Archive of Our Own

It's the last day of winter break and you are sitting cross-legged in Tom's desk chair, fidgeting.

Older Tom is sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his past self's bass. He doesn't like to play it-- mostly, he just cradles it in his calloused hands, trails his fingertips over the tuning pegs, and dips his head so close to the neck that you can't see the expression on his visor. You're torn: you want to sit here and obsess over his every move for days, tracking each brush of the strings with silent fervor, but there's a building restlessness under your skin that's making you feel itchy. If this was your Tom with you, you would have already said something obnoxious by now. You're petrified that this Tom would see through you with ease. You keep your mouth shut.

What you really need right now is a smoke, but you'd be smoking under Tom's NO SMOKING sign, which would normally be an attractive prospect, but is ruined by the fact that Older Tom would probably not mind at all, or, worse, would give you that too-zen, indulgent smile that makes you feel like he knows every gnarled corner of your heart, and the prospect of that makes you want to wither up and die, which makes you want to smoke, which doesn't help anything at all.

You bounce your foot up and down in quick, sharp jerks and spin in the desk chair. He doesn't bother to look up from his bass when he speaks. "What's bothering you?"

"Nothing," you snap, and he and smiles, and it's exactly as terrible as you thought it would be. "And what exactly is so funny, Thomas?"

He looks at you, finally, and you feel the tips of your ears glow red. His smile turns lopsided. "You look like you need a smoke."

Tom's room is too quiet, too soothing to be the backdrop to talking with his future self. You feel a little like you're being flayed by his laser eyes. "And what do you suggest for that, o brilliant one?"

"That you smoke," he says, not missing a beat as he leans back at an angle against the bed frame. He's still smiling at you. You can see the faint spots on his lower lip where his old piercings scarred over, and you want to ask what happened, what happened to his eyebrow piercing and his stupid resin gauges, where the scar on his chin came from, where his eyes went. You want to ask what the hell kind of vision is installed on his visor that lets him see right through you.

That would mean acknowledging that his constant, effortless ease gets to you, though, and you would rather die than admit that. You're the one who's supposed to be being mysterious and aloof, not him. "No, thank you," you finally grit out, and he has the audacity to laugh.

"Sorry," he says, a little breathless, and his voice is deep and rich, and you are a weak man. "You just look so indignant about it."

You sneer at him, twisting to face him as your chair keeps rotating, which only makes him laugh louder. "I don't."

"What do you actually want?" he asks, when he's finished mocking you. He's looking right into your eyes as he settles his bass back down on its stand. It's a genuine question, because he is a genuine person and that is still a fact you can't respond to with any measure of grace. "You've been staring at me for twenty minutes, y'know. Makes me wonder what it is that you're thinking."

"What do you want?" you demand, like that isn't the worst diversion in the world. You feel like a petulant child. You cross your arms tightly across your chest, glowering. To your chagrin, he pauses to think through your question.

"Just to be back here, I think," he says. He looks out the window, still cracked open from where you broke in earlier and letting in cold air. There's frost on the windowpane. He scratches the back of his neck and your gaze follows the flex of his bicep under his sleeve with your usual rabid intensity. "It's difficult to explain without getting into the weeds about the future. Things were simple here. It's nice to get to be somewhere where things are simple again." He sideyes you, cocks an eyebrow. Still pierced; it's comforting. "You should still tell me why you were staring, though."

"I was thinking about you fucking me," you say, as laviciously as you can, because it's easier to say than I was thinking about your scars. You kind of want him to laugh at you and give you a valid excuse for your frustrations, which would be very emotionally convenient of him and is therefore a pipe dream.

Instead, he is insufferably pragmatic. "There's nothing stopping us," he observes, like he's commenting on the weather. Like he's actually entertaining the thought of fucking you in your Tom's bed. You feel your flush spread across your cheeks. "Was that all?"

"What else would I want from you?" you retort, and the guilt hits you like a brick wall the second the words come out of your mouth. This iteration of Tom has been kinder to you than you could have ever deserved, and you know that, and you're positive that he knows it, too, even as he humors your bullshit questions and plays at finding you attractive. He's too good of a person to say it, but some things are too obvious to need saying.

"Hey," he says, voice suddenly soft, and it's too much. You close your eyes, as though blocking out the reality of his face will stop your imagination from showing you exactly the havoc you're wreaking. "Hey, Tord, it's okay."

