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cuckoo-on-a-string · 13 days ago

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Neighborly

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.

He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.

The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.

“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”

You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.

Then the first snow fell.

You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.

But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.

As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.

You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.

When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.

You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.

Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.

You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.

When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.

He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.

“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.

Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.

“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”

That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Did you get all that?”

He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.

“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”

Good enough.

“Okay.”

The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”

He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.

The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.

Ah, well. They were replaceable.

Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.

It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.

You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.

The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.

His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.

His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.

When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.

He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.

He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.

(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)

He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.

And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.

He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.

What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.

He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.

A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.

A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.

The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.

Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.

You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.

Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.

You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.

“You the neighbor?”

He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?

Your neighbor never had guests before.

It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.

You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.

And – well – manners.

Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”

“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”

He closed the door and that was that.

Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…

It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.

You waited.

But he didn’t.

The absolute fuck?

Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.

You must’ve done something wrong.

Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.

Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).

Two gallons of milk.

Wait.

No.

You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.

You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.

Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.

The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.

Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?

His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.

Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.

You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.

But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.

Convenient.

Until his real friend joined him.

You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.

When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.

If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.

You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.

It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.

Alright. Fine.

You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…

Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.

The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.

You drove home.

Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.

At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.

The flour hadn’t been on your list.

And there was no room for it.

Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.

It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.

You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.

There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.

As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.

The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.

A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.

MacTavish.

The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).

Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.

Relief. Hope. Dread.

He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.

“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”

Friend? What flavor of friend?

“I know. We met this morning.”

“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”

“If you say so.”

You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.

“His name’s Ghost.”

Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.

Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”

“Hard to predict the next big snow.”

“Aye. He said that, too.”

If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.

And it did.

Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.

For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.

His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.

It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.

A bad day instantly became your worst in years.

It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.

Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.

The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.

It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.

There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.

“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”

You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.

A pretty crier you were not.

And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”

“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.

“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”

His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.

“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”

“I know.”

Finally, he left.

You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.

-----------------------

He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.

You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.

Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.

They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.

So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.

The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.

You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.

Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.

Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.

The little shits had siphoned your tank.

You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.

So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.

But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.

Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.

The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.

The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.

You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.

When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…

An I.O.U. was taped to the back.

You knew the handwriting all too well.

That shitting little…

The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.

You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.

You had made a mistake.

You made your neighbor chicken soup.

Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.

Fuck Johnny MacTavish.

Fuck Ghost.

Fuck your life.

#fic: neighborly #john soap mctavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #soap x reader x ghost #soap x ghost

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marvelwitchergilmore · 4 months ago

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Let Me Prove It

Summary: Logan x Fe!Reader -> After months of grieving for Logan, he proves to you he's not going anywhere.

Disclaimer: Descriptions of death, blood, reader goes through grief of losing Logan. Angst, sadness, some fluff. There is a happy ending. Illusions to smut towards the end. Not Proof Read.

You could remember the day you fell in love with Logan Howlett.

It had been a rainy afternoon. Nothing grand had happened that day. The kids had been in classes all day, most exams were happening all week but by Friday, they’d all be over for the semester. There was stew, heating up on the stove, and you had been reading your book.

At least, you’d been trying to.

Often, your mind would wander off on its own and only half way through your train of thought would you realise you had boarded the wrong train and it was already moving. And just like a flash of a meadow, snapping past one of the compartment windows, you discovered you had feelings for Logan.

And watching him walk through the backdoor only a moment later, confirmed your thoughts.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Your train came to a halt and you snapped up, focusing on reality. “What?”

Logan grumbled. “Nothing. Dinner ready?”

“Almost. Storm’s looking for you, by the way. She wants to know if you can cover her class next week. She’s got a doctor's appointment and no one’s available.”

Logan still had his back turned as he looked in the cupboard for something. “Sure. What class?”

“History. What are you looking for?”

Logan didn’t fully answer you. He just mumbled a noise before pulling a small box out from the back and closing the door. Turning around he opened it up, took a cookie out before offering it to you.

“She got a lesson plan?”

Looking down at your book, you dog-eared the page. Sometimes, you’d use a bookmark but considering most of them would disappear without a trace and leave you fending for yourself to find your page again, hours after you’d read it, you gave up on them.

“Yeah, she’s already left it in your room.”

“Of course she has.” Logan took another bite of his cookie and rounded the kitchen island.

Your gaze followed him. Mostly out of curiosity. You and Logan were friends. Not best friends. But good friends. Well…

Good enough friends.

Could you really be in love with him?

Reaching up into the top cupboard, he brought down the set of bowls and took half from the top.

“You take the rest.”

And for the next ten minutes, you both laid out the table in time for dinner.

Then you watched as he helped some of the younger kids with their hot meals. Despite all of his grumbling and his small protests when it came to calling him the best baby-sitter.

Logan was good with kids.

Yep.

You were in love with Logan.

And just like how you could remember the day you fell in love with Logan, you could also remember the day he died.

It had torn you to pieces.

It still did.

It had been on a mission. You’d all faced worse before. And yet, somehow, nobody was prepared for what was about to happen. Everything blew up. Quite literally. You had been helping some of the kids to safety with Storm and Scott. Scott had left half way through, running to find Jean and help her. Storm had given him cover, as well as the kids.

And once you knew the kids were in safe hands on the jet, you ran back.

Only, when you got to the top of the hill, having skidded to a halt only to catch yourself on a rotting tree, you looked down to see for the first time, the image that would be forever imprinted in your mind.

Logan and Jean were at the bottom. Scott had made it just in time to hold his girlfriend back when Logan took the brunt of the attack. It sent him flying and when he fell to the floor, your gut twisted.

Usually, he’d get up.

But something was off.

He wasn’t getting up. Not as quickly, anyway.

And when he did, an attack came sooner than anyone else had expected.

Straight through his stomach and a second through his side, Logan was impaled to the tree before being torn from it, sent flying forward with the tentacle branches before being pulled off and sent flying to the ground.

You remembered screaming his name along with the others before running forward. Storm had made it there before you, but you were the first on your knees beside him, trying to check for any healing that was starting.

It wasn’t.

You heard the muffled voices of the rest of the team in your ears, fighting against your own heartbeat as you looked down at Logan. He was bleeding out and fast.

The bodies beside you disappeared and followed after the attacker and soon everything became…

Silent.

The ringing in your ears had stopped, your ears had gotten used to your own heartbeat, and you tried your best to focus on Logan.

His eyes were closed. Begging him through your own tears for him to open his, you took his hand. Feeling for his pulse, it was weak. And getting weaker.

“Logan…please. Please don’t do this.”

Then your hearing focused on his heartbeat. Each beat took longer to come after the other until finally, with one weak squeeze of goodbye to your hand, Logan died.

The hours that followed after that became a blur.

The man you loved but had never told had died in front of you. You had heard his heartbeat stop. You had felt his last goodbye. He never got any last words. Just one last touch.

And every night that followed after that, you re-lived it. Over and over and over again. Each night, the same. Logan. The branches. The blood. The pulse. The heartbeat. The touch. The silence.

Sometimes you’d wake just as he touched your hand, the ghost of a feeling left on your palm as you woke.

The others never bothered to ask. At least, not after the first time you had told them. The Professor had gathered you all in his office after everything had happened. And all you could think of was that Logan’s body was lay, lifeless, underneath the school.

He had asked you what had happened and, with your arms folded and your eyes on the ground, you answered him.

“He wasn’t healing. There wasn’t anything I could do. He died,” you explained before looking up at the Professor and giving him Logan’s time of death. “May I go now? I want to make sure the kids are okay.”

The Professor excused you and you left as quickly as you could, the door slamming a little louder than you had meant.

And for the next two months, you…kept yourself busy.

People talked about Logan, they were determined to keep his memory alive. But they didn’t have to go to bed at night, just for his memory to die again. Each morning, you seemed to wake up earlier than usual. And with the feeling of Logan’s hand against yours, you busied yourself as best as you could.

Grading papers, alphabetising the library, cleaning every possible surface including the ceilings, constantly doing the laundry. Weeding out the garden, planting some new flower beds. Fixing the creaky wooden board in the hallway, painting the doors and wooden boards between the windows. Trimming the bushes, scrubbing the pots (even the old ones that weren’t in use anymore).

You did anything and everything you could. Mostly to keep your mind busy but party because you hoped, if you tired yourself out enough, you might have caught a break. Made it one night through without re-living Logan’s death.

But all of that changed one afternoon when you were called to the Professor’s study.

Where you came face to face with…

Logan.

Everyone was confused.

Apart from the Professor.

And throughout the meeting you remained quiet. Obviously, everyone was angry at the fact the Professor had kept such a big secret.

“We didn’t know if it would work and we didn’t want anyone to have to re-live their grief.” The Professor explained. “It was a shot in the dark.”

