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riality-check · 8 months

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Steve, realistically, shouldn’t even be at this show. He doesn’t care about the band, he didn’t want to make the drive, and he had to bring Anna along because he couldn’t find a babysitter.

But he was going to suck it up to go with Dustin, who immediately bought tickets to see his favorite band when they went on sale. Who called Steve this morning to inform him, somehow both solemnly and frantically, that he had the worst food poisoning known to man, and, that until he stopped puking and shitting at the same time, he could not leave the bathroom.

Steve very much did not need to know that.

With Dustin went the rest of the Babysitters’ Club, all of them having eaten the same shady pizza and suffering the consequences. The only exception was Mike, lactose intolerant but cursed to take care of his idiot friends.

He texted Steve to ask if he had extra bleach. Steve dropped it outside the house because no way in hell was he entering that building.

Dustin assured him, amidst too much detail and shockingly disgusting background noise, that both tickets shouldn’t go to waste, and with no one able to babysit Anna, Steve should take advantage of both.

So, here he is. Standing in the first level - Dustin couldn’t get floor tickets, thank God - of a show for a metal band he has no intention of ever listening to and holding his four-year-old daughter, who has bright pink ear defenders looped around her neck in preparation for when it gets really, really loud.

“When are they starting?” she asks for the fourth time in as many minutes, with a sigh too big for her little body.

“In a few minutes,” Steve says, keeping an eye on the stage, where he watches the crew set up. Mad respect for them hustling so hard. He could never.

The seats are slowly filling up, and Steve feels a little sad for the first opener, a little sad that they don’t have a full house for their set.

A group of four guys takes the seats right next to Steve, with a pale, long-haired, big-eyed guy right next to him. He’s got tattoos on his arms and rings on all his fingers and a silver bar through his upper ear.

And he’s arguing emphatically with his friend next to him.

“I’m telling you, American Psycho is more recognizable!” he says, hands flying. Steve discreetly makes sure he and Anna aren’t within striking distance. “Not to mention cheaper!”

“A prop chainsaw,” his friend - a short white guy with shorter but equally wild hair - says, “can’t possibly be that hard to find by tomorrow.”

“We already have the axe!”

“I’m with Eddie,” the big white guy at the end of their group says. “I’m a sucker for American Psycho.”

“Okay, but I’m the guy who has to use the props,” the fourth friend, a Black guy with short braids who looks annoyed at this conversation, like they’ve had it before. “And I think I’d have more fun with the chainsaw.”

Eddie - the guy with long hair and heavy jewelry and hands with a mind of their own - rolls his eyes. It’s a full body movement, one that has him spinning to face Steve. When he does, his face cycles through a myriad of emotions too fast for Steve to really track.

“Hi, pretty boy,” he says. His eyes then dart down to Anna, who stares at him with her head cocked to the side. “Pretty dad. Dad. Pretty. Hi.”

“Eddie,” the short guy cautions.

“Yeah, sorry, anyway, can you be a tiebreaker for us?”

“Sure,” Steve says. Anna squirms, so he lets her out of his lap to stand, holding her hand all the while. “What do you need?”

“American Psycho or Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” the big guy asks.

“You gotta give him context.”

“No, I don’t, Jeff.”

The guy who said he’d be using the props - whatever that means - rolls his eyes and stops fighting.

“What’s American Psycho?” Anna asks, choosing the best time to pay attention to the conversation, like always.

“A movie you’re too young to see,” Steve says. “And the one I’m picking out of those two.”

“Oh, thank you,” Eddie says, using a tone that better fits Steve saving his drowning dog or something. He then turns to the rest of his friends and says, “I fucking told you!”

Anna gasps. “You’re not s’posed to say that!”

Jeff smothers a laugh behind his hands, while the other three guys stare at Anna, half confused, half admiring.

Eddie clears his throat, looking significantly abashed. "Sorry, Miss-"

"Anna," she says.

"Anna," Eddie finishes. Then he turns to Steve. "And you are?"

"Steve. No Mister for me though. I might be a dad, but I'm not that old."

"You are old, Daddy," Anna says.

Steve frowns down at her, where she stands at his feet. She's smiling, mischievous like she always is when she says something along these lines. "I'm not that old."

"Yeah you are! You're like, you're like, like, fifteen."

Jeff gives up on hiding his laughter.

"I'm older than fifteen," Steve says gently, trying not to laugh.

Anna’s jaw drops. “You are?”

“Thank God for that,” Eddie mutters, then shuts his jaw with an audible click.

Steve tried to come up with an answer for that, but someone comes on a mic and starts playing the drums, so he moves the defenders over Anna’s ears and pays attention to the show instead.

It's... fun, he guesses. Fun if he were into it, maybe. The first opener has a lot of energy, even if the music isn't melodic enough for Steve's taste. He finds himself tapping along to the steady beat, moving slightly in his seat to the music.

It's nice background noise. He'd put this on while he grades papers. It's steady enough to fill his head but doesn't have a whole lot of lyrics he could get distracted by and sing along to.

Eddie and his friends, meanwhile, are having the time of their lives. The short guy - Gareth, Steve thinks his name is - mimes the drum part of each song with startling accuracy. Archie jumps up and down, Jeff absolutely screams along, and Eddie-

Anna stares up at Eddie, eyes wide and jaw slacked as she watches him bang his head to the music.

Steve almost snaps a picture of it, this little moment, before the second song ends and Eddie snaps out of his zone.

He shakes the hair out of his face, then looks down at Anna, who's still staring at him. "What?"

She cocks her head to the side in a mirror of his. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"The," she pauses, then starts shaking her head really hard, side to side. Steve puts a hand on her shoulder before she slams into the chairs in the row in front of them.

Eddie laughs. "The headbanging?"

"Yeah," Anna says, nodding.

"It's a way I move to the music," Eddie explains.

"Like dancing?"

"Sort of," Eddie says. "It's easier. I look stupid when I dance."

"You're not s'posed to say that," Anna tells him solemnly. "Right, Daddy?"

Steve meets Eddie's eyes. Even with the lights down, they're big and pretty and reflective, and Steve is going to kick himself so hard if he chickens out before he can get his number.

"Right," he says, still looking at Eddie. "We're not supposed to call ourselves stupid."

"Sorry," Eddie whispers.

"Don't be."

Anna tugs on Steve's hand, then Eddie's. "Teach me."

"Anna," Steve cautions.

"Can you please teach me?" she corrects.

Eddie glances down at Anna, then back up at Steve. "If it's-"

"Go ahead," Steve says because Eddie has more than passed the vibe check at this point.

Eddie crouches down as a new song starts up, and while Steve can't hear what he's telling her, he sees her smile, bright as day.

By the last song of the first opener, Anna is headbanging along with Eddie, off-beat in the say little kids always are but more than making up for it with effort.

Steve gives into the impulse to take a picture.

When the first opener finishes, Steve picks Anna back up and takes her ear defenders off.

"Woah," she says. "Can I keep them-"

"Nope," Steve says. "They stay on when the music is on. You heard it fine, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but you-"

"I have my earplugs in," Steve says, pointing at them.

"So do I," Eddie says, and when he moves his hair back, sure enough, there are black earplugs nestled in his ears.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to wear earplugs," Steve says.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to come of a metal show," Eddie counters.

Anna climbs out of Steve's arms and onto his back, where she loops her arms around his shoulders and just hangs, like she does sometimes when she gets bored.

Weirdo kid, Steve thinks affectionately.

"That's because I'm not," Steve says. "I was supposed to come with a friend, but he got sick."

"Yikes," Eddie says. "You coming tomorrow, too?"

"I am," Steve says. "Are you?"

Eddie raises his eyebrows, like he didn't expect Steve to ask that. "Yeah, we'll be here. Not in these seats, though."

The lights go back down before Steve can ask what he means by that. He reaches behind him, scoops Anna back down on the ground, and puts her ear defenders on by the time the second opener strikes a scary-sounding opening chord.

Anna doesn't look scared at all. From the moment the music starts, she looks up at Eddie, and when he starts headbanging, she does, too.

Yup. Steve has effectively created a monster.

He contemplates, if Dustin is fine by tomorrow, skipping out on the show and giving his ticket to Anna, but that means not seeing Eddie again.

He really wants to see Eddie again, even if he won’t have the same seats.

Whatever that means.

Steve decides not to focus on that. He decides instead to focus on the moment. He listens to the music. He lets Anna take his hand and dance with it. He bops his head along with hers, but not too hard because he can’t risk aggravating his whiplash.

He enjoys the show, even if it’s not his cup of tea. It’s easy to enjoy the show, with Eddie next to him. It’s easy to enjoy his wild hair and pretty jewelry and big eyes and contagious enthusiasm.

It’s easy to see the way Eddie looks at him.

It’s also very easy, after the venue clears and Anna falls asleep in the car on the way home, to forget to ask for his number.

Shit.

(Part 2 is alive!!)

#ria writes #steddie #steddie ficlet #stranger things #stranger things ficlet #st ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #dilf steve harrington #corroded coffin #dilf and concert #d&c au

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ellastone-olsen · 4 months

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Make her happy-Wanda Maximoff

★Pairing: StepMom! Wanda x f!reader

Summary: one day your father brings home a new woman, and then that woman brings you home. drunk. and you're in love with her.

★Warning: NSFW 18+, stepcest, age gap (all legal), mommy kink, praise kink, masturbation, smoking, alcohol, forbidden relationship, mentions of violence, little fluff at the end off course

★Word count: 3k

★AN: there are a few set expressions that are in my native language, but I don’t know how it sounds in English, so I translated it verbatim

There was a crowd of people around. A lot of young people like you, who came here with the same goals: to drink, have fun, maybe find someone for the night, as is usually the case. You never needed a lot of alcohol to start feeling drunk, and after a bottle of beer you were already in high spirits and holding the second one in your hands. Your friends went into pairs and danced together, you looked around: some were kissing as if they were ready to eat each other, some were simply jumping in the music like you, some had already begun to go to separate rooms or to their homes for more private relationships . As always, the student party smelled of alcohol and debauchery. A girl was dancing across from you; you were clearly having fun, even if you didn’t know each other’s names.

You've always had a taste for older women, so it wasn't a surprise when you realized you liked your stepmom. Your parents divorced when you were 11 and immediately after that your mother left for oblivion in another city. At first, out of childish naivety, you tried to call her or write, but as you got older, you realized that your life was no longer her concern. When this realization came to you, there was an unpleasant pang somewhere in your heart; for the first time you realized that there was no such person who didn’t care about you. Even your father, with whom you stayed to live in your hometown, seemed in no hurry to provide you with parental support and care, you just saw each other at home, as if you were neighbors, but were not close. And then Wanda appeared.

Your father chose not to tell the details of their acquaintance and at first, of course, did not bring her to your house. You just knew that somewhere out there there was another woman named Wanda, who, according to your father, was a real angel and you would definitely make friends with her. Of course, you were overcome by skepticism about this. He said this about Jessica and about Emma and about... and you no longer remembered the names of all his ex-women with whom he tried to start an affair after your mother left. Generally speaking, you didn't expect anything. But when their relationship (as your father thought) reached a new level, Wanda showed up at your house. You were a little over 19 at that time and you were studying at college not far from home, God knows why, but you didn’t want to go somewhere else to a life full of uncertainty and doubt. Of course, the factor that living with your father was easier financially and domestically also played a role; you knew that your small salary as a salesperson and an even more meager stipend would not be enough for the same comfortable life as you had now.

As you walked out of your room to the sound of the door opening and two people talking, Wanda greeted you with the most beautiful smile you had ever seen. You just stood there in your pajamas and stupid bunny slippers and stared unblinkingly at the woman with the big green eyes. The thought “what someone like Wanda saw in your father” even flashed through your head, even if it was wrong to think so. From that day on, the woman became a frequent guest in your home, and gradually in your thoughts.