"What's okay? Does it look like something's wrong to you?" you demand. You can manage this one thing-- your voice doesn't crack, even though it wants to. Blame it on the T, not the lump that's threatening to block your throat. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you very much."

You don't know how he does this to you, present and future. You don't know how he keeps ripping your feelings out of your stomach like they're just so many intestines. He's the only person who has ever been able to do this to you and you think you hate him for it. You want to hate him for it. You're not sure if you could manage to feel something that simple about Tom, present or future. While you agonize, he stands up and crosses the short distance between you. His hand grazes your cheek and your entire body jolts.

"Easy," he says, and you're suspended between the urge to shove him away from you and the urge to lean further into his hands and cry. He's got such large, strong hands; maybe you've finally found someone strong enough to hold you together. The thought makes you shudder with barely-suppressed emotion. "It's okay."

More than anything, you want to crawl into his lap and let him wrap his arms around you while you hide. You think that, if he kissed the top of your head and said you'd be alright, you'd fall apart.

"Tord," he says again, a little uncertain, and you shiver at the sound of his voice saying your name. You could listen to him say it forever. "You said that you wanted to have sex, right?"

"Yes," you say, voice high and tight. You don't want to be talking about that right now. You want him to reach out the rest of the way and let you rest your cheek in his palm. That would be enough to fix you, you think, in all of the ways that matter.

He grunts an affirmation, moves his hand so that it's on top of your head. He starts to trail his fingertips through your hair, touching you so lightly you're not sure if you're imagining things. You let out a shaky sigh. No one touches you like that anymore. "I need you to trust me. Can I count on you for that?"

You have no idea what he's talking about, but you nod anyways. Nodding lets you brush up against his hand again, confirming that it's there and that he is, in fact, willingly touching you. It's more comforting than you know what to do with. He gives your hair a quick ruffle before pulling away, and he takes a little piece of your heart with him. You hear the shitty springs of his mattress creak.

He's sitting across from you on his bed, legs slightly parted. He looks unfairly good in his slacks and button-up; his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and show off corded muscle. No tie today. He's no longer slouching. When he sees you staring back at him, he pats his knee twice. "Come."

The command makes you feel something molten and desperate. You're humiliated, obviously-- you feel your face twist into an ugly expression even as you obey-- but it doesn't hold a candle to your need. You unfold your legs, stumble across the two steps that separate you. He reaches around you to rest his hand on the small of your back, bringing you in closer. You can smell his aftershave and it makes your cunt throb. "There you are. Good boy."

Your brain scrambles at the praise. His voice is even lower than your Tom's, dark and smooth and authoritative, and you let the shock of it overwhelm you as he wraps his fingers around your throat and draws you down to your knees. His hand finds its way back into your hair and you melt, resting your cheek against the thick fabric of his dress pants.

You could die here, kneeling between his legs and letting him pet you. You would die happy.

He lets you stay there for a minute, drinking in his affections and trying not to purr, then trails his palm down your cheek and down under your chin. You let him tilt your face up towards his. His thumb traces your cheekbone like you're something precious. "There's my dearheart." Dearheart. The endearment thrums through your body. You have a new favorite word. He's going to immolate you with this gentleness. Your ashes will thank him for it. "Are you doing alright down there?"

You nod. Speaking feels impossibly complicated right now. You just want to hide your face in his thigh.

"Perfect," he says, giving you a quick scritch under your chin that makes you shift your hips. His tone changes to something stronger, more authoritative, and you give in to the urge to nuzzle his fly. "Now, here's what we're going to do: You're going to give me a blowjob. I'll stop you a little before I finish, alright?" You nod, letting the motion rub your cheek against the tent forming in his pants. You would have agreed to anything he'd suggested in that moment. "Good boy," he repeats, and you melt. With clumsy fingers, you undo his fly.

He's already half-hard when you work his dick out of his pants. Your brain short-circuits at the sight of it: his entire length is pierced, rows of piercings leading up to a pair of rings through the tip. He works his fingers into your hair, gives it a soft tug. You whine.

Your mind is moving slowly, like it's filled with honey. You can't quite remember why you felt so embarrassed about wanting this. You're not quite sure where to start. You look up at him, lost and a little bit flustered, only to see him smiling down at you. Hesitantly, you smile back.