“How is this even possible?” Storm asked as she sat down.

“It seems Logan’s healing abilities were simply weakened. He needed help to heal. Medical help that not I, nor I’m afraid even you, Jean, could give him. There is a doctor I know, based in Alberta. She helped boost Logan’s healing factor and made sure that whatever had weakened him was no longer in his system.”

There was a little more explaining to do, but you could feel yourself drifting from the conversation. You just kept looking at Logan as he stood by the window and the Professor’s desk.

He had his back turned when you had walked inside, the others all looking confused and annoyed, having to wait for you before they got their explanation.

He had died.

You had seen him die.

You had felt him die.

And yet, there he stood. His hands in his pockets, looking around the room, breathing and living as if nothing had even happened.

Not long after all the explanations, everyone got to voice their opinion and you came last. Everyone looked at you, including Logan.

And all you wanted to do was run.

To him or away from him, you couldn’t quite tell.

So, with a breath, you forced a half smile and nodded. “It’s good to have you back. Professor, may I go? I’ve got a class that’s about to start.”

“Of…of course. I would have thought-”

Reaching for the door, you looked back. “See you round, Logan.”

Just before you closed the door, you heard Storm announce her way to Logan to give him a hug. But even the Professor couldn’t concentrate on that because he couldn’t help but notice there was something different about you.

Of course, he’d noticed you’d been keeping yourself busy. Missing out on family dinners, eating yours when you found the time later on in the evening, cleaning up the classrooms after hours, doing a little touch ups here and there with a smaller paint can and paintbrush.

Little did he know, you had just been filling in the spots you had missed the day before.

But he had figured you had been like the others. Itching to hug Logan. Being glad he was alive and breathing.

Instead…

You had barely said two words and had left as soon as you could.

“Are you okay?” Storm asked you later that night when you were cooking dinner.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Storm lifted herself onto a stool opposite you. “I don’t know. You just didn’t seem…excited about Logan being back.”

“Of course I’m excited he’s back.”

“Then would it kill you to show it?” Storm asked, half jokingly. “Here, let me help.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay, I’m almost done.”

Storm moved her hands away from your chopping board slowly. “Okay. Are you sure you’re okay?”

You smiled. “Ororo, I’m fine. Scouts honour. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

You shrugged, forcing your mind back to reality. “Nothing. It’s just been a long day, s’all.”

Later that evening, you found yourself alone in your classroom. The others were down the hall having dinner but you had found yourself something to do. You could have gone down but whether out of habit of the last two months or fear, you didn’t wish to join them.

Your appetite had already been worse for wear over the last couple of weeks. If you were sat at the table, across from Logan, you wouldn’t have been able to even think about eating.

So, taking another bite of your sandwich, you turned back to your essays.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Logan looked around the table. You were missing.

“Whose turn was it to cook tonight?” Logan asked.

“Y/n’s.” Jean told him. “She’s been making most of the meals lately. Guess she just got the cooking bug.”

“But she’s not here.”

Jean shrugged it off. “She’ll probably get some later.”

“Where is she?” He asked as he went to stand. But Jean stopped him.

“Oh, no. Stay. Come on, Everyone needs to catch up.”

“Catch up on what?” Logan asked. “I’ve been in a hospital in Alberta for two months.”

“Please, just…stay. Besides, Y/n’ll appear when she wants. She’s probably busy.”

And after a little bit more convincing, Logan stayed. You’d left so abruptly that morning, he questioned if you even wanted to see him at all.

It continued like that for a week.

At first, Logan tried to convince himself you weren’t avoiding him. But as the week went on and he began to see less of you inside his routine, he knew you had to be.

And then he began to notice things.

Everything seemed cleaner than when he had left. And brighter. Fresher, even. The doors had been given a paint job. Despite it being dry, he could still smell the aroma of fresh paint in the air. The halls were less creaky when he walked down them. The cupboards were tidier. He could find his cookies with ease now.

And despite the fact he didn’t read all that much, he knew the library had changed. Even the books that no-one ever touched. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen near them. And one of his personal favourites – a book he tended to read around winter, where the cover was falling off and the pages were falling apart – had been binded to look like new.

So, taking action into his own hands, he went to look for you.

And it wasn’t long before he found you.

You had escaped him when he saw you planting fresh flowers in the garden, and you had escaped him when you had brought in the groceries having used Storm as a distraction for you to slip out of the kitchen once everything was away.

But he had found you in the library.

Once again, you hadn’t come to dinner, making up an excuse that you needed to work. And Logan knew for a fact you hadn’t left to come and get your dinner yet so, he brought it to you.

“Thought you might be hungry.”

You looked up but Logan had already heard the change in your pulse.

“Oh…thanks. You can just leave it there.”

And he did.

“You’ve got to eat at some point.”

“I will,” you looked back up at him. “Soon. I promise.”

This was the longest conversation you’d both had since he got back. So, he took a seat across from you.

“What are you working on?”

“Work.”

Logan smiled. “Funny.”

Then the silence washed over you both. But he didn’t want it to stick. “Y/n?”

You hummed a response.

“Can you look at me?”

Your heartbeat seemed to jump and you took in a discrete breath. Finally seeing your face, Logan smiled.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve not been avoiding you.” You looked back at your work.

“Yes, you have.”

“What makes you say that?”

Logan gave you a list. “The constant work, the avoidance of dinners, the silent treatment. Did I do something?”

You shook your head. “You haven’t done anything, Logan.”

“Then can you look at me when you tell me that so I might believe you.”

Finally, you looked at him.

“Tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

Logan asked again. “What’s going on?”

You laughed, nervously. “Nothing’s going on. Logan, I’m fine.”

“Are you? Because you’ve been avoiding me since I got back and- what? What is it?”

You laughed again, except this time you didn’t know how you’d describe it.

“‘Got back’ you repeated his words. “You say that as if you left for a vacation. You died, Logan. Or did you forget that?”

“No. Y/n. What’s going on?”

You shook your head and packed away your things as quickly as you could. “Forget I said anything. Thanks for dinner.”

“You didn’t even eat-” Logan watched you walk away from him again.

He’d rather have you fight him than avoid him, so he pressed on.

“Talk to me.” Logan followed after you. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. It’s late, Logan. Go to bed.”

“Only when you do.”

“What?” You asked.

“Your bedroom, it’s upstairs, down the hall from mine. In the opposite direction. The only thing this way is your classroom.”

“I’ve got to finish grading.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

You shrugged. “What teacher doesn’t get enough sleep?”

“Something is going on. Something has been going on. For a while. Please,” Logan begged. “Just tell me what it is.”

You stopped in your tracks. “Do you really want to know what it is?”

“Yes.” Logan nodded, stopping in front of you.

“Okay then, I’ll tell you.”

And you did.

“I watched you die, Logan. I heard your heart stop. I watched as blood pooled out of your body with no way for me to stop it. Even after three scalding hot showers, I still had your bloodstains on my skin, under my nails and on my clothes. Every night when I close my eyes, I re-live it. Everything. Every tiny detail. And the silence afterwards…it’s deafening. Sometimes I wake up, still feeling the pressure you put into my hand. Sometimes it’s still there hours after I wake up. I had spent every single day keeping myself busy, finding extra work for myself, just to make sure that I don’t start daydreaming about the waking nightmare I had to watch you go through. I had spent the last two months going over and over in my head what I would say to you if I ever saw you again. But I could never bring myself to do it, because I had watched you die. I had felt you die. So, please. Forgive me if I’m not jumping with joy because I can miraculously forget what happened, like everyone else.”

Logan let your words wash over him. No one had told him. He had a sneaking suspicion they hadn’t because even they didn’t know. Maybe they never asked. Maybe they just hadn’t noticed.

Gaining back your breath, you went to turn away.

“Goodnight, Logan.”

Closing your classroom door behind you, you silently locked it and pressed your back against it feeling your entire body start to shake. Slowly, your legs went from underneath you and you lowered yourself to the ground by sliding down the door. You tried your best to squeeze your tears back into your eyes with the heels of your hands, but nothing could stop them.

Not now.

Not when you had just admitted the truth to the one man you never thought you would see again.

Three times Logan turned back to your classroom door, ready to walk inside. But he didn’t know what he would say.

So he waited.

Back in his room, he waited to hear the door to your room close.

And after two hours, he finally did.

And before he knew it, his feet were carrying him towards your door. Only, he stood there for ten minutes, unsure of what to do with himself.

At some point, he finally knocked.

Turning off the tap by the sink, you hung up your flannel onto the radiator bar and dried off your face when you heard the soft knock at your door.

There was only one person who could have been up so late.

He knocked again after a minute or two.

And you opened up the door.

Whatever Logan had just semi-prepared in his mind, slipped away. He was going to say something. But looking at you, standing in front of him…all words failed him.

