Sometimes we find coping mechanisms that work without really having to seek them out, though sometimes we stumble a bit before we do and maybe even have to purposely try to find them. And Shane definitely stumbled—more like he tripped, really—for quite some time. He hadn't even realized how bad his addiction and dependency on alcohol had gotten until the new farmer in town found him drunk at the cliff. Not that he remembers too much from that night, although he comes to the next day with a killer hangover and an appointment with a therapist in Zuzu City. He considers not going, believing that nothing they say or do will wind up helping—after all, nothing he's tried has worked and that's what got him to this point. But apparently Harvey had to pull some strings to get him the appointment so quickly, and his aunt practically forces him into her old pick-up truck to drive him there herself. So he humors them both, not wanting to seem ungrateful and too tired to fight it anymore. One appointment and he'll be done; one appointment and he can go back to the cliff to finish what he started. His last therapist couldn't help him much, and he expects the same song and dance here—only to be surprised, shocked even, when Harvey's old friend seems to get it, get him. She doesn't try to force him to talk, or blatantly analyze him and goad him into responses she thinks are the problem; this therapist actually treats him like a person and not a lost cause. By the end of the first session, he thinks it might be worth coming back.
And come back he does. It takes a few sessions before he feels comfortable enough talking about the situation—why he is here as an emergency case, according to Harvey—and what happened at the cliff. Shane recounts that night the best he can, repeating the same sentiment to his therapist that is one of the few things he remembers telling the farmer: "I'm too small and stupid to take control of my life". The way his therapist starts making a few notes goes passed his notice as he trails off, muttering that it probably won't happen again so he doesn't know why he's even here. When he's said his piece it seems his therapist has decided something, has latched on to the fact that he's expressed he thinks he's too small. Unsurprisingly, they explore those thoughts and feelings for the rest of his time, and by his next appointment she has a suggestion for him: age regression. Carefully explaining that it doesn't make him stupid or a failure, and that feeling small can actually be really good for him. And that she wants him to try leaning into being small instead of drinking the next time he starts feeling lost in his head. It's a lot to take in, but she gives Shane a few pamphlets and tells him that's his homework for the next two weeks. Just to try it at least once and see what happens. He's flipping through the pamphlets on the way back to the truck, catching sight of Marnie and Jas waiting for him; he tried telling her that he can catch the bus, but she insisted on taking him every time and even made excuses of them taking Jas to an ice-cream parlor while they were in Zuzu. When they have the family-sized sundae brought to the table he notices for the first time how his aunt not only tucks a napkin into Jas' shirt, but also reaches over to gently tuck one into his as well—something she's always done, but for once something that he realizes is her showing she cares about him.
The pamphlets sit in his back pocket heavily the entire way home, the same heaviness resting at the back of his mind. Would it help? His therapist seemed to think so. But it seemed so...stupid. As if drinking his troubles away wasn't. At least this wouldn't burn his wallet—he could try this. Over the next few days Shane finds himself getting lost in thought whenever he's picking up Jas' room (the cleaning routine being another suggestion that's part of his ongoing homework), dolls being held for far longer than necessary before he remembers to put them in her toybox. After one such time he finds himself crawling around Marnie's attic, knowing she hangs on to everything and, lo and behold, finds the toybox that used to belong to him. Because of course she kept it, covered in dust as it is. It opens with a creak, and a small part of him thinks he'll get caught—but that doesn't stop him from pulling out his childhood bear and hugging it close. The stuffing smells a little musty like the wood of the toybox it was stored in, but underlying that is the familiar smell that brings to mind safer nights when he was allowed to feel scared and tuck himself up to his aunt's side for comfort. Shane doesn't realize he's crying, only clutches the toy and doesn't try to box away his feelings for once. Telling his teddy that he's so sorry (and for what, he doesn't even know, in the moment he only knows that he is), that he won't do it again.