"Go on," he urges, voice soft again, and you turn your attention back to his dick. You kiss the tip once, twice, and then start working your way down the shaft. The metal of his piercings is warmer than you expected against your lips. He exhales, spreading his legs a little farther apart. "There you are, sweetness. You're doing an amazing job."

The praise is too much. You have to stop kissing him and pull away for a second. Your whole body feels like it's on fire with arousal and hot shame. You can't keep going. You can't. He's gone back to petting you and that's already more than you can handle.

"Take your time," he says, and you close your eyes and nod again. Slowly, under his touch, your embarrassment starts to fade. You're swaying on your knees. You hear the mattress creak as he leans forward, taking your face in both his hands. "Still here with me, Tord?"

You hone in on your name and it cuts through some of the fuzz. You make an affirmative sound, lean into his palms. You need this so badly that it aches. Every nerve in your body feels oversensitive.

It took him under a minute to work you down into subspace. That's more than a little terrifying. You want to pull away again, but you're convinced that losing his rough palms on your cheeks would destroy you.

"I don't..." you start, feeling dizzy and drunk as you struggle to string words together. He wait patiently for you to finish your thought, dick still a scant few centimeters from your face. The rest of your thought isn't forthcoming. You shake your head, try something else. "Hurt me? Please?"

You can't put a word to face he makes at that. It's too tender, too raw. "Not today, sweetheart," he says, like you've just suggested that he murder you. It's the kind of reaction that makes you want to be in his lap already, hiding in the crook of his neck. That's not what he ordered you to do, though. He ordered you to suck his cock, and your submissive side is whispering that maybe it you're good enough, maybe if you make him feel good, he'll gather you up in his powerful arms and let you stay.

You go back to feverishly kissing and licking your way up and down his shaft, letting the tip of your tongue trail over each stud. You let it become your entire focus: his warmth, his hands in your hair, his steady breathing. One by one, the doubts in your head fade away. You can be good for him. You can be good enough to deserve his affection.

"That's a good pet," he says, and you shiver as you lap at his prick. One of his hands trails down and settles around your throat. It's good. Possessive is good. Possessive means he wants to keep you. "My handsome boy. You look gorgeous down there, Tord. Wish I could keep you on your knees like this forever."

It's a heady prospect. You let yourself imagine a future where the two of you stay like this forever: you sleep in Tom's bed, and Older Tom wakes you up with kisses and sweet coffee every day, and every night he brings you to your knees and takes you apart again. You steal his soap, you let him bruise up your throat, you don't ever exit the sweet daze he puts you into so easily.

Better: he collars you, puts you in a little crate, and only lets you out to pet you and call you his good boy and order you to suck him off.

It feels like a betrayal to your Tom-- your rough, inconsistent, absolutely infuriating Tom-- to be having these fantasies about his older self. It feels like cheating in the same way that it's cheating when your Tom lets your future self leer at him in front of you. You just want to skip the parts where the two of you are insufferable to each other and get to the ones where he cares about you like this. A more realistic scenario: you wish your Tom would just force you down and shove his dick into your mouth before you can do what you always do and ruin everything.

"Hey," Older Tom says, once again tilting up your chin to meet his eyes. Even with the visor, you can see the kindness in his expression. You melt a little more. "Whatever you're thinking about, I want you to put it down for now. You're here, you're with me. You're my good boy. Understand?"

"Mhmm." The praise chases every other thought out of your head. You're here, you're with him. You're his good boy. You repeat it to yourself again. You're his good boy.

He grazes the pad of his thumb back and forth over your lower lip, tracing lazy circles until you open your mouth for him. "That's a good pet. I'm going to raise the intensity a little bit, alright?" As he says this, he slides two fingers inside your mouth. You close your lips around them and let him drag his fingertips up and down your tongue. "Just enough so that you'll stay focused on me." You relax as you begin to suck.

"There you go," he says. The satisfaction in his tone makes you feel a glowing surge of pride. He pulls his fingers from your mouth and the hand in your hair is gentle as it guides you back to his cock. You kiss the tip softly, one more time, before giving in and taking his length in your mouth.

You're usually proud of your head technique, but today you're a mess: you're hollowing your cheeks and sucking and drooling everywhere and desperate to please. Older Tom directs you with the hand in your hair, pressing you forward and tugging you away. You don't need to think about the rhythm, so you don't-- you let yourself get lost in his heat and his touches and the weight of him on your tongue. You scrape your teeth over his piercings a couple of times in your eagerness to take more of him. When you finally feel the rings of his piercings hit the back of your throat, you let out a contented hum that makes him groan.

