#it needs a lower level so i can rest my feet. it needs some sort of storage space whether just the lower level or a drawer or chest top

[flockofdoves]

can you all wish for me to find the perfect coffee table this week... so tired of being coffee tableless but i have just become so picky now that i have almost every other piece of living furniture i need

[c0wboylikeharry]

BROKEN ELEVATOR (h.s)

(masterlist) || (taglist)

harry styles x fem!reader

summary: after a late night at the office, harry expects to be the only one left. he’s surprised when he finds a single desk lamp still on—yours. leaving at the same time, the tense silence envelopes you during your elevator ride. but when the elevator breaks down, leaving you stranded with no way out, the tension crackles into something new.

word count: 8.3k

cw: smut, dirty talk, penetration, finger play, oral, overstimulation, unprotected sex

a/n: happy reading you freaks ;) this is my first like…full out smut so lmk what you think. i’m now going to go baptize myself in holy water.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

Groaning as I power down my desktop, my eyelids threaten to shut on their own accord. The darkness that I get basked between is one I relish in. A quiet, still office. No longer bombarded by ringing phones or an influx of emails. It’s done.

At least for today.

My eyes burn from the sting of staring at a screen all day, knowing these stupid blue light glasses my mother recommended can do nothing to save me at this point. I feel achy, as if I’d just finished with an intense workout, not just sat at a desk for 10 hours.

Forcing myself up from my chair, I stretch out my limbs, soothing the ache in my lower back. I don’t even bother to throw my suit jacket back on. There’s no point. I’m the only person who’s crazy enough to still be at the office. But work never ends when you own the company, I guess. Lord knows I’m just going home to lock myself in my home office for 3 more hours.

When I first started this company, I knew it’d be hard work and grueling hours. What I didn’t know is all that it would take from me. If you want a social life, don’t own a business. If you want stress free hours, even off the clock, don’t start a business. Hell, there isn’t even enough time—let alone enough energy in me anymore—to get laid

I think that one has me the most on edge.

Stomping around my spacious office, I gather my things and toss my jacket over my shoulder before cracking open the door. It feels like it’s been hours since I closed it, locked it, and told everyone to fuck off for the rest of the day so I could concentrate.

I guess one could say I’m notorious for being quite…cold in the office. I’m not a boss who’s shoulder is open to cry on when the job gets tough. I want the work done, and done well. Anything other than that is unacceptable. If I’m working hard, my employees have to be working 10x harder just to reach my level. I’m not going to apologize for that. And if they can’t handle that? Onwards and out they go.

Stepping out into the main space seems to calm me. All of the cubicles are left empty and lifeless, deserted hours ago right when the clock struck 5 pm.

Well, all except one.

Off in the far distance of the office floor, one lamp is still on. And it doesn’t surprise me. At least, not anymore. It’s become a constant. Almost a competition. Which one of us can stay later? Endure the back and eye pain, send the most emails, and log off the latest? But only one of us still does it with a smile on their face.

And that is not me.

You’ve been working here in the social media department for almost 3 years now. In fact, you sort of invented the department here. Before you, I couldn’t understand why a sex toy brand like mine needed a social media presence. But when you came in for an interview, for any old position here, you suggested the idea and changed the game. Taking charge, our sales grew an exponential amount from some simple online posts. You follow the trends, keep the business name in the headlines and put so much fucking money in my pockets.

I’m grateful for the work you do, but those words have never been shared with you. Like I said, I have an asshole reputation to uphold.

The minute I see the lamp at your desk flick off, my feet resume their trek toward the elevator. The only sound being my shoes thudding against the marble floors and the sounds of rustling as you pack up. And then it’s your heels, tapping to the same rhythm as my feet, heading in the same direction.

I’ve got no clue why, but I slow my pace.

We reach the elevator at the same time, but you’re the only one kind enough to flash me a smile in greeting. All I do is nod and press the call button for us.

The silence threatens to suffocate me, and I wonder if you’re feeling the tension too. That crackling, pin straight spine, choked out feeling in your chest. It’s consuming me. So much so that I nearly jump when the elevator dings and the doors slide open.

I motion for you to go ahead—I might be an asshole but I’m still a gentleman. Okay, maybe not that much of a gentleman because I’m unable to stop my eyes from dropping to the way your hips sway as you step in.

Starting a company as a man who has a weakness for women in pencil skirts wasn’t a good idea.

Snapping my gaze back up, I step into the elevator with you just before the doors close. A good few feet between us and nothing but the sound of the elevator engine accompanying us. I mentally pray this ride goes fast.

“Long day?” you’re the only one with the balls to break the silence.

“Mm,” I hum, “definitely.”

“Same here.” Your hands clasp together in front of you, an awkward stance to match the awkward energy. “I actually wanted to talk to you about—“

Your words get cut off by a loud screeching sound. It jolts the elevator, rattling us around until I have to hold myself still with the wall, and you catch onto my arm. The spike of adrenaline in my body forces me not to think about the contact. Lights flicker above our heads, but the movement stops. Like, all together. We’re no longer headed down to the parking garage. Hell, the button pad isn’t even lit up anymore! We’re just…stuck.

I instantly break into survival mode.

Wrenching myself from the wall and your hold, I slam my hand against the button pad, hoping anything will make this shit run again. But it’s no use. I press the alarm, hearing it ring out through the throngs of the building I know is empty at this hour. God, why can’t I just leave at 5 like a regular person? I try for the call button, listening to the automated message before it begins to ring. And ring. And ring. And—you get the picture. Not a soul picks up. In fact, the line’s static.

“Are we stuck?” your frail voice pulls me from my tunnel vision. You’ve glued yourself to the back wall of the confined space, fear etched onto your face with no will to leave.

“Please don’t tell me you’re claustrophobic,” is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

“No, but I do have a fear of plummeting to my death!” In any other circumstance, I would’ve laughed.

“We aren’t going to plunge to our deaths,” I sigh, not even believing my own words. But someone has to keep their head on straight here. “It was storming today, lightning probably struck the power out. We just have to wait for the backup generator to kick in.” I walk over to the closed doors, assessing the possibilities.

“How long until that happens?”

“I don’t know!” My own fear makes me snap accidentally. “I make sex toys for a living!”

“We could be here all night…” you mutter, your voice sounding distant, but I’m too preoccupied to offer comfort or a second thought. “What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna pull the doors open, see if maybe we stalled on a floor, or at least enough floor for us to slip out onto.”

“You can’t possibly pull those doors open! They’re made of steel! And without the engines running, you’ll be pushing against the resistance of—“

With a major ego boost, your words die in your throat when I start to force the doors to separate. It makes an awful squeaking sound, but it’s working. It’s actually working! I mask my excitement easily, acting as if I knew I’d be able to do it all along.

But that excitement was too good to be true, a fleeting moment squashed like gum on the bottom of someone's shoe.

A wall. That’s all that’s to be seen. A fucking slab of concrete and no open air in sight. Fuck.

“Oh my god… We’re gonna die in here,” you practically cry.

“We’re not going to die.” Again, I have no idea, but I’m trying to convince myself my words are true. “Emergency services will be here soon.”

“What fucking emergency services?! We didn’t get through to anyone, no one else is in this building this late, and no one is coming to save us!” You sink down onto the floor, your back pressed against the metal wall. I can hear your labored breaths from here.

I might be known as the asshole around the office, but I’m not a completely heartless bastard. I see someone in distress, I offer a hand and support. Well, in some cases. And this is one of them.

I waltz over to you, sinking down in front of you and hesitantly placing my hands on your shaking knees, the ones you’ve pulled up against your chest. Your chin is tucked against your chest, hiding from the situation—hiding from me.

“Hey…” I think that’s the softest I’ve ever spoken. “Listen, we’re going to be just fine. Shit like this happens all the time and the cords hardly ever snap—“

“Hardly?!” Your head whips up, eyes puffy and red from withheld tears.

Shit. “Do you want me to lie to you?” You shake your head. “All I’m saying is that it’s a one in a million chance that we drop. And, hey, you don’t know? We could very well be just 10 feet from the ground floor and the only thing that would happen would be a small stomach drop.”

“I hate drop rides,” you whine, your bottom lip trembling in its pout.

This time, it’s my turn to drop my chin to my chest. “Jesus, you’re impossible.”

I maneuver myself until I’m slumped against the wall beside you, having given up on the whole ‘save the day’ act. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here, I might as well get comfortable. An idea popping into my head has me mentally cursing myself for my stupidity, reaching into my pocket for my phone.

Of course, my phone! How could I not have thought of it sooner? All we have to do is just call someone to— Oh, and it’s dead. Yep. Dead as can be.

Fuck.

“Do you have your phone?” I grumble, peering over at you as you drag your head back out of its hiding place. “Check if you have service in here.”

“Oh my god, you’re a genius!” you gasp, scrambling to grab your phone from the purse you discarded when you thought we were freefalling. And I wouldn’t say the notion makes me a genius, actually quite the opposite since it took me so long to think of, but I’ll accept the stroke of my ego. When you snatch your phone, the screen illuminates your face in the flickering lighting. “It’s spotty, but it’s something. Oh, shoot, I’m on SOS… Wait! No, it’s ba—it’s gone again.”

Groaning, my head hits the metal wall, staring up at the matching metal ceiling. Damn, this place is cramped. Maybe I’m the one with claustrophobia?

“I can try to call 911 anyway? Isn’t that a thing? Like, your calls go through even without service?” you ask me like I’d have any clue.

“It’s worth a try.”

You sigh a smile as you tap around on your phone and hold it up to your ear. It’s so silent in here without the engines running, I can hear the dial tone.

“Hi! Hi! Yes!” Oh my god, it worked. Your hand juts out to slap against my bicep in your fit of joy. It’s hard to smother the smile growing on my own face. Especially when your hand settles to a stop, still resting on my arm. Now that the initial adrenaline is gone, I do have time to focus on the touch. “We're trapped in an elevator! Yes! No, the engines went down! I don’t know…20 minutes? No, no, none of it…”

I tune out your voice as you drabble on, giving out our location and any other useful information they need to come save us. It’s easy to do it when I’m instead so hyper focused on the contact of your hand on my body.

Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten laid. Now I’m like a prepubescent teenager who just brushed shoulders with a cute girl in the hall. It’s pathetic.

Somewhere in between my ogling and internal freakout, you had ended the call, and—to my dismay—moved to drop your hand back to your side.

“They said it might be a little, there’s some fire at a restaurant, but they’re coming!”

“Good… That’s really good,” my voice doesn’t even sound like my own, too stalled on the buzzing your touch has leftover on me to care.

This time, when you slump back against the wall, you aren’t on the verge of tears. I guess with just the promise of help on the way your mind has erased all possibilities of this huge metal box unhinging. Because in the time it takes for them to get here, it totally can’t happen, right? Wrong. But I won’t say that out loud. Dealing with you being a nervous wreck would have been worse than dealing with you in relief.

Even if it has you saying, “We should play truth or dare to pass the time.”

“Truth or dare? We aren’t 10.” I grimace at the thought, holding back an intense eyeroll.

“Come on! It’s just something to pass the time!”

“No, I’m not playing that ridiculous game.” I know I’m sounding like a complete ass—to which I’ve accepted I am—but I’ve gotta draw the line somewhere.

“Truth or dare, Harry?” you push.

“I told you, I’m not playing.”

“Truth or dare?” you repeat, pressing further. But if you press anymore, I might just cave in.

“No.”

“Fine, you can ask me first.”

I’m about to snap the elevator cords myself, but then I decide I can have some fun with this. “Truth or dare?”

Your eyes light up when the words leave my mouth, thinking you’ve finally won. “Hmm… Dare.”

“I dare you to not play this game.”

“Hey! That’s not fair!” you whine like a child.

“Life’s not fair. Deal with it,” I retort.

“You can be a real asshole, you know that?” your words surprise me. Not the adjective you’ve used to describe me, but the way you so freely verbalized it.

Still, I find myself replying, “Yeah, I know.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you’re quick to apologize, the previous words probably slipping without your consent, “I didn’t mean to say that! That was so uncalled for and— Wait, did you say you know?”

I nod. “Yeah, I know. I know what you all say when you think I don’t hear. I’ve accepted this fact.”

“Harry, I’m—“

“Don’t apologize again. Really, it’s fine,” I cut you off, taking your words and rolling them off my shoulders.

“It’s not fine, it’s not,” you continue, and I can feel the guilt oozing off of you. “No one should be talked about like that, no matter the situation. And while I haven’t personally added to the email chain, I do apologize on everyone’s behalf.”

“Wait, wait—there’s an email chain?”

Even if the flickering lights gave out and basked us in darkness, I’d still be able to see how red your cheeks turn. “Shit,” you mutter.

A small laugh escapes my lips at your embarrassing slip up. The uncommon sound leaving my lips has a tentative smile growing on your lips, and the tension of your early admission slowly leaves your shoulders. Then the silence comes. A question of ‘where do we go from here?’ hangs in the air. It's slightly uncomfortable. After me being an asshole, you calling me out for being an asshole, and an oddly tender moment; there’s not much else to say. But not saying anything is worse.

Just when I’m about to succumb to my worst nightmares and reignite the game of Truth or Dare, your phone buzzes against the carpeted surface beneath us. At least it gives you an out from the suffocating silence, I think. Picking up your phone, I can’t help but study you closely—I’ve got nothing better to do. The screen casts a glow over you, and I watch as your eyebrows furrow. The tiniest of eye rolls and then you’re turning your phone upside down on the floor again. But you can’t escape whatever you were looking at—it buzzes again. The steps repeat five times over until you can’t fight the groan that leaves your lips.

“Everything good?” I can’t help myself from asking. My curiosity is piqued, sue me!

“It’s fine,” you mumble, clearly not fine. That sentiment is only set in stone when your phone buzzes again and you nearly toss it against the wall. It’s my interception that stops you from making the mistake.

My hand grips your wrist midair and yanks your phone from your hand before you can check it again. I don’t need you getting overly agitated and accidentally manifesting our plummet.

“Give me my phone back.” You reach out for it, but I pull it away, out of your reach. And, damn, the thing buzzes about 3 times in just this short time. “Harry, give me my phone.”

“Who’s blowing up your phone?” It’s really none of my business, but I’m a nosy bastard.

Wow, these confines are really making me realize all of my flaws.

“It’s no one,” you grumble, reaching out again. I hold your phone further up and out.

“Oh? So no one has you about to smash your phone against the elevator wall?”

“Harry, I’m serious,” you whine, once again reaching and failing. The repetition of your movements has you suddenly so much closer.

“So am I!” I laugh. “I don’t need your phone cracking against the wall just right and sending this metal box freefalling!”

“You said we weren’t going to die!” you gasp.

“We won’t,” I reply, “if you don’t go all crazy with rage and do something stupid.” You sigh and sit back on your knees, seemingly giving up on your fight. I don’t trust it. Proven right when you toss yourself forward and try to snatch it again—to no avail. “Is it a boyfriend? A girlfriend? A scammer trying to get you to become a princess of some made up country?” Your lack of laughter bruises me. I thought that was funny. “Or maybe it’s a crazy ex?”

Your lack of response is response enough. Shit. The realization that I’ve cracked the code has you flinging yourself again, but you take it a step further this time. Your whole body practically folds over me in your attempt, leaving your legs landing with one on either side of my hips. Instinctively, my hands fly out to stable you. Double shit.

You still. No longer in a rush to grab your phone back, no longer eager to see whatever’s on your screen, and probably no longer even breathing. I know I’m not. I’m too focused on the feel of your hips beneath my hands. I have to physically stop myself from squeezing your flesh.

I guess there’s no point in lying anymore—I find you ridiculously attractive. Always have. The second you walked into my office for an interview, I knew if I hired you, I’d be fucked. So I wasn’t going to. I entertained the interviewer for the sake of staring at a pretty face a little longer. But then you brought up the PR stuff and it all made so much sense and I realized… I was really fucked. So I went against my urges and hired you, forcing myself to delete any previous notions I had.

But now? Now those lines I drew for myself are blurring. Fading right before my eyes.

“I should…” you start, words trailing from the intense burning gaze I’m most likely sending your way.

“No… No, you shouldn’t.” I can only assume you were going to say you should get up, but I can’t let that happen. Not now. Not when I’ve finally got you in my arms.

“Harry…” The way you breathe my name sends a shiver down my spine.

“Don’t,” I warn, my grip on your hips growing tighter, keeping you in place. “You’re not going anywhere now.” Wide eyes stare back down at me, hesitant and confused. But my eyes can’t help but shamelessly roam your body, perched on top of mine like it was made to be. Your chest rises and falls quickly with your nervous breaths, right in front of my face. I feel like I’m hypnotized. “You look good like this,” the words fall from my tongue without a second thought.

“Harry—“ you try again, but I cut you off.

“Don’t… Don’t talk.” I grip you tighter, pulling you down slowly until you’re fully resting your weight against me. I push down the groan that threatens to spill. “Just let me look at you…”

“What are you doing?”

I ignore your question, letting my hands travel from your hips to the tops of your thighs, smoothing over the material of your skirt. This damn pencil skirt. The barely audible sound of your breath hitching in your throat sends a thrill through my bloodstream. “Is this okay?” I peer up at you through my eyelashes, my hands not stopping their actions of smoothing up and down your addictive thighs.

Your eyes connect with mine. Hesitancy, shock and…lust. I’ve got you right where I want you.

And when you nod, slowly and easily unnoticeable, I nearly snap right then and then.

The groan that’s been fighting its way up my throat is finally let free and I pull you flush against me. Your chest hits mine in a rushed movement, and your hands land on my shoulders to stabilize yourself. You’re so close. So close to me. I can smell the notes of your perfume, the scent of your shampoo, and I’m hooked. Releasing one hand from your hip, I grab your chin and angle your head down toward mine. Our noses nearly brush, that’s how close we are.

“This is a mistake,” I whisper, but you can hear each syllable perfectly, nodding in agreement. “You could be fired.” You nod again but don’t make any move to leave. “I could lose my business…”

“But?” you clue in, breath hitting my skin.

“But at least it’ll be worth it.”

And just like that, my lips are on yours. Groaning into the kiss like a man starved, my grip on you tightens to a bruising degree, pulling you impossibly closer. My tongue doesn’t waste any time in demanding entrance, tracing the seam of your lips and forcing its way in when you gasp. Hands. So many hands. Yours planted on my shoulders, slowly smoothing up to hold the sides of my neck. One of mine on your hips, dancing over your frame to press into your lower back and bring you closer, the other tangling in your hair to angle you just right. I can’t get enough. I’m not sure if it’ll ever be enough. Hissing out when your legs spread further, bunching your skirt to the top of your thighs, as your center presses against mine.

I pull back from the kiss, just barely, letting my lips brush over yours as I speak. “You know,” I strain the words, my voice heavy with lust, “I could think of a few better things we could do to pass the time, other than Truth or Dare.”

I feel your thighs tighten around my hips from my words, and it only serves to heighten my need for you. I drop my hands to your thighs away, feeling the bare skin under my fingertips as one of my hands travels higher and higher, disappearing under the tight material. “Do you want to pass the time with me?”

When my eyes and brain register your small nod, a smirk spreads on my face, giving me the green light to continue. Two hands. One gripping the top of your thigh and the other grabbing the back of your neck to pull you into a searing kiss.

“Good girl,” I mumble against your mouth.

I hold you just where I want you as my lips leave yours and travel down your jaw instead, licking and nipping the skin in my descent to your neck. It’s all so addictive, so sweet. It’s still not enough. But when I find that sweet spot—a patch of skin just below the lobe of your ear—you moan breathlessly, and I think this might be just right. Shivering beneath my touch, my hand that’s under your skirt finds the waistband of your panties, feeling the delicate lace between the pads of my fingers.

“These are coming home with me.” I give the band a small tug, letting it snap back against your skin before pulling my hand away all together. Sliding my hands up your body, I pull your dress shirt from the hem of your skirt and tug on it. “Arms up for me, baby.”

Baby. Don’t know where that came from. But with the way it has you complying without another word, I know I won’t stop saying it. I toss your shirt to the side, my eyes roaming over your newly exposed skin. So much of it. But your chest has me in a daze, hidden behind scrap material you call a bra. I can’t help the low moan that escapes me.

“You’re so beautiful,” I breathe the words, reaching to grip and knead at the skin of your waist. I can’t stop touching you. My hands are everywhere, feeling out your smooth, soft skin like it’s a drug. They eventually slip onto your back, tugging on the clasp that keeps you hidden from me. In one quick snap, the whole thing comes undone. The straps slide down your skin, revealing more and more of that perfect fucking skin. Absolutely perfect. This moment isn’t even one I could dream up. You, sitting bare chested on my lap with that needy yet hesitant look in your eyes. No, not even my dreams could be this good.

Leaving your waist, my hands cup your breasts, feeling their weight and fullness in my hands. My mouth is watering. My thumb runs over one of your nipples, watching it pebble harden under my gaze and touch. I’ve never seen anything so hypnotic. Eyes flicking up to latch onto yours, I watch for your reaction as I pinch the sensitive bud, teasing a shaky breath from you.

“You like that, don’t you?” My voice is low and husky as I continue to roll your nipple between my fingertips, forcing your back to arch. It puts your tits right in my face. I’m physically unable to stop myself from leaning forward and taking your other nipple between my lips. I moan at the taste of you, the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever had gracing my tongue. Or maybe the sweetest thing is the whines that leave your lips when I swirl my tongue around you, hollowing my cheeks with a harsh suck.

I can’t stop. I literally can’t stop. Switching back and forth, showing each of your breasts the same attention until you’re relentlessly squirming on top of me. You are intoxicating. That’s the only way to describe it. I’m a lost man when it comes to you.

“So fucking good,” my words reverberate against your skin as I don’t let up on my attacks. Feeling your hands wind into the hair at the nape of my neck, you hold me close as I explore your body with my tongue.

A hand slides down your hips and thighs again, just to push right back up under your skirt. I yank the material up, forcing it to bunch at your waist, and leaving me with the perfect view of your lace panties. Sitting like this, with the crease of your hips over your thighs, dressed in barely anything; this is heaven. I’m sure of it. My thumb traces the seam, dipping into the crevice between your legs. Growing bolder, my thumb ghosts over your clit through your panties.

“Harry…” you whine, and it’s music to my ears.

“Tell me what you need, baby, and I’ll give it to you. Whatever you need,” the words tumble out of my mouth with no thought behind them, too focused on watching my finger disappear between your legs.

“You…” you breathe the word, shakily, “I need you.”

Well, fuck me.

My thumb presses down on your clit, still over the thin layer separating us, and your hips buck involuntarily. “Yeah? Is this what you need, baby? Need me to touch you?” You nod, helplessly, forcing friction from my unmoving thumb and your twitchy hips. “Words, baby. I need your words.”

