When Cass’s mom notes that you wore a lovely white dress to Boba’s birthday, you mention the name of Rory’s bridal boutique and all the women collectively swoon.  Apparently, they haven’t even bothered to try and shop there due to the exclusivity, but know all the best designs are there.  You very noncommittally say you’ll ask around to see if there are any openings, and find yourself in the middle of a very exuberant and high-pitched, squealing group hug.  Straining your neck out from the tangle of arms, you see Din and Paz looking over laughing.  Din is giving you a “What’s going on?” gesture with his hands while smiling broadly.  You smile back and mouth, “Help!” with good humour.

After the children are put to bed or taken home early, the drinks start to flow and the party hits a new level.  Someone brought cigars (Mayfeld?) and Boba and the Pyke men all partake, furling a light haze of smoke that hangs around the patio lantern lights.  You enjoy your wine while helping Lisa cleanup, periodically being pulled into side conversations with Cass or Mandos you know.  As much as you can, you curl up in Din’s lap and listen to him joke and chat with his friends.  It’s turned out to be a wonderful evening, despite you still not having spotted any of the Mods.

“I think they’re made up,” you whisper to Din, jokingly.

“No, no, they’re very real, they just live in the wires,” laughs Din, “like the Matrix.”

“Oh!  Well, if they look like Keanu and Carrie Ann Moss, then it’s no wonder they’re called the Models,” you say dreamily.

“Keanu, eh?  Is that your type?” Din nudges you ear with his nose teasingly.

“He’s everyone type,” you grin, still with a far-off look.

Din pretends to push you off his lap, “Well if that’s the case, then –” but he’s interrupted by raised voices coming from the middle of the lawn.  The two of you look over and you see Woves and Gorak facing each other, standing bodies rigid in aggressive stances, their lawn chairs tipped over backwards behind them. 

You can’t even process what they’re yelling about, just that the volume is increasing and the tone is getting sharper.  Koska comes to stand by Woves, her look murderous.  You see Jimmy and Brian inching closer.  Mok, Dokk and Marg have already come to stand behind Gorak, backing him up.  Dogs everywhere are barking.

Din gently slides you off his lap, then moves you behind him before walking towards the commotion; he extends his arm behind him as if to ask you to stay put.  You look around: Lisa looks panic stricken, Poe is standing with Cass and Rikard, all three of them looking at a loss, Boba remains sitting with Fennec.  Remembering your little lesson about interpreted actions from Din earlier this evening, you understand why: any move Boba makes will be perceived as an official move by the Family, and it will embolden the Mandos, likely turning a small altercation into an official first strike from the Fetts.  If he were to enter the fray, the situation would escalate no matter what.  As it is, the situation is escalating all well on its own - the Pykes are outnumbered and surrounded, their hackles up. 

Boba catches your eye and gives you a little nod and your eyes soften in comprehension.  Every step that an official Fett family member takes right now counts as a move against the Pykes, but you’re not official.  You’re just you.  You follow Din and see him hovering with Paz in Woves’ periphery, both men holding their shoulders taut and their fists clenched.  You slip between them easily and slide your hand over Din’s fist, his hand relaxes instinctively and opens to hold yours.  You look up at him with a gentle expression while giving his hand a reassuring squeeze and watch as the tension melts from his handsome features and rolls off his body.  He seems to calm and understand the situation at your touch.  Your other arm links through Paz’s and he looks down at you, surprised at your appearance.  You watch as his expression and stance also soften under your calm hands.  He and Din look at each other, comprehension passing between them and they turn in unison and walk away.  You continue to move closer to the action, picking up your casserole dish which has a lone three garlic knots remaining, and you gently push it into Mayfeld’s hands as you come up next to him; at your encouraging smile, he also seems to come to – grinning back and trotting off in the opposite direction while stuffing his face.  Suddenly you’re not the only figure that’s weaving between the figures still locked the stand-off; Cass and Rikard have come over to pat the arms of the uncle twins, telling them that this isn’t anything to get worked up about.  Poe throws his arm around Jimmy's shoulders in a playful manner, and you hear Lisa’s voice call from the deck, “I’m turning on this chocolate fountain now, and I expect every person here to help me clear this dessert station!”

There’s a beat of silence before Marg calls out, “Is there any more Caesar salad?”  Everyone laughs and just like that, the tension is broken.  Even Gorak and Woves stand down, and although they don’t make nice, they both turn to head in with everyone else; Marg’s steady hand on Gorak’s shoulder keeping him at a distance from the Mando.

Din’s waiting for you at the base of the stairs, wrapping his arm around your waist as you file up the stairs with everyone else; you nuzzle you head a little into Din’s shoulder and half jokingly say, “Is this really a good time to be giving everyone fruit skewered on pointy sticks?”

Din turns when he hears a belly roaring laugh at your joke coming from one of the Pyke uncles, and looks down to see you turn and give the man a heart stopping smile and wink.  He can’t believe it - you cheeky flirt, he thinks, making a rival family member fall in love with you.

Inside, you load up two dessert plates for yourself and Din and bring them to a side counter where he’s chatting quietly with Boba.  You’re almost hesitant to interrupt but when you slide the heavy plates onto the marble, Boba smiles big at you.  He hands you Mochi and then places both his hands on your shoulders and leans in to kiss your forehead, “You did good, my dear.”

You scrunch up your face in mild embarrassment, “Oh, I mean… it’s okay…” not sure what to say so you just start feeding Mochi strawberries.  Boba looks at Din and reiterates, “She did good.”

“Yeah,” Din echos softly, his eyes watching you with a mixture of pride and love.

---

After stuffing your faces with dessert, you and Din escape to the backyard for a private moment and to avoid Lisa’s attempts to force more food on your plates.  Finding the seats around the roaring fire pit empty, you sit with your back against the corner piece, legs draped over Din’s as he pulls you close.  Foreheads pressed together, he kisses you gently and sweetly, not wanting things to get too heated should the two of you be interrupted.

“Thank you, pretty bird,” says Din quietly.

“For what?”

Din looks thoughtful, even though he’s the one that brought it up, “I don’t know how you do it.  You bring the calm.”

You confess and joke simultaneously, “Do I really?  I have to admit, I don't always feel very calm. Are you sure I don't bring the chaos?”

Din pinches your thigh with love, “I’m serious, baby.  Somehow you melt away all the stress and make me see clearer.  Not just me either, saw you do the same thing to Paz tonight.”

You give him a little kiss and nuzzle his nose, whispering conspiratorially, “... you make it sound like I have powers.”

“Whatever it is, you bring me back to myself when I need it the most.  I love you, pretty girl.”

“I love you too, Din.  I love that I can do that for you, soothe you and bring a sense of calm.  You do that for me too, you know?  You’re my rock, baby.”

Din presses his lips to your, beckoning you to open up to him and when you do, he lightly strokes your tongue with his, eliciting a low groan from the back of your throat that you think might be too scandalous for this barbeque.  Pulling away slightly, you nibble a little on Din’s lower lip before tucking yourself into your favourite nook under his jaw and shyly bring up something you’ve been thinking about for a while, “You know, Din… if you’re ever stressed or have had a hard day, and you need something more than a calming touch, you can… use me?”

“Hmmmm?” Din looks down at you, not sure if he’s understanding.

Feeling timid under his piercing gaze, you press on but keep your face pressed to Din’s neck so you don’t make eye contact with him, “Like… if you’re frustrated, and you need to take it out on some… one.  I can take it.  Let me absorb all the bad… and like you said, melt it away.”

You feel Din’s hard swallow before he gives a little cough, “Pretty bird, are you saying you want me to take out my frustrations by fucking them into you?”

You nod, “If you need to, Din.  You can use me for stress relief.”  Finally having the courage to look up at him, you find Din's eyes warm and loving as he whispers just one phrase, “Dream girl,” before descending on your mouth again.

Your kissing is sensual and open, a connection between two people who have no secrets and can be their purest, most vulnerable selves with each other.  Din’s touch is tender and reverent and you worship him right back, letting him know you’re there and you can be whatever he needs, whenever he needs it - you love him so much.  The two of you don’t break apart for a long time, not even when people start spilling back into the backyard. 

