Hi!! I don’t know if you’re still taking prompts, but if you are, could you do one where Lena is trying to help Kara through the 4th of July with the fireworks and everything?? Love your writing!!
Kara’s surprised when, just before sunset on July Fourth, Lena leans in and whispers low into her ear. “Take me to Mount Norquay.” In fact, she’s shocked.
She takes long enough to formulate words in response that Lena gives a soft smile as she continues. “I know. But… trust me?”
That it’s the site of their most dire confrontation seems almost arbitrary, given how quickly Kara murmurs back, “Okay.”
They linger only long enough for Lena snag a pair of folded blankets from the couch before Kara opens her arms in invitation. Lena smoothly steps into them, looping her arms around Kara with familiar ease. Kara takes her time flying them there, sensing no urgency and all too conscious of the precious cargo she carries.
In five minutes they set down on the helipad built onto the side of the mountain face, and Kara takes a deep breath before facing the facility’s hangar door, and whatever anti-kryptonian weaponry that lay within.
Except Lena takes her hand in a gentle grip, and tugs her towards the edge of the landing zone. “This way.”
Kara follows, confused. She watches as Lena spreads one blanket on the ground and settles down on top of it. She keeps herself on this side of the guardrail, but lets her feet dangle off the side. Looping one end of the second blanket over her shoulders, she offers the other half to Kara.
“Sit with me?”
She does. Once their shoulders brush beneath the blanket, Kara glances at Lena in curiosity. “Lena, what are we doing here?”
A small smile curls Lena’s lips, but she keeps her gaze focused on the glittering skyline of National City. “Just wait.”
Something about the peace in Lena’s voice and the silky stillness of the night around them makes Kara’s decision easy. She settles in, and waits.
Only a few minutes later, the first bloom of a firework appears over the city’s shoreline—the start of the annual fireworks display at the city harbor. One after another, blossoms of colored light erupted in the distance, long before the faint pops of the first fireworks reach Kara’s ears.
“You know… I love how fireworks look on tv,” Kara confesses. “But in person they’re pretty unbearable. Too loud, too unpredictable. I used to hide under my bed when I was a kid. One year, Alex tried to drown them out with heavy metal music blasting at full volume, but that only made me puke.”
When she looks at Lena then, Lena’s gaze is already on her, watching. She observes Lena’s lack of surprise, confusion and curiosity, and then grins sheepishly. “Which you’ve already gathered, it seems…” she trails off. In that moment, Kara realizes that’s precisely why they’re here. “Oh.”
“It’s not lost on me that I thought of possibly the last place you’d want to come back to,” Lena acknowledges, “but it’s the only place I could think of that would give us a vantage point far enough out from the city.”
The reminder of that night echoes between them. The chill air around Kara sends her back to the memory of her hovering in front of the charging kryptonite cannons, heart pounding as she prayed that she hadn’t actually lost Lena entirely.
“I had to hack into the system to deactivate those cannons,” Lena continued. Her voice was soft and low, almost reverent. “They were operating on some automatic defense program Lex had left running.”
Kara blinked. “Oh.” She’d been relieved that Lena had backed down, and ultimately deactivated the cannons, but she hadn’t questioned who’d been the one pointing them at her. After all she’d done….
“I know we lost our way,” Lena says. “And I can’t say that I didn’t want to hurt you… but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Wouldn’t.” Her gaze turns out towards the city, where the fireworks were coming in closer succession. “From the very start, I had your back.” When her gaze slides back, Kara holds it. “I just hope you’ll trust that I always will.”
Tears burn against the backs of Kara’s eyes. She wants to pull Lena close, cling to her, kiss her. But she only allows herself to wrap one arm around Lena’s shoulders, and revel in the warmth of Lena’s proximity. A proximity which, in that interminable moment months ago, had seemed impossible to reclaim.
“I’m sorry,” Kara says.
They’d put an unspoken moratorium on apologies months ago, but Lena doesn’t scold her. Instead she simply sighs, and melts into Kara a little more.
Continued from here; intro inspired by this prompt from @zedd-undead
Summary: Shimura doesn't particularly care that it's a trap. He's just focused on saving his friend... but it is a trap.
Warnings/Tags: Electrocution, beaten, restrained, hog-tied, failed rescue, creepy/intimate whumper, reference to past character death
It had started with a panicked call from Rose. Kiriko’s hacker friend had been inconsolable and almost incomprehensible at first, but what Shimura eventually got out of him was that someone had run Shimabukuro’s car off the road shortly after he and Kiriko had left his place, and taken her from the back seat while her personal guard was stunned in the driver’s seat. Shimabukuro had confirmed the story from the hospital. The man only had a concussion, mostly he was worried sick about his charge.
The response was as comprehensive as Shimura could have hoped for, he supposed, given that nobody outside his specific unit within the First Division, and his old team from Cold Case, was supposed to know she existed, far less that she had a deal with them and the Prosecutor’s Office. It hadn’t been a popular decision among the brass who were aware of it, and widening the circle had been judged to be more trouble than it was worth. Everyone who could be informed was out looking for her, and he had been as well.
Until the text, and the photo that came with it.
It didn’t make sense. It had been taken in the reflection of some glass or mirrored surface. The Reaper was holding her, glassy eyed and limp, by her arms like a trophy hunter.
I’ll send you an address, the text had read. Come alone. If you bring backup this time, you know what I’ll do.
He’d thought it must have been AI at first, a bad joke with worse timing, someone fucking up in supermax and letting one of the minor Criminals lay hands on a phone. Still, he’d called the prison just to be sure. What they said had sent a shock of ice down his spine. Someone who was in the visiting logs as the Reaper’s lawyer had visited late last night at shift change, the cameras had gone down, and when the system had come back online, he was gone.
“Why the hell didn’t you notify us?!” he shouted into the phone. The guard stammered something about how he couldn’t have gone far, and they were sure they’d be able to get—
Shimura hung up on him, and pulled over, hitting redial on the number the Reaper had texted from.
“I was going to text,” the Reaper chided when he answered, and Shimura could practically hear the crazed grin. “But then, you never could sit still and take direction.”
“If you hurt her, I swear—”
“Yes, yes," he cut Shimura off. "Threaten me when you get here. Bye now!"
The address was for an abandoned building on the edge of town. The only car in the lot was the one Rose had described fleeing the accident with Kiriko. Even without GPS, he knew he was in the right place.
He found a door with a broken chain around the handles, and pulled the chain off. It would do for a weapon. He kicked the door open, stepping cautiously into the building. The building had probably been office space, meant for rows of cubicles, the lower floor a vast single space dotted with support pillars. It was illuminated in patches by daylight coming in through the windows; the power clearly hadn't been on in some time. Some ceiling tiles were missing, scattered across the floor, and two of the windows had been busted out. Cans, bottles, and graffiti marked it as having once been a hangout for teenagers, though there was enough dust on them for the Reaper to have not been overly worried about that aspect.
"Kiriko?"
He wound one end of the chain around his right hand, cautiously moving through the space. An empty snack bag crunched under his feet. He raised his voice.
"Kiriko—?"
"Kiriko can't come to the phone right now," the Reaper drawled, stepping out from behind a pillar with a grin.
He wasn't dressed in a prisoner's jumpsuit, but that didn't surprise Shimura. He'd probably switched clothes with his "attorney" in the escape. The man had been getting away with murder since his teens; he knew better than to flee wearing obvious prison garb. That, and he was just vastly disinclined to abandon his expensive taste in clothes.
That unhinged grin broadened as he noticed the chain. "No gun for you, still?"
"No time to ask," Shimura growled. If he had, Onuki would have insisted on backup anyway—which, of course, he knew. "Where is she?"
"You'll get to see her soon enough… possibly more of her than you're used to, even."
"The hell is that supposed to mean?!"
"You'll see."
He fell back a step and ducked as Shimura charged at him, and the short length of doubled chain barely missed his head. One leg kicked out at Shimura's knees. It wasn't enough to knock him off his feet, but it broke the chain's swing as Shimura suddenly needed that concentration for balance. He grabbed a downed ceiling tile while Shimura stabilized and regained command of his weapon, holding it up in defense against the next swing. The cardboard shield snapped in two on impact, but slowed the strike enough that it was no more than a punch when it hit. Not that Shimura had ever made being punched particularly fun for him, but it was the difference between a deep bruise and a broken humerus.
Shimura swung again, and he rolled out of the way, pushing backward away from him so that the chain clipped his shoulder instead of his skull. The Reaper fell back to the next pillar, and caught the following strike at the end of the chain's arc across his side. He ducked behind it as the next blow landed, spinning away from the impact as the chain struck the pillar instead, lodging itself in the thin layer of drywall around the concrete.
Shimura didn't see him go for his right pocket; his attention was on freeing his weapon. He just felt the shallow twin puncture of a stun gun's tines at the small of his back. He dropped with a strangled noise of pain as a sharp crack of electricity lanced through him, and his legs buckled, hands tightening involuntarily on the chain for the duration of the shock. He pulled them away once it was over, palms red and stinging.
The Reaper laughed as Shimura tried to push himself to his feet and floundered. "How do you like it—our prisons' go-to inmate control device?" he asked with a sharp kick to the other man's ribs.
The Reaper chuckled. "To be honest, I would say that was less a failure of the instrument than it was human error…"
Shimura got his knees under him, and he was trying to stagger to his feet when the Reaper stooped to jam the weapon into his shoulder with another shock to keep him down. He collapsed to the floor with a ragged gasp, muscles stiff and twitching painfully as he tried to catch his breath.
"It doesn't matter how good your equipment is if you stop paying attention," the Reaper said, standing over him. "It's too bad someone has to die every time I make that point. Civilians, guards…" Another kick to the ribs sent Shimura into an involuntary curl, coughing. He grinned. "…Anno."
Shimura glared up at him. "Don't you say his name," he snarled between clenched teeth, fists clenching as well. It hurt with the electrical burns, but that was a problem for later.
He pushed himself up just barely enough to make a lunge for the other man's knees. His limbs were painful and barely responsive, but if he could get the other man on the ground, he might be able to knock the stun gun out of his hand, if not turn it on him.
The Reaper sidestepped the attempted tackle, laughing. "Aw, too soon? Still haven't forgiven yourself for how you left him all alone for me to find?"
He kneed Shimura sharply on the chin as he tried again to get up, then bent to send another charge into his side. As Shimura hit the ground, wheezing, struggling to breathe through the pain and the spasms, the Reaper turned him onto his stomach with one foot. Dropping heavily onto his back, holding him down with his knees and wrenching his right arm behind him, he fished out the detective's handcuffs.
"But you're right," he said lightly as he tightened the cuff around his wrist until it was nearly cutting into the skin. "Today isn't about your dear, departed partner." He seized his right ankle, easily dodging a backwards half-kick from the other foot. Twisting sharply to quell the other man's resistance, he fastened the other cuff around the ankle in half of a hog-tie, then pocketed the keys. Fisting a hand in his hair, he pulled his head back and bent down to hiss into his ear. "It's about your CI… Invisible." He laughed softly. "Though she's about to become very visible indeed."
