#ebony hairbrush

[canadiannationalfox]

Murder Drones TessaxJ fanfic - The Comfort I Dream of - warning saccharine but sad

The clear July night unlike the usuals at the Elliot manor, for once, no rain.

The light wind in the willows carried the scent of the lilacs and honeysuckles, the crickets sang, the fireflies danced.

Tessa and J were sitting on Tessa's bed. The two stared out the window to the stars and moon above.

N and V and Cyn were hanging out in the library tonight.

The young adolescent heir to the Elliot's name untied all her bows, letting her hair cascade down around her. As part of her nightly routine, she handed J a silver-plated boar-bristle hairbrush and sat perfectly still for her robot. This was her favourite part of the night.

J took the hairbrush and gently brushed the human girl's tresses, slowly and careful not to snag any tangles. The robot girl mused freely, not holding back any of her softness, "Gosh, you're so beautiful, Tessa."

Tessa smiled, the only ones around the manor who called her beautiful were her robots, and yet, when J said it, the words seemed to mean more. It was a comforting contrast from being called a "ragamuffin" or a "filthy urchin", it was freeing. Tessa kept watching the skies through the window, the night almost calling to her. Once J was done brushing Tessa's hair, she watched in surprise as Tessa got off her bed and slipped on her outside shoes.

J looked up to Tessa and asked curiously, "What's on your mind?"

Tessa put her hand to the glass of the large windows, she replied softly, a little whimsy in her voice, "I say we sneak out tonight, Jaybird."

J raised a gentle voice of concern, walking over to the one she cherished the most, "The last time we went out at night you got in so much trouble, are you sure?"

Tessa insisted with a nod, picking up her satchel and opening the lock on the window with a lockpick. She turned around after opening the window, the wind making her ebony hair billow about her like the wings of an angel, inviting in her soothing Aussie voice, "Please come with me to the gazebo, J. You love it there."

While J was a stickler for the rules, she did love going to the gazebo at the little lookout. She nodded silently and locked Tessa's bedroom from the inside before following the human out through the boggy forest up to the hill overlooking the manor.

Once there, Tessa sat on one of the benches in the gazebo, she called over to her protectress robot simply by tapping the seat beside her.

J ran up the steps and perched herself beside Tessa. Her LED display showed a slightly blush as she looked to Tessa.

Tessa reached into her messenger bag and pulled out the same silver handled hairbrush and asked softly, "May I brush your hair?"

Without hesitation, the robot girl untied her bows, letting her long silvery tresses cascade down well past her shoulders. J smiled before turning around to let Tessa brush her wig.

"On 'ya girl," Tessa teased as she gently ran the brush over the soft ringlets at the end of J's wig. She knew that the wig clips weren't weak, and she was aware of all the tricks to J's wig, since Tessa was the one who made it from scratch, yet she couldn't shake the urge to be as gentle as J was with her. The young aristocratic woman with a penchant for fixing robots gingerly ran the brush over more of J's tresses, brushing in an upward motion at the ends to make it slightly curl. "All the trouble I got in for making you this wig when I was 10, honestly it was so worth it, J."

"Was it really?" J queried back, a little still sensitive about how much trouble Tessa got in back then.

Tessa hugged J from behind, nuzzling against the soft silvery locks of her robot that she adored. "It was... Its suits you perfectly. You're so beautiful, J."

J knew about the sensation that humans called "butterflies in the stomach" and right now, she was feeling what she thought was it, she felt so much euphoria and warmth, she felt fluttery inside, like she was going to feel nauseated, but yet that she was also walking on clouds. The protective robot maid put her hands on Tessa's arms and lovingly cooed, "Thank you... for everything. I... I love you, Tessa."

Tessa hugged J more, she softly whispered back, "I love you too, J. I hope some day we can run away together... You, me... N, V, and Cyn... and we could fix up other robots and be all happy together."

J sulked a little at the mention of the others. "But then we won't have as much time together,"

Tessa giggled as she gently pecked the back of J's right auditory sensor, "Oh, I think we'd have a sunroom, and every night I'd brush your hair in the moonlight."

J nuzzled more into Tessa's hug, feeling a weird sense of safety, even though J was the one who Tessa built as both a companion and as a body guard. She giggled, "I wouldn't mind that at all, as long as I can still brush your hair every night."

Tessa giggled as she let go of J but started styling J's pigtails back up, "Consider it a date, luv."

----------

The warm sensation of the July night was replaced with a cold feeling, J's LED eyes opened, seeing she was laying in the snow. Her injector tail was still lightly swishing from her lovely dream. J was back in the cavern with the landing pod she was trying to fix. The disassembly drone hugged herself tightly, her sobs echoing through the cavern. She held herself tightly and cried out, "TESSAAAAAAA" before pulling her legs in closer. The former disassembly drone leader cried herself to sleep, but alas, she found no solace as she didn't dream of Tessa again for the rest of the night. The End.

[loyaltyforged]

@kitxkatrp inquired: ❛ i just wanted to make sure you’re okay. ❜ ling

soft and sweet sentence starters | accepting!

Anxiety hit her like a freight train the moment she had sensed the sin's energy within the palace walls, knowing that there wasn't another being left in Amestris, let alone Xing, that carried quite the same aura. She considered he had shown up for her lack of response to his question, however, upon not being approached by him, she begins to wonder if he came to see the young Emperor instead.

The thought still doesn't quell her worries and Lan Fan spends the majority of the evening and night not only completing her duties, but throws in a couple hours of training. By the time she returns to her quarters after stopping for a quick shower to rid herself of the slick, sticky feeling that comes with high activity in thick, dark clothing beneath a summer sun, it's nearly midnight. The bodyguard had taken a page from Edward's book a couple years ago, defaulting to wearing a fitted tank top as her bottom most layer. It made accessing her automail easier while she took care of routine maintenance before bed and was also comfortable to sleep in.

A soft knock at her door startles her, though, she is thankful it isn't Greed's chi that lies on the other side. Lan Fan gives the visitor permission to enter, a little surprised to see the young Emperor open the door. She's quick to undo the tie holding her hair in a bun and letting ebony strands free to cascade over her shoulders, partly obscuring the scars left by Wrath back in Amestris. As she retrieves a hairbrush, the guard is thankful she let her hair grow longer than normal, but it still doesn't change the fact she feels a little shy with Ling while not wearing her uniform.

Again, he catches her off-guard with his question and she blinks at him, shrugging lightly so as to not worry him. "I'm alright," she says, beginning to run the brush through her hair, dark eyes straying from his as she knows he can catch her in a lie. "I know he's here, if that's why you came to check on me, my lord."

[bumznblowz]

"And when you've cleaned up the mess you and your friends made last night, you can go and fetch your ebony hairbrush from the bedroom, we need to have a little chat!!"

[tophthedaydreamer]

Question? If you *had* to change the old Disney Snow White movie, either to adapt it to audiences now, or to make it closer to the original story, or fit your own headcanons? What would you change?

Asking because I genuinely haven’t thought about the movie until I saw you talking about the new live action version. And now I’m thinking about rewatching the movie and trying my hand at rewriting it.

What are the things you’d definitely keep, vs things that you might add if it got more screen time, or even stuff you’d cut or change. (One of mine is actually seeing the Hunter’s family. Which might be my forgetfulness? But I don’t think we do in the movie)

personally, I love 1937 snow white so much that I wouldn't change a thing hehe. I think it's wonderful the way it is.

But if I were to make my own adaptation (which I'm dead set on doing if I ever get the resources and ability to do so)....

I would do my own spin that focuses more on snow white's bond with the dwarves instead of the romance with the prince. As much as I am a sucker for romance, I do adore platonic relationships as well, especially those that are family-oriented. And snow white and the dwarves are my favorite parts of the 1937 film, so why not expand on that? Thus, the prince would probably be cut from the story, and it would be the dwarves who break the spell (they each give her a farewell kiss on the forehead that collectively breaks the curse). another thing I'd change is the dwarves, to an extent. they are still seven little men, but they lean more on the fantasy side. I'm thinking they'd look like a mix of a dwarf, gnome, and gelfling.

elements I'd keep are snow white's traditional attributes (hair black as ebony, skin white as snow, etc.), the evil queen setting multiple traps for snow white (I recall in the original fairytale that the queen tried to kill s.w. with a cursed corset and hairbrush? I'll have to brush up on my snow white lore), and the true love's kiss that breaks the sleeping spell.

I'd also load it with German fairytale aesthetics! I'd want it to be traditionally animated, in a similar style to these other works:

(pls watch a clip of "the girl from the other side" [third picture] bc the animation is crazy good)

The general tone of my version would be a mix of dark fantasy (Don bluth vibes) and peaceful cottagecore (studio Ghibli). Generally a calm, beautiful, but eerie film that isn't afraid to get "Grimm" (eh?! eeeeehhh???!!).

I hope you don't mind my wall of text lol. I just love snow white :P

[aurheatum]

On a cursory level, Ephidel has understood what birthdays are. A celebration of the anniversary of one's birth, but the morph has never thoroughly experienced one. The date of his creation unknown, and the passage of time insignificant. Even to Lord Nergal, time had come to lose meaning. But here, now, it was far more important to gain the good graces of the morph's new liege. Gifts were often given, he found, and he watched the Archbishop closely to learn more than just what to offer her. Her gaze was often turned skyward, and a hairbrush was one of the few personal artifacts that even Ephidel possessed. "Your Grace," He speaks softly, the gift offered up to her. A hairbrush of dark ebony, dotted with stars of gold. "On the day of your birth, from your humble servant."

The archbishop of the Church of Seiros is a being made for exaltation, for while she is not Seiros - the Goddess's Sword and Proclaimer, Founder of Empires and Preserver of Bloodlines - she is the closest modern Fódlan has to a saint. She is a link to the furthest reaches of the continent's history and there is little more nobles love than to be remembered in such annals.

(Rhea smiles, because it is true; she remembers all, she remembers and does not forgive. Neither, however, does she pass judgement. It is not her place.)

The words and affirmations that come to her now could so easily be swept aside with the rest of the day's detritus, but something in this gift and its presentation makes Rhea pause; no, as lovely as the hairbrush is, it is the presenter that catches her off guard.

The display is thoughtful, not in the way one would usually use the word in regards to gifts but methodical – dark eyes briefly regard Rhea's deep green ones and she can tell today was only of many times this one has watched her.

Perhaps, that should upset her more, but as their hands briefly touch upon Rhea's accepting of the gift she cannot help but think there is something she recognizes in the newly appointed deacon. (–their hands are cold, as are Rhea's most often. But the familiarity is not that. It is in the tone of voice, the unpracticed or sometimes too practiced lilt there, that she has come to associate with her own creations.) "I thank you," she says, "for your generosity. And for remembering the date as that of my birth. Did you know it also the anniversary of Saint Seiros's appearance in Enbarr? I would be happy to tell you more of the legend if you are so interested."

A question asked, but not the one in her heart. Who formed you, she wants to know and the long healed burns of dark magic upon her palms sting, through what means; and furthermore, who, is the one who will take you apart?

[sharp-teeth-and-archived]

honorhearted asked : "It's nothing, really…" Unable to look Lydia in the eye, Ben held a gift wrapped in cloth and twine, fumblingly turning it around and around between his hands. "I'll admit I had to consult with Anna for a bit -- I did get it from her sutler cart, after all -- but my eye drew to it first. I only asked her if…i-if she found it suitable."