---

The evening ends an hour or so later with everyone leaving on pleasant terms.  You’re thanked again for both the salad dressing and your help with the upcoming wedding.  A final toast is given by Boba to the happy couple and it warms your heart deeply to see two people so in love and so steadfast in their commitment to face and conquer adversity together.  The cheers elicited are joyous and genuine, the evening a great success.

Walking back to Din’s truck, hand in hand, you’re sated with good food and drinks, carrying the festive feel of the evening with you as you hum a little tune to yourself.  Din trails a little behind you, filled with a surge of pride for all that you are. 

And that you’re his. 

He’s parked about fifteen cars away from the Dameron residence, a little past the last house on this block where the road rounds into a large turnabout bordered with lush trees and other flora and fauna meticulously maintained by the neighbourhood HOA.  He hadn’t meant to park so far but now he’s glad he’s got you away from the prying eyes of Poe’s neighbours and their porch cams. 

While you may currently be carefree and lighthearted, Din is full of deep emotion.  He’s overwhelmingly proud, in love, and awestruck.  His head is full of you.  You, you, you.  His admiration isn’t new: you’re sweet and funny, smart and kind - he’s always been proud just to know someone like you, and even prouder to be with you, to be the one you choose.  But tonight is different, it’s a different type of esteem – one that threatens to explode out of his chest.  You.  You’re it for him.  He never thought he would find someone like you.  Someone who could fit so seamlessly into his life, into his world, and make both better.  You helped.  You were sweet and kind and giving to everyone.  You brought calm.  You made things good.  And you were his. 

He had believed you all those months ago when said you wouldn’t judge him or his family, but you did more than that: you accepted them as your own too.  Yes, you did it for him, but it was really just who you are.  Loving.  Giving.  You brought calm to all their chaos.  You made things brighter.  You made them stronger.  Him better.  He loves you so much right now he thinks he’s going to burn up.

As soon as you reach his truck, Din grabs you by the waist and spins you so you’re facing him and he pushes you into the side of the car, arm bracing the back window to cushion your head.

“Di-!”

His lips put a stop to your words as they crash against yours.  Normally so gentle and asking of permission, Din’s mouth is an unstoppable force tonight, kissing you as if there’s an overflowing pressure building inside him and kissing you is his one release valve.  An unashamed moan works its way up from your throat, escaping only when Din moves his aggressive kisses to your jaw and neck, leaving you opened-mouthed and panting.

“Oooohh, fuck!  Din, baby, what are you doing? Oh- god, that feels so good,” eyes closed, you’re already arching into him, pulling him closer to you by the back of his neck.

Din’s hand that isn’t cradling your head is on a frantic journey down your body.  He needs you now.  The current state of his feelings is running too deep, he can’t seem to articulate it to you or even himself - he has to show you.  Triumphantly, he finds the tie to your dress and pulls, causing half of the front of your dress to fall open, “Din!  We’re out in the open!”

Clawing down your partially exposed body, clamouring to find the inside tie that separate him from your soft body, Din pauses only to pull you away from the car so he can unlock the door; as soon as it opens, he walks you backwards and hops you up onto the seat, scooting you back so your legs dangle out the door. 

“There,” Din says huskily, as he finds the little knot on the right inside seam of your dress and tugs so it unfurls, “you aren’t out in the open anymore.”  He spreads apart the fabric of your dress so that you’re presented to him in your pretty pink mesh and ruffles lingerie set; he sucks in his breath. 

“Just for you, daddy,” you coo.  You knew Din wouldn’t be expecting something so flirty and naughty under the dress you had picked for what was supposed to be a casual and wholesome family event.

“Fuck.”  With his big mitt of a hand, Din pushes you down and lowers himself on top of you, nipping at your breasts and teething at your nipples through the soft sheer fabric of your bra.  He’s not gentle; he has something to declare tonight, and soft and sweet just won’t do the job.  His hands paw at your tits while he continues to tug and twist with his mouth; you’re writhing and whimpering beneath him, body set alight - the thought flashes through your arousal muddled mind that you might actually come just from nipple play alone tonight.

Then Din’s gone, mouth and hands traveling down your body, bending his knees and bracing them on the baseboard of his truck, Din kisses your navel and trails his nose down the front of your panties, “Mmm, so fucking sweet, pretty girl.”

“Din!  Pleas-please,” you cry out, turned on out of your mind by the debauched imagery of your bare legs hanging out of the car while Din presses his face to your cunt; you need him to touch you.

“You need daddy’s tongue, baby?”

You can only mewl and nod.

Din isn’t in the mood to tease tonight, he’s too pent up with near paralyzing feelings of veneration for you – he’s ready to worship.  Pulling back slightly so he’s face to face with the darkened spot on your panties, he hooks them to the side to take in your glistening pussy, watching it want and ache for him for just a moment before he dives in.

He devours you.  Tongue licking and stroking your slit, Din swirls the sticky mess already pooled into his mouth and stuffs it back into your cunt with his open mouth kisses.  You shudder and grab onto Din’s hair as he fucks his tongue into you, pressing him deeper as your hips start to move all on their own.

“Fuck – yes, ride my face, pretty bird.”

“Ngh – Daddy! Feels so good.  Love how your mouth feels on my needy pussy,” you moan as softly as you can so the sound doesn’t carry out the open car door.

As your hips start to buck a little harder, Din’s hands move back up your body and start worrying your nipples again; still sensitive from his attentions earlier, you gasp and arch your back, grazing your clit against Din’s nose.  You let loose a high-pitched whine, eyes flying open, “Daddy!  Right there!”

Grinning so hard you can feel it, Din continues to feast on your dripping hole but angles his face up so that his strong aquiline nose nudges your throbbing clit again.  Rewarded when your grasp on his brown curls tighten, he starts to prod your bud in a pattern, alternating between pressing and releasing, and drawing sloppy circles with the tip of his nose.  When he feels your legs start to shake and your walls start to clamp down on his tongue, Din speeds up his attentions on your bundle of nerves, burrowing his nose in deep and rubbing vigorously, shaking his entire head.  Your hands release Din’s hair at the onslaught and fly up to cover your face, as if you can somehow hide from what’s coming; when Din’s hands pull up on your nipples, you crest and scream – tumbling over the edge and letting yourself be carried away by the waves of your orgasm.

Arm now thrown over your eyes, you’re too focused on catching your breath to feel Din pulling your ass past the edge of the car seat and turning you over so your mouth is pressed into the warm leather.

Only after the tip toes of your shoes touch the asphalt does Din flips the skirt of your dress over your back, and that’s when you register the cool breeze of the night air hitting your ass.

Din spoons your bent over body and murmurs deep in your ear, “Gonna fuck you now, bunny.  Not going to be gentle, okay?”

Your eyes are still closed as you nod into the seat and whisper, “Okay, daddy.”

Din takes out his cock, already hard and weeping with precum, and slaps it against your creamy pussy - once, twice, three times; each slap causing you to give a little jump and shudder in anticipation of the incoming intrusion.

Chuckling darkly, Din notches the tip at your entrance and pushes in as he folds his body over yours, holding you close and pinning you down as he bottoms out.

As promised, it’s not gentle; but here, in the backseat of his truck, where his chest is flattened against your back and his face pressed to your hair, it’s intimate.  Rough and hard.  Loving and full of feeling.

Din’s voice is low and gruff in your ear - words of praise and all his overwhelming feelings spill out as he ruts into you at a demanding pace.

“Do you know how perfect you are, pretty bird?”

“You’re everything.” 

“My everything.”

He drives into you over and over, punching the air out of your lungs each time.  Whenever you inhale, Din captures your lips with his immediately after – as if trying to steal these breaths as well.  Fervent kisses the only break from his ongoing ramblings of praise:

“So proud you’re my girl.”

“You’re so good to me.  So good to my family.”

Thrust.  Thrust.  Slap.  Slap.

“You know how much Boba trusts you?  Trusts my perfect girl?  Talking about Mando business in front of you.” 

Thrust.

“You’re one of us, baby.” 

Slap. 

“My girl, welcomed into the fold.  Fuck – I’m so proud.”

The squelching noises of your wet cunt being punished reverberate through the truck’s cabin, accompanied by the percussion of slapping skin and an obscene harmony of grunts and moans.  You can only hope that your sinful symphony is confined to the car and not travelling through the otherwise silent neighbourhood.

“Fucking saving Poe’s ass and the entire BBQ with that fucking salad dressing.”

