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karatekels · 4 months

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TIGmas Day #5 - The Steadfast Tin Soldier

Today's story is for @pinkspidxr, one of my OG readers who I love very much! It's Christmas, it's fluffy, and it's Twig! I hope I do a decent job of getting baby Terry right!

TW: loss of virginity, oral sex (female receiving, very slight male receiving), teasing, graphic sex, Twig *kind of* talking to ghosts (or at least taking their advice)

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The Steadfast Tin Soldier

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Terry’s POV:

It never snowed in California.

Still, he couldn’t deny that he’d been hoping for a bit of a miracle as he returned stateside, just before Christmas.

Not that the holidays held many fond memories for him, but he was craving something familiar, bright, American.

He doesn’t want to go home.

A cab finally agrees to take him – the first few drivers cursing at him, calling him a bastard, a rapist, a child murderer, and worse – his heart icing over with the emotionless steel he’d cultivated over the course of its training. It would be useful for something back home, at least.

They ask him for an address and he blurts out yours without thinking – it’s the only one that comes to mind. He’s not even sure if you still live there.

Regardless, he settles in for the long ride, thinking back to the last time he’d seen you…

---

“What the fuck were you thinking, Terrence?!” you hiss at him, fire blazing in your eyes. His lanky frame caves in on itself as you take him to task. He’d been expecting this.

“It’s just something I have to do,” he lies through his teeth, too ashamed to tell you the real reason.

There are a lot of things he’s too ashamed to tell you.

But he needs to get out from under his father’s overbearing expectations and his mother’s coddling; he needs to. Better to jump in the deep end and learn to swim rather than slowly drown.

He knows he’s a coward. And he knows you deserve far better than that.

“What does that even mean, Terry?” you ask, tears filling your eyes. He hates to see you cry. “You have to lie about your age for them to even take you!”

He isn’t too worried about that; he may be built like a beanpole, but he’s sure his height will help him to slip through the cracks.

“They’ll let me serve,” he says with a confidence he doesn’t completely feel. “I’ll be back before you know it!”

“You’re a terrible liar, Terry Silver,” you spit at him, your voice shaking. “How can you do this to me?”

Now, that was interesting. Thoughts of you begging him to stay with you have his heart stuttering in his chest. You were the only thing worth sticking around for; if you kicked up enough of a fuss, threw yourself at his feet and begged for mercy… he supposed he could be persuaded.

“This has nothing to do with you, Y/N,” he insists firmly, inwardly cringing as you recoil as though he’d slapped you. But he can’t help but goad you; too afraid to express his real feelings for you, he settles for eliciting any emotions out of you, by any means necessary, the same way a boy pulled on a girl’s pigtails.

“Maybe that’s the problem, Terry. I thought we were best friends! We’ve always told each other everything, and now you’ve gone off and enlisted without so much as telling me first?”

And oh, how he wishes he could say he’s told you everything…

“I don’t need your permission,” he huffs instead, watching your face crumple for a moment before your temper overwhelms you once more.

“Fine, then I don’t need you. Go on and live out your little soldier fantasy, Terry, but don’t expect me to wait around to see whether you come back in one piece, if you come back at all.”

You slammed the door in his face then, and he listened to your sobs until he could bring himself to get off your porch, his footsteps heavy.

---

“Alright buddy, we’re here,” the cabbie announces, bringing him out of his thoughts. Guilt, pain, and self-loathing all rattle around in the empty hollow that was his chest, as they always did when he reminisced about you. He tosses the driver more than his fare, eyes focused on the soft light emanating from what was hopefully still your bedroom window. Stepping out of the taxi, he throws his pack over a broad shoulder, vaguely aware of the cab’s tires screeching their departure.

The worn soles of his combat boots don’t make a sound as he walks up the path to your front door, eyes scanning every window for a hint of motion as his adrenaline spikes. He clenches a fist tightly and takes a breath, trying to relax and deprogram himself from the instincts he’d been forced to develop; it would do him no good to be paranoid during your reunion.

He’s pictured this moment a thousand different times, a hundred different ways, starting from the moment he left the country. He can’t let himself ruin it now.

He forces his feet forward again, up the steps and onto the porch, a worn welcome mat greeting him just before the door. He sets down his pack, his feet precisely in the centre of the mat, and knocks firmly.

There is some vague shuffling around from the other side of the door that he can hear, and he briefly considers that even if you do still live here and didn’t still hate his guts, you may not be here alone. A wave of jealousy, hot and vicious, washes over him until he’s seeing red, and he braces himself for a fight against whoever opens the door.

