#things have been piling up and me being sick isn't helping

[robinsnest2111]

maybe popping a couple ibuprofen, chugging tap water and cleaning my room at 3am while listening to some kind of gyaru j-rap(? sorry I don't have any knowledge about this area of music genres...) will fix me?

---

song in question:

[sizzlingcloudmentality]

yes, ma'am

Dave York x dominatrix!reader | 9.5k w | explicit, mdni | ao3

summary: life goes sideways and Dave is close to snapping. he needs professional help. aka let himself be dominated and be at the receiving end for once. good thing he has your number.

warnings: sub-ish!Dave (how sub can a born dom be?), dominatrix!reader, no use of y/n, reader is able-bodied, Dave is a good husband and father™️, Molly throwing up, slight humiliation (the boy being called dummy <3), slight ball torture, (guided) masturbation (m), finger sucking, petnames (ma'am, good boy, love), cum eating, slight shoe worship, dick+pussy pronouns, reader wears lipstick, nail polish and stilettos, squint and you miss unprotected PinV; dm me if I missed any

a/n: my submission for @wannab-urs dmamc 2025. i had so much fun domming my man and I tried to make it believable because, well, he's Dave 'the dom' York. enjoy another character study including his dick. thank you @guiltyasdave for the beta and constant love, even though sub!Dave isn't your cup of tea 🥹💛

"Gentle eyes, soft words, tender chin scratches. You have his tail wagging. Slowly, slowly you are domesticating him into a dog, one praise at a time."

“Fuck!” His hand slams down on the steering wheel, once, twice. Again, again, again, until his palm hurts and the thrumming pain helps him to push aside the anger boiling inside of him. He rips down his beanie, ripping out a few hairs as well, not giving a shit about it.

He fucked up. If it wasn’t for his partner the mission would have gone south completely, pulling him along. The plan had been perfect, the preparations perfect as well. All he had to do was to pull the trigger and take the target out. But he fucking missed. He fucking missed. Hit the target into the shoulder, and if Dave’s partner didn’t take initiative and put a bullet through the target's head… He doesn’t want to think about it.

He already saw his domestic life passing before his eyes. The police arresting him at home, his daughters terrified and not understanding why they would take their daddy away. Carol at the trial, being questioned if she really didn’t know about her husband’s assassination side hustle, her face puffy and red from crying.

Dave hisses out another curse, hitting the hard wheel in front of him again.

He could always just disappear, always has an emergency duffle bag stowed away with fake IDs and some cash. But he wouldn't stomach it, couldn't stomach it, leaving his family behind.

It was a close call today… He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, the tail lights of his inconspicuous car slowly blending in with the dozens of others on the nightly roads as he heads home to his inconspicuous life.

The next few days were difficult, to say the least. His higher up at the CIA was a pain in the ass, deadlines were piling up, Molly got sick and needed attention and care, Carol needed his support, the almost-failed mission was still breathing down his neck… He needed a break and there was no break in sight. Not now. His family needs him, his job does, he needs to fucking function now.

“Daddy, ‘m not feeling good,” Molly mumbles, curled up on the couch, her head in Dave’s lap while he’s working on a report on his laptop.

“Just a second, baby.” He’s almost done, he just needs a minute and the worst part of his report would be finished. Molly stirs on the couch, hastily now. God damnit.

“Daddy…” Her little body starts trembling and with a shudder and a sound that makes Dave’s heart hurt, she slumps over and pukes. All over his notes. Over his pants he had just picked up from the dry cleaning. All over the cream colored couch that Carol wanted so badly and that looks like shit now. All over his laptop. The screen flickers a last time before it goes dark.

“I'm so sorry… Please don't be mad, Daddy.” Molly starts crying, feeling sick and miserable, her little hands shaking as she grips her ruined blanket.

The vein on his neck, he feels it throbbing. His laptop, his fucking work laptop, broken. The sticky, disgusting warmth of what once was chicken soup seeps through his trousers and makes his eyelid twitch.