One day, walking past a room that belonged to your father, who was not at home at that moment, you looked into a small gap from the door that was not completely closed and stood in place, as if stuck to the floor. Wanda stood with her back to the door and pulled the straps of a lacy black frameless bra over her shoulders. In the mirror that was a little to the side, you saw the reflection of her full breasts, the barely visible outlines of her nipples and her soft, toned stomach. You knew that you shouldn’t do this, at least for reasons of personal space, and at most for moral reasons, but you couldn’t help yourself, this sight fascinated you so much. Your mouth watered and your breath caught in your throat as you watched the woman who was your stepmom. When Wanda started to turn around to take a red knitted sweater from the bed, you jumped away from the door as if struck by an electric shock and quickly went to the kitchen, turning on the kettle and carefully pretending to choose between several types of coffee. A minute later, the older woman joined you, making her presence known with her hands sliding softly over your waist. Of course, your trembling at this action did not escape her attention.

In the end, Wanda finally settled in your house and with each passing month her presence drove you more and more crazy. It seemed like she deliberately didn’t close the door all the way when she went to change clothes or take a shower, putting on a little show for you. Her touches, which were unusual for you, gave you goosebumps, but due to the lack of warm relationships in the family, you thought that all “parents” do this: they hug you from behind and leave soft kisses at the base of your neck. One small incident became the point of no return for you personally.

You have never been a morning person, if in the morning and during the day all you dreamed of was a sound sleep, invariably with the onset of night a small hyperactive motor would start up inside, but perhaps your insomnia was also to blame. The clock showed 2:34 when your eyes scanned the Tik Tok feed and you giggled at stupid videos with animals, before having managed to take turns drawing, then reading, and so on in a circle. The apartment was quiet, only the sound of the clock ticking away the seconds, disturbing the peace of the heated spring air. You took off your massive headphones and pressed the off button when you heard some strange sounds somewhere behind the wall in the back where your father's room was and... oh. You held your breath and listened more closely, but there was no need because Wanda didn’t seem to be trying very hard to control herself. Every second, the woman’s screams of pleasure were muffled to your ears and an insistent pulsation settled between your thighs. With every sound coming from her mouth, a hot wave appears in the bottom of your stomach and the desire to relieve it was driving you crazy. Then for the first time you did THIS with thoughts about your stepmom.

The hand pulled the pajama pants down your legs along with ruined panties. When you pushed two fingers inside, your pussy was already wet and ready for invasion. You focused your mind on the image of the woman behind the wall and your own moans were drowned in the pillow. You imagined how her hips were rolling now, how her breasts were bouncing, her soft tender skin, in your mind there was only Wanda.

You look in prostration at the boiling kettle when a familiar hand strokes your lower back. "Good morning, my dear." You don't look at her, cheeks turning red from the events of this night. "Good morning." You drink your coffee in silence, you avoid her gaze. The click of a lighter breaks the ringing emptiness between you. A woman lights a cigarette and the smell of tobacco reaches you; a hand with a red manicure hands you a pack. It’s not that you hid your bad habits, but you didn’t allow yourself to do it in front of your father. A sigh leaves your lips and you take one, Wanda strikes the lighter and brings the fire to the tip of the cigarette between your lips. Nicotine hits your head and everyone is dizzy from harmful pleasure. "How did you sleep?" She asks as if she's mocking you. Only now did you notice that she was wearing a light night dress, which did not hide her breasts too much. You try your best not to look there, your gaze runs from her face to her chest several times and she sees it perfectly. “Like dead.”

The party was in full swing, the second bottle of beer was finished and thrown into the trash. It was your friend's friend's house or something like that. You stood in the kitchen and poured yourself some water, hoping that there would be lemon in the refrigerator. Someone’s arms wrapped around your waist from behind and you were scared because the body pressed against your back was clearly taller and larger than you. “Baby, do you want to go upstairs?” You immediately disentangled yourself from the unwanted hug and looked at the guy you saw a couple of times in college, but didn’t even know his name or what year he was in. “Who are you anyway?!” He made another attempt to come closer, but you had already jumped away towards the living room with a crowd of people. “Come on, don’t pretend, that’s how you look at me in college.” You were confused. “What are you talking about? I don't even know who the hell you are." You turned and started to leave, but his strong hand grabbed you, holding you in place. “No, I didn’t finish.” His grip was strong and you had already imagined all the worst possible scenarios, but like a blessing from above, your friend appeared. “Dude, haven’t you mixed up anything? Do you want us to go out now and I’ll put your brains back in place a couple of times?” You were immediately free. The guy raised his hands in surrender. “Okay okay, take it easy man.” He retreated as quickly as he appeared. You were shaking a little from the situation and you immediately took out your phone, finding Wanda’s contact.

“Y/N how are you? I don’t know who called him here, do you want to go outside?” You shook your head in reluctance. “Everything is okay, I’m drunk and I’ll probably go home. Wanda will pick me up." Your father was not in the city; in truth, he began to go on business trips too often, which aroused certain suspicions. Wanda saw this too and began to understand where everything was going. The answer came immediately, as if she had been waiting for this message. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes.” Her text message said.

After saying goodbye to your friends in the driveway, you got into Wanda's red Volvo, where the woman interrogate you about what had happened. “What an asshole.” You were already at home in the kitchen and the woman was swearing under her breath while she made you both hot tea. She changed into her home clothes, back into one of her light night dresses. Your alcohol-fogged brain was screaming to touch her. You watched her body move under the thin silk fabric and legs themselves carried you in the right direction. Wanda was stirring sugar in her tea when your arms grabbed hers and you pressed your body against her back, burying your face in her hair, inhaling the aroma of shampoo. The woman mentally smiled at your gesture of tenderness. "What is a cute girl?" She reached out her hand and slide it in your disheveled hair, slightly pulling back the tufts of hair. The little whine escaped you and you pressed yourself closer to her, as if you were trying to become one with her. “You smell like beer and cigarettes Y/N.” Well, it was a statement of fact, so it’s not offensive. You nuzzled her neck and Wanda turned in your arms. Now was, if not ideal, then a great moment to lay all the cards on the table. “How dare this bastard touch what’s mine.” She whispered it on your lips and your heart sank. “Wanda...you...” The words died between your lips as the older woman pulled you into a kiss. Out of shock, you didn’t immediately answer her, but quickly relaxed and attacked her lips, pressing the woman into the kitchen counter.

“Wanda...I...” You tried to convey your thoughts about your feelings for her between kisses. “Hush, pretty girl...I know everything.” You stopped and looked at her with wide eyes. The older woman laughed and took your face in her hands. “Did you really think that I wouldn’t notice anything? Oh what a sweet little thing." Everything seemed too good a dream, the woman was about to take you to her room, but you stood on the threshold, refusing to go there. “No, come to me.” You clearly didn't like the idea of doing this with Wanda in the bed where she slept with your father. Then you remembered who she is to you and how you both act towards him. “Wait, but my father...You are his wife.” “And it only started to bother you now? Oh don't worry about it baby, he's been cheating on me for a long time and I want to file for divorce. Just don’t tell him.” She winked and closed your bedroom door behind her. She didn't seem upset about it.

Wanda was lying on your big soft bed, surrounded by plush animals, her housedress riding up to her hips and it was too good to be true. It seemed that you would wake up and everything would be over. You didn't care about taking off your dirty street clothes, all that mattered now was the woman underneath you. “Come on baby, make mommy happy, make me cum.” The title that Wanda gave herself completely drove you insane and you tore the silk from her body, leaving only panties decorated with lace. Even though you were on top, Wanda controlled the situation. Her skillful hands and voice guided you on how to do better.

Your knee put pressure between the older woman's thighs, which you held with your hands so tightly that they would leave bruises later. Her skin was as soft as you imagined and Wanda held your hair and guided you to her breasts, encouraging you to play with her nipples. You were ready to suffocate between her breasts, you liked them so much. Your lips wrapped around her nipple and grip on your hair tightened. “That's such a good girl, now give me your hand.” She guided you between your legs where underwear was soaked with arousal. When your finger brushed over her swollen clit, she flexed and grabbed your hair tighter. “You’re so wet, I need to try it, can I?” You whined, desperate to please.

She was completely naked in front of you and your mouth was watering at the sight. “You are even more beautiful than I imagined.” Your lips peppered her stomach with small kisses. “Did you imagine me naked, baby? Mmm I bet you were touching yourself when you thought about it.” She again directed your head, but this time to her pulsating center, and before diving between her folds, you decided to add fuel to the fire. “To be honest, I heard you scream while you were fucking with my father and while listening I touched myself right here on this bed.” You said this and your lips wrapped around her swollen bud, causing Wanda to arch her back. She squeezed around nothing and you put three fingers into her at once, twist them so that each time they hit her sensitive spot. "Yes Yes! That’s my good girl, you make mommy feel so good!” She screamed into the emptiness of the apartment and fidgeted all over your face. You pounded into her at a fast pace and added a fourth finger. After a few minutes, her walls began to tighten around you and she came, squeezing your head with her thighs as if she were going to crush you.

When she relaxed, you rose to her lips and brought you together. “Did I do good mommy?” You whispered in her ear, biting her earlobe. "Yeah baby." You lay under her side playing with her tits, sometimes kissing her shoulder. The woman stroked your cheek and lifted your face, urging you to look into her eyes. "Do you want to be with me?" The question took you by surprise and you remained silent. Wanda took this as a refusal and turned to the other side, covering her naked body with a blanket. "I understand." It came muffled from her. The last thing you wanted to do was upset her, especially since you wanted to be her girlfriend more than anything.

You got up from the bed and the older woman thought that you were leaving, but you walked around the bed and sat down in front of her so that you could see her face. "Yes, I want to be with you. I think I love you Wanda." After these words, she crawled out of her homemade cocoon and extended her hands to you. You crawled into her arms.

"What will happen next?" Your question hung in the air. More than anything, you hated uncertainty. Wanda turned to look at you. “I will divorce with your father and move into my old apartment. We can see each other without hiding it, he’s unlikely to mind.” You nodded but remained silent, encouraging her to continue. “I don’t think he should know about our new type of relationship, of course, but that’s just for him.” You nodded again. It was like something self-explanatory. In your dreams, you had already moved into Wanda’s apartment, but you didn’t tell her.

"So what is next?" A grin settled on her face. “And then baby, I’d like to think about your satisfaction.” She said as she pulled your clothes off.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda fanfic #wanda maximoff imagine #wandanat #wandanat x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff smut #wanda x reader #mommy wanda #wanda marvel

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sprout-fics · 5 months

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Mind the Drop

(Captain Price x F! Reader)

Call of Duty Masterlist

Rating: M Wordcount: 7k Tags: BDSM AU, Dom/Sub, Subdrop, Comfort fic, Non-sexual kink, Non-sexual intimacy, Aftercare, Pet names, Platonic BDSM, Cuddling, Subspace, Sleeping together, Praise kink, Mutual pining, Safe Sane and Consensual Warnings: Subdrop A/N: This is an experimental piece that takes place in a BDSM AU verse, where a certain segment of the population is hormonally disposed to being a submissive or dominant. This is not inherently sexual, as you see in this fic. Dom/Sub negotiation is commonplace, but societal stigmas surrounding these roles persist, such as discouraging subs from entering certain industries, such as the military. For more details on BDSM AU within a CoD context, I highly recommend you read "Surviving You" by WhisperedWords12

“Do you know why you’re here, sergeant?”

Price’s voice is calm, firm. There’s not a reprimand there, no gruff warning or the cold, leveled anger of immense displeasure. No, your captain stares at you with his hands folded under his chin, as you stand at a lazy parade rest before his office desk. His eyes are intent, focused in the way he always is, but there’s a concern there hidden by the attentive glint in his eyes.