Okay. I know the way I'm supposed to do these is just a number and a ship. But. What if instead I say Dom!Tommy/literally anyone, 432. I just. Dommy Bowe lives in my head rent free. And Anthony asking him to choke him encouraged me.
prompt 432 did not spark joy, so this is prompt 243! it's my spreadsheet and i make the rules <3 hope you love it red !!
the prompt in specific is from this post and is: "Kisses they can’t stop thinking about"
linked on ao3 || read under the cut || 8.4k, rated E
summary:
Tommy doesn't spend a lot of time frequenting the club scene anymore. He's over thirty years old, and as much as he likes a party and has a grand old gay time with the right crowd, the right crowd is getting harder and harder to pin down. He's not exactly sure when the right crowd started being at The Rabbit Hole in a lone standing building in one of the smaller neighborhoods of WeHo, but here he is, drink in hand as he assesses the crowd. Tommy's mind is still wandering as his eyes wander the crowd as well, but both his thoughts and his gaze freeze when the latter lands on a familiar face.
Damien.
OR
the tommien bdsm club fic.
Tommy doesn't spend a lot of time frequenting the club scene anymore. He's over thirty years old, and as much as he likes a party and has a grand old gay time with the right crowd, the right crowd is getting harder and harder to pin down. Too many variables on the table in most places, the public so often playing fast and loose in what's considered socially acceptable, and most of the time, Tommy doesn't even agree with where others start drawing that line. He doesn't mind public displays of affection, or tight spaces with undulating bodies and ringing laughter, or even particularly the presence of drunk strangers in a place where he's trying to relax.
He's not exactly sure when the right crowd started being at The Rabbit Hole in a lone standing building in one of the smaller neighborhoods of WeHo, but here he is, drink in hand as he assesses the crowd. He's not unknown around here, an often enough frequenter that he's recognizable but not regular enough that anybody expects anything of him yet. Sometimes, he's good at riding that line of trustworthy and mysterious. Well, only if he's working with a crowd he doesn't see particularly often. If such is not the case, it's only a matter of time before everybody there knows that the control he has here is something he must be given, trusted with, handed. It's not something that he commands naturally. He doesn't particularly want to, though.
There are plenty of doms at The Rabbit Hole that like to perform in front of others. The open display rooms are proof enough of that. It just isn't really Tommy's gig. He can't imagine vulnerability like that in front of people, not his own and certainly not that of his sub; that's part of the game, isn't it? Tommy is the only one who gets to see how they fall apart. It's a moment only the two of them share ownership of. Sharing it with someone else would defeat some of the purpose, if he's honest.
Not that he doesn't like the idea of playing with his sub in front of people a little. Teasing and touching and talking are fine, sitting his sub in his lap and holding them close as he whispers in their ear all the things he intends to do to them, how he'll take care of them and make them feel good and treat them so well for being so fucking good for him. Tommy's mind is still wandering as his eyes wander the crowd as well, but both his thoughts and his gaze freeze when the latter lands on a familiar face.
Damien.
He looks different than Tommy's ever seen him, the way he's sitting and talking animatedly with others familiar enough, but the outfit enough to give Tommy pause. Not in a bad way. Certainly not in a bad way. He looks good like that, a harness buckled across his chest with two o-rings vertically aligned between his pecs, framing everything in a way that is madly distracting. Even more so is the flash of light reflecting as he laughs, hand reaching up to comb back his hair; he's wearing untethered cuffs on both wrists, a shiny and dark purple snakeskin texture that pops against his skin. The chain hanging around his neck must be for the cuffs, because it doesn't look to be attached to anything, ends hanging loose on his bare chest. And then there's... the rest of it.
Like half the people in the building, Damien has his shoes off, likely lined up with the rest of the others by the door. He's wearing socks that go up to garters at his thighs, the creamy skin visible beneath the short flair of his skirt. His skirt. It's barely to his mid thigh and looks to be made of a soft cotton with a net material beneath, two pretty little layers of purple and black. It's high waisted. By the time Tommy's gaze makes it all the way back up to Damien's face, Tommy isn't the only one who has noticed they're sharing the room with a coworker. Anxiety is palpable on Damien's face and Tommy immediately wants to assuage it, reassure Damien and get him back into that relaxed happiness, free and social and having a good time. Damien is just staring at him, deer-in-headlights wide eyes not leaving Tommy's face, so Tommy jerks his head in the direction of the private rooms. Damien nods and stands shakily, so Tommy downs his drink, grabbing one of the admin keys from the bar with a nod to the bartender. She nods back.
Tommy's glad. He's not sure what he would have done if she had stopped him; the idea of making Damien wait for him rankles him for some reason, though in a situation that he won't be allowing himself to ruminate on, making Damien wait might appeal to him significantly. Not that just because Damien is here, Tommy must fit the criteria of what he's looking for. Hell, he might just be looking for a chill place to hang out. Clubs can be wildly overstimulating, and the overstimulating parts of The Rabbit Hole are mostly kept to the open display rooms. He finds Damien leaning against a wall in the hallway of private rooms, counting his breaths with closed eyes. The urge to reach out and comfort him is vivid in Tommy's mind. Instead, he clears his throat, leaning back against the wall opposite Damien.
"Please don't tell anyone," Damien rushes out before Tommy can get a word out, eyes snapping open just to give Tommy that desperate look again. Whether he thinks about it or not, Tommy slackens into a looser posture, willing Damien to mirror him. Damien, being Damien, does so whether he thinks about it or not too, breathing out a long sigh. Tommy hums.
"I won't tell anyone anything you don't want them to know. You're still safe here, Damien. I'm not gonna fuck this up for you," he promises, his voice in that low and soothing place he typically only takes it to when trying to calm his own submissive, out of place outside of his scene-self. He watches the tension unravel in Damien's shoulders and tries to push down the overwhelming sense of pride, the satisfaction of getting an anxious submissive back to peace. He can't help it when he's here, the natural desire to smooth out the edges and take control of the situation, make reality itself bend to his will in the interest of another. Of course, he's not actually capable of reshaping what is real, it's just that being in that space, in this place, makes him feel that he can certainly change enough to make things better.
That's part of why he likes this so much, isn't it? Being able to help. Being able to choose.
"Thank you," Damien rushes out, a grin pulling at his mouth now that relief can heave its way out of his lungs, "Like, it's not that I'm ashamed to be here, of course, it's just not something I'd really like to discuss at the office." Tommy shudders at the very thought of it, gagging slightly as the brutally clear image of being on I spent a day with BDSM 2 is beamed directly into his frontal cortex. Damien cackles like he knows exactly what he just made Tommy picture; Tommy rolls his eyes.
"You wouldn't see me at the office, you'd see me on the fucking news," he promises, quietly delighting in the shine of Damien's smile. Damien drops his gaze as soon as they meet eyes, though, and the shine of his smile is perhaps second only to that sweet reddening of his cheeks as he looks down at himself. Concern furrows Tommy's brow, his hand moving before he even thinks twice of it to be placed on Damien's elbow, ducking his head a bit to make Damien meet his eyes.
Huffing out a laugh, Damien acquiesces an answer without even needing to be properly prompted. "Dude, I'm wearing a skirt. And. Other things," he says, emphasizing his point by shaking the wrist of his free arm, the o-ring of his cuff thumping dully against pale skin on the swing. "This is surreal. It's like. I go to a BDSM club for the fifth time in my entire life and my hot coworker happens to walk in. This is surreal," he repeats, but that's fine; Tommy's brain stopped working somewhere in the middle of that anyway.
"Your what?" he asks, voice cracking. Damien blinks rapidly, very clearly having not thought through the consequences of his words and actions. Tommy's hand tightens on his elbow a fraction of a second before Damien jolts, an aborted attempt to make a break down the hallway. Remembering himself, Tommy drops his hand entirely, but Damien catches it in his own. It seems Damien too remembers himself, however, and drops it, but at least he doesn't run. He just sighs.
"Hot... coworker. Which is not two words anyone wants to hear in sequence with one another. I'm so sorry, Tommy, I promise I'm not gonna be weird about this, I-"
Tommy kisses him. Fuck.
It's barely a peck before Tommy breaks it, staggering back til his shoulders hit drywall, but Damien grabs his hands, pulling him back across the hallway to crowd himself back against the wall, encouraging Tommy to loom over him as much as their relatively small height difference allows. Indulging him and growing in confidence himself, Tommy cups Damien's cheek in his hand and dives in for real this time. This time, it's more like he's stepped out into the rolling wind of a hurricane, Damien's fingers gripping at his shirt at the small of his back and pulling him as close as he can manage, a hundred and sixty mile an hour winds in the way he goes soft and pliant for Tommy. This is the first kiss that Tommy will never stop thinking about, the first a trial run compared to the full send abandon Damien is giving him now. The way he presses up into the kiss like he's taking communion from Tommy's mouth takes Tommy out at the fucking knees. He presses Damien back against the wall, free hand coming up to rest between the back of his head and the wall. Damien makes a soft sound and Tommy actually pulls away this time, despite Damien's half-assed attempts to the contrary.
"I got a room," he says, pausing between clauses for a second too long and then closing his eyes as Damien snorts. He presses his face into Damien's shoulder, groaning. "If you want to talk, that is. Anything past that is up for debate," he finishes, firm in the fact that speaking further is nonnegotiable. He laces the fingers of one hand with Damien's and guides him to the Forest room, his personal favorite here at the club. The walls are a deep and calming green, the bedspread a warm mocha brown that contrasts again the cream of the folded back sheet. The lighting is low already when they enter the room, a standing lamp near the door and a table lamp on the far bedside table casting soft, yellowed light across the room. There's a loveseat and an armchair across the room from the bed, a chest at the foot of the bed.
"Why is this nicer than any hotel room I've ever gotten for a con?" Damien says, eyes catching on the tasteful artwork and painstakingly picked out details, informational books on the scene in a glass front bookcase with a delicate lock and deep green accents to its rich brown exterior, the matching inlays in all the wooden furniture. The bed frame has shelves built into it fitted with related accoutrements in airplane bottle sizes, like lube is a travel expense we're charging to the company card. Is this when Tommy pretends that all of this is unfamiliar? Is this where the lie starts?
"You should see the Ocean room. Actual, genuine article mother-of-pearl accents in there," Tommy blurts out, small talk taking over when he has no other conversational mode to lean into in this particular social situation. A slightly hysterical giggle falls out of his mouth like he's not sure when it got there, but Damien laughs as well, breaking the overwhelming tension that had grown over the Forest floor. He sits down crisscross on the loveseat, patting the cushion beside himself. Tommy follows without a thought, sitting back with his legs crossed.
"So you come here often?" Damien asks, following him on his small talk journey and sending them both into giggles again. Tommy presses his face into Damien's shoulder to stifle some of that laughter, reaching out to take Damien's hand as well when the impulse hits too heavy for him to ignore.