“Y-yes! Yes…please.”

They were right when they said that was the magic word.

Finally giving you what you want, my thumb starts a lazy circular rhythm over your sensitive bud. The most delicious cries leave your lips every time I purposely add a bit more pressure. I can feel the heat radiating off your core, like a magic spell dragging my thumb down the seam of you to press against the mess you’ve made. The growing dampness I can feel through the fabric has my hips bucking up toward you. Your wetness seeps through your panties, making a mess on your inner thighs, and—damn—is it a sight to see. I cup you through the material, giving you something to find friction on while pressing against your clothed entrance with the tips of my fingers.

“You’re so wet,” I whisper, amazed, “so wet for me.”

You nod in response, unable to do much else than moan as you find your own pleasure against the skin of my hand. Well, that just won’t do.

I tug your panties to the side, exposing your soaking wet pussy to me. A shuddering moan escapes me as a gasp gets ripped from you. My gaze is burning into the perfect, glistening pink skin, and I think you can feel it too, grinding against the air. Staring up at you, your eyes are half-shut and glazed over, holding yourself stable with a firm grip on my shoulders. But everything in you trembles when I run a single finger through your folds, feeling how deliciously wet you are against my rough skin. Your eyes pinch shut, your hands gripping me like a vice, as a whimper tumbles out of you.

I trace your slit, dragging your mess up and down your core and lightly brushing against your clit. I push at your shoulders lightly, forcing you to lean back and give me a clearer view. Watching my fingers pull your lips apart and your entrance clench around nothing. Holy fuck.

The next time my fingers trace down you, I slip my middle finger inside. Your walls clamp down around the intruder, gripping my finger snugly.

“God, you’re tight,” I rasp, slowly pulling my finger out just to press it right back in. You’re a moaning mess above me, but I’m too focused on watching my finger disappear into you to even pay attention.

I drag my single finger out just to press back in with two. Your hips writhe against the feeling, but I don’t speed up. Keeping my tantalizingly slow pace of pushing in and pulling out.

“Harry, please…” you gasp out the words, forcing my attention to your face. That fucking face. Lips red and bruised, eyebrows scrunched together and jaw slack. You’re a sight for sore eyes.

“Please, what, baby?” I have to force the words to come out without a groan when your pussy clamps down on my fingers again.

You whine at my insistence. “Please… Harder. Faster.”

“Yeah? That’s what you want?” You nod, but this time I don’t beg for you to say it out loud. I’m on the verge of snapping. “Then that’s what you’ll get.”

I wrap an arm around your waist to hold you in place as I finally let my instincts take over. My fingers gain speed, thrusting in and out of you just how you wanted. The sounds of my fingers slamming against your wetness draws a dark moan from the back of my throat. I can’t pull my eyes away from your face. Watching as it screws up with pleasure, your moans filling the confined space.

“You feel so good,” I moan, curling my fingers inside of you. “Can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock.” I press against the spongy skin inside of you, stimulating it and watching you fall apart in my arms. It makes you grip onto my hair instead of my shoulders, dragging my face closer to your body. I take that as an invitation to wrap my lips around your nipple again, lapping and sucking until I can feel you teetering on the edge. “That’s it, baby. Let me make you come.”

I press my thumb against your clit and you cry out, arching your perfect tits into my face. I have half the mind to motorboat you. Instead, I change the angle. Slowly, I push off against the wall and guide you down to lay flat on your back. My fingers still slamming and twisting and fucking into you without remorse. With one hand to hold myself up by the side of your head, I continue to attack your breasts with my mouth, until you're covered in my marks. My lips travel down your sternum, licking a strip from the underside of your breasts to your belly button. I dip my tongue into the valley and you gasp, eyes snapping open to watch me. The cocky smirk that breaks out on my lips has your eyes threatening to roll back, but you fight it, I can tell. You want to see what I’m going to do next.

Planting hot, wet kisses down your pelvis, I make way between your legs. Meeting my fingers and their brutal pace, I replace my thumb on your clit with my tongue. Rising onto your forearms, you get a front row seat.

My eyes nearly cross at the taste of you, lapping up the sweetness that covers your core. My fingers repeatedly hit your g-spot as my lips suck your clit into my mouth. My unrestrained moan only brings you more pleasure.

“Harry! I’m gonna—ah!” you scream out as I feel your walls clench and tightly.

“Yeah?” I rasp between flicks of my tongue. “You’re gonna come on my fingers? Gonna come for me?”

You don’t have a second to respond between your gasps, moans, and whines. Hips bucking up against my face, I roll my fingers into you and swirl my tongue around your clit. I can pinpoint the exact millisecond your orgasm rips through you.

Screaming out my name, your hands land in my hair and tug, body trembling against the floor. I flatten my tongue against you and let you ride out the waves against it, my fingers slowing their assault before pulling out all together. Tossing your thighs over my shoulders, I finally dive in for a real taste.

You cry from the overstimulation, feeling my tongue lapping up every last drop of your release. I eat you like you’re the last drops of water and I’m stranded in the desert, moaning every time your taste hits my tongue. I can’t stop. Not even to take a breath or give you a second to come down. My tongue plunges into you and I’m certain I could die a happy man right here right now. With you squirming and begging for a second to catch up, and my hands squeezing your flesh anywhere I can get my hands on.

I don’t even notice that I’ve been grinding my hips against the floor until a strained moan hits your core. I need to make you come again. I need it like I need oxygen. And that rubber band holding of restraint that was once holding me back has obliterated into dust.

I nuzzle my face feverishly against your core, rubbing my nose against your clit as my tongue loses sanity against your perfect pussy. My own hardness is so painful, straining against the material of my slacks. I can’t help myself from reaching down to unzip my pants and palming myself over my boxers.

I lift your hips in the air to dive deeper, taking every piece of your resolve with me.

Your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, tensing your frame as your hips grind against my awaiting face. I lap up your juices, my mind failing me at the intensity of it all.

I need more.

Finally getting a breath, I pull my face from between your legs, my lips and chin glistening from you. I don’t plan on ever wiping it off. Your legs flop back onto the floor, like a ragdoll.

“God, you’re perfect,” I speak mindlessly as I sit back on my knees, reaching for the buttons of my shirt. I’m burning up. You lay on your back panting, eyes dazedly watching me. “You okay?” I check.

You nod, a slow, lazy smile growing on your face. You’re completely spent and I’ve barely even begun.

“Good…” I toss my shirt to the side, leaving me bare chested in front of you. I don’t miss the way your eyes trail down my skin, burning a map on your journey. I lean over you, my face hovering over yours just inches away. Close enough for you to feel my breath hit your face when I say, “Because I’m about to bury my cock so deep in your perfect, little pussy.”

One of my fingers sliding through your folds emphasizes my words, making you gasp. I grab your hips and lift them off the ground, making our centers connect. Rubbing my boxer-clad bulge against you, you mewl. “You have no idea how badly I need to be inside of you right now,” I grunt, snapping my hips against yours. “Do you want that, baby? You want me deep inside of you?” You nod, but this time I demand words. I need to hear you say it. “Say it.”

“I want it,” you gasp. “I want it! Please!”

My hips snap again. “What do you want, baby? Tell me.”

“I want you… Deep inside of me,” the words finally break free from your lips, just as a groan leaves mine.

I’m immediately fumbling with my pants, yanking them down my legs and kicking them off not so sexily. You don’t seem to notice though, if anything you’re the opposite of shuddered by my fumbling. You just squirm and writhe, begging for my attention again. Fuck. My boxers are the next to go, joining the heap of clothes we’ve created in the corner of this small space. But when you go to sit up and peel your skirt off your body, I reach out and stop you. Your eyes look up at me, confused.

“That’s staying on,” I murmur, eyes trained on the bunched material covering the tops of your hips and your waist.

Those fucking pencil skirts.

You comply, laying back down and finally letting your eyes trail over me. From the top of my hair, to the swell of my thighs straining to keep me upright. Though your attention does seem to focus more on my throbbing cock that stands at attention for you.

I grab your legs and wrap them around my waist, forcing your hips to raise and meet mine. Our moans harmonize when my length nestles between your folds. I’m unable to stop my rocking hips. Your own hips meet my lazy strides, causing a ripple of pleasure to shockwave through me.

I pull back slightly and grab the base of my cock, stroking myself a few times as I bring my tip against your folds. I’m leaking precum against you, my jaw slack as I run myself through your drenched core.

“Harry, please,” you beg, your voice needy and desperate.

I don’t tear my eyes away from your center. “Please what, baby?” I slap the head of my cock against your clit, watching you jump and squirm in surprise.

“Please… Fuck me.”

“Yeah?” I drag myself to your entrance, just barely pressing in but already feeling your warmth envelop me. It takes all my strength to hold back. “You want me to fuck this tight, little cunt?”

I push just my tip inside, gnawing down on my bottom lip to keep my composure, but you’re not so slick. “Y-yes! Yes! Please!”

Your walls are so tight around me, I could finish right now. Squeezing me and begging for more. I don’t have the self control to tease you anymore. Not when your body so clearly needs this—needs me.

I don’t waste anymore time, thrusting inside of you and filling you completely in one swift motion. One strangled gasp from you and a guttural moan from me. Nails biting into my shoulders as I stretch you open, unwarranted sounds spilling from me as your pussy flutters around me.

My head falls back in pleasure. “Fuck,” I sigh. “You feel so good.”

I adjust my grip, holding your thighs wrapped around me as I slowly pull back out. You whimper, but it’s cut off with a moan when I slam my hips back against yours. I don’t start slow, there’s no point. Not when my body is screaming at me to just take you. Claim you. With a vice grip on you, I continue my relentless pace, ramming my length into you. Your moans are unrestrained now, bouncing off the steel walls and mixing with the sounds of our skin slapping together.

“So tight,” I grunt, my teeth clenched. “So good.”

My hands are frenzied. Smoothing over your skin and gripping anywhere I can get a handle on. I steady my hips as I latch onto yours, using the leverage to move your hips for you. I drag you on and off my cock, watching it disappear into your wet hold. Using you like a toy for my pleasure, I pick up the pace and force your hips to slam against mine. The small rolls you do on your own have me feeling mental. Nothing has ever felt like this. Nothing will ever feel like this again.

And it’s taken to the next level when you use your abdomen to pull yourself up, sending me back onto my calves. Your hands grip my shoulders as you settle into a perch on my lap, grinding your hips against mine. Taking control. Dammit, you’re sexy.

“Yeah?” I pant. “Taking what’s yours, huh? Using me to get off?”

You don’t respond with words, but you do let your lips do the talking. Bending down, your lips attach to mine in a sloppy kiss. It’s hard when pants and moans are constantly spilling, but I swallow every sound you make. Your hands slip to my chest and push me backwards, landing me flat on my back and mirroring your previous position. My length falls out of you from the change of angle, but you’re quick to fix your mistake.

Wrapping your hand around my cock, it twitches from the contact. As you move to hover over my lap again, you stroke me lazily, and my hands grab your hips. When I feel you dragging me through your dripping folds, my head falls back and my eyes roll. Not giving me a chance to breathe before you sink down onto me again.

You stable yourself with both hands on my chest, burning my skin with your dangerous touch. Hips sliding and grinding against mine, you’re much softer with your movements. But, dammit, if it doesn’t have me losing my mind just the same. I reach behind you, grabbing a handful of that perfect ass I’ve shamelessly stared at far too many times. It feels so much better to have it in my hands. So much so, my other hand has to join it. Groping both of your cheeks, I guide your movements over me, setting a pace that fulfills both of our needs.

When your hips rise and fall over me, I hiss and squeeze your plump skin tighter. So you do it again. And again. And again, until I’m not controlling the pathetic sounds that leave my mouth. You bounce and grind with a practiced ease, taking the pleasure you need from me.

“You like bouncing on my cock, baby?” A sly smile grows on your lips and you speed up. “Damn right you do.” I smack your ass.

To my—very pleasant—surprise, it rips a harsh moan from your lips. Noted. Sitting up straighter, you bounce on me without caring about the burn I’m sure you’re feeling in your thighs. So I slap your ass again. It has your movements faltering.

“Does my baby like to be spanked, huh?” You nod breathlessly as I continue to smack and palm your ass. It fits so nicely in my hands, I can’t resist. But the pleasure you’re finding from it is slowing you down, losing your rhythm.

So I take control again.

Planting my feet on the floor, I push up until my knees are pointed in the air. Grabbing onto your hips, I still your movements and hold you right where I need you. Then I go to town.

I thrust up into you with a brutal force, wrenching a scream from deep in your soul. Your top half falls forward, nearly collapsing on top of me. Grunts and moans leave my lips without permission as you barely hold yourself together. This new angle is deep and rough, hitting all the right places inside of you and making you clamp down onto me with a vice grip.

“Yeah, baby, just like that,” I groan. “You’re taking my cock so well. Fucking perfect… So fucking tight,” I grit the words out. And when your hips start to grind against my thrusts, I stare down at the edge of my pleasure. “Shit! You’re so hot…”

Faces mere inches apart, we swap oxygen between our labored pants and needy moans. I grab the back of your neck and pull your lips to meet mine. A heated kiss, moving hungrily against one another, tasting and devouring each other as we move together. I grip your hip tighter with my hand, snapping my hips up to meet yours. Your movements grow frantic, more wild, as you chase your pleasure down. I can feel your body tensing in my hold, feel you fluttering and squeezing around me, knowing you’re getting closer.

“That’s it…” I encourage, nuzzling my face in your neck and letting my hand fall back to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze. “Come for me, baby. Come all over my cock.”

I grind my hips up into yours, repeatedly hitting that spot that has you crying out my name over and over again. Your body starts to shake, breathing turning erratic.

“Oh God, oh God—don’t stop!” you whine and pant and make me nearly lose my mind.

I grunt with a particular deep thrust. “I’m not gonna stop, baby.”

Whines and whimpers are your only form of communication at this point, a silent plea. Your body tenses, coils up so tight it might just send me over the edge too. And when a long, low moan falls from your lips, your body stills as you peak. I hold you tight, feeling your body tremble in my arms. Your pussy clenches so hard around me, threatening to push me out all together. I don’t let up on my thrusts, seeing the bright white light of pleasure coming for me. Your whines or sensitivity only spur me on.

“Fuck, yes, baby… So good. Come all over me. You’re perfect. So fucking good and tight. Gonna make me come so hard in that perfect cunt of yours,” the thoughtless mumbles pour out of my mouth.

“Harry, please…” I know that you’re begging for my release, feeling me slide in and out of your core.

“Almost there, baby, just—fuck!” I gasp when your walls clench around me again. “God, do that again.”

So you do. You do it over and over until my hips grow sloppy and my uneven breaths threaten to make me pass out. I’m gritting my teeth, gripping your hips, and desperately reaching for the climax that I know will ruin anyone else for me.

“Fuck! I’m gonna come! I’m gonna fill you up, baby!” I scream out the words, hips snapping uncoordinatedly up into yours. “Shit! Fuck! Yes!”

With one sensitive roll of your hips, it’s game over for me.

I gasp and choke out a moan as my hips come to an abrupt halt. My jaw hangs like it’s detached from my body all together, panting into the open air. Feeling myself spilling into you, you whimper in encouragement. And then we both go limp.

My hands fall from your hips and down to my sides and you essentially collapse onto my chest. Rising with every heavy inhale I take, I welcome your weight on me, bringing me back down to earth.

Back down to this broken elevator.

Shit, I almost forgot the situation we were in.

I reach up and run a hand through your sweat lined hair, basking in the stillness of this moment. You hum against me, the sound rattling the blood in my veins, and pushing me to continue.

This right here is peace.

“Fire Department! We’re gonna work on getting you guys out of there!”

Scratch that. This is hell.

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taglist: @tpwkmr @alex-voiddome @hsviorry @butdaddyiloveh1m

[jjwolves]

I love what you did for the last writings that you made, I love how your writing is both intricate and very detailed in both situation and inner thoughts. You captured the personality perfectly of ENA and I can’t wait to read more of your work! Splendid work!

I got inspired by a certain post on TikTok! Here’s the link!

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTjPBeFN8/

If you don’t mind, could you write about Dream BBQ ENA speaking differently when she’s around human! reader? Like her Salesman is still about business but the mischievous isn’t trying to sell cons but rather with praises and teasing. And her Meanie side is still scolding and angry but it’s usually about the wellbeing over the reader and yells at them at a lower level.

She clearly speaks more fondly and sweetly to the reader compared to how she is with Froggy, Dratula, the Receptionist, and anyone else. It be so funny to have everyone see this clear favoritism during their day to day and call her out on it one day. 🤣

I hope you can consider this request. Thank you for your time and effort!

PITCH SHIFTING ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

What: 5 Headcanons of ENA the Worker X Reader, Where ENA is Nicer to You Than Anyone Else

Who: ENA the Worker from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~900 words, ~4 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G, Divider -> @issysh3ll

Warnings: None

ENA has a soft spot for you and everyone can tell. When she comes into work, she passes Froggy and Dratula with a “Good day,” and a “Greetings, o creature of the night.” She gives a short wave to both, but it’s clear that she’s a targeted advertisement who is headed straight for her demographic. You perk up as ENA slows near your workstation and props herself up on her elbows to greet you. “Hellooo~ How is your car running? You look positively punctual today.” A pale hand leaves its station to calmly rest on yours. You both blush and smile at each other, exchanging a tender moment which is unfortunately surveyed by your coworkers. Froggy and Dratula watch on. “Why are they nicer to them?! Is that even allowed?” “At least ve got a good mornink. I am Dratula!” “Wait, why am I talking to you!?”

One time, you accidentally dropped a letter opener off the edge of the Hub and tried to fish it out with a stick. ENA was busy listening to Froggy debrief her on her next mission. “You need to go straight to the heart of the mountain, got it?” “Yeah, yeah. Shut it with the spiel. Can I fulfill my stupid purpose now?” She looked to the side and caught the sight of you leaning precariously over the blood ocean. Deciding not to watch for too long, she ran over and yanked you backwards by your collar. “Watch what you’re doing, moron! You could have been a soggy ingredient deep down in the soup!” You tell her that your letter opener had fallen into the blood and scissors were horrible for opening letters. ENA’s eyes narrowed as she helped you to your feet and brushed you off. “Whatever, I’ll just get you one while I’m out. Now hightail it back to your workstation before I put you in a brochure for poor life choices!” You nervously thanked ENA before skedaddling away according to her command. Froggy was beginning to suspect chemistry between his coworkers—that or cursed magic. They hadn’t filled out any paperwork for the latter if so.

The others start to notice that ENA hangs around you constantly, like some sort of contradictory perfume. She’s always sliding over to your workstation to lean on your desk or sit on a filing cabinet, chatting with you, and, get this—laughing with you. Not a conspiratorial chuckle uttered from a sly smile, nor a manic cackle shaking with fury. A real one, a soft one. Coral Glasses tries to work nearby but can’t help being appalled at how different ENA sounds with you. She subtly listens in out of sheer wonder. A harsh, crackling voice sounded out with a laugh of true joy—it was an odd combination to hear together. “Ahaha! Listen, listen. You’re smart and I like that. Don’t let any numbskull tell you otherwise, got it?” Confused by the sound of banter, Froggy goes to your cubicle to see what you’re doing, but gets blocked by ENA standing in the doorway, facing you with arms akimbo. Her head turns around to fix Froggy with a thin, red smile. “Can I offer you some sort of business solution?” He tries to peek around ENA to see what she’s laughing at, but her colorful head darts around in the air like a foo fighter to block his sight. “...They’re closed. Please come back tomorrow!”

When the Hub is filled with smoke, Froggy doubles over, coughing and retching, claiming that it’s “hitting his nerves with a folding chair”. ENA isn’t terribly concerned about his condition, fixing him with the fierce, focused stare of a sniper about to hit their mark. “Quit being such a baby. It’s a bad look on you, toad.” Standing next to Froggy, you begin to suffer a light cough, pounding your chest to clear your throat. Her face draws close and examines you, blue shadow falling over a sharp eye. “Really?! You too?! You all need to toughen up if you’re gonna survive the winter!” Her reproach makes it hard to notice at first, but you start to feel something firmly tugging and brushing against your collar. Looking down, you see that ENA’s hands are busy fixing your tie for you.

Coral Glasses scratches her cheek nervously as Froggy stands near, watching you and ENA talk from a distance. “I’m not overly concerned with work friendships or anything, but… She’s so much nicer to them than us.” Froggy crosses his arms. “I know. She’s a great worker, but she’s also insubordinate. I need to have a talk with her! Oi, ENA!” ENA glances over and pauses in your softly held conversation, adjusts your collar slightly and then draws near to Froggy’s call. “You rang?” “I just want to know… your priorities, you know?” ENA stares blankly, breaking Froggy’s professional facade. “Why are you so nice to them?! You’re not like that with us at all! You’re so much meaner to me!” Coral Glasses mutters something about not wanting to be involved before ENA explains herself. “Oh, is that really why you called me to this meeting? Well, the answer can be quite easily outlined. They bought out my feelings a while ago; I like them more than you. I’m glad we could clear up this confusion.” ENA turns away and walks back to you before Froggy can ask anything else.

[cerastes]

Right, that psych/mental health post reached farther than intended. It’s nothing new, without trying to suck myself off here, for a post to embark on a journey through lots of dashboards and consequently bring new followers. Every time that happens, I fire rent-lowering gunshots and shave off that number a little. But it’s a first for me that a post of that nature breaks out, so,

First of all, it’s bittersweet that that post resonated with so many people, but I mean it, validate your emotions; the point isn’t breaking plates is fun and cathartic, you misrepresent my intentions if that is what you focus in, it’s about getting everything on a level field and not seeing these feelings as nebulous poison that cannot be avoided or curbed and thus shouldn’t be faced.

And, second but not least, that’s an exception to the rule when it comes to my posting. Normally I’d spam some anime feet and armpits, and let that sort itself out, but out of respect for the struggles and hope to improve some may have following the OP of a post like that, instead I prefer to tell you upfront that I don’t post about therapy and psychology often, nor will I start now. If you followed for that, swing and miss, dear. It’s my day job, and I make it a strict rule of mine to keep work and the rest of my life separate. I enjoy my craft, and its practice. I am proud of it. But it’s my craft, and it’s not what I do with the rest of what and who I am. It’s not what you’ll find here. In fact, the OP tag on that post is “I never do this but”, funnily enough.