Shane doesn't get caught in the attic, and though that all-encompassing small feeling only lasted for about a half-hour he still takes Baby Bear (because that's his name, Shane remembers!) out of the toybox and down to his room where he rests on his bed, carefully hidden under his pillows until it's bedtime. Because by bedtime he lets himself take out the toy again and snuggle with it, finds that when the urge to cry comes back that he's soothing himself by pressing a thumb into his mouth as if it were the most natural thing in the world and not a habit he had given up by the time he was five (or maybe eight, if he was being honest). And by the time morning comes he feels okay. Lighter, even. And most notably there's no pounding in his head or pain behind his eyes. Maybe this whole regression thing could work after all. Although he had thought his...regression age? was that the term? would be older. When he brings all of this up with his therapist she seems genuinely happy and supportive, something that makes the small space being carved out in the back of his mind swell with something akin to a sweet softness. Like cotton candy. But she says the cotton candy is a good thing and not to worry about it, and to keep doing what he's doing whenever he finds it helpful. He winds up leaving the session teetering on the edge of regression, much more eager and excited to go get ice-cream than he usually would be. It's been a long time since he was excited over something so trivial. But the ice-cream is sweet, and Shane doesn't even get mad when his aunt wants to wipe away the sticky trail at the corner of his mouth.
Slowly but surely more of his childhood toys find their way out of the toybox and into his room until eventually the chest itself has to be brought down from the attic and tucked away safely in his closet instead. It's an interesting process of learning how to play again, but once he loses himself in it he starts to have a lot of fun. Finding joy in the simple act of playing starts to bleed over into his big time as well, when the little things gradually start to make him feel something close to happy again. Not to mention it provides him with some much needed routine—after his shift at JojaMart he comes home for dinner, and after helping with the washing up he retreats to his room for some small time. However after a particularly rough day that new routine is abandoned and he goes straight to his room, wanting nothing more than to forget things for awhile, to be little. Which inevitably leads to a concerned Marnie walking in on Shane, who is the middle of a tea party with some of his toys. It takes some time before he notices that she's there, and when he does he certainly doesn't expect the soft look on her face. For the first time in years he actually calls her mama, whines and hiccups that it isn't what it looks like...but all of that is pushed aside as she comes to sit on the bed next to him, and ask if Baby Bear needs his graham crackers and cheese for the tea party. Because of course his aunt remembers the snacks he always said were for his teddy. And all he can do is nod, blushing as she brushes away his embarrassed tears and kisses the crown of his head before leaving. Shane doesn't know why she played along, but he does find himself pushing the pamphlets about age regression that he did have shoved in the back of his dresser drawer underneath her door later that night.
Crumpled as they are, Marnie reads through the pamphlets. She had a general idea about what was going on, though she didn't have the correct terminology to put with it—in the moment all she knew was that her nephew was happy and smiling while he was playing so innocently, so it must be a good thing. And judging from the pamphlets, it's something his therapist recommended too. The fact that he had slipped up and called her mama—something he hadn't done since he was very, very young before someone had corrected him—only added to her pre-existing want to be there for him, just as she had been the first time. If he would allow it, of course. Shane knew a talk was coming even before he gave her the pamphlets; Marnie had always stressed the importance of talking things over, especially if feelings were involved. And Shane had shown plenty of feelings, way more than he has been since returning home a few months ago. The talk is about as awkward as anticipated, but Shane tries to remain open and not shut her out out of fear of rejection. Though he gets the exact opposite. Marnie tells him that if regression is something that helps him, then she will support him in any way that he's comfortable with—including acting as his cg. She's already done it once, and she's more than willing to do it again. It doesn't matter how many years have passed, if he needs to be her little butterbean for awhile then that's more than okay! And as the awkwardness and embarrassment fade from Shane's mind, he realizes that he would like that a lot, actually.