"Yeah, I guess I do. Not super often, but. Definitely more than five times," he says, just this barest edge of teasing encroaching upon his tone. Damien rolls his eyes and resettles, leaning back against the armrest so that he can face Tommy more directly, still crisscross. He doesn't drop Tommy's hand. His eyes are bright and shining even in the low light, the beauty of him something Tommy can no longer push down the appreciation of, even so much as he's tried. Like Damien, he hadn't wanted to be the guy who made a big deal of being attracted to a coworker. This is a big deal, but only in the best of ways, it seems.
"Well... what do we do now? I mean, there are several obvious routes this could go down, but. I don't know what to do," Damien admits quietly, the sentence losing steam as more of its meaning came into the light. Insecurity wraps itself around his shoulders like a shroud and Tommy can't stand for that, even as scared as he is too. He has to help. He has to choose.
"As many jokes as you've made about being a dom, is it safe to assume from the vibe and the getup that you aren't?" Tommy asks, first things first as always. Damien drops his gaze but nods, blush spreading to pink up his ears. It's cute. "Okay. Is it safe to assume that you would like me to kiss you again?" he asks, gentle and modulated. Blinking rapidly, Damien's blush darkens to red, but again, he nods. Tommy obliges, just a quick, delicate little peck so he doesn't lose himself within this before they've even put a name to it, and Damien follows him for a moment before sitting back, obedient. "Good," Tommy praises, noting the shiver down Damien's spine in response.
"Is this, like. A dom thing? Or do you actually want to kiss me? Like as regularly scheduled, see you at work Tommy, you also want me?" Damien asks, eyes snapping shut as vulnerability crackles into tension, his hackles raising again like he's expecting rejection, the acidic taste of it already twisting his mouth. Tommy resituates himself, making the angle less awkward so he can gently cup Damien's face, lifting it to make Damien's gaze meet his as his eyes slide open, almost lazy now that Tommy has a grip on him.
"I'm a dom, and yes, that sometimes means that I, by habit and by choice, put taking care of others before taking care of myself. But, Damien, I've wanted to kiss you since... I can't remember seeing your face and not wanting to, really. I want you. I always want you," he says, bald and honest in a way that feels like he's flaying himself open for Damien's examination. He trusts the steadiness of Damien's scalpel. He trusts Damien. The words roll through Damien like a tide, a full shudder to follow the shiver of before and Tommy is enraptured by the current within him, that natural disaster wonder that wreaks havoc upon him so beautifully.
"Oh thank god," Damien rushes out, startling Tommy into a snort. "No, really, dude, I'm... I'm so gone on you, Tommy. I wasn't even planning to pick up tonight, that's not really my thing, but you... you are very much my thing," he clarifies, the rapidity of his speech clearly catching up to him soon after his finishes. He tries to hide his face, turning into Tommy's palm and looking down, but Tommy slips his grip to grab Damien's chin, turning Damien's attention back to him. Tommy smiles a gentle smile and Damien relaxes just a bit in his hand, falling a little more into that sweet, syrupy laziness that Tommy is just realizing that he'd like to bring out in Damien as much as he can. He drops his hand but only to get to his knees on the couch, pulling on Damien's calf a little to get him to uncross his legs, now dropping them on either side of Tommy's hips, just as planned.
"What are you comfortable with?" he asks with fingers splayed on Damien's chest, leaning over him without getting quite close enough to box Damien in. Damien settles a hand on Tommy's hip, blinking as he takes in the options that lay before him. Too many options. Tommy can see it in the moment Damien scrunches up his nose, smiling apologetically, begging silently for guidance. "Well, do you want me to get you off?" he says, narrowing just a little. Damien looks to the side but nods, his gaze returning to Tommy's with just a tap of Tommy's fingers to his cheek. Cute. "Do you want to get me off?" Tommy asks, laughter spilling out as Damien nods faster this time. Damien laughs too, pressing his face into Tommy's shoulder.
"Wanna suck you off," he mumbles, muffled but clear enough. A shiver runs down Tommy's spine now, the flame lick of being wanted just too hot for him to ignore. He hums a deep noise of agreement and moves to stand, grinning outright at Damien's immediate noise of protest.
"Mm, settle down, pretty boy. Okay for me to start telling you what to do?" he asks, catching Damien's eyes. That doe-in-headlights look is back, the flustered smile breaking across Damien's face with the proliferation of a pretty pink blush. Tommy holds the instinct to kiss his nose behind his own smiling teeth. "You know the stoplight system?" he asks, humming at Damien's nod. "Good boy. You look very pretty tonight, honey. Let me see what you've got under your skirt, baby," he directs, less of a command and more of a request laced with lasciviousness, thick and sultry. Damien blinks wide eyes at him before seeming to catch himself, uncrossing his legs and smoothing his skirt out before pulling up the edge, flipping the bottom up to his belly to let Tommy see. He's so fucking pretty. His panties are lavender, a cute little bow seated over his cock like a present, and Tommy rubs his thumb over the little wet spot in the lavender lace, wishing deeply that he was pressing his tongue there instead.
"Tommy," Damien whines, his fingers catching on Tommy's belt loop like a little kid in his desperation to pull the taller man closer. Tommy doesn't get undressed himself, too fascinated with the sight before him to move his hands to himself rather than touching fingertips to the masterpiece he's been entrusted with. Damien pulls a little more, and when Tommy catches his eye, it's pretty damn obvious that Damien wants to play the brat, and damn, he's everything Tommy could want in a sub. Pretty and pushy and mouthy and sweet and Damien, one of those golden tier people he never thought would give him the time of day, and he looks so good under Tommy's hands. He'd look even better under his mouth. He kisses Damien again, pressing between Damien's legs briefly before stepping back, grabbing one of Damien's hands to pull the other to standing with him. Damien follows fluidly but his eyebrows are drawn together, his head tilted in question. Tommy kisses him again just because he can, and he's always wanted to kiss taste that curious look Damien gets sometimes, as if the world itself is not bending to his rules, and Damien doesn't know whether to be disgusted or delighted, both in equal turn. He's very cute.
"Let's take this to the bed. Lay in the center with your head on the pillows," he instructs, letting go of Damien's hand to allow him his leave. Damien smiles, his nose wrinkling, and for the love of God, Tommy wants to wreck him. There's something about a boy so pretty that makes Tommy wonder what he would look like if Tommy made him feel so good he cried. That's a question for another day, though. He climbs between Damien's thighs, dropping down so their chests lay against one another, the touch electric, before he leans up once more to place brief kisses on the swollen red of Damien's lips, his mouth a sin before Tommy's ever used it. "You're so fucking pretty," he mutters, trailing his hand from Damien's jaw down to his chest, touching skin he's only ever seen before, only ever dreamt of touching. Damien makes a soft noise and arches his back, pressing his tits up into Tommy's face. Tommy laughs and presses closer, kissing Damien on the mouth briefly once again and trailing the kisses down his jawline, nipping at his throat and collarbones, careful not to leave marks. They both need to be in videos still, after all. Maybe they can leave some where no one else will see them. He sets his teeth against the meat of one of Damien's pecs, not biting but waiting, and Damien grabs him with impatient hands, a whine dragging its way out of his mouth. His cuffs are weighty against Tommy, the supple leather conforming to the skin rather than jutting out too harshly.
"Please, Tommy, please," he begs, fingers pulling at Tommy's hair, and he doesn't want to reward bad behavior, but fuck if he could stop himself from biting down. He sucks a mark there, right on Damien's chest, and revels in the ways it affects Damien, his whole body rolling against Tommy's like he can't decide where he needs him most, the begging making way for whimpers that sound so fucking sweet, Tommy wants to taste them. Instead, he hooks his thumb beneath the bottom strap of Damien's chest harness, holding it down so he can take Damien's nipple into his mouth. He pools saliva on his tongue, flooding it so the slide of his teeth against the skin carries less friction, all pressure and no pain. Damien yanks at his hair again and Tommy bites down now, rough and punishing as he pulls back with the bud still between his teeth, Damien's noises climbing higher and Tommy can't help but smile around his prize, feeling both beastlike and more like a man than he ever has. And maybe feeling like a man when he's domming isn't real, and maybe it's weird, but with control so tangible between his fingers, how could he stand to let him go?
He bites marks into Damien's stomach too, the first just beneath his chest harness and then three on the soft skin beneath his belly button, making him whine and squirm when Tommy bites into the tender flesh there, but he doesn't push Tommy away. He pulls him closer and Tommy comes where he's called, flipping his skirt up and dropping to his chest to bite marks now into his thighs, unable to focus on anything else for the pale white canvas stretched before him, ready to be marked. Damien sinks his fingers in Tommy's hair after the second one there, and by the fourth, he's pulling, trying to direct Tommy to his center without having to use his words. Tommy grins a shark's grin and focuses where his sub would like his attention the most.
There's a heightened sense of eroticism, he thinks, to seeing not a naked cock, but one swollen behind delicate lavender, straining against the material in such a way that precum has made damp the entirety of the front of Damien's panties. Something goes quiet in his head at the sight of it, like instinct has beat out every overwhelmed thought in his head til it comes down to this moment: Damien spreading his legs for him, Tommy taking communion on his knees between them. He latches onto the darkened tip of it by instinct alone, suckling at it through the fabric. Damien whines again, high and sweet, and Tommy can't help but continue, flicking his tongue over it between hard sucks that make Damien pull at his hair, desperate whimpers and aborted thrusts of his hips making Tommy pull back with a chuckle, kissing his way down the outline of Damien's cock. He lifts the heft of Damien and beneath as well, tonguing the fabric over Damien's balls. He makes sure to stay there, mouth against the base of Damien's cock, when he lets out another laugh, one rolling into another with Damien pushing up into his face.
"What, honey?" he asks, patronizing but patient, delight sending a fissure through him at the light of desperation in Damien's eyes. Damien bites down on his lip, a clear debate running through his mind, though Tommy couldn't say what the dilemma might be. Damien blushes pink like Tommy can still embarrass him, and Tommy hides his smile against Damien's thigh, nipping at it. Damien doesn't push his head away, but he does pull his hair again. Brat.
"Can you-" Damien starts, cutting himself off just as quick as he began, but Tommy just rubs soothing circles into his hips, holding him steady for this pause, for whatever purpose it has. Appearing to steel himself, Damien lets out a long breath. "Can you make an assumption about the skirt?" he asks, eyes closed as he forces the words out of his mouth. Tommy brows draw together and he taps at Damien's skin, communicating the question silently; Damien doesn't seem like a full discussion would help right now, but he still needs clarification. "The most basic assumption you could make, Tommy. Just a sex thing, not a regularly scheduled thing, but. Still." It hits Tommy all at once and blood rushes to his dick like it's got somewhere else to be.