Slowly, a hint of pink filled his face, as it often did whenever he was unsure of himself. "I've never bought...I mean..." Sighing, Ben extended his arm and handed her the gift, squirming beneath her gaze. "I figured you'd might like it...that it might return a sense of normalcy to your day-to-day routine."

Inside was a silver-plated hairbrush. Although Ben didn't much care for fripperies, the moment he saw it in Anna's cart, he'd immediately thought of Lydia's fine, ebony hair -- of how it would suit her unlike any other. She, too, wasn't one for extravagance, but after all they'd been through in the past several years, Ben wanted her to have it. He felt Lydia deserved something fine to call her own -- that she deserved a token of his unyielding appreciation.

Discomfited, he softly added, "I hope you like it."

Aside from his mother, she was the first woman he'd ever given a gift to before, and he hoped and prayed that it was well-received.

Lydia’s Birthday Weekend. / @honorhearted​ -- accepting

       𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. But so far, Lydia had been lucky that their secret relationship only existed by the mouth of gossipers, not in the mouth of anyone with real authority like Washington who would have more leverage to end the relationship then and there. But with each of Ben’s appearances, she knew there was always the possibility of it being the last.

       As she heard the tent flap lift, Lydia hadn’t raised her head. She had no need to, there was nothing incriminating in front of her. Just a single piece of parchment in front of her, a letter from her mother, but there was sneaky suspicion in her gut that it was Ben. Before she would get her confirmation, she opened her mouth to speak and found her words overlapped with that of Ben’s low voice. Upon hearing the familiar tone, the hair on the back of her neck rose as if a breeze from outside went through her tent, and her stomach twisted with a feeling of excitement. 

       As she turned, an object with a slim, but round, handle pressed against her palm. It had more weight to it than she expected, but it wasn’t difficult at all to hold. As Ben spoke, collecting his thoughts, with his loose tongue, she turned the objects over. It was familiar, in an tip-on-the-tongue way, but nothing came to mind as she looked over both sides of the covered gift.  If her mom hadn’t sent her a letter with the mention of her birthday, Lydia would’ve been confused about why Ben was so adamant about giving her a gift. Going so far as to confide in Anna. She trusted both of their judgments, but she thought she hadn’t done anything overly spectacular to receive a gift wrapped in cloth.

       Lydia’s smile warmed her cheeks as she imagined Anna’s laugh and extended the object to Ben with the cloth and twine soon after, assuring Ben that she would like whatever it was. Her stare lifted from the object with a crease between her brows at his interesting word choice. “ Normalcy? “ Whatever this was, she was eager to find out. Camp was not home, but for now, camp wasn’t an unfamiliar setting to her after all of these years. She soon knew the ins and out of gossip, grasped her responsibilities, and the death tolls that were reported were nothing new, but an unfortunate effect of war. It still didn’t ease the stab of guilt she felt when she witnessed the grieving wives in camp.

       As Ben finished and stood still in the silence, Lydia found it a reasonable time to finally untie the item that was giving Ben so much nervous tension. She broke apart the twine and unfurled the cloth with a gentle touch, pulling back all of the wrapped layers to find her eyes settled upon a blonde cluster of bristles. It was a hairbrush in much finer condition than her current one with its cracking handle and chipped backing. Ben might’ve never seen it, but the fact this item hadn’t been picked up at all in Anna’s cart was a treasure in itself. However long he’s been eyeing it, he picked it up in time as her current hairbrush began to show its age. 

       ❝ Ben… it’s… ❞ A new light shone in her eyes as she turned it over, catching sight of all of the wave-like patterns on its backing. The curled patterns added more character to the silver brush, it made it unique, and it was the exact reason why she felt so stunned over having the item in her hands. Its finery shouldn’t be in camp, she didn’t require such a delicacy.

       She lifted her head, rising from her chair and practically falling into his hold with the boldness of her embrace as she clutched the hair brush in hand. She squeezed and squeezed and didn’t realize how much she squeezed Ben’s body until she moved out of his hold and took in the sight of him. 

       ❝ It’s beautiful. ❞ She lifted the hairbrush in her hand and gently tapped his shoulder, not feeling guilty about stealing some more of his time for now. ❝ Do you think you would have the time to brush my hair for me? ❞

[goofyrpmaniacs]

Ava: *comes rushing down the hotel steps with a hairbrush* Miss Ebony! I didn't finish your hair!

Ebony: *hisses*

Gr: *in a poofy dress* Why am I dressed up too? I was fine in my clothes before?

[123krisha]

'How to use L'Oreal Casting Creme Gloss'

Prepare Your Hair: Before starting the application process, make sure your hair is dry and unwashed. Avoid applying any styling products like gel or mousse.

Wear Protective Clothing: To prevent staining, wear an old shirt or wrap a towel around your shoulders. You may also want to wear disposable gloves to protect your hands from staining.

Mix the Colorant and Developer: Open the Casting Creme Gloss colorant tube and squeeze it into the developer cream bottle. Secure the cap and shake well to ensure a thorough mixture.

Apply the Color: Part your hair into sections, and start applying the color mixture from the roots to the ends, making sure to cover all your hair evenly. Use the applicator provided in the kit or a hairbrush for precise application.

Massage and Comb Through: Once you've applied the color, gently massage it into your hair to ensure even distribution. Then, use a wide-tooth comb to comb through your hair to remove any tangles and ensure the color reaches every strand.

Wait for the Processing Time: Follow the recommended processing time mentioned in the instructions. This allows the color to develop and work its magic on your hair.

Rinse and Condition: After the processing time is complete, rinse your hair thoroughly with lukewarm water until the water runs clear. Apply the conditioner included in the kit to nourish and lock in the color. Leave it on for the specified time before rinsing again.

Style and Dry: Once you've rinsed out the conditioner, you can style your hair as usual. You can let it air dry or use a blow dryer if you prefer.

That's it! Following these steps will help you achieve beautiful color and shine with L'Oreal Casting Creme Gloss. Always read and follow the instructions provided in the product packaging for the best results.

[loparisindia]

Discover How to Use L'Oréal Casting Crème Gloss for Stunning, Glossy Hair

Looking to upgrade your hair color at home? L'Oréal Casting Crème Gloss is a fantastic option for those who want to achieve a beautiful, natural-looking shade while providing their hair with nourishment and shine. In this blog post, we will take you through a step-by-step guide on how to use L'Oréal Casting Crème Gloss, focusing on the Ebony Black shade.

Why Choose L'Oréal Casting Crème Gloss?

Before we dive into the application process, let's explore some of the benefits of using L'Oréal Casting Crème Gloss:

Ammonia-free formula: Gentle on your hair, providing a pleasant coloring experience.

Semi-permanent color: Lasts up to 28 washes, allowing you to change your hair color more frequently without causing damage.

Glossy finish: Gives your hair a stunning shine, making it look healthy and vibrant.

Conditioning properties: Nourishes your hair during the coloring process, leaving it soft and smooth.

A Step-by-Step Guide on How to Use L'Oréal Casting Crème Gloss

Step 1: Gather Your Supplies

Before starting, make sure you have the following items on hand:

L'Oréal Casting Crème Gloss (in your chosen shade)

An old towel or cape to protect your clothing

Gloves (usually provided in the hair color box)

A timer or a watch

A hairbrush or comb

Hair clips (optional, for sectioning hair)

Step 2: Mix the Color

To create the color mixture, follow these steps:

Put on the gloves provided in the hair color box.

Open the Developer Crème (Bottle A) and pour its contents into the Crème Colourant (Bottle B).

Close Bottle B tightly and shake it well to mix the contents.

Once the color mixture is ready, break off the tip of Bottle B to prepare it for application.

Step 3: Apply the Color

When applying the color, start from the roots and work your way down to the tips. For long or thick hair, using hair clips to section your hair can make the process easier. Ensure even coverage by massaging the color mixture into your hair.

For First-Time Users or a Full Head Application

Part your hair in the middle and apply the color mixture directly to your roots, working your way down to the tips.

Repeat the process on the other side.

Massage the color mixture into your hair to ensure even coverage.

Leave the color on for 20 minutes.

For Touch-Ups or Root Application

Apply the color mixture to the roots, focusing on areas with visible regrowth or grays.

Leave the color on the roots for 15 minutes.

Apply the remaining color to the rest of your hair, massaging it in to ensure even coverage.

Leave the color on for an additional 5 minutes.

Step 4: Rinse and Condition

When the processing time is up, wet your hair with lukewarm water and massage it to emulsify the color.

Rinse your hair thoroughly until the water runs clear.

Apply the Shine Conditioner (Sachet C) to your hair, concentrating on the lengths and ends. Leave it on for 2 minutes, then rinse thoroughly.

L'Oréal Casting Crème Gloss offers an easy, at-home solution for those looking to change their hair color without compromising on the health and shine of their locks. By following this step-by-step guide, you can achieve a stunning, glossy hair color that's both vibrant and natural-looking. Don't forget to visit the official L'Oréal Paris website to explore more shades and find the perfect color to complement your style. So go ahead, experiment with your look, and enjoy your beautiful, glossy hair!

[vintageblingandbags]

Excited to share the latest addition to my #etsy shop: 145x42mm #Antique ebony brush with DR monogram £13 + shipping Global shipping available #grooming, #antiquebrush #hairbrush #mensaccessories #clothesbrushes #vintagehaircare https://etsy.me/3ZPq2sw (at Bersted, West Sussex, United Kingdom) https://www.instagram.com/p/CpxfunztIHm/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[canadiannationalfox]

Murder Drones Fanfic - N's Informal Beauty Training / J's Emotional Aneurysm

(if you need more context see these two fics 1, 2)

"Today's the day," A very hyper kid Tessa trilled as she looked at the calendar on her bed-side table. She nudged J who was sleeping on the bottom part of her bed, she giggled excitedly, "Wake up, Jay Bird!"

The pretty maid drone began to stir, she smiled as she opened one LED eye and then closed it after seeing Tessa's smile. "Nah, let's sleep in," J teased, she was in a shockingly playful mood today, "Let's rest a little"

Tessa used all her muscle to push J into sitting up-right. She insisted happily, "No, we gotta get up! Mum n Dad are sleeping still and I promised I'd make that new wig for you."

J stopped playing around now, she hugged Tessa from the side and asked in a caring tone, "You sure you still want to go through with it?" The worker drone with the synthetic silver pigtails glanced over at the ill-gotten toning shampoo and the peroxide, she knew Tessa was a tenacious and determined little lady but she figured it would be best to offer the precious little Elliott 'princess' a chance to back out.

"No way!" Tessa happily trilled, slightly bouncing up and down, "I am a girl of my word, J! You taught me to keep my promises!"

J put her hands over her chest. "I did teach her that, didn't I?" the platinum LED eyed robot girl thought happily to herself.

The ebony haired girl energetically hopped out of bed and slid across the wood floors to her vanity desk, she was still in her mint green night dress and a pair of mismatched socks, one yellow with black stripes, and the other black with white polkadots. Tessa sat at the mirror and coaxed with a joyful laugh, "Come brush my long hair one more time, J!"

J shook her head with a chuckle before she approached her loyalist of friends at the pretty lavender desk with the tall mirror. She carefully untied all the bows, letting Tessa's knee length hair flow down. J smiled as she caught the gaze of the energetic girl she spent most of her days beside as she picked up the silver plated hairbrush as she had done at least 100 times before.