It's a whole lot easier to let Marnie in on his regression than he imagined it would be. The process of letting her in is gradual, as is building up the courage to leave his room when he's feeling small. But Marnie is patient and goes at the pace Shane sets, never forcing him out of his comfort zone but always providing encouragement wherever she can. Perhaps somewhat expectedly, once Shane gets accustomed to having someone around while he is regressed they both slot back into old habits. Habits like her teaching him about the farm animals and how to care for them, especially the sheep since they only had chickens and cows when he was a kid. Although they form a few new habits too! Like how she brings him a sippy cup of warm vanilla milk to take his antidepressants and insomnia medicine with at bedtime, or how (depending on the day of the week and if he's feeling small) she'll help him with his t-shot, carefully placing a band-aid patterned with farm animals over the spot where the needle pricked his thigh (his favorite, naturally, being the ones with little chickens on them). Some things might have changed, but for a little while at least Shane can take comfort in knowing that her care for him hasn't.
Can I get some of how the guys act when they get sick?
Regards, someone who is trapped in bed with cramps and nausea, utterly miserable, and wants to project my misery onto the guys but can't write
I've had these three sick fics in the drafts for a hot minute so you can have all three of them at once. ✨ I am so sorry you feel bad hottie. The fact that we're all sick together 😞😞😞 everyone telepathically send me ur icky and I'll give it the boyos.
cw: no. 3 at the bottom has vomit but the others are chill. this is all very self indulgent and a little whumpy and idk I didn't think I'd ever post it, but I hope you enjoy.
no. 1: Ghost and Nikprice
cw: feverish Simon. inspired by what I used to do with my dad and mom when they'd put me back to bed after a nightmare.
The fever has taken most of him in the way that leaves his body heavy and unresponsive, breath shallow, skin too warm. Simon lies still, eyes closed, lashes dark against flushed skin, as if he’s sunk somewhere deep and can’t quite find the way back.
John's been at his side of most of it. And having to slow down in order not to wake Simon, he's noticed something. Simon's hand, intentionally placed, always touching John or Nik whenever they sit on the mattress.
Right now it's two fingers hooked into the fabric of John’s sleeve. Just there. An hold with quiet intention, like Simon has decided that John can't leave without him knowing. Even asleep.
Nikolai comes and goes softly, the door never quite clicking shut. He brings water Simon doesn’t wake for, presses a cool cloth to his forehead, murmurs something low and soft in Russian. Each time he steps away, Simon’s fingers twitch.
Once, when John shifts his weight, Simon makes a sound. Barely a whine, broken, unhappy. His hand tightens just enough.
“Easy,” John murmurs, leaning back in. “I’m here.”
Hours pass like that. The room dim, the air warm and still. Nikolai settles into the chair opposite for a while, watching the rise and fall of Simon’s chest. Eventually he moves again, quiet feet, quiet hands.
Simon’s grip never leaves John.
At some point, John realizes the position isn’t working anymore. His back aches. His knee has gone numb. Simon’s breathing has hit that uneven edge that means the fever is still climbing.
So John shifts properly this time carefully sitting back against the headboard, drawing closer.
Simon stirs as soon as the mattress rises and falls. His brow furrows. His hand fumbles blindly until it finds John again, knuckles pressing weakly against his thigh.
John exhales and lifts his other hand, guiding Simon without waking him fully.
Simon follows the motion instinctively, turning his head and letting it come to rest in John’s lap. His weight settles there, warm and solid. His hand curls into the fabric of John’s trousers.
Nikolai pauses in the doorway. Just gives a small nod, the kind meant only for John, and slips back out again.
John rests a hand at the back of Simon’s head, thumb brushing through short, damp hair. Simon makes a quiet sound at that, content, this time, and his breathing evens out by a fraction.
And John stays exactly where he is, all night, if that’s what it takes.
...
no. 2 Nikprice x 141 idk.
cw: John hit hard by wtv he got.
Normally, when John gets sick, it’s a battle.
He argues. He insists he’s fine. He tries to stand too soon, do too much, shoulder through it on stubborn momentum.
Simon blocks the door. Nikolai takes his boots away. Between the two of them, they box him in until he grudgingly stays put.