Sqlch. 

“You don’t even know how important you are and the things you do are.  You impressed the fucking Pykes, pretty girl.”

Sqlch. 

“Helping with the wedding?  You’re so sweet, so fucking sweet…”

Fwop.  Fwop.

Din’s weight continues to pin you down and crush your lungs in the best way possible.  Between the panting from the pounding your pussy is taking and the way your clit is twitching against the seam on the edge of the leather seats as Din ruts into you, you can hardly take a proper breath; the lack of oxygen is leaving you dizzy and light headed – you’re quickly barrelling towards oblivion again.

“You don’t even know, you don’t even know…”

“Perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect…”

Thrust.  Huff.  Thrust.  Huff.

“You don’t just take care of me, you take care of my family… you accept my family.”

Thrust.  Thrust.

Din’s hips start to stutter, he’s close, so close. 

“You’re the only one.  The only one who can do what you do.”

Huff.

“You prevented that fight.”

Thrust.  Huff.

“You have me wrapped around your little finger, baby.”

You can barely draw enough breath to chant, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy...

“Not just me.  Paz. All the Mandos.”

Slap. Slap.

“Sexiest, most powerful woman there tonight.  Every night.”

Thrust.  Thrust.

“Pretty bird, what did I do to deserve you?”

Slap.  Slap.

“Don’t deserve you.”

Thrust.

“But you’re mine.”

Din’s babbling praise ends with the growl of that last, possessive proclamation and the contrast of his tone, the sheer power and darkness that laces the word ‘mine’ compared to the honey-dripped praise that’s been pouring from his mouth the whole time he rails you, snaps the tightly coiled band in your core and you come, clenching hard on Din’s length with a force that sends him straight to the moon.  He grunts and pants as he spills his seed deep, claiming you and clawing all he’s professed to love tonight for his own.

After lifting off of you to allow your breathing to even, Din wipes the sweat off his brow and looks around to make sure that your activities haven’t attracted the attention of any of Poe’s nosy neighbours.  Satisfied that the two of you are still alone, Din presses butterfly kisses down your spine before gently turning you over and helping you right your underwear and retying your dress the best he can.  You’re hot and tired, still drunk on the mind-blowing orgasm brought on by Din’s rough handling and his heavy praise.

Tenderly kissing you, Din murmurs, “Do you want to just lay down in the back seat, sweetheart?  You can sleep while I drive home.”

You shake your head drowsily, “No, I want to ride up front with you.  I like it when you hold my hand when you drive.” You’re smiling so sweetly at him, Din thinks his heart might explode.  He’s just laid his heart bare, practically smothering you with it and letting his all-consuming love burn you up, and you still want more of his touch.

Grinning like a fool, he buckles you into the front seat of his truck, “I love you, pretty bird.”

“I love you more, Din,” you purr back, eyes half closed, a soft, sleepy smile tugging at your lips.

After he closes your door, on his way to the driver’s side, he shakes his head to himself, Impossible.

[3-2-whump]

The Party

<prev next>

TW/CW: public humiliation, pet whump (I think?), objectification, whumpee on display, whumpee being talked about as if not even there, light microagression towards whumpee (?) This is fun to tag.

By now, Khaled should’ve been used to hearing the faint sound of metallic clinking as he walked. His owner used to bind his feet in cuffs for nearly a year straight when he had first come into his home, leaving just enough chain in between to walk comfortably and not an inch more. That was nearly six years ago, yet even hearing the faint shk shk shk of shimmering chains whenever he moved mentally transported him back to boyhood, when he was scared, shy, and didn’t know what was going on or what was expected of him. Much like tonight.

“Stand up straight, pick up your feet, and don’t look so glum,” Thomas chided.

Easy for you to say, Khaled thought as he eyed his fully dressed owner in envy. The mafia boss was dressed in a three-piece suit as usual, though he had changed into one of the more expensive ones for tonight’s function, a charity ball of some sort. The garnets set into his golden cufflinks glowed like freshly shed blood under the foyer’s lights as he gestured at him.

Khaled wore gold and garnets of his own, except they were…everywhere. They were in his earrings, in his nose ring, studded like pomegranate seeds in his necklace, acting as connection points in the harness-like body chain draped over his bare chest and torso –he was covered in them and still felt naked. A sheer and silky fabric tied unskillfully around his waist matched the color of the sanguine jewels and provided the only shred of modesty in this obscene outfit. Khaled prayed it would not fall off, but he did not favor his chances.

At least I get a break from that chastity cage, he consoled himself.

He straightened his posture and adopted a more neutral expression. His master smiled. “Good boy,” he said, and yet the usual praise did not ease the nervous churning in his gut. The golden bracelets on his wrists, matching the bands on his ankles, clinked softly as the man reached out to squeeze his hands in reassurance. “You look beautiful,” was all he said to him before he dropped his hand and parted the large doors to the ballroom.

Khaled’s skin seared hot under the chandelier lights as he felt the gaze of every patrons’ eyes on him. Keeping his eyes focused on some neutral midpoint ahead of him –like that potted plant, yeah, is that even real? –he followed his master into the fray, swallowing nervously as he heard the heavy doors close behind him. It felt like everyone was staring at him, and from the glances he dared to take from his periphery, he understood why. Every other patron was dressed in formal attire. Even the few escorts he saw -and he could recognize a fellow sex worker when he saw one- were dressed more modestly than him. At least their chests were covered! His face burned with embarrassment, a blush that probably rivaled the cerise garnets, all the way down to his collarbones.

The boss stopped, finally, and so did he as they settled into the corner of the ballroom. They stood next to the bar and very close to the table laid out with several dozen little canapes. Khaled’s stomach loudly rumbled and his mouth pooled with saliva just looking at them. He hadn’t eaten since lunch, which was nearly eight hours ago. He glanced at his master, who was currently receiving a glass of whiskey from the bartender, and he carefully stretched a hand out to reach for the tartlet-thing closest to him.

“No.” His bracelets jingled as his hand was swatted away like he was a misbehaving pet. His master stared down at him as he threw back the shot of whiskey. Khaled drew his hand back to his side. “I’ll feed you when we get home, if you’ve been good, that is.” He sighed, but reluctantly nodded. He cast his gaze down to his sandaled feet as he tried not to think about the ever-present food and the persistent gnawing of his stomach.

A pair of expensive black leather shoes stepped into the top of his vision. “Thomas, so glad you could make it,” the unseen stranger greeted.

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” his owner replied, a polite smile in the tone of his voice.

“So, who’s this?” The stranger’s attentions were on him.

“This,” he said boastfully, “is my darling, my dearest, my worst-kept secret!” Khaled wanted to shrink away from the attention, but has master’s hand on his waist reminded him not to. “Come on, Khaled!” He summoned his courage to look up. An older man with a pot belly and a short, dour-faced wife on his arm was appraising him curiously, as if he was an exotic item and not a person. Smile, damn it, an impatient voice rang in his head. He flashed them a shy smile as he looked at them through his kohl-rimmed lashes.

“Your intern?”

“My ‘intern’,” his master clarified.

“He’s a pretty one, how long have you had him?”

“Oh, about six years now, come this spring.”

“Wow! Well, you’ve obviously been taking great care of him!” It was so obvious that this stranger wanted to do more than just look at him, with the way his fat fingers practically vibrated in excitement.

 “Six years?!” a second guest –a tall and thin woman– gasped. Khaled realized by now they had attracted a small crowd of partygoers to the bar, all with the intent to sneak a peek at Don Costa’s boy toy. He ducked his head in shame.

“Mine didn’t even last six months!” the woman whined, trying to garner sympathy.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I just got lucky, I guess,” Thomas shrugged.

“Tell us, how is he in bed?” another guest asked.

“Good, though there’s not much skill in lying back and taking it!” A chorus of laughter accompanied his master’s. He found a scuff on the hardwood floor and pretended that was the only thing that existed.

“Does he speak?” yet another faceless guest asked. The whole semicircle of gawkers fell silent. Khaled dared to look up. All eyes were on him.

“Well, go on, boy, say something,” his master directed.

Khaled wanted nothing more than for the earth to swallow him whole.

“W-what should I say?” he asked nervously.

An irreverent number of oohs and aahs erupted from the small entourage.