A curtain flutters off to the side, the person flitting away before he gets a good look at them, but then the door opens and you stand before him, a worn housecoat wrapped tightly around your slender frame, and his anger dissipates, his gaze softening. You look different, the years of early adulthood firmly settled into your features, but he finds that you just look right.

You inhale deeply, your face flickering a dozen different emotions until you finally bring yourself to break the silence.

“Terry.”

---

Reader’s POV:

At first, you think you’re seeing a ghost – your very own Jacob Marley haunting you into learning some profound life lesson. Never leave anything unsaid, or Don’t let pride blind you.

Terry Silver, decked out in military fatigues and probably thirty pounds worth of muscle, delivered to your doorstep on Christmas Eve.

Your throat constricts, overwhelmed by the joy-relief-guilt-anger-pain-sadness of seeing him again.

“Terry,” you croak, finding it difficult to breathe, and then you’re throwing yourself at him, jumping up to wrap your arms around his neck. His hair is so long now, tied back in a ponytail that stands in stark contrast to the traditional, clean-cut hairstyle you’d grown accustomed to during your decade of friendship. He braces himself to take your weight, his arms taking an extra moment to slowly wrap around you, returning the hug.

“Y/N,” you hear him breathe your name into your hair as he sets you on your feet, though he keeps you in an embrace. You’re not sure how long you stay like that, but eventually you force yourself to release him, looking up into his pretty blue eyes. His features are harder now then they were before he’d left, but he seemed healthy and whole physically from what you’ve been able to tell.

“When did you get back?” you half-ask, half-demand, despite knowing you’re in no position to have a say in his life. No, he’d made that perfectly clear the last time you’d spoken…

“I landed a couple hours ago.”

You blink. “What are you doing here?!”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You swallow heavily. You knew that Terry didn’t have a good relationship with his parents, but to not want to see them after years of being in a War… as someone who’d lost their own parents as a teenager, it was hard for you to imagine not needing to throw yourself at them after going to hell and back.

“Well, come in then,” you invite him awkwardly, stepping to the side to allow him through the door into your small home. It wasn’t much, but you’d made do with the small sum you’d had left over from your parents’ inheritance after settling their medical bills coupled with your small but survivable salary. Terry lifts his rucksack, throwing it over a broad shoulder and stepping into your home, placing it by the door and bending to remove his boots. You look down at your own slippered feet, debating changing out of your pyjamas but decide against it.

“Can I get you something to drink?” you offer, trying to push past your own discomfort to play hostess. “I don’t know what your liquor of preference is, but I should have something you like.”

“You drink now?” he asks, surprised, and you give him a wry grin.

“We’re adults now, Terry; my tastes have changed.”

You’d been just shy of seventeen when he’d left, and had always been something of a goody two shoes; underage drinking hadn’t been your style before he’d left.

But then he had left, and on the one-year anniversary of his departure, having heard nothing from him, that had changed…

---

“Will you please stop moping around, Y/N? This is a party!” your friend pouts, trying to pull you up from the table in the corner where you’re sat with a drink for company. You’re not sure what your tolerance for alcohol is but this is your third Harvey Wallbanger, the orange juice helping the vodka go down easy, and you’re now in a comfortably numb, floaty space.

“I’m not moping,” you deny with a scowl. “You know I’m not a party person, and you dragged me here anyway.”

“I dragged you here because there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Roberta insists, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and bending down to talk in your ear. “He is very cute, very single and very interested.”

“That makes one of us,” you joke, lightly elbowing her in the side. Roberta sighs, sitting on the edge of the table to stare you down.

“Y/N, it’s been a year since Terry left. I know that you miss him, and that you’re hurt, but you told him yourself that you wouldn’t wait around for him.”

“I’m not waiting around for him,” you snap, grumbling at the insinuation. “I just don’t want to be with anyone right now.”

“But Y/N, don’t you think –”

“No!” you interrupt angrily, standing up from the table. “I don’t want to get to know someone else, anyone else. I just want to be alone.”

You gulp down the rest of your drink, grabbing your bag and leaving the party without another word, crying to yourself the whole walk home.

---

That night was your first time getting drunk, and you’d turned to the bottle on many occasions over the past few years when your grief and loneliness got to be too much. It’s not something you’re particularly proud of, but it is something that you’ve managed to get under control. No one was worth grieving over like that, not even Terry Silver.

Turning back to him, you catch him looking at you with a confused, slightly frustrated expression before he meets your eye.

“Any tea?” he asks hesitantly and you nod in response, busying yourself with the kettle. You grab two teacups, part of a set gifted to you by him from a birthday during your school days, and set them of a tray along with milk and sugar, bringing them over to the coffee table in front of him.