Tessa, who normally was relaxed when J brushed her hair, this time was quite excited, she kicked her legs in slight excitement. "Oh, J! I can hardly wait," the Elliott family heiress exclaimed, "You're going to look so pretty when I'm done making your new wig."

J carefully brushed all the knots out of Tessa's glossy black hair before setting the brush down. She gave Tessa's shoulders a little squeeze as she informed, "Okay, do you got the scissors?"

Tessa mischievously giggled as she pulled her mom's fancy sewing scissors out from her box of hair bows. She handed them back to J.

J held a section of Tessa's hair in one hand and the scissors in the other. She nervously suggested, "You sure you're ready, Princess Tess? It's a big change,"

Tessa swung herself around on the chair, her arms crossed and a silly pout upon her face. "I think you're chicken, J. I think you're scared to do it."

The pigtailed worker drone looked away, she was scared, she didn't want to get in trouble if they were caught, but she grumbled as she lied, "I'm not a chicken."

Tessa egged on her protectress, her arms crossed, her expression a bit sassy. She taunted, "You couldn't close those scissors if you'd get a promotion."

J was now attentive, she wrapped her fingers around a section of Tessa's hair and opened the etched stainless steel sewing scissors. "Oh, you sure talk a big game," J sassed back, "You have some major attitude." She winced slightly as she chopped through the first chunk. Her confidence fled fast as J saw the chunk of pretty onyx hair in her hands. She muttered as she set it down on the dresser, "I am so dead if we get caught."

Serial Designation N came skipping into the room, he greeted in a happy sing-song voice, not paying attention to what was going on, "Good Morning Miss Tessa." He looked at Tessa first and then at J who looked distraught while holding a pair of scissors. He asked curiously, "Are you two playing a game? I like games."

J set down the scissors and led N out of the room, her expression severe. She pinned him against the wall by his shoulders. "You need to learn to knock, you firing fodder," J growled at her lower-ranking colleague, "Do you want Tessa to get caught?" she lied, she didn't want to get caught more than if Tessa were to get caught.

N was about to say something when the two were interrupted by a sound.

The sound of Tessa's laughter as well as the sound of scissors.

"Move, bozo!" J ordered as she ran back into the room.

The ebony haired girl crunched the sewing shears on a large section of her hair close to her shoulders, letting a huge chunk of hair fall to the ground. She stopped and examined her handiwork in the mirror before collecting up the long chunks of cool-dark hair and putting them in a bowl of peroxide and water to bleach. She stuck her tongue out playfully at J. "I knew you were a chicken!" she stared at her reflection before saying, "Now... how do I cut the back?"

J turned to N and instructed firmly, "Okay, I hate you, and you probably don't like me."

"What?" Tessa sadly asked, swiveling herself in the chair to face her favourite robot and her second favourite robot.

N interjected, "But, I do like you J, you're pretty neat and you know Miss Tessa more and you're pretty."

J rolled her eyes at N calling her pretty twice before she continued pleading, as her LED eyes dilated making bright white rings with stress lines under them , "I need you to fix Tessa's hair. Cut it nice and straight and even... don't take it higher than her shoulders, and whatever you do, don't tell a damn soul about what we did or we could end up back outside rusting to the patio."

N nodded compliantly and reassured optimistically, "I like doing anything." He took the scissors out of Tessa's hands.

"Hey! I was using those," Tessa scolded before she pouted cutely.

J walked outside and stood guarding the door, hoping that Tessa's parents wouldn't come down.

N assessed the hack job that the eccentric 10-year-old had given herself and eagerly trilled, "Now, Miss Tessa, I think we need to neaten it up if you don't want to get in trouble." He playfully snipped the scissors and exclaimed playfully, "N, not-so-professional hair dresser is here to save the day." He collected up the remaining long chunks of hair at the back of Tessa's head and snipped through them carefully, trying to match the length to the shorter really bad layers. He giggled playfully as he neatened up the really uneven haircut on his favourite human, "We're going to make you look so pretty no one is going to ignore you!"

Tessa swung her legs back and forth energetically as N remedied the really bad haircut.

J anxiously peeked into the room, she was worried about how N was doing.

N set down the scissors on the dresser top and dusted off Tessa's shoulders with a clean makeup brush. He patted Tessa on the shoulders and exclaimed as he made eye contact with the girl's reflection, "There! A nice and neat new haircut for our favourite ray of sunshine!" He clipped a nice big black bow onto Tessa's hair so she would like her new haircut even more.

Tessa marveled at her new look but as soon as she caught a glimpse of J, she ran over to her favourite robot. "J! Aren't I beautiful?"

J hugged her favourite human tightly, she felt reassured by her human's genuine smile. "Princess Tessa, you look so pretty! I'm sorry I was a coward," J praised to the happy girl whom she cherished above all others. She turned her attention then to N and muttered in a thankful tone, "And... thanks for doing the job I as too scared to do, N... it turned out ok."

N invited happily as he patted the chair at Tessa's vanity, "Hey, well since I know how now, I am gladly taking new clients."

J grabbed one of her pigtails and snarled in fright, "No!"

Tessa interjected strongly, but still cheerfully, "Especially not after I'm done making her new wig."

N giggled, as he assessed the hair in the bowl of peroxide, "Is that why you wanted to give yourself a haircut?" He twirled a section of his hair proudly as he remarked, "This is a Tessa made wig too!"

"Yep! My favourite two both will have wigs made with lots of love!" Tessa giggled as she went over and pushed N out of the room, "Now, I need some time alone with J, pretty please can you go get us some snacks, it's going to be a long day of bleaching and sewing."

N nodded proudly and skipped away trilling eagerly, "I like doing anything."

After a couple hours, a game of pictionary, 3 games of go fish, two snacks and some sewing and shampoo-tone shifting, the wig was finally done. J and Tessa were at the vanity desk, the day had seemed to slip right out of their hands and it was afternoon, the perfect time for the big reveal.

J sat at the vanity desk, her hands over her eyes. "I won't look until you tell me," the worker drone maid said as she felt the wig clips letting go of her old synthetic wig that was starting to show signs of weathering.

Tessa giggled as she secured the clasps snugly of the wig to J's head, and once it was in place, she fluffed the soft silvery length out with her hands. "You can look now, Jay bird!"

J lowered her hands, an enthralled smile crept onto her face. She ran her fingers through the mid-back length wavy silver tresses. "Oh wow... I'm beautiful," J's voice wavered slightly with a joyful overwhelm. She adjusted her fringe to have a slight part in it. She turned to Tessa, hugging her quickly before she let go. "It just needs one more thing to be perfect," the proud robot maid asked softly, "Could you tie it in two ponytails?"

Tessa picked up her hair brush and some bows with a gold fastener and styled her favourite robot's new wig up into two pretty ponytails that curled upward at the ends. She proclaimed as she stood back and admired her craftsmanship, "Perfection!"

J and Tessa looked at their reflection in the vanity mirror, both smiling proudly. "I think we both look beautiful," J stated, ruffling Tessa's long bob slightly.

Tessa stood just as tall and proud as the robot maid beside her, she insisted back, "I agree entirely."

Their happy moment wouldn't sadly last much longer, as the sound of Louisa Elliott's shoes on the hardwood floors drew nearer and nearer...

The End

[gnjayne]

Yes my lad, it’s to be the hairbrush. Now strip and come over here..

[heyitsmeyuhh]

Blood and Wine (mafia!Suna Rintaro x Reader)

AN// Gah! I’ve had such writer’s block writing the first intimate moment between Y/n and Suna (sorry, not in this chapter haha). I’m writing it one sentence at a time though. Slow and steady wins the race, am I right? Hope y’all like this one. It’s a bit filler-y, but still nice! I love feedback and messages so if you like it, let me know! I don’t bite :)

TW// Murder, mentions of blood, mentions of illegal activity.

WC// 1.9K

Chapter 6

Y/n woke up the next morning, back aching and eyes heavy. There was light flooding the room from the windows, but she felt like she could have slept for three more days. She rolled onto her side and scrunched her eyebrows at the décor. Her sheets were now black silk and there was a large mirror in the corner of the room. Her dresser was gone, and she could have sworn her plant was near the northern wall. 

Then the memories from last night flooded back in like a tidal wave. Everything. Especially the blood. She rolled onto her back again and covered her face with her hands. Just breathe, you’re safe. It’s all just a memory now. Y/n couldn’t tell how long she had laid there, but once her breathing had evened, she swung her legs off the side of the bed and stood. 

As she walked to the bathroom, she caught herself on the wall vision slowly narrowing. For a moment, she was worried she was going to pass out, but the blackness subsided, and she carefully padded the rest of the way to the sink. 

Looking at herself in the mirror, Y/n fully came back to her body. She wrapped the robe around herself tightly, now conscious of her nakedness under the silk. 

Wow, you look like shit.

Her hair was disheveled, tangled like a frame around her face. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and she looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. She felt like she hadn’t slept in a week…

The shower behind her caught her attention and the tension in her shoulders released at the thought of hot water pouring down her aching body. She turned the dials and looked for some towels, finding them along with soap, shampoo, and conditioner under the sink.

Thank God. She was relieved that she could thoroughly wash away the grime from the night before. She vaguely remembered a bath last night, but she wanted to scrub her skin until it was raw. As she stepped onto the ebony tile, warmth engulfed her and flooded her chest with reprieve.

Y/n stood under the water for a minute, allowing it to rinse over her face, her shoulders, her thighs. Everywhere the water ran, her muscles relaxed.

The soft ding of the elevator rang through her memory, and she could feel her core seize. Y/n’s eyes shot open and she stared ahead, unblinking at the shower wall. Images of Komori begging on his knees raced through her head. She could hear his screams as Suna snapped the tendon of his pinky; she could smell the metallic iron of his blood running onto the floor.

Y/n reached out her hands to stabilize herself on the shower wall as she leaned over and let out a silent scream. Tears ran from her eyes, mixing with the water running over her head. She couldn’t seem to inhale, and her sobs racked her chest. She made no noise and cried until she was numb again. 

Once she came back to herself, she finished washing and stepped out onto the bathmat to dry herself. The towel was so soft, and she had to force herself to abandon it and wrap the robe around her frame. Glancing at the vanity, Suna’s hairbrush caught her eye and she attempted to make herself presentable again. Her makeup was gone from the night before, and her eyes were now red, but at least she was clean. 

Get yourself together, she thought to herself. Don’t be so weak. It’s over now. 

Y/n padded across the hardwood floor to the double doors of Suna’s bedroom. There was a sizzling sound coming from outside and the smell of meat was wafting through the crack under the door. She carefully turned the knob and slipped out, instinctively crossing her arms and hunching her shoulders to keep the robe closed. 

Osamu Miya was in front of the stove, back to her, cooking over a skillet. Suna was outside on the balcony speaking into his phone, eyes closed and fingers to his forehead. Y/n bit her lip and tip-toed timidly to the elevator.

“Why don’t you sit down for breakfast? Suna will be done shortly,” Osamu called over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the food. Y/n’s heart skipped at the address, freezing in place. 

“I’m not hungry, thank you.” Her stomach rumbled quietly, but she kept her arms crossed in front of her. 

Osamu finally turned around and looked at her, eyebrow cocked, an amused glint in his eye. 