And the longer he stood in front of you, the louder the reminder came to you that he wasn’t dead. He was alive. He could be shot with twelve live rounds and the bullets would pop right back out of his skin. His claws would flare out and he’d be Wolverine. They’d retract and his skin would heal instantly. There would be no evidence that anything had ever happened.

Then six words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them. Before even your brain could register the thought.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Logan felt his chest crack and his heart impale with pain.

Pushing the door open a little wider, his arms engulfed you in an embrace that would forever be imprinted on your soul. Your own arms wrapped around him, trying to remember the feel of him both physically and spiritually in case the day ever came where you truly would never see him again.

That if this was going to be your only memory of him, you could never, ever forget it.

Lifting you up in his embrace for a moment, Logan walked further inside your room, kicking the door shut with his foot. Even if no one else was awake, he didn’t want to risk anyone walking by. Clearly, no-one else knew what you had been living through in your nightmares. And he didn’t want anyone else to share this moment between himself and you.

“You spared me the pain of being alone.” Logan whispered into your hair. “I was less scared because you were there.”

“I couldn’t have left you.”

Your tears were back to rolling down your cheeks. “I’m sorry about everything you had to go through.”

Logan softly kissed away your tears, wiping the others away.

You took in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Logan shook his head. “You saved me. You stayed with me.”

“But-”

With both your eyes closed, and Logan’s, you felt his forehead touch yours as his hands cradled your cheeks. “I’m real, Y/n. I’m alive.”

You felt Logan take your hand and press it to his chest, over his heart. His heartbeat was mostly steady, if a little quick. Spreading your fingers across his chest, you felt it rise and fall with his breathing.

“I’m alive,” he kept repeating. “I’m alive.”

Logan’s breath was drawing closer to yours. “Logan…”

“Let me prove it to you.”

And you let him.

Capturing your breath in a kiss, Logan remained soft at first. He didn’t want to scare you. He didn’t want you to jump and run away from him like you had done only a few hours before in the library.

But then you kissed back.

So he moved his hands through your hair and over your body until you were pressed against him as close as you possibly could be.

Your own hands pulled him in closer by his neck whilst the hand he’d placed over his heart remained fixed in its position.

Logan was proving to every sense in your body he was real. That he was alive. Almost counteracting the memory that had been drawn from a waking nightmare.

And as he lifted you up, your back soon pressing against the wall, you and Logan knew he would be spending the rest of the night doing exactly what he told you he wanted to do.

Prove it to you.

As morning rolled around, you felt a warm body next to you, tangled not only in you but also your sheets.

Logan.

His arms practically caged around you, you recalled every single detail from the night before. Your argument in the hallways, the classroom, the knock at the door, the hug, the kiss, the proof.

And then, you felt yourself, for the first time in months, give a real smile.

Lowering your head, you buried yourself in between Logan’s chest and your bedsheets, feeling his arms tense at your movement, holding you in the bed without a way of escape.

And as your body reacted to his touch you realised something.

For the first time since his death, you hadn’t had a nightmare. You hadn’t seen his death play on repeat inside your head. And the touch you were feeling wasn’t in your hand but rather all across your body.

Parts were aching with a soreness you never quite knew was possible and later when you would look in the mirror, you would find fingertip bruises by your hips, love bites leading down your hip bone and on your inner thigh. Smaller ones were also dotted around your collar and neck, but a rather prominent one was yet to be left by the crook of your neck from behind where Logan’s lips would find themselves before you got into a fresh shower, Logan joining almost immediately.

But until then, you’d revel in the feeling of Logan’s constant heartbeat against your hand, and for a moment your lips as you kissed his skin. Before he woke up and proved to you time and time again how real he was and how much the memory that had plagued you for two months was something that, although wasn’t easy to forget about, could become something of a distant memory.

And for the rest of your lives, he would make sure to do exactly that.

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crookedteethed · 10 months ago

Text

BIG SHOT polaroid | e.m.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem reader

Summary: In which you and Eddie have a picture book where you both store your sex pics. <3 💕

Warnings: 18+ Cursing, a little Smut (p in v), Oral (fem receiving), Praise kink, body worship(?), pet names, nudes

Word count: 1k

If you pushed past the mounds of dirty laundry intertwined with disposed candy bar wrappers and a few empty shoe boxes, underneath Eddie Munson's bed lies the picture book.

The picture book was your idea, but the pictures themselves were all Eddie's perverted idea.

"Lemme take a picture of you, yeah?" Eddie said, taking a break from his delicious never-ending assault on your clit. Your juices dripped down his chin, some droplets stringing the tips of his hair, his lips all red and puffy covered in slick, and his eyes a little crazed and tinted in admiration.

He kissed the supple plush of your thigh in a diagonal line; your hands stayed grazing his curls, body supine on the foam of Eddie's mattress. Eddie's lips make love to your thighs, to your tummy, from your breast to your neck, and eventually to your lips; where'd you gotten to taste yourself for the first time.

Eddie quotes Shakespeare. "Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry. Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie." He says, glossy lips forming a smile.

"Lemme get a picture of you.” He asks again. “I want to savor my pretty girl in this moment," he says with that boyish smile and those adoring chocolate eyes.

Fuck, those eyes. Even if you were thinking of saying 'no' to Eddie, you simply couldn't. It was the way Eddie's eyes gazed at you every time you made contact. It was as if he was put into a dreamlike trance.

If Eddie had been a cartoon, his eyes and pupils would have turned heart-shaped.

You agreed to the picture, but just one.

Eddie sprung up from the bed, his naked pale body sprinting around the smallish trailer.

You hear a few thuds and ruffling coming from the next room. You imagine Eddie tearing his home apart to find his Polaroid camera.

When Eddie comes back, he returns holding a big-shot Polaroid. He says it was his mother's. He and Wayne don't use it often, so there should be enough film on it.

You try to sit up as Eddie crawls onto the bed, but he lightly pushes you back down, telling you you shouldn't have to move a finger, lie back, and be his muse.

You felt an uneasiness plummet in your stomach as you felt the cold lens of Eddie's mother polaroid aimed at your cunt; it was similar to the feeling you get when your doctor has to check beneath your folds for any signs of ovarian cysts or cancers at your yearly checkups.

And though Eddie had seen your bare cunt a multitude of times (just like your doctor), this particular time made your body shutter. Just as Eddie goes to snap the picture, he notices your sudden twitchiness.

"Hey," he says, palming the plum of your cheek. He lightly pecks your lips. "You trust me, right?"

You nodded, chewing on your bottom lip; of course, you trusted Eddie.

"Good." He nearly mumbles, eyes fixated on your glistening folds.

Eddie resume.

The Polaroid covers half of Eddie's face. With his right eye peeking through the eyepiece and his left eye squeezed tightly, Eddie aims the lens close to your cunt.

He places his thumb onto one of your folds and pulls back on the skin, snapping the picture in one snap. Seconds later, the blackened photo ejects from underneath the film shield.

With a few anticipated shakes from Eddie, the photo started to fade in, and you and Eddie stared at it with wide bug eyes and gaping mouths.

It wasn't the fact that Eddie could date back to this photo and jack off to it later that turned him on. Eddie was turned on because you let him do it; it turned him on even more that you trusted him to do it.

It turned you on because there was something obscure about seeing another aspect of your body, other than your face, on a Polaroid picture. In a way, you felt like you were Eddie's personal playboy bunny.

"Can I take another one?" Eddie asked in a daze, just as you went to ask him to take another, and then another, and then another, until you eventually ran out of film.

Taking pictures of you and Eddie's naked bodies would become almost like an addiction to both of you.

It became a ritualistic practice for you two before sex, grabbing the Polaroid (which now rested on Eddie's bedside table, along with packs of film) and taking turns snapping pictures of one another mid fuck.

Eddie would take the Polaroid from you and snap a picture of his cock plunging into your tight wet cunt; once he has his picture, then you'll take the Polaroid and snap a photo of your foot pressed against his pelvis, just above his happy trail. The cycle would go on and on until you were both covered in Polaroid pictures and cum.

It gets to a point where Eddie's bedside dresser, the current home for your photos, gets filled up, and you both have to resort to putting your photos in a picture book.

Making the picture book would be fun for both of you. You would sit on the trailer's living room floor, surrounded by glue, glitter, and markers; it's like a little arts and crafts project.

It'd be nostalgic for you and Eddie to return to your first photos all those months ago until now.

Eddie gets that gooey mushy feeling, getting wrapped up in the trust and intimacy of the photos--love, he thinks the feeling is called-- watching you watch a picture of yourself with a mouthful of his cock, and scrapbooking secret photos preserved for just his and your eyes only.

Eddie wants to tell you he loves you but doesn't yet; now isn't the right time. So he runs to his room, returning with his mother's big-shot Polaroid camera, and takes a snapshot of you.