"Oh," he says, honest delight shot through him, "baby girl." He doesn't need a verbal response because Damien's hips cant up, pressing urgently into Tommy's mouth. "Need me to suck on your clit, princess?" he asks, that delight stretching itself into euphoria when he can see how much the question affects his partner, his panties dampening out to the lace. Tommy's mouth waters, and he dips back down, licking long lines up Damien's cock through the fabric in the same manner he would if it was pussy in front of him rather than dick, and Damien moans a long and pretty sound. Tommy pulls his panties down til the lace catches against the base of Damien's dick, taking the head of his cock into his mouth and flicking his tongue again, lapping the cum off the tip of it. He gets a few minutes there, close and worshipful, before he's interrupted.
"Tommy," Damien gasps, this thighs closing around Tommy like he can't decide whether to push him away or pull him closer, overwhelmed by just this bit of pleasure. Tommy slips a hand beneath Damien to grab at his ass, digging his fingers into the flesh there and laughing at Damien when it makes him keen. He's so cute. Pulling a little, he spreads Damien out even more, teasing his fingers in a slow, rubbing circle over Damien's hole. He leaves his hand there, heavy but still, and moves back up to kiss Damien again, enamored with the way that Damien's mouth goes both soft and sharp against his, a bitey little brat matched equally by his own desire to be put in his place and held there.
"I'll eat you out another day, if you want me to, pretty girl," Tommy promises, whispered low and hot against Damien's ear. He runs his nose along Damien's cheek, catching him in another kiss, using the hand on Damien's ass as well as his other relocated to Damien's side to pull him just a little flatter just for the fun of it, and he relishes in the raucous desire that moves from matchstick flame to roaring fire. The going to the gym bullshit, getting fit for the bit, fuck every other motivation for this besides the way Damien is looking at him in this moment. He reaches for Tommy like he doesn't know where to put his hands, desperate to find whatever placement is necessary to continue as they are. Tommy takes pity on him, huffing a laugh that he immediately apologizes for with a heated kiss to Damien's palm, moving it to cup his own face.
"I'll hold you to that, you know," Damien replies, his voice much too even and his eyes far too unclouded. Tommy steals delicate kisses from his mouth plucked eagerly between his teeth, slow and languid as if they have all the time in the world. He was afraid of storms when he was a kid, cool logic just like any Floridian kid who ever lost a school year to flood water and property damage, and he hasn't gotten better with them as he's grown; he lives in California for a reason. Still, he kisses Damien and turns himself stormchaser for this, diving into torrential downpour like ocean water blue, fingers to the sky, make himself lightning rod so long as it means he gets to feel the electricity of Damien's touch.
"Do you think you've been good enough to cum for me before I use your mouth, sweetheart?" Tommy asks, equal parts charmed and elated when Damien looks for a moment as if he's been hit with a two by four before the words sink in, his eyes softening to circles. Tommy smiles down at him, unable to help himself from placing fluttering kisses on Damien's brow, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks. The fondness is too loud, and Damien only looks more flustered, so really, where's the downside?
"You're being so nice to me," Damien says, his voice somewhere between disbelief, awe, and incredulity that Tommy is not confident enough to place on his own.
"Did you want me to be mean to you?" he asks, voice level; he's done a variety of domming, learned from others even when he wasn't sure he wanted to pursue himself, and he's more of a pleasure dom, sure, but he's willing to try anything twice. Damien shakes his head, clearly unable to verbalize farther, and leans up to kiss Tommy, pulling his face down as well. Damien kisses him like he has a point to prove, hard and fast and punctuated both with his tongue and with his teeth. It's a strange thing to pick out, perhaps, but he's always liked Damien's teeth; his mouth in general, sure, he's only human, but the cute little points of his teeth. Most of all, his kiss is sweet, unadulterated in its desperation and need, and Tommy is beguiled, he must admit, by the extremes of him.
He pushes Damien down into the mattress, taking over the kiss and giving it his own message, patterns of wind and water he'll rely on Damien to be able to read. He flips Damien's skirt back up and dips his hand beneath the waistband of his panties quickly, wrapping his hand around Damien fully for the first time. Damien pushes into it in desperate little circles, like he really is trying to get Tommy to hit his clit right, and Tommy circles his thumb over the head of it roughly, barely pressing into the slit at the tip of it.
"I'd be so nice to you if you let me, princess," he whispers, biting down on Damien's chest again right above his first dark and blossoming bruise. Damien's hips thrust up so harshly that he bypasses Tommy's hand entirely, rutting against Tommy's still clothed stomach and only rocking into him briefly before Damien is trying to strip the shirt entirely, openly horrified at the idea of getting precum on Tommy's shirt. It's sweet, not least of all because it's a nice shirt, but Tommy couldn't give less of a fuck if he tried. He pops three of the buttons yanking open the bottom of it where Damien had started unbuttoning the top for him already, losing his patience to feel Damien needy and pressing up against him. The head of Damien's cock rubs against his belt buckle and the noise Damien makes is music, a sound sweet enough Tommy feels lightheaded with how badly he'd like to make Damien make that noise again.
He's realizing there isn't much he wouldn't do for Damien to need him so openly.
"Needy little thing, aren't you, honey? Such a sweet boy for me," he breathes, wrapping his hand around Damien's cock more firmly this time. He goes for long, slow strokes this time, all the way from base to tip with a strong grip and a steady pace. Damien tries thrusting into it again and kisses Tommy when he realizes he can't, whimpering and whining like Tommy's fucking him hard and fast. "There you go, sweet thing," he says, quickening his strokes. It's his palm over the tip of Damien's cock that does it, the rough texture of calluses over the natural sensitivity. His hand doesn't stop as Damien cums, back to his languid pace of before til Damien whines against his mouth, pushing his hand away.
"Now, I get to- now, I can?" Damien stutters, cutting himself off and waiting for Tommy's cue. Humming and pressing a kiss to Damien's cheek, Tommy nods.
"I'm going to clean you up, and then you can have it," he promises, dropping another kiss on Damien's shoulder. He reaches into the bedside table and finds the usual ungendered and nondescript in branding wipes in the drawer, popping them open with one hand as intended and pulling a few out. He wipes his own hands, knowing damn well there's no point in trying to clean someone else with dirty hands, but Damien puts a hand on his wrist, staying him. He's not looking at Tommy when he looks up, eyes visibly tracing the pattern of the bedspread instead; Tommy tips his chin up with clean hands.
"Wanna be messy for you," he mutters, pink in the cheeks but his eyes vibrant, desirous, rapturous. How is Tommy supposed to say no to him? Especially when he doesn't particularly want to- it would be better for Damien's skin, sure, for his cum not to sit, but realistically it's not going to be a terribly long time before Tommy cums as well, and they can renegotiate then. Nodding his head, Tommy tosses his used wipe into the bin tucked into the lower drawer of the bedside table, placing the other clean ones on the top of it. Waste not, want not, after all. All of this to distract himself from the facts of this situation. He's just gotten his coworker off, his coworker might be (read: definitely is) looking for a more permanent dynamic, he's the coworker that Tommy's halfway in love with, and apparently they're obscenely sexually compatible. If he lets himself think about this, there's no doubt he'll lose his shit. He cannot entertain the idea of leaving Damien messy for hours, refreshing his own cum as often as Tommy can get him off, til he's writhing and whining against restraints, begging Tommy not to clean him up, but to add his own marks to the mess. A shiver racks through Tommy. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Damien grabs Tommy by the hips once his hands are free, bodily moving him til he's seated on the edge of the bed, Damien settled in front of him. When Damien goes to get down on his knees, Tommy stops him with a hand, pleasantly buzzing from the way Damien's hands felt hot and heavy on his skin. There's something awfully cute about his sub in this moment, how desperate he is to have Tommy in his mouth, the pretty haze in his eyes as Tommy grabs a pillow from the head of the bed, putting it on the floor before his feet. He like how Damien looks at him in this moment as well, like Tommy is taking care of him well. Damien kneels now, reaching up to kiss Tommy all teeth and neediness, slotting between Tommy's thighs like he was made to rest with one on either side of him. Tommy grabs him by the hair to pull out of the kiss, not yanking at Damien's hair really, but a firm enough grip to guide; the grin pressed to his mouth before they part is all amusement. Tommy drags him back in and bites his lip. Damien blinks at him, somehow flustered when this is hardly their most intimate moment thus far.
"You're so cute," he whispers, unable to help himself. It just slips out, really. Damien colors darker, leaning forward to hide his face against Tommy's collarbones. Hands still in his hair, it's Tommy's first thought to pull him back again, but Damien makes use of his mouth that makes Tommy think differently, teeth biting down and hot tongue lathing over the skin. He kisses his way down Tommy's chest, thorough but fast, impatient as he makes his way down. He uses a hand to guide Tommy back a little, one of Tommy's own hands falling back to hold himself up, able to watch Damien as he sucks a mark into Tommy's thigh, a clear imprint of his teeth left there when he pulls back, grinning at Tommy. He tilts his head forward, breaking the eye contact to rest his gaze lower, asking permission in all but words. "Go ahead, sweetheart," he says, granting that permission gladly and running his fingers through Damien's hair.
The first touch of Damien's tongue is tentative, exploratory, before he's laving over the head of Tommy's cock, chasing the taste of his pre. He looks up at Tommy as the head pops into his mouth, and the mix of the sensation and the sight are too fucking much, so good, so pretty. He doesn't mean to, but he thrusts his hips, pulling Damien back nearly as quickly as he did the damn thing in the first place, trying to mitigate the damage as best he can. Instead, Damien makes a pretty noise for him and leans into Tommy's hand, fingers wrapping hard around Tommy's hip like he's got a point to prove, and encourages Tommy to do it again. Instead of pained, or betrayed, or any of the other valid emotions there are to feel when sex accidents (even small ones, like thrusting when one hasn't actually, you know, discussed face fucking their brand new and obnoxiously precious sub) inevitably happen, his gaze is hungry. Desirous. Perfect.
"Do you wanna set the pace, or do you need me to fuck your mouth, honey?" he asks, trailing his fingertips to Damien's jaw, tracing his lips where they're stretched. Damien drags his hip forward just that little bit again, so Tommy takes him at his word, as nonverbal as those words may this time be. He thought Damien might be a lover like this, both desire and affections easiest told by actions rather than words, if he allowed to think of Damien as a lover at all. He had been trying to put the notion away for months, years really, but he never quite could. He's glad he didn't.
He rocks his hips forward, testing the waters still with the gentle hand on the side of Damien's face rather than tangled in and pulling at his hair. Damien's eyes flutter shut and this look of absolute peace crosses him, the tension in his shoulders going slack. Pretty baby. Perfect. Insane. He thrusts, on purpose this time, and slides his hand back into Damien's hair, gripping it tight for another quick thrust. He isn't hitting the back of Damien's throat- doesn't wanna push him so early, really- but Damien is still pulling him forward, so he has an idea of what he's asking for.