“Not even the faintest hint of an accent!” the first man exclaimed. “Now tell me, Tom, did you train him to speak that well?”

“No,” his owner admitted, “I mean, I hired a tutor to teach him English, but he trained the accent out of himself on his own.”

“Why, though?”

The stretch of awkward silence indicated they were waiting yet again for Khaled to speak, that they wanted him to answer. Khaled shifted his eyes to the floor again, swallowing past the discomfort of being scrutinized this closely. “Because… I didn’t want to stand out.”

-

“You were amazing!” Thomas complimented Khaled as he watched him shovel take-out falafel pita into his mouth like it was his first meal in days.

“So, this was just a one-time thing, right?” his beloved slave asked, cheeks distended with half-chewed falafel.

“Hey, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Thomas chastised him, “I trained you better than that.”

Khaled swallowed the food and apologized under his breath. “And to answer your question, who knows? They couldn’t keep their eyes off you,” he smirked pridefully. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you, either. He glanced from the road over to his passenger in the car. Khaled had looked every bit as alluring as he had imagined when he was covered in gold and jewels and blood red silk. He would never admit he was hard for nearly the entire time they were at the party, but the evidence probably spoke for itself through the bulge in his slacks. “It’s no wonder though. Red is a good color on you.” And I want to see what you look like in blue next, he mentally added. “I just might drag you out to other parties in the future if we get attention like that.”

Khaled set his stub of a pita down on his lap. Thomas couldn’t help but grimace; what if it left a stain? “Do I have to dress like this again?” the young man asked, though his defeated tone told him he already knew the answer.

“Oh, don’t be so sad about it, you were gorgeous!” I thought about nothing but how to get you alone for the entire time we were there!

“I was nearly naked, Master. In public. In front of strangers. Does that not bother you?”

“So? I like to show off what’s mine,” he shrugged. “Look, when you’re free, you can choose to wear whatever you want, but until then, you’ll put on whatever I give you, okay?” Khaled slumped further into the car seat. Maybe it was a bit cruel to tease him with the freedom he’d never willingly give him. Thomas sighed, feeling a little guilty. He reached out a hand to pat a silk-covered thigh. “It won’t be very often, I promise,” he reassured him.

“Yes, Master,” his pet murmured.Thomas smiled. At the red light, he leaned over to kiss the side of Khaled’s sauce-stained lips.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee

[upsidedownwithsteve]

JJ Maybank x fem!reader [2.2K] best friends, a bad joint, a kook party and JJ to the rescue. fluffy nonsense I wrote after too much wine.

JJ could hardly see the name on his phone screen as it rang out from under his sheets. He groaned, shuffling pillows until he found it and brought it to his ear. There were only a small handful of people who’d call him at almost three o’clock in the morning — five, in fact. 

Two were sleeping in the room across the hall, one was across the island in her parents too big home, the other was probably still awake but studying and well… that left his favourite and the one to be most concerned about. 

He mumbled your name into the speaker, sitting up and feeling more awake than before when he heard the fuzzy, muted sounds of a party in the background. He said your name again, a little louder, a little more frantic and the boy was already rolling out of bed, wondering where he’d left his shoes. 

“Jay?”

You sounded small, tired and not quite yourself and JJ blew out a breath of air, slightly more relieved at hearing your voice. 

“Yeah, babe, m’here,” JJ tried to keep the phone wedged between his cheek and his shoulder, using his hands to pull on a pair of jeans that had been forgotten about on his floor, oil stains on the knees. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Party,” you slurred, “don’t feel good, s’not right.”

JJ’s heart rattled and dropped, he swore, flicking on the light and squinting at the new brightness as he searched for a shirt. God, his room was a mess, but fuck it, he’d go half naked if he needed to. 

“What’s not right?” He asked, desperate to keep you talking. There were voices in the background he didn’t recognise and something that sounded far away smashed, laughter following it. “What’s wrong? Did you take something?”

“Jus’ weed, Jay,” you told him softly and then he heard you sigh, breath stuttering like you were trying to keep yourself calm. “But it’s not the same, doesn’t feel the same.”

He believed you, he always did, always would. JJ knew you didn’t dabble in anything else but you’d grown up between him and John B and you really, really weren’t used to any other strain than what they rolled for you. 

Maybe you’d been given a joint that was too strong. Maybe you’d been given a smoke that was laced with something else. His heart leapt, bones rattling and he shoved a shirt over his head with one hand, not caring that it was inside out, bare feet in his boots. 

“Where are you, babe? Huh?” JJ tore through the chateau, eyes flickering over every surface in the dark for the keys to the Twinkie and he cursed i when he couldn’t find them. “M’gonna come get you, okay?”

You mumbled an address that JJ knew was on Figure Eight and by the time he’d upended most of the couch, John B appeared in his bedroom door, half dressed and hair rumbled, squinting at his friend in the dark. 

He looked at the blonde's worried expression, the phone still pressed to his ear and he disappeared back into his room for a second or two, mumbling to Sarah. And when he came back, he was dressed, Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned and the keys to the Twinkie in his hand. 

“Tell me where to go,” He said and JJ didn’t argue. 

Most of the island was asleep as John B drove across it, the sky dark, the roads empty, the ocean to the left, a mirror image of the stars above. It didn’t take long for the two boys to find the party, the one house on the long street that was still lit up, music playing, people spilling out onto the lawn. 

A big house, a big party, straight money being drank from bottles of Moët, the cars on the street shiny and new and bought with daddy’s money and JJ wondered what the fuck you were doing there. 

JJ didn’t knock on the front door, didn’t have to when it was left lying open. The bass made the walls vibrate and the chandelier in the foyer was swinging, kids from all parts of the  island scattered over couches and armchairs, up the stairs, leaning against marble statues that looked too expensive to be used as a drinks table. 

He found a girl Kie and Sarah knew from school, glassy eyed but still able to recognise him and JJ asked if she’d seen you, if she knew where you were ‘cause god dammit you weren’t answering your phone anymore and John B was shrugging at him from in the kitchen. 

So the blonde made his way upstairs, stepping over couples making out and god knows what else, dress straps slipping down shoulders and hands pushed underneath clothes, wandering where they probably shouldn’t. The music was just as loud on the second floor, the lights dimmer, all the doors closed.

He found Rafe and Topper in the first bathroom he came to, bent over the sink with white lines waiting for them on the marble worktop. But the appearance of JJ seemed like a better use of the boy’s time and Rafe grinned, sharklike. 

“Look who crawled out of The Cut,” the older boy laughed, rubbing at his nose as he sniffed, eyes blown wide. “The fuck are you doing, Maybank? No one here wants your shitty weed.”

“M’collecting, not selling,” JJ snapped back, quick to back out of the room, knowing he didn’t have time to get himself into trouble and out of it again. He said your name, tried his best to keep the worry out of his voice. “Have you seen her?”

Rafe grinned. 

“Lost your girl, huh?” Rafe tsked. “Damn shame, JJ. Don’t you know? Gotta be careful when you’ve got a little thing that’s as pretty as her. Don’t know who’s waitin’ to snatch her up.”

He was in JJ’s face now, smile splitting his lips, eyes wide, laughing as he watched the blonde boy flush with anger, jaw clenching and hands curling into fists at his side. 

“Where is she?” JJ asked quietly, eyes narrowed. 

Rafe just shrugged as Topper laughed, both boys mocking as they sighed. “Like I said, Maybank, y’really gotta look after your toys better. Didn’t your mommy teach you that? Oh… wait-”

JJ’s hand was caught before it could land against Rafe’s cheek - or his nose, his mouth, anywhere really, he wasn’t fussy. But he was pulled back by John B, swearing and muttering to his friend to let him go. 

“JJ, JJ! I got her, she’s in the car,” John B was insisting, turning his friends in his arms as he still struggled, glaring at Rafe as he laughed and went back to the coke that was waiting for him. 

JJ stopped, it felt like the world had started spinning again since he first took your call. He swallowed, hard, “she alright?”

John B nodded, not wanting to say too much in front of people who didn’t need to know anything. So JJ didn’t look back as he took the stairs two at a time, tumbling into people that were too drunk to keep themselves upright. 

The Twinkie was where John B left it, abandoned a little squint on the side of the road and the little light was on in the cab, casting you and the old chairs in a warm glow. You looked too small, tucked under one of Pope’s sweaters that John B must’ve found somewhere in the van. 