“How long have you had the ponytail?” you ask casually, trying to make conversation as you head back into the kitchen to fill the teapot and bring it over. Terry takes a long time to respond, and when you turn back to him you see that he’s tense on the couch, his jaw clenched.

“Almost a year now,” he finally answers in a hoarse voice through gritted teeth. You busy yourself fixing his tea, hoping he still takes it the same way; Terry had never been good with speaking his emotions before the war, and you doubt that his time in Vietnam cured him of that habit.

“I grew it out in honour of a friend,” he continues, not looking at you as he accepts the proffered cup, and you bite your lip as an expression of absolute anguish crosses his features. You don’t know what to say to him, or what not to say…

“I don’t know how to do this, Terry,” you confess to him, frustrated by the discomfort you feel. Speaking with him had been easier than breathing for so long, and the difficulty it’s giving now makes your heart ache. He looks up at you blankly.

“Do what?”

“I don’t know, talk to you. It used to be so easy, and now I’m not sure what to focus on and what to avoid. I’m sorry,” you apologize with a grimace, feeling terribly awkward. He had come here, come to you, immediately after coming home, and you imagine he now regrets his decision after seeing how horribly you’re handling his return.

His large hand comes down on your shoulder, squeezing it gently, the way he used to comfort you when you were anxious or stressed, and you take a deep breath, looking up at him gratefully.

“Hey hey, it’s okay. I’m not exactly sure how to do this myself. You’re doing fine,” he coos, his thumb stroking your shoulder. You can’t remember the last time you’ve felt as relaxed as you do now, under his soothing touch. You climb onto the couch beside him, still tucked under his arm.

“Thanks. Is there anything you want to talk about?” you ask, hoping to avoid anymore sensitive topics.

“Did you ever think about me?” he asks immediately, and you turn to the side to face him so quickly his arm slips off your shoulders.

“What?” you ask in disbelief. He cocks his head to the side and gives you a calculating look, like he’s trying to read your mind.

“While I was gone. Did you ever think about me, or miss me or anything?”

He seems genuine, but it’s such a ridiculous, inane question that it sparks your short temper.

“What kind of question is that?!” you hiss, glaring at him. He opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off, shoving him away from you, trying to ignore how muscled his chest feels under your fingers.

“Of course I missed you, you dolt!” you shriek, angry tears filling your eyes. “Of course I thought about you, every fucking day, from the moment you told me you were leaving! How can you even ask me that, Terry?!”

You can’t catch your breath through your sobs, as much as you want to continue yelling at him; you always ended up crying this way when you cried for Terry, and everything you’d lost when he’d left you alone.

Terry slides off the couch onto his knees, carelessly shoving away the coffee table to make space for him as he kneels in front of you, looking distressed as he watches you wrap your arms around yourself tightly like you were trying to squeeze yourself shut, trapping your pain inside of you.

“Sweetheart, shhh,” Terry pleas, trying to replace your hands with his own as he moves to console you. You fight to get your breathless under control, your sobs eventually quieting to stuttering whimpers.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmurs, running his hands up and down your arms soothingly. “I didn’t think I was leaving you alone. I thought your other friends –”

“If you think that any number of friends could fill in the void you left in my life, you overgrown giraffe, then you’re an even bigger idiot that I thought,” you interrupt him with a huff, your arms now crossed defensively across your chest as you scowl down at him.

He takes your change in mood as a good sign, and continues.

“I thought everyone else would take care of you; if I hadn’t believed that, I never would have left,” he speaks firmly, his gaze locked with yours, and you believe him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he confesses, tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear; it feels like such a natural gesture coming from him. “I wrote dozens of letters to you, but I never sent them because I was scared that you hated me, and I didn’t want to upset you more than I already had.”

His blue eyes are piercing as they look up at you unblinkingly, and you feel overwhelmed by the conviction that you hear in his voice.

“I went to war to become less of a coward, Y/N,” he admits, looking at the ground with his brow furrowed. “I wanted so badly to become someone that you deserved. But I failed. I’m still a coward, and even if I wasn’t I know I’m too late.”

You can see the tension in his shoulders as he sits in silence, his words lingering in the air between you.

“Too late for what?” you ask in a whisper, unable to bring yourself to speak any louder.

“I know I’ve probably missed my chance to be with you, but –”

“I’m not with anybody, Terrance,” you inform him curtly, your heart pounding so hard you worry it’s going to burst from your chest. Terry wanted to be with you?

He finally brings himself to look back up at you, his eyes flickering as he tries to determine your honesty. You decide to reassure him.