“I – I also don’t have anything to wear…” Y/n felt awkward under this man’s stare, but all she wanted was to retreat to her apartment and go back to bed for the rest of the year. There was no judgement in his eyes, but she couldn’t help but feel like an animal in a cage. She wanted to explain why she shut down last night, but nothing came out. She knew she couldn’t run away, so she just froze and stared into his gray eyes from across the room. The sound of a sliding glass door to her right caught her attention. 

“Y/n.” Suna walked past the table to where she was standing. “I had a change of clothes brought up here. They’re in the closet, why don’t you go put those on and come back out to eat.” He had touched her elbow and started to guide her back into his bedroom. She stared back up into his eyes, but he avoided her gaze. Y/n walked over to the closet, turning to glance questioningly at him in the doorway. 

“Take your time, bunny.” He closed the door quietly, and she waited for a moment, shoulders sagging, before turning to make her way into the large closet. There were tons of suit jackets and button-down shirts with leather shoes lined up on the right. On the left, more casual attire, none of which looks like it has been moved in months. Not a single hanger was out of place and it was neatly pushed to the side to make room. Hanging in the gap, a black deep V-neck blouse with a dark tan form fitting skirt and dark tights. A tan, knee-length coat was draped on a hangar behind. 

These aren’t mine? Y/n had no other choice but to dress in what was provided. Luckily, everything fit just fine, and whoever picked these out had the thought to provide some dark tights and black booties. A few pieces of extravagant jewelry were laid out on the shelves as well. Y/n gently held up a necklace, gold with little diamonds hanging from delicate chains, but she set it back on the dresser as if it were made of glass. She had never held anything so expensive and it made her nervous to think that she might damage it. 

She left the room quietly just as Osamu was setting the table. Suna was sitting in the chair furthest from her; he had his elbows on the table, palms together like he was praying. His lips were pressed to the sides of his fingers, resting his head, and he was staring past the table, lost in thought. 

He almost looks sad. Y/n brushed the thought away and started to walk over to the table to join them. As soon as Suna noticed she was back, his face converted back to the expressionless default she still struggled to read. Osamu pulled out a chair for her in front of the other plate. 

“You’re not eating with us?” She questioned the gray-haired twin. 

“Not today, darlin’ I have some other stuff to do across town.” He gave her a little wink before he finished organizing breakfast. As soon as he wiped his hands on the apron he was wearing, he removed it, hung it from the oven, and left the apartment quietly. Y/n stared at her food wordlessly. It smelled divine, but she wasn’t sure she could keep it down at that time. 

After a few seconds she finally squeaked out, “I should probably get going. Saeko told me to be at the studio by 10 and I need to…”

“I already told Saeko that you can start tomorrow.” Suna interrupted between bites. “Eat,” he commanded, nodding at her untouched plate. 

Y/n stared at her food, feeling on-edge and very aware of the person she was sitting next to. His cruelty surprised her last night; she felt stupid for thinking that he had a caring side. But his gentle care for her after surprised her even more and left her particularly confused. The space between her shoulder blades ached from the tension while she picked at a few bites of food. 

“Why aren’t you wearing the necklace I got for you?” Suna asked a few minutes later, causing Y/n to jump at the break in the silence. He hadn’t looked up from his plate when he spoke.

“I… didn’t want to break it.”

Suna huffed out a laugh and Y/n noticed a slight smile. It was brief and had she not been watching him carefully, she would have missed it.

“You don’t have to wear it, but I’d like you to get used to having nice things.” Y/n nodded, and the conversation stalled again.

“What am I going to be doing today, anyway?” She finally interjected into the silence.

“I arranged for a masseuse to come in, along with some people trained in acupuncture.” Suna finally leaned back in his chair and looked at her. Y/n’s eyebrows scrunched. “I know last night was hard for you.” Well that’s… thoughtful.

“Why did you kill that guy? I thought you said you would let him go?”

“My responsibilities require me to do some terrible things, sometimes.”

“But, did you have to kill him?” Y/n allowed some tears to slip past her lashes again. “There was no other way to do it?”

Suna’s voice became stern, and he leaned forward to grab her chin gently. His olive-green fox eyes stared at her with intensity.

“No. Komori had made his choices, and I had to make mine. I don’t expect you to understand, but I do need you to remember that I am not a good guy.” Y/n eyes dropped to his wrist, tattoos peeking out of his sleeve.

“I have been lenient about you asking questions. All I ask now is that you save them for when we are alone. I don’t want to have to reprimand you in front of my men, understand?” Suna asked softly. Y/n nodded, and he released her chin, sitting back in his chair.

They finished breakfast and Suna ushered her into the elevator. They made their way down to her apartment and when the doors slid open, Y/n gasped. The open areas had been transformed into a resort style spa; a massage table was arranged with countless bottles of oils and fragrances. There was a small area set up for an old woman to play calming music on bowls and bells. Flowers adorned every clean surface. Y/n stepped out and a man walked around the corner to hand her another robe, this one soft and fuzzy. She turned to look back at Suna who was still in the elevator, leaning against the doors to keep them open.

“Take the day to relax, bunny. I have some business to handle today, but I’ll be back tonight.” With that, he stepped back, and the doors swallowed his figure.

Taglist: @ur-moms-car @gojoscumslut​ @szoluvr @honey4ven @ntimacy @sleepisfortheweakpooh

[ellsbclls]

White Winged Dove

warnings ➛ COUNTRY!TOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MY BELOVED!!!!!!!! smut, baby! (PLEASE do not interact if you are a minor), hurt/comfort, minor angst, happy ending: guaranteed!, a handful of swear words, and y/n has no choice but to have a country accent, i don’t make the rules here. extended warnings will be under the cut!

word count ➛ 9.5K

authors note ➛ i saw that gifset of tom taking a shower in cherry and my brain short circuited, so here! have a cupcake!

synopsis ➛ Tom feels like his world is falling apart, so he turns to you, the only person that reminds him of home.

extended warnings ➛ nsfw, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected f/m intercourse (please practice safe sex, kiddos! wrap it before you whack it!), a tiny tiny tiny sliver of blood!play if you squint with one eye closed.

You remember the night in waves, docile, fleeting waves that tease the rim of your consciousness before reeling back. Golden whiskey licks at the seam of your lips with each pass of the bottle, and the pond is glittering beneath the blinking trails of all the lightning bugs — tens of hundreds of fireflies, dancing in the night’s misty skyglow, rivaling the pale moonlight.

You remember the night in waves, but he is a mighty current.

You can’t scrub the memory of him from your mind, that bleak, hopeless expression that hollowed out his features. You remember how your heart split into a million little shards the second it appeared, and just when you thought there was nothing left to break, his fragile voice pleaded for you to take him somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far.

By the time the sun spilled past your window pane, you were nothing but a drowsy amalgamation of lithe limbs, coated in morning glow as it spilled through the glass.

But behind your eyelids lives an imprint of the night before — a shimmering reflection of the night sky, and the moments that unraveled beneath its sweeping gaze.

9:17PM — You’re belting into your hairbrush, not a care in the world, and pouring your heart and soul out to a crowd of none. Somewhere between all of your clumsy twirls and impromptu choreography, you stumble over the shoebox that was poking out from under your bed, and a flurry of damp tresses and musical giggles fan across your comforter.

The walls in your house have always been notoriously thin, but what could you possibly expect from the weathered planks of wood paneling that lined your bedroom? You could hear your father’s creaky footsteps whenever he ransacked the fridge for leftovers in the dead of night, and the heavy thump of laundry that your mother would throw down to the basement, but once your radio crackles to life, and Stevie’s enchanting croon permeates the air, all those subtle nuances fades to a dull, lifeless roar.

With each passing note, the white winged dove becomes you, and you soar above endless miles of  Mississippi wood. There’s not a soul that can drag you back to the outskirts of town, force you to confront what may become of you when you land, there’s no room for trepidation where you go. There, in your own little corner of the woods, it’s just you, Stevie Nicks, and the moon.

And, technically, Thomas.

Minutes have gone by, you still can’t find the strength, nor the energy, to lift yourself up, and as your downy blankets hug your tired frame, you remain blissfully ignorant of your peeping tom.

Thomas, affectionately penned Tommy, has been your best friend, your confidante, since the very first day of kindergarten. You had pulled a pack of scented markers from your tiny, pink barbie backpack during free time, and he had pulled out the empty seat beside you, plucking, sniffing, and ultimately discarding each and every pen until the box was empty. When you asked him which one was his favorite, he asked you the very same in response, just so you’d “coincidentally” have a shared affinity for coconuts. He was oddly endearing, which is a trait that’s always stuck with him. So, even at a young age, you never wondered if he was just using you for your nice possessions, or trying to take advantage of your courtesy — he always offered himself to you at face value, and you never stopped taking as much of him as you could get.

Had you been aware that your childhood friend was waiting expectantly at your window, you may have handled your alone time with a tad more discretion — but you weren’t, and each act of your private concert forces him into an even harder position. To what extent does he let you embarrass yourself before he makes his presence known, and for how long will you bury your head in the sand before the embarrassment mulls over? He sees your stage dive as a golden opportunity, and seizes it before you begin to stir.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three short, mild raps, uttered in quick succession, jostle you from your lavish daydreams like a bucket of ice water, and you have to squint just to make out his fair features amidst all the darkness shrouding them.

“Tommy?” A flash of his soft, earthy hues tame the wild drum of your heart, confirming your suspicions, and you fight the urge to chuckle when he innocently waves at you.

“Well don’t get all shy on me now. Come in.” You open the window just enough for him to slip through its frame, allowing your eyes to graze the sculpted plains of his back, and admire, albeit shamelessly, how his muscles ripple beneath his fitted t-shirt.

Yet, there’s something about him being in your room, towering over fixtures that once towered over him, that makes you feel uneasy. A part of you adores the way he instantly makes himself at home, but the remainder is doused in fear, fretting over his wandering hands and what they may discover, surveying little trinkets and souvenirs that decorate your desk.

“Hasn’t changed much since the last time I was in here, has it?” He notes, absentmindedly shaking the contents of a snowglobe your grandma brought you from New York, a miniature skyline of Manhattan continuously buried in a flurry of snow. Most of your playdates took place in his house, so as your friendship flourished past elementary school, and the time that spanned between your meetings grew shorter and shorter, you’d found yourselves frequenting his home for all of your endeavors. It was just easier that way.

That’s the sole reason you rarely visited your room. It surely wasn’t the suffocating atmosphere that plagued your home, or your hormonal, angst ridden brain convincing you that you’d scare him to the high heavens if he caught a glimpse of your relationship with your family — how dismal it is. How you build entire worlds, cycle through dozens of bountiful lives, in the luxury of your mind in hopes of retreating.

You’d be lying if you said the poster of Zac Efron, now lurking precariously behind his shoulder, wasn’t a glaring reason as well.

“Yeah, couple things here and there, but it’s pretty much the same.” You try to be discreet as you wander around your own room, Destination: Tiger Beat. Once you reach it, you rise up on your tiptoes to cover as much of the poster as humanly possible, but scramble for an excuse once you notice him turning. “You actually left something the last time you were here. It’s on the top shelf.”

RIP! The poster is crumpled in your grasp no sooner than his back turns to you. You’d have to give a formal apology to your wildcat once you were left to your own devices, but until then, he was banished to the most unsuspecting corner of your room.

“Jesus Christ Y/N,” His thumb fondly strokes a small, yellowed testament to your friendship, a weathered page of loose leaf etched in awry plumes of ink that perfectly encapsulate his very essence — egregiously passionate, regardless of the outcome. He had written it when he was about seven, intending to give it to the “girl of his dreams” once he met her. You can still hear his sweet, little voice echo between your ears, endearingly mistaking his r’s for w’s. “You kept this?”