You don’t look at him, staring down at the surface of his desk instead, not answering. Your eyes rest on a mug of coffee sitting atop a coaster, the steam gone. It’s long since gone cold. It speaks to his own distraction. With what, you’re not really sure. You can’t find yourself to care.

You haven’t slept in days.

It’s nothing to do with your workload. Nothing in regards to any sickness or fever of any sort. In fact, things have been rather quiet recently as the team awaits new marching orders. You’ve all been taking advantage of the downtime as much as possible, relishing the long lapse of respite for your own enjoyment. You’d even taken the chance to recently meet up with someone.

Being a sub requires a certain level of attentiveness to your self regulation. Doms, such as the ones on your team, can go long periods without needing a scene. Eventually they will need to scratch that itch, have someone soft and sweet kneel at their feet and be good for them. The aspect of control, of caretaking and dominance is a necessary part of their existence. It makes them good soldiers, able to take charge and provide insight into their missions.

Subs are uncommon in the military, and the surrounding societal stigma of their existence often relegates them to desk duty or intelligence work. It’s rare to find one in the field, and even then they don’t last long due to the frequent harassment from their dominant counterparts. It’s the reason you’ve concealed yourself for so long, posturing to stand alongside these men who are your comrades, feigning an aura of authority as you go willingly to your duty.

It doesn’t erase the thing inside you- the urge to kneel for someone safe, to listen to their low, rumbling voice as it rocks you into a floaty, warm surrender that relieves you of all tension and stress.

Too long without a scene, without subspace meant you were prone to an itchy, uncomfortable sort of irritation. It manifests as annoyance, a short temper, but eventually transitions into a depressive spiral with little end. Most of the time you can use one of the endorphin injections provided free by the infirmary to even yourself out. Such medical kits, known as SubStop and DomStop, were common in the field, designed to even out the irregular moods and imbalances left by a sudden twist in hormones. You’d gotten used to the nasty side effects, the inevitable crash that came in the wake of the adrenaline. It was easier than dealing with the team knowing your true designation, that you’ve been concealing yourself from them all this time.

Even so, sometimes you required a little extra handling to be able to regulate, feel comfortable and get out of your own head.

In your recent downtime you found someone just like that. A local dom who was calmer, more level headed than younger men on base who were interested purely in the sexual side of submission. You had talked for some time, had explored each other, and had ultimately agreed to meet up for a single session. You had both enjoyed yourself, had a welcome release of rushing endorphins, and for a moment you wondered if perhaps this would lead to something more. It all came crashing down as he began to dress following your scene.

“I don’t do aftercare.” He said blandly, and left.

You haven’t been the same since.

You’d gotten back to base tired, drained, and had curled into your bunk that night to cry yourself to sleep. In the days that have followed you’ve been exhausted, listless, entirely unfocused. Constantly dazed, you try to ignore the whimpering, festering emptiness inside you, feeling as if the world is too big, and you yourself are so very small. You turn into your bunk early in desperate search of sleep, trying vainly to power through the dark loneliness that permeates your entire being.

Subdrop. You knew as soon as your one night stand left, and promptly ghosted you. You knew by the sudden wash of cold, the tremble in your limbs, and the clenching, terrible regret of something wrong. Like tossed into an ice bath straight from the fire, the shock to your system makes you gasp, clutch at your chest at most random moments, wanting to double over due to the phantom pain there.

You know the solution. You know that pure, blissful aftercare will alleviate the effects of your scene gone wrong, but there’s no one to turn to. You can’t disclose to anyone on the team about this. They understand, they know, and they’d be ready to help you. It wasn’t that they weren’t available, but that disclosing yourself might somehow change your rapport with them. The idea that somehow they’d change their view of you, see you as less than was worse than the spiraling side effects of your freefall drop.

Maybe you can find someone to help off base, but even then you don’t trust your own judgment when your insides constantly feel scrubbed cold and raw. If anything, it might make it worse.

You have no choice but to just bite down and deal, and hope that in the coming days that the drop will naturally work its way out of your system. Nevermind the sleepless nights, the hours scrolling mindlessly in the darkness of your bedroom, the way you stare off into space and don’t hear the voices of others.

The team is concerned about you. You’re not hiding your inability to cope very well. The bags under your eyes deepen with each passing day. You move as if pushing through water. You excuse yourself from the rec room when others enter for fear they’ll pull you aside and ask about your listless, depressive state. It’s all for nothing though, because here you find yourself in Price’s office, glassy eyes avoiding his stare.

“Sergeant?”

You blink as his voice prompts you from your reverie, and force yourself to glance up into his eyes before averting your gaze once more.

“Apologies, Sir.” You force yourself to rasp, and frown, not knowing what you’re even apologizing for.

Price is silent. Observing. You feel pinned beneath his stare, try not to squirm under his scrutiny.

“Sit.” He tells you, nudging a chair beside you with his foot. The command itself plucks inside your chest, the needed authority of his voice making something uncomfortable twist inside you. You slide into the seat, perching uncomfortably on the edge, hands folded in your lap. “Look at me.”

You do, you make the effort to look up into his unwavering stare, trying and failing to hide the fatigue in your eyes.

“You’ve not been yourself lately.” He tells you, voice soft, and you grimace. “You’ve been walking around base like a ghost, barely completing your duties, and you’re clearly ignoring the rest of your team.”

The unsaid “Would you like to explain yourself?” Hangs in the silence that follows as you offer no response. There’s nothing to say, nothing you can say without the repercussions that follow.

“I’ve…just had a rough few days.” You tell him, voice tight. “It’s nothing I can’t manage.”

“You know you can rely on your teammates, love.” He reminds you gently, and you swallow hard at the endearment, feeling your shoulders tense. “Whatever it is, we’ll find a way to help. We all care about you.”

Find a way to help. Of course. With the one thing they can’t help you with.

“You can’t help.” You tell him, composure crumbling. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Price is silent, and if you were to look at him, you’d see the inklings of distress etched into his face. You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, mouth pressed into a bitter frown as you try and hide it from him with little success.

Price rises from his chair, circles the desk to you before hesitantly laying a hand on your shoulder. You shudder a sigh at the contact, feeling yourself relax under the needed contact.

“There’s always something we can do.” He reassures you. “But I can’t help unless you tell me what it is.”

If only he could. If only your unwavering, steadfast captain with his guiding hands and gentle, smoky voice could help you, could alleviate the festering emptiness inside you. If only he could hold you the way you so desperately want, remind you what happened wasn’t your fault, allow himself to comfort you from the hurt clenching deep in your chest.

It all comes crashing down.

It starts as a hiccup, a stifled little sound you try to hide, and then your eyes are warm, wet with tears. They spill down your cheeks as you take an unsteady inhale, trying desperately to rein in your volatile emotions, conceal them from the man you admire so much. Try as you may, it’s without any success, because soon you begin to sob quietly with your head bent, face scrunching in an effort to stop your tears.

“It’s alright.” Price encourages softly, hand squeezing your shoulder. “Let it out.”

You do. It’s not a proper cry, not the true chest squeezing kind of cry that entirely empties you, but it serves a purpose in relieving a bit of the pressure inside you. Price stands beside you throughout, his hand drifting to knead gentle circles into the top of your spine as you shiver.

When you finally manage to get yourself under control, you scrub at your face with your jacket sleeve, heave a final shuddering exhale before summoning your resolve.

“Sorry, Sir.” You try again, voice muted, throat raw. “Truth is I…had a bad experience off base. It just shook me. I’ll get over it.”

You don’t need to go into further detail. It’s common knowledge soldiers hook up off base all the time, and Price knows this.

Yet suddenly his hand is tilting your chin up so you look directly into his grave, serious eyes.

“Did they hurt you?” He demands, voice suddenly deeper, grim with a scarcely concealed anger. You blink at the sudden change, the fierce protectiveness in his eyes that sets something in your stomach aflutter.

“N-no.” You manage, realizing what he’s referring to. “No, nothing like that-” You feel warmth crawl across your face, embarrassment prickling your skin. “It was all consensual.”

“Then…?” He presses, and you bite down on the words, refusing to bare this secret to him.

Price pauses then, shifts every so slightly and narrows his eyes. He’s thinking, considering, and you fear he’s seen straight through you. You don’t expect the words that come next.

“Are you dropping?” Price asks, strangely hesitant.

You freeze.

The silence that follows, heavy and persistent, tells Price all he needs to know.

At last, he sighs, letting go of a breath you didn’t realize he was holding.

“Oh love.” He murmurs, voice sad. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

You hunch over at that, hiding yourself from him, curling in on the physical sensation of disappointment that he’s given you.

Price sees it for what it is instantly, realizing his words have only furthered the festering ache inside you.

“Easy.” He gentles, and his hand is firm as it strokes between your tight shoulder blades. “I’m not angry.”

You sniffle into your shirt. “You…you’re not angry I hid my designation?” You ask in a raw whisper.

“No.” He replies instantly. “Only that we failed to make you feel safe enough to tell us.”

“...’s not your fault.” You murmur quietly.

“And what happened isn’t yours.” He offers, just as gently. His hand continues its long, slow strokes between your shoulders, and you feel yourself easing under it, comforted by the mere touch of another person.

“Do you have anyone to…?” He presses carefully, retaining space between you. Not advancing, not without your permission.

It takes you a moment to snap yourself out of the glow beginning to simmer across your senses to understand. He’s asking if you are seeing someone, if you have a partner to provide assistance with your drop. A bitter frown tugs your lips downwards, remembering the words of the man you met before he vanished.

“He…he said he doesn’t do aftercare.” You confess, voice small.

Price freezes.

You hear him take in a deep breath to steady himself, releasing it just as long in an effort to measure his anger.

“He did not do right by you.” He tells you, and in his voice you hear the ire, the offense on your behalf that clenches his hand atop his knee. Yet he unfurls it, and reaches out gently between you to gingerly rest it on your hand perches in your lap.

“I don’t mean to overstep.” He begins. “However, I can offer some assistance with this. Entirely on your terms. If you need someone to help, I can act as a…stand-in, as it were.”

You blink, face falling open in surprise as you stare down at your lap where his hand is. Reassuring but respectful, not crowding into your space. Asking for permission.

“You mean that?” You ask, finally looking up at him, voice cracking in a whisper that speaks of hope.

Price’s eyes are steady, calm as he regards you, Unflinching, intent, an anchor from the storm of your emotions.

“I do.” He returns easily, voice firm.

You swallow, face pinching as you consider. “And…what about after? Will it…” You trail off, the unspoken thing hovering in the air between you.

Will it change anything?

“No.” He replies quickly. “This is strictly between us. If you want to pretend like it never happened after, that’s what we’ll do.”

You hold his gaze for another minute, finally able to bear the stare of his blue eyes. You look for doubt there, an inkling of hesitation. Yet all you find is resolve and open, offering hands.

“Take some time to consider it.” He tells you in the lapse of silence that follows. “If you decide you’d like some help, you can come to my quarters tonight. If you decide against it, let me know.”

You manage a nod at that, swallowing the thickness in your throat and adjusting your hand under his in a small squeeze of thanks. It seems to be enough for him, because Price offers a smile, one that feels like it eases the tension radiating from your form just a little more. It takes a moment, but you sniffle and return the smile shyly.

“Right.” He announces, and gently withdraws from you to stand, assisting you to your feet as well and gently escorting you to the door of his office. You lean into his touch eagerly, feeling the firm grip of his palm at the small of your back. His voice rumbles with a gentle authority as he guides you forward. “In the meantime I want you to take the rest of the afternoon off, and to visit the infirmary for a check-up. You’re sleep deprived and dehydrated. Let them sort you. Understood?”

“Understood.” You echo dutifully, and once more that hand returns to your shoulder in a familiar grip, offering a small squeeze before he opens the door for you, his voice soft in a parting farewell.

“Take care, love. Let me know what you decide.”

—

In the end, you come to him.