I wish you the best in your own journeys because they are not easy indeed. All I can say, regardless of situation, is step out of your comfort zone, at your pace, and that does include both validating your “negative” feelings (again, those don’t exist), and acknowledging that remaining static and stagnant because of the bad things that have happened to us is a very comfortable place to be in, paradoxically, and we need to get out of that “victim’s comfort” to improve ie: “My parents made me hate myself so it’s their fault I am so miserable” vs “My parents made me hate myself, it’s their fault but that won’t define all I am and I’ll prove them wrong like the hateful idiots they are” let it be your fuel to take those hard but important steps, whichever they may be.

Anyways, I reblog risque stuff and talk about video games, so feel free to unfollow if you wanted more psych stuff, no hard feelings.

[canonical-transformation]

I tried something different over the last day, which is to take a leaf from @dandelion-wings's book and write something self-indulgent as a "warm-up" — no intention of actually finishing let alone having a plan, just writing for the sake of having fun writing.

It was nice! Would probably do again!

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(CW: modern AU)

The oversight committee meeting ran on agenda and on time, an unlikelihood bordering on miraculous. At one-forty in the afternoon Sara found herself with a clear schedule for the rest of the week, modulo a couple of videocalls she didn't need to be in the office for anyway. She wasn't the only one: the queue for the lift was so long, walking twelve flights down the stairwell actually saved her time.

She took a minute at ground level to stretch out her arms, then headed for the station, grabbing some onigiri on her way in. On the train she pulled up the grocery list app she shared with her housemates and committed the urgent bits to memory. She had a route planned by the time she got to the supermarket, and was in and out with satisfying efficiency.

Arriving outside the apartment, Sara fished her keys out of her bag. She was just putting key to lock when the door opened on its own, just a few centimetres.

Kokomi was there, peering through the gap. She was in one of her usual outfits, a wine red cardigan tossed over a button-up blouse and knee-length skirt.

"Sara," she said. She blinked rapidly. "You're home."

Kokomi sounded a little out of breath. Sara looked her up and down: her face was pale, and she was swaying on her feet a little. Dizzy spell, no doubt.

"Did you just run all the way to the door?" Sara asked.

Kokomi grimaced sheepishly. "Um. Maybe?" She gripped the door frame and used it to lower herself to her knees. Sara nudged at the door, but Kokomi put her shoulder in the way. "We have a guest," she continued, looking frantic.

"Alright?" said Sara. Not the sort of thing worth rushing to the door for. "And...?"

"Please don't freak out."

Sara's heart sank. "My folks?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Kokomi waved her hand. The motion left her swaying a little. "Sara, she's me."

"Who's you?"

"Inside. Um... she looks like me, at least?"

"Who does?"

"Me. Not me. A doppelganger, kind of? It's... I haven't had time..."

She looked to be at a loss for words. Sara didn't think she'd ever seen Kokomi at a loss for words. Half-fainting, struggling to spare the oxygen for another sentence? Sure. Drunk, communicating only in polysyllabic nounifications, interspersed with emphatic gestures? Definitely. Trying to hum at whales in the aquarium? Even that. But lost for words? Never. The Sangonomiya Kokomi that Sara knew had an answer for anything: more frustratingly still, she had a reasonable answer for anything. She could make a calculation that took her a month and twenty spreadsheets sound so obvious you should have thought of it yourself. She could give a half hour tactical breakdown on an split second impulse purchase of Cinnamoroll pajamas instead of the Hello Kitty ones she'd walked into the store meaning to buy. Her apologies were a balance of contrite, firm, and empathetic that must have been formulated in a military lab somewhere; her sorry-not-sorry excuses were the kind of legally-minefield-dodging emotionally-expressive bullshit that PR executives salivated over.

Kokomi was still rambling. "Like... it's me from another timeline? I haven't had time to make sure, I've been buried in meetings all morning."

Sara hefted the ten kilos of groceries pointedly. "Kokomi, can I come in or not?"

"Fuck." Kokomi bit her lip, then shuffled to the side. "Don't freak out, please?" she said as Sara nudged the door open.

Honestly. As if anyone had ever freaked out less from hearing that.

There was a woman sitting on the couch, in a mermaid costume for some reason, hands clasped timidly in her lap. Her eyes widened upon seeing Sara.

She looked a lot like— no, she looked exactly like Kokomi. She had the same wispy peach hair, the same wide, fog-blue eyes, the same button nose, the same curve of the jaw. Her skin was a little more sunkissed; the hollows of her cheeks, a touch gaunt... but that was Kokomi in cosplay sitting on the couch. Or it would be, if Sara wasn't still manoeuvring past the real Kokomi, who in her POTS'd state had arranged herself in a lump on the floor with her feet up on the wall, the final boss of apartment door tripping hazards.

The words that came out of Sara's mouth were: "Well, that's surreal."

Across the apartment, on the couch, the lookalike's lips moved soundlessly. A moment later, next to Sara's ankle, the real Kokomi murmured, "It really is," which probably wasn't meant as a lipread but worked pretty well as one.

"Hi," Sara said, addressing the lookalike. "I am Sara, Kokomi's housemate." Miraculously, she'd made it over Kokomi without the grocery bags hitting her. She set them down in front of the fridge and began transferring.

"Hi," said the lookalike, "I am Sangonomiya Kokomi... um, but just Kokomi is fine."

Fucking hell, she sounded just the same, too.

"So what's the deal? Are you here from the future to warn us about the AI wars?"

"No," the lookalike replied. She pursed her lips the same way Kokomi always did when she felt the need to be precise, and added: "I suppose I could be from the future? But I strongly suspect I'm from a different world altogether."

There wasn't enough room in the front door to fit both the kewpie and the fish sauce, no matter how much she moved the smaller bottles around. Sara eyed the three nearly-finished carafes of iced tea with displeasure. Would Ayaka notice if she just mixed the two green teas together?

"It's the worst," Kokomi complained. She'd risen to a kneeling position. "She's not future me, she's not past me. My time traveller protocols are wasted here! She's not even a teleporter clone, we have no common history..."

"Back up," said Sara. "Time traveller protocols?" And while she was at it: "Why is there an empty soba sauce in here?"

"Technically there's a few drops left," said Kokomi. "And, come on, time traveller protocols! Surely you've heard of those. In case some old lady turns up saying she's you from the future. I have a secret code phrase that only the real me would know. Something similar for if I meet my past self: a secret they've never told anybody. I have one for four year old me, and one for seven year old me."

Sara snorted. "You realise how ridiculous that sounds, right?"

"It seems reasonable to me," said the Kokomi lookalike on the couch.

"It's a contingency plan, Sara," said the real Kokomi with fond exasperation. "I don't go around expecting time travellers. I came up with my time traveller protocols during recess when I was ten, it took me a few minutes. It doesn't cost me anything to have the protocol. Same goes for the Paycheck and Severance protocols—"

"What's that?" interrupted the lookalike.

"For if I have an alter I don't share any memories with, just the body. There's two protocols, for one-way and two-way communication. With variations for whether either side is under duress."

"Makes sense."

"That is such a you thing to think about," said Sara.

"I'll take that as a compliment," said Kokomi, who was slowly getting to her feet. "Contingency plans! They're cheap to have, and you never know when you might get kidnapped by mind-reading aliens. Or maybe you get hit with amnesia gas and need to leave yourself a message, fast. Or you get trapped in a time loop. I mean, come on, everyone has a plan for a time loop."

"Mm," said the lookalike. "Or maybe you have to prove you haven't been replaced by a doppelganger."

"Exactly!"

"I actually got to use my doppelganger protocol once. I whispered the code phrase and everything."

"Seriously?" said Kokomi, with a hitch in her voice Sara recognised as seething jealousy.

The lookalike preened a little. "Seriously."

[obitinenovelwhen]

Bonus Obitine Fic

This didn’t get posted to Obitine Week 2025 because I already posted it for Satine Kryze week and I figured that cheating. Since it’s a prequel of sorts to my Day One fic, though, I wanted to post it here and on my ao3. Hope you enjoy!

It Happened One Night

The moment everything changes is quiet, still. Almost a dream.

Almost.

Because dreams, after all, don’t have consequences. At least not lasting ones. Once the dreamers awakens, enters back into the waking world, the dream comes to a standstill. Real life, on the other hand—it’s messy and awkward and filled with regret. The people who make their choices must bear the weight of them, even if they’re too heavy to shoulder. That is what this night will be remembered for: the choices that are made, and all the things never said, never done.

The first actions—what starts this whole messy thing—is that Satine Kryze can’t sleep, and she’s restlessly wandering their camp. She doesn’t know why; after the tens of kilometers of walking they do each day, she should be exhausted, practically wilting into her bedroll. It might have something to do with the dreams she sometimes has, where she relives her mother’s death in startling detail, as if she herself were dying. Or it could be the odd emptiness she feels, not having him by her side. Whatever it is, whether it’s fears of another nightmare or the need to be close to him—it is the thing that draws her forward, her feet picking their way delicately away from the one place she should be.

The second action happens when Obi-Wan Kenobi senses her, turning to look over his shoulder with a surprised smile. He knows she should be sleeping, getting her rest for the next grueling day, but the selfish part of him is glad to have her company. Glad that for once, he’s not alone. That’s why he goes against his better judgement and pats the spot next to him on the ground, where he’s been crouching while keep watch just outside their camp.

The only one not here, of course, is Obi-Wan’s Jedi Master, Qui-Gon Jinn. The three of them have been constant companions these past months, bound together by the familiarity only adversity can bring, their only separation coming during the night when they sleep in shifts. This is probably their first time being truly alone together—a realization that dawns in them both with the same inexplicable mix of pleasure and thrill.

Anything could happen, they tell themselves, before squashing the thought down. Best not to dwell on that fact. Especially not as the third action occurs—not as Satine settles down beside Obi-Wan, offering him the excess of the blanket draped around her shoulder.

He accepts the preferred blanket, shoulder brushing hers. Immediately, they can both feel the exchange of warmth and their bodies start to relax, soften. They’re not wrapped in each other’s arms—that won’t come until much, much later—but there’s a comfort here, a familiarity, like they fit together.

Like they are meant to.

They sit there in silence for a while, just soaking in the other’s presence. Then they start to talk about nothing of great import—about how beautiful the sky is tonight on Kalevala, how fair the weather is, how comfortable the breeze feels on their skin. After months on the run with nothing more than the the supplies they can carry on their backs, they’ve come to appreciate pleasant weather more than most, to revel in it like a connoisseur might delight in a particularly exquisite dish.

It’s after they’ve praised the wonders of their climate that Satine pauses, turns to look at him. “Was it like this, on Coruscant? I can’t imagine they have much in the way of seasons.”

He doesn’t turn to regard her, but he does shake his head. “The only weather on Coruscant is rain, muggy after-rain, and blistering heat on the upper levels, and dank and cold on the lower ones. Some say the planet once had a full ecosystem with forests, mountains, oceans, and all the rest—but I’m afraid it’s been so long since the world wasn’t plastered with buildings that all we have of its history are less-than-credible accounts from religious texts.”

Satine smiles ruefully. “Mandalore isn’t so different. When I was a girl, I remember my parents telling me tales of how lush and beautiful it was, how it used to be teeming with all manner of flora and fauna. But that’s all they were, in the end: tales to be shared with children before bedtime, nothing more.”

“What happened to it?” he asks.

“War. And generations of people who prioritized inventing new and cleverer ways to kill rather than focusing on how to heal what we had done to our world.”

“That sounds like a rather bleak childhood,” Obi-Wan comments, almost saying it as a question.

She shakes her head, a motion that frees some of the locks of golden hair from her hastily tied bun. “I didn’t grow up on Mandalore. We visited, yes—especially when my father had Clan business to attend to. But we spent most of our time here, on Kalevala.”

It’s now that he finally turns to regard her, eyebrows raising in surprise. “You grew up here?”

“Not in this particular area, no. Our family’s estate is on a cliff side, so there’s no forest cover like there is here.”

“That sounds…” He pauses, looking down as if the right word is hiding somewhere in his lap. “…rather exposed.”

The ruefulness comes back into her expression, but this time, she’s not smiling. This time, her gaze is distant, far away. Lost in some half-remembered scene from the past. “It is. It’s how insurgents were able to assassinate my mother so easily. The garden where they killed her was only 20 meters or so from the cliff-face.”

Obi-Wan looks away, drops his gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to—“

“It’s alright,” she assures him, touching a hand to his cheek. “You didn’t know.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze lifts away from the ground, first resting on her arm. Then he finds her gaze, and for a moment they simply sit there, taking each other in. It’s perhaps they first time they’ve done this, the first time they have ever really seen each other, and it’s certainly not their last—not for the next year or so, or even tonight.

But then Obi-Wan’s gaze drops again, and the moment is broken, never to be found again. Satine, for her part, lets her hand drop back to her lap, as if it had always been there. As if she hadn’t just touched a Jedi padawan in such an intimate, familiar way.

That’s when she makes another action that sets them further down their path: hoping to avoid the closeness that had just sparked between them, she changes the subject. She’ll soon realize that this has had the opposite effect from what she intended; by switching to their new topic of conversation, they’ll only grow more closer, not less. But only hindsight can allow such clarity. In the moment, they don’t see where they’re headed, what this moment will mean for the rest of their lives.

“Did you ever know your parents?” Satine asks this softly, as gently as her fingers touched his face only moments ago.

Obi-Wan’s gaze stays on the ground, face partially obscured by the shadow the moon casts on his features. “I…have a few vague memories. Or…perhaps impressions would be more accurate. But nothing distinct.”

She’s glad that he’s looking away, that he can’t see her blink in surprise. “How old were you?”

Obi-Wan pauses. There’s the second half of that question, the unspoken part, hanging in the air between them like a ghost: *How old were you when they took you? When you were taken from your family and given a new home, a new life? *Not that he sees it this way; he’s always thought of the Jedi as his true calling, his true purpose in life. But it still hurts, in that particularly way that the past always does, to wonder how differently his life might have looked if he’d walked a different path.

“I…I was around three, I believe,” he says finally. His gaze goes distant like Satine’s gaze did only a few minutes earlier, when she’d been recalling the day of her mother’s death. “I remember that they were both very…ordinary. Not particularly tall or short, large or thin. The only thing I can recall about them that stands out is that they both had blue eyes, and that my mother’s hair was auburn, just like mine.”

Without really thinking, Satine’s fingers wrap around the long, thin braid hanging over his shoulder, the distinguishing mark of a Jedi padawan—or at least in species with hair. “People often tell me I look like rather like my mother—my eyes, my hair.” A faint smile touches her lips. “My father used to jest that my intellect came from her as well, seeing as he had little of his own.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze settles on where her hand lightly grasps his padawan braid, fingers running over it as if trying to commit it to memory. But notably, he doesn’t move to stop her. Instead, he continues to watch her fingers idly stroke the braid, as if he, too, is memorizing this moment. “I’m afraid I haven’t the scarcest idea what my parents were like as people. I was too young to pick up on that sort of thing.”

“What do you think they were like?”

He frowns slightly. “I’m really not sure. I suppose I’d like to imagine they were both good, kind, honest people who loved each other and their children.”

Her hand lifts again to his cheek as she shows him a small but warm smile. “I imagine they would both be good and kind if they made you.”

Chuckling softly, he looks down, smiles abashedly. “Well, I’m not certain I would go that far. I have been known to be uncharitable from time to time.”

She slaps him lightly on the arm, feigning exasperation. “Much more than time to time! I recall you were rather than tetchy with me when we first met. I’d even be tempted to say that you disliked me, padawan Kenobi.”

Another abashed little smile plays his lips at her use of his title. “I’m afraid you did test my patience at times, particularly when you insisted on arguing with my every word.”

“Not every word. Only the wrong ones.”

“Ah, yes,” he says lightly. “An important distinction.”

They both stay like this for a moment, enjoying the warmth that gentle banter often brings. They aren’t thinking about the fact that they are seated so close now that their shoulders and hips are brushing, or that their faces are less than a few inches apart. Right now, in this moment, they’re only taking pleasure in the other’s company, only thinking of how good it is to be together.

After a few moments go by, Obi-Wan tilts his head back slightly to regard Satine. “And what do you think of me now?”

“I think I rather like you,” she replies, smiling.

“I suppose I rather like you, too,” he says in return.

They both chuckle at that then look down as one, both uncertain how to proceed. The uncertainty doesn’t last long, though; after only a beat or two, Satine’s hand touches his face yet again, this time with almost a sense of reverance. He leans into the touch, skin warm against her hand as he meets her eyes, gazing steadily at her. Really seeing her, and letting her see him.

Neither is sure when it happened, but it’s then that the final action, the one that seals their fate, begins to unfold. All they know is that at some point, in the middle of this quiet moment when she is caressing his face and he is melting into her touch, Satine starts to draw closer. To lean in, slowly. So slowly, in fact, that Obi-Wan could easily have stopped her five times over.

But he doesn’t.

When the final action happens, it is with both of them choosing it, both of them deciding that this is what they want. Satine moves first, yes—but as they move together, they are both saying yes. Yes to this moment, to this kiss—and ultimately, to each other.

The kiss itself isn’t long or drawn out; it’s brief, gentle and tentative in the way that inexperience lovers have. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t sweet, something to be cherished forever. For both of them, this will be remembered as the first time they kissed another person in this way, the first time they have ever used their bodies to show that they’ve crossed the line from friends to something…different.

This is how they both feel, when their short kiss is over: Different. Not the kind of different that implies that they were somehow incomplete before this moment, but a kind of difference between them. A kind of draw, a pull, as if the Force itself is guiding them together.

They see it when they pause to take stock, to study how the other has responded. They can see the desire to be together, to keep pulling closer, tighter, and they move in again, this time less hesitantly. And while it is not passionate or demanding, this kiss extends beyond the short peck of their first. This kiss goes deeper, lingers longer before they take another brief moment to gather themselves, to see if they’re both still choosing this.

When they see that they are, their lips meet again—and again, and again. They’re not sure how long it goes on for; neither of them really cares about particulars at this point. All that matters to them is the rightness of this, of their lips touching, of their breath mingling.

Until, without warning, Obi-Wan suddenly stiffens and turns away.

Satine blinks repeatedly, as if she’s unsure of what just has just occurred. One moment, their lips were meeting, warm and soft and sweet, then the next? Obi-Wan was pulling away as if he was never really there in the first place, like they had simply dreamt the entire thing.

“I…shouldn’t have done that,” he says faintly, almost shakily.

Satine finds herself moving forward to touch him, to offer some of comfort. “Obi-Wan, I’m sorry. I thought—“

“I know. I…” He holds up a hand to stop her approach and sighs. Drags a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. I think…I think I need to be alone for a moment.”

With that, he begins walking away from her. Just like her kiss, his movements are slow, deliberate. Satine could stop him, run to him if she wanted to—but she doesn’t. Instead, she sits there in stunned silence, hot tears rolling down her cheeks while she watches his form retreat further and further away.

He never looks back.

[icwasher]

My Star Wars OC, Larin.

Just gonna infodump about her after the: read more.

As a baby, Larin was found by Jedi Master Ven right after his first Padawan graduated. He instantly became a father-figure to her and decided that when she was old enough, he would take her as a Padawan.

Larin excelled in all her classes at the Temple. She loved to learn, reminding Ven of himself. He had always wanted to be an Archivist so he could be around knowledge all the time, but he was Padawaned to a duelist who squashed his love of learning. This only makes him want to take Larin as a Padawan even more, just so that he can make sure she grows up with a Master who will foster her naturual curiosity.

Fast forward to the beginning of the Clone Wars. Larin is ten. Ven doesn't want to bring a ten-year-old into a war zone, so he decides to wait either until she's older or until the war's over, but then little Larin catches Pong Krell's eye. Ven's always disliked Krell, so he's like, "I don't want him to be Larin's Master." and picks her before Krell can. At least Ven can protect her.

Then Ven gets his troops, the 313th. He adopts them, basically, and they adopt Larin as their little sister. When it comes time to paint their armor, they let her pick the color. She chooses pink. They paint their armor pink, even if it means some of their brothers laugh at them.

Larin becomes close with three of the clones in particular. Commander Painter, an artist who paints sets of armor for Larin. He teaches her to fight with something other than her lightsaber---her fists, her feet, her teeh. Anything to keep her safe if she loses her Jedi weapon. Then there's Arc Trooper Chip, who carves animals from every planet the 313th visits so Larin can have something to play with. She's only ten, after all. He's a sniper and he's the one who teaches Larin to shoot. She's almost as good as him by the end of the war. And then there's Crosstitch, or Stitch, who embroiders her robes and her cloak. He teaches her to fly in the ship they commandeered and keep hidden in the lower levels of Coruscant. Sometimes he even lets Larin wear his jacket, which he's spent the past few years embroidering. On the back he puts all the names of his brothers who died for the Republic. He's running out of space.

Flash forward again to Order 66. Ven senses something is off, senses something is coming. He doesn't know what, but he sends Larin off with Painter, Chip, and Stitch in their commandeered ship (which Painter decorated with all sorts of doodles). They go to a lonely planet on supposed "reconnoissance". Then Order 66 happens. Larin manages to escape (there's only three clones between her and her ship after all). She has the sense to jump to an Outer Rim planet said to be neutral in the war. She's thirteen now, and thanks to her brothers and her Master, she knows to keep hidden. When she hears about the Empire, hears that all the Jedi are dead, she's heartbroken. There's no way her Master could have survived; he was with the rest of the 313th.

She adds his name to the back of the jacket.

Larin spends the next three years on her ship, spending no more than a week at a time on any one planet. Mostly, she stays on her ship. Eventually, she gets a droid, an astromech, R4-S3. He's got the mouth of a pirate and the heart of a Jedi. He loves Larin as fiercely as any droid can. She nicknames him Essee and paints him with the same paint the 313th used on their armor.

When Larin is seventeen, she goes to the planet Undai (I totally made up this planet btw) for a supply run. While she's there, she sees a billboard displaying a bounty---a bounty for Painter. Somehow, he's escaped from Imperial prison. Her first thought is that she needs to find him . . . only, she doesn't know how. He could be anywhere.

So Larin finds a bounty hunter. Ven once taught her how to judge a person's character with the Force. Larin has used this tactic hundreds of times in the past few years, and she uses it again to find a female Torgrutan bounty hunter named Ti Myris. They strike up a tentative alliance.

Meanwhile, in the Empire, a young Investigator gets assigned to Painter's case. His name is Luka. He wanted to be a doctor, but the Empire thought his skills were more suited to investigations. He sets out looking for Painter, relying on the bounty hunter network.

Back on her ship, Larin is being trained by Ti. Larin's brothers already taught her some things. She knows how to slice and hack. She knows how to scramble her ship's signature and make her comm frequency untraceable. Ti hones her skills.

As they search for Painter, Luka catches wind of a young human female and an older Torgrutan woman roaming around the galaxy, asking after Painter. He sets up a meeting with them. They tell him they haven't found Painter yet.

They're lying.