Just pick your baby up, just comfort her, just help her change into new pajamas, just be a good father, just be good…

“Daddy?” She sounds so fragile, her voice nothing more than a weak breath. She clumsily pushes herself up and accidentally nudges the laptop off of Dave’s knees. The carpet swallows the low thud when it hits the ground, but the cracking of the screen is still very much audible, just as much as Molly’s shocked gasp.

“You broke it. You fucking broke it, Molly,” Dave hisses and is on his feet in an instant, his daughter toppling back onto the couch, now crying even more because she upset her dad.

He doesn’t look over to her but picks up his laptop, trying to bring it back to life. The muscles in his jaw clench when Molly’s sobs start pealing in his eardrums. Dave turns towards her, a barked shut up already on his tongue when Carol appears in the doorway.

One quick look is enough for her to assess the situation. Their crying daughter, a picture of misery and guilt written all over her pale face and Dave, nostrils flared and one hand balled into a fist, the unmistakable smell of vomit reaching her nose… No, this wasn’t good.

“It'll take it from here, Dave,” she says when she strides past him. “Go and calm down.” There's no bite to her words, bite wouldn't do any good at this moment. It would only make it worse, make Dave lose the last bits of reason.

Carol scoops Molly up in her arms, pressing a few soothing kisses to the little girl’s temple. She looks over her shoulder and gestures towards the door with a tilt of her chin as if to say please, just go.

And he does. He flees from the living room and the feeling of shame that starts licking at his insides. It gets too much. A thought crosses his mind, a simple calculation, it has been almost ten months since…

A shiver runs through him and he shakes the idea off his mind like a dog tries to shake off an annoying tick. No, he wouldn't need to do it this time, there sure is another possibility to finally get a grip on his life. He just needs to focus more. Needs a better sleep regimen. More training. More protein. More control over all the small bits and pieces of his life.

Dave shuts the door to his home gym behind him and gets to work. If his muscles are trembling and his lungs are begging him for air, he has no time to think about what kind of an asshole father and husband he is. And so he starts tormenting his body to shut off his mind, to keep the guilt and shame at bay. For now.

That night, when he slips under the bed sheets, almost silently to not wake his sleeping wife, the idea creeps back into his head. Like a tick it has sunk its teeth into his skin and he can’t seem to get rid of it since the first time he has done… it.

It has helped him before, more than he likes to admit it. But he hates it. Because he cannot do it on his own. Because he needs someone else doing it for him, to him. And Dave never liked to be dependent on something or someone.

The sheets rustle and Carol’s hand finds his own, wrapping her fingers around his in the darkness as if she was trying to comfort him. But in reality she wanted his comfort and soothing. Dave wasn't a man who was dependent. Because he always was the man everyone else depended on.

He turns on his side and lifts her hand to his lips to press a gentle kiss to Carol’s knuckles.

She hums, shuffles closer, her feet slipping between his calves. After a moment of content silence a murmur crawls over the pillows to Dave and settles right on his chest, where the thought about it sits and gnaws at him like a night terror.

“Maybe… maybe you should go see that therapist again? They really helped you the last time.”

Therapist. That was what he told his wife you were. And the things you did, it was therapy. It is, in a way. It helped him. And he hates that it does. He hates that he can’t function like he needs to. He hates that Carol sounds so timid when she suggests therapy, afraid that he could snap at her, too, because she dares to point out his weakness.

He sighs, her soft knuckles still held against his lips. “Is Molly okay?”

“She’s a little better, yes.”

The silence weighs heavy for a moment, Carol’s unanswered question pressing down on Dave’s rib cage. Or is it the feeling of guilt? About being a shit show of a father and husband? About needing you to function, even if it all feels so wrong but afterwards it always feels good and right and he feels better, every damn time?