#stranger things #stranger things fic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #fanfiction #crookedteethed #fem reader #eddie munson x reader smut #Eddie Munson #ST4 #stranger things 4 #corroded coffin #polaroid pictures #eddie munson x fem!reader smut

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petew21-blog · 8 months ago

Text

Teen wolf - Alpha needs his pack Part 2.

Hey, y'all already know who we are right? We're like two of the most popular guys at school. Or maybe the coolest. Or... ok forget I said that. We are just bestfriends, by day we do normal shirt together by some nights Scott is doing his wolf stuff and I try to help out as much as I can.

But recently sometihng has changed. Scott started to act more dominant. We spoke less and less. He is so focused on the pack and the dangers that might come, but that's not how Scott usually is. Also, what happened to Theo? He is always ten steps behind Scott like some sort of a servant and he even keeps looking at me. But not with his self-centered I AM BETTER THAN YOU look, but now he looks like he wants to tell me sometihng, like he is being punished. I'll try to talk to him, since Scott is distancing himself from me now. HE EVEN GOT A TATTOO. Without me! We were talking getting one and he didn't wait for me. Ok, maybe my dad would be against it, but I would resist. Maybe, for a while. Ok, I wouldn't dare, but you know. He could have said something.

I think I was getting really desperate. My best friend is not talking to me, everyone else would think the way that I do. I knew If I were in his pack he couldn't ignore me. But if my dad found out I was bitten someday, he would flip. Or maybe I would too. The first transformation must be horrible. Which is why I contacted one witch. She is not evil, but doesn't work for free. And I still didn't have an idea how to get Scott to talk to me, but she would know what to do. Wouldn't she?

We met up in the forest. She brough a box with her with all sorts of potions and equipment. She was a middle aged, very beautiful woman, nice hair, leather jacket.

"Hey. You're not the witch from Snow White I was expecting."

"Money" she said annoyed after my joke

I handed her the money. And started nervously: "Haha, sorry about that. I just get nervous handling illegal stuff in the dark with strangers. Not like I would do that, like ever. Not like drugs or anything. I don't do drugs..."

"You talk too much." She handed me a small vial of liquid. As I observed the vial, she touched my hand. "Do you even know, there's some magic in you? Are you so blind to everything around you, you don't even see whats in you?"

"I am a wizard?"

"No. You have some magic, but you're weak." she started packing her things and getting ready to leave.

"Wait, you didn't tell me what to do."

"Drink it to get close to who you want." she said mysteriously.

What does that even mean? I drank the whole vial and she just smiled at me. I hope that's a good sign. A smile from a witch. Sure

Suddenly a noise echoed through the forrest. That sounded like a howl. The witch was already running away from me.

In a minute Derek appeared behind me. "What the hell are you doing here?"

I was really surprised to see him, but also not. The wolves always protect the Beacon Hills so if there was a creature tresspassing, they would know. I tried to sound confident. "Well I could be asking you the same thing"

"Do you even know that the Dread doctors are in Beacon Hills?! Has no one told you they pose a threat, Stiles?!? They want to get to Scott and you are parading in a forrest doing god knows what."

"I was just... on a midnight walk. It's very healthy actually. You should try sometimes. But I guess you run a lot around the town during the night. Right. Anyway..."

"Stiles, shut the fuck up and let's go."

He touched my arm and then my whole world flipped. It must have happened really fast, but for us it felt like ages. I even think I saw Derek's aura? soul? I don't know. But those things switched places in our bodies. They positioned themself and after that I opened my eyes again.

I saw myself. Myself from Derek's eyes. As I looked down I saw Derek's muscles. Oh man, he's gonna kill me now.

"Stiles?!?" the expression of my face changed from my usual friendly approach to the one I might have had maybe the last time playing a video game. I didn't even know my face could do this.

"Yesss?" whoa. Did that vibrating manly voice just come out of me? That's so hot. I have to calm down before Derek notices I am not that mad about the situation as he is.

"What exactly have you been doing here? And I need you to tell me everything." haha. My body looks so funny when he's trying to look angry.

I told him how I felt about Scott, how the witch took the money and gave me the vial and how I drank it.

He laughed of frustration. "You fuckin' idiot. Don't you get it?"

"Get what?"

"The Dread Doctors were planning to swap you and Scott. You were suppose to go meet him after this, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Well of course. Our little stiles feels intimidated by Scott new ball drop and wants to be close, just to endanger the whole town in doing so. What would you do if you swapped with him? Would you manage being the Alpha? HUH? No, right. Didn't think so."

"Sorry, this wasn't the plan."

"Oh I know it wasn't. And it sure wasn't my plan to spend the evening fucking myself."

"WHAT?! WHAT do you mean?! Why should I.... YOU...WHAT?"

"Every magical thing has a twist. And maybe from every cheesy freaky friday movie you watch, you might understand, that the people that swap have to get close somehow, make up. They always have to 'learn a lesson', 'try to walk in each others shoes', but they all take the long way. The fastest way to swap is to know how the other one FEELS."

"Derek, I... I don't know if I want this."

"Well I sure as don't want this kid, but we don't have a choice now, do we? Now, get on your knees. I got places to be."

He came close to me and started unzipping my jeans.

"Hey that's my dick!"

"No, it's mine now. And if you don't want it to be like this forever, which I really don't, then SUCK IT!"

I have to say, that seeing my own body being so dominant was in some ways really hot. I lowered myself.

"I have never seen it from this angle. It looks really nice."

"Stiles. SUCK IT!"

I didn't want to bee yelled at anymore, but Derek's body seemed to react to it slightly. I liked the shaft first, grabbing the lower part of my dick and positioned my mouth over it. My beard over my lips slightly scratching the head of my dick seemed to cause sensation to him. I pushed the dick more and more. Damn, almost no gag reflex. Convenient. My dick is real nice I gotta say. Striaght, slightly hairy, nice balls. It's not one of the biggest out there, but it's not bad in the mouth.

I accelerated. He started moaning. I used my right hand to jerk the lower half and blow the top. I think I'm getting good at this. Maybe cause Derek now put his hand in my hair to hold onto something.

"So you like it huh?"

"DON'T STOP!"

I got back to it, accelerating even more until streams of cum released into my mouth. I swallowed.

"So? When do you think we're gonna swap?" I asked him

He hyperventilated from the orgasm. "I... I thought this would work actually."

"Well maybe we gotta fuck for real. Let's go to my place. My dad's on duty now.

We entered my room. I could see the post nut clarity in his eyes. Post nut clarity and desperation. Nothing I haven't seen before on my own face.

"Ok, Derek. The lube is in the drawers. There is a completely new one. I haven't had a chance to use it. Guess I still won't be the first one using it. Hahah."

"What do you mean?"

"You just came. My body isn't used to cum two times a in an hour, So if you can't do the math, I'll do it for you."

"We'll wait until your body's dick gets hard." he said indifferently

A wave of anger swept over me

"Listen here, Derek. You suggested this and I followed. Now it's your turn to obey and do what I tell you. You don't want to be stuck like this and these are your methods. So we're gonna fuck. And I will be on top. Understand?"

He just nodded. I could see the fear in his eyes. But also excitement. And what I really didn't expect a tent formed in his jeans. That little fucker likes to be dominated. He's just hiding it behind this facade.

I was horny, hell yeah I was. And I also wanted to enjoy being this buff for just a few minutes. I did some pull ups. It went so easily. His body is so amazing. Maybe I should hit the gym after we go back.

Derek just sat shirtless on the bed, watching me lift myself up and down.

I got near him. The sweat drops rolling over my muscles. I took his hand and positioned it on my belt. He unbuckled it. SHIIIT this dick is huge. No wonder when Derek is such a masculine man.

"SUCK IT!" I said just as he said before. Only now, my voice was more manlier than his. He obeyed me, he wanted me to feel good and ge was doing such a great job. I thrusted my hips into his mouth as he was sucking. He choked many time. My body's gag reflex made it worse for him. Take that, that's for before

I took off my pants and he took off his. He turned around and got in position for me to enter him. I took the lube, put some on my hand, then his ass. Then on my new dick. Fuck, it's my first time jerking his dick. And it feels so good. I don't think I want to swap. But if I get my hands on the vial, I could swap with anyone. It would be cool to know what it's like to be Theo. He has a beautiful body.

My mind got back from daydreaming to fucking again. My hard pulsating dick in my hand ready over my hairy ass. I pushed, slowly, gently. I waited for him to get used to it. He moaned like a little bitch. While I waited for him to enjoy the pain I grabbed his dick. He was just as hard as I was. I took my other hand and grabbed him under his neck and took him close to me. My other hand still on his dick, jerking him, my own dick thrusting into him. He moaned. I kissed his neck and bit him a bit. I could feel my wolf teeth come out. But no, not the time

I accelerated. Thrusting more into him and jerking him twice as before. He wasn't moaninf, he was screaming out of pleasure now. And then it hit. Both of us. Be came at the same time. I came into him and ha came all over my bed. We panted, my dick still inside of him slowly getting flacid.