“Of course I did.“ Candor coats your tongue before you catch yourself, the tail end of your answer turning to dust as soon as it hits the air. You can’t bring yourself to admit just how many restless nights you’ve allowed yourself to clamber up that oak dresser, just to read that letter over, and over, and over again, praying that if you had stared at it for long enough, his messy scrawl would transform into the words you yearned for most — that it was meant for you, that he’s loved you from the very start. “Wasn’t sure if you were planning to repurpose it for some other lucky gal.”

You lock eyes with him for the first time since he appeared at your window, and stowed beneath his reservation are faint embers of warmth, kindling behind ebony curtains as you indulge in the hearth of his gaze. Lifetimes seemingly pass before his eyes are flickering back down to his hands, and it prompts you to offer him the note. “You can have it back.”

“No, you keep it.” Your brows pinch together, and a thousand questions collect on the tip of your tongue. You wonder if he recalls the same memory you do, if he remembers the significance buried in that little scrap of paper, but ultimately choose not to dwell on it. He knows just how much you love to collect memorabilia — keep cherished memories stowed away for safekeeping — he’s just being thoughtful. “Consider it undeniable proof that I know how to read and write.”

“Ain’t nothin’ in here about knowing how to read.” You tease, catching your tongue between your canines as a smirk conquers your lips.

“Ya got me,” He chuckles, smile reaching for, but never quite meeting, his faraway stare. You are so accustomed to his teasing quips, his usual flair for the dramatics, that this half-hearted attempt at replicating it fills you with discomfort. He tries to punctuate his words by tossing his arms to the sky, but they don’t reach high enough to convince you that he’s okay. Something is plaguing him, and you won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“Tommy,” His name is sweet on your tongue, all honeyed vowels and soft, descant consonants that command his attention. “What’s wrong?”

“No, nothin’, I just-“ he’s avoiding your eyes, which is a clever strategy on his part. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then his are a stained glass mosaic, a vibrant display of all his emotions, and you — you are but an avid observer.

“Hey, look at me,” Two slender digits underline the curve of his jaw, and with a firm grasp of his chin, leave him no choice but to meet your gaze, tender and resolute all the same. “ You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not ready, but I can tell when someone’s been rode hard and put away wet.”

“I just, I need to get out of here, and I thought I’d ask my favorite distraction to accompany me.” He stumbles over his words, faltering over his messy façade, but you’d rather this over nothing at all.

“And where might we be goin’?” You query. You can tell that this is going to be a long night, but luckily for him, you don’t have any plans that can’t be rescheduled. Your adoring fans will just have to wait another night.

“Somewhere… Anywhere,” He murmurs hopefully, and your heart nearly sinks to the floor. You’ve never seen such a chasm of joy, not in those bright, amber orbs you study so adamantly. You’d almost deem it pain, whatever’s tugging at the frame of his optics, whatever’s depriving them of that usual, warm glow. “as long as it’s far from here.”

9:39PM — “Watch your step.”

“Can you help me?” You whine — one hand reaching out for his assistance, the other firmly clasped around a bottle of Jack Daniels. There is an awkward incline just below you, only a few inches off the ground, but tall enough to make you stumble, and he could already see you bumping your knees on the way down, so he offers his elbow as a point of leverage.

“Atta girl, you’ve got it.” He coos, reluctantly abandoning your grip once you’re safely on the ground.

Mystical, and buzzing with life, you introduce him to the farthest corner of the woodlands. Whenever the walls of your room become suffocating, your legs always give out right about here. 

Your secret hideaway. 

Where you let your most worrisome thoughts roam free, and when those thoughts seemingly wander into nothingness, you chalk it up to wishful thinking, and fail to realize that they haven’t disappeared, they just don’t belong to you anymore. They belong to the babbling brook, constantly replenishing itself and its inhabitants with fresh, spring water, belong to the frogs and crickets as they fill the night with their moonlit ballad, they belong to the night, and it’s reflection, as it wades across the face of the creek; dotted with lightning bugs or the cosmos themself, you weren’t sure. All you know is that you always returned, as if a piece of you was tethered to the very spot.

“Where are we?” He wonders aloud, raking his fingers through his downy, chestnut locks as he explores his surroundings.

“I don’t exactly know.” You confess, making yourself comfortable on the ground. Most nights, you slip off your shoes and sink your feet into the brook, but you know Tom like the back of your hand, know what kind of ideas might venture through that rascally mind of his when he spots you near the water. So, you play it safe, pulling your knees up to your chest as you peer up at him from a safe distance. “It’s nice, though. Quiet. Good place to let your thoughts wander.”

“You ever take a dip in here?” Predictable. You stifle the urge to laugh at his query, sinking ivory veneers into your pillowy bottom lip, and shake your head in response.  “Hell, if I were you, with my own nature-made swimmin’ pool, I’d bring all the boys around.”

“You know I don’t waste my time with no silly boys.” You sigh, sending him a wistful glare. 

“You sure about that?” He counters, mimicking your perked brow with eerie precision.

“Oh, I’m sure.” You huff. God doesn’t build boys the same way he built him, he took his time crafting that statuesque frame, implemented hawk-eyed precision for each and every beguiling detail you’ve come to adore. He is a man, tried and true, from his sharp, angular structure to the neverending bounds of his heart, but rather than inflate his ego moreso, you let him assume the worst. “You can take a dip if you want, though. I wouldn’t mind.”

You wonder if he can tell just how little you’d mind as a mischievous glint highlights his amber hues, but before he can even open his mouth, you’ve already pinpointed the source of his glower, already voicing your adamant refusal. “No, absolutely not. Not a chance, Tommy.”

“But why not?” He whines, bellowing over your feeble chant, conjuring the most convincing set of pleading eyes he can muster. “It’s dark, it’s humid, and ain’t no one around to tell us not to.”

“Sounds like all the more reason to not do that.” You scoff, scooting further away from him and the strength of his hopeful gaze.

“I hate to pull out the big guns, but... what if I told you that it’d make me feel so much better if you accompanied me?” You’re left to wonder what the big guns are supposed to be, if they aren’t the way he is encroaching on your personal space, crawling up the length of your legs until there is only a sliver of space between you. 

“I’d remind you that there are much drier ways to make you feel better.” You could feel your warm breath fanning across his lips, distracting you with the scent of minty toothpaste and your vanilla chapstick, ultimately failing to notice his hands, and how they’re positioned just below your waist.

It would only take one swift move to reach the small of your back, two to scoop you up in his arms, and about six more to drag you into the pond — kicking and screaming, but successfully so.

And he doesn’t chance it.

SPLASH! You’re no sooner submerged in the brooks’ murky depths, reaching out for lily pads and cattails that fail to provide you leverage, and your screams bubble into thick, smothered embers of a once irate flame. He better pray you never emerge from usunder, because he’s merely a howl away from being swept up in the tide — the tide being your arms as they force him to the bottom of the crick.

“Y/N,” your name scrambles between the slosh of the water and the pounding in your ears, but you manage to break the surface and blink spare drops of water from your eyes.

“I was drowning!’ You gasp, struggling to keep your head above water as you kick, and splash, and writhe around in the stygian abyss.

“In two feet of water? I beg to differ.” You can barely make out his comeback over his fit of giggles, but a part of you would rather this bright, teasing version of himself that what you’ve been dreading beforehand. Taking his outstretched hand, you stumble to your feet and, much to your dismay, find yourself standing in about two feet of water (which, in your defense, is a far more daunting threat to someone your size as opposed to his). You cool his inflating ego with a cold splash of water, dispersing tiny droplets from your fingers as they wave in front of his face.

You splash around in the water for what feels like forever, transforming stray lily pads into makeshift hats, dressing to the nines in the latest collection of aquatic couture, and as the moon casts a pale spotlight on the babbling brook, you occupy it’s centre, huddled in one another’s embrace, swaying back and forth amidst the shallow pools.

10:02 — You're still wet.

Drenched, really.

You’ve resorted to wringing out your hair with your bare hands, twisting the dampened locks between your fists until water pours from the follicles. You’d never once pondered the benefits of freshwater landings, but you were about to find out. A glare threatened to slice through the air, but immediately wavered at the sight of him — desolate, void, so lost in his thoughts that you’d wondered if he were even there.

God, you’re worried sick. You’ve dealt with bouts of sadness, sprinkles of melancholy, but this was downright depressing. You wouldn’t even know what to do if you tried, and that’s what worried you the most.

Thomas, your best friend, your crush, your light — the best parts of you all wrapped up in a clumsy little package while the best parts of him threaten to snatch up your heart, as if it wasn’t already his.

“Tommy?” You break him out of his reverie, but press on, scooching closer to his form, dangerously standoffish, like an uncaged animal winding up to attack, until you cross the threshold into his personal space. With a sturdy hold on his bicep, he melts into the palm of your hand, practically leaning all of his weight into you, stealing a reprieve you didn’t know he needed. “You can talk to me, y’know. It’s just us.”

“She left, Y/N.” The evening air seems still, in perfect tandem with your breath as you fear what might come out once you finally exhale. You know he’d shove all of his feelings down if he caught you shedding a single tear, and this isn’t about you, it never has been. So you hold your breath, latching onto the heavy silence that follows his confession, and pray that your chest is strong enough to smother the sob bubbling beneath its surface.

Fortunately, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. “The closet was empty, and all her cookbooks were gone. I looked downstairs and there was nothin’ there.” You don’t know if he’s finished, watching as he toys with a loose string on his jeans, but he breaks his own silence with a newfound waver in his voice.  “I had a feelin’ she was ‘bout to leave, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon. I thought I had a lil’ bit more time to say goodbye.”

Edie was a good mother, the best of mothers, and never had she drawn a line when it came to who she nurtured. When you were little kids, you’d race each other to his house once the school bell rang, tiny little bodies weaving through the stalks of corn that prefaced the farm. She would follow the shuffling crops with a heavy eye, leading you to the porch with her raspy, whimsical chime, and crouch down to envelop the both of you in a tight hug when you emerged. She was the best of mothers.

But she wasn’t the best of wives. You were both far too young to notice the signs — the nights where you found her sound asleep on the sofa by her own volition, the packed suitcase that hid underneath the stairwell to the basement, the hesitance that laced her tone when she said I love you to his father — and something tells you she wanted to keep it that way. 

Her son didn’t need to worry about his parents, and how fast they were falling out of love, and whether they really loved each other in the first place. Her son just needed to be a kid, and that is a belief she devoted the best years of her life to.

But he isn’t a kid anymore.

That’s why she fled in the middle of night, leaving nothing but a ruby encrusted ring on his dresser — her class ring. The same one he’d snatch from her jewelry box whenever she wasn’t looking. The same one he used to propose to you at the wee age of four, promising you as much of the world as a toddler could imagine.

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as he recounts every detail, and every fiber of your being yearns to just schoop him up in your arms, hold all his broken pieces together with the strongest embrace you can muster. He doesn’t deserve that type of pain, shouldn’t have to relive it, and yet he takes it upon himself to tell you everything, to relive it for your own selfish gain.