JJ breathed out a sigh of relief at the sight of you, safe and conscious, despite the way your eyes were a little too droopy. He opened the door slowly, careful not to spook you and he melted a little when you turned to him, lips parting, gaze turning glassy. 

“Jay,” you sniffed, once, twice, bottom lip wobbling. 

“Hey, babe,” JJ whispered, nudging you further across the bench so he could slide in next to you. “Lemme see you, yeah? Y’okay?”

You let the boy take your face in his hands, warm and wide, fingers splayed across your cheeks and jaw as he turned you this way and that. He checked you for marks, injuries, scrapes - anything. Your pupils were blown wide, darker than normal and you looked sleepy, heavy and ready for bed. 

“What happened?” His voice was achingly soft as John B climbed into the driver's side and started the engine, peeling away from the noises of the party until the island turned quiet again. 

You shrugged and sniffed again, curling into JJ until he gave in and let you clamber onto his lap, your back to the window and your face tucked into his neck. He wound his arms around you, holding you tight as the roads on Figure Eight turned a little rougher as it gave way to the dirt roads of The Cut. 

“Was just a joint, Jay,” you mumbled tiredly, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, the other tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck. “Was jus’ sitting in the kitchen but it didn’t feel right, I d’know.”

You weren’t slurring, but you sounded too sleepy to finish your sentences, choosing to push your face further into the boy’s neck until you could smell sunscreen from the morning, sea salt and chlorine from a pool he’d probably broken into. 

Your lips found his pulse point, not kissing, just resting there, relishing in the soft thumpthumpthump of it. JJ’s heart rate picked up as if you’d swept your tongue over his, like you’d pushed him to his bed and crawled over him. 

“You feelin’ okay?” JJ asked, running the backs of his knuckles over your knee. If he felt the way your skin shivered under his touch, he didn’t act like he had. “Hungry? Feel sick?”

You were both ignoring the way John B sent you looks from the side of his eyes, lips lifted in a small smile, knowing and a little teasing, watching how you both tried to get as close to the other as possible. 

You shook your head, clung to the boy a little tighter and let your eyes fall shut. “Tired,” you told him. “N’ a little thirsty. Wanna sleep though, can I sleep w’you?”

John B coughed, hiding a laugh and smile as he suddenly became hyper focused on the road ahead. 

It wouldn’t be the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last time, but JJ never tired of hearing you ask to share his bed. Sober or speech slurred, you’d paw at him when you got too tired, had too much to drink, too much to smoke. And every time you’d find your way into his clothes, a shirt with the sleeves ripped off, boxers that you had to roll at the waist, a sweater with a hole in the collar and an oil stain on the cuff. 

JJ would let you tumble into a bed that wasn’t really his to begin with but the sheets smelled like him and you now, strawberry surfboard wax, ocean spray and coconut sunscreen, your perfume, mango body butter and watermelon lip balm stains on his pillows. 

You liked to curl into him, to steal the warmth that seemed to come from the sun and stay in his skin, like the summer day set in his chest. Legs thrown over hips, arms over bare stomachs, shirt collars slipping off shoulders and bare feet pressed against legs. 

How could he ever say no? 

So he didn’t. He couldn’t. “Yeah, babe, ‘course you can.”

Because JJ Maybank was your best friend and he’d share his bed with you, he’d rescue you from house parties in the dead of night and when the van rolled to a stop and the world seemed to finally right itself, he’d hold your hair back when you threw up on the sand too. 

And in the morning, he’d hand you a pint of water and some of Kie’s vitamin C capsules and educate you on how to spot a joint that had more than just weed in it. 

[serenityinstone]

Thanks For Nothing

Yandere America x G.N. Reader

TW: General Yandereness | Implied Kidnapping | Imprisonment | America feeds you food with a fork so idk | Non-consensual kissing (just for a moment) | Thanksgiving? | Reader is tied up

If you can't tell I'm really bad at adding tw's but I always find it helpful to avoid stuff I don't want to read so I tried my best. Go ahead and tell me if there's something I missed.

Also, I know Thanksgiving was two days ago I randomly got the urge to write this last night. I'm like slightly embarrassed by this but I haven't posted anything in over a year so you get this.

Tableware clinked against wood as it was gingerly laid down by an uncommonly careful hand. The room was well lit with candles flickering shadows across the walls, a large chandelier over top. The table was set with an orange and red color scheme with autumn bleeding into every aspect of decoration. Even though only two would be used, eight seats had been set in nothing but false pageantry. The smell of baking turkey wafted in from the kitchen off the ways. Most of the other food had already made its place on the table, surrounding a cornucopia, reflective only in name. Six chairs, three on each side, were all tightly pushed into the table, ready for the use of no one. The spread was massive and one could wonder how only two people, the only residents of the large house, would finish it all.

Humming came from the kitchen, the voice masculine in pitch. The tune was easily recognizable as the Star Spangled Banner, which was more a feat to hum then one would expect. Some of the high notes came out scratchy and the mumbling of the lyrics did nothing to ascertain any kind of satisfying harmony. Both rooms were pleasantly warm, though the kitchen held itself in a higher regard after repeat use of the oven and stove. Light leaked out through the open windows as it bathed the rest of the house.

It was pitch dark outside and a person coming or going could see no more than fifteen feet in front of them. Not that there would be any extra guests anyways. The building was located in the middle of nowhere, a long, winding road the only gleam of civilization. At one point the property had been a farm, but after the changing of owners, its purpose drastically changed.

The deafening silence was interrupted by repeated shifting, a desperate attempt to move. This sound was picked up by the ears of the blonde in the other room. He stuck his head in the doorway, the cowlick on top denying gravity its rightful dues. His blue eyes twinkled with amusement, though you could see none of it. In fact you could see nothing at all. You couldn’t see, you couldn’t speak, you couldn’t move. All you could do was listen. The man laughed boisterously like you had just said the funniest thing in the world.

“Don’t worry!” He said, knocking on the wall in a way meant to exude comfort. “It's almost done.”

Any chance you had of escape was quickly ticking away alongside that turkey clock, and yet you could do nothing. Maybe he really was the original boy scout because his knots were flawless. Arms bound tight to a chair, any attempts at kicking did nothing to loosen the ropes tying your legs to the chair’s. Your back was flush with the chair, cord tightly wrapped around your torso. You were, in all sense of the word, stuck.

The silk material used to blind your sight was far softer than the harsh twine of the ropes. The same was used to bind your mouth. Any of the tears you had cried had long since dried, making the cloth more uncomfortable and sticky than before. What did you do to deserve this?

Time to ponder than question was quickly snatched away as the retro cooking clock sprang to life. You snapped your head towards the sound, not having prepared yourself for it. Suddenly the smell of turkey became stronger than ever before and you swore you could feel its heat as the man set it down on the table. He lit what you could only assume were candles before approaching you. You visibly shook as he gently removed the blindfold.

Blinking furiously to adjust to the light, your pupils contracted at the heavy light, causing you to shut them closed and throw your head down away from the obtrusive shine. A large hand came above you to pet the top of your head. He kneeled down on one knee, grasping your arm, which was still bound to the chair’s, and gently massaged the skin. He almost didn’t seem real, the light making him look like an angel. Then he looked back up at you, sky blue eyes piercing your own (e/c) ones. Any thoughts of a divine existence were quickly washed away as you stared deep into the possessive pools that were his oculus. The man smiled at you, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized had fell. He licked the thumb that had made contact with the salted droplet, never breaking eye contact with you. 

He abruptly stood up, shifting his attention over to the extravagant feast on the table. He quickly piled on his own plate, seemingly stacking it sky high, before coming back over to your side and collected your piece of dishware. Moving around the table, he began to fill your own plate, though not nearly as large as his own. He placed it back down next its proper napkin, an orange maple leaf.

The man began to slice apart his pieces of turkey, clearly satisfied with how it had come out. It didn’t take him long to begin gobbling down his food like a hungry soldier on the battlefield. He talked while chewing once or twice in a way that would have made a proper British noble scoff in disgust. Though he quickly quit after he realized that he was eating like such. A look fell across his face that made you think that he might have been told off for a bad habit like that. From then on he ate properly, carefully using his utensils and always chewing with his mouth closed.