"God, Tord." You hum again, bob your head so that you can feel him shudder. You're a good boy. You're his good boy. You're being his obedient little pet and making him feel good. Hopefully you'll be good enough. You really, really need him to let you hide. "Fuck. You're amazing, do you know that? Never met anyone like you in my entire life. Never been someone who's as smart or as passionate or as perfect as you."

His words partially snap you out of your happy trance and you stare up at him, try to pull off his dick to ask him what the fuck he thinks he's saying, if he's trying to mock you while he knows you're at your most vulnerable. He holds you down, though, makes you take him a little deeper instead, and you almost choke.

"Easy, handsome," he sighs, and you try desperately to fall back into your haze. The way he's using your mouth helps, a little. It makes it harder to think. "You can put down the hurt. It's alright. You're pure gold, Tord. You deserve the entire world."

Both of his hands are in your hair now. They tangle up in the strands as he forces you back into a steady rhythm. You have to relax your throat to keep yourself from gagging. There are tears forming in your eyes. He hushes you.

"You're okay, Tord," he says, and you want to believe him. You want to believe him more than anything. "I don't know what keeps getting into your head that makes you think otherwise, but put it down. You're okay. You're flawed just like everybody else--that doesn't make you a monster. You deserve kindness just as much as everyone else. You deserve to feel safe."

You don't remember the last time you felt safe. The prospect of safety, kneeling here between his knees while his strong hands caress the back of your neck, makes you feel wet and submissive and confused.

You close your eyes. One of the hands in your hair comes back around to cup your cheek.

"Hey," he says. He sounds a little rough. "None of that, sweet boy. No need to cry."

He goes to wipe the tear from the corner of your eye before it's even got a chance to fall, and even with all your clothes on you feel terrifyingly naked. He's not supposed to know this much about you. He's not supposed to know about the fear.

"You're safe here," he says, hushed, and it's too much. He's too much. He tries to catch your tears with his thumb and you try to pull away. He keeps talking to you in that same soft, careful voice as he fucks your mouth and it's starting to make you feel sick. He's lying to you, he has to be. He has to be. There's no way he could say those things and mean them. "I'll keep you safe, you know that. I'm not going anywhere. You don't need to be scared anymore."

It's too much.

You panic a little and grab his wrist and twist until he lets go of you and you pull away from his still-hard dick and you slam your hands over your ears and you must be screaming something at him but you can't hear it, you can't hear it, you refuse to hear it, you need him away from you because the promises he's making are impossible to keep and it's a cruelty for him to try and convince you otherwise. You don't deserve to feel safe. You know that.

He doesn't touch you. Doesn't say anything. After a moment of hyperventilating, you glare up at him through your tears and expect to see disgust. You expect to see remorse-- remorse for trying to trick you like that when he knew you were susceptible, remorse for partially succeeding. Instead, he's looking at you with a calculating, emotionless expression that makes the softer parts of you want to curl up and die.

"Did I say you could stop?" he asks, stern, once you pull your palms away from your ears. Everything comes crashing down for you at once. It's a scene, it's just a scene, you're an idiot and he's domming you and playing into your praise kink. He doesn't mean any of the nice things he's saying. He's just trying to get you off and enjoy the fantasy of a you that's better than you really are. And you were into it, too, before you fucked up and made everything too personal-- you've already soaked through your boxers and can feel yourself starting to make a wet patch on your jeans. All you had to do was shut up and suck his dick, and you couldn't even manage that.

You feel numb as you shake your head. You feel numb as you go back to sucking him off.

After a minute, he goes back to praising you-- you can hear him whispering sweet nothings as you work over him with your tongue, and you do your best to tune them out. Being used like this is already enough to turn you on. It feels correct. This is all you'd ever be good for, anyways, and you were an idiot for thinking that he'd want to soothe you. Every so often, another tear runs down your cheek and he sweeps it away with his thumb, and you are doing your very best to not wince away.

Eventually, he must get bored of this, because he gestures you back onto the bed with him. You're threatened with another large emotion when you smell Tom on the bedsheets; you resist the urge to hide your face in his pillow and not come out, and it only costs you another couple of tears to do it. Older Tom asks you if you're okay, if you're still with him, and you dutifully nod. You strip off your pants, then your boxers. You spread your legs to allow him access to you.