I pulled out. Laying myself down and he did so next to me on the bed.

"Well, that didn't work."

We just looked at each other, both wondering what we were gonna do.

But hey, atleast I get to be part of the pack with Scott now.

A story from inbox that skipped a few others: Maybe a second part of the new alpha where stiles hires some witch to make him and derek swap bodies in order to improve the pack. Maybe even derek had a kink with being smaller and loves the new reality.

Sorry for taking so long, but don't worry. Your story is coming

Part 1:

Part 3:

#body swap #male body swap #body switch #teen wolf body swap

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guardianmedical · 6 months ago

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The Essential Role of Doctors: Guardians of Health and Wellness

Doctors play a pivotal role in society, serving as the guardians of our health and wellness. Their expertise spans a wide spectrum, from diagnosing illnesses to prescribing treatments and offering preventive care. In this blog post, let’s explore the vital contributions Doctor in Box Hill make to our lives and communities.

Expertise and Specialisation

Doctors undergo extensive education and training to become proficient in their field. After completing medical school, they often pursue residency programs and fellowships to specialise in areas such as cardiology, paediatrics, oncology, and many others. This specialised knowledge allows them to diagnose complex conditions accurately and recommend the most effective treatments.

Primary Care Providers

Primary care doctors serve as the first point of contact for patients seeking medical attention. They conduct routine check-ups, manage chronic conditions like diabetes and hypertension, and provide vaccinations and preventive care advice. In building long-term relationships with their patients, primary care doctors play a crucial role in promoting overall health and well-being.

Specialised Care and Consultations

Specialists, such as surgeons, neurologists, and dermatologists, offer in-depth knowledge and advanced treatments for specific medical conditions. Patients are referred to specialists when their primary care physician identifies a need for specialised expertise or procedures. These Medical Centre Near Hawthorn consultations ensure comprehensive and tailored care for each patient's unique health needs.

Emergency Medicine and Urgent Care

In emergency situations, doctors in emergency departments (ER) and urgent care facilities provide critical, immediate medical attention. They stabilise patients experiencing trauma, severe injuries, or acute illnesses. Their quick decision-making and expertise are vital in saving lives and ensuring patients receive timely care during medical crises.

Research and Innovation

Doctors contribute significantly to medical research and innovation. Through clinical trials, they test new treatments and medications to improve patient outcomes and advance medical knowledge. Research conducted by doctors leads to breakthroughs in disease prevention, diagnosis, and treatment, shaping the future of healthcare worldwide.

Patient Education and Advocacy

Beyond clinical care, doctor in box hill educates patients about their health conditions, medications, and lifestyle choices. They empower individuals to make informed decisions about their well-being, promoting healthy habits and disease prevention.

Doctors also advocate for public health initiatives, addressing community health concerns and promoting policies that benefit overall population health.

Compassionate Care and Empathy

One of the most valued aspects of a doctor's role is their compassion and empathy towards patients. They often encounter individuals facing challenging health diagnoses or chronic conditions. Through compassionate care, doctors provide emotional support, comfort, and encouragement, enhancing the healing process and patient well-being.

Collaboration and Multidisciplinary Care

In modern healthcare settings, medical centre near Hawthorn collaborates with nurses, pharmacists, therapists, and other healthcare professionals to deliver comprehensive care.

This multidisciplinary approach ensures that patients receive integrated treatment plans that address their medical, emotional, and social needs. Teamwork among healthcare professionals enhances patient outcomes and promotes continuity of care.

Final Words

Doctors are integral members of society, dedicated to improving and preserving the health of individuals and communities. Their expertise, compassion, and commitment to lifelong learning make them invaluable contributors to the field of medicine. As we navigate through various health challenges, doctor in box hill continues to play a central role in promoting a healthier, more resilient society.

In conclusion, the impact of doctors extends far beyond the walls of hospitals and clinics—they are the cornerstone of a healthier future for us all.

Source: The Essential Role of Doctors: Guardians of Health and Wellness

#doctor in box hill #medical centre near Hawthorn

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lvnleah · 5 months ago

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004. | the secret’s out

word count: 2k

find the masterlist here!

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November 16th 2023 | 20 weeks pregnant.

When you and Leah had been given the rare chance to have an evening away together, you knew you couldn’t say no.

Usually, weekends and overnight stays took place during the offseason but because Leah was out with her ACL it meant that you had a rare opportunity to go away for the night.

With you now being twenty weeks pregnant, your bump was fairly large and noticeable. You and Leah spent a few hours researching different places close to your house but still far enough away to spend the evening away.

You wanted to be close to home because of your hyperemesis gravidarum. It had been five weeks since you’d received your diagnosis and you had things under control.

You were keeping your diet bland and eating small but every few hours like your doctor had suggested. It was starting to settle down but the nausea and tiredness remained, luckily you hadn’t been hospitalised yet.

Leah had found a little cottage that was in a coastal town a few hours away from your house in St Albans. The photos looked perfect, it was a little cottage settled up in the hills that overlooked the beach with its own stairs leading down to the sand.

You and Leah instantly booked it before packing an overnight bag. The next day you and Leah had your twenty-week ultrasound where your doctor wrote down the gender of your baby.

A few days prior, you’d both agreed to give the paper to Lia who was then going to sort out a box of things in either the colour blue or pink for you and Leah to find out. It just so happened that it worked out with the night away and that you and Leah were going to be able to have your gender revealed on the beach.

Lia had dropped the box off before you and Leah set off on the drive to the cottage, it was hard for you both to not open the box on the drive there. It was a three-hour drive, you spent the first two catch up on the sleep you’d lost out on, but during the last hour, you still found it hard to not think about the tiny box.

You both found it even harder when you had to go the whole day without opening it. Leah had surprised you with a spa day, something you hadn’t had in a while.

At the spa, Leah insisted on spoiling you with treatments tailored to your pregnancy. You indulged in a gentle prenatal massage, which melted away the stress you'd been carrying in your lower back.

Leah, meanwhile, enjoyed a deep-tissue massage and some time in the sauna. You couldn’t deny that you were jealous that she got to use the sauna and you didn’t.

For a moment, the constant nausea and fatigue that had plagued you seemed to disappear, replaced by a sense of calm. You and Leah floated between treatments, holding hands and exchanging smiles, the anticipation of the evening's reveal simmering beneath the surface.

After your time at the spa, Leah drove you both to a little café overlooking the sea. The weather was perfect, clear skies with a gentle breeze that carried the scent of saltwater. You sat by the window, picking at a simple but satisfying meal of toast and soup, while Leah had a classic ham sandwich. She kept glancing out towards the beach, her knee bouncing with restless energy.

“Are you sure we can’t just open the box now?” Leah asked impatiently.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “No way. It’ll be worth the wait.”

After lunch, you took a stroll along the shoreline. The sand was cool beneath your feet, as Leah walked beside you, occasionally picking up interesting shells or stones, her arm securely around your waist.

When the sun began to set, you and Leah returned to the cottage to freshen up. As you changed into a comfortable dress that flattered your growing bump, you noticed Leah pacing around the living room, the small box clutched tightly in her hands.

“Ready?” she asked, her voice tinged with excitement as she held out her free hand to you.

“Ready,” you replied, taking her hand and following her out to the private staircase leading down to the beach.

The sand was soft and cool beneath your bare feet as you found a spot just beyond the reach of the waves. Leah set the box down on a blanket she had spread out, and the two of you sat side by side, the anticipation almost tangible in the air around you.

Sitting on the blanket, you and Leah took a moment to savour the anticipation before opening the box. You both exchanged nervous smiles, your hands tightly clasped together.

Leah looked at you, her eyes filled with a mixture of excitement and tenderness. “You know, no matter what, I’m so grateful to be doing this with you,” she said softly. “Our little one is going to be so lucky to have you as a mum.”

You squeezed her hand, feeling a lump in your throat. “I’m grateful too. You’ve been amazing through everything, and I can’t wait to see you with our baby. They’re going to have the best Mumma.”

She leaned in and kissed your forehead, her touch gentle and reassuring. “Are you ready?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You took a deep breath, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement swirling inside you. “I’m ready.”

Leah nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Okay, let’s do this. On the count of three?”

You nodded, and together you counted down. “One… two… three…”

With the sun setting behind you, Leah finally opened the box. Inside was a cluster of things, their colour hidden by a layer of tissue paper. She carefully peeled the tissue away, her breath catching in her throat.

When the tissue paper was pulled away an assortment of different things in the colour blue were revealed, and a wave of emotion washed over you. Your breath caught in your throat, and tears of joy sprang to your eyes. The realisation that you were having a boy felt both surreal and deeply moving.