From the moment he had brought the turkey in, you had felt your mouth water. You hadn’t eaten anything all day and the food laying out before you felt torturous. You didn’t make a sound however, trying to conserve all of your energy into not bursting into another round of tears. Your stomach on the other hand, had no such qualms, and loudly made its presence known.

The blonde looked over at you, to your uneaten plate of food, and then back to you. He was about to ask why you hadn’t started eating before he realized the obvious. Gulping down the last of his diet soda, of which he had put into a glass with ice to look slightly nicer, he made his way past the table and back over to you.

All you could do was sit there, cursing your stomach and every decision that led you to this horrible fate. Standing at far over six feet, he easily towered over you, causing the shaking from earlier to come back tenfold. You must have looked like a frightened little lamb to the big bad wolf. He cupped your face in his hands, rough from years of war. By now you had begun hyperventilating, shoulders moving up and down in desperate disharmony. You tried to suck as much air as possible in but the gag in your mouth stopped most of the air flow. He reached his right hand farther up your face and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to pretend you were any place but here. Any images of tropical vacation were vanquished after he softly removed the fabric. It was soaked with hours worth of saliva and he threw it off to the side on the table.

Properly swallowing for the first time in hours, your lips finally closed. You still shook but had noticeably calmed down as he focused on your lips.

“A-Alfred.” You finally whispered. “W-Why? I don’t u-understand.”

Tears still occasionally fell down and you desperately wanted to hide your face from him with your hands, but couldn’t because of your binds. You desperately searched his eyes for some clue, a hint, anything. But there was nothing there but pure, unbridled, adoration. His face melted into a content smile and he dove in to kiss you with no prior warning.

His lips melded against yours and he furiously attacked them until you opened. The man pressed you farther against the chair, using both of his hands to keep your head in place. His tongue swirled around your mouth, traversing every cavity and frantically tried to keep your own in this cursed dance. He finally parted from you, a string of saliva connecting you until it finally snapped.

Even more tears had begun to form, all threatening to fall at the slightest motion or whisper. Alfred brushed his thumb over your soaked eyelash, clearing your vision in that eye for just a moment.

“Does that answer your question?” He placed his head in the crook of your neck, taking in the smell. “I just love you that much.”

Suddenly reminded as to why he had come over to the other side of the table, Alfred quickly pulled out an empty chair and sat next to you. He unwound the napkin and the utensils, placing all of them in the correct positionings like he had been taught to do. He then pulled the plate towards the edge of the table, carefully stabbing a piece of turkey he had cut apart with a fork.

“Say aww!” He urged, but you knew it was more of a command.

You opened your mouth, feeling completely demeaned by the nature of the situation. He couldn’t even let you use your own hands. Your chewing was slow as your mouth still hurt from the gag. Alfred didn’t seem to mind as he just fed you another piece, repeating the cycle a few more times. Finally it seemed like he had finally gotten enough out of you and stopped, only to be repeated with a different food instead. As you were chewing, he spoke adoringly to you.

“I love you (Y/n).” He said as he continued to dote on you. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

[deafsignifcantother]

if music be the food of love chapter 10

♥ here you go lovies, it’s series time | chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine, chapter eleven ♥ summary: husk has some news that confirms one of your worries, oh how you hate having your worries confirmed. ♥ relationships: aroace Alastor x deaf female reader (now purely romance) ♥ word count: 3.3k ♥ pinterest board ' it has outfit inspo in it now ♥ notes: reader sits on alastor's lap, i'm a bowtie hater, drunk and sad reader

You depart your room after redoing his ascot, and then you both go separate ways. A pair of cockroaches scuttle under your feet, practically running in circles. You stop and watch them. It's as if they're dancing. Their thick bodies rock back and forth against the speed of their tiny legs, and they move so fast that they appear to be vibrating.

To not disturb them, you take a big step forward, lifting your dress and passing them with the politeness of a princess. When you release your puffed dress layers, a gust of air brushes past them. You hope they have a good rest of their day.

The hotel's maze-like habitat has been long memorized; you're used to the desolate hallways, so when somebody grabs your arm, a hand much smaller than Alastor's, your eyes darken when you turn around.

Husk grips onto you with a touch so light it's comparable to a child. He's touching you; has he ever done that? You fight the urge to grimace, the overlord in you clouding your friendliness. He's a friend, he's a friend, he's a friend.

"Can I talk to you?" He slowly withdraws his hand. You look him up and down. When you turn to face him fully, his ears bend back. Nervousness. Fear? No, possibly just pure anxiety.

"It's early Husker, at least fix me a drink first."

He is tentative when he leads you to the elevator. Therefore, he doesn't even look at you when the numbers on the elevator light up and the doors open. All the doors appear the same to you—dark red and under stripped chandeliers. He didn't hold the door for you when he opened the entrance to his room, filled with the pungent smell of sweat and felines. The sun barely penetrated his closed curtains.

"The extermination is in a few weeks," he turns to you. "What are you going to do?"

Your eyebrows raise. You're not going to fight. You never have and never planned on it. The realization of Husk's question hits you quicker than you'd like. You've never second-doubted your decision to leave, but you hum when Husk makes the opposing suggestion. Would Alastor let you go? Does the demon cherish you enough to ensure your safety, or is he curious enough to force you to battle?

"You don't think he'd let me flee, do you?" You ask, hiding the dread growing in your stomach.

He shakes his head. "I don't think he's ever intended to."

"Before," you start, picturing him at the bar and you sitting before him, "You said to me he told you I was coming."

"After Charlie brought up the extermination."

"I thought so," you lied. How many hidden plans did Alastor have? Many. Many.

After finding the abandoned, discreet home amongst the trees, you stayed there throughout every massacre. Angels never bothered you, never even knew you were there. You would remove your speaker, turn the lights off, and wait for it to end. If you looked out your window, you only saw the portal in the sky. In the end, there was a trace of those winged entities that you've been exposed to every year, but you've never thought about what the battle must look like. You step past Husk, sitting on his stiff bed.

"There's a war ahead," Husk signs. "Are you ready for it?"

You look around his room. A heavily worn deck of cards is on his desk, and button-ups are visible in an open wardrobe. Despite your growing nervousness, you try to hold your pose.

"Tell me," you start, ignoring his question. "Yes, somewhere deep in my heart I've considered it, so I know you're the one to tell me the truth. Was he always intending me to fight against the angels?"

At his hesitance, you continue, "To sacrifice me? To see how long I'd last?"

He wouldn't lie to you; with this, he knows the truth is not the easiest thing for you to get. "I ain't gonna claim to know what goes on in Alastor's head... but I do know that when he mentioned you, it wasn't for any good reason. Alastor doesn't do things out of the kindness of his heart."

"I'm more than aware." With the sick pounding of your heart, you focus your energy on maintaining eye contact. "But what do you think? What do you believe?"

He can see the uncertainty in your eyes. He takes a deep breath, standing awkwardly. "Listen, kid." Kid. How rude. "We both know he's a cunning bastard, and I wouldn't put it past him to use even you for... whatever reason he has in mind."

"Might have he changed his mind?"

Once you have sign it, you realize how pathetic you must be.

"Changed his mind? Hell, it's Alastor we're talking about. But for you... I've seen him change his mind as often as he changes his socks. Still, be cautious."

You almost frog-blink. Be cautious? With him? You've spent years being cautious around him enough to trust his hands with your life. But those years away, those cursed years, must have changed him. He would have never done this before then.

You square your shoulders, tilting your head up, robotically signing. "What do you suppose I do about it?"

Oh, how do you wish Zestial had a cellphone. Is it time for another visit? You should tell Alastor he had asked you to come over and never return. That ancient soul will protect you from anything the deer has planned for you.

"If you're able to, figure out what his angle is." Immediately, Husk turns to his desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out an unopened bottle of Buchanan's. "Do you want some?"

"Yes. What a pleasing offer."

"I don't have glasses, so here. It's a gift."

You stand to pull it from him when he offers it.

"A parting one?"

"No," he shakes his head with a furrow of his brows. Your joke does not entertain him. "Don't even think about it."

.