This time, John doesn’t fight at all.
That’s how they know.
He’s curled on his side beneath the blankets, color washed out of him, eyes dull with exhaustion. Every movement seems to cost him, like his body weighs twice what it should. When he breathes, it’s careful. As if even that hurts.
Simon sits nearby, silent, watchful. Nikolai moves around the room carefully. Trying to do something to make it better.
“Hurts everywhere,” John admits quietly when Nikolai asks. “Like I’ve been trampled.”
Simon’s jaw tightens at that.
They keep him warm. They keep him still. Water within reach. Painkillers taken on time. No heroics allowed, yes that includes answering the phone they forgot to silence. But John doesn’t even grumble, just closes his eyes and lets it happen, which somehow makes it worse.
Kyle and Johnny come by later.
They don’t stay long. They hover in the doorway first, like kids unsure if they’re allowed closer. John opens his eyes when he hears them, and something soft flickers in them, relief, maybe, or just comfort at seeing familiar faces.
“Alright, Cap?” Johnny asks gently.
John huffs a weak breath. “Seen better.”
Kyle steps closer carefully, hands tucked into his sleeves. “We won’t stay,” he says quickly. “Just wanted to check on you.”
John nods, grateful. “Don’t want you lot catching this.”
Johnny leans in anyway, quick and light, presses a kiss to John’s forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Kyle follows suit, gentler still, lingering for half a second longer than necessary.
“Get some rest,” Kyle murmurs. “We’ll be nearby.”
They’re in and out just like that.
When the door clicks shut again, the room settles back into quiet.
Nikolai takes his place on the bed then, careful not to jostle John too much. He eases in behind him, an arm draped warm and solid across John’s middle, chest to back. John exhales as soon as he feels it, tension bleeding out of himy.
“Better?” Nikolai asks softly.
John shifts just enough to press back into him. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Stay.”
“I am staying,” Nikolai replies.
Simon watches them for a moment from the chair, makes sure John’s breathing evens out.
Only then does Simon look away and let his own eyes drift shut.
...
no. 3 Kyle x Simon x Johnny
cw: vomit! Kyle has the flu and hattteess throwing up, just like me.
Kyle hates throwing up. It’s the way his body turns on him, folds him in half, burning and choking him in the effort to "save" him.
By the time Simon gets him into the bathroom, Kyle is already shaking.
He’s dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, one hand braced on the porcelain, the other clenched tight in the fabric of Simon’s sleeve like he’s afraid he’ll tip. His breathing is shallow, panicked, trying to outrun what’s coming.
He kneels beside Kyle, one hand at Kyle’s shoulder, broad and warm, the other gently cupping his cheek, thumb swiping his temple.
Johnny hovers in the doorway, feeling useless. He’s got a glass of water in one hand, a cool cloth in the other, eyes flicking between Kyle’s trembling back and Simon’s calm posture.
Kyle gags, sharp and sudden, and then he’s crying, properly crying now, tears spilling down his cheeks even before his stomach heaves.
“I hate this,” he sobs between retches. “I hate it, I hate it, I hate—”
Simon leans in just enough that Kyle can feel him there. “That’s alright,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to like it. Just get through it.”
Kyle vomits hard, body folding in on itself, shoulders jerking. He makes these broken, miserable sounds that rip straight through Johnny’s chest. Johnny steps forward, kneeling on the other side, pressing the cool cloth to the back of Kyle’s neck as soon as there’s a pause.
“Breathe, lad,” Johnny whispers. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just breathe with me, yeah?”
Kyle nods weakly, even as another wave hits. He grips Simon’s sleeve tighter this time, fingers digging in, as if Simon is the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
“Stop,” Simon says gently but firmly. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
Another retch, then more tears. Kyle’s face twists in humiliation, and when it finally eases, he slumps forward, exhausted, forehead resting against the rim of the toilet.
He starts crying in earnest now, quiet, wrecked sobs that shake his whole body. “I hate when—when I—,” he whispers. “I can’t make it stop.”