They know where he is, where he's hiding, though they've yet to contact him. They don't hesitate after Luka calls. They find Painter holed up on some Outer Rim planet.

Painter and Larin are overjoyed to see each other again. But their reunion is brief. Ti raises her blaster on both of them. "I'm taking this bounty," she says.

Painter shoots her dead.

Afterwards, Larin learns why there was such a high bounty on Painter's head. He stole a datachip with the locations of all of the members of the surviving members of the 313th. They're spread out in various Imperial prisons. There may only be ten left, but Larin and Painter are determined to free all of their brothers.

Whatever it takes.

[skeletonsfortea]

Dancing with a Demon Pt. 2

Part One

Sans’s phalanges dig into your hands as you dance, and you’re sure he can feel your pulse through them. You can. He keeps tripping you, and you’re half sure it’s not on purpose. He looks uncomfortable.

“Why did you come if you didn’t want to be here?” You ask before you think, and immediately bite down on your tongue. Crap.

He looks at you in surprise, and then away again, watching the crowd. “The pervert’s here. How the fuck else am I supposed to keep an eye on you?”

You raise an eyebrow, “the others are here, though.”

“He’s stronger than all of them. Red and his brother are the only ones that actually stand a chance, and they aren’t here,” he growls, his eye flicking through the crowd.

“Why only Red and Edge?” You ask, and immediately wince when his phalanges dig deep into your hands. He looks back at you, briefly locking eyes.

“Real fucking curious today, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” you say, and put your eyes on the ground.

“LOVE.”

“What?” You look back up.

“You’ve heard about it, haven’t you?” You focus, and a vague memory of reading about it pops into your head. Level of violence. You wince.

“They have a lot of it?”

Sans scoffs, “not as much as I do. But plenty more than these wimpy assholes.” Anger pools in, but you let it go- like you always do.

“But it would be four against one,” you say.

“All he needs to do is lay a single finger on you,” he says.

“Then what do you think it is you’re going to do?” You ask under your breath.

“Whatever I need to.” He growls, and you shudder. You hadn’t meant for him to hear that. He chuckles a little, “hey, kid, how do you feel about collars?”

“What?”

“Gonna need some way to find you if you get stolen.” He says with a grin.

“How is a collar going to help with that?” You ask dryly.

“Eh, it’s not the collar, it’s what’s in it.”

“A tracker?”

“Sort of.”

“It can’t be something else?”

His grin twitches upwards, and he glances at you, “sure, kid. We can head to the shack after this and figure it out together.”

Your heart sinks to your feet. “W-wait, I didn’t-” you begin.

“Quiet.” He snaps, and your jaw shuts. The dance continues. You can at least be thankful he doesn’t spin or dip you. There’s nothing too complicated about it. You’re just following his casual steps until the music switches, and dance partners start switching too. You spot Blue coming through the crowd with a hopeful start. Maybe he’ll save you from this-? A hand lands on your waist, and suddenly you’re in another section of the room. Currant turns you to face him with a victorious smile.

“Hey kitten.”

Fuck. “Uh-” he twists the both of you suddenly, and you stumble, forced to focus on your feet rather than your words. One of your hands is locked in his, and the other is holding tight to his shoulder for any semblance of control you can get. The punishing pace at least serves to distract you from the hand still resting on your waist- with the sharp phalanges you’ve grown all too accustomed to. You’re not exactly familiar with Currant, but you get the feeling he’s not too much different from your Sans- at least in regards to violence, if you’re judging by looks- and that’s not comforting. You’re startled when someone grabs your shoulder and you’re turned back around to face Sans in another area of the room. Oh wonderful. Murderous skeletons. Fighting over me. This is a very safe situation. When did your life get so fucked? Sans looks angry, although that’s not surprising. You can at least be grateful he moves slower than Currant.

“I swear to-” Sans begins,and you shudder at the sudden cold he exudes, before a hand presses to your lower back. Like that, you’re back across the room, being spun to face Currant. Shit, you’re dizzy.

“Could you not-” you begin. Your hand is taken from Currant’s shoulder just as the former releases your hand, and you’re pulled into Sans’s chill. You shiver, “h-hey-”

“Keep your slimy hands off of my shit, freak.” Sans growls, and before anything else can happen, someone grabs your free hand.

In an instant, you’re in a different, more secluded area. Stretch locks his arm around your waist to give you some support as you get your bearings. The dance he guides you into is slow, relaxed.

“Sorry about that, you alright?”

“Better, now that I’m away from those two,” you say.

He sighs a little, “I don’t know what’s gotten into them. We can try to talk to Rust, but-”

“No,” you quickly interrupt, “it’s fine. It’s over, anyway.”

He frowns a little, looking down at you, “are you sure?” You nod. “Well…ok. But you remember we’re here to help, right? This isn’t…” he pauses, unsure, “we don’t want you to be afraid.”

“I know.” Doesn’t change the fact that I am. Or that I’m going back to that universe.

“You’ve thought about our offer, right?”

“Yeah.” You say softly. I’ve also thought about the risks. “One human can’t make much of a difference, right?” People have gone missing in this universe since you came here. Presumably, they’ve been transported to the other universes. To stay here, or to go somewhere else, you would be condemning another person.

“They might be transported above the Underground,” Stretch offers, “they might appear in the same place they disappeared in this universe.”

Might. “I know.” You and Stretch finish the dance in silence.

[fandom-trash-xl]

Shattered Ice Revision - Chapter 4 Dream Sequence

Okay, so I've been bouncing between a few projects and "Shattered Ice" is kinda on the back backburner, but I was looking through some of the older chapters and decided one part needed a rewrite, mainly part of the flashback sequence in Chapter 4. I decided to post the rewrite here and I'll probably update the AO3 posting soon.

"I don't mean to intrude, my icicle…" Her voice's near-purr didn't match her expression. "I was just worried about you… Between me heading to the market and your father being… up to something, I haven't seen a hint of you all day."

"I'm fine, mother." He sat up, careful not to let his left arm budge. "Father kept a close eye. Besides, I'm thirteen, I don't need you waiting on me hand and foot anymore."

"That… doesn't make me feel better." Realis sighed, kneeling down to meet him at eye level. Worry was spread in her ruby red eyes and her smile had long run away from her face. "Would you care to share what he had you up to?" Frost nearly shuddered as her soft gray hand touched his left arm near a sore spot.

"Um… Secret?" His voice cracked uncertainly, simply parroting what his father had told him to say.

"Really now, Frost?" She giggled, but her son could read the softened impatience underneath it.

Frost nervously swallowed. "He was assessing my strength… by fighting me. Things got somewhat out of hand."

Her eyes narrowed. "Define… Out of hand."

Frost's eyes averted themselves. "Did I say 'out of hand'? That's funny, you're hearing things… Heh-heh…" He laughed nervously, sent into a cold sweat.

"Frost, please. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

He finally sighed in defeat, limply presenting his arm to let it do the explaining. She simply felt around the area and detected the point of the break with Frost's wince in response, thankfully backing off afterward. "Mm… I feared he'd go this far… Textbook Shiver if I ever saw it…"

"Wait, you knew this would happen-"

"Your father has a… way of dealing with this sort of thing. Considering he left you untreated, he's trying to convince you that this is a mark of honor, to be proud of your pain…"

"That's exactly what he told me."

Realis lowered her head somberly. "Of course he did. I know my Shiver… His problem is… when you get yourself into this sort of life, you get into bad business, you lose something. You live to hurt, you end up living to be hurt…" Her fingers rubbed to her upper arm. "…And you lose that gauge of when enough is enough."

"So… I just have to keep knowing that? How much they can take?"

Her head slowly rose again with a sigh, her tail delicately draping along her son's shoulders. "I'm afraid it's not as simple as that, icicle… I didn't want this conversation. I wish you had any better teacher to show you how to defend yourself. You can't just know a limit until the break; even if you see the cracks, they're still hurt."

"And what do you know? I'm pretty sure it'd be easy to tell if you're strong enough."

"I know more than you think." The look in her eyes looked both soft and stern. "You can look frail and actually be very strong, but at the same time you're frail enough where one wrong shot- you don't know what shot- and you're down."

Frost paused on this, realizing it resonated with him a bit. Maybe that's why this dream of his mother had cropped up. He himself had been broken himself- the Tournament of Power, his foolish trust… and foolish lust towards Frieza… his hot temper… a constant chain of cracks that left him weak to the Destruction god's wrath.

But, his heart panged as he realized he wasn't the only one. The reveal of his ruse was the one shattering shot to Cabba… Frost was too naïve to know his companion was not strong enough for it.

He understood, but his dream self's mouth spoke, "…You lost me."

Realis sighed, rising back to her feet as her tail snaked off her son's shoulders. "Just be careful in the future- for now, you should just be resting, my tsura~" Her voice cooed, briefly switching to what little of the old planetary tongue she still used. She planted a peck on his skull jewel, causing him to cringe at the touch.

"I'll help wrap up your arm in a moment." She took his left arm and shifted it inward towards his chest, positioning it for a splint.

"Ow!! The hell?! It still hurts you know!" Frost practically hissed.

"Shh… I know, dear…"

---

ORIGINAL PASSAGE:

"I don't mean to intrude, my icicle…" Her voice was almost a purr. "You've just been gone the whole day… I was worried."

"I'm fine, mother." He sat up, careful not to let his left arm budge. "Father was out with me all day. He watched over me."

"And… that's what I was afraid of." Realis sighed, as she knelt down to meet him at eye level. Worry was spread in her ruby red eyes and the smile ran away from her face. "I want you to tell me what you were doing with your father all day." Her soft gray hand touched his left arm, causing him to nearly flinch.

"He told me you'd be mad if I told you."

"I won't be mad… I just wish to know…"

A nervous swallow was Frost's response. "He was assessing my strength… by fighting me. Things got somewhat out of hand."

Her eyes narrowed. "Define… Out of hand."

Frost's eyes averted themselves. "Did I say 'out of hand'? That's funny, you're hearing things… Heh-heh..." He laughed nervously, sent into a cold sweat.

"Frost, please. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

He finally sighed in defeat, simply presenting his arm and letting it do the explaining. She simply felt around the area, and detected the point of the break with Frost's wince in response. "Mm… I feared he'd go this far…"

"Wait, you knew this would happen-"

"Your father has a… way of dealing with this sort of thing. Considering he left you untreated, he's trying to convince you that this is a mark of honor, to be proud of your pain…"

"That's exactly what he told me."

Realis lowered her head somberly. "Of course he did. I know my Shiver… His problem is, his many battles have molded his crooked ideology…

Masochism… He's become a poor trapped masochist. 

He's desensitized himself to pain, believing it to be pleasurable. But, by losing his sense to feel bad about his own suffering, he loses his response to the pain of others. 

You can't become that kind of person. Retain your heart. Know that pain is meant to be felt, but don't devote yourself to the feeling. If you know your limit, what hurts, you can understand that everyone has a limit as well, and you can avoid their pain later on."

"So… I just have to… know how much they can take?"

Her head slowly rose again with a sigh, her tail delicately draping along her son's shoulders. "I'm afraid it's not as simple as that, icicle… I never wanted to have to talk to you about this… I never thought you'd ever be a subject to your father's ways, let alone fight, but… We never know a person's limitations until it's too late.

Those who look frail can still be strong, like you. But, the strong often have something that can break them in an instant. Physically or mentally. We only find these things by sheer accident."

Frost paused on this. Maybe this was why his mother's words came back to him now and why they resonated with him. The Tournament of Power and its aftermath had opened his eyes to his faults. His foolish trust… and foolish lust towards Frieza… His anger… They had broken him and left him weak to the Destruction god's wrath. 

But… His mind went to someone else… Cabba… The reveal of his ruse had broken Cabba instantly. He had never considered the Saiyan's weakness and had discovered the breaking of the once strong. 

His attention was returned to the dream by Realis rising from the bedside and her draping tail leaving him. "For now, though, you should be resting… I will fetch some bandages for your arm in a moment." She once again held his left arm, this time shifting it to be close to the chest, an ideal position to splint the wound.

"The hell?! It still hurts you know." Frost practically hissed, unknowing at the time.

"Shh… I know, dear…"

[unseededtoast]

Turtle Doves | Joel Miller

Part Fourteen

Chapter Directory

Series Summary: In which two broken souls connect so deeply, that if one should perish, the other would surely die of a broken heart. (slow burn, timeline changes. After TLOU1, before TLOU2, assumed knowledge of infected, uses elements from both show and game)

Series Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, and sexual content.

Also cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3. Link to my masterlist for everything else I’ve posted!

He turns the gun on himself and pulls the trigger.

Joel holds my wrist as he takes us back to the truck that we left a few miles away. I've managed to calm my breathing but with each step I take I realize that I was right, Joel was hiding something and now I'm regretting not leaving when I had the chance.

The truck comes into view and we reach it quickly. Joel puts me in the passenger side with a shove before he goes around to the driver's side and starts the truck. The tires squeal with how fast he starts accelerating and I look out the window, calculating my odds of surviving if I jump out. I think if I let my bag take the brunt of the contact I should be okay, I just have to get my nerve up to jumping. My fingers grasp the material tightly and I try to casually let my fingers drift to the handle.

Unfortunately for me, Joel is honed in on my movements and his hand grips my wrist again. My eyes lock onto his large hand wrapped around my wrist and he glances over at me. He probably sees someone who's lost their sanity, and he would be right. His gaze softens oddly and his grasp on my wrist loosens but he keeps it there for the rest of the ride, until the truck comes to a sputtering stop. We've run out of gas. Could things possibly get any worse?

Joel's free hand comes down and smacks the steering wheel in frustration, causing me to flinch at his outburst. He catches my movement and sighs, opening the door to get out. The cool handle of the door is under my fingers and I look around us, planning my escape route. The truck decided to run out of gas in the middle of nowhere, not exactly ideal for a getaway. There are only overgrown fields and road.

Deciding to just go for it, I open the door and start running again. But like my last escape attempt, Joel is right there and his arms snake around my waist to stop me. I thrash in his hold and beg him to let me go.

"Just fuckin' stop for a minute." He holds me tightly until I stop thrashing around. I'm sure he can feel my racing heart against his arms. Once he's sure I'm not going to take off he places my feet back on the ground and I force myself to turn and face him.

He's backed up a few feet from me and I cross my arms over my chest in some sort of self protection. But honestly, if he wanted to do something to me there would be no way I could protect myself. Silently, I stare at him with scared eyes. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair before he speaks.

"It wasn't like that, things didn't happen the way he said they did." His voice is level but I can tell he's straining not to yell. My throat has gone dry but I force myself to speak up.

"So you're telling me that you're the one who killed Marlene?" My eyes bore into his and he sighs again, but nods.

"Yeah. I did. I had to. There was no other way." His arms hang down by his side and his voice has lowered. I shake my head as I try to make sense of everything that's happened.

"Wait. So Marlene's job she gave you was to transport an immune girl to the Fireflies for a cure? And then you killed them all?" It almost sounds like a bad joke, in some twisted way.

I so desperately need things laid out for me in a play-by-play so I can understand what's going on. This truly has morphed into something bigger than myself. Joel nods his head, dropping his eyes from mine.

"Simply put, yes." He admits and as if a lightbulb turned itself on in my mind, my eyes grow wide.

"That's what you were keeping from me. The word immune on that paper was about that girl. You knew that. Why didn't you tell me?" Anger bubbles into my voice and I realize that if he was honest about that then things back with Trevor might've gone differently. Joel puts his hands on his hips.

"I can't just be tellin' people that she's immune. Hell I don't even want you to know." He begins pacing back and forth in front of me, worry and stress evident on his face. His words sit heavy in my mind, he was just trying to protect that girl. A frustrated hand rakes through my hair and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"You knew those people were looking for her, and so you were going to Omaha with me to make sure they can't hurt her. It was never about safety, it was about her." Things start making more sense to me now. I knew there was no way he was just so genuinely concerned about my safety. He was using me as a means to and end. Joel was just going to let me work this mystery while he held half of the answers. My eyes lock back onto Joel and his face is blank.

"I didn't know they were looking for her until after I offered for us to stick together." He points out. In my rage I guess I had forgotten about that. He did in fact offer to stick together after the barricade, before he knew about the note. A jumbled mix of emotions race in my head and I can't seem to think straight. I need to get away from him so that I can think clearly.

"Give me some time." I hold up a hand and walk off into one of the overgrown fields.

I keep my back to him and let myself fall into a trance, needing so badly to get a grip on my thoughts. It's easy enough for me to accept that he killed Marlene, I never liked her anyways. But the part about gunning down an entire hospital for one girl gets me. Why would he do all of that if there was a cure on the line? I file that question away for a follow up and try to navigate the next thing that's bothering me.

While I can establish an understanding of the events leading up to the Fireflies hiring the T group, there's one nagging question. If the Fireflies knew the immune person was a girl, why does the instruction note say all teenage children? That also gets filed away in my brain.

The thought of there being someone immune to cordyceps is also throwing me for a loop. Never in ten years have I heard of such a thing. I wonder if there are more like her out there; if she's truly immune. As my racing mind begins to slow with a better understanding of things, I turn back and see Joel leaning up against the truck, his muscular arms crossed in front of his chest. His head turns and looks at me, and with a sigh I walk back over to him, feeling less angry than I did.

Before he can speak, I hold up a hand, needing him to answer some more things for me. He shifts his weight and I take in a deep breath.

"If this girl is immune, and they were going to make a cure, why'd you kill everyone?" The number one question on my mind may give me more of an insight as to why things played out the way they did. Joel swallows hard and looks down at me,

"There was never a guarantee they were going to get a cure from her. And in order for them to even try, they would have had to-" He pauses and draws in a breath, "they would have had to get to her brain." His voice is soft and genuine, and I search his eyes for any hint of a lie, but finding nothing but sincerity.

"So this girl would have died. You weren't going to let that happen." I venture to guess, I mean it's the only thing that makes sense. He nods his head,

"She would have." Suddenly, it makes sense. The secrecy, the hatred of Fireflies, all of it. It was all in the name of protecting this girl he obviously cares so deeply for. As a parent, I understand all too well and I know that if my child were in that situation there would be no length too great, no sacrifice too much.

I place a hand on Joel's shoulder and sigh, knowing that I owe him an apology for some of my thoughts and behaviors.

"I'm sorry Joel. And I understand why you didn't want me to know. But, if I had known, maybe things could've ended differently back there." I tell him, not letting him completely off the hook.

"Maybe." He shrugs and I remove my hand from his muscular arm. There are still things I'd like to discuss with him, but I'm getting the feeling he doesn't want to lay everything out right now. I'm sure in the many miles we have left in front of us that there will be time.

Instead of pushing anything further, I lead us away from the truck, having no choice but to move forward from here. The faded yellow lines in the road reminds me that we have to keep going, we can't afford to stay in one place. Joel's footsteps fall behind me and we keep our distance from one another and it's obvious we both have the same thing on our minds.

If his girl really is immune, then I don't blame him for wanting to keep her hidden away. A gift like that is sure to be sought after by desperate people who still cling to what the world used to be. Even if they could create a cure, who knows if they'd even be able to mass produce it and distribute it. A cure wouldn't mean the reconstruction of society, I fear we're too far gone for that possibility. Cordyceps is just an unfortunate fact of life now.

I try to let go of my bitterness for Joel I held so tightly the past few days. While his secrecy scared me, he had to have been more scared of me finding out the truth. Having someone know a secret of this magnitude is a big deal, and I promise to myself that I will never tell another living soul what I know. The girl's life is too precious, and I could never put someone's child at risk.

The love he must hold for this girl is something moving. While they're not blood, I know that they have to share an incredible bond with one another. To face a building full of people by yourself to save their life is not something anyone does lightly. No, Joel was prepared to go down in that hospital to save her, I'm convinced of that.

The fading sunlight paints the sky a beautiful, rich amber color. We probably have another half hour of light left, maybe less.

With the day's light waning, I squint as I notice a large structure ahead, it looks like it might be a farm. I slow my pace to walk in stride with Joel and point to the barn that sticks out in the field.

"Probably could hole up there for the night." I say, wanting to bring our dynamic back to normalcy and drop any tension he might be feeling.

The last thing I want is for him to becoming untrusting of me because I know his secret. In fact, I want him to become more trusting of me for the same reason. I'm not sure why, but I want Joel to genuinely trust me. He nods his head and we keep our casual pace towards the farm.

By the time we make it to the property, the sun is barely visible on the horizon. A white two-story house with a wraparound porch sits at the end of the long driveway and I can tell this place used to be busy. There's abandoned equipment everywhere and a tire swing hangs from a solid branch of the large oak tree that's at the forefront of the front yard.

My attention turns towards the barn, wanting to make sure it's clear before we head to the house. My boots crunch against the rough gravel driveway, and Joel helps me pull the heavy door back. The door slides open with a squeal and I hold my breath, half expecting an infected to run out at us.

Joel walks into the barn with his rifle raised and I hang back by the entrance, hand hovering over my own gun. If there were clickers or infected in there, they would have run out by now but I can't stop my paranoia. I take half a step forward and hear a sliding sound behind me. My head whips around and I see nothing behind me, it was probably just my imagination.

Turning around, I go to join Joel in the barn when I hear the unmistakable sound of metal clicking. Maybe it wasn't my imagination after all.

"Hands in the air or I shoot!" Someone barks an order at me. I raise my hands above my shoulders, back still turned to the house. My limbs all stiffen and I try to think of a way out of this situation. Before I do anything, the voice calls out again.

"Drop your weapons and turn around. You have ten seconds!" It sounds like a woman's voice yelling down at me. With shaking fingers, I grab my gun and toss it to the ground, and drop my hunting knife. My curved blade stays tucked in my waistband because I know my shirt is concealing it. Slowly, I take small steps to turn around and my eyes drift up to the second floor of the house where the barrel of a sniper rifle is pointed right at me.

I was right, there in the window behind the gun is an older woman. She looks at me through the scope and adjusts her aim. My eyes flick to the left and right, and I see an old tractor tire laying on the grass. It could provide some cover, but not much and not for long.

"Get the hell off my farm." The woman barks at me and I hear a door open from the back of the house. Seconds later, an older man steps into my vision, his gun also raised and pointed right at me. They must've never left their farm, judging by the way the man is dressed in a blue flannel and overalls. He steps close to me with a sawed-off shotgun pointed right at my abdomen.

As I go to turn and walk back up the driveway, a shot sounds off and the rifle in the second story window drops to the ground. The woman's body follows right after and lands with a grotesque thud. The man turns back to see the dead woman on the ground, and I seize the opportunity to grab the shotgun out of his grasp.