You're still slick enough that the first finger doesn't hurt as it goes in, even as you shiver at how large it feels inside of you. The second one works in easily, too, and he does you the favor of brushing up against your g-spot. You do your best to keep your whines and moans quiet, so as not to detract from his experience of you with your voice. The third finger he presses inside you pushes you direly close to physical awareness again, but you manage to stay detached from the achey, full feelings of your body as he preps your cunt for penetration.

When he lines his dick up, you close your eyes and force yourself to stay still.

His cock is hot inside you, thicker than his fingers were and less forgiving. When the first rung of his piercings enters you, you can't hold back your yelp.

He's gentler than you deserve as he works himself in-- he's patient, takes it slowly, pauses sometimes to play with your clit and let you relax around him. He pushes himself deeper with tiny thrusts that make his piercings rub up against your walls, and you start making more noises: gasps, small sighs, soft whines that you do your best to choke back. He's big, bigger than his younger self who is already a tight fit, and when you reach the last third of his length you're almost unconvinced that you can take him.

He's persistent, though, murmurs to you about how well you're doing and how gorgeous you look underneath him, and you suspend your disbelief just enough to let him help you relax. Finally, finally, he bottoms out.

Your body feels... So much. Almost too much, but just barely in the limits of good. He's thick inside you, warm and throbbing and nestled deep, and every slight move you make makes you aware of how utterly full you are. The muscles in your thighs twitch without you asking them to. You're breathing hard, even though you're just lying there underneath him. He's close to you, intimately close. Scarily close. There's only so long you can spend ignoring that fact before you're forced to look up at him and see the concern writ large across his features.

"There you are," he whispers when you finally do, and his arms are on either side of you and his chest is pressed up against yours and he's inside you, and you can't avoid his immediacy any longer. He shifts his weight to one arm so that he can skim his fingertips over your cheek. You gasp. It's so, so much-- the callouses on his fingertips, the smell of his breath, the way your entire body throbs with his every move. He's looking at you with so much naked affection. You can't look back at him. You can't.

But you can't look away, either, because then you'd be breathing in Tom's smell on top of everything else and that would make you sob, so eventually you give in and just stare at him with wide eyes. You're silently begging him to never say anything nice to you ever again. You heart is beating itself to death in your chest. You're struggling to take a full breath with your binder on. He's not moving, just staying buried inside you and stroking your cheek and smiling that painful fucking smile.

"Hey," he says, voice unsteady, "somebody had better call God, because he's missing an angel."

It takes you a full three seconds to process what he's just done. "Is that--" you croak, "did you just--"

He snickers, just a little, and he looks so unbelievably smug and bright and beautiful. "Corny, but functional," he admits, and... He's Tom, he's your Tom, only your Tom could drop a pickup line that shitty in bed without killing your boner. He's your Tom, and he's inside you and he's pressed close to you and smiling down at you, and it's a scene, you're still telling yourself it's a scene, but he's smiling at you like it means something, like he knows what it means to you. Like he knew what you needed before you'd realized you needed anything at all. "C'mon. It made you smile."

"You," you say, and he manages to give you a peck on the cheek. Your voice is wavering. "Earlier. Did you really mean..."

You can't make yourself finish the stupid, desperate question. Of course he didn't mean it. Of course it was all for show. But he's warm and he's laughing and he's there, right there, surrounding you with his presence, and you just need the verbal confirmation to stomp out the last of your hope.

He pauses and lets you panic for just a fleeting moment. And then he kisses you. The jackass kisses you, scratching your face with his stubble and shifting his dick inside you so that you gasp into his mouth and he traces his tongue over your teeth. And when he pulls away, he looks down at you like you're the most important thing in his world. And he says, "always, Tord."

He startles when you start sobbing, pulling away from you just enough to make you panic, so you wrap your arms around him and crush him back to your chest. "Should I pull out?" he asks, voice muffled by the pillow you're incidentally smothering him with, and the prospect of being empty makes you feel like someone hollowed out your chest with a rusty spoon. You bury your face in his shoulder and shake your head hard. "Okay, okay, I'm not going anywhere," he says, struggling to angle his neck so that he can breathe. It's a losing game. He gives up on it, wraps his arms around you, lets you bury your face in his shoulder as you break down. "Hey, sweetness. It's okay. I'm right here, I promise."