"Need it, don't you? Want me to fuck you up. Have you ever even had someone in your mouth before, sweetheart?" he asks, tugging Damien back with honest curiosity. Damien smiles at him a little woozily, and Tommy gives to temptation, cupping Damien's jaw and letting it happen when Damien immediately opens his mouth for his thumb to slide against his tongue. "Cute," he repeats, extracting it just as easily as he had allowed the capture. Damien kisses his thumb then, just shaking his head rather than responding verbally. Tommy hums and slides his hand to the back of Damien's head again, letting Damien come back in on his own. Eager, Damien immediately tries to bully him into fucking his face again, so insistently that Tommy can't help but chuckle at him. And follow his heed.
He's gentle with him at first, careful rolls of the hips that he slowly builds into longer thrusts, even if Damien would have liked Tommy to get along with it, obvious in his little whines, the way he grabs at Tommy like a favorite toy. One thrust pushes a little further than he means for it to and then Damien is whining if he stops hitting that far, and before he knows it, he's hitting the back of Damien's throat and the other man is still pulling him in, still whining. Such a pretty, needy little thing. He fists his fingers in Damien's hair, holding him in place as Tommy fucks his pretty face.
Seeing Damien between his knees with tears in his eyes and his mouth full of Tommy's cock and looking up at him like Tommy could move mountains for him with his own two hands, Tommy feels both more powerful and more powerless than he's ever felt, lost in the tide of this beautiful ocean and those big brown eyes. Adrift. "My pretty baby," he says, the rasp of his own voice not lost on him. Damien's fingers dig into his hips, nails longer than Tommy's but not by much, his nails barely cutting in more than the tips. Tommy grabs his hand and laces their fingers, letting Damien squeeze as hard as he likes so long as it means they'll still be locked together like this. Damien gives a happy hum that he can feel in his dick, so fucking cute and so fucking sweet and so fucking good for him.
There's spit dripping down Damien's chin, that glaze in his eyes at full force, and Tommy can't help but to be obsessed with him. He's so fucking beautiful. He looks obscene, still sucking Tommy's cock but also with his mouth a little too open, fucked out and pretty. He can imagine the bruising Damien is causing on his hip bones, the roughness of Damien's lips after this treatment, the bites already growing purple on Damien's chest, all their little evidences of one another left everywhere. They'll both have marks to press their fingers into after this, long enough to last weeks even if they don't do this again. There's no way Tommy can go back to their regular interactions and never do this again. The suction closes around his cock again, a long hard pulse of pressure as if Damien knows his mind is wandering, and when Tommy looks back down on him, unsure when he had looked away, there's that light of mischief again. Those pretty eyes shouldn't be so focused, though, should they?
Tommy snaps his hips quick into Damien's mouth, holding Damien in place to make sure that he won't fuck in too far, but far enough to make a point. Remind his pretty boy exactly who's in charge here. Damien just gives him one of those dopey looks again, everything in him relaxing as he takes Tommy’s cock like a goddamn champion. Fuck, he's cute. He's perfect. Fuck, he's close. Fuck.
"Fuck, you're doing so good, baby. Making me close. Where do you want me to cum, sweetheart? You want it on your chest? I could cum on your tits, sweetheart, you'd look so pretty," he rambles, dirty talk making way for desperation. Damien pulls off and he can't help the noise he makes, groaning as Damien's hand wraps around him, replacing the soft wetness of his mouth with the tight roughness of his palm and fingers. It racks shivers through him immediately, his hips twitching in reflexive thrusts against the friction.
"Cum on my face, please, I've been good, please," Damien begs, whispering it into Tommy's palm, nuzzling into it. His pace in stripping Tommy's cock doesn't fall for a moment, fast and rough and perfect. He leans in to lave his tongue over Tommy's slit every few strokes, digging into it in a way that feels so fucking good Tommy can barely keep his eyes open, and certainly not his mouth shut.
"You can have it, sweetheart, you can have whatever you want," he says, high and reedy, and Damien looks him in the eyes when he tongues his cock again, and orgasm hits faster than Tommy expected it to, white spreading across his vision, forcing his eyes closed. He doesn't open them til he feels Damien move, yelping. God, it's too much. Fuck, that's too much. He doesn't want Damien to stop; he's cleaning Tommy up with his tongue, licking off the cum that had run down his dick rather than shooting across Damien's face. He's so pretty. Fuck.
"You okay?" Damien asks, low and sweet, as he pulls off. Tommy nods and pulls him up, heedless of the cum if it means he should do anything other that kiss Damien. He can feel his own cum in his beard but he doesn't care, exchanging languid kisses in the lambency of this night together, this moment, before he grabs the wipes off the table and starts cleaning the both of them off. He runs a quick wipe over his own face but lingers on Damien's, careful swipes that cut across the planes of Damien's face evenly, his hand held and turned with his chin in Tommy's palm. Damien grins up at him and leans up to steal a kiss, but Tommy doesn't let him derail taking care of the mess.
Unclipping the various harness and straps from Damien with gentle hands, a quick swipe over the leather so it won't salt cure or some bullshit like that; God knows, if it's real leather (and with Damien, he has no doubt that it is; he may very well have made this harness himself), it'll get fucked up just to spite them both. He finishes with Damien and then gives himself a cursory run over, not nearly so attentive when it's just him rather than caring for Damien. There's room for the afterglow in the yellow-pink of the gentled lights that Tommy hadn't even bothered to notice before they got to this point, too wrapped up in Damien and thoughts of him that thoughts for the light fixtures weren't even remotely on the radar.
"You did good, baby," Tommy whispers, laying back on the pillows and tugging Damien into his side.
"I did well," Damien says, giving up the ghost immediately with loose giggles that make Tommy want to sweep him up and never let Damien leave his sight again. He wants to make Damien happy; he wants to keep Damien happy. He relaxes into Tommy's side, even stays that way for a moment, but all too soon he tenses, a slow rigidity that culminates into frozenness. Tommy strokes his hand down Damien's back, pulling him a little closer.
"What's up, honey?" he prompts, wanting to make Damien show him his face but wanting him to speak more, so he doesn't say a damn thing when that's how it stays.
"So... what next?" Damien asks, his voice just as small as Tommy's ever heard it, his face hidden against Tommy's shoulder. Tommy presses a kiss to the side of his head, more reflexive than reassuring, but he still smiles when Damien relaxes against him again, and he can feel the returned smile pressed against his collarbone.
"How do you mean?" he asks, always striving for clarity if nothing else.
"I mean- what happens after this?"
"I'd like to take you home and do some more aftercare with you, but after that, that's really up to you, Damien," he levels, far too cautious to put vocalized hope on one side or the other. He's willing to make decisions for Damien if Damien would like him to, but not this one. Never this one.
Damien hums. Tommy raises an eyebrow. "Called me Damien again. Guess I'm wondering where baby went," Damien says, his lips pulling into a grin as he tucks his face against Tommy's throat, huffing out laughter. Tension runs out of Tommy quick enough to have him lightheaded and laying down, but he just his eyes, putting his arms around Damien's shoulders and holding him close, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.
"Well, baby," Tommy begins, immediately followed by a snort, "what I would like to do is spend the night with you. Maybe try going to breakfast in the morning. Lunch if you're not sick of me by then." He breaks it off with a laugh of his own, small and free.
"And to be entirely clear and pedantic so no one gets hurt or anything-"
"I would like to pursue a romantic relationship with you," Tommy clarifies, reaching out for the words and finding only the most proprietary way to say it and make it as clear as he means, to declare intent without question.
"Anxious about underdiscussed topics? How dare you?" Tommy quips, kissing Damien on the nose, which he immediately hides again at Tommy's collarbone. "You worry about it, I interrupt you when you talk about worrying about it. Autism/ADHD solidarity, baby." Tommy can't get through the whole sentence without laughing, but that's more than okay; Damien is giggling that shotgun laughter against him and Tommy's heart is bursting in his chest, supernova, dying star, sunshine smile. A galaxy boy and Tommy's affection for him the universe. He's so beautiful.
"I like you so much," Damien mutters like he can hear the sappiness of Tommy's own internal monologue and matches it with his own.
Feel free to ignore! Sinner!Adam x GN!Reader where Adam sucks up his pride, goes to the hotel, and although practically nobody wants him there, Charlie gives him a chance for redemption and puts Reader in charge of watching over him and helping him adjust because they were mostly neutral with him. So maybe just some moments of them bonding and actually becoming close?
OH MY GODS!!! I am so sorry this took me so damn long. I really wanted to make this fic the best it could be. I really hope you like it. Again I feel like I might have slighlty strayed for the prompt but I really do hope it is what you wanted Nonnie
The small things - Sinner!Adam x GN!reader
Warnings Angst-Hurt/comfort-fluff
When Adam woke up in a shit stained back alley of Hell, oh how he screamed an extremely blasphemous bloody murder for hours upon hours upon . . . well you get the idea. The other demons that happened to be walking past carried on by unphased. Yes, some did take a sneak peek of the newly fallen angel throwing a massive child-like tantrum, but most didn’t give a rat’s ass about what he was going through. This is Hell after all, everybody’s got problems.
Adam finally calmed down enough to crawl out of the rancid gutter. It took a moment for him to gain his bearings, seeming to have found himself in the pride ring. Which meant he was in the same rung of hell as that fucking hotel. Whoever's idea of this sick fucking joke was going to get ripped a new one. He shouldn’t be here. Why was he here?
He doesn’t remember walking but soon he found himself in front of the shadow of a much larger and grander looking Hazbin Hotel.
He seemed to snap back to himself. Why the fuck did he subconsciously walk to the threshold of the one place that would most likely give him his second death on the spot? But that doesn’t stop him from raising a fist and knocking obnoxiously loud. He’d been in Hell for all of about 5 hours now and it was hard to tell what time of day it was down here without a watch. He didn’t have jack shit on him when he woke up, just a grubby, ripped up pair of sweats.
The door finally opened up to Lucifer’s yawning brat. Her eyes went wide seeing him there.
“Adam?” She was more confused than he had been as to why he was down here, let alone in demon form. “What. What are you doing here? I mean you’re, you, but you’re not. I mean why are you . . .” Charlie stumbled over her words.
Vaggie arrived behind her while she was stammering. It took a split second for her to knock him on his ass, her angelic spear aimed at his throat.
“Give me one reason I shouldn’t end your worthless life again right here and now.” She growled out.
“Hey, Woah now. I mean no harm this time honest. I’m just as confused as you are as to why the fuck I ended up here but I have nowhere else to go and . . .” Adam shuffled further away for the spear’s tip.
“Vaggie stop. Let’s just talk about this.” Charlie tried to shimmy in front of her girlfriend. “I know he is the main reason for so many very bad things but we need to take a breather. Look, it’s 3am and we won’t be thinking straight at a time like this. So let’s put a pin in this extremely weird conversation for now. We can put him up in a room on the second floor and then take this all from the top in the morning.”