It’s not a hard decision, but it does take some thought. You know his offer was genuine, with no ulterior motives. Almost clinical, doing his duty as your superior, in a way. You don’t deny that it hurts, considering the beginning of your feelings for him, but the doubt there is pressed down by the need for the assistance he offers. You hesitate only because you’re terribly afraid that things will change despite his words.

Would he try and bench you during missions? Have you hang back, underestimate you because of your designation?

You trust him, and that much is clear to you. You know Price won’t take advantage of you while you’re down. He’s a good man. You’ve handed your life to him in the field any number of times, trusting him to keep you safe and whole. This shouldn’t be any different.

…Right?

You swallow thickly as you knock thrice on his door, and almost instantly you hear his voice beckon you inside.

It’s dim, you notice, warm. There’s several blankets folded at the foot of his bed, a small assortment of snacks and water bottles set out on his dresser. Yellow light from his bedside light paints the room in quiet shadows. There’s a distant scent of cigars that lingers in the air, as if he’s done his best to air out the room before your arrival. It’s comforting in a way, a reminder of his scent in the few instances you’ve gotten physically close to him.

Price himself sits on the edge of the bed, limbs relaxed as much as he’ll allow them. He’s staring at you as the door shuts behind you, and if anything the dim shadows seem to make his eyes glint all the more.

“How are you feeling?” Is the first question he asks you, and something aches inside you at the purposefully slow, soft tenor of his voice, still accompanied with a hint of his gruff rasp.

“Shaky.” You tell him honestly, holding your trembling hands before your back.

Price makes a small, considering sound, examining your rigid, tense posture and letting silence hang heavy between you both for a few moments. You squirm under his gaze, eyes averting shyly at the fixation of his gaze on you.

Then he stands, takes two steps towards you. He stands just outside your personal space, tilts his head down to examine you with an unwavering, focused gaze. You have to restrain yourself from pushing forward, wanting desperately to fold into his arms, to let him hold you. It pulses inside your chest, tethered to the uncomfortably, empty ache sitting below your ribs.

“Will you let me help you?” He asks, voice a soft lull to your ears. It takes effort to not let your eyes flutter. You can already feel it creeping on you, that floaty, comfortable haze that offers to drown your senses in pillowy softness. You give him a small nod, only for a finger to tip your chin up towards him. It startles a breathy little sound from you, and you bite down on it a moment too late, teeth grazing your bottom lip.

“Need to use your words, love.” He rumbles, and damn if your knees don’t wobble at that alone, the deep tenor of his voice, the gentle but authoritative force of his words. You can see the shadows of his eyes as he falls easily into his role, a gentle, insistent domination that you can’t help but follow like a moth to a flame.

“Yes.” You manage, heat rising to your face. “Yes.”

He smiles then, and this time you have to use your strength to stay upright, already wanting to go down to the floor in front of him, feel the wood beneath your knees.

“We’re going to take this slow.” He tells you, his thumb brushing over your chin with a purposeful graze. “Need to work you through it, put you down and then bring you back up again. Can you do that for me? …Words, darling.” He adds when you once again nod silently.

“Yes, sir.” You offer, trusting, sincere.

There’s a dark look in Price’s eyes then, a hunger so swift and sharp it steals your breath in the single moment before it’s gone once more.

“Good girl. Can you tell me your safe word?”

You blink at him a little dopily, distracted by his thumb circling slow circles on your chin. You wonder what it would feel like pressed on your tongue.

“Just colors, please.” You tell him breathily.

Price nods at that, satisfied.

“Kneeling? Physical touch? Praise? Commands?” He goes on, and you nod eagerly at all of them before remembering to tac on your vocal approval. It seems to amuse him, your distraction, because you hear a chuckle rumble deep in his chest.

“Very good, darling. Going to keep this nice and slow, get you all sorted. Can you be good for me?”

That does it, and you shudder a little into his touch, tilting your head so your cheek brushes against his knuckles with a whispered little “Yes, sir.”

Maybe it’s the drop, maybe it’s him, but you already feel like you’re gently descending into total relaxation, a surrender and trust to be taken care of.

“That’s it.” He coos, wrapping one strong arm around your waist and gently guiding you back with him until his knees hit the bed. He sits, keeps you standing, one hand still tucked around your waist, just observing you. After a moment he reaches for a pillow, drops it to the floor just at your feet.

“Go ahead and kneel for me, sweet thing.”

You try to gracefully lower yourself down, but with your wobbly legs you fall more than you descend. A careful glance up at him proves Price is trying to hide his mild amusement, his hand snaking from your waist up to your shoulder as you sink to your knees. It takes a few moments to settle, and once you do Price’s hand once catches your chin, tilting you to his gaze.

Oh. This…this is nice. You think, eyelashes fluttering. Here, kneeling comfortably, safe in his room, the quiet lull of base a distant murmur in the backdrop. It’s cozy, serene, and you can feel the low, cloudy sensation of subspace slowly wash over your senses.

“Look at you.” He purrs, tapping your chin once to indicate you remain tilted up to look at him. “So far down for me already. Doing so well.”

The part of you that’s yet to let go, that clings on to that remnant, persistent tension of you swallows down the whine that threatens your throat. He seems to notice, tilting his head a little and blinking slowly, considering.

“What do you need, love?” He asks, and you shake your head mildly, trying to find your answer amidst the confusion of your clouded senses.

“Don’t know.” You tell him honestly, and begin to fidget. “I…”

“Shh, that’s alright.” he soothes easily, knuckles grazing your cheek. “Need you to listen to me, angel. Can you do that?”

You nod quickly, eager, willing to entrust yourself to him, to listen to whatever commands he has to offer.

“Good girl.” He returns, pausing to watch the shiver that traces across your limbs. “Go ahead and wrap your arms around my legs…just like that. Put your head right there on my knees. There you go.”

He maneuvers you slowly, gently, shaping you to his command as your arms settle locked behind his calves, chin pressed in the dip between his closed knees. He’s warm, and like this you can drink in the scent of him- smoky, musky, a hint of cologne he’s used to try and smother the smell of cigars.

In the dim, warm light you can see his eyes- dark, focused, unblinking as they gaze down at you settled comfortably at his feet. There’s a hitch in his breathing- a shallow indication of his reaction to the sight of you, with your hazy eyes and parted lips, well on your way down into subspace.

“Give me a color, darling.”

“Green.” You breathe almost instantaneously.

“Very good. How are you feeling?”

Your brow pinches at that, feeling the remnant tug of tension still pull as a dull ache in your ribs.

“...Better?” You offer after an uncertain pause. Price looks a little dismayed at that, with his furrowed brow and down turned lips that tug the corners of his beard. It sends a little bit of alarm pulsing through you, afraid of his disappointment, perhaps a reprimand, and he feels it instantly in the way you stiffen against him.

“Easy, relax.” He gentles, a hand reaching to cup your nape. “Just checking in, love. There’s nothing wrong. You’re safe.”

You ease at that, eyelashes fluttering, sinking back into him once more.

“Good girl.” He purrs, thumb stroking in lazy circles across your nape.

“Thank you, sir.” You reply, voice slurring a little as you sink down.

If his fingers pause on your nape, you don’t notice, too distracted by the warmth and smell of him in your comfortable position.

It’s nice. You can feel yourself unwinding bit by bit, head propped in between his knees as you look up at him in the dim, warm light. There’s the beginnings of a relaxed sort of glaze to his eyes as he stares down at you wordlessly, taking in the soft, sweet sight of your open face. He’s falling into domspace, you can tell, allowing himself to relax into the role of taking care of you.

“We’re going to try some breathing exercises, sweetheart.” He announces after the long silence. “Deep breathe-” He sucks in a long, heavy inhale, and you mirror him, holding as long as he does, before releasing. “And out. Very good. Doing so well for me. Again.”

You mirror him as he breathes, feeling the tension slowly relax from your shoulders. With each inhale you drop your chin further into the cradle of his knees, feeling a warm haze descend over you. Each exhale releases a little more of the stiffness in your limbs, like loosening a knot tied in your chest.

You don’t even notice it when your cheek lolls against one of his knees, eyes half lidded as you gaze up at him. Nor do you notice the purposefully slow, even breaths he forces himself to take at your loose, pliant form crowded so close to him.

“There we go, angel. All the way down. So sweet and soft for me. Tap twice on my leg if you can still hear me.”

A small tap twice to the inside of his knee, and when Price smiles you feel gooey warmth bleed down into your bones.

“Very good.” He coos, knuckles grazing over the cheek not pressed to his knee in a featherlight touch. “Going to let you float for a bit. You can go down as deep as you need. I’ll be right here. Tap on my knee when you’re ready to come up.”

You cast a lingering gaze at him, eyes vaguely worried, but his voice hushes you easily.

“You’re safe. I’m right here, not going to leave. I’ve got you.”

You blink at him, slow, trusting, before you finally allow your head to drape across his knee, arms relaxing but maintaining their hold on his legs. A deep, fulfilling sigh breezes past your lips, and you feel yourself go sweetly down into a blissful haze of warm, dewy softness. Your breaths slow to deep, even inhales and exhales, and you feel your heartbeat pulse low in your ribs, where the ache and emptiness of your drop slowly begins to alleviate.

“There we go.” Price murmurs above you, a hand petting gently at your hair in a tender touch. “Went down nice and easy for me, didn’t you, sweet girl?”

You make a little hum against his leg, too comfortable and floaty to do much more than that. It seems to amuse him, somehow, and when he chuckles the sound warms you right through.

God this is nice. Just sitting here at his feet, pressed up close to his legs, snuggled in as close as you can get. With your cheek pressed against his knee you can drink in the heavy, comforting scent of him, let it cloud your thoughts and drift you further into blissful tranquility.

You don’t need to speak, to think or make decisions. Duties, secrets, resilience, you don’t need any of it. All you need is to just be here, pressed against Price, pliant and sweet as he rumbles soothingly down at you.

“Doing well, love. Take as much time as you need. You’re safe.”

Yes. You’re safe. You’ve always been safe with him. There’s nobody in the world you trust more than Price. He’s saved your life many times over, has dragged you to safety, has slung your arm across his shoulder as he helped carry you, has offered careful, firm murmurs as he’s wrapped bandages across your wounds. He’s always taken care of you, in his own way. Each debrief comes with a hand across your shoulder, a long, sideways glance that says more than he can.

You’ve never let yourself get close to him, too afraid of him finding out what you are, too afraid of his prejudice and judgment.

Now that you’re here, curled up at his feet and drifting serenely, you wonder why you ever worried at all.

You stay like that for a long while, simply breathing, thoughts empty as you hug his legs, absorbing his warmth. The room is quiet, and in the soft after hours of base the only sounds you can hear is the slow, steady thump of your heart and Price’s low, measured breathing.

You wish you could stay here forever, just being sweet and good for him, but eventually your knees begin to cramp up and you shift uncomfortably with a little whine.

“Eyes up, love.” Price tells you, words belaying a hint of firm command, and instantly you prop your chin to look up at him with soft, dewey eyes.

You’re too lost to notice the way his eyes glint, the unblinking fixation of him as he simply takes in the sight of you- lost in the dopey haze of subspace, lips parted as you stare at him with a glassy, lidded gaze.

“Look at you.” He breathes with a soft sigh, raising a hand to cup your face. You lean into it with a blissful little sigh. “Gorgeous thing.”

You squirm a little at that, skin warming with the praise. As you move to hide your face in his knees, Price keeps a hold of your chin, forcing you to stare up at him.

“Mm, eyes on me. Just like that. Good.”

You wonder, amidst the cottony softness of your thoughts, what the purpose of this is, with him taking his time to just drink you in like he’ll drown without the sight. You can see his eyes tinted with the same wayward longing he offers you when you catch his gaze after missions- when he aches for you, longs to make sure you’re safe.

The ache in your knees returns, and a little whine bubbles up your throat, brow pinching with discomfort.