"Not leaving?" you choke out, or at least try to choke out-- it was probably just some high-pitched, incoherent sound muffled by his shirt-- but he squeezes you tighter and that's answer enough. Not leaving. Around you, inside you, holding you close, not leaving. Protecting you.

"Not going anywhere, Tord," he says. You cling even tighter. You want to fade into his body and never leave. You want to stay joined to him like this forever. He runs his fingertips through your hair, still gentle. It's amazing how he always touches you so gently. A small miracle. "Deep breaths."

You try to comply, let him go just enough that he can pull his face out of the bedding and look at you again. It's almost too much distance to bear, but now you see the soft look on his face, making it the best decision you've made in your entire life.

"Can I go back to praising you, or would that be too much?" He's letting you burrow back into his chest without comment, and you love him for that.

You love him. God, you love him. It's too much for your fragile body-- you start to tremble.

"Too much?" he asks. You shake your head. He pauses, kisses the tops of your shoulders. You feel like you're glowing. "You sure?" You nod. You've never been sure of anything like you've been sure of him.

"Alright," he says, leaning down again to kiss you on the forehead, and you're melting into the bed. "Shit, where to even start. You've got the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. It makes your eyes crinkle up at the corners and I don't know what to do with myself when I see it."

You're still crying, still trying to hide your face in his tearstained shirt, but as he talks, you begin to move your hips. Little motions at first, just trying to get more comfortable underneath him. But the movement feels good and his praise makes you feel warm and wet and achey. You move a little more, start to rut against him while he talks. "God, Tord," he breathes, and you jerk your hips against his. "You're perfect."

You bite down on his collarbone to keep from moaning at that. He continues with the stream of praise. "Your single-mindedness and dedication are traits I've always admired about you; they're a large part of why I let you boss me around so much in the future," he says, and you're digging his nails into his back and rutting against him in earnest now. In the future, where he hasn't left you. Where he's stayed.

"You're incredible in bed, even with all of the neuroses, and watching you open up and relax for me when I've said the right things makes me feel like... " He trails off, distracted by you keening. You scratch as his arms, try to distract from how red your face is getting. "Fuck. More alive than anything else in the world." You shiver. He sounds breathless as he talks, gives your hair a gentle tug that makes you arch back against him.

"You're brilliant-- there's no one else out there who can match your mind for mechanics, and some of the machines you build are way beyond what I could have even dreamed up." He's starting to pant between words and you're making soft, needy sounds into his shoulder to match. "You're better with people than you think you are. And when you care about someone-- like, really care about them-- you'd do anything in the world to keep them safe."

He's thrusting into you and you're a mess, clawing frantic lines down his back and sobbing and dripping down your thighs. He's your world. Does he know he's your everything? You want to force your way inside of him and never leave.

"That's why I want to keep you safe, Tord," he says, and your body feels hot and frenetic and good. God, you never want this to end. You've needed this so, so badly for so, so long. "You deserve to have someone keeping you safe the way you keep us safe."

This is bliss. This is heaven. You want to stay like this forever-- his praise in your ear, his arms around you, your body full and throbbing and tangled up in his. "Please," you whisper, drawing blood from his back as you claw at his back and lose your tempo and grind down against him. He pulses inside of you and you wail. "Tom, please."

He must know what you need-- he always does, he always knows-- because he reaches down between your bodies to rub your clit. "Fuck, I'm close," he grunts, making you whimper and pick up your pace.

"Tom," you plead, "Tom, Tom, Tom, fuck, Tom, Tom." You're rutting against his hand and writhing with pleasure. It feels impossibly good. He feels impossibly good-- his hands, his cock, his hard body pressing you into the mattress. "Inside me, please, fuck, need you."

He turns to nip at your earlobe. You shudder, mewl, dig your nails deeper into him, god, god, God. He breathes his last command into your ear and his voice is just as wrecked as you feel. "Be a good boy and come for me, Tord."

You're his good boy. You scream as you come, trembling and fitful and clinging through the sweet shock of it. He finishes a little after you do, makes you feel hot and giddy as you ride out your own orgasm. You're too busy with your aftershocks to resist as he pulls out of you, even though every paranoid piece of you is saying that you shouldn't be letting him go now, when you need so desperately for him to hold you. You're so spent that all you can do is flop back into the mattress and try to breathe.