Exiting his room, you are greeted by the fresh smell of what you assume is a usual hotel. Your gaze goes from the ceiling to the elevator ahead. What choice do you have? You wander down, steps slow, treasuring the moment of isolation. There's one plan in mind to play on his affection for you. He must have changed his mind even a little bit. This romantic development is unique to him, that's for sure. It could mean that he decided to do anything but risk your demise. Or possibly not; it could have led him to anticipate your fight even more. The thought of him swooping in to save you from harm is more than charming, unknown.

But angels are different than demons. You can handle your own against one of your kind; it's undeniable that angels could destroy you in a second.

If romance doesn't work, what else do you have? What do you have against him?

You claw at your palm, the other hand still gripping the bottle.

What are his weaknesses? What do you have against the Radio Demon?

Your mind flickers through the years you've spent together. He's never never appeared sad-

No, he has.

Alastor's ears droop when he talks about his mother, when reminisces about their time together when he was alive. But what could that mean for you?

Mother, mother, mother.

A hum leaves your lips. You could play on that, for sure. And it could be unfair, but he started it. Stepping into the elevator, you slowly develop a plan. What are some motherly actions? Reading to him, rubbing his head, gentle touches and lullabies? Could you find a way to play music like that? If it means your life, you'll find a way.

As you step towards the top of the staircase, you look down at the people below. Angel is texting on the couch; Nifty is scurrying and stabbing holes into the carpet.

The angel in the shape of a woman walks across the lobby, noticing your figure before anybody else and looking at you. The stoic look on her face doesn't falter, but she does mutter something, eyes flickering away.

Every day you fight the urge to regard these residents with contempt.

Just a few weeks ago, Alastor came to speak with you about the hotel. You've now started considering his offer as blabbering, but he convinced you nonetheless; you decided to be annoyed he hadn't come by sooner. He had smiled to you and signed; it only hits you now that he remembered the language even after over half a decade of absence.

The bar looks desolate without Husk behind the barrier. 'Congierge', as if he'd partake in that. You run your hand across the structure, placing the bottle down. When you sit, you can only stare at the bronze shelves as you use your nails to pop the drink open. You hold the sour-smelling bottle to your lips, spinning on the stool, eyes dazing over in thought.

Where would you even begin? You should find a way to feed him just as he had fed you, as if he'd let you. But that's the fun of this, isn't it? Seeing what he'll let you do. It's like a masked adventure. You've driven him to sensitivity while he's driving you to sadism. You smile at the thought.

You drink until the bottle is around half empty and push the opened bottle over the counter without being bothered by its loud clattering. Whether it is shattered or not doesn't even cross your mind as you lift yourself, turning to the side before your body does. Alastor isn't here. You expected him to grab you. An empty lobby greets you. Angel is nowhere to be seen, and the only sign that Nifty is even there is the ragged floor.

You grunt. It's not an uncommon circumstance for you. With the flickering of the lights, the isolation quickly becomes charming. The hotel is comforting when so barren. The flavorless sting in your throat clouds every bit of saliva you swallow down. You stumble when the wooden floor turns into carpet—stumble, what are you, 16? Considerably ridiculous. You hold your breath when you step up the stairs. Nothing is worse to you than apparent intoxication, which the V's entertained many decades ago. Valentino would hold your waist and dance; you'd follow his slow footsteps. Velvette must still have the videos. You think about that as you step up the stairs. What you noticed most about the V tower was the posters of themselves they hung up. It's like your living world, where wealthy families hang paintings of themselves over fireplaces. But theirs are marginally less affluent and infinitely more self-absorbed. Though, who are you to talk? Vox gifted you a poster of your own, although an inappropriately funny one (bright red lipstick, kissy marks framing your body, loved wineglass in your hand). Where is it now? A part of you wishes more than anything you can say hello to them again, but alliances are alliances, and enemies are enemies.

Your music traditionally plays familiar sounds that can be repetitive when you lack severe emotions, and with the wooziness of intoxication, the only noticeable difference is glissandos.

Alastor's room seems miles away. There are times when, as impending as the doom can be, you open the door to his absence and get the clue of fear. You wonder if it'll get on his last nerve each time you let yourself in. It doesn't stop you. As you've said before, he'd never hurt you. And as he retorted, "physically."

The rest of the walk proceeded slowly, painfully so. With every step, your brain stood on edge as you grew accustomed to Alastor's sudden appearance. But his presence isn't haunting the hallways. Thankfully, mercifully, his doorknob opens with ease. He often locks it, but Lord knows your hair pins pry it open as easy as slipping in earrings.

Despite the intrusion, you open the door slowly. Alastor sits at his desk, the lamp off but light still illuminating his stacks of papers, the ones hanging from the skeleton on his wall.

He doesn't glance over at you, but his smile does grow, and he drops his pen. You kick your shoes off and close the door behind you.

What now, what now, what now, what now?

You start to chew on the inside of your mouth but stop. There needs to be no sign of nervousness.

When you wrap your arms around his neck, he tilts his head, leaning into you. The side of his head nuzzles into your bicep. Your other hand brushes against a fabric, cotton, not silk. He took the ascot off. A hum leaves you. He kept everything else except the ascot, replacing it with a bowtie. He kisses your sleeve and then grabs your wrist, moving your hand to brush his lips against your knuckles.

His eyes follow you when you lower from his grasp. Pressing one hip against the desk, you swoop his bangs from his face and press a kiss to his forehead, a soft one, a hand cradling his face. With your body this close, he can smell the drunkness. When you try to place another kiss, he tilts his head up; you stop, your eyes meeting each other at an equal level.

You can see your reflection in his monocle.

You sign. "It was the ascot, wasn't it?"

"Oh, my dear, I loved the ascot. Truly, I did! Just thought it didn't suit me."

The banter is familiar, so easy to fall into.

"I quite liked the boys who wore them," you sign, smiling at how his smile tightens; you kiss the corner of his lips, pulling back with an opposite, warm smile. "But I suppose the bow tie is a close second, though they're entirely past my time."

All he knows from your time is museum pieces and infamous paintings.

What you love most about these conversations is how you can distinctly notice when Alastor searches through his memory. His usually stable iris will flicker back and forth just slightly. He shifts his weight, using his foot against the wall to push back his seat. He grabs both your hands with him, leading you into his lap. Your dress cascades down the side as you sit horizontally across his thighs.

"Ah, really now? Perhaps I'll have to wear ascots more often then, just for you, darling." He signs, completely dishonest, the teasing not going past your head.

To someone your age, his outfit is only a few trends before contemporary fashion like Velvette's. From the coat that holds his body to the bowtie he keeps around his neck, what others consider outdated is your modern. And in comparison, you look like a figure of class and an entirely ancient elegance.

"Would you actually?" Your sly smile and signs portray a preppy expression. "I might have to keep you to that."

"You're threatening me." He jokes, a hand reaching to grip your waist as he quickly bounce his heels, boosting your body upwards in one motion. His light tone is a response to your intoxication. You laugh, realizing in a second that you've long forgotten your intent at motherly behavior. You're draped across his lap and giggling like a girl. Holding a mature composure is complicated when he's holding you like this. The idea of The Radio Demon cooing at you leaves you completely vulnerable. And for a deadly, terrifying overlord yourself, he finds you thoroughly adorable.

You tilt your head. "You're the one who offered it, are you not a man of your word?"

He takes a second to admire your expression. Never in his afterlife had he thought that he would end up like this, lovestruck and affectionate. He can barely respond; the sight of him before him is entrancing. Here are two overlords, dangerous and vile, holding each other kindly. The words of your comical conversation dance together like cockroaches.

"Of course I am, my dear. Of course I am."

"Then perhaps we can venture outside together while you wear what you consider the non-suiting ascot."

"Are you simply trying to get me to put it back on? I believe I made it clear that any ascot-"

"Tomorrow, what do you think?" You grab his hands and put them down. Your previous despair toward him is gone, replaced by the adoration you've developed.

His smile drops just a bit, and his eyes widen at the smallest amount. Beyond being willing to merely stroll in public, your wanting to do it by his side brings back decades of memories. Oh, how he's missed watching the citizens avoid the two of you, pointing out his favorite restaurants, and going inside with you. "You want to be seen in public again?"

"I do, I think you should show me around. I want to see what the world has been up to since I've been gone. Since we've been gone. Let's go explore, yes?" Your eyes investigate his expression, trying to decipher if it's hesitance or surprise.

He studies you back. He gives a soft smile, his facade returning as he nods. "It certainly sounds like a lovely idea, dear."