“Feeling sore?” Price inquiries gently, and you nod into his hand. “Alright angel, sit up for me. Slowly…good. Good girl.”

You raise up a little on your knees, and soon Price leans over you, securing his hands on you to drag you further up and onto the bed. You allow him to arrange your heavy, sluggish limbs so you’re braced with your back against the headboard, nestled in his pillows. You go willingly, easing into his touch, content at letting him maneuver you as he pleases.

When he moves away from you, however, you startle a little at the sudden absence of his touch.

Price notices instantly, and once more you feel his hand stroke across your face, thumb descending to press against the plush bed of your bottom lip.

“Just getting some snacks and water, love. Count to ten for me, I’ll be right back.”

That eases you some, and you nod, slowly counting. You get to eight before Price returns, dropping a bottle and a snack bar on his bedside table.

“Scoot forward for me.” He instructs, and you obey as best you can, allowing him to shuffle you a little forward further down the bed. It takes some maneuvering, but soon you find Price sitting up behind you, dragging you back so you sit inside the nest of his legs, back pressed to his front.

If you thought kneeling at his feet was nice, this must be heaven.

He’s so big and warm, and when an arm wraps around your front to keep you from falling too far down the bed, you distantly wonder if you ever want to come up at all.

Price adjusts, and you hear the sound of a wrapper being put aside before the snack bar appears in your line of vision.

“Just a few bites.” He tells you, but makes no motion indicating for you to take the bar from his hands.

You lean forward obediently, taking small bites from his hand as he provides them to you, quiet and appreciative, until the entire thing is gone.

“Very, very good.” He murmurs, chin braced atop your head, huffing a pleased little sound when you squirm a little in his lap at the praise. “Like being told you’re good, don’t you, angel?”

You want to hide your face in his chest, but unable to do so your instead let your head drop forward a little, avoiding his eyes.

“Shy thing, aren’t you?” He rumbles, pleased, and it only makes a rush of warmth trace across your skin at the deep, purring tenor of his voice in your ear.

You get the feeling he wants to tease you a little more, but opts instead to wrap a hand under your jaw in a careful grip, lifting you up so he can graze the water bottle across your lips.

“Just a few sips.” He encourages. “Then we can lay down and take a little snooze. How’s that sound?”

You nod eagerly at that, and readily drink down the water when he offers it to you. You’re about halfway down when you finally tilt your head away, and Price wordlessly deposits the bottle on the table.

“Tell me a color, love.”

You have to think about it, past the hazy softness of you, brow pinching as your brain turns over the question.

“Green.” You reply with a little sigh, one that Price mirrors behind you.

“Good girl. You ready to come up yet?”

You shake your head at that, frowning. Honestly, a part of you knows you have to come up at some point, but if you had it your way you’d stay like this forever, caught in his arms, warm and fed and cared for as his chest rises deep with every inhale.

Price chuckles at your pouting little expression. When he bends forward to reach for a blanket at the bottom of the bed, he’s forced to curl over you, pressing you down with his weight. It’s startling how quickly you have to stifle a moan at the sensation, with his larger frame bracketing you in, engulfing you with the firm line of his body against yours.

He pulls back all too soon, drapes a blanket across your lap and up to your shoulders. It’s soft, a little worn, but it smells like him, and that’s all you need. You snuggle happily into it with a little hum, leaning back against him a little more until you’re completely situated.

“There we go, angel. How’s that feel?”

“ ‘S nice.” You slur, tucking your head a little further down to nestle into the blanket. “Comfy.”

Price hums a pleased little sound, one hand still wrapped around your front, and now the other resting easily on your thigh, pressing in soft, lazy circles. It’s instantly soothing, and once more you can feel yourself drifting a little further down into that wordless, worriless meditation.

“Close your eyes for me, love.” Price murmurs gently. “Slow, deep breaths.”

You comply readily, and as you feel his chest rise slow and deep behind you you force yourself to match it, dragging in a warm inhale that’s heavy with his scent. You follow him as he exhales, and then repeats once more.

“Just like that.” He murmurs as you grow completely limp in his arms. “All the way down. Perfect.”

You’re too far under to even acknowledge him, senses heavy and sated as he curls himself a little further around you, hand stroking lazy patterns along your thigh.

“Rest now, darling. I’ll be here when you come up.”

Regardless of the command, you find yourself drifting easily into stillness, a languid little sigh releasing all the tension in your body before sleep descends dusky and tender over your senses.

—

It’s still dark when you finally wake up, sluggish and heavy. The room is still warm and dim, quiet with the low, steady thump of your heartbeat. It’s the first thing you notice aside from the contented weight of your limbs.

The second is the pair of arms wrapped around you, tucking you close into Price’s front as you both lay on your sides.

“Awake?” He rumbles, and with the soft hoarse of his voice you can tell he’s been dozing as well, not fully asleep, still present for you to wake up and he told you he’d be.

“Mhm.” You mumble, ignoring the self conscious little flutter at being caught in his arms like this.

“Feeling better?” Price asks, and makes no move to shift away or dislodge you from his hold.

“Much.” Your eyes are level with his collarbone that peeks beneath his shirt, and there you see an old, silvery scar that snakes up towards his jugular. You wonder about the story there, about how this man has seen so much violence and yet somehow can still be so gentle.

“Thank you.” You whisper, feeling that warm haze now gently ease, and in its place a comfortable awareness free from the empty, clenching side effects of drop. “For all of this.”

Price is silent for a moment, and you wonder if perhaps you said the wrong thing. His voice is low, deep as he speaks.

“He shouldn’t have treated you like that” He rumbles, and there’s a hint of darkness there, one that melds with his hold on you tightening just a fraction, as if he’s too possessive to let you go. “If I-”

He stops himself then, words biting into nothingness. You hold your breath, waiting for more, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the silence envelops you both, soft and warm, a touch bitter with unspoken words.

“I understand why you didn’t tell us, love.” He speaks at last. “And I trust you’ll understand when I say we will never judge you for anything but yourself.”

Emotion, hot and thick, rises up through your belly. It scrunches your face, warms your eyes as you sniffle against him.

This is what you wanted. The entire time, all of this hiding and secrecy and anxiousness. You wanted to be accepted, to be held, to be cherished, by him.

“I wish it was you.” You whisper, scarcely audible. “The entire time, I wished it was you.”

Price stiffens at that, and you’re certain he’s going to pull away, to declare this scene is over and gently escort you out. You wonder vaguely if you’ll hurtle straight back into drop with his rejection.

“If I had known-” He murmurs in an echo of his previous words. “I would have offered myself much sooner.”

You look up at that, tilting your head so your eyes no longer look at his chest, but into his eyes. Soft, sincere, achingly tender in a way that plucks the defenseless heart strings inside you.

“You mean that.” You state then, voice scarcely containing your hope.

Price makes a little rumbling hum down at you, his hand flexing at the small of your back.

“Only if you’ll have me, angel.”

Angel.

Now, here, out of subspace, away from the cottony softness of him guiding you down. Instead he calls you this beloved endearment because it’s you, because he wants you.

It’s all you’ve ever wanted- to be here, to be in his arms, to entrust yourself to him so wholly and completely that he becomes the only thing for you with his gentle guiding hands and stern, smoke laden words.

“I’m your captain.” He tells you, one hand grazing your cheek in a beloved touch. “But if you ever need more, all you need to do is ask.”

The words inside you seem to buzz soundlessly in the cavern of your thoughts. There’s so many things you want to say, to confess, to ask of him. Yet here, in this moment, the only thing you can offer him is the thing you’ve said from the beginning.

“Please.”

And- oh. Oh, his smile, the way it tugs at his beard and makes the smile lines crinkle at the corner of his eyes, pleased and soft even as his eyes glint in the darkness. A quiet, profound gratitude of which he speaks little, and yet feels so deeply.

“Can I stay?” You ask, voice small but hopeful, and Price’s eyes twinkle with an amusement that swoops low in your stomach.

“Who said you were leaving?”

You smile at that, and if anything it makes the corners of his lips tug tighter, a low, pleased rumble vibrating through his chest pressed close to yours.

“Rest, darling.” He encourages once more. “There will be time in the morning.”

There will be. There will be time come morning, and there will be time after. There will be time for the touches that follow, and the words that precede them. There will be time for his familiar control to settle comfortably over you, for you to slowly but fully surrender to him. There will be time for you to become his entirely, and for you to go willing into his guiding hands.

Yet here, in his arms, safe and whole, you silently wish that dawn will never come.

I already posted this over on AO3 but figured I would post this on here as well. Enjoy!

#price x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #john price x you #to add to masterlist

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justauthoring · 4 months

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the trees told me about you.

the trees whisper to you and gojo thinks that makes you special.

a/n: i just started watching frieren and i NEEDED something fantasy okay???? also, i love him <3

pairing: prince!gojo satoru x f!elf!reader

The trees whisper to you.

Whisper words that ghost past your ears and leave your eyes sparkling with warmth, staring at the twinkling green leafs that bristle in the wind.

No one else can hear them, except for you.

Some think you're mad, others just don’t like you cause you’re different – either way, you’ve long ago learned not to care.

Because the trees speak to you, tell you secrets of the world and bring you the love you’ve never felt elsewhere. They don’t judge you because you look different, and they make you feel included – loved.

So even though you’re glared at and cruel words are whispered behind your back;

She’s not right. Spending her days talking to trees…

They say her parents abandoned her when she was young… you don’t have to wonder why.

What a lonely life… but no one wants to talk to a girl who thinks trees speak.

You’ve learned that there’s no point worrying and no point in trying to change their minds.

A life of solitude is one you’ve accepted for yourself. And besides, you don’t feel all that alone in the first, shrouded by trees, protected from the small, the feeling of the dirt and grass and earth beneath your fingers as you smile and laugh and talk.

Yeah, you don’t feel alone at all.

At least, until you meet him.

“You know they all think you’re insane, right?”

A moment ago, you’d been positive you’d been alone. You hadn’t heard him walk up, the crunch of his footsteps along the forest floor or even the rustling of his clothing; so when you hear his voice, so much louder, harsher, sharper than the voices that whisper in your ears, it makes you jump.

You’re startled, incredibly so. You lose your footing beneath you, your bum hitting the ground harshly as you turn your head to face the voice, worrying just who it was that had snuck up on you.

It’s a boy. Roughly your age, or at least you assume so. He’s tall. Even though you’re on the ground, you know he’d tower over you. He’s got bright white hair that shifts to a purple hue when the sun hits him just right. And his eyes are a striking blue that rivals even the sky and unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

You’d lived in your small village all your life and you’re positive you’ve never seen this boy before.

“Who… who are you?” Your words come out shakier than you want but then again, you’re not all that accustomed to speaking to others. Most of your time is spent listening… and even you know there’s a difference between listening to trees and real people. You’ve never had someone speak so directly to you before – most of the time, they opt for whispering behind your back even though both you and them are aware you can hear them.

Still, you force yourself to speak; “what are you doing here?”

He’s grinning. Ear to ear. And it’s wide and it’s bright and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that seems some sort of mischievous, yet, the smile feels real and genuine and almost… kind(?).

Then, he’s crouching, moving so he’s more level to you and his head tilts to the right. “Gojo Satoru,” he introduces, saying his name with pride. “And I am going for a light stroll in the woods.”

Gojo Satoru…

Gojo…

That’s… that’s last the name of the king—

Your eyes widen, instantly shifting to meet his gaze while he continues to just smile at you, bright and happy, hands clasped in front of him without a care in the world. You take in his clothes properly then, the detailing and the quality of the fabric, hemmed with laces – clothes you’ve never even had half enough coin to buy.

Clothes you’d never be able to buy.

You’d heard the King had a son but you’d never seen him or any drawings of him either.

A boy that looks like this though? Looks like he could be the King’s son.