His handle on his gun is firmer than I gave him credit for, and we wrestle back and forth. He makes a strained sound and my eyes snap up to his face where I see tears streaming down his cheeks. My heart shatters at the sight, but I have to get this gun away from him so he doesn't kill me as revenge. With one strong pull, he grabs the gun from my hands and before I can even blink, he turns the gun on himself and pulls the trigger.

His body folds on itself and he drops to the ground. My hands are frozen in the air as if I'm still trying to grab the gun from him and I watch in horror as his blood stains the green grass. The man's warm blood drips down my face and all I can do is blink rapidly, my brain processing what I just saw.

"Noelle." Joel's voice breaks me from my shock and I look at him as he slings his own rifle on his back. My eyes burn from being so wide and my arms drop back down to my sides.

Joel stands in front of me and his thumbs come up to wipe blood off of my forehead before it can drip down into my eyes. He roughly turns me around by the shoulders and ushers me towards the house. I stumble up the front stairs and open the door, met with nothing but an eerie silence. The door slams shut behind me as I take a few shuffled steps inside the house.

Joel moves things around behind me but all I can do is focus on the pictures that hang on the wall, all in antique frames, and I can't be bothered to focus on what he's doing.

A man and a woman smile hauntingly at me from one of the frames, their smiles reaching their eyes. In another photo, they clutch on to each other in a passionate kiss, the woman wearing a long white dress and the man in a sharp suit. They stand in front of the barn in another, the man holding a pitchfork and the woman leaning into his side. Bile rises in my throat and I quickly step forward and grab all of the frames off the wall in a frenzy.

My arms are stacked with frames as I rip every last one from the wall. There's an open linen closet behind the couch and I place the photos there and close the door. My fingertips leave a rusty red stain on the white wood of the door, and I forcefully wipe my hands on my pant legs, which are also covered in blood. My heart races as I try to rid myself of blood but I'm unable to do so. Blood from Trevor's office now mixes with blood from the old man and I feel like I'm drowning in it.

Drops of blood start caking on my face and I can feel it settling into my skin. My fingernails scratch at the feeling but I can't seem to get it off of me. Remnants of dead people linger on my body and my hands raise in front of my face. I stare in shock at my hands that are coated in crimson and my ears start ringing.

"Hey. Hey look at me." Joel stands in front of me and shakes my shoulders. His dark brown eyes look over my face and he grabs both of my hands in one of his. His skin is free of blood.

"I- I can't. Their-my skin." Words tumble out of my mouth incoherently. Joel nods his head, mouth hanging slightly open.

"I know. I know, come on." He pulls me into the kitchen and turns the faucet. To my surprise, water flows out of the spicket.

"How is that possible"? It's almost like the water is a figment of my imagination. The water swirls at the bottom of the sink before it goes down the drain.

"This is a farm, they probably have their own well." He answers with confidence. His eyes drop down to my death-covered clothes and he sighs.

"Stay here." He instructs and drops my hands from his. He walks up the stairs and I watch in confusion as he disappears on the second story.

Not wasting any time, I run my hands under the running water and scrub the rusty-colored blood off to the best of my ability before shutting off the water.

As I'm temporarily distracted from the blood coating me, I look around and notice the house is remarkably clean. There are dishes drying in the rack next to the sink, and a pan sits on the stove. In the dining room adjacent to the kitchen I see an open bottle of wine accompanied with two glasses, each a quarter of the way full. The living room couch is decorated with slouched pillows and a hand-made quilt drapes over the side.

Joel's boots on the stairs catches my attention and I look back up to him as he descends. He sees me standing in the same place he left me and he beckons me to follow him up the stairs with a motion of his hand. I follow and notice small nails sticking into the walls, but nothing is on them.

There are three rooms on the second story and Joel leads me to the one that has an open door, letting me go in first. I step into the bathroom and spot a towel on the large counter, a shirt and pants right next to it. My eyebrows scrunch in confusion and I turn around, seeing Joel standing with his hands shoved into his pockets.

"They have runnin' water. Get cleaned up, I'll be downstairs." He says, averting his gaze from me before he turns on his heel and walks away, closing the door as he goes. Silently, I look around and catch my reflection in the mirror. Stepping forward, I catch myself on the counter and let my arms support me as I truly take in what I've become.

My face is almost unrecognizable to me. Dried blood soaks into wrinkles that never used to be there, dark circles decorate my under eyes. My eyes no longer shine like I remember them, their color is dull now, almost flat and my hands come up to touch my face, solidifying that it's actually me I'm looking at. What once used to be shiny, healthy hair is now a tangled mess. My frame is even smaller than what I remember, thanks to malnutrition.

I force myself to look away, barely recognizing the woman who stares back at me. Instead, I focus on taking my boots off, then my socks. My thoughts narrate my motions to keep me from focusing on the past thirty minutes and keeps me present in the moment. Once I'm naked, I keep my line of vision away from the mirror and turn around to start the water for my shower.

Stepping into the porcelain tub, I watch as the water is tinged red as the gore is washed off of me. There are bottles in the shower, all unlabeled but I don't care what's in them. Unscrewing the caps, I figure it's probably some sort of homemade soap. Either way, it smells clean and so I douse my entire body in it.

After I'm satisfied with how clean I feel, I step out and grab the towel on the counter, taking time to dry myself off. I hope I saved enough water for Joel, I'll feel like a complete ass if he's left with cold water.

Draping the towel over the curtain rod, I begin redressing myself. I shrug on the plain black shirt and pull the new pants over my legs. The pants are a little big, but I can manage with my belt.

I take my old clothes in my hands and go into the next room. There's a large bed in the center of it, and I drop the dirty clothes into a basket situated in the corner of the room. Shamelessly, I rummage through the drawers until I find socks, and pick out a pair that looks durable. After I put them on I look around the other drawers and decide to repay the favor to Joel.

I pick out a button up denim shirt and a pair of dark jeans, and remember to grab a fresh pair of socks for him as well. Placing them on the counter like he did for me, I open the slender door next to the shower, seeing neatly folded towels, and I place one beside the clothes.

Grabbing my boots, I make my way back down to Joel where I'm sure he's more than ready to get a proper shower as well.

Part Fifteen

[officerslog]

spock & gender/sexuality.

as i've mentioned before, spock transitioned socially and physically exceptionally early, as he knew extremely young that he did not feel a connection with his assigned sex. amanda advocated for her son, as she always had, and sarek did his own part in his own way, too.

he was put on puberty blockers young which kept him happy and later started to take testosterone throughout much of his developmental years (and still does, into his adulthood), yet in his late teens, before deciding to attend starfleet academy, he elected to receive top surgery to ensure a level of comfort that hormones could not quite achieve.

rest under cut here as it gets a little nsfw in the next paragraph.

down the line, probably around 21 or 22, he also got bottom surgery and since it's the star trek universe and it's like. so long into the future, i'm going to say that the surgical procedures surrounding gender affirming care are probably close to entirely perfected, meaning he never needed to worry about scars on his arm/thigh or loss of sensation in his lower regions, and that shit is fully operational (hallelujah). as a transmasc dude i say he gets to be HAPPY and well-endowed.

in his present timeline, spock doesn't struggle super often with his dysphoria any longer, as he's been fully transitioned for like... a decade plus depending on where we're looking in the timeline regarding my main verse. it is something he does grapple with occasionally, but not nearly as often as when he was a teenager.

he's obviously very physically fit (as seen here, here, and here) and he maintains his physical form pretty rigorously, because it makes him feel good mentally, physically, and emotionally.

in terms of dress he typically follows a more formal kind of casualwear (see this post for a visual), and his typical out-of-uniform attire is a button up with slacks or a solid black tight-fitting crewneck or turtleneck with slacks also or perhaps cargo pants. he likes dress shoes and boots.

sometimes he wears eyeshadow also, because he likes it, though he doesn't tend to wear other makeup simply because he doesn't care for the feeling of it on his face, and not because he has any sort of complex about it.

being super fucking tall even for a vulcan helps him, as he stands at a staggering 7 feet, which is massive for most humanoids, and also super gender affirming for him.

occasionally he grows some facial hair and tends to have a 5 o'clock shadow when he isn't diligent about shaving, though he isn't super into having a beard or anything, so he always shaves it before it reaches that point. he's pleased he can grow a pretty impressive one if he wanted to, though, as he has before (see dsc season 2).

spock is very secure in his identity and knows with certainty he is regarded clearly and entirely as a man not just by himself but by everyone else, and the fact of the matter is that there are like a handful of people in the universe that even know he's trans as it is, as it's only mentioned in parts of his medical file that are only visible to the captain and cmo. he doesn't usually disclose this information about himself either for personal peace of mind.

in regards to his sexuality it took him several years to realize that he's gay, and it was only something he began to give significant thought to when he was a teenager, though he avoided the subject for the most part for many years, thinking that it wouldn't matter as he was betrothed to t'pring in their youth, and he would be obligated to her in that regard.

we know what happens with t'pring so i won't get super into that (other than to say i love her so bad and if she's free on tuesday i'm also free on tuesday), but it's only really when spock meets someone that he has romantic feelings for that he can't ignore that he fully realizes and accepts that he's gay. he'd never given it much thought (he has always known he's gay he simply never acknowledged it beyond that) because he felt that romantic relationships were not something he'd experience for a multitude of reasons. those reasons being for the most part due to his emotional instability, his career, and struggling with feeling like he isn't deserving of love in the first place.

that being said, he's fairly open about his sexuality if asked about it, as it isn't as private to him as his gender identity, though spock is in general notoriously private as it is. his sexuality is obvious if you just pay attention to him though. and once he and his partner start dating it's impossible to hide because he's the most smitten person in the alpha and beta quadrants and everyone knows it. <3

[erinhime83]

Its that time again for some Division designs!  I sort of go derailed from doing these thanks to the WfS rewrites, but I am determined not to wait another year to do the Cataclysm sequel, so here we are.  Three months out and me freaking out about the last couple of design pictures I need to do, lol.  These are simple and easy to do once I start on them, and they look neat, but it’s just the getting started that gets me, lol.

So these two are the first minor characters that I’ve done.  They sort of straddle the line – they’re not important enough for me to consider being major characters, but they’re not shoved to the back burner, so to speak.  But the fact that they are minor characters is probably why I was dragging my feet, since I had to figure out their style and all.

So first we have Felix, whose the second in command of the Lolita team, so he’s featured quite a bit.  When I first created him, he was supposed to be someone who simply did not like Nova for whatever reason.  He was supposed to be pretentious and an ass, thinking her newbie status was going to get in the way.  He’s still a bit pretentious, but as soon as I started writing him, all aspects of him being an ass disappeared and he somehow gained respect for Nova and I started to like him.  I mean, considering he’s on a lower tier team by choice would sort of suggest that he’s not completely full of himself.

He’s supposed to serve as the more grounded team leader, the one who understands their situation rather than be mad about their status.  They should be a top tier team, none of them truly want that, because they have seem how pretentious and annoying those teams can be.  Felix was drafted to the same team Astrid was on when they first started, and he’s like the only person who doesn’t view her powers as creepy and villain material, which is why he agreed to join her when she started her team.

I do see Felix as being a bit fashionable – he and Astrid have similar tastes – so I sort of slapped something hipster-y on him and I sort of like it?  It suits him, in any case.  The rest of him’s so dark that the green just pops, lol. 

As for his Storm King uniform, I didn’t design it, sadly, but it looks so much cooler than anything I would have come up with.  Granted, being as self-important that he is, you’d think he’d have a more complicated and expensive uniform, but I guess he just figures to stay on the level’s he’s at, and hey, what works, works.  He looks cool, and that’s all that matters.

The next one is Ethan, who is a fun character to think of scenarios with.  Too bad I couldn’t put them all in the first book, lol.  I’m not sure where the idea came from originally, but I loved the idea of the rest of his team claiming that his superpower was ‘laziness’ because he didn’t want to do anything, and also that he was forced to join by his parents.  And the idea that Blake is basically his keeper, frustratingly trying to get him to do anything.

But the thing is his power is super cool and useful and unusual.  Blake feels he has potential, which is why he keeps pushing him, and Ethan isn’t completely disinterested in the idea of being a hero, or else he wouldn’t listen.  It’s mostly that Ethan is a bit of a loner who would rather be doing anything else, but he’s slowly warming up to the team and the idea of being a hero.

And then the fight at the gala happened, and he had his first real taste of being a hero, and, well, Cosmic Star herself complimented his powers, so now he’s making more of an effort.  (Blake is a little worried that Ethan might be scooped up by a better team now that he’s Making An Effort, but he doesn’t need to worry, since Ethan wouldn’t want to acclimate to a new team.)

His style seemed easy enough – I ended up aging him down from what I originally had him at so he was younger than Nova, and sticking him in skater teen fashion just made sense.  It works well with him and his personality! 

AND THEN there’s his redesigned uniform.  I had always planned on Ethan getting a little more serious after Cosmic Star complimented him, and I realized last year that it should mean he has a new uniform, so I had to go and actually think about what he’s wear.  I’d imagine his parents were still the ones who designed it for him, lol.  It’s simple, but he looks really cool now.  Definitely more like a hero than some dude who threw something together.  I really like it.

So yeah, the first of the minor characters.  So more should be coming soonish, just so I can get all this done and over with.

[lewiselder]

dude your arm sucks!

we back!

it’s been about a year since the last post. i’m consistently averaging about 1 post a year. that’s a lot, right? 

hope this blog posts finds ya’ll well. not much is different in my life besides everything. ralph has gotten ever cuter, sweeter, and nicer. random anecdote but i actually did some 1v1 sessions w/ a dog trainer, but ended up cancelling the remainder when i started to freak out and realize i loved his personality and didn’t want it to change. moral of the story: abandon therapy and become your absolute worst. 

anywayyyyy - i’ve had 2 very arm-core things happen to me in the past few weeks. bad news for me is good news for ya’ll. i get my day ruined and ya’ll get something to read on the toilet in between actively giving yourself adhd by watching misinformation on tiktok for 90 minutes. 

*whispering* actually, i kind of like when this crazy shit happens to me bc i get to write about it and feel ~special~ :^D

today, we’re gonna cover the first story. i hope to be consistent enough to write up the other story soon. no promises. 

Dude, your arm sucks!

picture this, it’s mere weeks ago - fathers day 2023 - beautiful, scenic sunday weather. handsome clouds with chiseled jaws and just the right amount of buccal fat hang expectantly in a baby blue sky. i’m in a wifebeater with a mullet. 

as ya’ll surely know, i grew up without a dad (as did most of my friends shout tf out to ya’ll) and so i obviously don’t do anything special for father’s day. on this particular father’s day, my friend and i were going to go for a nice walk with ralph, but first we decide to stop by the starbucks next to my apartment.

my friend runs in to order the coffees. i stand outside with ralph, leaning against the side of the building. 

now i’ve heard a lot of words in my 30 years. i’ve heard them put together in all sorts of combinations to form all types of sentences. smart sentences, dumb sentences, long sentences, short sentences, sentences about crypto even. but i was about to hear a sentence i’d never heard before. 

from out of absolute fucking nowhere i hear, 

“dude! your arm suuucks!”

lmao

what

i look up from watching some instagram story of someone i’ll never see in person again for the rest of my life even if we both live to be 1,000, to see a tall, skinny dude standing next to me. his mouth half open, half smiling

i’m literally standing in shock, mostly perplexed and processing, my tiny golden dog who has some of the worst dog anxiety on the planet quakes beneath my feet. 

“what?” i manage to spit out through a half laugh

“dude yeah man, your arm sucks!”

i stare at him like:

if i recall correctly, he introduced himself as Rick at some point during this interaction, so i’ll refer to dude as Rick (have you ever said the name Rick to yourself like 5x? that can’t be a real name. it’s barely even a sound. rick. rick. rick. rick. rick. yeah get fucking real bud)

rick: “nah man see that’s just how i approach life. we gotta just be upfront with one another and then we can move forward from there. like now we’ve addressed it and so we can move on”

PLEASE NOTE: rick was not as well spoken as i am making him sound. while this is largely accurate, i’m paraphrasing from memory. pls add in 70% more incoherence to whatever i say he said  

and i gotta hand it to rick, he was hilarious. it’s awesome pseudo-intellectualism filled with ersatz empathy.

me: O_O

rick: yeah man like look, my leg used to suck 

*rick pulls up one of his pant legs, exposing the lower half of his leg*

now i can’t tell ya’ll his leg didn’t suck bc it definitely fucking sucked but it looked normal to me, albeit gross and dirty

me: bro pull your pant leg down lol

rick: *pouting* fine, but im just saying now that we got it out of the way we can be friends on a real level

me: i don’t think friendship is in the cards for us man. bro i need you to keep it moving

i should mention that, while this is a lot of text, this is maybe 20 seconds of real life interaction, and at this point it becomes clear to me that rick is at least semi-homeless and likely not totally together mentally. this colors strongly how i interacted with him going forward, because idk man what am i gonna get into a fist fight with a houseless dude who is likely high or drunk rn?

sensing my withdrawal from the conversation and my waning interest in friendship, rick resorts to an especially strange move. 

rick: nah man lemme get a real good look at it and we’ll get through this

rick bends down and puts his face maybe 6 inches from my arm, his bloodshot eyes wide as dinner plates

me: *recoiling* alright man see now im really about to beat the shit out of you if you don’t get the fuck on 

rick (as if i just lit a firework during a fancy dinner party): woah fuck ok man, fine. trust me your legs are as big as my waist, i know you could beat my ass. but i might be able to out run you in a straight line spring *chuckles to himself* but obviously you’re a strong guy

at this point, rick starts walking away still kind of talking about how i look strong. he opens the door to starbucks and heads in. he’s their problem now. 

mind you, starbucks is packed so it’s taking forever for my friend to get the drinks. 

maybe 40 seconds later the door to starbucks flings open

rick is back, baby!

“would a cigarette make it up to ya?”

me: lol brother i don’t smoke

rick: yeah me neither *lights cigarette in his mouth* 

we stand there almost shoulder to shoulder like old lovers who’ve run out of things to talk about but just like to enjoy each others company

rick: man you know what show my kids love?

me: what show rick

rick: inspector gadget man, you ever seen it?

me: yeah man that’s pretty old, i’m surprised that’s still on

rick: yeah they love it. you know who you remind me of? Dr. Claw. he’s the villain but he’s a badass. his arm sucks too. 

me: rick...

rick: im just saying man like obviously this shit has just made you tougher in life man. you’re jacked man, i hope my kids grow up to be like you

me: rick, brother, its fathers day, shouldn’t you be with your kids

rick, speaking more to god than to me: *softly* it’s fathers day

me: i’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess their mom has custody

at this point it’s felt like rick and i have been on this island together for a fucking eternity. seasons have changed, wars have risen and subsided, babies have been born and gone to college and decided to hit the snooze button on life by then going to grad school. 

i’ve literally had relationships shorter than this. not that i don’t enjoy talking to my old buddy rick, but man what i wouldn’t give for him to walk away, or for this starbucks to blow up, or for me to be assassinated. something, anything. 

FINALLY, my friend comes outside with the fucking coffees

she walks up to us perplexed

me: alright man i gotta go now 

*i start walking away*

rick: *smoking his cigarette that didn’t make it up to me and following us as if we’re all in the world’s worst band headed to practice together* aw yeah see now we were just talking about how his arm sucks and -

now i can’t have this fucking dude come walking with us, and i’d mostly been a good sport to him up to this point with the exception of when he tried to do a gynecological exam on my left arm

me, turning and getting into ricks face: ok i’m seriously gonna smack the fuck out of you if you don’t walk away right now

the 2nd threat seemed to do the trick. 

rick muttered some random shit under his breath before finally using his formerly sucky leg to saunter off back towards starbucks.

good night, sweet prince

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

I should say that at no point was I really going to fight Rick. He was clearly unwell, but the only way to really get him to leave was to threaten him. During the entirety of the interaction I was more amused and annoyed than mad (save for when he bent down and put his face in my arm). 

It did however bring me back to a place I spent the majority of my time when I was younger. My experience growing up disabled was one fraught with the preservation of what little pride I had. When I felt someone disrespected me, the overwhelming sense of obligation to do something about it (fight them, argue back, whatever) was one of the strongest driving forces of my formative years. And to be honest, feeling as if you have to fight and claw for the sense of pride most able-bodied people get to inherently enjoy is a tremendously heavy burden to carry. 

One of the reasons I so relate to people who have some type of outward presenting marginalized identity, whether they’re Black or Brown or disabled or non-gender-conforming or whatever, is because it’s such an insanely specific experience to have people come up to you and say the absolute wildest shit possible. And they expect there to be no consequences from their actions, which is such a motherfucking frustrating dynamic to experience. It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never gone through it. 

Anyway, that’s pretty much it. I haven’t seen Rick since. I do wish him the best, as I know he had good intentions. And while him and I ultimately weren’t able to enjoy a Newport together like he wanted (but Rick doesn’t smoke), he did give me an interesting story to add to the collection. 

All in all, not my worst father’s day.

if u read this far i owe u a cigarette

[bookshelf-dust]

fix me up

billy hargrove x gn!reader

word count: 1,425

warnings: swearing, allusions to sex/sexual innuendos, basically billy being a flirty little shit, mentions of back pain, fluff

a/n: hiii!! i came up with this a few days ago and i’ve been in love with it but now i’m feeling a little iffy about it, so i hope someone out there in the void likes it. happy reading! love you!! <33

————

“I think that if I have to lift a squirmy toddler up one more time, I’m just going to fucking die.”

“That seems a little dramatic.”

You’re sat on your knees next to where Billy lays flat on his back, his palms pressed to his eyes. You reach forward and rub your hand over his forehead, fingers smoothing over his hair. 

He moves his hands, looking up at you like he always does when you’re sweet with him. He raises his brows for a moment, a little confused, but then he leans into it, allowing himself to enjoy your affection. 

His hair is still a little damp from the shower he had when he got home, washing the smell of chlorine from his skin. 

You drag your thumb over the slit in his eyebrow, across the circles under his eyes, lingering on the freckles he has. They’re your favorite part of him, you’ve decided.

Billy shifts a little, like he’s uncomfortable, his eyes scrunching closed in pain. 

“Something hurtin’ you, baby?” 

He grabs for your wrist when you take it away, smacking a kiss to your pulse point. 

“My back’s fucking killin’ me.”

You pout for just a second, though he misses it because his eyes are still closed. 

It’s a dull ache that travels from his lower back, up his spine, and spreads at his shoulders. He’s sore. And his sides hurt, too. He can practically still feel the little feet kicking the shit out of him as he tried to convince the kids they were not, in fact, going to sink.

Not with floaties on, and not with him there. Not on their backs.

“Want me to rub it for you?”

Billy snorts. “You’d do that?”

You readjust so you’re sitting cross-legged. “I mean, I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it, but I’m willing to try to see if it’ll make you feel better.”