“I’m not with anyone. I’ve never been with anyone,” you admit, sincerely hoping that he felt the same way as you did and that this confession wasn’t going to blow up in your face.

“I promised myself I wasn’t waiting around for you, I said I wouldn’t and I meant it, but no one made me feel anything close to what you did. Nobody could get through to me.”

Terry’s face lights up with hope and euphoria, and it seems to take the last few years of pain and suffering away from his features. He climbs back onto the couch next to you, giving you the same slightly-shy smile he’d always given you. He looks like the Terry you remember, the Terry you love.

The Terry that casually broke your heart one day, leaving you without a second thought to spend years worrying about his safety. As much as you adore him, you can’t let yourself forget that reality.

“I wanted it to be you. I still want it to be you, Terry, but how can I know if I can trust you? You left me,” you accuse, moving off of the couch to the armchair next to it. He hurt you, and you can’t let yourself be swept away by his presence the way you normally did. Terry’s eyes are sad as he watches you move away from him, but he grants you the space.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he murmurs brokenly, his eyes trained on the carpet by your feet. “I’ll never forgive myself for it, as long as I live. I’ll do whatever it takes to get your trust back. Please just give me a chance,” he begs, getting down on his knees before you once again. You’re not proud of the thrill that runs through you at his supplication, something in your belly clenching with desire.

“Ask me anything, sweetheart, and I’ll answer, no matter how hard it is. I promise, I’ll tell you the truth about everything.”

You curl your legs up onto the couch and away from him, wrapping your arms around them as you look down at him. What questions could you possibly ask that could repair the damage done to your friendship?

“Did you have to kill people?” you ask in a hoarse whisper, feeling guilty as the question appears to cause him physical pain.

“Yes.”

“A lot of people?”

“Yes.”

You can’t blame him for his short responses. And, at least he’s being honest.

“Did they at least… I don’t know, deserve it?” you ask, though you’re not sure how you could possibly determine whether or not anyone deserved to die.

“Some. Most of them didn’t.” Terry’s eyes are shut tightly, like his body is trying to block out the question, or maybe the memories that it evokes.

Alright, you’d tortured him enough with this line of questioning. Reaching down, you lay one hand on his arm, and he opens his eyes to look at you, his expression gaunt.

“How are you, Terry? Physically, you don’t seem to have any lasting damage, but…” you trail off, biting your lip. He gives you a sad smile.

“I’m doing the best I can; I’m sure it’ll get better with time,” he assures, almost nonchalantly shrugging off his trauma. “Physically I’m fine, just still a bit malnourished.”

“Malnourished? You look like you’ve doubled in size since I saw you last, at least!” you tease, hoping he’s not offended. Fortunately, he cracks a smile that becomes an outright smug grin, and bats his eyelashes up at you.

“At least,” he echoes your words, sitting up straight. “Wanna see for yourself?” he leers, his hands moving to the hem of his shirt. You squeak, blushing furiously, though you’re burning with curiosity and something decidedly less innocent.

“Knock it off, Terry!” you warn him with a giggle, burying your face in your knees. He chuckles softly at your reaction, the sound sending shivers up and down your spine. Eventually, you peer over the tops of your knees down at him, unsure if you really want to know the answer to your next question.

“You’re very different from the shy boy that would blush when he so much as accidentally brushed up against me,” you point out with a raised eyebrow, hoping you’re playing it casual. “Have you been with anyone?”

There is a prolonged silence, and you brace yourself for the worst.

“Almost, but no,” he admits, his hand going to the end of his ponytail and giving it a tug absent-mindedly.

“What does that mean?” you ask, feeling unsettled by his reaction to the question.

“Some of the guys in the unit got on me about being a virgin, tried to get me to give it up to a hooker,” he admits, a blush blooming across his fair skin. Your Terry was still buried somewhere inside this new, bulky frame.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask. While you’re glad that he didn’t, you know that Terry has historically been susceptible to peer pressure, especially by older men.

“Johnny,” he breathed, the name escaping from his lips with absolute reverence. He looks up at you, devotion shining in his eyes as he speaks of this other man. “Captain John Kreese. I owe him my life; I owe him everything.”

“What’d he do?” you ask, glad that Terry may have found a male role model worth looking up to.

“I… I had told him about you,” he admits, looking sheepish. “He caught me writing letters to you, told me to burn them if I wasn’t going to man up and send them to you so that no one would find out and give me a hard time. He had a girl back home, Betsy, they were going to get married…”

“And he died? How awful,” you reply, your heart going out to the couple.

“No,” Terry said tonelessly. “She did. Car accident.”