“I ventured through the village beforehand,” he gestures over his shoulder. “You are not well-liked.”

You blink out of your daze, frowning at his words.

Shifting, you move so you’re sitting straighter, straightening out your blouse as you glare at him. “That’s rather rude.”

He shrugs, still grinning. “You didn’t deny it though.”

And you frown because you know he’s right.

“Okay, so, what’s the King’s son doing taking a stroll in the woods well outside of the castle grounds?”

He pauses, raising a brow; “so you did recognize me…” He hums lightly, pointing at you.

You nod; “yes, I did.”

You’re well aware that your lack of respect for the King’s son could get you arrested, or worse. But, you don't care all that much. You figure that Gojo would’ve done something by now if he was really bothered by it, and… well, he’s the one who snuck up on you in the first place.

Laughing lightly, Gojo shrugs; “couldn’t stand being there anymore.”

You raise a brow; “the castle?”

He nods. “It’s so… stuffy! Gods, no one knows how to have any fun in there! And I'm constantly getting reprimanded for trying to liven the place up a little.” His words are dramatic, doubled by his actions as he wildly waves his hands around, rolling his eyes as he sulks. “You’d think royalty, with all the money we have, would know how to make things at least a little exciting… but no! They’re dreadfully boring.”

He finishes his rambling with a loud huff, and a second passes before you burst out in laughter.

Gojo blinks at you, once, twice, stunned before he’s grinning once more.

“That’s funny?” He asks, watching you amusedly.

Clutching at your stomach, you shake your head; “sorry,” you gasp. “I just never expected the King’s son to be so… un-princely?”

Chuckling, Gojo’s eyes trail your figure as you continue to laugh; “no?”

“No,” you snort, calming yourself down. Then, a second later, you glance at him; “so you ran away?”

“For now,” he agrees. “And you?”

You blink; “what about me?”

“What are you doing here?”

Your smile fades. “Well… you heard.”

“So, you really do talk to trees?”

You pause, bewildered. “You believe me?”

“Why would you lie?”

And it’s the first time you’ve heard someone say that to you… because, yes, why would you lie? Why would you make all this up?

And yet he’s the first one who believes you.

“I’ve never seen someone like you before you, you know,” he shuffles closer and your breath halts, eyeing him as he leans in. “I thought you all died out.”

Subconsciously, your fingers move to touch the tip of your pointy ears that’s hidden by your hair. “We did,” you whisper, “it’s just me.”

Resting his head on his crossed arms, Gojo fidgets in the spot. “That’s unfortunate.”

You hum, not sure how else to respond. It was unfortunate and sad, but no one else had ever seemed to think so. At least not anyone in your village. Scorned and judged because of your smaller stature and your pointy ears… you were a freak amongst humans in your village and they constantly liked to remind you of the fact.

“You think the trees talk to you because you’re different?”

Wide eyed, you turn to Gojo. “What?”

“I don’t hear them,” he frowns, and he strains his ear, cupping it for emphasis as if that’ll help. “And I’m royalty. They should talk to me… but they don’t. I bet it’s because you’re an elf. Makes you extra special then.”

Lips parting, you glance around, taking in the trees, hearing the whispers that have softened, before turning back to his blue eyes. “More special than the prince?”

He smirks; “I guess,” he obliges, chuckling. “Just this once.”

You smile. A real, genuine smile.

“You shouldn’t hide them, either.”

“Hm?”

“Your ears,” he explains, reaching forward. You barely have time to react before he’s brushing back your hair, the tips of his fingers brushing against the skin of your ears as he tucks the hair behind, revealing your insecurity to his eyes. He doesn’t look away, and panicked, you watch him, overwhelmed by how close he suddenly is, breath stuck in the back of your throat.

But he doesn’t look disgusted or freaked out.

He looks… amazed.

“You shouldn’t hide them,” his gaze shifts back to yours, grinning again but this time it’s softer, more demure. “They’re what make you you.”

“They make me look strange. Different,” you mumble to yourself, lowering your gaze as you attempt to pull your hair back out from behind your ear.

Gojo grabs your wrist, small in his own grasp, halting your movements.

You turn to him with parted lips.

“No,” he whispers and it’s the softest he’s sounded, but yet, it’s still so confident. Like he doesn’t doubt a single word he says. “No, they make you special.”

You stare back at him, stunned. But you don’t pull away and you don’t move. You like it, having him this close. This boy who you've just met. This boy who is the King’s son. The prince. Next in line for the throne.

This boy who’s made you feel more normal than you ever have your entire life.

But then he’s pulling away, despite the disappointment that burns through you, standing up straight as you crane your head up to look at him. He’s grinning, ear to ear again, as he takes small steps back.

“I should go,” he explains, laughing. “My father is probably throwing a fit. But, come back tomorrow okay?”

You raise a brow, tilting your head in wonder.

He just laughs.

“I plan to run away again.”

Is all he says and then he’s turning, offering you a short wave before disappearing through the thick of the trees, leaving you to yourself and the whispers.

You stare at the place he left, undeniably grinning from ear to ear yourself now.

“Yes,” you nod to the whispers. “I think I like him too.”

#jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #fantasy au

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obsessivevoidkitten · 9 months

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Have His Cake And Eat It Too

Male Serial Killer Yandere x Gender Neutral Immortal Reader (CW: Noncon, blood, violence, murder, death, cannibalism and reader forced into cannibalism, kidnapping, general yandere behavior, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, cursed immortal reader) Word Count: 500 (This is really bloody and dark compared to what I normally write, but it is also a drabble and does not contain the usual level of detail my other fics do, if you have played boyfriend to death and its sequel you may recognize some similarities between those characters and my Serial Killer Yandere, he is a bit of a mix between Strade, Ren, and Lawrence, though I still feel he is unique.)

Imagine there is a serial killer loose in your area. He finds people that meet his criteria, the specific personality and aesthetic that he desires in a partner, and he falls head over heels in love with them. He kidnaps them, doting on them, feeding them, clothing them, bathing them. But his love for them grows and grows. Serial Killer Yandere rapes them, forcing himself inside so he can feel them surround his cock. Serial Killer Yandere starts to cut them more and more, enjoying the sight of beautiful red blood on their otherwise flawless skin. But Serial Killer Yandere needs them to be a part of them. Serial Killer Yandere needs to be closer to them. Serial Killer Yandere really can’t help it, his love is just so strong. Serial Killer Yandere cuts them open and grips their heart, feeling it beat in his hand as they slowly bleed out. He consumes it, he held their very life in his hands and made it a part of him. But now he is alone again and needs a new darling. Serial Killer Yandere meets you for a date. You are exactly what he wants, even better than the ones that came before you. He kidnaps you like all the others after drugging your drink. You wake up with a chain on your ankle, dressed in delicate clothing. He dotes on you. He bathes you. He feeds you. He soothes you. He fucks you so hard just to see those beautiful tears stream down your face, the prettiest tears he has ever seen. Serial Killer Yandere loves you more and more, very quickly. Serial Killer Yandere can’t help himself, he knows he will miss you but he must be closer. His hand is in your chest, gripping your heart. Your blood leaves you as everything fades. You die. While you are dying he has never felt more in love, but once you are gone the familiar emptiness is quick to fill him. But you are not like the others. You don’t stay dead. In the morning when he comes to take care of your corpse and appreciate your beauty one last time before burying you with all the rest of his loves he sees that you are fine. You aren’t human. Not anymore. You were cursed to never be allowed to die hundreds of years ago. Serial Killer Yandere is shocked. He thinks he is losing it. Serial Killer Yandere kills you over and over, taking your heart for himself each time. You’re always back the next morning. Serial Killer Yandere becomes thrilled. Serial Killer Yandere force feeds you your own heart and shares it with you sometimes the day after he has killed you again. The curse transfers to him, and he discovers after dying due to an accident one day that he is unable to die. Now Serial Killer Yandere can have his cake and eat it too~ Forever <3

#yandere x reader #violent yandere #yandere boyfriend #gender neutral reader #male yandere x reader #My OCs #My OC Serial Killer Yandere #yandere imagine #yandere imagines #yandere drabble

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crappycamille · 9 months

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a/n: gasp, i actually wrote something. be easy on me okay, i haven’t done this in a while. just some fluffy conjecture tbh, although there is one suggestive line but that’s why all my stuff is 18+, minors dni please… enjoy <3

Bakugou Katsuki had never experienced touch.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He had been touched before: punched and hit by those desperately trying to escape his pursuit, clung to by those fearing for their life, gentle yet encouraging pats on the back from friends, loving but annoying pinches of the ear from his mother. He’s even been pawed at and caressed by lust-filled women that satisfy temporary needs. And even more dangerously, he’s been fondled by the promise of love disguised as lust… But never had Bakugou been touched.

At least until you.

The first time you touched Bakugou is a memory he will never forget. He was bone tired having worked an incredibly grueling month-long mission.

Instead of going home to catch up on much-needed sleep, he immediately went to his office to get the paperwork done. Most people don’t know that a lot of things on the legal side can’t go through until his side of the paperwork is done. Bakugou constantly feels like he’s never fast enough. No matter how fast he can get to the victims. No matter how fast he catches the villain. No matter how fast he gets things done he wasn’t fast enough to prevent the victims from becoming victims in the first place. So, in his mind, the least he could do is get his paperwork done as fast as possible so that those involved can get their justice.

But, of course, the moment the mission is done—before he’s even had a chance to change out of his hero suit—he’s met with nothing but a mountain of news articles and tabloid headlines ridiculing his name. They find joy in villainizing him over the smallest of details.

Most of the time, Bakugou ignores those things. It doesn’t matter to him what others think. They can nitpick whatever they want because despite that he won. He saved the people who needed to be saved. To him, that was all that really mattered… usually.

It must have been his level of exhaustion, but he couldn’t help the way his brows furrowed in disappointment reading the headlines. The words for the public sitting heavier on his chest than normal. His emotions got to him more than normal as he walked down the hallway from his official, finally heading home.

It was late.

Far too late for anyone else to still be there. Yet, he swore he could hear the soft pitter-patter of heels clicking against the floor. As he turned the corner he was met with the sight of you packing up. You hadn’t noticed him yet, so he watched with confusion as scurried around filing documents, turning off computers, and locking doors.

“The hell? Why’re you still here?” He internally cringed as his voice boomed more than he meant it to since you nearly jumped out of your skin upon hearing him.

“Oh Dynamight, Sir! I apologize I meant to be out of here before you noticed I was here.” Exhaustion seeped through your voice, giving you more rasp than normal.

“That’s not what I asked you. The hell’re you still here for?”

“Well…” you scratched your head feeling a bit shy, debating on whether or not to tell him the real reason why you were there. “I stayed to make sure all of the paperwork you submitted just now went through. As head of your legal team, it’s my job to make sure things on the agency’s side are squared away. I understand you like to get things done immediately after a mission, Sir.”

Bakugou was speechless. So many questions riddle through his head he wanted to ask. Had you done this after every mission and he never noticed you? yes When had you noticed that he came in after missions to do paperwork? Why did you care? Instead, he watched wordlessly as you gathered your things.

“You don’t need to do that.” He finally spoke. His tone was unusually soft, nearing sweet if you squinted hard enough. You breathily chuckled. You had been working for Bakugou long enough to know that was his way of saying thank you.

“It’s really no problem, Sir. No reason you have to be the only person in the office so late, especially after working such long missions.” You softly smiled at him. With you being so close, he could see the exhaustion prominent in your own face.

The two of you worked your way out of the building together in silence. Bakugou felt that he had so many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to ask, but they all muddled to the back of his mind.

It was only when you guys reached the front lobby exit that he became aware of the incessant buzzing of his phone. Countless mentions, tags, reposts, and message requests were flooding in from every social media app. He could’ve sworn he turned his notifications off a long time ago, but there they were. Those same articles that called him a corrupt hero, a heinous/reckless man, and nitpicked things down to the way he breathed were being sent to him over and over again. A constant reminder that so many people disapprove of him.