“I have complete faith in you.” 

“Liar.”

He grins at you before he’s grabbing your face with both hands to pull you down to his level. He kisses you once; his mouth is warm and he’s a little stubbly, though it’s not like you mind. 

When he pulls away, Billy sits up and flips so that he’s laying on his tummy, socked feet up by the pillows.

You go to straddle the backs of his thighs, but he’s sitting up again. “Wait—wait,” he says. He yanks his shirt off over his head and throws it somewhere behind him on the bed. 

You roll your eyes. “Show off.”

“Like you don’t want your hands on me.”

You choose this moment to slap him on the ass. He groans and crosses his arms so he can rest his face on them, cheek squishing up so he looks much less menacing than he would’ve hoped. 

You settle with your knees on either side of his hips, placing your hands on the skin of his back. He shivers, and you fight a grin. 

Billy is so warm. He's like a space heater. It takes seconds for the tips of your fingers to warm up against him. You run your hands over the planes of his back, down the dip in his spine. 

“I’m gonna touch you, and I need you to tell me where it hurts, okay?” 

Billy hums. Having you on him like this is comforting, he thinks. He likes feeling the weight of you against him, likes your hands running all over him. Even if you do keep skimming his ass because you can’t help yourself. 

You rest your palms against his lower back. “Here right?” You lean down and kiss the spot. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Where else?” you ask. You put some lotion on your hands so as to not make him uncomfortable, warming it up before you touch him. He fights the urge to make a joke about you lubing him up. 

Your hands slide upwards, over his shoulder blades. “There,” he grumbles.

“That all?”

“My sides.”

You put your hands back against his soft spot, and rub them up and outwards in a sort of sweeping motion. “So, like, this whole spot?”

“Yeah, baby.”

“‘Kay. You’ll tell me if something hurts or if you want it harder, right?”

Billy snorts at the sexual connotation that your words carry. He’s laughing because he’s asked you the same questions before. And he likes that you’re the one asking them now. 

“Billy,” you whine. 

“You know I will.” 

You start with his lower back, pressing your hands firmer than you had been against his skin. You rub in that same motion you’d used before, fingers spreading and trying to push the tension out. 

He hasn’t complained yet, so you assume he’s doing fine. Assume you’re doing fine. 

You keep doing that, rubbing his back and thinking about how you might do your own, reaching and sort of massaging the area to relieve the pain. 

When you look up at him, Billy’s eyes are closed. It’s like he’s sinking into the mattress. It makes you smile. 

You move to his shoulders. Your palms dig into the squish of his back, tanned skin and freckles moving under your touch. You push upwards, and hear him sigh. 

Billy feels like he could die. Your hands feel so good and his mind is so muddled he’s not even sure he could form a coherent thought. He knows that if he’s like this and you’re only doing his back, he’d just dissolve if you touched anything else. 

You start on his back again, remembering that he’d said it was bothering him the most. You use both of your thumbs and start at the very base of his spine, just above the waistband of his underwear, pushing hard. 

You’ve only done this once when he moans. 

“Ohhh, fuck.”

You stop. You’re giggling at the way he’s melting underneath you and it’s making you heat up in more ways than one. 

Billy turns his head to look at you, half asleep, blanket lines on his cheek. “Why’d you quit?” he grumbles. 

You grin. “You’re moaning, William.”

He rolls his eyes and face plants back into the comforter on his bed. “Am not.”

You laugh and he reaches back with one hand, blindly swatting at you. He misses but is too sleepy and entranced to do anything but relent, so your thumbs find his back again, pushing in the same motion. 

This time Billy let’s put a low sigh, like the tension is being released from his back. You push a little harder, rubbing up a little further. He does it again, brows furrowing. He knows that he moaned for you. He’s trying not to do it again but he’s losing the battle. 

“That good, huh?” you tease. 

Billy’s eyes fly open and he pushes up onto his elbows. He’s said those exact words to you so many times it’s like he doesn’t even have to think about it anymore. 

He’s not sure he wants to admit how much he likes this power you hold over him. 

You take your hands off of him and place them over your mouth to keep from laughing. You’re so proud of yourself and Billy swears he feels his heart swell at your antics. 

“Do you want me to stop?” you ask. “Clearly I wasn’t hurting you.” You’re laughing again and you lower yourself to rest your forehead against his back. He can feel your breath and your body shaking with giggles. 

“Kiss my ass,” he says. He runs a hand down his face. 

When you take him up on his offer, planting a kiss on the side of his ass cheek–even if it is on top of the cotton shorts he’s wearing–Billy breaks. 

He laughs. It’s a warm and happy sound. He seriously can’t believe you. 

The both of you are laughing like children, so loud that Max screams down the hall for you to “shut the hell up,” but that only makes it worse. 

“Okay,” you start, trying to catch your breath. “Okay. Holy shit.” Your hand slides back up his back, fingers running up and down his spine, giving him goosebumps. “You feel any better? Or you want me to keep going?”

Billy flops back down into the mattress. “Please don’t stop. Need you to fix me up.”

You adjust yourself so that you’re sitting directly against the curve of his ass this time. You lean down to whisper into his ear, hands massaging at his sides. 

“I think I can fix you up just fine, baby.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

[phoenixyfriend]

Anakin and the Jedi Babies: A Child's Ink

Context: Anakin and the Jedi Babies, chrono

WARNINGS: underage characters get tattoos/piercings

Word Count: 5680 Rating: T Ships: primarily Gen (Disaster Lineage + Shmi), offscreen JangoShmi, past Obitine, past Anidala ----

Ylliben Skywalker is known as a preternaturally calm and quiet child, serious and pensive.

He jokes. He roughhouses. He is as responsive to tickle attacks and shoulder rides and warm hugs as any other child.

But he is Jetii'Manda, not just Mando'ade, and that fact is impossible to forget.

This is a child that can read before he can speak, a child who can talk at length about 'grassroots antiestablishment propaganda and its influence on rural sociological development' before he can say the words without a lisp. This is a child who looks a man in the eye and tells him to check over his blaster one last time, or it will explode in his hand only minutes into the next engagement. This is a child who is not only willing, but capable of discussing the plausible ramifications of Duke Adonai Kryze's latest decrees with Jaster Mereel himself, while still in possession of all his baby teeth.

(His father is not worried by this. Upset, sometimes, pained and tired, but not worried.)

(His sister only laughs.)

It is, as a result, not as surprising as it could be, when a six-year-old wanders his way into Na-Tsuyon's parlor and asks her what the risks of getting a tattoo at his age are.

"I'm not having that conversation with you unless your parent is here," she says. A few of the other artists crane their heads in her direction, but she waves them off.

"I'm not trying to get it right this moment," Ben protests. "I'm just gathering information. He said that was fine."

"Still need your parent here here," she tells him.

He leaves for about ten minutes, and then comes back with a tall, gangling figure in tow.

"I hear this isn't the place for unaccompanied minors," Knight Skywalker jokes.

(She has heard him called a General. She does not know which war he fought. Nobody does.)

(They no longer ask.)

"Well, he is young," she says, brushing her tentacles back over a shoulder. "I don't let anyone under human-fourteen get tattooed without a parent on hand, and giving preliminary information to anyone under twelve is... generally not worth it, shall we say."

Skywalker smiles, oddly amused in the way he always is when someone points out his children need supervision. "Glad to hear it. Are you the Na-Tsuyon whose name is on the door?"

"I am," she says. "And you're Knight Skywalker."

He's pleased at that. She can feel it in the chemical receptors of her head tails, and wonders. "Yep. So, do we jump right into the discussion or do you need me to sign something, or..."

"No, it's enough that you're here," she assures him. "Now, the main reasons we discourage tattoos for younger sentients is the distortion factor. While the level of pain is much lower than it would have been several millennia ago, and we have the technology to remove ink from below the skin, a tattoo before your body stops growing will distort as you grow and your skin stretches. You would need to come in yearly for touch-ups, to remove the sections that have moved out of place, and fill in where the ink is no longer settled."

"That makes sense," Ylliben says. He looks up at his father, and then back to her. "You'd be able to tell me if any of my choices would be... bad for a Mandalorian, yes?"

"I would," she confirms. She glances up at Knight Skywalker. "I don't suppose you have any history of getting tattoos?"

"No," he says. "I'm from Tatooine, so..."

Different connotations to the very act of it, for him.

She ducks her head in a nod. "I understand. Generally it's easier if the parent has experience in the process, but it's far from mandatory. You're willing to work with the distortion maintenance?"

"Yes'm," Ylliben says, and his father shrugs and gestures, as if the word of a six-year-old is thus law.

"I'll walk you through the details of the process, including the care, relevant allergies, and so on. I don't suppose you have anything in mind already?" she asks.

"I do," he says. He doesn't tell her what it is, yet.

Anakin Skywalker stays there the entire time, and they make an appointment for later in the week.

----

"My buir isn't my only father," Ylliben says quietly, when it comes time to get details on what he's getting tattooed. "I had another father before him. A Jedi. He died, to protect me, and a lot of other people. So, um..."

He shoves a picture to her, the symbol of the Jedi, plain and simple. She looks at him.

"In red," he says, shifting on his feet, looking up at his father and then back down at the page. "For, um, to honor a parent."

"Your first father was a Jedi?" she asks, gentle as she can.

"Mm-hm," Ylliben says. "He died, um... he saved buir from slavery, too, a long time ago. Both my dads were Jedi, and I'm going to be one, too, and so is Sokanth. It's--it's about where I come from, and--"

"You don't have to justify it if you don't want to," Na-Tsuyon tells him, reaching out to place one hand on his. It's very warm and dry, in her opinion, but she finds that most humans are. Mandalorians are some 80% human, or near human.

Nautolan Mandalorians aren't unheard of, but she's a rare one.

Ben sucks in a breath, and says, "I want it up here, on my right shoulder, like a pauldron."

Na-Tsuyon nods, and looks up to Skywalker. "You'll have to sign some papers to approve it, Master Jedi. You approve of the design?"

Skywalker hesitates, and then goes to one knee in front of his son, and speaks so quietly she can only hear "--remind you of the generator complex?"

Whatever Ben's answer is, it's too quiet for her to catch. It satisfies Skywalker, though, and he stands. "Alright, let's see this paperwork."

----

When Ylliben comes in again, a year later to get his slightly-twisting tattoo fixed, it's with Miss Shmi in tow. Na-Tsuyon greets the middle Skywalker, for all that she's still not entirely sure how to address the girl. "I heard you've been attending the university at Sundari. Some kind of engineering?"

"Mechanical, yes," Shmi says, oddly soft. "I'm going to spend another year to specialize in vehicular engineering. I'd like to design starships, since I already know how to fix them."

"A worthy goal," Na-Tsuyon says, as she leads them over to one of the stations and starts sanitizing Ylliben's inked shoulder. She doesn't entirely see why a university education is needed for something that, in her opinion, an apprenticeship could more thoroughly cover. It certainly worked well enough Na-Tsuyon herself. "You're on vacation, then?"

"I am," Shmi confirms. "It's... unfortunate that Anakin couldn't be here a the same time, but we'll see each other in a few days."

Ylliben fidgets for a bit as his jedi symbol is fixed, and then finally asks, "Ori'vod can approve new tattoos, right?"

"Sokanth, no. Shmi..." Na-Tsuyon looks up at her. "I have no idea if you're listed as his legal guardian anywhere, and I'd need proof of that."

"Secondary to Anakin," Shmi confirms. "Ben would like this to be a surprise for Ani."

Ben pulls out a sheet, with a careful design on it, and presses it into Na-Tsuyon's lap when she lifts the tattoo gun and he's not at risk of ruining his own ink. It's simpler than the Jedi symbol, though it's two colors instead of one.

"It's the Open Circle Fleet," Ben says, shy in a way she's given to understand he usually isn't. She thinks his shyer moments may be connected to admitting to emotion, something that he's tying quite closely to his choice of Tattoos. "I thought, um, since I'm already--already honoring one buir, then, er..."

"The Open Circle Fleet was under the command of my brother's Jedi Master," Shmi explains, one hand on Ben's. "And I am given to understand that the symbol was designed as a subtle nod, of sorts, to the two of them as a team. Ben's looking to honor Anakin as he has his first father."

Ben looks down at his lap, and doesn't meet Na-Tsuyon's eyes.

"Bring me proof of guardianship," she tells them. "And I'll make sure you get it finished early enough that the bacta comes off before Knight Skywalker makes it home."

She holds true to her word, and talks her way into being there to see the reunion and reveal.

The emotions that cross Skywalker's face are complicated and unexpected in ways that she can't identify.

Then it's all too simple, because he starts crying on little Ylliben in the middle of the hangar.

----

It doesn't take a full year for Ylliben to come in for another set. It's only five months, maybe six. He has a sketch again, a geometric design of something she doesn't recognize, but still pings as familiar for some reason.

"It needs to be the right shade of blue," he tells her, serious as anything. Knight Skwyalker is right next to him, smiling all soft and indulgent, and maybe a little sad. "It's for Soka."

Oh. This is based on her facial markings, then. Or... what they will be, maybe. This doesn't look quite like what she's seen on the girl, but everyone knows little Ben is more touched by visions than his father and sister.

Na-Tsuyon thinks she knows where this is going. "The same blue as her montrals and lekku?"

Ben shakes his head. "No, 501st blue."

Or not.

"It's close, but a little darker and more saturated," Skywalker offers, and shrugs when she looks his way. "It's a long story, but the 501st was the legion I led before I arrived at Mandalore. It had a specific shade of blue assigned for armor paint, so legions could easily identify each other in the field."

That's... odd. She doesn't ask for more detail, though. It's not her business. "Where do you want this one?"

Ben shows her his left forearm and frames a section about two-thirds the length of it, along the outer side. Like a vambrace.

She has a feeling all these symbols will be on his armor, once he's old enough for it.

"Let's go through my inks and see which one will work best," she says, and does not comment on the rest.

----

When Ylliben comes in again, a few months before his next touch-up appointment, he doesn't have an image on hand. His father is trailing him again, and Na-Tsuyon has a guess.

"Time for Shmi?" she asks.

Ben ducks his head, flushing and not meeting Na-Tsuyon's eyes. "Yes'm."

"I thought as much," she says, and smiles at Skywalker. "General."

"Don't start."

"There have been oh so many rumors flying since the last Jedi run-in, you know."

"I don't care," he grouses, dropping into a seat. "Hells, a man takes emergency command for one battle, and it's all anyone can talk about."

"You ended a civil war, sir."

Ben giggles into his hands as Skywalker groans and slaps a hand over his eyes.

"No respect," the man complains. "Ben, be nice to me, I'm your dad."

"Nuh-uh," Ben says. "I know all the most embarrassing secrets."

"A cruel child," Skywalker accuses. "Ruthless."

"You're the one raising me," Ben says, swinging his legs back and forth. He's got plastoid training vambraces, now, and greaves that clink against the legs of the chair.

"Somehow, yes." Skywalker sighs, with great drama and all such things. He drags himself up to sitting. "Anyway. Moving on."

"Do you have something in mind already?" Na-Tsuyon asks.

"Binary suns," Ben says. "Just two overlapping circles, coin-sized, one bigger than the other, in sunset colors. In a gradient, with a sort of... flare to it? Halo? The... oh! The stellar corona. Buir knows the colors better."

"I want to see what you have to work with before I sketch out the design," Skywalker says. "But yeah, sort of pink and yellow and peachy."

"I can do almost any color," Na-Tsuyon promises. "Especially on fair human skin like Ylliben's. I won't have a problem getting those to show up the way I would on myself."

Na-Tsuyon is a color most would call 'aquamarine.' She's a light shade between blue and green, and much as she likes her skin, it's an absolute pain to make red and orange show up.

She can do it.

It's just annoying.

Ben asks for this one to be on the inside of the left forearm, high and opposite to the widest point of the mark for Sokanth.

----

"Can I see your fonts?"

Ben's alone, for the moment, but Na-Tsuyon knows that when he makes his decision, his father or Shmi will approve it without question. It's no harm to let him browse.

"Basic, Mando'a, or Huttese alphabet?" she asks. "Or something more esoteric?"

"Mando'a, please."

He's eight years old, now. He's still far younger than most of her clients, but she's long gotten used to him. Even when he's acting like a child, there's something to it that doesn't quite sit right. 'Born middle-aged,' a few of the other civilians on base had joked.

She wasn't sure if she thought it was just a joke, these days.

Na-Tsuyon passes her fonts book to the boy, and settles back in her chair for a long afternoon of running numbers. He, meanwhile, goes to sit in the lobby, legs still not long enough to reach the floor, paging through with unwavering, unsettling gravitas.

Half an hour, and then Ben returns.

He points to a font. "This one."

"What's it going to say?"

"Vode An," he tells her, as serious as can be. "In black, over my heart. It's important."

"It's a fairly common phrase," she notes idly. "Should be quick."

She doesn't expect much of a response, and certainly not the one she gets.

"It was different for them," Ben mutters, not looking at her. She sees him twisting the toes of one shoe into the floor. "It was... it was different. I can't talk about it. They were brothers, actually brothers, and they had--they had nothing, they were basically slaves, but--"

"You don't have to talk about it," Na-Tsuyon assures him, a hand on his. "You don't have to explain it to me. If it means something to you, that's all that matters. I just need you to be sure."

"And buir to sign the paperwork," Ben quips, smiling at her. She notices that several teeth are missing. It's cute. "You need that too."

"That too," she agrees.

When Skywalker shows up, he hears what it is that Ben would like, and makes a few suggestions for a border--a gear that sounded too much like the Republic's symbol for a Mando'a phrase, a building on stilts from a city she's never heard of on a planet that rings no bells, a human genetic strand for reasons she can't imagine--most of which are soundly ignored, until Skywalker sketched out a stylized ship of... some sort.

"Venator," Skywalker says, and taps the image. "Nobody will know it except us, but it'll mean something to you, for them."

Ben looks at it for a long moment, and then takes the scrap of flimsi with Mando'a on it and lays it overtop the center of the sketch.

He stares at it for a few long moments, and then nods sharply and pushes it to Na-Tsuyon. "This, please."

He's such a polite child.

It makes it easier to ignore the more confusing parts of his presence in her parlor.

----

"Hi!"

Sokanth Skywalker is in her shop.

That's new.

"Hello," Na-Tsuyon says. "I didn't know you were thinking of getting ink."

"I'm not," she says, hopping up on a stool across the counter. She holds out a hand, and Na-Tsuyon clasps it with bemusement. "But you guys do piercings too, right?"

"We do," she confirms. "You're... ten?"

"Yep!" Sokanth chirps, kicking her legs back and forth. "Is that old enough to get these without permission, or should I ask my dad to come by?"

"At least twelve for piercings without in-person, signed approval from a parent or guardian," Na-Tsuyon says. "Though if you're anything like your brother, I don't imagine that'll be a problem for you."

Sokanth grins at her, bright and a little wild. "Nose, bottom lip, eyebrow. I don't know the actual terms, but I know what I want. Which do you suggest getting first?"

"I'd say nostril," Na-Tsuyon tells her. Most species even vaguely humanoid kick off with the ears, but that's not exactly an option for a togruta. "Let me get a chart and you can figure out what type of piercing you want, and what kind of hoop or stud. I don't actually do the piercings myself, though. Comm the General if you want this done today, though."

"Thank you~!"

----

Nostril, labret, and a horizontal brow, the piercer notes down at the end of the latest Skywalker visit. Na-Tsuyon wonders if the brow piercing will look strange with Soka's markings, and then doesn't think on it further.

----

Ylliben, almost nine, is silent as he gets the touch-up.

His father isn't here. Neither is Shmi. It's pre-approved, signed permission and all, but it's still odd that neither of Ben's adults is here.

Sokanth is, but she's almost as quiet as Ben is.

Na-Tsuyon has heard the rumors, but she's not going to say anything. She's not. It's not her business.

"Ben," Soka speaks up, towards the end of the appointment. "Ask her the thing."

Ben shakes his head. "No way."

"She knows more about tattoos and how important they are than anyone!" Soka urges. "Ask her!"

"Do you want to wait for your father?" Na-Tsuyon suggests.

"No!" both immediately yelp.

She pauses, glad the needle hadn't been to skin, and levels a look at Ben. He flushes and settles down, mumbling an apology for jerking as he had. She goes back to fixing the stretch of the binary suns tattoo.

Soka shifts in her seat, watching them intently.

"Shmi's upset with buir," Ben suddenly says. He doesn't meet Na-Tsuyon's eyes. "I'm... I don't know if you heard what's going on."

"I do my best to avoid rumors," she says, keeping her voice as neutral as she can. "I did hear that the Mand'alor is about to have a grandchild, and something about an upcoming wedding. That much has been announced officially."

"Dad freaked out," Soka says, legs kicking back and forth. "He's happy for her, and he's fine with Jango being the other parent, but it kicked off a... philosophical crisis? Ben, what do you think?"

"Metaphysical, maybe," Ben mumbles. "Definitely existential."

"And he told Shmi some stuff and now she's hurt that he didn't tell her before and it's all a mess," Soka finishes. "So, uh, we don't... want either of them involved. Until. Um. Until that's settled."

Na-Tsuyon bites back any deeper questions she might have. "Alright. I won't pry. What did you want to know from me?"

"I had a plan for what I was going to get next," Ben says, staring at the fold of fabric over his sister's knees in lieu of something more pertinent. "A peace lily, on the inside of my wrist, for..."

"You don't have to tell me," she reminds him.

Ben bites his lip, and closes his eyes, and breathes in deep. Neither of the girls comment.

"She was important," Ben finally says. "In the big memories. But she doesn't... she's not... she isn't here. And Jango is. And he's marrying Shmi, and they're having a baby, so I should put a mark down for him first, right?"

"He's gonna be Mand'alor, too," Soka adds.

"He is," Na-Tsuyon says, as neutral as she can.

"He's joining the family," Ben says, his gaze fixed on the floor in front of him. "And there's going to be a baby, and that's. That's important."

"There's no order that you have to get things in," Na-Tsuyon assures him, squeezing his shoulder in a light gesture of support. "You've prioritized family so far, so I think it would make sense to get a mark for the coming cousin, at least. Unless... is the lily for your birth mother?"

Ben's face twists, uncomfortable for some reason she can't begin to guess at.

"No," Ben says.

"Skyguy's Jedi Master did almost marry her when they were younger," Soka explains. She glances at Na-Tsuyon and then away and at the wall. "They had a whole dramatic 'forbidden romance' thing going on, 'cause Jedi aren't supposed to get married. She died before Ben came into the picture, though."

It's a neat enough explanation.

It feels fake, but much of what the Skywalkers say about their pasts does.