Simon’s hand shifts, rubbing slow circles into Kyle’s shoulder blade. “I know,” he says again, softer this time. “You’re doing fine. It’ll pass.”
Johnny slides the water closer, waits until Simon gives a small nod. Kyle takes a sips, hands shaking.
“Easy,” Johnny murmurs. “Tiny sips. That’s it.”
Kyle lets his head tip back just enough to look at them, eyes red-rimmed, lashes wet, utterly spent. “Don’t go,” he whispers, voice barely there.
Simon’s answer is immediate. He presses his forehead briefly to Kyle’s temple. “We’re not going anywhere.”
And Johnny adds, “Not a chance.”
They stay there on the bathroom floor. Kyle cries until there’s nothing left in him.
And when it’s over, when he’s finally just tired instead of terrified, Simon helps him up slowly, carefully, like something precious. Johnny wraps him in a towel until he's surrounded by their blankets once again.
Here's how'd they respond if you were their S/O and you said this to them.
...
“You’re a good man, John Price.” You say it while he’s hunched forward on your couch, his face already buried into your chest, his strong arms locked around your waist. And when you say it, his arms squeeze tighter, hands clutching at your clothes like he’s afraid you’ll take the words back. His breath shudders, shaky and rough, and just when you think he’ll argue, just when you’re sure he’ll tell you you’re wrong, you say it again. Wrap your arms around his shoulders as he drags you into his lap, pressing his nose into your shoulder as the tears finally break free.
“You’re a good man, Simon.” You tell him, steady and soft. His head tilts up from his plate of food and his eyes cut sharp at you, as if he’s waiting for the laugh or the lie. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, just stares at you with another bite of food resting on his fork. And you give that tiny, sure smile. His jaw tightens, his eyes flash wet, and the tears slip past before he can stop them. He breaks right there, chest heaving, and you push your plates aside and pull him in.
“You’re a good man, Johnny.” You say it like you mean it, like it’s obvious. He laughs at first, bright and sharp, trying to shake it off. But you don't. You just sit there with him in the quiet, letting it hang there in his ears until it reaches his brain. His grin falters. The laugh dies in his throat. And when it finally hits him, when he realizes you aren’t joking, his eyes go wide. “Oh,” he breathes, voice breaking, and then he’s curling in on himself, face buried against your shoulder as the tears come hard and fast.
“You’re a good man, Kyle.” You say it, simple as anything, and he just smiles that soft little smile of his. “Thanks, love,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to yours. It’s gentle at first, but when you try to pull back, his shaking hand hand catches your jaw, keeping you close. The kiss lingers. And then he kisses you again, and again, until you realize he’s not letting go.
“Eres un buen hombre, Ale.” You tell him, and he leans back slightly in his chair, brows raised, eyes catching yours. His hand finds your hip, tugging you closer, voice low as he asks, “You believe that, cariño?” And you don’t even hesitate. “I know it.” He pulls you in, kissing you deep and certain, holding you like your faith in him is the only thing anchoring him to earth.
“Eres un buen hombre, Rudy.” The words slip out, and he stills immediately, eyes wide, startled like a deer in headlights. For a moment, he just stares at you, lips parted, chest rising uneven. Then his face softens, his voice quiet, almost breaking as he whispers, “Thank you, cariño…” You reach your hand out, tugging his pinky, and then he’s in your arms, burying himself against you, clutching like he needs to disappear there. His tears are quiet, but you feel the damp against your shirt as you hold him tight.
“You’re a good man, Alex.” You say it plain, while his hands are fidgeting with yours. His head drops, eyes searching the floor like he’s trying to find proof of it there, because he doesn’t quite believe he deserves to hear it. Then he finally huffs out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if that’s true,” he admits. But then he looks up at you, and when you don’t waver, he nods. “Thank you,” he whispers, and his hand finds yours, squeezing tight.