“I don’t know about this.” Vaggie side eyes Adam but he can see her very slowly caving to Charlie. “UGH! Fine. He can stay for one night. Just one but as soon as we figure out what is going on he is out on his ass.”
Charlie squeezes her partner in a tight hug before turning and holding out a hand towards Adam. He glares at it for a moment before grabbing it. She hauls him back to his feet and shows him inside. His eyes flick all around the lobby area, clocking a bar on the far left, the elevators to the right and of course a grand staircase up to the first floor. He was shown to his room on the second floor. Charlie chose to take the elevator, Vaggie standing firmly in between them, her hands clenching around the shaft of her spear. Adam shuffled as far to the side as possible he knows about the short temper of his exorcists, even the ex-ones.
“Here we are 224.” She opened the door, flicking on the light switch and letting Adam walk in. “You’ll find towels in the bathroom and fresh sheets already on the bed. Just please wait until someone comes to collect you in the morning. Now get some sleep, lord knows we are gonna need it.” She said the last part more to herself as she left with Vaggie.
Adam let out a deflated sigh, he wasn’t sure that he would get any sleep, no matter how exhausted he felt. So, he went to look at the ensuite, maybe taking a shower would help put him in a sleepier state, true to her word clean red towels were waiting on the counter by the sink. Adam stripped and threw the grubby garments he’d had on into the corner of the room.
He turned the shower up high and climbed into the scolding spray. As the water rained down his body, only then did he see how his heavenly body had really changed into this disgusting new demonic form. Hatred bubbled beneath the surface of the dull grey-coloured skin, he scrubbed as hard as possible in a vain attempt to try and find the person he was under all this ‘fakery’. He still held onto the belief that this was an incredibly vivid nightmare and he was going to wake up safe and sound in his plush king-sized bed in heaven.
He can’t be a demon.
He wasn’t a sinner; he was a winner. This had to be all a lie. It just had to. He wanted to scream, cry or something. Everything was getting to be too much. Turning off the water he stepped out into the steam-filled room and stared at the large fogged over mirror above the sink. Adam knew when he wiped away the condensation he would see himself.
He knew he had to talk himself into looking at what he’d become.
‘Come on. You can do this. Stop being such a fuckin pussy.’
Slowly he raised his left hand and wiped at the mirror.
‘Fuck’
There staring back at him was his worst nightmare. Dark brown horns curled out of his skull through damp blackened hair clinging to his scalp. His skin now he looked closer It was really more of a short fur coating than human skin. His teeth were razor sharp and his tongue was yellow. He was slightly rounder than he was before, his feet were now coven hoofs. How he didn’t clock this fact before scared him slightly but the one thing that stuck out to him the most were his eyes. He blinked a few times but nothing changed.
He still had those golden irises that heaven gifted him.
Adam stood and stared.
He was an abomination. There was no removing this mask at the end of a long day.
Silent tears rolled down his cheeks. Shame gushing to the surface. He angrily swiped at the tears trying to stop them at the source. He was a man. They don’t cry or show emotion. They bottle it up inside or channel it into something else. Yet here was crying like a hormonal broad.
He blindly grabs for a towel, bunching it up in his dark clawed fingers and screaming into the fabric.
He let everything out. Screaming out all his hatred, pain and anguish until his throat hurt from the exertion. The towel got thrown into the corner. Switching the bathroom light off, he walked slowly over to the soft looking bed and crawled under the covers. He didn’t care that he hadn’t dried himself off properly, full body exhaustion had taken hold and he welcomed the dreamless sleep that often always followed.
----
When the knock came what felt like mere minutes after he had passed out. He slowly sat up in the bed, the covers pooling around his hips. He wiped the partially dried drool off his chin, blinking a few times before acknowledging the person knocking
“Whatduyawant?” he grumbled.
“You decent?” the voice behind the door was not one he recognised.
“Yeah sure, whatever.” He yawned and stretched out his back. The door opened and in walked a sinner that Adam definitely didn’t remember from the final battle at the old hotel. They held a clean pair of clothes and a small set of toiletries that was clearly for him.
“Afternoon. Charlie said to let you sleep in a bit.” You seemed completely unphased by the half-naked demon before you. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” You stood at the end of the bed.
“Urm, good I guess.” Adam reaches out for the clothes you have.
“Well, good news is you ain’t getting thrown out just yet.” You drop the clothes into his hands and went to put the toiletries in the ensuite.
“And the bad news is?” He tugs on the clean pants. You turn and lean against the door frame. Your eyes flick up and down before smirking.
“Bad news is I’ve been stuck with babysitting your ass.” You push yourself off the frame with your hip. “So, I’m setting ground rules right here and now. You are only allowed to stay here if you play ball. Nobody wants to deal with your egotistical bullshit. So if you piss me off, I’ll go straight to Charlie. If you threaten anybody, I go straight to Vaggie and if you harass any of the other patrons. I will go and find Niffty because I’m sure she will be able to get her point across. Do you understand?” You stand tall with your arms crossed over your chest.
Adam is stunned by your strictness but finds himself nodding. Not trusting his words right now.
“Good. Now get yourself ready there is an activity planned for 3:15pm.” You walk away. “Oh and Adam. I want you to at least try okay?” You throw a soft smile back at him before leaving him to finish getting ready.
Adam sat on the edge of the bed staring at the closed door. Something inside him sparked briefly. He pulled on his shirt. ‘What the hell was that?’ He thought to himself.
-----
It had been 4 weeks since Adam had shown up at the hotel despite this stupid buddy system that Charlie had in place. Adam was kinda glad he was stuck with you. Something about your snarky attitude, the fact you always called him out when he brags about being who he was before but most of all the very rare soft acts of kindness towards him.
He didn’t realise it yet but you actually made him want to do better. He wants to be better and if that gave him a chance of gaining his wings back then he was sure as hell gonna try.
-
Adam hadn’t realised that he was doing good deeds at first. But seeing Charlie beam brightly when he would raise a hand before talking in the group sessions or the way he held the door for other patrons before heading off to do what he pleased.
Adam was really trying. But you knew that if you brought it up he would immediately call bullshit. Then would act out just to reclaim his cool guy image.
-
“Hey wait up,” Adam called out as the elevator doors started sliding shut. You held out a hand reopening the doors so he could hop in and ride up to the second floor with you. “Thanks.” He leans against the back wall. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He handed you a bag with something wrapped up in a lot of toilet paper.
“Gee, thanks.” The look on your face made Adam laugh.
“It’s not whatcha think it is. Just a little something to thank you for putting up with my miserable ass.” The Elevator chimed on the second floor. “After you.” He let you walk out first before following. “Are you gonna open it?”
The look on his face was a mix of excitement and worry. You decided to humour him. Reaching in you grabbed the poorly wrapped gift. He took the bag off you so you could peel off the wads of toilet paper.
It was a coffee mug.
“Since I accidently broke your favourite mug a few days ago. I thought I should get you a replacement.” His fingers crumpled the handles of the bag as he waited for any sort of reaction to the gift.
You turned the mug over to see the words on the side better.
‘I work with absolute legends’ was written on the side surrounded by little black stars. Your thumb traced a star or two. Still staring at the present in hand you felt a smile tug at the corners of your lips.
Not knowing how else to thank him. You rushed forward and embraced him tightly. Making sure not to drop your present.
“I take it you like it?” He drops the bag and folds his arms around you.
“You didn’t have to do that.” You rested your forehead against his shoulder. Neither one of you is willing to break the hug first.
“I had to do something. You looked so sad when I broke it. That didn’t sit right with me. Charlie explained that I was feeling guilt and . . .”
You pull away slightly to look at him.
“Adam. The first man Adam, went to consult ‘Miss Feels-too-much’ about an issue completely unprompted!?”
Adam dropped his arms and started getting all defensive again.
“Why’d ya gotta say it that way?” He whined. You pull him back in for another hug which he willingly allows.
“Sorry big guy. I’m just really impressed is all. You have come a long way in such a short time. I’m so proud of you.” You squeezed tightly before letting him go. “I could actually go for a coffee right now. Good thing I got a brand new mug to drink from.”
He groans at your cheesy words before picking up the bag off the floor he hooks an arm around your neck and pulls you along back into the elevator to go and get that drink.
-----
This fic became longer than I thought it would.
My Ask box is still open if anyone else has a Sinner!Adam prompts they want to send in.
Hi! What about "Can you stay with me?" (and if you'd like it my bonus prompt is "drunk") 💗
The initial draft was written while I was quite literally fainting late at night & the second one fully rewritten while I am dazed and out of it. I would say that I was method writing Obi-Wan who is indeed very much drunk in this one, dearest anon. Thank you for the prompt~ 😊💖
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Obikin || 4,004w || Drunk Obi-Wan is agonized by the prospect of his freshly knighted Padawan leaving him behind— and more. 😌 Some flavors of gentle lime in this drink, very light, very sweet. 🍋💖
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"Can you stay with me?"
Obi-Wan Kenobi sounds properly pathetic and he knows it. Grasping at Anakin’s Tabards as he is, mind swirling in hazy circles around the notion he was doing his very best to avoid thinking about for the past few months. It is not long now that Anakin would look at his Master and see him for what he really was. Perhaps even today. Inebriated as he is, he makes for a good serving of disillusionment. All Anakin needs to do is look, and see, and then…
It seems inevitable—his Padawan will leave.
Former Padawan. Anakin is no longer his Padawan, and that is the heart of it, isn’t it? The severed braid was the firs step. Them having each a battalion of their own, stationed light years away from each other with only the occasional joint mission, a second. The third and final step would be for Anakin to finally open his eyes and look, and see.
It won’t be hard to unveil the carefully crafted Jedi Master facade Obi-Wan had cultivated for the past decade. No, it won’t be hard at all. If Anakin were to stop glorifying him, stop shaping him to be what ever form of idol he had needed for while growing up, if only he were to take an unbiased look at him…
There will no longer be, Kenobi and Skywalker.
For the naked truth was, Anakin had outgrown him, had become more powerful and capable than his Master. There’s little left that Obi-Wan could still offer, still teach. He should be proud. The only one still refusing to see it, is Anakin himself. Once that revelation comes to pass however, it will be complete. A true break, as befitting the Jedi way. Obi-Wan finds no peace in the thought, no completion nor satisfaction in the successful completion of his Padawan’s training—a symbol of his own Mastery.
Not when it means losing him. Not then.
Given his state of drunkenness, words slurred and feet unsteady, he thinks that it’s worth putting to question whatever or not he was a good Jedi at all, least of all a Master. Try as he might, he finds it hard to ponder further. His choice to look inward is as always an avoidance, an escape. An easy detour from looking outward, from looking at Anakin. Anakin who’s eyes he can feel like a physical touch, boring into his very soul.
Obi-Wan’s avoidance is nearly as strong as Anakin’s natural magnetism. One is counseling him to avoid looking, save himself the pain of witnessing the exact moment in which the realization dawns upon the boy. The second, stronger still, demands his undivided attention on him, demands him to look. Demands him.