She's sure it's true in some way. In some perspective. From... from a certain point of view, maybe.

"Alright, then," Na-Tsuyon dismisses. "All things aside, I would suggest adjusting your order of tattoo acquisition, but there's no particular requirement by Mandalorian standards. Your choices are rarely anything that intersects with set traditions, nor do you have a historic clan or house that comes with mandates of the sort. It seems that you're leaning towards prioritizing something for the new additions to your family, though; you've made it clear that these things are important to you, and I think you should pursue it if you're comfortable with it."

Ben nods, eyes somewhere far off.

"It'll make him flustered," Soka pushes, kicking lightly at her brother's ankle. "Jan-Jan's still worried you don't like him anymore."

"He is not," Ben huffs. "He's just scared of buir."

"Nah, your opinion matters too," Soka argues. "And you've been avoiding everyone 'cuz Skyguy freaked out and Shmi's upset, so Jango's worried you're mad at him about the baby happening. If you get a tattoo about him, he might actually cry."

"Is that why you want me to take that route?"

"Not the only one," Soka says, utterly guileless. She blinks at him, bright and innocent. "But I definitely do want to see the future Mand'alor crying because you made it obvious he's family now. It'll be funny."

Ben sighs, very clearly being dramatic about it. "Soka, I'm not going to pick a tattoo based on what you think will be funny."

"Imagine his face, though."

Na-Tsuyon doesn't comment at the expressions Ben makes as he very clearly does exactly that.

"Well, kriff," Ben sighs, and Soka giggles at the swear. "I'll have to get a tattoo for Jango, then."

----

Ben is already nine by the time he comes in with his father to actually get the tattoo for Jango's addition to the family. The choice he makes isn't particularly imaginative, but it'll suit well enough. A mythosaur skull, the symbol of the Haat Mando'ade, in a grey the same shade as beskar.

There actually are traditions to this one, specific adjustments to the framing and stylization meant to indicate how one fits into the faction, but also how one is associated with the Mand'alor. Ben is family, and close family, but not related by blood, nor adopted directly by the Mand'alor, rather a relative through the riduur be alor.

Na-Tsuyon explains each element and adjustment in detail, lets them process and agree, until she's taking a needle to Ben's skin once more.

"Will you be getting one for the coming child as well?" Na-Tsuyon asks while shading in a curve of bone.

"Not yet," Ben tells her, quiet and oddly contemplating. "I need to meet them, first. Figure out who they are."

"Sensible," she agrees. There's the usual oddity in his phrasing, and she ignores it as ever. "Did you tell Fett that you were getting this?"

"No, it's intended as a surprise," Ben says, watching her work.

She can almost feel the coming question.

It does not come from the human she expects.

"Do you know any Mando tattoo artists in Little Keldabe?" the General asks, voice low.

She finishes the line she's on, lifts the needle away from skin, and turns to him. "You're leaving for Coruscant?"

"Not yet," Skywalker says. He meets her eyes evenly. "But... soon. The time's coming. A year, maybe two. The Force will let us know when the time is right."

"Uh-huh," Na-Tsuyon acknowledges this. She does not comment further. The Force is not her wheelhouse. If they think it wants them back on Coruscant, with the Temple, then that's what they believe.

"These are Mando work," Skywalker continues, almost painfully earnest, "and I'd like to ensure whoever maintains them until Ben stops growing knows the right way to handle Mando art."

It's really not that different from a standard tattoo artist, but she's a little charmed anyway. Enchanted, almost. The man really does care.

"I can get you some names and addresses next time you stop by," she promises him. "It's been a few years since I checked in on their work, and I'll need to look them over before I make any recommendations."

He smiles at her, relieved in a manner she finds appallingly open for a Jedi like himself.

Ben mimics his father.

----

She gets to attend the wedding, months later.

The food is very, very good.

(Ben waits until the reception to show off his new tattoo, and the future Mand'alor does, in fact, cry.)

(So does Shmi.)

(So does their eight-week-old daughter, but that's probably unrelated to the tattoo.)

----

"Do you think getting a belly button ring would be good?"

Na-Tsuyon doesn't lift her head from her paperwork when Sokanth poses the question to the piercer. She's in for the horizontal brow bar, this time, and the labret is going to be somewhere a few months down the line.

"That's really up to you," the piercer says. His name is Hujnak, and he's a Devaronian that's been working here since Na-Tsuyon opened up the place. She loves him dearly, but he stole the last piece of cake and for that he will have no help with difficult customers for the next fortnight.

Or until she gets bored.

"I'm leaning towards 'no,' but I'm not sure," Soka muses. "I like the idea of it, but I feel like it might get snagged on things more easily. Plus, it's going to be a point of higher damage and pressure if I get a gut punch. It's one of the parts of my body I'm never really going to armor up, you know?"

They do know. There have been screaming matches about all the Jedi's refusal to wear enough armor on many occasions. The Jedi prioritize their agility to such a degree that armorweave is more reasonable than actual armor, in their opinion. This is an opinion that Fett and Mereel both take issue with.

At great volume.

(Shmi has vambraces, a gorget, and greaves, Na-Tsuyon knows. Some of it was exchanged at the wedding. Shmi doesn't wear much armor, certainly less than even the children. Shmi, crucially, isn't a warrior or otherwise planning to see battle.)

"Then I would say it may be best to hold off."

"Phooey," Soka says, though she doesn't seem particularly upset. "Ben's gonna be cooler than me forever, then."

"You think tattoos are cooler than piercings?" Hujnak challenges. "I'm offended."

"He can just get more," Soka protests. "Without it looking weird or getting dangerous, I mean."

Hujnak hums, noncommittal. "And you're worried about being cooler than the younger brother you have told me is, and I quote, the biggest nerd ever?"

"Well, yeah," Sokanth scoffs. "He's gonna start acting older than me as soon as he thinks he can get away with it. I gotta have something to hold over his head, you know?"

"Seeing as you are the older sibling..."

"Ehhhh..."

Nope.

Not paying attention.

----

"These are House Kryze colors."

Ylliben's breath hitches.

He is ten. He doesn't seem ready to provide answers. She turns to the father instead.

"Will that be a problem?" the general asks, calm and even.

"Yes," she says, and Ben slumps. She continues, because this is her job, and for a reason. "Unless you have a ready justification for when House Kryze asks, yes, it will be a problem. If it were a landscape or an animal, it wouldn't matter, but the pairing of the colors and the peace lily is an explicit statement of loyalty to Adonai and his heir, Satine. Unless you've suddenly decided to adjust your political stance to total pacifism instead of your Jedi approach, or have another reason to take on House Kryze colors, I'd warn against it at all, and would refuse to perform the work myself."

Ylliben's eyes are fixed somewhere behind her, and shining wetly.

"Okay," the general says. "Ben, do you have any other pallettes in mind?

"These were her colors," Ben whispers, and then he swallows thickly. "I just..."

"Simplify," Skywalker suggests. He fiddles with a necklace half-hidden in his Jedi layers; the japor one is visible, but a dull gold glint is all Na-Tsuyon can see of the other before it's tucked away again. "She'd understand, yeah? There's political ramifications. Dangerous ones, especially to you."

Interesting thing to say about a woman who, by Soka's earlier statements, died well before Ben was born.

They could at least try to stop dropping hints about their oddities. She doesn't want to know more.

"Lilac," Ben finally decides. "And... pale silver. With a filigree pattern in the shading?"

"I can do that," Na-Tsuyon promises.

She does not ask further.

----

"We're moving to Coruscant in a month."

Na-Tsuyon's head snaps up, head tails jolting almost painfully with the movement.

Sokanth is getting her labret, finally. She's gossiping as Hujnak prepares the tools, as usual, and Na-Tsuyon tries to ignore it when they Skywalkers do that, she does, but...

"You're leaving," she repeats, feeling oddly blank.

"Um... yeah?" Soka answers. She scratches at one stubby montral. "We've talked about it before. I thought you knew."

"I didn't realize it was so soon," Na-Tsuyon defends. She's more upset than she should be. "I thought you'd be waiting until the little princess was older."

Sokanth blinks at her, slow and... not judging, no. Evaluating, maybe.

"I'm almost thirteen," she says, slow and deliberate and heavy. "And Ben's eleven. There's no hard age limit for becoming a padawan, but I'm getting into the peak years for getting chosen, and I've been living here instead of in the Temple. I haven't had years to impress a potential Master like the others. That might not matter; sometimes a Master sees their future student and just knows, but... I need to have other Jedi to spar with, not just Skyguy and Ben. And Ben's visions are getting stronger, and Dad was never that good with his own in the first place, so he's worried about being able to help at all. We could stay longer, but..."

She trails off, and shrugs, and the weighted air disappears. "It's not the same thing as a verd'goten, at all, but it's about the same age, you know? I should be in the Temple for it."

"What would a verd'goten equivalent be?" Hujnak prompts, when Na-Tsuyon fails to find her words. "Being an adult and equal member and all such things?"

"Knighthood," Soka answers immediately. "Dad got knighted when he was twenty, but that's really young, usually. His master was knighted at twenty-five, which was a bit late, but apparently there was a whole dramatic thing going on there that Dad never got all the details about."

"Becoming a Padawan is a sign that your teachers see you as someone that is ready to take on the responsibilities of a Jedi, yes?" Hujnak asks. "That you may not be ready to go out on your own, but that you're old enough to understand your oaths and choose how to follow them, and to protect others?"

Sokanth considers this, and then nods. "Yeah, I guess it's similar to using the verd'goten to gauge if someone's ready to swear the Resol'nare, that way. Still not moving out, and just about entering an apprenticeship, but enough of an adult to make the choice of how to change the world."

"I think most cultures have something like that around the same age," Hujnak comments. "Some do it a bit later in the teens, but it's usually around your age that most... well, most cultures who age at the 'human standard' rate--"

Na-Tsuyon can't help the reflexive snort of derision. Neither can Soka. Hujnak, the closest to human in the room and yet still very much not, smiles like this is exactly what he intended.

"--most who age at that rate do have it somewhere in that eleven-to-seventeen range, I'd think."

Soka shrugs. "Yeah, well. Still gotta go to the Temple for it, you know?"

"Are you going to take the verd'goten at all?" Na-Tsuyon asks, suddenly a little desperate to keep the Skywalkers here, with Mandalore and all its people, just a fraction of a moment longer.

"I don't think so," Soka muses. "I've been thinking about it, but I should probably talk about it with Jango, yeah?"

"Yeah," Na-Tsuyon says, and feels like she's swallowing down around rocks.

----

As it turns out, the timing is very deliberate. Three weeks later, Jaster transfers the title of Mand'alor to his son.

(Though Na-Tsuyon does not know this, twenty-six is older than Jango was when he lost the title, once upon another life.)

There is a week of festivity. There is food, and drink, and dancing. Some people get married. Some people make announcements of impending births. Some people reveal songs they composed in preparation for this very day.

For a week, Mandalore celebrates a new king.

Then, the Jedi and his children leave.

(Ben gives Na-Tsuyon a hug before he goes.)

(She tries to understand why she feels like she's losing something when he does.)

[arvinsescape]

Choices.

A/N: Another Mob!Tom fic, a longer one. It’s another darker one and I hope you all enjoy! Do not engage if the topics make you uncomfortable 💕 (side note: I managed to get switch!Tom in there).

Summary: You become the product of someone’s torture and now you have to decide what you want.

Warnings: Smut (oral, f rec), unprotected sex (wrap it up, stay safe), Violence, blood, injuries, bruises, language, misogynistic views. Minors do not engage. I think I got everything, possibly a few typos.

W/C: 8K.

The sound of skin-on-skin contact resonated through the halls, the sting in your cheek burning as Caleb shook the sting from his own hand.

“What did he do with my shipment?” Caleb hissed as he crouched down so he was eye level with you.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that, when he finds out what you’ve done, he’s gonna kill you.” You said, probably a stupid thing to say as it earned you yet another smack to your already bruised cheek.

“I’ll give you one thing, you’re tougher than you look. Shame you think you’re worth more to him, he’s known for the last twelve hours I’ve had you and he’s done nothing.” Caleb laughed as he stood to full height.

“Bullshit.” You hissed and Caleb laughed.

“Oh come on, you don’t think men like us put women above our businesses do you? More women like you will come along, more cunts to keep our cocks warm. Let’s be real, that’s really all you are and ever will be to him.” He laughed and you winced at the harshness, maybe he was right. He wasn’t here, wasn’t here to help you.

“Now,” he announced as he made his way over to a table, taking a hammer off it. “I’ve quite frankly grown bored. Tell me what he did with the shipment, tell me where it is.” He said, he was yet again in front of you. He’d taken your hand in his and if your wrist wasn’t roped down to the chair you’d have slapped him.

“You have quite dainty little fingers.” He said as he stroked over them. “Shame I’m going to have to break a few.” He said and you felt defeated, utterly defeated.

“I don’t know what he did.” You answered in a breathy whisper. “He doesn’t get me involved.” It wasn’t strictly a lie, you knew he’d stolen the shipment just not how.

“Given up? I would to, must be disappointing.” He laughed again as he crouched down to your level, stroking your sweaty hair out of your face, running a thumb harshly over the bruise on your cheek. “Maybe he hasn’t even noticed you’ve gone, that spot you occupy in his bed probably isn’t cold, already filled.” He taunted and you felt the tears fall.

“Just let me go. I can’t help you.” You said, your heart was broken. He knew you were here, and he’d done nothing. Maybe it was all bullshit, maybe he didn’t love you like he said he did.

“But we’re having so much fun.” He said as he stood up again. “I know you know something, you must, you sauntered around that mansion enough.”

“I don’t.” You said, completely defeated now.

“Tell you what, you can serve as a lesson, I’ll give you back to him. Since you can’t help and show him what happens to his stuff when he messes with mine.” He said and you succumbed to the tears.

**

Tom was panicking he’d not seen you all day, you’d gone out for lunch and now he couldn’t get a hold of you. His mind was racing, he’d sent all of his staff out to find you and no such luck, it was like you’d disappeared into thin air. He was pacing his office, running a hand through his hair when he heard it. Three loud knocks to his mansion’s door. He hastily made his way downstairs, Harrison in tow.

As soon as he opened the door, a body collided with his own. He only just caught it in time, the body almost limp in his arms. It took his brain a moment to catch up as he realised just who it was that had been thrust into chest.

“Caleb sends his regards.” A man laughed and Tom felt frozen. How had this happened? Not you, not his precious princess. Tom watched as the man disappeared, Harrison giving chase.

It was your small fist on your right hand that grasped his shirt that brought him back to reality, he picked you up, one arm around your back, the other in the crook of your knees as you winced in pain.

“I’m sorry princess.” He mumbled as he took in your features, you looked so tired, bruised cheek. Tom felt his anger rise, Caleb should count his days lucky because when Tom found him it would be the last day he spent on Earth. He took you into your shared room, placing you carefully on the bed as he took in the rest of you. The outfit you’d worn that day was dirty but still intact, your wrists were raw, evidence of the rope that had tied them down, the same with your ankles.

You had bruises almost everywhere, face tear stained. You were half awake, weak as you fluttered your eyes occasionally before closing them again. Tom sat with you on the bed for a while, thinking about his next move, of all the ways he was going to torture Caleb for doing this to you. He heard commotion downstairs and knew Harrison had caught whoever had brought you back to him.

Tom didn’t leave you, he knew Harrison would take over, bring the men back and make sure whoever he’d caught was dealt with until Tom could deal with it. Harrison was his right-hand man, one of his most trusted advisors. Tom looked down at you, moving stray strands of hair from your face, he almost cried at the sight.

He kept a hand on your chest, evidence you were alive. He brought his lips to your forehead as he kissed it, a tear making its way down his cheek. You didn’t deserve this, and he couldn’t protect you, he failed at the one thing he’d promised to himself. It wasn’t long before your eyes fluttered open to look at him.

You took in Tom as you opened your eyes, he looked tired, upset as he held a hand to your chest, hair a mess and those brown eyes had seemingly lost their usual spark. You looked at him, no energy to speak. He’d left you, didn’t come for you when you wanted him to, you briefly remember begging for him, pieces of the beating you’d taken coming back in flashes. You’d lost consciousness through parts, the pain too much.

“Hey Princess.” He breathed out, voice soft, quiet. It almost sounded like there was an ounce of care in there, but you must be delusional. You just looked at him and he sighed before disappearing. You didn’t really wonder where he’d gone, what he was doing, you were thinking about how to get yourself home, away from this and away from him.

It wasn’t long before he lifted you again, you were too tired to fight with him as he took you to the bathroom, stripped you of your clothes and put you into the bath. The first bath you had was to get rid of the dirt, Tom ever so carefully washing your body and hair, it almost had you fooled into thinking he cared. He’d fooled you for almost two years now though.

He almost cried again as he took in the bruising that was all over your body, he took your left hand into his own and you winced, almost crying out in pain. He studied your hand, as if in some sort of mocking he took in the bruising of your left finger, the one he intended to place a ring on. He could tell just by looking at it that it was broken. He whispered out an apology, he needed to call his personal doctor to come and see you.

He lifted you again, carefully, before running a second bath, placing you in there, probably hoping the hot water would relax your tired muscles. It was silent, the only sounds being your winces, Tom’s quiet apologies and his soft kisses to your skin. Tom was the first to properly break the silence.

“I’m so sorry princess.” He said softly and you wondered how this man, your Tom could have left you like that, left you to die for all he knew. You didn’t speak, too tired for an argument with him. He sighed as he sat with you, sitting on the edge of the bathtub as you got lost in your own thoughts.

Your gut was telling you it couldn’t be true, your Tom wouldn’t have left you like that, he’d have come for you if he’d known but your head was full of the things Caleb had said. Full of the doubt he’d put there, the doubt that Tom loved you at all, that he felt anything for you. You felt more tears slip down your cheek as you hastily and angrily tried to wipe them away.

“Hey, hey, I’m here, I’ve got you.” Tom said as he lowered himself to take you into his arms. Your good but wet hand fisting the dry fabric of his shirt as you cried into his shoulder. “You’re okay. I’m here.” He repeated as you cried for what felt like the millionth time that day. “I’m gonna take you to bed okay? I won’t leave you, not tonight.” But he already had hadn’t he? He’d left you with Caleb, maybe you were just a good fuck, and he couldn’t be bothered to find anyone else now that you were back.

He lifted you for the last time out of the bath, draining it as he stood you on your feet, wrapping a towel around your fragile frame. Rubbing his hands along your arms in an attempt to help you dry off. You didn’t fight him as he placed a shirt, his shirt, over your head, helping you get into bed. Everything about him was so soft in this moment, so gentle, it made it hard to believe what he’d done tonight or on the contrary, what he’d not done.

Tom’s doctor came and left, securing your finger, whatever he said to Tom was drowned out by your own thoughts. You tuned back in to hear the doctor say that your bruises were okay, you were going to be okay. But that was lie, you weren’t okay, far from it, not emotionally at least.

You fell asleep that night, hand fisted into his shirt, it was keeping you grounded, reminding you that you were here, with Tom, in his room, not back there. It was a reminder you weren’t dreaming. Tom held you until you fell asleep, coaxing your not broken fingered hand to interlace with his own, you knew you were probably grasping his hand too tight, but you needed to keep yourself anchored, stop yourself falling apart. You were tired and in no mood to fight and being here with Tom was a far better alternative than being back there with Caleb.

Tom was drifting into his own sleep when your scream jolted him awake, probably woke the whole mansion. Your body suddenly moving from his own as you became completely unsettled, face contorting in pain. Tom was quick to move as he tried to wake you, dodging your flailing arms, he took them in his hands, careful of your finger, pinning them above your head.

“Princess, it’s okay, it’s me. It’s Tom, it’s just me. You’re safe.” He repeated as he watched your eyes snap open and meet his, he was shocked to see the rage in them.

“Get off me.” You screamed at him, and he did, instantly, releasing you from his hold as he sat up, you sitting up onto your knees as you looked at him.

“Princess, it’s okay, calm down.” He reassured as he carefully went to take your hand in his, you slapped it away and stood up off the bed.

“Stay away from me, Tom. I want to go home.” You snapped and he stood from the bed as well. He heard a knock at the door, ignoring it.

“Baby, you are home.” Tom was utterly confused at your turn towards him, you looked so angry, so hurt with him and he couldn’t understand it. He’d spent all day looking for you, used every resource he had to try. He made his way towards you again, placing his hands on your shoulders.

He watched as you cried again, falling into his chest, you were tired, confused, that much he could tell. Like you were fighting an internal battle with yourself, one he knew nothing about, and it was frightening him, your sudden anger towards him setting him on edge. He heard a knock on his door again and bit back his anger, for your sake.

“Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it in the morning.” Tom snapped, hands moving to cover your ears as not to startle you. You suddenly moved, ripping yourself from his grip as you looked at him wildly.

“You left me.” You said and Tom looked confused, he felt confused.

“What, princess, I don’t know what you mean.” He said calmly.

“Bullshit. You left me and you know you did. Why is it you keep me around? A good fuck? The minute my life is in danger, you do nothing. You really had me fooled.” You ranted as you paced the room and Tom felt more confused than he ever had in his life. Left you? He would never, had he known where you were, he’d have come straight for you.

“I didn’t leave you princess, I promise. You know me, I love you. You know I’d do anything to make sure you’re safe.” He said as he carefully approached your figure, stopping your pacing and forcing you to look at him, tears streaming down your beautiful face again. You looked at him almost desperately, like you wanted to believe what he was saying but couldn’t.

“I, Tom. I can’t get these thoughts out of my head. I don’t want to believe that you left me, but you did. How do I know that what you’re saying isn’t bullshit?” You spoke, voice broken, and Tom almost cried again.

“If I’d have known where you were, I’d have come for you. You know me, Y/N, you know me.” He said sincerely.

“I want to believe you but I can’t. Caleb said-“

“Whatever he said was bullshit, baby, you know me. You know I’d move the world for you.” He said as he stroked your hair.

“I need to get away.” You spoke and you looked at him, you were begging him not to argue with you. “I need to think.” You said and it was so desperate that Tom couldn’t deny you, you needed it and he’d give it to you.

“Okay baby, I’ll let you go. Wherever you want, but tonight please just stay here and I’ll take you where you want to go tomorrow.” He pleaded and he watched you fight an internal battle with yourself, he knew what you were thinking. He knew you were thinking that if you spent the night in bed with him, you were scared you’d wake up tomorrow and all will be forgiven. Tom’s heart tore in two as he opened his mouth to speak.

“I’ll sleep next door. If you need anything that’s where I’ll be.” He said as he kissed your forehead and made his way out of the room.