“I'll make an appointment,” he murmurs and his lips find her ring finger, kissing the spot where the simple golden band always sits. She never takes the ring off, just like him. Carol nestles into his arms, the relief clear when she whispers her thank you, I love you into the hollow between his clavicles. God, he is such a failure, he thinks to himself with his wife in his arms and you in his mind.

You are completely booked out. Months ahead. Of course you are. There never is a shortage of people who want your services. Or to be exact, who need them. So when you received the request for an appointment “asap, ma'am”, signed by David York, you told him you were free again in three months. But then another customer canceled their session and because you like David, you give preference to him.

So a week and a half later you find yourself entering the bar of the Rosewood, one of the finest hotels of the city. Doors magically open because there’s always some finance or marketing guy holding them open for you. Each step with your pointy high heels parts the crowd in front of you and is paved with sleek smiles and licked lips of the men who move out of your way.

You pay them no mind, they only exist at the periphery of your focus. They are not important and will never be. What is important is your customer for this day. You recognize him, the way he sits at the bar, one foot on the footrest of the empty stool next to him, the other one firmly planted onto the ground. Just another pretty man in a suit, interchangeable for most who might look at him.

But for you he was different. A customer, first and foremost. A challenge, too. And he's probably the only man in this bar who is not doubling over to get a crumb of your attention. You had to work for what your customers usually give you gladly and freely: their acceptance and sometimes even devotion.

That is why you like Dave York, because working for him and with him is rewarding. It satisfies you to no end to finally turn his smoothness into something with cracks and weaknesses. And to have him thank you for it.

One of the many men in suits in this bar moves from his place on the outer borders of your attention into the spotlight and obscures the view on Dave. The guy looks you up and down, tries to smile a flirty smile but all you see is a pathetic obstacle. Your mouth already opens to tell him no to whatever suggestion he wants to make, when a big hand lands on the man's shoulder.

Thick fingers, blunt nails, a simple golden wedding band. You look past the surprised strangers face and find Dave, standing behind the man.

“Sorry buddy, not tonight,” Dave tells the man. For a moment they look at each other, like two wolves who found a piece of meat and now silently fight for ownership. Two alphas in suits. But only one of them is a wolf, the other one is just a dog.

“Not ever,” you add when you pass the stranger. The sting of your words gets soothed by your sweet smile, showing off your wolfish canines as you do. Your gaze meets Dave’s own. Two alphas looking at each other again, this time both are wolves.

You don't even bother to care about the other man who disappeared into insignificance as quickly as he had the guts to peek his head out of it. Your focus is solely on Dave now. He looks tired, frail even in the small details of his facial expression. He already looks cracked, maybe you wouldn’t have to work as hard as usual today.

“It has been a while.” You sit down at the bar and Dave gestures for the bartender. He always orders you a drink before you both go up to the booked suite. He never not acts according to the unspoken rules of those kinds of arrangements. He is polite and respectful, even if the air around him very much tastes like aversion. Not against you as a person or the work you do. The aversion is directed against himself and the fact that he was sitting in this bar with you and not at home with whoever was waiting there for him.

He nods his head. That would have to do as an answer. “The usual?” he asks instead when the bartender waits for the order.

“The usual,” you confirm and watch Dave order your vodka on ice. It is a nice change of pace, to not talk and to enjoy the silence, to stretch it like a fabric until it becomes see-through and the silent words between them become audible. Two wolves, dressed in white shirts and blouses, in polished shoes, mustering each other over the rims of their glasses. Sizing each other up.

You take a big sip of your vodka and set the glass down. There’s still a good portion of the booze left, but you need to keep a clear mind for what comes next.

“Are you done?”

Usually he obliges and leaves the rest of his drink on the counter, usually he wants to get over and done with it, with you, with himself. But tonight his need for some more liquid courage is bigger.