Obi-Wan looks up, he meets those eyes, his demise.
Anakin’s eyes widen and he blinks, endless blue clearing as if coming out of some sort of shock.
“Can I—” Anakin splutters “—Obi-Wan, even if the council explicitly ordered me to go save the entire karkin universe just now, I wouldn’t be leaving your side— stars you’ve any idea what you look like right now?
Obi-Wan’s tongue is heavy but he parts his lips to answer, something clever to be sure, he always finds something to say.
“No, never mind.” Anakin cuts in before he could speak. There’s such decisiveness in his tone, such confidence. His former Padawan stands tall, his arms are strong and sure as he handles Obi-Wan closer, making him lean more of his weight against his chest. It’s broad and firm. Obi-Wan should not be noticing those things, should not be aware of those things. It is a further evidence that his Padawan is well and truly grown. Further evidence of his own failing as a Jedi, as a Master, as a…man. Obi-Wan should not be inhaling and smelling home. Should not be leaning closer, itching all over for more, more.
“You’re so wasted that I am surprised you’ve even recognized me at all.” Anakin continues talking, as if the universe is not shifting beneath Obi-Wan’s feet as it is him who finally looks with his gaze unbiased. “The drunken messages though, those you will be seeing tomorrow” there’s dark mirth in that dear voice. “I bet you wanted to send them to— someone else.” Anakin glances at him, eyes narrowed.
Obi-Wan’s offenses at Anakin’s assumption he could ever not recognize him dies over under his gaze, dark and rich, his eyes are captivating. Before Anakin, he did not know that a blue can hold such multitudes. Both the clear morning sky, and the moon lit sky. Beautiful. They loosens his tongue as well as any truth serum would. That or the bottle he had finished on his own finally soaked through.
“I will always—” His voice comes out so thick that he coughs, starting Anakin from his dark contemplations, whichever those might be. His eyebrows furrow and he quickly snatches a cup of something clear off of a passing robo-waitress’s tray. Irritated with the distraction, Obi-Wan accepts it and drinks if only to make way for the words to follow. He will not let it go. Not now that he’d started. “I will always recognize you, Padawan Mine, drugged, beaten, or otherwise preoccupied— I will always—”
“Drugged?!” Anakin cuts in again, arms tightening around Obi-Wan and strangling the annoyed huff at being cut again “You did not mention anything about being drugged, what the kark’ Obi-Wan?!”
Obi-Wan’s mouth is dry, similar to how being drugged would feel. His mind swims and all he sees is Anakin. There’s warmth in his chest, there’s a burn in his gut, there’s a tug in his—
“It’s hard to tell” he says sheepishly, embarrassed, eyes straying away from Anakin’s strong jaw and up, up to the lights on the ceiling. He should not be thinking of how Anakin’s proximity is enough to replicate a strong drug. How out of orbit he feels around him as of late. “They all start the same, so…”
Anakin is hardly listening. Instead he is surveying the club with a look of fury that is bordering on homicidal, freeing one hand to rest it on his lightsaber. There’s the distinct feeling of Anakin stretching his force signature out, covering the room, no doubt attempting to locate anyone within their proximity who might have dared drug his former Master. Oh if only he knew that he was the culprit all along.
Obi-Wan snorts, finding an odd sense of humor in it.
Anakin’s gaze darts back to him, sharp and accusing. He looks so handsome under the colorful, dim lights. He looks so…
“Ah-nakin.” Obi-Wan sighs out and shuts his eyes lest his spinning head forces him to sober up in the most un-jedi manner.
“Stay with me,” the request comes so easy, what was it that he was so afraid of? It’s so easy, too easy. Frighteningly so, to reach and touch Anakin’s forearm. There’s skin beneath his touch, warm and human, tense muscles beneath. “Ah” Obi-Wan sighs out in realization. Anakin had rolled the sleeves, so very unofficial for a Jedi and yet so very Anakin of him.
Master Windu would have hated it. It wouldn’t surprise Obi-Wan if this was exact reason why Anakin did it to begin with, after all, he was most adept to handling heat and was not bothered by it even while all else were. Obi-Wan really should have reprimanded the boy more often, should have stopped Anakin from executing all those harmless little vendettas of his while growing up.
If only he did not find them to be so endearing, so amusing. If only he was a better Master, a proper Master. He would have.
His brain is foggy and he had already forgotten what was it it that he had hoped to achieve by touching Anakin, only that his fingers are circling his wrist and touching the spot at which he can feel his life pulsing. What a terrible habit it is, being intoxicated while negotiating. You should only ever drink enough to appear drunk, never more. How is he to get what he wants, when he has no ideas what it was?
Obi-Wan’s eyelids are heavy when he tries to blink them open and focus on Anakin. There’s the signature frown, so familiar Obi-Wan can’t help but smile. Anakin is chewing his lips, a compulsion he had never managed to rid himself of. He looks torn between the need to locate and deal with the ‘enemy’, and…. Obi-Wan.
The way Anakin looks, that should not be reminiscent of the targets Obi-Wan opts for charm as the main form of negotiation with. Should not stir the excitement of a hunt, of a game to be won. Obi-Wan should not use his looks to achieve his goals, he should not use them to get what he wants, he should be a better man than that.
Obi-wan is not a better man.
Licking his own dry lips, he let’s go off of Anakin’s wrist and reaches for Anakin’s cheeks. There’s a tremble in the touch, his, Anakin’s? He is not certain.
“Dear One, you can chase your enemies tomorrow.” He speaks in a hushed murmur, he hopes he sounds soft and alluring “Tonight, will you guard this drunk Master of yours?” he looks up, through his lashes, breathing shallowly, feeling hot, hot, hot all over.
Anakin let’s go off of the lightsaber. It’s an answer enough to what he had picked. It still is deeply gratifying to feel the boy’s hand cover his own, guide it until he wraps his arm around Anakin’s shoulders. It’s an awkward angle, with Anakin being taller than he— he cares very little for it when Anakin wraps an arm around his waist.
“Let’s go.” He is tight lipped and determined, guiding Obi-Wan out and into a speeder that is parked not far off. If Obi-Wan was even slightly more aware, he’d realize just how much attention the pair of them had draw, how all of the eyes had followed them out. Sometimes he forgets, how famous they had become during this accursed war. Sometimes, he is glad to not remember.
Anakin is terribly efficient at getting them to the Temple. One blink of an eye they’re flying through the busy highways of Coruscant, the next he is tossed unceremoniously onto a bed that feels and smells familiar. His bed.
They’re in his quarters. Their quarters until very recently. He is breathing harder and he does not dare to think of why. If he does not think, it does not exist. He is self aware enough only to feel how disheveled his robes feel on his body, how messy his hair is, how hot his skin feels all over. He is a mess.
“Dear one?” he questions. He refuses to acknowledge how his own tone drops, refuses to admit he is rolling his vowels in a way he knows thickens his accent in the most attractive of ways. He doesn’t know why he is flirting with Anakin Skywalker when the boy is barely out of his knighthood and is Anakin. His Anakin, his Anakin on whom he just looked in a way he really should not be looking at, through his eyelashes, with a heavy, wanting gaze.
The redness of Anakin’s cheeks is evidence enough that he hears and understands the situation well enough. That he is very much aware of what his Master is doing. That he is… perhaps affected.
Obi-Wan swallows, trying to push himself up to his elbows. He needs to sober up, he must tell him that he is merely jesting, that it is all a little tease, a little laugh, nothing more, just….
Anakin cuts him to it. Before he can excuse, or joke, or explain.
“Not while you’re drunk.” Anakin bites, sounding frustrated, lips swollen red from biting. Obi-Wan startles, surprised.
What did Anakin just say? Imply?
Blatantly threw straight into his face, more like.
Yes, but not while he is drunk.
Absurdly, a swell of pride fills his chest to the brim. Anakin’s manners and chivalry surprises him, pleases him. He had raised him well after all, he did not fail him, at least not in this.
His pleasure must bleed into the Force as Anakin regards him with a dark, baffled look. It’s so dark, most would find it intimidating, but for Obi-Wan it’s… dear. He can see the gentleness in that look, the care. There’s warmth in the force when Anakin insist on tucking him in, fingers methodical in the short, careful gestures. Tucking him in as if he was a child. Him, his Master. Former.
Obi-Wan was tucked in only once in his lifetime, at least as far as he can remember. His first night in the Jedi Temple. So tense he was, so out of his depth, that the he was taken pity of, tucked in with a quiet promise of everything making sense soon. It helped.
It had never happen again.
“Ahnakin.” he tries to protest, tries to pull a face of offended indigence. It’s hard to do when he is practically shining within the force. A single look from his apprentice is enough to quiet him down.
“Master.” Anakin replies, and there’s a little eyeroll there. His cheeks are still flushed but he seems as determined as Obi-Wan to not address the Bantha in the room. “You really should be more careful” he lectures him in a way Obi-Wan can distinctly remember doing a few years back, when Anakin had gotten drunk for the first time.
He leaves then, without a word. Obi-Wan’s throat closes and there’s a pang of pain in his heart. No this. He remembers now. Him. Leaving. That was the whole reason, that was why—
“Master?” Anakin sounds concerned, a glass of water and a container of what looks to be painkillers in his hands. “Are you sick?” a few strides and he is by Obi-Wan’s bed again, placing he glass and container at the bedside table. He looks well and truly worried.
Unthinking, Obi-Wan sits up. So sudden that he does feel sick from the motion. He ignores it. He reaches for Anakin’s face with both hands, cupping his cheeks with a grip that is too strong, too desperate. A Jedi should not hold onto things with such fervor.
All it takes for him to lean is to Anakin, is to stop resisting if only for a moment. Anakin’s pull was always there, stronger and stronger until it had become a daily challenge to ignore it, to pretend he does not feel it. All it takes is to stop resisting and his lips find Anakin’s, pressing against that plush softness, inhaling his exhale and finally, finally feeling anchored, inside the orbit he was always meant to circle.
He tilts his chin, leans in, knowing his beard will scratch pleasantly against the smooth jaw, kisses in deeper—
“Mahster—!” Anakin gasps into the kiss, a pang of shock and uncertainty clouding the force around them, sipping through the open nerves of their broken bond. He does not want to take advantage of his Master, does not want him to end up hating him, does not want him to wake up and be disgusted, appalled— but he wants, he wants so badly.
“Oh, Anakin.” Obi-Wan breathes out, unsure if it’s endearment of relief that fills him up with warmth, with lightness. One thing he is certain of, no one had ever been, or will be, as sweet, as kind, as dear as Anakin is to him. “I could never hate him.” There’s a drunken lisp to his voice, he needs a moment to correct himself. “You.” He manages, meeting Anakin’s eyes and not blinking, not wanting to miss a single moment. Wanting to see the exact moment in which Anakin realizes he is serious, that he is the most honest he’s been in years.
Anakin seems to be realizing it too, his eyes widening and cheeks coloring a deeper red than before, he bites his lip.