It was 5 o clock in the morning when the door opened in one of his spare rooms, a body colliding with his own as it clung to him. He didn’t fight you when you climbed on top of him, wrapping yourself in him. His heart hammered in his chest, he was conflicted, you’d just asked, begged, for space and here you were making sure there wasn’t an inch of it.

You were on top of him, trying to pull his arms closer around you and he didn’t fight, not when he heard the small sigh leave your lips. He was careful not to hurt you as he placed his arms around your trembling figure on top of him.

“I just, I can’t. I need to feel safe.” You cracked voice reached his ears. He was conflicted, he knew this would have you feeling differently in the morning, but he couldn’t forget the pleading look in your eyes when you told him you needed space. He’d let you have this, give you what you needed tonight but tomorrow he had to let you go. As much as it would rip his heart out he had to let you go.

He held you, carefully as your breathing evened out in the crook of his neck. He was used to you wanting his touch but never like this, not this much. It was almost like you wanted to get inside him, wrap yourself completely in him, like you couldn’t get close enough. He did his best, did his best to make you feel covered and only when he heard your soft snores did he know that he’d been successful at making you feel safe.

“I love you so much.” He said as he held you and let his own tears fall.

**

He woke up and felt no weight on top of him, you’d moved. He thought you’d be downstairs and was shocked to see you sat cross legged on the bed next to him.

“I’m sorry about last night.” You said.

“You’re sorry?” He asked, what?

“I just, I couldn’t sleep without you.” You clarified and he nodded as he studied you carefully. He knew what was about to come, knew he needed to be a better man than he’d ever been in his life, for you. “I was thinking,” you started as you cleared your throat, although it did nothing for the croakiness of it. “Maybe we should talk.” You offered and his heart shattered, last night you were scared of it happening and it had.

He sat up as he rubbed his hands down his face, collecting himself because this was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. He just couldn’t forget that begging in your eyes. The way you pleaded with him to let you go and in his mind this was the right thing to do. Be the man you’d begged him to be last night.

“You’re mind was pretty made-up last night.” He grumbled and he didn’t miss the way your eyes melted at his morning voice.

“I’ve had a chance to sleep.” You ran your uninjured hand through your hair as you shrugged.

“Y/N,” He hated using your name, he hardly ever used it but pet names? Not right now. “With me.” He continued and you furrowed your brows.

“So?” You huffed back.

“You begged me to let you leave last night.”

“I’ve changed my mind, I can’t sleep without you.” You said.

“Don’t do this to yourself, last night you wanted, no needed to leave, you told me so.”

“I was confused. Tommy,” that fucking nickname. “We can talk it out and I can stay here.” You were making this hard.

“I can’t. Y/N, you need let me do the right thing here, the right thing for you.”

“So you just want to leave me again?” You huffed out, anger rising on your ever beautiful features.

“Again? I told you last night that’s not what happened.” His voice still soft. “You need to clear your head and you and I both know you won’t do that when I’m here.” He reasoned, he knew you had to find a way to process this, and he knew what would happen if he let you stay.

He’d done his own thinking last night and he knew if he let you stay, if you allowed yourself to just get wrapped up in him instead of process what had happened to you and the cause of it, the cause being his lifestyle. He couldn’t do that to you, he needed to let you think even if that meant letting you go forever. He was ripping his heart out here and the look on your face was stomping it hard into the floor.

“But I don’t understand.” You whispered as you let a tear fall, Tom was quick to move and wipe it away, you caught his hand and brought it between your own.

“You will, you need to process this, need to think about what you really want. If you weren’t with me this never would have happened.” He said and you let out a choked sob, you knew he was right.

**

He’d moved you into a flat, well Harrison had moved your things in, Tom knew if he did it he’d become selfish and let you come home. Tom made sure it was secure, bought it in your name so you wouldn’t be attached forever if you decided to leave, it would be yours. He kept it safe but he stayed away, you’d been gone a week when you first called and out of instinct he answered.

“Tommy?” You sniffled down the line and he knew a nightmare had just woken you up.

“Y/N, this isn’t a good idea.” He warned softly.

“I know, I didn’t call you any of the other nights, but I just need to sleep.” You said and he sighed, running a hand over his face.

“What do you need?” He asked and he hoped you wouldn’t say what he thought you were going to, that would make it harder on both of you.

“Can you, I know you won’t come here and I can’t come there, can you just talk to me? Please?” You asked in a whisper and Tom couldn’t refuse.

“What do you want me to talk about?” He asked and he heard you sigh down the line.

“I don’t know, just anything.” You said and he heard you shuffle around presumably to get more comfortable.

**

That was the first of many phone calls, the two of them indulging themselves late at night when neither could sleep. Tom never called you, you always called him. He was becoming conflicted, he probably shouldn’t be doing this but he was too selfish.

“Tom?” You said and he knew that voice, already feeling blood rush downstairs. It’d been a while since he’d had any sort of relief.

“Y/N/N.” Tom groaned and he heard you giggle slightly, in that seductive way that could get him going at the most inconvenient times and you knew it. Yeah you were definitely horny and this wasn’t a call to help you sleep.

“Tom, I need you.” You panted down the phone at him and he threw his head back into his pillow.

“Y/N, no.” Tom said, firm tone and he heard you shuffle around and hoped to god you weren’t gonna start doing what he knew you were probably thinking. If he heard you moan that would be it, he’d drive over and he couldn’t let that happen.

“Come on, Tom don’t be a killjoy. You always want me.” You said and he heard you shuffle again.

“This isn’t a good idea.” He said, cursing himself for growing hard.

“Come on Tom, we’ve done it before.” You said and then he heard it, your little whimper that meant you’d probably touched your clit.

“Y/N.” He said firmly. He couldn’t let this escalate as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t. He heard you huff. “Please don’t.” He said.

“You don’t want to hear me take care of myself?” You tried again, a moan slipping down the phone.

“No.” Yes.

“Fine.” He heard you huff in defeat.

“We need to stop these phone calls, they’re not doing you any good.” He spoke, voice firmer than he thought it would be to say his dick was currently straining in his boxers.

“I don’t want to, I won’t, I’m sorry.” You stumbled over yourself.

“It’s not just about calling me for phone sex, it’s all of it, it’s not a good idea.” He said, he’d never gone soft as fast in his life, the atmosphere had changed massively. “Y/N/N,” he sighed. “I want you to stop calling me, until your head is clear I want you to stop calling me.” He said, voice soft and he heard your sharp intake of breath.

“Okay.” He heard you say after a while before you hung up.

**

That was two months ago, he knew you were okay, of course he did but he had had zero contact with you. You were slowly processing what had happened to you, thinking about what you wanted. No matter how many times you thought to yourself that Tom’s lifestyle wasn’t the reason you’d been practically tortured a bruise would remind you that if you weren’t with him it wouldn’t have happened.

It wasn’t until you went to bed that you realised how much you wanted him even if it wasn’t a good idea. He made you happier than anyone ever had, he cared, fuck did he care. He always wanted the best for you, you wanted to be angry at him for doing what he did but you couldn’t. Every time you took a branch of that anger it led you back to the same trunk, the same reason, he’d done it for you, been the better man for you.

Tom was a selfish man everyone knew that, if he wanted something it was his but with you? He couldn’t, he never had been. It made you realise that Caleb was wrong, he had to be, Tom hadn’t behaved like a man who used you to keep his dick wet. There was no way he could have faked that for so long. He was always faithful, not like half the men that rivalled him, he just wouldn’t do that to you.

You love him, that much is clear to you, the way he makes you feel and looks after you is something you know you’ll never have again and ultimately it’s what made your decision. Although you knew that what happened before could potentially happen again, you found yourself unable to care, Tom was it for you. You had to follow your heart, it couldn’t take the pain of being away from him but it didn’t mean you’d turn as much of a blind eye anymore.

You knew who the man was, who you wanted to be with, you wouldn’t be the naive girlfriend anymore, the one who pretended none of it happened. You had to take some responsibility yourself, toughen up, if you were going to be with him, you needed to toughen up and wake the fuck up. Realise how dangerous his world can be and if you were going to make yourself a part of that then you had to make some changes.

As long as you could have him the way you loved him behind closed doors then it was a risk you were willing to take. You couldn’t stop yourself as you brought up the contact you’d not used in two months.

**

In the two months since Tom had asked you to stop calling him he’d still not managed to find Caleb. Every lead was a dead end. He missed you. Missed everything about you, he took solace in the fact that he knew you were safe and probably healing. He found himself wishing you would call and he’d gotten so drunk one night that Harrison had had to take his phone from his hand to stop him calling you.

He lost hope daily that you were going to call him, that you were going to show up and realised you’d probably done the smart thing and decided not to have anything to do with him. It hurt him, truly it did but was he to do? Make you stay? He knew if he’d let you stay another couple of nights in his bed then you’d just consume yourself with him and not think about what you wanted.

His phone made him jump when it rang, he wasn’t used to this anymore, wasn’t used to seeing your contact pop up, not over the last two months. He almost declined the call until he thought about why you might be calling, you’d made no attempt to contact him in all this time, maybe you were ready to talk, maybe you’d cleared your head. His thumb swiped at the green button as he put it to his ear.

“Can you come over?” That was all he got, no explanation, nothing.

**

His fist banged on the door, you knew it was him, you knew immediately. You knew him like the back of your hand. You opened it and couldn’t help the small gasp that left your lips, was he trying to drive you insane? Those dress pants, white shirt tucked into his pants, rolled up sleeves? Fuck, he always looked like he was formed by the gods themselves.

“Hi darling.” He spoke and you couldn’t stop yourself as you threw yourself at him, hugging him tight. It was nice to feel him hug you back, be back in those arms that did nothing but make you feel safe, at home.

“Hi.” You whispered as you pulled back and pulled him into your flat, he was yet to see it.

“Why the late-night call?” He asked.

“I wanted to see you.” You shrugged, licking your lips that had become dry just from looking at him. “I miss you.” You spoke honestly.

“I miss you too.” He said back so easily, no time to think about the words.

The atmosphere in the room felt thick, thick with tension, the last time you’d spoken to him you’d wanted him to help get yourself off and you grew aroused at the thought. Your fingers just didn’t quite cut it, nor did the vibrator. Nothing would feel as good as having Tom wedged between your legs as he fucked into you.

He looked at you like he was thinking the same thing, he’d always said his hand wasn’t as satisfying as your wet heat. You grew hotter the more you thought about it, the more you thought about him getting himself off to the memories of the two of you fucking, just like you’d been doing. He watched your every move ever so carefully, your bruising was now all healed, finger free from its bandages.

You looked like you again but you had a shine to you that Tom liked, you looked happier, almost healthier. Like you’d been properly taking care of yourself and he smiled, it was good too see you happy after his last memory of you. He cleared his throat after a moment and spoke.

“Do you want to talk?”

“Not right now.” You answered as you approached him. “I did, but I don’t, not right now.” You rambled out as your mind became clouded with lust, it’d been so long since you’d had him, you’d not had anyone else, why would you? They wouldn’t give it to you like Tom would.

“Is this a good idea?” He asked quietly as he studied you, you didn’t say anything as you leant up to kiss him, tenderly, far more tender than you’d initially thought you were going to. You both sighed at the contact, you wanted him. He studied you for a moment, looking for a sign of regret and when he didn’t find it he captured your lips again.

This time a little more forcefully, but not by much. You kissed tenderly, carefully, almost like you were remembering each other, basking in the way one another felt against them again. You pushed your lips more forcefully against his and he groaned slightly as your hands weaved into his hair. It was still careful, neither wanting to overwhelm the other.

His hands found a firm place on your waist as he pulled you closer to him, lips growing slowly firmer until Tom’s tongue was tracing your bottom lip and you granted him access. You both moaned in pleasure as your tongues found each other’s after so long, neither of you forgetting how they almost danced together. The sound of your lips finally uniting being the only sound in the quiet flat.

It wasn’t long before Tom had picked you up, carefully, and your legs were wrapped around his waist as he carried you down the hallway and into your bedroom. Your kiss had grown much heavier along the way, your arousal for each other settling in properly as the only emotion left was lust, need for each other. You untucked his shirt as he carried you, hand trailing up his toned back.

His hand was carefully squeezing your waist, grabbing a handful of your arse every so often. You felt him harden against you and you knew he knew how wet you’d be for him when he took your shirts off. He kicked your bedroom door open and when he turned to shut it he pinned you against it.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you.” He was the first to say as he placed kisses along your throat, your hand fisting in the back of his hair.

“Feels like it.” You spoke as you felt his hardened length again.

“Like you’re gonna be any better.” He teased and as if to prove his point he ran a hand up your thigh and into your shorts, running his finger through your folds. “So wet.” He hummed.

He moved you and placed you on the bed, something digging into your back as he did. You moved your hand around until you found whatever it was and when you pulled it out you heard Tom mutter a ‘fuck.’

“Not quite the same but it took the edge off.” You said as you threw it down the side of your bed.

“Thinking about me?” Tom asked as he pulled your shirt over your head. “Did you touch yourself? Thinking about how well I fuck you with my fingers, tongue, cock?” He asked as he took in your braless and now topless figure. He couldn’t get enough of you.

“Always.” You panted when he brought his mouth over your hardened nipple. He hummed in response and it sent vibrations through your entire being. It ignited you in a way it always had, in a way only he could.

“That’s fucking hot.” Tom said as he popped your nipple from his mouth and as you attempted to undo the buttons on his shirt. You grew frustrated when they wouldn’t play ball and sat up, Tom moving with you, he looked at you confused for a second before you quite literally grasped the middle of his buttons and ripped it off, buttons flying everywhere.

“Fuck me.” Tom said, never had he seen you so needy for him, so desperate. It was doing things to him he couldn’t explain, he didn’t have much time to think as you latched your mouth onto his neck and sucked. You knew exactly where his sweet spot was, not hesitating to suck, you moved his now open shirt off his shoulders and it dropped to the floor. It wasn’t until you pulled back, eyes darker, completely consumed by lust that he realised what you’d done.

“Have you just left a mark?” Tom asked, almost astonished, it turned him on to no end. You just shrugged as you laid back on the bed, looking up at him and he swears he lost his dominant side for second. Completely in awe of you.

“Oh baby,” he didn’t miss your breath hitch at the nickname as he regained himself and crawled back on top of you. His own lips found the top of your breast, sucking his own mark onto it. “It’s cute, watching you try and take dominance from me, but we both know who’s in charge, don’t we darling.” He asked as he sat back to look at his handy work. He’d kicked his shoes off by now as he laid on top of you.

“Tom, please.” You begged and he chuckled, completely consumed by desire, the pair of you were by this point. His cock was throbbing for you and he knew you’d be clenching and unclenching around nothing, around the idea of him being inside you.

“What does my princess want? My fingers?” He asked as he made quick work of your shorts, placing a finger inside you that had you rolling your head back and moaning in pleasure. His kisses trailing down your body as he looked up at you through hooded eyes. “My tongue?” He asked as he placed it carefully on your clit. Teasing you by halting all movements, watching you squirm as you tried to create friction. “Tell me baby.” He spoke before oh so slowly dragging his down your folds to meet his fingers and dragging it back up. You sat up to look at him between your legs, god the look on your face was something of pure pleasure in itself.

“All of it, Tom, I just want you.” You panted out and he chuckled as he moved his finger, carefully sliding in and out of you, mindful that it’d been a while and while he knew your own fingers had been inside you, your fingers were smaller than his.

“I suppose it’s been a while. Should fuck you like you deserve to be fucked, the way you’ve missed.” He said and before you could respond his tongue was back on your clit as he sucked and licked at it, watching, and groaning as you threw your head back, body arching off the bed as one hand fisted his hair and the other your bedsheets.

It wasn’t long before you were squirming beneath him as he added a second finger, opening you up for him, your body shaking as you neared your first mind blowing orgasm in almost three months. He could have blown his load just from watching you as you arched off the bed, screamed his name and tightened so well around his fingers as you came. Panting, body shaking as he helped you through it.

He expected you to be all fucked out when he climbed back on top of you, what he was not expecting was for your still just as lust blown and wild eyes looking into his own. You took him by surprise when you pushed him onto his back before climbing on top of him. You didn’t ride him often and when you did, it was never with so much confidence. It was like he’d awakened something primal in you and he fucking loved it.

You made light work of his pants and boxers, straddling him as you confidently took his cock into your hand and placed him inside you. He couldn’t stop the moan that left his lips at the feeling and also the sight. This was not what he was expecting as you placed your hands on his chest and moved your hips of your own accord.

You’d never been shy in bed, not when it came to being beneath him but every time he’d relinquish control and let you be on top you’d ask for his guidance. Not tonight, tonight you were using his cock to get yourself off and he loved it, loved the way it made him feel. He moaned as he gripped your hips, you’d taken control, he hadn’t given it and fuck if it made him almost finish inside you right there.

You moaned as you moved your hips, feeling every inch of him as the angle had him brushing that spot you’d not felt stimulated in a while and it made you almost scream his name as you fucked him. You wee both moaning, sweating and you expected Tom to take control back but he didn’t, he let you have all the control.

“So much for we both know who’s in charge Tommy.” You moaned and you expected a cocky response but none came, just a moan of your name. “Fuck, you feel so good.” You said as you felt your high approach, felt as you tightened around him and it only served to make you moved faster. Tom became something of a moaning mess underneath you, something you’d never seen before and that urged you on as you chased both of your highs.

“Just like that baby.” He said and your eyes rolled back into your head as you felt your orgasm fast approach. “Shit, Y/N/N, I’m gonna come.” Tom moaned and you don’t know what came over you, a feeling of pure power maybe, but you’re glad that it did.

“Come for me Tom.” You whispered, voice laced in lust and command as you placed your lips to his ear, leaning back to watch as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he moaned uncontrollably, moaning profanities laced with your name. You’d never seen him like this, you felt powerful above him, the ever so powerful Tom Holland reduced to a moaning mess because of you. It urged you to finish chasing your high as you fucked him through his. You collapsed onto his chest, with an almost scream of his name as you felt euphoria wash over you.

“Fuck.” Was all Tom had to say when he came down from possibly one of the most explosive orgasms he’d ever had. He loved being in control he really did, but watching you like that? You could have the control whenever you wanted it.

“Yeah.” You mumbled against his chest as tiredness washed over you. He flipped you over whilst staying inside of you, carefully drawing himself out as he cleaned you both up. Whilst he was busy doing that it gave you time to realise just how much power you had over him. He could have easily taken back the control, shown you who was in charge and he didn’t not even when you practically dared him to.

He came back into the bed as he massaged your thighs that were now aching slightly. You shivered as he did, body feeling sensitive all over after your orgasms. You played with his curls as he rested his head on your stomach.

“Where did that come from?” He asked, amused tone.

“I don’t know.” You said honestly, you didn’t, maybe it was the fact that you’d not been able to have him for three months. Maybe it was the desire to hold power over him, even if just in bed, you weren’t sure but he’d woken something in you that you liked.

“I’m gonna have to let you take charge more often.” He laughed as he continued to massage your thighs, your hands still in his hair.

“How come you didn’t take it back? The control?” You had to ask.

“Didn’t want it, not then. Fuck, you looked you so hot. It did something to me, watching you use me to get yourself off, taking your own pleasure like that, fuck.” He said as he kissed your stomach.

“I hope this doesn’t mean you’ll be a sub now, I’ll miss you railing me into whatever surface we find ourselves on.” You laughed and he joined.

“No, but you can have the control, whenever you want it.” He spoke and it sounded so honest that your heart soared. Tom Holland did not give control to anybody, it wasn’t his style yet here he was telling you could have it whenever you wanted it. That’s how much he loved you, how much you were different to everyone else in his life. It solidified your decision.

“I want to come home.”

**

You’d worked things out between the two of you, a week’s worth of late nights and talking. You’d told him you wanted to be more involved, you didn’t want to shy away anymore, Tom was hesitant but agreed. You asked him to train you, make sure you could a least attempt to defend yourself, although that wasn’t going so well, every time he was teaching you one of you got distracted and you usually ended up underneath him.

Tom liked the change in you, you were tougher, more confident and he wondered what had brought the change. You were still the same woman he fell in love with, the same woman who was kind thoughtful and free but now? Now you weren’t afraid to speak your mind, you commanded a level of respect from his men now and he loved it. He loved everything about you and you him.

It was a month later when you both heard the commotion downstairs, you jolted up. Tom had only had to wake you from a couple of nightmares, they were seemingly leaving you, slowly but surely. Tom placed a hand on your arm, sitting up, your eyes frantically looked for his and calmed when they locked.

Tom got dressed as he made his way downstairs, he was shocked to see Harrison carrying the very man he’d spent just over four months looking for. He was struggling against Harrison but to no avail, Haz had a firm grip around the man’s arms.

“Found him, hiding out in some club.” Harrison spat as he threw the man down at Tom’s feet. He spat blood onto the tiled floor of the mansions entrance.

“Tom! How’d you like your girl? Sent her back nice and pretty for you.” Caleb said, laughing as he did. Tom felt his anger rise again, images of what he’d done to you filling his mind. Tom wasted no time in kicking him in the gut.

“Take him into the living room and tie him up, I’ll be back in a minute.” Tom said, he was going to say goodnight to you, this was going to take him a while. He huffed as he made his way into the bedroom and shit the door.

“What happened?” You asked as you rushed over to him.

“Haz found Caleb.” Tom said and he watched as panic flashed in your eyes for a moment before they found Tom’s.

“What are you going to do?” You asked, voice steady.

“Better question is probably what I won’t do.” Tom said as he took you into his embrace. He held you for a moment and kissed your head. You thought for a moment, this man had been your tormenter, the man who’d taunted you, made you feel heartbroken. This was the last part of getting over what happened to you. “I’m gonna be a while, so I came to say goodnight.” He whispered as he kissed your head.

“I want to come.” You spoke before you could stop yourself.

“What?” Tom asked, voice faltering.

“I want to watch you kill him Tom.” You spoke more confidently as you moved away from him.

“Absolutely not.” Tom said, sure he was willing to let you know about everything in his business, but seeing him deal with someone? No.

“Tom,” you said as you pinched the bridge of your nose. “I need this, I need to see him die. I’ll know it’s over then.” You whispered.

“Sweetheart, you don’t, I know you think you do but you don’t. You’re not gonna wanna see what I’m gonna do to him.” He said firmly.

“Tom, please?” You begged as you looked at him and you knew he was fighting an internal battle within himself. “If it gets too much, I’ll leave, I promise. I won’t think of you any differently, Tom I know you’d never hurt me.” You said, hoping to win him over.

“It’s not for the faint-hearted love. It’s not like in films, this is real life and what you’ll see, what you’ll watch happen it’ll change you. Make you more like me, darken you.” Tom said and you looked at him with all the confidence in world. This was the life you wanted, the life you’d chosen and you didn’t hold a single regret.

“Good.”