“Oh, Terry…” you murmur, your hand coming down to stroke his arm comfortingly. Terry leans against your chair and into the gesture.

“But we didn’t find out until after this. When he found the guys trying to push me into a brothel, he told them to leave off and they did. Everyone listened to John. And then he told me that it was worth waiting for the right girl, so I did.”

Your heart skips a few beats at the explanation, and Terry uses your silence to stand up on his knees, gently pulling your feet down in front of you so that you aren’t hiding behind them. You’re nearly at the same height now, and he leans forward to stare deeply into your eyes.

“I wanted it to be you too, Y/N. I always have.”

He slowly closes the distance between you, giving you plenty of time to refuse or move away, his eyes locked onto your face as though he was afraid that if he closed his eyes, if he so much as blinked, you would disappear. One large hand comes up, his knuckles lightly brushing the side of your face, and you let out a content sigh.

The kiss is chaste and sweet but still sends your heart thrumming, your lips trying to chase after him when he finally lets you up for air. He takes your cheek in hand once more, his gaze not leaving yours as he reaches down to your hand, interlacing your fingers with his own.

“I love you, Y/N, and I’ll do anything and everything to be with you. I’ve waited this long, and I’m happy to keep waiting until I’ve earned your trust back.”

“Terry Silver, I’ve spent years worrying that I’d never see you again. Even before that, I didn’t think I’d ever get to be with you. I love you, and I’m not letting you go. We’ve both waited long enough.”

Terry’s smile grows with your words, framed by his adorable dimples, making a pleased noise in the back of his throat as you wrap your arms around his neck, sliding yourself closer to him. Impatiently, you tug his head towards yours once more, kissing him deeply, every brush of his lips against yours making your heart sing. You feel him gasp into your mouth as your tongue traces his lower lip teasingly, his hands moving to your hips and squeezing them firmly. He lifts you out of the chair and to your feet, further emphasizing how strong he’s become in the past few years, and you reluctantly break apart, the difference in height frustrating you. You can think of one way to mitigate the issue…

“Do you remember the way to my bedroom?” you ask coyly, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. He gives you a slightly wicked grin in response before sweeping you off your feet and into his arms, carrying you bridal style to your bedroom door and kicking it open. Apparently not wanting to be too presumptuous, he sits on the edge of the bed with you in his lap, and resumes his task of kissing you breathless.

It’s everything you’d been imagining since you were twelve years old, and more. So, so much more…

Being wrapped in his strong arms like this makes you feel the same bone-deep sense of comfort and safety that Terry always made you feel, but tenfold. He could keep you in his lap like this forever and you’d consider yourself more than grateful, but you also desperately need to touch-see-taste-feel more of him.

You squirm, getting him to loosen his grip, and when he does you throw a leg across him, straddling him and pressing yourself against his chest. His grip tightens in response, his hands low on your hips. Gathering your courage, you trail your hands down his chest to the hem of his shirt, your fingers disappearing beneath the fabric. As you explore the contours of his abs he hisses into your mouth, sliding back on the bed and taking you with him. You push him to lay down, hands pushing his shirt up as your eyes greedily drink in his chiseled abs.

“Like what you see, Dollface?” Terry leers up at you, giving you a wink. You huff in response, sitting back on his thighs and crossing your arms as you turn your head to the side. This gives him the element of surprise as he grabs you by the waist, flipping you onto your back on the mattress and leaning over you.

“Don’t be shy, sweetheart. I like what I see; I have from the minute I first laid eyes on you,” he murmurs, eyes warm with affection and underlying desire. He pulls his shirt off over his head, muscles on full display, and while you’ve been in love with Terry for the better part of a decade, when you were both scrawny kids, you can’t deny that the way he looks now, and the confidence it’s given him, has your body humming with need. You look back to his face with hooded eyes, reaching up to pull him down to kiss him, teasing his tongue with your own. Eventually, he sits up, looking down at you in a way that has you squirming. His eyes could be so intimidating sometimes, and now the rest of him matched.

Idly, he toys with the belt of your housecoat, the fabric tied in a bow at your waist.

“You’re wrapped up like a present for me,” he teases in a low voice, making you blush. “It’s not quite Christmas yet, but maybe I can unwrap mine early?”

You giggle, turning to bury your head into your pillow to hide your face. “You’re an idiot, Terry Silver,” you inform him, your voice muffled, but your gasp comes through loud and clear as he takes advantage of your position and starts kissing your neck. “Terry!” you moan, feeling dizzy as his lips and tongue claim every inch of sensitive skin they can find. Terry lets out a growl against the front of your throat at the sound of you moaning his name.