“Not yet, ma'am.” His legs spread a little more when he leans back on the barstool. Not in a sleazy manner, not to act like he is hung like a horse. No, taking up space comes naturally to him. And again he is respectful about it. He gives your crossed legs enough room between his thighs, almost like he acts as a buffer between the bustling bar and you.

A thought crosses your mind and makes you smile. He is protective, even though you mean nothing to him. You stretch out your leg, just enough to let the tip of your pointed stiletto brush against his shin. A silent praise for him being good.

Dave’s hand suddenly grabs your ankle, following his first impulse of inhibiting an unwanted touch. Your eyes snap up and meet his, your surprise showing in your raised brows. The grip of his fingers loosens immediately, like he touched something that he wasn’t allowed to, like a too hot cookie fresh from the baking tray.

“Finish your drink then.” A demand dressed up as a friendly request. You pull your foot away, Dave’s privilege of getting a feel for you is already over.

“Yes, ma'am,” he says lowly, just loud enough to be heard over the hustle and bustle of the bar. He swirls his drink in his glass and takes another look at you. You look like some partner in a law firm or some higher up shoving around numbers on paper and employees in meetings. Expensive clothes, expensive designer bags, expensive heels. He had seen them often enough to know that you only wear those 700$ pairs. You’re sleek, smooth, polished, with edges that look round and safe to touch but will cut through skin and flesh if you want to.

He takes a sip of his drink and watches you smile, the red lip stretching over your teeth. He feels a part of him getting excited, this one stupid part of himself, the part which constantly makes troubles. Some corner of his brain just loves this. And apparently needs it too, needs it to make him function as a person. This little part loves to make you smile. And he hates it.

You let him finish his drink, let him buy himself a few more minutes before you leave the bar and enter the grand and shiny hotel lobby. Having people move out of your way just by the way your heels click is satisfying. But having someone in front doing it for you is better. You watch Dave plowing through the lobby as he makes his way to the elevators. His ass looks cute, you think to yourself and enter the cabin with him.

He’s so well behaved for you, pressing the buttons, shielding you from the other guests and making sure you can stand comfortably without anyone standing too close to you, himself included, You smile at him again and for a moment one corner of his lips twitch. Good, that's good. He's responsive tonight.

Dave exits the elevator and struts through the long hallway, countless doors left and right until you reach the right one. A quiet beep when the key card opens the door, muffled footfall on the thick carpet and a discreet click when he closes and locks the door behind you both again. Another reason you love this hotel so much, beside the soft beds and high end shower products in the marble bathrooms: the soundproofing.

No matter how hard the stomp, how loud a scream, how sharp a smack, the walls of these rooms seem to swallow the noises and they are never sated. They drink down every word and whisper and always seem to want more. Like the people you work with.

“Tell me about your rules and limits tonight, David,” you say and look around the suite for a moment. You gesture for him to sit down on one of the plush chairs facing a full body mirror.

All you know about Dave is his name, his phone number and another number as an emergency contact. The rest is guesswork you did over the last months and years. The golden ring on his ring finger? He never takes it off. He's married or maybe widowed.

Dave takes off his jacket and hangs it over the backrest of the velvet chair. One time a little toy figurine fell out of his pocket when he took his jacket off. So there must be a child who he has a close enough relationship with for it to sneak little gifts into his pockets. This time nothing out of the ordinary happens. He simply follows your instructions and sits down.

“The same as always.” He lifts his hips again to tug his slacks down, just enough for them to not cut into his groin. “Nothing that leaves marks on me, no touching me between waist and knees, no restraints, no gagging, nothing enters my body, nothing leaves my body without my consent.”

Yeah, just like you thought. “So basically just talking. You know, you could have ‘just talking’ a lot cheaper, down at the bar for example.” You pull a chair for yourself closer to Dave, with the mirror diagonal behind it.

“I'm not here for just talking,” he says quietly with his eyes fixed on his knees.

“Oh I know, don't you worry.” You sit down now, your legs crossed over your knees and one of your high heels swaying in the air just between Dave's spread legs. “Next: safety. Repeat the rules for me, will you?”