Tom flops over on top of you, all eighty kilos of him pushing the air from your lungs, and his weight against you and the feeling of his cum inside you and his body heat and the intimacy of it all leaves you shell-shocked with its sweetness.

"You're heavy," you complain, struggling to wrap your still-limp arms around him. Everything feels right, rosy and foggy and warm, and you don't want to ever leave this bed. You want to burrow into the sheets and drag Tom in with you and let him fuck you over and over again until the border between your bodies ceases to exist. You want to wake up and fall asleep full of him, in his arms, pressed flush against his chest. You want him to tell you he loves you every second of every day until you finally believe it.

"Ngghhh," he says, not bothering to move, and you wriggle underneath him until he finally has mercy and pushes himself off of you. Immediately, you try to pull him back down. "Not leaving, promise, just let me--" he scoops his arms up under yours and pulls you inelegantly into his lap as he sits upright. You scramble, uncoordinated, until you're straddling him, head pillowed against his chest. "There you are, angel."

Your angel, your mind supplies, but you don't say it out loud. He lets you rearrange yourself until you've as physically close to him as you can possibly get.

"Next time," he starts, voice hoarse around the edges. He's slipped a hand back into your hair to pet you, and you're adrift in your own contentment. "I think we should start off with the harder domming. Give you less room to doubt in the first place."

You drive yourself into a mild tizzy trying to parse all of the implications of that sentence: the fact that he framed himself as your dom, the psychological chess you hadn't given him credit for playing contra your own demons. The next time. The not-leaving. You're exhausted, though, cried-out and fucked-out, and he yawns a second after you notice, and you can't tell your limbs from his limbs.

You fall asleep in his arms, in his bed, with the blankets pulled tight around you both, and it's everything you've ever wanted.

---

Later, when your sweat has had a chance to dry and his cum has cooled inside you and left you feeling uncomfortably sticky, he holds your hand as you usher him to the showers. You see him with his visor off for the first time, study the scarred sockets where his eyes used to go and the fine wiring that disappears back into his skull. You watch him trail his fingertips along the bathroom walls. He smiles at the space a little to your left and you ache. You stand under the hot water with him and he fills his palms with soap and shampoo and orients himself to your body with gentle touches and washes every centimeter of you clean. This is intimate in a new way, one that leaves your heart fluttering and fragile in your chest. He gets down on his knees to rinse the slick off your thighs and you shiver with his gentleness, overwhelmed by the feeling of him servicing you. He doesn't say much-- he murmurs reassurances, presses fleeting kisses to your skin, gives into your whims and lets you clumsily wash his hair, too. You think about falling asleep leaned against him in the spray, how perfect it would be even with your wet binder chafing against your skin.

---

Years from now, when everything falls to shit, this memory will moor you. This memory will hold you fast to your sanity. This memory won't fray. Years from now, when you make your innumerable, unforgivable mistakes and burn your home and body to cinders and make your Tom hate you more than he's ever hated anything, you'll bury your anguish deep and remind yourself, over and over, that this is coming. There will come a day where he'll love you again. That one day he'll come back and protect you, like he promised. Years from now, you'll endure setbacks and setbacks and setbacks as you try to break the fundamental laws of physics to soothe your desperation for this moment, and this memory will soothe you to sleep every night. This one divine moment, the one time you got to feel safe. It becomes your guidepost. It becomes your north star.

You'll spend the rest of your life chasing this high.

---

He still loves your horrific, fucked-up future self, scars and all. He still chose to come back to you now, though twenty years of time, and promise to keep you safe. The person who knows more of you than you've had the chance to learn about yourself falls asleep with you, snoring under the comforter, and he told you that you're worthy, and he's got his arm draped around you, possessive and warm, and you're full of dread and fear and hope, the scariest emotion you've felt since you were a child and someone tried to shoot you in the head for the first and not-last time, and you're watching him sleep and your side is pressed to his and your entire body is aching with the hope that maybe, just maybe, he'll make good on his word.

---

Years from now, when he decides to spend his day off in his old room with your old self, leaving you alone to the entire dangerous world while he's gone, the irony will sting. But you'll have the bone-deep knowledge that for once in your shitshow of a life you've done something right.

The army, your scars. You'd do it all again for him. For just this one night of safety. You'd do it all again for less.

---

He loves you. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

You believe him.