“Do I get to open my present or not, sweetheart?” he murmurs against your skin, pulling back to look at you with his stunning, glittering eyes.

“Yes!” you groan in exasperation, throwing an arm over your eyes. You feel him slowly pulling at the frayed ends of the strip of fabric, and shyly peek out from under your arm, wanting to witness this. The knot comes loose, and you feel his hands shake slightly as he pushes the robe to either side of you, revealing thin dark blue pyjama pants and a baby blue tank top. He licks his lips, and as you follow his gaze you see that your nipples are hard and very prominent through the lightweight fabric.

“Please,” you cry out in need when he makes no move to, well, ravish you.

“Terry, please! You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass. I want you, I need you, please touch me!”

He hums in approval at the sound of you begging, his thumbs rubbing your hip bones in small circles, savouring the soft skin visible between the hem of your shirt and your waistband.

“I know you’re not made of glass, beautiful. I just want to savour you, take you in just like this before I worship you the way I’ve been dreaming of.”

He lowers his head to taste your again, his lips exploring your now-exposed shoulders and collarbone, and you clutch his head to you, pulling him closer still. He lets out a sinful chuckle, a far departure from the shy, self-conscious boy you were used to, and the vibrations of his lips make you arch up against him with a needy whine.

Lips never faltering, he blindly snatches up your wrists, pinning them again the mattress to either side of your head. He slowly explores every inch of bare skin, his hot, wet tongue following the featherlight touches of his fingertips as he traces patterns from the sensitive underside of your wrists up your arms to your breastbone, sliding down your body to lay kisses on your stomach where your shirt has ridden up, his tongue swirling around your bellybutton and making you shriek.

“God, I love the sounds you make for me,” Terry groans, laying kisses straight up the middle of your chest over your clothes, intentionally avoiding your breasts. The devious smirk he gives you afterwards lets you know that he knows exactly how much he’s tormenting you.

“Will you let me up so that I can have a turn?” you ask grumpily, fed up with the teasing. Or, at least, how one-sided it was.

“No,” he says mockingly, clearly enjoying antagonizing you. “But I will reward your patience…”

Terry’s POV:

Ponytail’s lewd advice over the years came to the forefront of his mind the moment he laid you out on your bed, and Terry decides he’ll borrow more than just a hairstyle from the older man. He can practically see Ponytail in the corner of his eye, leering at the pair of you as Terry put his lessons to practice. Based on the way you were responding, it was apparent that the guy hadn’t been all talk, at least before…

He latches onto your breast, his saliva darkening the fabric of your top, focusing on you instead of dwelling on the past. Your whispered pleas come even faster now, as his other hand slides up your body to tease your other nipple, the sensation nearly overwhelming him. He can’t believe he’s finally here, finally doing this, and with you of all people.

He hadn’t lied to you before; it really had always been you in his mind, in his heart, in his soul…

He forces himself to continue to go slow, carefully keeping his erection from brushing up against you. He’s already so close, and he hasn’t even gotten you out of your clothes yet. He’s waited long enough for this, and so have you; he needs it to be perfect.

He slips his hands beneath the hem of your shirt once more, pausing in his ministrations to look you in the eye.

“Can I unwrap the rest of my present, doll?” he leers, burning the way you blush into his memory forever. You bite your lip, staring up at him with wide, needy eyes, and you’ve never looked more beautiful. You nod wordlessly, and sit up as he pulls your pyjamas over your head, tossing the top to the side.

He stands corrected, taking in your bare breasts, the curve of your waist, the way your blush continues down your neck to the top of your chest. You’ve never looked more beautiful than right now.

Your breath comes hard and fast under the weight of his stare, nearly panting with desire.

Take it slow, Twig. Make her beg you for it. Ponytail’s voice echoes in his head, and he lunges forward, pinning you back against the mattress, claiming your lips again as he brings his fingers up to play with your nipples, only pausing in his attack to knead and squeeze your breasts, cataloguing your responses to his every action as you writhe underneath him, whining into his mouth.

“Terry, you’re driving me crazy!” you manage to tell him between kisses, your chest now covered with love bites that give him a primal sense of satisfaction and ownership.

“Good,” he coos, finding it easy to be dominant in this arena. Watching you come apart for him has given him such a heady sense of control, he thinks he could happily do it forever.

Maybe he will.

Your hand, which had formerly been obediently laying down by your side, runs across his thigh to his cock, squeezing it experimentally over his pants, and his restraint all but disappears as his hips reflexively buck into your palm. You bat your eyelashes at him with mock innocence, and he snarls, reaching down and yanking your pants and underwear down your legs in one quick motion, making you yelp and press your thighs tightly together. Oh, now you were shy?