“You’re a good man, Nikolai.” The words leave you softly, and he stills for a moment like he isn’t sure he heard you right. His mouth pulls into a crooked, rueful, little smile, and he lets out a breath like a laugh. “Ah, dorogaya… I’ve done things. I am not always so good.” But you don’t take it back. You just repeat it, "You are, Nikolai," your hand covering his. And he exhales through his nose, eyes slipping shut. When he opens them again, they shine wet in the low light. “Spasibo,” he says quietly, and then he’s leaning in, pressing his forehead to yours like he might rest there for just a minute.
Yuh. Bc maybe it's not always true but they deserve some softness too ig.
More sleeping with Simon because it's a guilty pleasure.
So, imagine drunkenly stumbling into his room, right?
Your room is locked as it always is, so like any sane but highly inebriated person would, you unlock your door, strip down to the bare minimum, go into your draw and throw on whatever big shirt you can get your hands on first, as always, and climb into bed. You can worry about brushing the taste of liquor away later.
You don't really care about the warm mass in your bed, just pulling closer and closing your eyes. Probably the heated pillow you've been begging Gaz to buy you because he owes you big time after the cake incident. You're sure of a headache tomorrow, so you try to just enjoy the little peace you can right now.
Except that 'warm mass' speaks. English. Accented English that sounds a little bit too much like your lieutenant. You're hoping it's a dream. Probably a wet dream by choice of character, you've been getting those a lot... Anyway. It doesn't feel too much like a dream when the light cuts on, and you huff.
"If you're going to sneak in my room, lieutenant, at least have the decency to keep the light off. I'm tired." You turn the light off, pulling the covers closer and closing your eyes again.
"Considering the fact that you're in my room, I beg to differ." He turns the light back on with a similar huff, still staring you down.
You sigh again and sit up, glaring at him as best you can through a slightly drunken haze. "And considering the fact that I used my own key to get in here, I too bEg To DiFfEr." You sass before turning the light back off, curling up and facing away from this mass of audacity.
Simon sits stunned, wondering how the fuck did you get into his room if his door was locked. "That doesn't change the fact that this is my room," he argues, turning the light back on.
You grumble loudly, making sure that he knows he's being an inconvenience to you. You just shuffle deeper under the covers, blocking the light out with your hands.
"Seriously?"
"Can't hear you, I'm asleep."
"Unbelievable."
He mentally short-circuits for a moment. And not because you're in his shirt, with barely anything under it, and not because you're in his bed in said shirt, but because you don't seem to care that you're sleeping with him; but because you seem to have no problem curling up next to him, freezing-cold hands and feet and all.
Simon isn't sure how he's supposed to react when you push your feet between his thighs, bury into his side, and stuff your hands between you and him.
He's up for a while still, trying to make sense of it all, and then you climb over top of him--in your sleep-- curl up like a loafed cat on his chest, and then have the audacity to drool on him.
He doesn't know what to do with you. But it is a little nice to sleep next to someone who he trusts enough to not try and kill him in his sleep.
He'll never admit that that is the most sleep he's ever gotten, ever, nor that he was lowkuinely having an existential crisis before you curled up in bed next to him like he wasn't the Grim Reaper reincarnated-- having taken as many lives as he's had to stitch himself back together. Literally and metaphorically.
------------
By morning, that's how you learn that your door takes the same key as his. Which leads to mass inspection and realize that this is not an isolated case.
writer culture is googling the definition of a word you've used correctly before multiple times just to double-check that it means what you think it means
The hallway teams of floral perfume and body odor, but I choose to make little note of it. The lockers lining the walls are taller than they were in junior high and they’re this ugly off white colour that makes my head ache and stomach churn. I know nobody and nobody knows me—just like it’s supposed to be. A new school, a new name, a new me.
I find my locker in the language hallway. There is this huge hand painted banner hanging from the entrance to the hallway, it’s covered in flags from different countries and signature from the artists. The lock on the locker is old and rusty. I can’t open it either, the lock is bust.