You grow envious of the way the moon trails kisses down the slope of his nose, across the high rise of his cheeks, and over the swell of his bottom lip. There were times where you’d find traces of his mother in Tom’s features, lining the curve of his warm smile or, when the sun hit them just right, speckling his earthy hues with tiny rods of gold. Tonight, he is shrouded in a celestial spotlight, mesmerized by its waning body, and if you squint just enough, you’ll find her longing stare hidden beneath his own.

“And the worst part is that I ain’t even mad at her. Not even a lil’ bit.” He concludes, talking more to the sky than to you. “Not even at all.” When his gaze falls back to you, you can only try to cover up the betrayal, wipe the back of your arm across your tear-stained cheeks before he notices they’re even misty.

You inevitably fail, expelling a wistful sigh as he pulls you into his side, comfortingly running his hand over your bicep as he murmurs sweet nothings into the night.

“I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t want you to find out like this,” You furrow your brows, and wonder just how he would want to break the news to you. Would he let you find out for yourself, or would he bring you out to the plantation, and let you sink into the soil until the news began to blossom in the fields? Would they be cornstalks? And would they reach for the sky just like her?  “I didn’t wanna make you cry, but... I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay.” Your voice is a wash of dulcet tones, fingers soothingly raking through his damp tendrils in a silent bid to comfort him. “It’s okay, I’m a big girl. I can take it.” You’re quick to clamber to your knees, wrapping him up in an airtight embrace, keeping him from wallowing into a puddle of tears. “I’m right here, Tommy.”

“I know,” he sputters, with an edge of sorrow to his tone.

“I’m right here, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You promise.

“Don’t say that” He whispers, and shatters any trace of consolation looming over the encounter. Your brow furrows, your heart pounds against your chest, and for a fleeting second, you feel like you're caught in a lie. What if he knows? What if he can tell just how much you’d surrender to be with him? What if he doesn’t want it?  

“Why not?” You’re near hysterics, praying that the intensity in your eyes makes up for the tremor in your voice. “Why not? I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.” 

“I just don’t want you to make a promise you can’t keep, Y/N.” That sullen gaze resurfaces, chills the air with it’s haunting presence — that hollow stare which fosters the remnants of a bright, contagious joy, and carves a pit, just as empty, in the well of your stomach, one that aches to be satiated. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but his palm lingers against your cheek, trying to smooth out the heavy creases in your expression with the gentle stroke of his thumb.  “Hell, I don’t want you to promise that in the first place. You deserve more than all this, you deserve the best this life has to offer you, and I’m not gonna keep you from all o’ that.”

You’ve lost track of your heart long ago, it’s dizzying tempo rivaling a hummingbird, nearly undetectable as it flitted uncontrollably, knocking against your ribs until its ultimate descent to the pit of your stomach. 

You pray that he can one day see everything that you see in him, that loving himself is as easy for him as it is for you; you hope that there is a life where he never has to feel as small, or inconvenient, as he confessed, and you wish that this would eventually be that life.

You decide that it’s time to put an end to wishful thinking. 

“Let me make something clear to you, Thomas.” You cup his jaw, firmly, and utter each word without a trace of uncertainty. “I’m not sure exactly what I want from life yet. I don’t know if I wanna spend the rest of it in this little ol’ town, or just pack my things and go as far as the wind will take me. I couldn’t tell you if I tried, but… that’s okay.” Slowly but surely, your lips give way to a sheepish grin, feeling lighter, freer, the further into your declaration. “It’s okay, because there’s one thing that’s for certain, and it’s that I’m all yours. It don’t matter how far I go, I’m always gonna come home to you.”

The silence is deafening. 

All your emotions hang in the air, crippling your air supply with insurmountable regret. But his gaze is what terrifies you the most; just as suffocating, but in a way that sweeps the air from your lungs. You knew that there would always come a time where all the unrequited feelings you’ve harbored would finally boil to the surface, fueled by the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as one sided as you thought; but under the void of his empty gaze, you wonder if you’d made a huge mistake. 

Or maybe there really is nothing — nothing to reciprocate, nothing to subdue you, nothing to salvage what little remained of your friendship after such a loaded confession — and so you scramble to assemble an apology convincing enough to overshadow your lapse in judgement.

But he doesn’t even spare you the chance, swallowing your half-hearted excuses with the firm press of his lips, pouring a lifetime of ardent desire, of longing, into the hollow of your mouth. It’s crystal clear that you’re his, the realization comes borderline cathartic. There has never been a day where your heart has not beat for him, and only him, forever threatening to spring from your chest and return to its rightful owner. The days, the months, the years of back and forth felt like a cruel jest from the fates, but now you were here, bundled in the warmth of his strong embrace, tongues curling against one another in an endless battle for dominance, and you would endure it all over again if this was where it lead

He searches for some sign of absolution, paws up and down your back in hopes of grounding himself, and you reverently provide, mustering what little strength you have left to crawl into his lap, brushing against the growing bulge in his jeans without a trace of subtlety, offering him the most sacred parts of you in hopes of bringing him home.

“Y/N,” he sighs raggedly, a half hearted attempt to gain your attention, one that proves unsuccessful as his pleas whittle into a frail, insipid shadow of what they could be. You’re too busy acquainting yourself with the plains of his body, embedding a trail of deep red marks into the column of his neck as your hands slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt. He’s built like a greek statue, you don’t even need to discard his shirt to indulge in the taut muscles tensing beneath your fingertips. “Y/N, darlin’, wait.” He interrupts your greedy ministrations by fastening his digits around your wrists. This is the point of no return, you can feel the fragile divide between friends and lovers, splintering beneath the weight of your heart, and yet you fail to concern yourself.

His digits are free to roam the high plains of your cheeks, pioneering the flushed expanse with beacons of soft, arching butterfly kisses until there’s no skin to cover, ultimately pressing his forehead against yours. ”You don’t- I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do.” Seems almost redundant, you muse, to wonder if you want him when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’d follow him to the ends of the earth. You are a pillar of salt, and as he showers you in a knee buckling torrent of kisses, you melt into the palm of his hands. If the way you’re draped against his form isn’t evidence enough, then the wetness pooling between your thighs most certainly will be, he’ll come across that confirmation once he tends to the spot you need him most.

You trace the cleft of his chin in delicate pursuit, whining as he tears his lips from their languid path, and peer through your inky lashes to meet his gaze once more. “I want this, Tom. I want you.”

“You have me. I’m all yours.” He echoes your words back to you, reverently, delivering a sacred vow from the hearth of your soul, ove you have, and will continue to, dedicate your humble living to, and you seal that promise with a bruising kiss. 

The weight of his palm melts into the small of your back, pulling your chest flush against his own as it sweeps up your spine, and you moan against his lips when your nipples press up against his sturdy chest, aching to be freed as they strain against their gossamer confines. 

You’ve only had the pleasure of making out with Tom for less than five minutes, but you can already tell that it ranks high on your list of favorite pastimes. Soft, pink petals brush against your own like they’re a flourishing canvas, and he’s trying to even out the brushstrokes, but all he leaves is a scorching flush in his wake, and your clothing, despite being bathed in pond water, do little to ease the blistering heat. It’s suffocating you, and you begrudgingly tear yourself away so that you can rid yourself of the article.

Besides, the less fabric separating you from his anchoring, toned embrace, the better.

“I’m all dirty,” Your meek voice collapses into a fit of giggles, and your feeble attempt to wring out your clothes is thwarted by his hands, venturing up, up, up, and under the hem of your skirt at a teasing pace, savoring the feeling of your warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips. You can tell he’s as desperate as you are, confronted with acres of new terrain to explore, and only so little of his patience to spare.

“I know, I’m sorry angel.” His voice is soft, and soothing, and riddled with mischief. Even if there is even an ounce of truth in his apology, you can still make out the devilish grin that toys at the corner of his mouth. “May I, m’lady?” He croons teasingly, flashing those whiskey glazed hues in a way that you could never refuse. 

“Proceed, good sir.” You counter in the most refined timbre you can dictate, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he bunches the hem of your dress in his palms, hoisting it over your head to expose the breathtaking contours and curves of your body. You can’t remember what compelled you to forego your bra, but the thought is soon pushed to the corner of your mind, making room for the warm, fuzzy feeling that conquers your insides when Tom lays his eyes on you, bared to him and only him. His gaze alone makes you feel like you are a spectacle to behold, the most enchanting vision to ever cross his line of sight. If there was even a speck of insecurity buried deep in the back of your mind, the sight of Tom’s eyes, blown wide with adoration as they worship every sinful inch of your skin, instantly quells those fears. 

He struggles to find his words, to occupy this infinite silence with anything, everything, as his calloused palms caress the sides of your waist, but all he can manage is a husky growl. One that prefaces the reappearance of his tongue, and its feverish descent from the column of your neck to the tops of your breasts, bathing your skin with gluttonous, broad strokes, and coaxing pretty, little whines from the back of your throat.

There is something so unhinged in his actions, so carnal, it summons another wave of arousal to pool against your soiled panties, knowing you have such a strong clutch on his resolve. Though, another branch of your mind races at a mile a minute, consumed by the endless possibilities that come equipped with Tom’s skill. 

You try not to dwell on the little flings that came before you, especially now, in the afterglow of your confession. The taunting, pitious gazes you shared with his hookups in the hallowed halls of your alma mater, toting a reminder that they could indulge in everything you yearned for, scorched you more than the thought of the act itself — but the rumors were just plain inescapable. If even a fraction of them hold a candle to the truth, then you are in for one hell of a night.

“You’re just as sweet as I imagined, angel.” Angel. The nickname sends sparks flying in the well of your stomach. “Can’t wait to taste that perfect little pussy. Just know it’s gonna be even sweeter when you cum all over my fingers.”

You whine softly at his words, but clench hard around nothing, aching to be filled by those unbearably long, slender digits. Nothing could have prepared you for the scene unraveling below you — his lips latched around the stiff peak of your nipple, a husky groan reverberating around the pebbled surface, and head slightly moving against the palm of your hand as your fingers tug at his chestnut locks. The long, covetous laps of his tongue mingling with the vibrations of his contented little hums make you desperate for more, arching, writhing, trembling against him in hopes of finding a semblance of relief for the ache between your thighs.

“Tommy, please.” You plead in the most convincing, fucked out tone you can muster, but he doesn’t budge, showering your other bud with a flurry of quick, relentless kitten licks. Even mother nature joins in his relentless teasing, making you squirm as the gentle breeze blows cool, summer air against the glistening bud.

This is torture, a blissful, euphoric form of torture that, despite your irritability, you would surrender to time and time again. But you fail to notice just how hard your canines puncture the swell of your bottom lip, too immersed in the stroke of his tongue, in the ghost of pleasure that stirs in the pit of your stomach each time you rut against his clothed cock. A sharp, metallic tang seeps into your mouth, hitting the tip of your tongue and forcing a trembling whimper to the front of your mouth.

The pitiful sound piques Tom’s interest, and before you can wipe the blood from your lip, your face is already cradled between his palms. “Fuck, Y/N, look at you,” His eye were wide with concern, and your heart sputters over the blistering scorch of need his compassion arises in you. “C’mere.” Dropping his forehead against your own, his tongue tentatively brushes the curve of your lips, lapping up every last drop of blood that is smeared against it. He applies pressure to the wound, cauterizes it with a searing dance of bloodstained brims, as his one hand weaves into your damp locks. You barely know how to respond, but your body compensates with an untapped sense of hunger, scraping your teeth against his lower lip as you desperately claw at the toned valley of his back.