Reining himself back in before he forces your knees apart, he slows down once more, running his hands from your ankles to the tops of your thighs, relishing the feeling of your soft skin and the way that your muscles jump beneath his fingers.

“You’re so damn pretty,” he whispers, his awe carrying over into his tone. “My dream girl…”

He buries his face between your breasts, switching between them to ensure they both receive equal treatment from his lips and tongue. It isn’t long before you relax the lower half of your body, your legs moving to either side of him to wrap around his waist as your arms mirror the movement, locking themselves around his neck as you cling to him, trying to pull him closer. Terry thinks he’d happily let you pull him closer until he disappeared inside of you; his cock twitches at the thought.

“What is it, love?” he teases, though his tongue tingles around the pet name. “What do you need?”

You give him a glare, though its effect is weakened by the fact that you are practically vibrating in his arms.

“Stop teasing me, you big dumb jerk!” you complain, even as you roll your hips up against him. He bites the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the burning hot arousal that jolts through his body at the sensation of your soaking centre rubbing against him, even through his clothes.

“Well, that was just plain hurtful,” he says with false sadness. “Maybe I’ll just go…” he trails off, peeling you off him and keep his eyes on the sheets as he makes to move off the bed. You launch yourself at him, taking him by surprise as you knock him back onto the bed, straddling him with a pout.

This time, he knows that you feel his cock twitch against you.

“You’re not going anywhere, Terry Silver,” you say imperiously, even as you bend down to kiss his chest, your tongue boldly and thoroughly exploring his torso. He hisses, and feels you smirk against his skin. “I just got you back, and you’re not going anywhere, especially not before you finish what you started.”

He nimbly rolls you onto your back, hooking one leg around his hip, his hand stroking the inner thigh of your other leg and making your breathing come heavier once again.

“Is that what you want, Y/N?” he asks, cracking a wicked grin. “For me to help you finish?”

Instead of telling him off, or stubbornly refusing to say anything, you look up at him demurely.

“Yes,” you tell him bluntly, staring up at him unflinchingly. “Make me come, Terry, make me yours!”

He growls and slides down your body again, forcing your knees apart – not that they need any forcing. He takes in the sight of your wet, pink pussy, and it briefly makes his brain short-circuit.

“Christ,” he breathes out, before throwing caution to the wind and burying his face between your legs, eating you out like you’re his last meal on earth. You literally mewl as he latches onto your clit, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud, your grip on his head stinging deliciously as you tug at his locks. You try to grind yourself against his face, but he holds your hips down firmly; all of the pleasure you felt tonight would be because of him.

His tongue probes your entrance next, your walls tight but inviting, and he brings a hand up to assist, one of his fingers continuing to tease your clit. He hears you moan his name, and he moans yours right back, the vibrations adding to your pleasure until your soft inner thighs are quaking.

“Terry!” you cry out, your thighs clenching around his head, but he is relentless in his pursuit, knowing that you’re close. “Oh God, Terry!”

“That’s it, my sweet girl,” he purrs approvingly, stretching you out with a finger joining his tongue. “Come for me, Y/N, let me taste how much you want me.”

He dives back in, adding a second finger, his thumb rubbing your clit in circles that you mirror with your hips. Secretly, he writes his name on your centre with his tongue, claiming you as his, and with one final swipe at your clit you’re coming apart for him, screaming his name in ecstasy as your thighs tighten their grip even further, the pressure a testament to how hard you’re coming.

“Fuck!” you groan between stuttering, whiny breaths. “Fuck…”

He patiently waits for you to catch your breath, content to be trapped between your legs, laying kisses all over your inner thighs and breathing you in. Eventually, your legs collapse bonelessly to either side of him, releasing him, and he crawls up your body, his cock aching from being pressed against the seam of his pants. Still slightly dazed, you look up at him with a shy smile that makes his heart skip a beat. Still so innocent, even after all that…

“Does this mean it’s finally my turn?” you ask, brazenly reaching for his belt. Kneeling next to your head, he allows you to remove his belt, pulling his zipper down and tugging his pants down to reveal his tented trousers. You let out a whimper of desire, though he also detects a note of anxiety. You have nothing to worry about, sweet thing; he’ll never let anything bad happen to you.

Not on his watch.

You gather your nerve, pulling his underwear down to free his cock, and he swiftly divests himself of the clothing kicking them off and to the floor, his erection bobbing with the movement. Your eyes follow it as though hypnotized, and he finds himself staring at you with a downright hungry expression. Mine, a possessive voice growls in his mind as he watches you stare, awestruck at his member.