He looks up at you and sighs. “We use the color system. Green means more, yellow means keeping the intensity, red means stop.” He likes the simplicity of this system, appreciates it at home, and loves the way Carol loses it whenever he keeps her on yellow for a little too long. But he doesn’t like to be the one using it himself.

“Good. What else means stop?” Your leg is slowly bouncing up and down and Dave's focus shifts to the pencil thin heel for a moment.

“The… the safeword. Helsinki.”

His eyes meet yours again. Dark ponds of raging brown, the storm behind them perfectly contained, for now. “And…?” you prompt, prodding him a little bit with the sweetness in your voice.

“And there's no shame in using my safeword. Or not using it if I'm… feeling good.” He almost chokes on the last words. There is shame in the whole situation, no matter how he looks at it. But you smile again and this one part of him is relieved. He did good, fuck.

“Good job, you remembered,” you praise and the shiny leather of your shoe ghosts along his calf. “Let's start then. No touching yourself or me and no talking unless I tell you to. Got it?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He never sounded less enthusiastic than now. His pretty mouth curves into the tiniest scowl and he looks a little more handsome like this. In another life you two could have a lot of fun. Real fun. Fucked up fun.

In another life you might kneel before him and beg for some peace of mind. He could be the therapy the therapist needs. But not in this life. Because in this he was the one needing peace of mind and you were the provider.

“Now, Dave, I want you to take a deep breath and look at yourself in the mirror. Right into your eyes.”

He obeys. When he meets his own gaze through the mirror the scowl becomes more prominent. You will let him sit with his own thoughts for a minute or so. Enough time to recap your last sessions with him.

Pretty quickly into your business relationship with Dave you found out about his history with the military. No details really, you just knew that he had served for several years. Being degraded on a daily basis in your forming years does something to the brain. And it surely did something to Dave's brain because his tough outer layer cracked beautifully for you as soon as you called him a ‘weak fucking loser’.

And that was all that you did since then: humiliating him, watching him turn from the hard and controlled man into one who is struggling to loosen up and finally a man who spits out ‘Helsinki!’ and flees from the scene with a raging boner. He is the weirdest customer you have. Because his requests are so tame, so small scaled for what you could do and for what he could really take.

But all you had to do was calling him names and having him palm himself through his pants. You are not exactly complaining, he paid you as much as the guys who go the whole nine yards. Dave makes you work for your money though. It is a fight, every time.

You see it in his face, he is fighting right now, while he stares himself down through the mirror. A fight he can never win. His upper lip twitches, like he is going to growl at his own reflection any moment. Oh, it is clear as day to you, he really needs this session.

You might need to switch things up a bit, you want your customers satisfied after all. And the way he glares at himself tells you that he needs more today.

“What are you thinking, tell me.”

Your voice pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts. It’s sweet like honey but also sticky. He knows that your mouth is a sugary trap. Every word and gesture and touch a carefully laid out crumb to lead him to where you want him: staring up at you, doing whatever it takes to get your sugar lips to smile at him.

A little nudge of your heel against his thigh. A little harder than it had to be to get his attention. He doesn’t like that he likes it.

“Whimp,” Dave says with heartfelt disdain.

“What else? And keep looking at yourself.” Your heel digs a little more into his thigh and you can feel the tremble of his muscle beneath his slacks. He sure was a runner, you think. Thick thighs look so pretty with a few streaks on them. But no, no marks. “You can tell me everything, you know?”

Dave swallows thickly, the soft velvet of your voice is making his throat tight. He's trapped, caged in between your shiny stilettos and your mouth. His thigh throbs against the thin heel.

He takes in his reflection, the man in power, in slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, in polished shoes. A high heel prodding him. His fingers clutching the armrests. His face tight and sour. His wedding ring glinting.

“Cheater.”