He hadn’t noticed how tightly he had been gripping his phone. How clenched his bicep was until he felt a gentle squeeze on his arm. Your hand was small in comparison to his but its presence was overwhelming.

Your thumb subtly rubbed soothing circles on his clenched bicep. “If it’s worth anything, I think you’re incredibly kindhearted. The world is lucky to have a hero like you protecting it. Goodnight, Sir. Get some rest.”

Bakugou thought he was going to melt the second you pulled your hand away. Your words rang loud in his ears, but his skin buzzed even louder at the lingering effects of your touch. He had to stop himself from sobbing in the lobby that night.

There was something oh so special about your touch.

From the first time you ever touched him to the way, you touch him now as his wife. He swears he has to stop himself from sobbing every time. It’s the overwhelming love that pours out of you every time your skin connects with his.

He was so incredibly touch-starved before you came along. Starved from the kind of touch that doesn’t come from platonic relationships. Starved from the touch of someone that didn’t expect to gain something from him in return. Starved from the intimate touch of true love.

He revels in every little touch you grace him with. The way you hold his hand under the dinner table. The way you pinch him lovingly, reminding him of his mother, when he says something out of pocket.The way you squeeze his thigh and rub soothing circles on him when tensions get high in a meeting. The way you nestle your face in his back as he cooks. The way you lightly slap his shoulder as you laugh hysterically. The way you drag your hands along his sides as he lays on you. The way you claw at him desperate to somehow bring him impossibly closer as he thrusts into you.

In all honesty, he still has a hard time fathoming that you are his. That you are in love with him. That you choose to be with him every day. He feels undeserving, but you always definitively object. He believes that you are so much more than anything he could ever be, but that’s exactly how you feel about him.

Your touch is just one of the things he obsesses over you. Because he is just so incredibly in love with you.

#would you believe that my love language actually isn’t physical touch BHAHA #bakugou thoughts #bakugou x reader #bakugou drabble #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugou fluff #bakugou comfort #my beloved

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sxcret-garden · 3 months

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Mingi ღ NSFW Alphabet [M]

ღ Ateez - NSFW Alphabets ღ Ateez Mingi x gn!reader ღ words: ~3.1k ღ genre: smut ღ warnings: none

A = Aftercare (what he’s like after sex)

Will do his best to do aftercare for you, but I think it’ll usually be you taking care of him afterwards. He tends to really wear himself out, especially when you’re going at it for a longer time. However, he’ll also usually be in a very cuddly mood afterwards, so after you’ve gotten yourselves some water and cleaned yourselves up, he will welcome you into his arms and hold you tight. Places soft kisses in any spots where he might’ve been rough with you, and will let his fingertips draw mindless patterns all over you. To be honest he could stay like this for hours, but eventually he will either allow the two of you to drift off to sleep, or let yourselves get on with your days.

B = Body part (his favorite body part of his partner)

The little details! He strikes me as someone who will be fascinated by your shape and definitely takes his time to worship you too, so in general he makes sure you can feel how much he loves your body overall. But he will pay especially much attention to moles, birthmarks, scars, and the likes. Likes to study the placement of each as his hands and lips are mapping out your body, and eventually he will remember their exact spots even when you’re fully dressed.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum)

Really doesn’t mind much where he cums, and strikes me as the type where things might get a little messy. However, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a favourite place to cum. Loves it when you suck him off and let him cum in your mouth, will visibly gulp at the sight if you swallow. Idk what it is, but he just can’t look away from the image of you taking his load at once - especially if there’s some stains on your lips or chin afterwards.

D = Dirty secret (a dirty secret or secret desire of his)

A secret desire that keeps popping up in his head is the thought of you sucking him off with his or your friends in the other room. Something about having to keep quiet and at the same time having to hurry so you won’t get caught is just very hot to him, but this is probably something that’s more of a fantasy he has, and not something he absolutely wants to turn into a reality. If it happens - great! If not - also fine by him.

E = Experience (how experienced is he?)

This is a tough one because the answer could literally be anything. What I think is that he’s slow at gathering experience first, and probably the type to exclusively sleep with a partner, because he really needs a certain level of trust to have sex with someone. But I also think he’s actually pretty dirty deep down, and so once he starts getting some experience, he’ll quickly gain some more. So I’d say he has his fair share of experience!

F = Favorite position

You on top of him! Strikes me as an ass-enjoyer, so depending on his mood he wants you simply riding him while facing him, or facing away in reverse cowgirl. Loves it when you’re on top of him and you set the pace while he can marvel at the sight in front of him and let his hands wander your body. What he also likes about this position is that it’s easy for him to control how much power you have, and if he feels like it he’ll simply grab onto your hips to guide you into the rhythm he wants.

G = Goofy (is he more serious in the moment? is he humorous?)

Shy during his first sexual encounters with a new partner, so he will feel thankful if they’re a light-hearted person and don’t take things too seriously. If you laugh, he will laugh along! But after getting familiar with each other his burning passion will take over and there often won’t be much time to laugh in between fucking each other real good.

H = Headspace (how much does he think about it/you during the day? how elaborate are his fantasies?)

Whether he wants it or not, sexual thoughts will randomly pop up in his head throughout the day. Usually it really is just a thought that floats by and is soon forgotten, but especially when he’s just started getting intimate with someone these thoughts can be rather distracting. Has pretty elaborate fantasies when he gets off by himself, but otherwise keeps it at a level that won’t give him a visible boner in public dksjfklasdjfa

I = Intimacy (how passionate or romantic is he?)

He can be very romantic!! He’s definitely the type of person to want to just make sweet love to his partner every now and then, and though he can be a bit clumsy, the way he touches you and talks to you during will make your heart soar. He’s so sweet and will take his time with you, exploring your body as if it was the first time, and watching as he has his breath taken away by how beautiful he thinks you are makes you fall in love with him all over again. However, I’m convinced there’s also a not so soft side to him, and when that comes out his touches feel like fire burning your skin. He’s full of need at times like these, in a way where he manages to sweep you off your feet effortlessly.

J = Jack off (how does he masturbate and how often?)

Likes to deliberately take time out of his days to get off. Like he will pick a day and then plan for a few hours of “me-time” in the evening and get really into the mood as he lets his hands wander and take care of himself. Might turn on some music and let his mind get to work, might watch porn to get him going, but his favourite thing to accompany his masturbation sessions are voice mails by his partner. Loves simply hearing your voice moaning into his ears as you’re getting off yourself, but he’d also be very curious to try guided masturbation if you’re open to that!

K = Kink (one of his kinks)

I’m gonna go nice and simple with this and say biting! He undoubtedly has a bit of a thing for pain (or maybe more than a bit, who knows…) and so you sinking your teeth into his skin just gets him going. Loves the feeling of the pain mixing in with the pleasure and goes absolutely crazy if you bite down real hard as your own pleasure is overwhelming you. He will let out a pained noise, but don’t be mistaken - he’s totally into this and he could cum from that alone. Will wear your bite marks like a medal and as proof of just how good he can make you feel, but at the same time they serve as a reminder of how good you can make him feel too. He’s more than happy to return the favour if you’re into that too, though he tends to be more careful with his partner than the other way around.

L = Location (favorite places to do it)

The comfort of his or your home is still his nr 1 spot to do it. It’s just where he feels safest to be completely himself and to lose himself in the act, but if the situation is dire he’ll also opt for a less private space. Semi-public is totally okay for him sometimes, and especially when he’s really horny he doesn’t worry about being caught too much. But overall I’d say at home, in the comfort of your or his bedroom is his best choice.

M = Motivation (what turns him on, gets him going)

He’s so easily turned on (and has also become pretty good at hiding it if the time or place aren’t appropriate) that at times it’s enough for him to catch a glimpse of you and his mind will already spew ideas at him about what he wants to do with you. While having sex what especially motivates him to keep going are definitely your moans, but aside from what I wrote about biting earlier, it’s also the way you cling to him desperately, let your nails run down his bare back, etcetc. But it’s also your praises, when you tell him what a good boy he is for you, and sometimes also your teasing, prompting him to do more, to impress you, to earn your touch.

N = No (something he wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Stuff like humiliation and degradation are a bit difficult for him. Being on the receiving end is okay for him, so long as his partner doesn’t take it too far. Will definitely get off on you degrading him a bit at the right time, but if you do it too much this will quickly make him actually feel bad. However, he would never do that to you, he just can’t bring himself to. He can tease you sometimes, that much is fine, but he can’t bring himself to humiliate or degrade his partner. Maybe if you’re super into it he’ll eventually give it a try, but it’s still not his favourite thing to do to you ever.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He loves both, but prefers receiving head over giving. Definitely the type to grab your hair (if possible) and to control the pace as he fucks your mouth and gets really into it to the point you might feel the need to slow him down a bit. He likes it when things get messy, so if you give him permission he will sometimes pull out just in time to cum all over your face.

Though he prefers receiving, he certainly gets very into it when it’s his turn to do oral on you. Once he gets a literal taste of you he could spend hours just giving you head, and you bet that even if he wasn’t so skilled at first, he’ll know just how to sweep you off your feet in no time.

P = Pace (is he fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He definitely has his slow and sensual moments where he’s having sex with you less as a way to chase pleasure, and more as a means to make you feel just how much he loves you. However, I think usually when he’s the one setting the pace he’d be impatient and his desire for you would translate into touches on the rougher side. Whether that’s manhandling you a bit and grabbing you with a bit too much force, or if it’s him deliberately sinking his nails into your flesh, he’s INTENSE to say the least. Will fuck you especially rough in the chase of his own orgasm, and if you let him know it’s something that you enjoy as well, he’ll definitely stop holding back completely.

Q = Quickie (his opinions on quickies?)

Quickies are way too short for him, but that doesn’t mean he can resist the temptation. Especially when you two are out somewhere and you keep teasing each other and riling each other up, unnoticed by everyone else in the room, it’s very likely that he will eventually grab you by the wrist and drag you out of there and into a room where you can be by yourselves. The need and the urgency behind the way he gets your clothes out of the way just enough for him to slip inside you is already driving you crazy, and with how desperately he’s racing towards his release while doing everything he can think of to have you reach your high just as fast, there’s really no way either of you is going to last long.

R = Risk (does he like to experiment or take risks?)

He’s a bit hesitant with introducing new things to the bedroom, both from his side and if his partner brings up something that they want to try, especially if it’s something he’s not super familiar with. However, after talking it through he’s very likely to be willing to at least try, and a lot of the time when you have an idea on what you could both like, he ends up very much enjoying it.

He definitely is a risk-taker as in… not always thinking of wearing a condom. He might sulk a bit if you tell him you’re definitely not having unprotected sex with him, but he’ll understand jfkdsfjlajksflsa but also the sight of his cum dripping out of you is just too damn hot to him, and he may or may not feel the need to give you yet another orgasm as your and his taste are mixing on his tongue…

S = Stamina (how long does he last?)

When he really gets into it, he cums fairly quickly, but he recovers just as fast. Will definitely be able to manage his energies to last several rounds, the problem is just that he tends to forget to manage anything when he’s balls deep inside you and you’re both chasing your high jasdkfljsas. But with a bit of assistance and some reminders by you, this guy can definitely keep going for A WHILE.

T = Toys (does he own toys? does he use them? on a partner or himself?)

Pretty sure he has toys to use on himself for when he’s masturbating, and he also won’t be opposed to sometimes using toys with a partner. Will be all for using vibrators or dildos on you, and might actually get you one he finds pretty and then watches you getting off with it. He also likes seeing you wearing stuff like anal plugs, and goes absolutely crazy if you have piercings down there.