Leah's arms wrapped around you immediately, pulling you into a tight embrace. You could feel her heart pounding against your own, both of you overwhelmed by emotion

Your hand instinctively went to your belly, and you whispered, "A boy. We’re having a boy."

Leah pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, “Our little boy,” she echoed, before pulling you into her lips.

“Oh my god,” you whispered as you both pulled back, “We're having a baby boy.”

Leah nodded, “A boy,” she repeated, “I can’t believe it. Oh my god.”

As you and Leah walked back to the cottage, the excitement of discovering you were having a baby boy left you both giddy. It felt like Christmas Eve, the air buzzing with the thrill of the news and the dreams of your future.

Inside the cottage, you wasted no time heading to bed, eager to unwind from the day’s emotions. You changed into your pyjamas, and Leah, still beaming, joined you under the covers.

She nestled close, resting her head gently against your growing bump. “I still can’t believe it,” she murmured, her voice filled with awe. “Our little boy.”

You smiled, running your fingers through her hair. “I know. I keep imagining what he’ll be like, what we’ll name him…”

You gasped, your hand flying to your belly. “Leah! I think I just felt him kick.”

Leah’s eyes widened, and she sat up immediately, placing her hand where yours rested. “Really? Was it strong?”

“Not very, but I felt it,” you said as a smile spread across your face. “Here, place your hand there.”

For the next few minutes, you both waited in eager anticipation. Leah kept her hand still, her face a mix of concentration and excitement. You tried to stay as relaxed as possible, hoping your son would give his moms another kick.

“I can’t feel anything yet,” Leah whispered, her brow furrowing.

You shifted slightly, giving your bump a gentle pat. “Come on, little guy, just one more kick for Mumma.”

Then it happened.

A stronger, unmistakable kick. Leah’s eyes widened in excitement and shock as she felt it too. “Oh my God, I felt it! I felt him kick!” she exclaimed, her voice hushed but filled with excitement.

You both broke into laughter, overwhelmed by the sheer joy of sharing this first with each other. Leah hugged you tightly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“He’s already making sure we know he’s going to be a footballer,” she said softly, her voice choking with emotion.

You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes again. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

For the rest of the night, you lay there together, Leah’s hand never leaving your bump. Now and then, your baby boy would strike a kick against Leah’s hand sending you both into fits of laughter.

The night of discovering you were having a baby boy left you and Leah in a whirl of excitement, making sleep elusive. The thrill of the first kick and the anticipation of your baby’s arrival filled your thoughts, and you spent hours talking and dreaming about the future.

A few days later, once back home, you hosted a small gender reveal party for your closest family and friends. The living room was decorated with blue and pink streamers, and a large black balloon filled with confetti hovered in the centre.

Leah’s parents, Jacob, her cousins, grandma and uncle, Keira and most of her Arsenal teammates gathered around, their faces glowing with anticipation.

Leah held your hand as you both stood beside the balloon, her smile infectious. “Ready?” she asked, squeezing your hand gently.

“Ready,” you replied, sharing a quick, excited glance with her.

“Alright!” Leah shouted, “It’s time to pop this balloon!”

“I just want to say, thank you all for being here today and showing our bubba so much love!” You said, smiling as your hand rested on your bump. “They’re truly going to be spoiled and I can’t wait for you to find out if they’re a boy or girl!”

Leah smiled, “Can we get a countdown?”

With everyone counting down, Leah handed you a pin. You took a deep breath and popped the balloon, releasing a shower of blue confetti into the air. Cheers and applause erupted from the room, and you and Leah laughed, caught in a joyful embrace.

Amanda cried tears of happiness, Jacob jumped up and down before hugging Leah, and your friends clapped and cheered. Amongst the excitement, you caught a glimpse of Leah’s eyes. They were filled with tears as she tried her hardest to hold them back.

Later that evening, after everyone had left and the last piece of confetti had been swept away, you and Leah cuddled on the couch, wrapping yourselves in a cosy blanket. Leah’s arm draped around you, her fingers gently tracing circles on your belly as you settled into the warm cocoon of your shared happiness.

You sighed contentedly, leaning into Leah. “Today was perfect. I loved seeing everyone’s reactions.”

Leah chuckled, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “Jacob’s face when he saw the blue confetti was priceless. He looked so happy.”

You laughed, nodding. “And your mums reaction! She was so overjoyed. I think she’s already planning all the things she’s going to buy for him.”

Leah grinned, her expression softening. “I loved how everyone was so supportive and happy for us. It made everything feel even more real.”

You nestled closer. “I can’t wait to see our little boy surrounded by so much love. He’s going to have the best family.”

Leah’s hand rested protectively over your bump. “He really will,” she said softly, her voice tinged with emotion. “And he’s going to have the best parents.”

You looked up at her, your heart swelling with affection. “We’re pretty lucky, aren’t we?”

Leah nodded, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “We are but I think I’m the luckiest,” she smiled, “I love you, pretty girl.”

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liked by bethmead and 104,563 others

leahwilliamsonn baby williamson coming April 2024 👶🏻🤍 so proud of my wife 🫶🏻

—

y/n.williamson excited to be a Mumma with you ❤️

view 10 replies liked by 207 others

bethmead_ Auntie Beffy can’t wait 👶🏻❤️

view 2 replies liked by 104 others

lionesses Congrats! We can’t wait to meet them!

view 5 replies liked by 187 others

liawaelti congrats, so much love 👶🏻🥰

view 3 replies liked by 178 others

keirawalsh I’ll teach them how to ride a bike x

view 12 replies liked by 189 others

kyracooneyx I’ll baby sit!

view 8 replies liked by 123 others

mbaker1971 Can’t wait for the bubba to arrive ❤️

view 13 replies liked by 156 others

jenbeattie auntie jenny 😍

view 6 replies liked by 144 others

viviannemiedema baby williamson 😍👶🏻

view 7 replies liked by 111 others

jacobwilliamson10 little spurs fan on the way!

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doctorseekaustralia · 8 months ago

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Welcome to Doctor Seek, your trusted online platform dedicated to simplifying the healthcare experience in Australia. Our mission is to provide a user-friendly space where patients can effortlessly find qualified doctors, and where healthcare forum professionals can connect, collaborate, and engage in meaningful discussions with you.

#Doctor Seek #Melbourne #Box Hill #Keysbourgh #healthcare forum #Australian Doctors Forum #Medical Discussion Forum

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flanaganfilm · 1 year ago

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Hey Mike! Absolutely love your work, especially Haunting of Hill House and Fall of the House of Usher. I was wondering a couple things:

Any chance we will ever get to see that deleted scene where Carla plays a homeless woman singing to Madeleine? Loved the Easter egg and also can’t get enough of Verna so it would be so cool to see that deleted scene!

Also wanted to know what it was like working with Mary? It was such a joy to see her in House of Usher!! Hoping to see her in future Flanaverse projects!!

Hi there! That material was removed very early in the editing process, long before the scene was completed, so there isn't a finished "scene" to show. Carla and Mary did fine work acting in those moments, but the series as a whole is stronger without it, so a completed version of the scene with that footage simply never existed. It's an odd alchemy when you tell a story this way, and sometimes scenes that seem to work on the page can be acted beautifully, shot exquisitely, and still not be necessary or additive. In this case, it actually worked against the mysteries of the show, it wasn't believable that Madeline wouldn't recognize Verna, and it was clear that this was a mistake. It was my mistake for writing the scene the way I did, and it happens all the time. We could tell immediately that it didn't fit, so we didn't waste much time proving it out. Releasing deleted scenes is a tricky thing. I love bonus features - it's one of the great benefits of physical media - but even if we had a huge special edition box set of Usher, I don't know that we would have included this scene. Sometimes these things just aren't meant for the audience, even as an interesting relic, and this is one of those times. Incidentally, I had the same feeling about some of the material that didn't make it into the Bly Manor edit. We knew the scenes weren't working very early in the process, so they were never refined into any shape that would warrant their release. Fans will hear an actor talk about scenes they worked on, and the fans get all excited, but if they were to see those scenes it wouldn't enhance their love of the characters or the story... in fact, it can work against it. For years, I've had Bly fans reach out lamenting that they can't see some of the Bly material they've read about in cast interviews, but I'm certain that seeing it in its raw, unfinished state wouldn't enhance or deepen their love of the characters or the show. There's really nothing to release. It's just excess material that lands on the floor while you're sculpting, and sticking it back onto the sculpture only makes a noticeable wart. Other times, though, deleted scenes can be incredibly additive. For example, I think the 30 minutes we took out of the theatrical release of Doctor Sleep only enhanced the movie, and made the experience that much more rich - which was why I was so happy to release the Director's Cut with those scenes restored. Those scenes, though, were fully finished, and only removed in the first place because of the movie's run-time. Restoring those elements made the sculpture complete - they were always supposed to be there. But most times, deleted material is just unnecessary material. It can be like having an amazing meal prepared for you, and then being handed a plate of surplus or unused ingredients. Like, the chef needed to peel a lemon before squeezing it over the meal as a wonderful finishing touch. That dash of citrus really made the meal sing. But that doesn't mean you want to eat the peel. And I LOVE working with Mary. I'm sure we'll do it again!