You hum, pleased with his answer and gracing him with a small smile in return. So he is in a relationship. Good, this would make it easier. For you.

Your foot moves, the pointy heel being exchanged with the flat of the sole, pressed against his inner thigh. You drag it up the seam, just a little bit.

This is breaking the ‘no touching’ rule. And yet, he endures, fighting his silent internal fight.

Interesting.

“What’s your color, love?” You tilt your head to the side, enjoying how Dave’s nostrils flare at your audacity. He is defying the sweetness of your words. But he wants more of the stickiness. Just a little bit. It won’t hurt, right?

“Green,” he grits out. Fucking whimp, cheater, loser, failure, he tells himself silently through the mirror. Your sole moves higher now, the pointy tip already indicating towards your final destination.

Green. He wants more, he will get more. Your shoe slides higher and leaves a trail of dusty dirt on his clean pants. He will hate that, you know he will, because you would be pissed off, too.

“Are you not embarrassed, Dave? Sitting here, paying money for this? What would she say, if she knew?”

His eyes snap from the mirror to you, the corner of his lips move into another scowl. The wolf would be baring his teeth soon.

You tap the sole of your shoe against his crotch, just enough for a little sting that lets him jump slightly. Dave looks at you, stunned. Such a pretty sight.

“Oh what's with the attitude now? Did I say you could look at me?” You smile at him, the tip of your tongue running along the edges of your teeth. “Do you think you deserve it, looking at me, dummy?”

His eyes widen and his mouth opens, ready to protest, to call this off, ready to show you your place. But the only thing leaving his throat is a choked sound. Probably because you keep rubbing your foot into his groin, pushing into the not-so-soft-anymore softness.

“Eyes back on the mirror.” Another quick rap, sole meeting joined seams, another jolt and, oh yes, a moan, finally. The walls with their expensive satin tapestry greedily drink down the throaty sound. “Now.”

Your command has nothing of the powdered sugar quality anymore and he obeys. Who even is he, he wonders for a moment of clarity when he meets his own eyes through the mirror again. A stupid man, growing hard under the shoe of a stranger, a stupid man with a loving wife at home. A stupid man with guns hidden all over town. Growing hard.

He looks into the mirror, feeling detached from his own reality. He watches the shiny shoe move between the thighs of this man in the mirror, he sees the stomach of the man tense under his dress shirt, he notices how the man's mouth opens. He hears him groan, this man who looks like himself.

“God, are you seriously turned on by this? That's embarrassing. No wonder you pay me for it instead of getting it at home.” You love being mean for money and you love how Dave writhes beneath your high heel and squirms under your gaze. “Do you like this? Answer me, dummy.”

“Yes.” You only get a single hissed word as an answer. Adorable.

“Yes what?” you hiss back, applying a little more pressure to the bulge showing so beautifully.

“Yes, ma'am,” he snarls now. The wolf is showing his teeth and you're gonna pull one out. You are the only one allowed to bite in this arrangement.

“Christ, do I have to spell it out for you, stupid?” Your foot drops lower, right over the tight little package nestled under the thick, elongated dick outline. The pointy shoe tip slowly pokes into the squishy warmth of Dave’s clothed balls. His breath hitches. “Yes, ma'am, what?” you prompt him, the sugar returning to your words.

“I… I like this, ma'am.” His eyes are still glued to the picture in the mirror and he seems to register that this is him. The visual of an expensive high heel pressing against balls matches the thrumming, stingy feeling of pain in his own slacks. And another thing belongs to him, besides the pain. The jumping hard-on, right above this damned shoe.

He swallows thickly, his blunt nails digging into the velvet of the armrests. “Fuck. I like it,” he stutters, staring at his face, like he is seeing himself for the first time. Like he recognizes himself. His stormy eyes become a little calmer, the silent internal fight becoming more quiet.

“There we go. Good job.” You pull your foot away from him and lean closer, elbows to knees, one finger coming up to his chin. He just now notices that your nail polish matches your lipstick. The color would look good around his dick. In another life.