“I might be…” Obi-Wan’s gaze drops to Anakin’s lips and he thinks about… “intoxicated…” he forces himself to look up, away from temptation, away from sin. “Drugged, possibly.” He is still not fully certain if he is, or it truly is just Anakin with a touch of alcohol. “But I am very much aware that…” he smiles before completing the sentence, it widens so much further with the words to come “…my Padawan simply cannot take advantage of his Master…” there’s really no need to be using this many terms of belonging, especially when they are outdated and irrelevant, but he just cannot… “On the contrary, I am the one who should be deeply ashamed for…mnnn-”
Anakin’s lips quiet him up, he was never a patient listener, never could hear his Master finish a thought. This is the most effective he had ever been at cutting Obi-Wan’s line of thought, by far. He kisses him in a way Obi-Wan would have never guessed him capable of— it’s soft, sweet, patient. A tender thing, careful, loving. Obi-Wan gasps. Thinking, dazedly of how Anakin will grow to be an amazing lover, so attentive, a beast holding back his fangs in favor of gentle lips…
The thought sets a burning coil of arousal deep in Obi-Wan’s gut.
Not good. Beyond not good. He should….
The thought is present and yet he licks at Anakin’s lips, asking for permission. He is granted one without resistance, without hesitance. Anakin’s lips part and he can taste him and oh, oh. Obi-Wan groans, muscles tensing as he shifts to sit straighter, moving a hand to Anakin’s nape and pulling him closer.
He nearly chokes when the boy sucks on his tongue, arousal shocking him into near soberness.
“Anakin…” he knows, there’s not enough alcohol in the universe to convince him that this is not going too far, he knows and yet…
He kisses Anakin again, a little hungrier, a little more wanting.
He must stop this madness. To think that he had started it, to think that he had taken advantage of his trusting, sweet—
“No, Master.” Anakin answers, and Obi-Wan wonders just how much of his shields is truly left if his thoughts can be read so easily, so plainly. “You’ve asked me to stay, and I will stay.” That assuredness is back, firm and leaving no space for argument. This is the same man who leads men on a battlefield, who commands, who leads. Obi-Wan finds it impossibly, undeniably, devastatingly attractive.
“You will sleep.” Anakin decides then, tearing his eyes away from Obi-Wan long enough to gesture at the lights, turning them off with the force. “And I will stay with you.” His eyes land back to Obi-Wan, dark mirth dancing in what Obi-Wan can still see of him. “To keep you safe, Master.” He is teasing him, the little devil.
“How will it even…” Obi-Wan doesn’t want to mention how narrow the bed really is, Anakin would know, with his constant complaints about how leg room and…
“Don’t worry about that.” Anakin answers, confidence so cocky, so boyish that Obi-Wan huffs a surprised laughter, breaking into giggling when Anakin practically falls on top of him. They struggle like that, laughter mixing, limbs tangling, hair in a mouth and fingers against sides— Anakin captures him then, they’re on their sides, Anakin’s back is firm as he pulls Obi-Wan all the way to himself, forming….
“Absolutely not!” Obi-Wan’s voice raises and breaks a little, attempting to wriggle out of the trap he inadvertently fell into. There’s still some pride life in him. He will not permit this Jedi Knight, his former Padawan no less, big spoon him, 16 years his senior and former Master. Force be his witness, he will not allow it.
Anakin makes a suffering, exasperated exhale when Obi-Wan manages to slip out of his grip— only to be yanked back by the force. All he manages is a choked gasp of protest before the air is knocked out of him, his back hitting a firm chest a little too hard. There’s a vindictive sort of satisfaction in hearing Anakin chokes out a surprised exhale too, clearly, he did not account for the impact being this strong.
“Karkin’ hell…” he hears the boy muttering and snorts out, laughing even while Anakin wraps his mechno-arm around him, pulling him back into the not-as-offensive as before little spoon position. Fine, he thinks. He’ll allow it, just for this one night….
His eyes close and he shudders when Anakin’s nose press against his nape, he can feel the slow, deep inhale— can feel the content exhale that follows.
“Finally.” Anakin breathes out, as if he was waiting for this moment longer than the few minutes just now. Like he needed it, himself. Like it was not Obi-Wan, pathetic and alone, messaging his former Padawan while drunk beyond reason that led him here, but his own needs, own wants. Like he needed this too, him. Like he needs him. Obi-Wan.
“Oh Force…” Obi-Wan calls upon it without realizing, without meaning it. Only the force can stand witness to this moment, judge it, measure it. Guide him, tell him right from wrong. “Force.” His voice trembles with it, realizing for the first time that Anakin does see him, in truth, does and still…
“It’s fine with it.” Anakin remarks, nonchalant, amusement coloring the timbre of his voice. “You don’t have to shout at her, I don’t think she like it very much” Anakin refers to the Force differently every time, Obi-Wan suspects he does it simply for the joy of throwing off the younglings.
It unsettles Obi-Wan as well, he will not admit that much, though. Anakin’s connection with the force was always stronger, always different than anyone else’s. If he’s saying that the Force is not finding this offensive…. Obi-Wan will trust him. Anakin enjoys messing around at times, stretching the truth about how the Force works, but he’d never lie about this, not to him.
Obi-Wan’s body relaxes so completely that he practically sags into Anakin, relief, so much relief. It feels…. Good. There’s rightness to it that even without the Force humming pleasantly in his ears, he’d recognize. Like sharing a sleeping cot in the war zones, minus the blood and gore and pain… it feels secure, it feels…good….
He feels himself being lulled to what he suspects will be a long and restful sleep. Such a luxury as of late. “Mnh..” He jolts a little when a hand moves across his side, resting at his hip bone and then back up to his side. He should not permit Anakin this much leeway with him and yet…. He likes it… oh he likes it.
So he doesn’t comment it, allowing him to continue, to stroke him and care for him, and hold him. He is not leaving.
Sleep comes ease, as easy as an inhale. One moment he is aware of all that surrounds him, the scent and warmth, the weight and touch. The next he is sinking into the open embrace of rest. Distantly, he feels the touch of a Force Signature he knows as well as his own. It is the only half of it, after all. Accepting it, is as easy as breathing too.
There’s a distant shift, even in sleep he can feel the bond snapping back into place, like moons falling into a familiar route, circling a singular sun. Maybe it was not Anakin who was the sun around which Obi-wan was revolving all along, but their shared….
A snippet from the new 5+1 you just inspired, my dear @thatonemaddieanon! I give you 3 from 5 nightmares Maddie had growing up + 1 time she woke up safe.
The third notable nightmare is after she meets Doug Kendall. It's another nightmare of Daniel; nothing new there. But at sixteen, she'd thought she grew out of it. Still, Daniel's there and warning her against dating Doug. He tells her all sorts of stories about how Doug is going to hurt her. She's breathing heavily when she wakes up, and yet.... She tells herself it's just a dream. They date anyway. She's sixteen years old.
The rest will be coming when AO3 comes back from it's meltdown!
5 sentence fic prompt (?): Sore throat/"I can't just rest, I have to be useful!"
Thank you so much for the prompts (and thanks for Mill for boosting the prompt request)! I've done a fic for sore throat today and will follow up with the quote later this week.
We're back with Kirin, this time with his doctor, Verona. Following from this piece.
TW: conditioned whumpee, PTSD symptoms, forced medical treatment
Verona watched Kirin from the corner of her eye. Her fingers tapped away on the tablet as she charted her latest visit with the prisoner-patient, but her attention was still on Kirin as he showed increasing signs of discomfort.
He’d been still as a stone during her examination, his body pliant between her gloved hands, and he’d answered her routine questions with a level voice. There were no complaints as she checked his surgical sites or IVs, nor so much as a whine when she’d replaced the dressing on his abdomen. Now, however, it seemed Kirin’s façade of calmness was beginning to crack. She could hear him swallow heavily once, then twice, then came the rattle of his restraints as he let his head fall back against the pillows.
“Is everything alright?” she asked, voice as soft as she could manage. It was necessary to lower her voice before speaking, given how easily Kirin startled otherwise.
He tensed up all the same, eyes flicking over to her like a frightened dog, before they fell back to his lap.
“Yes ma’am.” His own voice was little more than a soft rasp in return.
“Are you sure?” She asked again, putting the tablet down at the foot of the bed. “Is something making you uncomfortable? If your pain isn’t well managed, I’d like to know. It’s important for my records”
A pause. Another swallow, and she saw the corners of his eyes tighten.
“Sore throat, ma’am, that’s all. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Let me call a nurse to get you some ice chips, then,” she said while stifling a sigh of relief. Of the many problems they had encountered while trying to drag Kirin out of death’s embrace, a sore throat was one that she could cure with relative ease.
This offer, as with most of the small comforts she offered, seemed to startle Kirin more than it soothed him. The chains around his wrists rattled softly as he tugged at his blankets, nervous energy with nowhere to go.
“I’m okay, ma’am, it’s really nothing. My pain is well-managed. Thank you.”
Verona wondered how many times a sworn enemy could make her heart break.
“It’s quite common to have a sore throat after intubation,” she offered with a smile, as easygoing as she could muster. “You’ve been intubated twice this week, so it’s likely your throat is agitated, even a bit swollen, from those procedures. The feeding tube certainly isn't helping. Ice chips will help with the swelling and with your hydration. It’s a win-win, really.”
Another pause. Sometimes, Kirin’s responses were quick, eager to please. Other times, like now, it seemed like he was waging an internal debate before being allowed to speak. A short breath, and he gripped the sheets with his one unbandaged hand.
“Is- is that okay with Alekos?”
Alekos. The only other person who struck as much fear into Kirin’s battle-worn body as Fen's memory seemed to. Of course, even now, he was on Kirin’s mind. Alekos, the prison warden, the arbiter of whether Kirin lived or died.
“Alekos has no say in your treatment,” Verona managed after a moment’s pause. “And he certainly has no say in whether you can have some ice, for god’s sake.”
“So-- you won’t get in trouble? I promise, I’m really okay-“
Verona cut him off with a wave of her hand.
“I’m the doctor here, not Alekos. I will not get in trouble, and I certainly won’t get punished, for treating my patients as I see fit. You might be Alekos’s prisoner, but you are my patient first and foremost. I get the final say here.”
She regretted the suddenness of her outburst as soon as she saw its effect on Kirin. He’d paled, pressed himself back into the bed, and unfocused his eyes. It was the same result as when Alekos raised his voice or barked commands. Raw, unbridled fear.
“I didn't mean to shout,” she tried to remedy, but it seemed Kirin was already lost to the throes of terror. “I’ll go ahead and get the ice chips myself, okay? I’m just going to step out and grab them now. Then I’ll hang out with you while I finish my charting, and you can work on the ice chips as much as you can. I think that sounds like a fair plan of treatment, yeah?”
Kirin nodded, voice raspy, eyes wet with nascent tears as they gazed down at the hospital bedsheets.