#the fall of the house of usher #deleted scenes #haunting of bly manor #dani clayton #you don't actually want to eat the lemon peel #damie stans

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boxhillsuperclinicaustralia · 1 year ago

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Embark on this transformative healthcare journey with MyMedicare. Call our dedicated console at 03 9899 8668, or visit health.gov.au/MyMedicare to discover the future of personalized healthcare. Your health, our priority – experience the difference with MyMedicare at Boxhill Superclinic.

Reference url on MyMedicare: Your Gateway to Personalized Healthcare Excellence

#Box Hill superclinic #Box Hill #Mymedicare Department #Gp Doctor #Medicare Services #Medicare Appointment

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farfromstrange · 3 months ago

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Do No Harm

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: (Not) A Greater Woman

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Your tendency to self-destruct tears down everything in your path, even your best friend. Though it is Claire's secrets, in the end, that have you fearing for your life.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST, Heavy on the angst (18+), alcohol abuse (and everything that comes with it), mentions of alcoholism, mentions of child and domestic abuse, mentions of suicide, bad coping mechanisms, Reader is being unfair, needles, mentions of drugs, self-destructive behavior, violence, faint allusions to sexual assault

Word Count: 3.4k

A/n: ...and ending on a cliffhanger. Classic. I purposefully wanted a lot of raw dialogue. I wanted Liv to say things she doesn't mean because she has problems and she needs help. I wanted Claire to be on her last straw because mental illness is hard on everyone involved, just to different degrees. Mental illness does funny things to people, after all. Please, heed the warnings.

Read Chapter 15: (Not) A Greater Woman here on AO3!

In your dream, far beyond the never-ending void of darkness, there is a little girl. She’s running around a field of bright white daisies, carefully picking those she deems pretty enough to be made into a flower crown. The sun is shining down from above, and it’s so peaceful there, far away from the bustling of the city.

A woman calls from somewhere north. The little girl turns toward the distinctive sound, waving her daisy-filled hands. “Daisies, mommy!” she says, unstable on her little toddler legs.

The woman chuckles. “I can see that, darling. You want to come over here for a second? I have to reapply your sunscreen.”

Such a beautiful summer day, you think to yourself as you feel the breeze against your skin. The little girl doesn’t protest. She takes the daisies and runs up the hill to her mother.

They are the spitting image of each other—matching braids, matching overalls, and matching smiles. At what point in life does the candle blow out, and children who once believed in all the good in the world turn into cynical adults? At what point in life does the magic end?

When the woman calls out this time, the name she utters sends a shiver down your spine. You look around yourself, but there is no one but you, the little girl, and her mother, and neither of them seems aware of your presence in the vast field of daisies.

The realization slowly dawns on you that the girl with stars in her eyes isn’t just any little girl finding solace in nature, she is you.

Within seconds, the daisies turn to dust. You look down, expecting to see a sliver of green, but you find yourself standing in a pile of ashes instead. First, it is ashes, then it is grass again, and then, you’re standing before a marble gravestone in a crowded cemetery in the suburbs of San Francisco.

That is why you hate summers; one second, you’re happy, and the next, the person you love most is ripped from your bare hands.

When you think about your mother, you only remember the good days. Though somewhere in the faint distance of your mind, tucked away in a neat box that you once locked and threw away the key, are pictures of her crying. Pictures of her lying in bed for days as your father tried to coax her to at least eat something.

You remember the times she used to yell at him, completely apathetic, and you had to watch from your doorway down the hall as she bullied him away. You doubt he ever noticed you there. In reality, your mother had more bad days than good. The tumor was growing uncontrollably inside of her, but every time he took her to the doctor, they sent her home with another psychiatric diagnosis.

You were only a child, a toddler, you didn’t know any better. You only wanted your mother. But you lost her, and shortly after, you lost your father to the impossible power of drugs and alcohol.

You swore yourself you would never turn into him. After years of taking care of him, you swore to yourself you would never touch a bottle of liquor. You would never make the same mistakes he did.

Until one day, you did.

No matter what you do, you might never outrun the cycle of self-destruction you were born into.

Your eyes flutter against the iron curtain keeping them shut. You’re trying to fight your way out of this godforsaken nightmare, but someone seems to be holding a sledgehammer to your head. Thud, thud, thud. It’s hollow, at first, then quickly turns sharper.

“Liv,” a faint voice breaks through the cotton in your ears. “Liv, hey! Can you hear me?” she asks.

The world is too bright when you finally open your eyes. With the pounding headaches comes a wave of toe-curling nausea, and before you know it, you’re hunched over the edge of Claire’s couch, reality crashing into you like a tidal wave, and you’re motioning for something, anything, to empty your guts into.

Just in time, she puts a bowl in your hand. A mix of alcohol and pure stomach acid burns its way through your esophagus, traveling from your stomach out through your mouth.

If only the memories were erased, the physical pain would be much easier to bear. You can still see them, clear as day in your mind. Matt, the empty restaurant table, and the bottle of vodka you drowned in—it’s all coming back to you now. One would think that drinking yourself into oblivion would work like a wet towel on a dirty whiteboard, but the brain can be powerful in upholding the clarity of painful memories. Once again, you have fallen victim to your psyche. You destroyed your body again, and again, it was for nothing at all.

“Easy.” Claire wraps a hand around your hair. “You’re gonna rip out your IV.”

You catch a glimpse of the tube sticking out of your arm, attached to the bag of yellow propped up on the backrest.

“What?” you pant.

It doesn’t make sense to you. None of this makes sense. She is coddling you like one of her patients. After what you did, you hardly deserve it. The things you said to her seem so cruel now in retrospect, but you were drunk and angry, and you didn’t know how to listen. You didn’t want to listen. So, you picked a fight because that is what you do best—pushing the people you love away.

“It’s a banana bag,” Claire states. “Don’t ask.”

“Well, I am asking.”

“Perks of a nurse’s apartment. Free drugs.”

“Criminal,” you mutter.

“Anger issues,” she retorts. “Somebody’s gotta make sure your ass doesn’t die from alcohol poisoning, so…”

Nerves do funny things to people. Some start pacing, others try to breathe, and Claire hovers. It is her job to do so. To be there. To take care of others. And she is the first to try and save something that seems beyond repair. To her, nothing ever really is.

She reaches for her medical bag. “Here,” she says, handing you a wrapped aspirin. “This should help with the hangover.”

You ignore her. “What time is it?”

“Little after five.”

“In the morning?”

“In the evening. You were out for over twelve hours.”

“Fuck!” You try to sit up without ripping the needle out of your arm, but even the slightest movement turns your stomach around.

The next curse comes with a gush of stomach acid. Your muscles contract, and you empty your guts into the bowl.

Claire growls, “Stop moving.”

“No. I need to–” You retch. “Uh, I need to be at work in a few hours. I need to… go home.”

You convince yourself that if you breathe through your nose, you won’t vomit. You won’t pass out. The pain won’t consume you whole. You reach for the aspirin, after all, to at least try to numb what you destroyed.

“You still have alcohol in your blood.” She stops you. “You can’t operate like this.”

You push the bowl aside. “I have patients, Claire,” you say. “I need to check on them. If I don’t, I’ll get fired. People could die.”

“Are you really that irresponsible?”

“I’m not drunk anymore.”

“Oh, yeah?” She reaches for the breathalyzer, wherever she got that from. “Blow into this,” she says, “and we’ll talk.”

You grind your teeth. Your eyes flicker between the device and her face. She looks smug—so fucking smug. You push it away from your mouth; you’re going to fail, anyway. Setting foot in the hospital would be gross medical negligence, and you refuse to be that person.

Claire nods. “Thank you. You’re gonna call in sick to work, and I will make sure you’re sober enough by tomorrow for your next shift.”

“Is that all you’re gonna do?” you counter.

A pause, and then, “I’ll come back when the time’s right,” she says.

You want to ask, what if the time is never right? But the tension wraps around your neck like a noose, and you find yourself suddenly unable to talk.

Life as you know it is over, you have to face that. Things will never be the same again. Claire might never be the same again. As much as it hurts, the cycle of life always finds ways to fuck you over, and you just have to accept that.

You watch as Claire busies her hands, as she keeps hovering, and the words she said last night before you passed out come back to mind. Do you want to turn into your father? You could get nauseous again just thinking about it. “What you said last night,” you begin, “about me turning into my father…”

She stops rearranging the furniture, but she doesn’t turn around to you. “You want me to say I didn’t mean it?” she asks.