U = Unfair (how much he likes to tease)

He’s very straightforward with what he wants and certainly not a big tease about it. Though sometimes it can be fun to push your buttons a little, he enjoys it more if he’s on the receiving end of the teasing. He’ll play along so well if you keep giving him just the bare minimum, and at the same time he will let you know just how frustrated it’s making him. And this can go two ways - either he becomes really whiny and lets you do to him whatever you want, or his patience will eventually run out and he’s going to take matters into his own hands. Depending on how much teasing he’s endured prior, he tends to get very rough with you, and he knows that, so he’ll make sure to talk this through with you beforehand to make sure he doesn’t do anything you don’t want.

V = Volume (how loud or vocal is he? what does he sound like?)

Very vocal and very loud. Though he will die of embarrassment if it turns out anyone heard you two, he couldn’t care less in the moment. Will tell you exactly what he’s thinking at any given point, including praises, what he wishes you would do to him, or what he wants to do to you. And this ranges from begging for you and making the most shameless noises as you’re on top of him, having your way with him, to growling in your ear how much he needs you and how good it feels to be inside of you when he’s taking the lead.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon)

Mingi lets out a desperate groan as he finally releases inside of you, filling you up with his seed. His motions come to a halt, there’s a drop of sweat making its way down his forehead, and his eyes are squeezed shut as he’s trying to catch his breath. You reach out to comb your fingers through his hair, and then eventually he begins to move on top of you. He pulls out as he sits up, spreading your legs that have been wrapped around his waist apart to get a good look at how his cum is dripping out of you slowly. You can hear him mouth a curse word, before he leans in, but then stops himself.

“Can I?” he asks, his face hovering above your core, his hot breath grazing your skin causing shivers to run down your spine. You merely nod, even though you only half expected him to bury his face between your legs, tongue immediately reaching deep into your hole. You cry out at the sensation, and your legs begin to tremble as he hums at the way your taste mixes with his own in his mouth, as he works you right towards your next orgasm.

X = (X) as a mark (does he like marking you/being marked? where?)

Likes to leave his mark on you anywhere he can reach when he’s in the heat of the moment. Might even forget about being careful around spots where it might be hard to cover, but will move on to a different spot right away if you tell him to. Marking you as his is just something he needs to do every now and then - while he might not be super possessive he does like showing you just who you belong to, and vice versa as well. Will moan instantly when your teeth graze his skin, and the sensation of you marking him is just gonna make him need you even more.

Y = Yearning (how high is his sex drive?)

High. Very high actually, but he’s very much content to take care of it himself from time to time too if your sex drive doesn’t match his. I’m convinced that not only is he a very sexual person deep inside, but he’s also pretty dirty-minded, and so it’s only natural that the need for sex would arise quite often - especially when he’s dating someone and he just can’t keep his thoughts about you safe for work. And while this does result in some pretty amazing sex due to the fact that you’re gonna learn about each other’s turn ons very quickly, he’ll also be understanding if you don’t want to have sex quite as often as he does.

Z = Zzz (how quickly he falls asleep afterwards)

Seems like he’d fall asleep fast but unless he’s super tired to begin with I don’t think so. Quite the opposite actually - you might end up staying up for another hour or two because of him, just talking about whatever comes to mind. In moments like these, after you’ve been intimate, he feels very strongly that he can talk to you even about the things he usually keeps hidden deep inside, so a heartfelt talk afterwards is something that does happen with him from time to time.

#ateez smut #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #mingi smut #mingi imagines #mingi x reader #ateez scenarios #ateez fanfic #ateez reactions #smut

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hanasnx · 4 months

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MINORS DNI 18+

MODERN!ANAKIN SKYWALKER who's got a bit of a situationship with you. It's not like him, he's very new to it all and its rules, which means some key details get lost in translation with him. For most, the "talking" stage consists of the ability to still see other people during, keeping your options open so to speak. For Anakin, he expects a sort of unspoken faithfulness he had no reason to define until now.

Now, as he stares at two words. "she's busy." A text he's been deliberating over for an inappropriate amount of time. What could possess another person to answer your texts for you? A glance to your contact name confirms it, just in case he was losing his mind. He kinda wishes he was. He taps your name, and calls you. Three rings. An answer on the other line, that is most certainly not you, invades his ears.

"Yo," the deep voice says and Anakin doesn't say a word as he hangs up. Without a second thought, he pulls up your Snap Map which you've stupidly left on. You do that a lot. Sometimes he checks on you only to see what you're up to. Some days he watches your little Bitmoji happy on it's map at that little cafe you like, and he calls you to see if you'll tell him the truth of where you are.

He gets in his car, and tracks you down.

His fingers drum against the steering wheel, just like his fist drums against the front door when he gets there. It shakes the whole fucking house. He takes a step back, resting his hands on his hips, and his tongue forms over his upper lip.

The door opens, and he comes face to face with the guy he presumes texted him, and answered the phone. This is his place. "Can I help you?" he questions with an attitude Anakin doesn't fucking care for at all.

"I don't wanna talk to you, I wanna talk to her." Blunt as ever, Anakin comes off as unstable to your companion, who obviously bucks up in your defense.

"The fuck? No. What do you think this is?" he responds, and the escalation of raising voices causes you to recognize who your friend is talking to. So you come downstairs, and see that familiar head of golden curly hair.

"Anakin?" you question in disbelief, slowing your descent down the stairs. At your arrival, Anakin's attention completely shifts onto you.

"Hey." He nods up. "We need to talk." His finger points to the space in front of him, as if calling you over like a dog. Oddly and subconsciously compelled, you make your way closer to him. Your friend's arm rests on the door frame, cutting in between you two. Apparently he didn’t want Anakin slipping inside. You only notice how much taller he is compared to your friend. If he wanted to, he’d put him on his ass with a well-placed one-handed push. You try not to think about that now as you approach, standing directly behind your friend’s elbow.

“What the hell are you doing here?” At the end of your sentence, Anakin’s massive hand snatches your upper arm, and your friend goes to separate the two of you with a commotion of “woah, woah!” You appease him, tell him it’s alright, that you’ve gotta take care of this, and allow yourself to be drawn away from the door step and closer to the street.

Once he has you where he wants you, he releases you, and you jostle from the loss of support. That hand wipes down his face, the most irritable you’ve ever seen him, and he gestures to you as he steps closer, “If you’re pulling this shit, let’s just call it.” he tells you, dismissing entirely the existence of the man who owns this house.

The crease in your brows deepen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—“

“You do, and if I’m competing with other guys I don’t want any fucking part in it.” The towering figure before you stoops to get eye level with you, “Either get smart or fuck off, alright?” You hate to say that his low voice sends shivers down your spine.

His direct ultimatum makes you indignantly blink at him, taken aback at his sheer tenacity as you weigh out the options. He doesn’t give you enough time, scoffing at you, and turning his back on you. As if he could be so bold as to expect to be the only one you’re talking to, expect to treat you this way.

And yet, somehow, you end up back at his place. Impossibly fat cock driving into your insides as he picks you up by your hips into his thrusts. Knelt onto the bed, he rocks forward, while your cervix is getting bruised into submission. You squirm, arching your back off the bed with your pretty legs stuck straight into the air. “Who’s fucking pussy is this, huh? Who’s fucking pussy is this?” Skin smacks skin, harder than before. His tongue forms over his upper lip, brows pinched in focus as he fucks you like he means to beat you into the shape of his dick.

You don’t even hesitate. “Yours!” You whimper. “Yours, Ani, all yours.” You’re lifted almost entirely off the mattress, he straps his hands over your thighs to keep your ass pinned to his abs that sheen with sweat. Cunt stuffed to the brim as he relentlessly bullies it, creating an empty fucking vacuum that screams at you every time he pulls out. You really are fucking obsessed with this entitled behemoth of a man and what he can do to your body in a few strokes.

“That’s fucking right, baby, and don’t you forget it.”

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theemporium · 8 months

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What about Max maxplaining Trouble? Like not to Trouble, but about Trouble to someone. He’s just gushing about her or maybe he’s telling someone that no they can’t do “x” b/c that’s not the way Trouble prefers it done. And everyone is just so confused about why Max knows something so random about Trouble.

kinda made this into a wee sick fic but enjoy! and thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

“Max, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Sorry for taking your health seriously. Now, give Danny the phone.”

If someone told you that Max Verstappen was an overbearing mother hen before you met him, you would have laughed in their face. You had heard many things about him, and that certainly wasn’t one you would have believed. Even in the early stages of your friendship, you would have never really pegged him as the type. He was caring, yes.

But this? This was a whole new level.

You were sick. Nothing crazy or insane, just a simple flu that left you feeling a bit under the weather and longing for your bed. But apparently to Max, it was equivalent to you being on your deathbed.

Unfortunately for him, he had to fly out to England for a few meetings at the factory that required his presence. He tried arguing Christian over the phone about it, but ultimately lost that battle and was forced to take his private jet out.

You made the mistake in thinking that you would be able to get a few days of quiet rest to recover. Because only mother hen Max Verstappen would send someone to do exactly what he would do if he was able to stay by your side.

“Did you get her a blanket?”

Daniel tried to suppress his laughter and remain serious as he held your phone in his hand, watching Max on the screen scrutinising every little detail about your setup in your bed.

“Yes, I—”

“You got the wrong blanket,” Max stated bluntly.

You sighed. “Max, it’s fine—”

“Stop saying that, schatz, when it’s not,” Max retorted before his focus returned to the Aussie. “She likes the cream one in the hallway cupboard. Should be on the third shelf.”

Daniel nodded. “Right, got it.”

“Did you get her medicine?”

“Oh yeah,” Daniel said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I got her some cough syrup from the pharmacy down the—”

“Which flavour?”

“Cherry,” Daniel said.

Max scoffed. “Mate, she hates cherry. You need to get the orange flavoured one.”

“Max,” you groaned as you nuzzled yourself further into the endless amount of pillows your boyfriend had made Daniel surround you in. “Cherry is fine. I just have to take a spoonful once a day, or whatever it is.”

“Three times a day,” Max said, his brows furrowed together. “And you hate artificial cherry flavouring. You said it makes you want to throw up.”

Your cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

“I’ll get her the orange flavoured one,” Daniel said with a laugh, finding it adorable how caring Max was. “Anything else, helicopter boyfriend?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Max grumbled. “But yes. I have left menus on the kitchen counter, I’ll send you what she likes and what she wants to get but always refuses until it’s in front of her. Also, there should be a list of movies I sent you that are her comfort movies that you can—”

“This is creepy, Verstappen, it’s like you’re my stalker or something,” you muttered, even if your heart was swooning at the small details he remembered about you.

“Lil’ Maxie just loves his Trouble,” Daniel grinned wildly. “He doesn’t shut up about you. He could probably go on for hours if we let him.”

“More like days,” Max corrected before he continued to explain everything you would need to his friend, whilst you laid there with a fond smile on your face.

#max verstappen #formula one #f1 #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen fic #max verstappen one shot #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one x y/n #formula one fic #formula one one shot #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 fic #f1 one shot

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novelconcepts · 11 months

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There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.

Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.

Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).

But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?

How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.

How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.

How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.

How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?

All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?

They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets spoilers #yj meta #long post #shauna shipman #lottie matthews #taissa turner #van palmer #misty quigley #natalie scatorccio #the question not being how do you survive the wilderness. the question being how do you come BACK.#the way each of them tries so hard to keep moving forward #unable to untangle the girl in the woods from the adult suffering in polite society #how the world doesn’t want to hear about the pain or the night terrors or the sleepwalking or the addiction #the world wants the bright colors and the flash-bang headlines #the world doesn’t want who they are. who they had to be. it wants pretty perfect tragedy #that specialized environment lives on in each one of them every day #but it’s not a place anyone else can ever go #how do you feed that for so long and then just…stop?#constantly thinking about nat saying we didn’t make it out. none of us.#because no. no they didn’t. the girls died the minute that rescue chance did. what came back was risen from those ashes

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