“Please, Tommy, please. I’m dripping.” You mewl, teetering over the perilous edge of delusion, foraging between your stomachs in search of his free hand. Yet another wave of arousal pools between your thighs at the sight of him, with his puffy, saliva stained lips slightly parted, and his eyes blown wide with the insatiable need to indulge himself, to spoil you. Once your fingers circle around his wrist, you guide his hand to the apex of your thighs and urge him to feel for himself, applying the lightest of pressure against his fingers, urging him to caress your tender lips through the sodden barrier of your panties. To feel what he’s done to you. “You feel that? It’s all for you.”

“All for me,” he echoes back, mesmerized, cognac hues fading into obsidian orbs as he rubs deliberately teasing circles over your covered clit. “And you ask oh so pretty. Let me take care of you, my pretty girl.” Before you even get the chance to reply, he’s pushing your panties to the side, dipping the pad of his middle finger between your silky folds — feeling, exploring, acquainting himself with the tight ring of muscle that he plans on stretching open. 

His hesitation is nothing more than a plight at this point, you are more than willing to take anything he has to offer, and he can gather that much from the wild gleam in your eyes, so he slowly works one finger into your snug, velvety walls and curses under his breath at how heavenly you feel. You’re unlike anything he’s had before, far exceeding the lengths of his imagination as you softly clench around his digit, and it only takes a few seconds to adjust to the lithe intrusion, your walls already twitching against his shallow, testing thrusts, before he adds another.

“So fuckin’ perfect, darlin’. Love the way your pretty little cunt takes me.” A thin sheen of sweat coats your forehead as he rocks his digits at a leisurely pace. Tom is obsessed with the tiny frown forming between your brows, almost like you’re confused by the amount of pleasure building between your legs, struggling to keep your eyes open, your juices spilling past your opening to trickle down the palm of his hand. To say your experience is limited is a bit of an understatement — the whopping two men you’ve slept with prior were merely amateurs in comparison to your lover. Even if there was enough air in your lungs to articulate it, you don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve never been fingerfucked. Period. The embarrassment almost swallows you whole.

But even without anything to compare it to, you’re convinced that you’re receiving the upper echelon of experiences.

As his pace quickens, prodding against your pulsing walls with an onslaught of keen, ravaging thrusts, you’re too busy gasping for air to notice how he’s switched his angle. Now the heel of his hand is rubbing against your bundle of nerves with each stroke, applying just enough pressure to light a spark without ever setting you off, and as the pads of his fingers pound against your sweet spot, you are reduced to a limbless puddle in his hands, doused in an ethereal glow that only he could surface. “God, Y/N, you look like an angel. My pretty little angel— ‘bout to cum all over my fingers.” he panted, voice biting the air with a wolfish gleam, canines peaking past his thin lips.

“Tommy, I’m so close.” You aren’t sure if you can hold on for much longer, dangling on the coattails of insurmountable bliss, finding a new reason to fall apart with each lewd kiss or sharp thrust. Your orgasm is already creeping up, threatening to crash over you each time he plunges into your slick heat, but you know that you want to feel him — all of him — stretching you to unimaginable lengths as he sinks into your tight little hole for the first time. “I wanna feel you. I wanna- I need to cum on your cock.”

Tom’s brows meet in the middle, and you wonder if you’ve strewn too far, surrendered the remainder of your common sense to lust and her shameless palms. “Such a filthy little mouth for such a good girl.” He whispers, wondering aloud, his free hand abandoning the nape of your neck to cup your jaw as his thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to drag it down before letting it spring back to its pouty default. “You will, angel, you will, but I gotta get you ready first.” He reassures you, and you remember just how prominent his length is, straining against the denim cage of his jeans, and attribute his wavering tone to the sheer restraint he’s been exhibiting. But you have to admit — if his fingers are only a fraction of his length, then you are not sure just how much of him you’ll be able to handle. The thought sends you barrelling toward your climax, but not without the help of his thumb, pressing up to rub fervent, clumsy circles against your clit, his husky tenor cooing sweet words of encouragement into the space just below your ear. “I can feel you, angel, let go for me. I’ve got you.”

With one final thrust, he buries his fingers to the hilt, caressing your g-spot with a tentative come hither motion, until you are ridden with overwhelming waves of pleasure. All you can feel are your tender walls tightening around his fingers, and your thighs starting to tremble under the weight of your high. But he is spellbound, mesmerized by the swirling vision of you at your most content, eyelids hanging low over your blown out hues, your hips absentmindedly grinding against his hand, meeting his timid rhythm as he tries to work you through your aftershocks.

Emptiness soon replaces the stretch of his fingers once he slips them out, but a twitch of excitement follows the path of his slick hand, and you can’t stop from outright moaning at his shameless display.

“Just what I thought,” he murmurs. You are too captivated by the sight of his lips — pink, and kiss-weathered, and frankly obscene —  opening wide to welcome his slick fingers, gracing his taste buds with your juices, and humming around them as they coat his tongue in an intoxicating elixir . “Open up, pretty girl,” You‘re torn from your trance by the pressure of his digits, knocking against your bottom lip, begging for entry. “Come taste how sweet you are.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you graciously welcome his fingers, putting on a show as you swirl your tongue between the two digits, moaning softly as the bittersweet taste that hits your tastebuds. You aren’t prepared for the shallow, tentative thrust of his digits, or how he starts up a slow, steady rhythm against the back of your tongue — but god do you welcome it, softly gagging with each steady downstroke, spit already dribbling down your chin as you try to keep up with his quickening pace.

“Atta girl, that’s it.” He offers you a ginger smile, one that makes the tears pooling in your eyes worth gagging for. “Good girl. Good, good girl. I wish you could see how pretty you look.”

You try to reply over his digits, but your words are muffled and faint as they thud against the wall of your lips. Luckily, he’s coherent enough to notice that you’d like to speak — and who is he to stifle that sweet little voice of yours? “Thank you,” you pant, fluttering your tear-stained lashes up at him as you clamber to fill your lungs, disputing your feverish pleas as you wriggle away from the outline of his cock. The sensation of his waterlogged jeans rubbing against your sensitive bundle of nerves has you keening over him, pushing you further from his crotch, and closer to his embrace, back arched with a near-feline agility.

“Can I?” you ask, kneading your palms over his thighs, feigning innocence as you inch closer and closer to his zipper with each upstroke, and he nods, granting you permission to free him from his denim confines. In one fluid motion, your one hand unzips his fly as the other helps him kick off the remainder of his offending items, and you have to resist the urge to drool at the sight of his cock springing from his boxers, let alone his sinfully perfect, exposed form.

He’s a little bit larger than you expected — what he lacks in length, he makes up in girth, but there isn’t much to make up for in the first place. His shaft is decorated with pretty, ivory veins, ones that would no doubt twitch beneath the hot, heavy weight of your tongue, and the crown of his cock is flushed, glistening with a thin sheen of precum that makes your mouth feel conveniently dry. Your walls twitch at the disheartening reminder of your emptiness, but all out spasm as his fingers eclipse the circumference of his cock, using your juices to leisurely pump himself.

“You’re so pretty.” You sigh, a flurry of giggles floating beneath your words as you reach out to touch him, hovering just above the tip in order to send him a cautionary glance — one he hurriedly accepts, nodding his head fervently as he stutters into his grasp. A rosy hue blooms across the valley of your cheekbones as you encircle him, covering whatever he can’t as he all but bucks into your palm. His heart strains against his chest upon the realization that his hand easily dwarfs your own, watches your smaller fingers barely curl around his engorged shaft and fights the urge to cum right then and there.

No, he needs to feel you.

“Are you sure?” He asks once more, granting you a final chance to salvage what little scraps remain of your childhood friendship, but you are already committed, determined to devour every last, glorious piece of him, to prove that he is the rightful owner of you, all of you, every shimmering shade of you.The sentiment would be almost derisive if not so loving, so noble, and yet you dismiss it with three, chaste kisses upon the outline of his profile — against his forehead, the notch on the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips, warm and inviting.

“I’m certain.” You promise, merely a breaths width away from his lips.

You have never been more certain of a decision in your life, desperate to feel him nestled deep inside you, to blur the line where he begins and you end. Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, their pressure neither here nor there as they coax a hiss out of him, and you line him up with your entrance, tossing your head back as you waste no time breaching your needy hole with the bulbous head of his cock.

It’s blindingly clear that you have been given the reins, what with Tom’s finger’s seeking refuge in the soil beneath him, a low groan rumbling beneath his chest, his eyes rapt with an unspoken urgency as they survey the spot where you connect, and you relish in your paramount. Your knees dig deeper into the ground as you lower yourself onto him, and with little resistance, your walls steadily welcome inch after inch with a searing embrace, etching every delicious ridge and vein of his length to memory until he bottoms out, and you’re left with an overwhelming sense of fullness. There is a dull pain laced in the stretch of your opening, intermingling with the remnants of your last orgasm, and as you twitch and pulse around his girth, he appears like an dream before you, sifting through a thick haze of desire, wispy curls clinging to the thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and eyes blown wide with ripples of pleasure, of lust, that long to be indulged.

Once you’ve adjusted to him, you test a few shallow, tentative rolls of your hips, lifting yourself off the tiniest bit before filling yourself up again. He just feels so perfect, like god spent a little extra time molding him just for you, rubbing against parts of you that have never known such ecstasy until now, and you struggle to find a rhythm amidst all these new, dizzying sensations. “Poor little thing, you’re so worked up, you barely know how to take my cock.” It’s funny, how he can make such degrading words sound so sympathetic, and regardless, your body responds long before your brain can register, wildly spasming around his cock. It doesn’t take long for his fingers to return, digging into the curve of your hips to assist you, working you over his length in long, plundering strokes that steal the air from your lungs. “That feel better, angel?”

“Mhmm,” you shakily nod your head, fingers finding purchase in the broad expanse of his shoulders as you dig your nails into the freckled expanse, flooding his senses with the weak little uh, uh, uh’s tumbling from your lips each time you’re impaled on his cock. If he could lap up every hitch of your breath, every wayward sigh, he’d be drunk off the height of your unbridled joy. Hell, he can barely sustain himself as is, ravenously lapping up the beads of sweat clinging to your temple, swirling his tongue around your earlobe in its descent. Yes, yes, he’s swept up in sultry waves of you, and as your pelvis kisses his, as the air is filled with the sounds of your hips snapping against his own, he’s less and less concerned about emerging from your enchanting depths. “You got another one for me, angel? I can feel you squeezing my cock, baby, I know you got another one.” He’s delirious, clawing at the altar of your hips, and nowhere near as close to finishing as you are, but god is he eager to tear another orgasm out of you.

You, on the other hand, are a furnace, taunting flames of embarrassment licking up your insides, pooling in the small of your back, racing up your cheeks, at such arduous lengths as to mix with the coil of pleasure tightening in your core. Tom seizes the opportunity to find some leverage, pulling his knees up to rest on either side of you, planting his feet on the ground so that he can thrust up into your sopping cunt at a punishing pace, and you both can already feel the tell-tale signs of your building pleasure. “It’s okay, Y/N, you can let go.” Nothing more than a faint whisper, you indulge in the way his cock massages your inner walls, how your name sounds so filthy, yet beguiling, as it slips from his slightly ajar lips, how it blends so well with the weak little moans of his own name rolling off your tongue. “Let go for me. I wanna feel that perfect little pussy cum all over me.” His hand dips between your sweat slick forms, firmly swiping his fingers over your hypersensitive bundle of nerves, turning circles into your favorite shape, and his change in position makes the crown of his cock curve into your g-spot each time he pounds into you — so your helpless to the crescendo of pleasure that washes over you. 