You lift a finger, straightening your spine. "The ascot will be included though." Your other hand rests on his shoulder, a small gesture of approval, a gentle touch.

He rolls his eyes. "I'm starting to think you only want me to wear an ascot, darling!"

"Perhaps, or perhaps not. Who's to say?" You grab one of his hands, put it to your cheek, and rest your head on it. Your smirk comes subconsciously; you hardly notice how loving you're being. He lets out a huff through his nose, letting his thumb brush over the soft skin.

His other hand lifts. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

You hum. "I wonder who I learnt it from."

With a slight turn of your head, you kiss his gloved palm. With strangely unfamiliar softness on his features, you can only match his jesting tone.

"Me?" He laughs in mock surprise, hand twitching as you kiss it. "How dare you, my dearest! I am a bastion of courtesy. Maybe you've become a sassy thing all on your own."

"Sassy? You think I'm sassy? You dare say that, you?" You pipe up. Your eyes widen slightly, and your smile only grows. You kiss his hand again, this time a quick peck, but your lips remain close as you sign. "You're the sassiest man I've ever met."

He gently presses his claws against your cheekbone as he responds. He could taunt you all day and never get tired of it. "You wound me with your words, you're practically bursting with cheeky wit."

"Yes, I am. But tomorrow, yes?" You rewind, sitting up off his lap, releasing his hand.

He gives a slight nod. "Tomorrow, my love! I'll retrieve you sometime in the afternoon, how does that sound? We can start exploring the city."

"Oh, how I adore you more than anything." You lean and softly kiss his cheek. Once you lift, his eyes lock on yours with his usual stare, his strict smile locked onto his face. Your mind wanders to his wretched intentions, forcing you into battle to test your life. It's sobering. You continue, trying not to give away your souring mood, focusing on the good things so your music remains golden. "Thank you for everything, Alastor."

He sits rigid, once again caught off guard by your affection. His thoughts are still momentarily, processing the feeling of your lips on his face. He is thankful you hadn't kissed his lips, despite how much he would've wanted it. It's kind of you to remember his indecision toward direct physical tenderness without his initiation. The kiss on the cheek is a welcomed middle ground, not too overwhelming nor emotionally far away.

"Of course, darling. You're very welcome."

When you step away, one of his hands returns to his desk, signaling an ending conversation. So you give him a small, mostly sarcastic bow, turning to your room to plan your outfit for tomorrow. A day dress, indeed. Should you go lace? That would be funny.

[velarisbynight]

Wrapped In Spider Silk

Familiar!Azriel x Eris

Day 2 of @azrisweek : Familiars

a/n: a bit on the gothic side I suppose, but I live for this kind of thing 🩵🩵

warnings: spiders! (Mentioned. No images, don’t worry)

word count: 1.1k ~

~~~~~~~~

He used to hate the dark. 

Used to hate its scuttling shadows that would flicker and crawl along the towering walls of his cavernous chambers. Beckoning like wickedly gnarled fingers to walk forth into their deadly embrace, to let those cold, skeletal bones collect his flame-built body atop their carpals to study and play with as they pleased. 

As a creature born from fire, bathed in white-hot light, the darkness was his nemesis. 

Until he’d stumbled under a spell of immense misfortune, cursed with a familiar to embody the treachery of that dark, how it skittered and scurried just out of his sight, seeking and creeping across the walls, lurking in corners, scuttling beneath his bed and crawling across his ceiling, making nests in the chandelier.

The spider had given its name as Azriel, though it had been a year before the name had ever left Eris’ mouth. Even then, it had only been as a terrified whisper, having woken to the spindly, eight-legged terror dangling on a too-thin web just above of him. Wet, bulbous eyes staring at him with keen intensity, a sinister amusement found in teasing its master, able to smell the sweat of terror that would coat his lovely, pale skin. Skin that might turn paler, if ever Azriel was allowed to pierce it with his venom-coated fangs. 

Eris had hated his familiar. All eight, spindly legs; the twitching, saliva coated mandibles; the narrow, speckled abdomen that would swell grotesquely after a meal. Eris had never bothered to learn the details of his familiar’s diet, and had kept it that way. Mostly. 

Now, nearly a decade later, he finds he can’t sleep unless suspended from the chamber’s stony ceiling, more roughly hewn than it had been all those years ago, having grown jagged and crooked in places, as if growing out of its brutally carved elegance, returning to its naturally abrasive state. Better for gripping onto, Eris supposes. 

Fatigue is heavy on him tonight—ruling on his own during the painful hours of daylight has become a chore, his eyes still aching from each once-beautiful ray of light that had spilled through the upper palace’s windows. 

Azriel descends from the ceiling, legs settling silently on the floor before approaching his master. Eris has to raise his head to meet the set of eight, hazel eyes that watch him so relentlessly. “I’m tired,” is all Eris tells his familiar, though he knows the spider would have understood without a word. Those mandibles click together faintly, clacking twice as pupils dilate. 

Indeed, Eris never would have thought he’d one night long to fall into a suspended web from his ceiling rather than settle in his own bed, tucked beneath crisp and clean sheets. Festoons of cobweb riddle his chambers, curtains replaced by thick and glistening spider silk, clothing spun out in a similar manner that he’d been surprised by the softness of. 

Far below, a few candles flicker, wax dripping like tears over the once pristinely polished oak furniture, and in the dim light he catches the attentive glint in his spider’s eight, round eyes. Mandibles click softly with hunger, but Eris only rests his head against the soft web, spun more thickly than the elegant, interconnected stitches he usually sees from the creature, appearing more like raw wool, or cotton. Not a gap or hole to be found, unless it’s one of the large funnels Azriel has carefully woven so Eris can leave of his own accord. 

A heavy sigh leaves Eris’ lips, eyes burning faintly as they close, tired from being kept apart for so long, feeling dry from the piercing light he’s so unaccustomed to, having bonded enough with his familiar to no longer fear the darkness the male carries thickly with him. No longer fears the hushed skitter of softly pattering feet as they scuttle across the labyrinthine web, nor the looming shape of his spider that towers over him like a nightmare. 

The soft clicking continues, and slight irritation builds within Eris’ chest. Azriel can see his master is tired, but is persistent in his bothersome behaviour. Ultimately it’s his own fault—if he had only been able to punish the creature with the flame it feared, Azriel would be much more tolerable. But he had seen the fear that glittered in the male’s eyes upon seeing the fire that could lick up Eris’ fingertips, flickering menacingly, as if beckoning him forward. So he had been unable to wield it against him. 

Now Eris groans as he hears the distinctly wet sound of fangs nestling into something freshly dead, his nose wrinkling at the unpleasant and invasive smell. 

“I’ve told you not to eat while I’m up here,” Eris mutters, not bothering to shift or even open his eyes. “I’m hungry,” Azriel replies, in his whispery voice that had once made Eris feel as though small spiders were skittering up his spine, zipping up the nape of his neck. “You could have eaten before,” he mutters, but it’s lacking venom. 

Fangs click with pleasure, then the web rustles as the body is bundled away for later. 

Eris doesn’t bother to open his eyes as the sheet of web shifts either side of him, nor does he make any attempts to watch as one skeletal leg rests over his chest, feeling the pulse of his master’s heart as the clicking sounds again, unable to help his hunger. But then the noises soften, and fade entirely, and Eris feels as hair is guided back from his brow. 

“I’ve told you not to do that either,” he murmurs softly, too tired to be entering into debate with his familiar. “It’s uncomfortable, when you look like that.” 

“You don’t mind it when I am like you,” Azriel whispers back, the shadowy voice rasping in the night. 

Amber eyes crack open at last, meeting softened hazel just above. Slowly, Eris wraps his hand around the spindly base of the leg, keeping his attention on the spider as he lightly presses his lips just shy of a joint, watching how Azriel’s feelers prickle at the sensation. 

“There are lots of things I don’t mind doing with you when you’re like me,” Eris murmurs in reply, letting that hang in the air before continuing. “One of them is sleeping.” 

Eight hazel eyes study the male beneath him, the four fingers and thumb wrapped delicately around his leg, hearing the offer clear as night. 

Fangs click once more with pleasure, before he’s shifting to suit his master. Settling into the web he’s spun for the both of them. 

The web he would wrap them up in, if only he could.