“Useless metal box,” I grumble. If I were some stupid kid I’d kick it, but I can’t afford attention.
I glance at the other kids. Kiss who are kids—happy and present I mean. I wish I could be present all the time too. Just enjoying the sunlight flooding into the halls, dreaming of some whimsical life as a lawyer.
Stop it, you’re not a child. I’m reminded. Where’s my schedule? I dig through my bag in search of the small wrinkled paper. It’s ripped when I pull it out of my folder too rough. I press the dying paper against my locker and attempt to flatten it. First period, English.
I drag myself through the schools crowded halls, managing to only get bumped into twice by “aspiring students”. The room number 217 eventually comes into view.
Most of the students inside the room are chatting amongst themselves, which gives me enough time to find—
“Hey new kid! Sit here!” —a seat… that saves time. There’s a boy waving me over who looks like nothing if not trouble.
I take in his appearance as I walk. He’s got this poorly cut Mohawk and raggedy clothes that hang loosely around his frame. He smiles big and wide when I sit down and I can tell he’s never going to leave me alone, not until I move again.
“Name’s John, but I prefer Johnny.” Only now am I realizing he’s got a thick Scottish accent. What’s he doing in Manchester? Looking at him in the light that’s putting through the windows, I can see gold flecks spread throughout his irises. I never thought that I’d see actual gold in someone’s eyes, it’s eldritch. Hey, focus!
“Simon Riley.” My hand reached out to greet him before I could stop it.
To Simon, giving himself up for anything was a huge deal. From eating with his mates without a mask to having sex.
Sex with you specifically.
You were a civilian he gave himself up to again and again. He trusted you in a way he hadn’t trusted anyone in a long, long time. You were special to him in the way that black was his favorite color.
Sure, he could wear another color, but even if he did, he would always return to the depths that were black.
You were his murky sea he wouldn’t mind getting washed up in so long as you promised not to drown him.
You wouldn’t, you never did. You were careful with his body when presented. Never teasing or pulling or pushing too hard, always a delicate hand over his scars, moving just how he liked— just how he asked.
Under your hand was a safe place like no other.
It’s why he agreed to this little fantasy you had. One that would submit him to you fully for only a while. As long as he could handle it.
“Ah don’t think it would work on me,” he says in a gentle tone heard by no one other than you.
“It’ll still be enjoyable if it doesn’t. I just wanna try,” you tell him sweetly, already kissing his cheek when he appeared at your door again. Night leaking off of him like mist on a warm day.
He only nodded, shrugging off his clothes as you eyed him. Look always hungry but never lustful. He couldn’t explain it but God, did it make him feel good and vulnerable. All in a sinfully delicious way.
“Just sit and relax. Don’t actively try to deflect it, okay?”
He nods again, sitting in the chair he always did.
You got on your knees, looking up at him prettily. You always did this to loosen him up before getting to the main course. It helped him a lot and he appreciated the thought behind it.
You come off him with a resounding pop before asking if he was okay. He groans out a yes, guiding you back down.
He comes three times before you deem him relaxed enough to try this silly hypnosis.
“Close your eyes.”
He does and you start saying things to him, coaxing him to an almost sleep.
“And when I snap my finger, you’ll awake.”
He doesn’t register it, just opening his eyes and eyeing you hungrier than he’s ever.
You guide him through every motion, and he seems to genuinely be in a trance. You use him as you please, never doing more than you would usually as you’re sure he can’t really say his safe word.
By the end, you’re cuddled up to him, snapping him out of the trance.
“Did it work?” You ask, looking up at him.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. His memory was foggy and he couldn’t remember most of it. “But I feel good,” he finishes.
“Good,” you hum, kissing his jaw and then his cheek before nuzzling closer and falling asleep.
~_--_~~_--_~~_--_~~_--_~
Dunno if I did this right but it was more fluffy than kinky 😭😭
annaxmalina
romaincrisis
dededos
janainaart
theartofmadeline
areudirty
yousharknotpass
pixelskylines
gummygunk