A broken, startled shriek tears through your lungs, and you topple over his thighs, digging crescent shaped indents into his knees as you surrender to your climax, walls fluttering and contracting over his length as he works you over the edge.

“Oh, what a good girl.” He coos encouragingly, reaching his hand out to cup the weight of your breast, swiping his thumb over your peaked bud as his pace eases up, and it isn’t until now that you realize he’s leaning back, holding himself up by his forearms while he drinks in your pleasure-ridden form. “My sweet, sweet girl.” You can tell he’s holding back by the way his hips still stutter up into your overstimulated heat, how his cheeks, his forehead, all of his features are set with a heavy flush, how you aren’t filled to the brim with his cum — and you simply won’t allow that. 

“It’s okay, Tommy.” You whisper, carefully lowering yourself until your chest is aligned with his own, sharply exhaling as you feel him push up against your tender core. Your eyes are soft, and dazed, and oh so pretty, glittering beneath a thin layer of unshed tears, but this is about him, it’s always been about him, and as his cock twitches amidst your spasming walls, you firmly believe that you can handle another orgasm if he can coax it from you.  “Keep goin’, it’s okay. I want you to fill me up. I wanna feel all of you.”

“Y/N—” His voice is stern, but your lips are fierce, stealing whatever argument may have been building in the cavern of his mouth as you weakly tilt your hips downward, offering yourself to him once more. When he muscles up enough strength to tear himself away, he only finds a bounty of understanding, of devotion, of love, teeming at the brim of your eyes, and he needs no words to indulge himself, to yield to a mesmerising whirlpool of you, you, shimmering you.

Tom wraps one arm around your back, holding you close to his chest while you scatter soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder, smoothing his palm over your damp tresses as he hoists one leg over his hip, prying your legs even further apart so he can fuck up into you — impossibly tighter, and tormentingly more responsive as he slams into your overstimulated cunt. You can feel every square inch of him now, every long sweeping vein, the tiny sliver of skin hidden beneath his tip, it’s all crystal clear as he plunges into your weepy core, and you’re so cockdrunk, so fucked out of your mind, that you don’t even notice your hips slanting down to meet his thrusts. You’re just that greedy for another orgasm, hellbent on tumbling over yet again as he fills you to the brim.

It doesn’t take long for him to work himself to that precipice once again, the coil in his stomach pulled taut with your whimpered chant of his name, with each strong pulse of your cunt tightening over him. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, stuttering into your hips with a loud, frenzied groan, and finally teeters off the edge, dragging you down with him as you sink your teeth into his shoulder blade, pumping his hot seed into you, coating your walls with hot spurts of cum as you milk him for every last drop, the crude sound of your arousal mixing with his own making you shudder.

You both lay there for a second, safe in each other’s warm embrace, basking in the aftermath of your fortuned affair, and you cowered beneath the sky and it’s constellation clad ceiling, feeling infinitesimal, but oh so contented, beneath its glorious gaze. There, wrapped up in one another, two splintered halves mending, healing, into the whole they were destined to become — the sky was but a star in comparison to your light, your bright, everlasting light.

How did we get here? You wonder. How, oh, how is he finally mine?

You follow the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the moon lounges across his curly lashes in a silver chaise — you survey him at his most vulnerable — and determine that you have more than enough time to find the answer. As long as he’s here, by your side, you don’t plan to wander too far.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! PLEASE LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT, IF YOU ENJOYED!

TAGLIST: @devotion @reawritesthings​

[dynamoe]

Another Storyline from the Conjectural Technologies Lost Years

Conjectural Technologies pitch themselves hot-shot political consultants with super science-backed election strategies to every candidate. They’re hired by an insane Texas millionaire running third party.

As their methods shockingly boost him into the lead, he reveals himself to be, not a harmless eccentric but an evil lunatic bent on world domination. By Super Tuesday, they mutiny and escape to join Deee-Lite on the MTV Rock the Vote! tour.

→ all 2022 Billy & White

Having just turned 18, 1992 is the first presidential election Billy can vote in. Being a huge dork conscientious citizen, he gets way into researching his civic duty—  delving into election probability and delegate math. He finds loopholes in the system that would guarantee a statewide win. Pete remains apolitical and indifferent until he realizes they can make money off it.

They’re in a battleground state and they’ve got an angle: Technology-driven micro-polling. Computerized strategies. Neuro-Linguistic Programming Robocalls. They pitch themselves as hot-shot consultants: political wunderkind Bill Whalen and Peter Jefferson Kennedy White, “The Facile Masshole” (who might be a Kennedy cousin).

__

Twenty minutes with a round hairbrush and a blow dryer and half a can of ozone-murdering hairspray White had pouffed his hair into a perfect power helmet with side-wings. He spritzed gray toner on the temples and edges to sell “prematurely gray” over “translucent from birth.” He shot finger guns at his reflection, “Mature Credibility!” then immediately undercut it by making a retching noise.White cracked open his make-up Caboodle on the kitchen table and began laying out pots of Ben Nye pancake. “We’re a center-right conservative district remember,” Billy stated, tapping the palette of foundations, “Think ‘Ballet Rose’ not ‘Ebony Rosewood.’” “That’s so cynical, pally.” “No one ever went broke underestimating the bigotry of the American voter," Billy sniped as he stared through a magnifier on a brochure for Harvard, picking out the arrangement of stripes on the school tie. He grabbed the closest match among his 10-ties-for-a-buck thrift store ties, before augmenting the pattern with blue Sharpie.

1992 was a weird election, with the third party candidate throwing a monkey wrench into the proceedings. It was also a heavily "youth" oriented election with Bill Clinton playing sax on The Arsenio Hall Show and doing Q&As on MTV about his underwear preference. Clinton was hailed as the first "Boomer" candidate at a time that "Boomer" meant "young" (at least young for a presidential candidate)

The episode could be done "faux documentary style, to make it even closer mirror the '92 Clinton campaign documentary The War Room (previously parodied by Documentary Now! as "The Bunker") "Political" humor bits in VB are usually the worst of the worst, but with the benefit of 30 years of hindsight we could pull this off and make this funny.

If this was a real show, I would hire Dana Carvey to play all political figures in this episode (as he did on his entire SNL tenure), most prominently the Ross Perot-inspired lunatic Texas millionaire candidate. His 1992 impression deserves another airing. (Hell, if I could, I probably would have Dana Carvey play every character in every episode. The dude WAS comedy in the 1990s. He's goddamned Garth from Wayne's World) 

[glitterymelonseed]

Viridian Vineyards

Here's chapter 2! I'll try to update frequently! If there's any scenarios you want to see at some point let me know!

I'm Ebony?

Saturday came around quick, just as the rest of the week passed. R03 woke up on the same table they had for a while, completely unaware it would be the last time she would ever have to. The girl ate the usual bread and piece of fruit supplied with, she found it had been easier to enjoy when cleaner, Miranda threw a dress, shoes, a hairbrush and other things needed to get ready, simply barking to get ready, and so that's what she did, slipping on the plain dress, glad to see that there was no ties in it like the old thing she had on, as well as simply getting ready as told.

That morning was blustery and cold, wet from a rainy night, Alcina was getting ready early, leaving her daughters to sleep in for a bit, deciding it would most likely be best in getting to go without issue. Miranda had a carriage scheduled for the Countess for easy travel, and the fact Miranda didn't want R03 getting any publicity before more was known about the specimen.

Alcina signed herself out of the castle via the log book, got in the carriage, and set off. The Lady was nervous, but looking forward to meeting her newest daughter, the thought alone left Alcina with the same feeling she had when Bela, Cassandra and Daniela had been gifted to her. The Lady had a necklace on her, aside from her usual one. Just as she had gifted her daughters a necklace of their corresponding colours, Alcina had prepared one for R03, who she intended to give a name other than a letter and a few numbers. The necklace had a Burmese sapphire, embracing the jewelery with a pretty blue, one that caught eyes. She knew that as whenever a maid passed her with it they would often double take, though perhaps it was curiosity as to why. Not giving it another thought she continued the silent ride, a warm smile as she flipped through the brief files provided.

Soon enough Miranda was stood waiting in the hall of family meetings, R03 stood behind, an instructed, watching droplets of rainwater drip meakly into puddles around the hall. Quiet as a dormouse she looked around, travelling with her eyes, afraid to take a step out of line unless instructed. The girl waited in silence with the priestess, desperate to do good, long, tresses of black hair becoming ringlet curls at the ends, despite a lack of care, she appeared well kept, which was the main request, which young R03 was compliant and successful with. It wasn't long before the countess of house Dimitrescu arrived.

Mother Miranda watched patiently as Alcina strolled in, she used to have to bend over, like she did in her home, but an explosive incident involving Heisenberg promptly fixed the issue, so Miranda could hardly be upset.

"Alcina." Miranda greeted her eldest with a confident smile, a small glasses case enclosed in her hands, she intended to pass it over to Alcina alongside R03, the girl had declining vision, mainly since the cadou parasite, it was hardly an issue now, but it may have been in the future, so she had a simple circular frame and adequate lenses made, the details were on the file given to her daughter nonetheless. "Mother Miranda." Alcina greeted, smiling warmly as R03's short stature came into sight, she was shorter than the average person, but Alcina saw her new daughter almost like a porcelain doll from her youth, delicate, gentle seeming. Innocent. "I do believe, she is yours. Here's a pair of glasses she may need in future times to come." Miranda said coldly, carefully passing over the case, and ushering R03 over in a less careful way, causing a defensive glance from the adolescent's new parent. "Such looks aren't all too appreciated, might I remind." Miranda stated, having gotten that look a few times in the past, it was a good place to leave off the interaction.

"Of course. Apologies Mother Miranda. Thank you." Alcina thanked with a more appreciative look before taking R03 by the hand, they were small and dainty, just like the rest of her frame. "Come along dear." Alcina spoke softly, not wanting to scare her new daughter, who nodded with compliancy and followed, not much choice otherwise, though it was unlikely she would have ever chosen to stay. "R03 doesn't seem a name fitting of your features young one, how about Ebony instead?" She offered, R03 felt the name was right, so nodded in agreement, Ebony was her name. Ebony Dimitrescu, the new youngest of the bloodline, leaving Alcina to ponder how Daniela would take it, hopefully well as the thought was briefly shut down. Ebony was still silent, but looked around in what appeared to be awe, as far as she was concerned she'd never seen outside before, so the new sensations, smells, sights, it was like when she first awoke, except this time less dread filled her while being lead to the carriage her new Mother had arrived in. Ebony hadn't known who Alcina was at that point, all she knew was that she was really very tall compared to Miranda.

"My name is Alcina Dimitrescu, I'm your Mother." The countess introduced and pat the space besides her in the carriage, signalling Ebony to sit besides her, which the girl picked up on and did, her Mother's arm carefully holding her close smiling down with a warm joy that radiated within the transport as it set off. Alcina hadn't felt such a joy in a short while as she felt Ebony lean in slightly. The girl seemed full of wonder, but so devoid all at once, young Ebony seemed a mystery that would reveal itself, it was just a matter of waiting while the carriage clacked forward steadily. The new beginnings she had been awaiting had came. For the better, Ebony was certain.