Slowly, like you were scared of scaring it away, you move your head towards it, your tongue peeking out from between your swollen, pouty lips to lick the precum off of his tip.

He nearly blows his load then and there.

Instead, he climbs on top of you, spreading your legs to either side of him.

“Ter-ry!” you whine, pouting up at him. “I thought it was my turn!”

He bends down, silencing your complaints with a kiss until you’re laying pliant against the sheets.

“I won’t last long if you do that now, love,” he admits, trying not to be embarrassed or ashamed. “The first time I come, I want it to be inside you.”

Your expression softens at his words, and you pull him down for another sweet kiss. He reaches between your bodies, getting his fingers slick with your juices and stroking himself, his eyes rolling back in his head at the sensation. You break apart, but his forehead stays rested on yours as he lines himself up with your entrance.

“I’ll be gentle, I’ll go slow,” he vows, the promise as much to himself as it is to you. He would have control; he would not hurt you.

“I trust you, Terry,” you tell him earnestly, and the words mean more to him than he can possibly express.

“I love you, Y/N,” he breathes, slowly sliding himself inside of you until he feels himself come up to your hymen. You tense up slightly at the intrusion, or perhaps at what’s to come, but you nod at him to continue, responding to the question reflected in his eyes.

“Don’t draw it out – just do it quick, and then it’s over,” you ask quietly, shutting your eyes tightly. That won’t do.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he requests, and your eyes flutter open. He doesn’t hesitate, thrusting himself past your barrier and fully into you, watching the pain cross your features with a perverse sense of satisfaction before he immediately moves to soothe, stilling his hips as he peppers your face with kisses, cooing sweet nothing and words of encouragement and running his hands comfortably up and down your body.

The distraction is appreciated; it gives him something to focus on other than how incredible your cunt feels wrapped around his throbbing member.

“Just relax, Y/N,” he coaxes, feeling you tighten around him when he says your name. He wants to spend eternity figuring out all the ways to make your body respond to him…

You nod up at him, your body’s grip on him loosening just enough for him to pull out slightly before smoothly thrusting back inside, hearing your breath escape you with a moan. He stills again, not wanting to push his luck, but you have other plans, rocking your hips up towards him, your legs tightening their grip around his waist.

“Don’t stop,” you beg him quietly. “I can handle it, I promise.”

“I’m not hurting you?” he asks doubtfully, taking in the tears at the corners of your eyes.

“I like it,” you admit to him bashfully, and he can tell by your embarrassment that you mean it. He groans at this confession, feeling his self-control slipping away, and he lets it, deciding to just be in the moment with you. Burying his face in your neck, he slides his hands around to your butt, kneading the plump flesh as he holds you up, his hips setting a slow pace, savouring the delicious friction of moving inside you. You let out a wanton moan of approval, breathless pleas escaping your lips as you run your fingers through his hair.

Your cries are music to his ears, his own need for release growing with every thrust, every noise you make spurring him on.

“Terry,” you whimper his name, trying to meet his hips thrust-for-thrust, eventually settling for just hanging on, begging for more as he chases his orgasm, rutting against you and making your toes curl. “Come for me – Let go for me, love!” you moan in his ear, and he finally does, feeling your pussy tighten around him and milk him of every drop.

It isn’t until after he’s caught his breath that he realizes his still whispering your name like a mantra. Forcing himself to pull out of you, no matter how much he wants to stay buried in your tight heat, he rolls onto his back, pulling you on top of him and securely wrapping you both in the blankets. You nestle into him, fitting quite naturally against his side just as he always knew you would.

“You’ll stay?” you ask hopefully in a tired voice. It was now well after midnight, and you had already been dressed for bed when he’d shown up.

“If you’ll have me.”

“Always, Terry.”

He kisses the top of your head, wrapping his arms around you protectively. He can’t remember the last time he felt tired, relaxed enough to sleep deeply for any length of time, but he senses it won’t be a problem tonight.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N,” he murmurs, recalling your fondness for the holiday as children. Maybe that was why he’d been so attached to it, despite having few personal memories about it himself.

“Merry Christmas, Terry,” you reply sleepily, kissing the pectoral that you’re using as a pillow as you drift off.

He’ll count this as a Christmas miracle.

---

Just look at this cute little fucker in his little bucket hat, thinking about his own girl back home 💕

#Thomas Ian Griffith #Terry Silver #Terry Silver x Reader #Cobra Kai #TIGmas #12 Days of TIGmas #Smut #kk3 #karate kid #the karate kid 3 #twig #twig!terry silver #fluff #Nick Marini

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