“I want you to tell me the truth,” you say.

“The truth?”

“Yeah.” You sit up straighter, holding onto the needle in your arm. “Do you really think I’m like him?” A grunt slips past your lips. “I mean, is that how low you think of me?”

Claire scoffs. Her eyes slip from you to her hands in her lap. “I asked if you wanted to turn into him, I didn’t say you already were. ‘Cause even if that’s not the case, you’re on the best path to doing so anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Seriously?” She gets up, towering over you, and you have no choice but to let her; you don’t have the energy to fight back. “All the drinking, picking fights, and feeling sorry for yourself? That’s not an indication?”

“I have bad coping mechanisms, yes, but that doesn’t mean–” but you get interrupted.

“Bad coping mechanisms,” Claire snickers. “Right.”

“I’m not like him and you know it,” you say. “You know I’d rather die than be like him.”

“If you keep going like this, you will die.”

Your eyes roll back into your head. “I had a few drinks. I didn’t snort a line of coke and started beating the person I was supposed to protect senseless. You know why?” You raise your voice high enough for it to crack. “‘Cause I’m not like my father!”

The sound travels back to your ears, and you flinch at the shrillness of it all. You swore years ago that, no matter how miserable you get, you would never let the pain get the better of you. You’re still functioning. You are not like your father because you’re still functioning. Or are you, after all, just lying to yourself?

Your life has been a burning trash pile for so long that you forgot what normal even is, but maybe you are the reason it hasn’t stopped burning yet. Maybe it isn’t the trauma or the fact that Matt stood you up but you are the one pouring gasoline into the fire.

You’re not functioning, but you can’t possibly admit it.

“You’re using alcohol to escape,” Claire says. “You know who does that? Alcoholics. You’re an alcoholic.”

“I am not an alcoholic!” you snap.

Your mind is a continuous loop of, take it back, take it back, take it back. You just want her to take it back.

Instead, she throws her arms up in the air. “My point is that you can’t keep going like this. You can’t drink yourself into a coma at every minor inconvenience. You’re gonna end up dead in a ditch one day, and I won’t be there to bail you out.”

You manage to pull yourself together enough to rise from the couch. “I don’t need you to bail me out! I don’t need you to do anything,” you tell her, so sure of yourself.

“You’re my best friend, for fuck’s sake! I’m here. I’ll always be here,” she says, “but I can’t help you if you keep destroying yourself just because you think nothing fucking matters anymore!”

“I’m not some broken thing you need to fix, Claire! It is my life! Mine!”

“You know what? You’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t stop you from killing yourself.”

You shake your head. “I managed to survive before I met you, and I can do it again.”

You try to tell yourself that she isn’t the reason you’re still alive. You try to tell yourself that she is just another person in your life and that you will survive if you lose her. Life would be easier if she wasn’t who she is.

Upon your words, Claire doesn’t move a muscle. “Okay,” she says. “Fine.”

Infuriating.

“God, I wish I’d never met you!”

In the fallout of your outburst, there is quiet. The words seep into her skin like radioactive material. You watch as it poisons her, as it poisons every good memory you made together over the past two years as though it never meant a thing.

You can’t believe you said that.

“Well,” Claire finds her voice again after seconds stretched into hours, “that makes two of us. But you know what? I won’t stand in your way. I’m done.”

The words die on your tongue.

“I’m gonna take a walk, and when I come back,” she says, “I want you gone.”

“Claire–” you start.

You have never seen her so distant, so beside herself. She reaches for her coat on the rack. “You know how to remove an IV, don’t you?”

“You think that’s gonna hurt me?” you try to engage her one last time, waiting for a reaction, anything to tell you that she isn’t going to walk out on you.

That she isn’t about to abandon you.

That you didn’t just ruin the one good thing in your life by not knowing how to keep your mouth shut.

Because you were so angry at yourself you took it out on her like a fucking sociopath.

“No,” Claire chuckles, breathless to no end, “you don’t need me for that. You never did.”

The door falls shut behind her.

For a moment, you think it’s a bad joke and that she will turn around and come back, but one minute turns to two, and the door remains closed. You are left alone in a strange apartment with a strange cat, trapped in a grave you dug for yourself.

A greater woman would run after her. A greater woman would apologize and beg her to come back. A greater woman would not be a coward when faced with the reality of having pushed her best friend away—because she has no one else. You have no one else. But you’re not a greater woman. You claim to be; you want to be, but you are far too screwed up for that.

You press a finger just above the needle, slowly pulling it out of your arm. The sting is unlike the thousand cuts every one of your breaths is marinating with salt. An inferno has taken over your body, but you have no more fight left in you.

You are done.

You ignore the blood spurting from the superficial wound, reaching for your coat instead. Your steps are far from straight, your vision is blurry and you don’t have any money, but you would be damned if you stayed.

Just as you’re about to drag your sorry ass to the exit, the door rattles. It’s subtle, but it’s there, followed by the relentless drag of steel boots along the hallway outside.

The uncoordinated turning of the knob stops you in your tracks.

Claire has a key.

The woman who lives here has a key, and she is still with her ill brother.

You are either having hallucinations, finally losing your mind or someone is trying to get into the apartment—and it isn’t Claire.

You back away, step after step toward the window. As if you could survive a jump from this height. As if you have the guts to jump.

That rattling is so familiar—too familiar.

Someone kicks at the fragile wood, and your heart drops to your stomach, dissolving in the acid. Voices start to overlap in a language you don’t understand. You have nowhere to run.

The irony of it all almost makes you laugh. You pushed Claire out of the apartment she’s staying in; you pushed her out of your life, and now someone is trying to break in with you inside. It seems like karma of the highest order.

Your mouth opens in a gasp as the door flies off its hinges, and you come face to face with two men. Strangers covered in scars.

You don’t scream.

You don’t run.

They certainly expect a reaction out of you, shouting orders in Russian to each other to surround you, but you are tethered to the ground by the roots of an invisible tree. Your blood runs cold, clogging the arteries leading to your heart, but you still can’t run.

Pointless is the only word that comes to mind. Fighting back is pointless. You want to curl up and die. To let natural selection take its pick. You can’t say you don’t deserve it because that would be the biggest lie of all.

Their grabby hands reach for you. “Take it,” John’s voice pipes up in the back of your head. “Take. It!” And if it were him, you would run.

God knows what they want to do to you. They have the same evil in their eyes as he had. A million worst-case scenarios cross your mind, all worse than the mercy of death, and your muscles thaw. A switch is flicked. You break out of the ice, sprinting around the coffee table to get toward the door just when they think they can get to you. Russian obscenities fall from their lips, and you swear you can make out the name, “Claire,” along the lines.

They will not get her, and if they get you, at least they won’t have her.

You should have listened when she said there are some things she just can’t tell you. You had no right to be mad. What has she gotten herself into? What has she been suffering through without you?

She always had to bail you out. Even when you thought she chose herself, she was still choosing to protect you. What a fucking fool you are.

You catch the eyes of a boy, a teenager, on your way to freedom, the two men shouting behind you, and his broken brown eyes break your heart like a porcelain vase. He looks so guilty, so shocked to see you there, and it only takes you a moment to recognize him.

He’s bleeding.

“Not Claire,” he chokes out in his broken Spanish accent, even after you shake your head and scream for him to run, but it’s too late.

They don’t care that you’re not her. They grab you, and you scream again as they tear you to the ground. You barely feel the blood pooling under your nails, dragging along the splintering floorboards. Adrenaline forces your body to fight back, to kick, and to cry out for help, but like all those years ago, no one hears you.

One of the men grabs your hair and forces your head into the wood. Your temple splits open under the sheer force, blood splattering everywhere. For a moment, you only hear your heart racing in your ears. You can taste it on your tongue. The lights blind you, and they are whiter than they used to be.

You’re painfully aware of the hands dragging your limp body toward the door. T copper and dirt in your nostrils are a toxic combination of scents that remind you of death, and you might just die tonight. Physically and emotionally, you might die.

You’ve been begging for death to come and get you, but now that he is knocking on your door, you don’t want him anymore. Not like this. Not after everything you survived to get here. This is not how you want to go out.

“Help,” your lips form the word as an incoherent whisper. “Help, please…”

It’s too late. Consciousness slips through your fingers, and darkness overcomes you like a total solar eclipse. Though unlike before, you are not floating. You are not at peace. There are no daisy fields or graveyards.

This new darkness is empty, vile, and eerily familiar, too. When you finally succumb to it, thoughtless existence is all that is waiting for you on the other side—or perhaps, purgatory.

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#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #daredevil #daredevil x reader #matt murdock angst #do no harm #charlie cox

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