“Look at me,” you croon, laying out your trap for him again. The pad of your finger so warm and gentle under his chin, guiding his eyes to yours. You're smiling, red stretching over white, he did good and his cock throbs against the zipper. He’s wagging his tail for you.

“Good boy.” You lean closer and he can smell your perfume, the mint and vodka on your breath, your amber-scented dominance tinted in black and scarlet. The sweetness of your praise coats his tongue and he swallows it down, to make it a part of him. A little secret part on the inside only he knows about. 

“Color?” Soft, alluring, a trap made for him to curl up in.

He takes a moment to think, but not too much. The thinking part of his brain was already beginning to shut down. “Green,” he rasps with his eyes fixed on the way your eyebrows dance when you smile again.

“Good. Now, I have a question for you.” Your thumb rubs against his chin, just enough to feel the day worth of scruff beneath the digit. “Will you take your cock out for me? Let me see him?”

Gentle eyes, soft words, tender chin scratches. You have his tail wagging. Slowly, slowly you are domesticating him into a dog, one praise at a time.

Dave nods his head. There’s no harm in showing his dick. That doesn't make him a cheater, he tells himself. Maybe he could make you smile again, he knows he has a good cock. Good balls too. Maybe you could squish them again. Just a little bit.

“That's a good boy. Show him to me. Show me how hard I make you.” You lean back in your chair and watch Dave hesitantly fumble with his belt, then top button, then zipper. He still has a little fight left in him. You would be concerned if not. A man like him will never give up completely, that is what makes him so interesting for you, so much fun to play with.

The teeth of the zipper hiss, the fabric rustles when he pulls it over his ass and down his thighs, over his knees. He looks a bit disgraceful like this, sitting in the velvet chair, slacks pooled around his shoes, tented black briefs, looking at you expectantly. You would have let him take his shoes off and fold his pants if he wanted. But he chose to be… excited. And a little impatient. Truly adorable.

You move a little closer again, inspecting what you can see so far. You never saw his dick and usually you are not too keen on seeing your customers’ genitals, they were just extensions, more of the canvas you like to work on. But since Dave always made a fuss about decidedly not showing signs of arousal you became curious. Out of professionalism, of course.

It was looking good, the tent. A thick head pressed against the cotton and crowned with a now black, later milky stain.

“You’re leaking? For me?” You sound like he presented you with a bouquet of flowers or a painting he doodled with crayons. You reach out, your fingers stopping shy before touching the wet spot. You look up at him, a glint of horror in his eyes. No touching, with your hands. “Is this okay?”

A head shake and a dry swallow, then he finds his voice again. “No. Ma'am. I’m sorry.” You touching him would be cheating; in his head this makes sense.

“That's okay, don't worry.” You purse your lips, tapping a finger against the red on them. Then you hold out your hand, palm up. “Lend me a hand?”

Dave hesitates. His dick protesting with stirs against the briefs, not caring about who would touch him and how. He puts his hand in yours, trusting that you would accept his limit.

And you do, of course, you're a professional. Which means you know how to work your way around limits and how to stretch boundaries. You guide his thumb to the wet, glossy spot and rub the pad over the fabric, once, twice, until Dave grunts from the tingling friction.

“Let me know how you taste,” you coo and lift his thumb to your mouth. You open it wide, your tongue sticking out, reversing the roles but he still is your wolf in a dog costume. His eyes glint and for a second you can smell his dominance, too, lingering under the scent of his precum.

Two beasts who recognize each other, just for the fragment of a second, as you look into each other's eyes. But only one can be in charge tonight. You lean in and take his thumb into your mouth. Deeply. You sink down until your lips leave a red lipstick print around the base, one half on his palm, the other half on the back of his hand.

He tastes salty, with a sharp bite to it, just like the man himself. He presses his thumb deeper, can’t resist to have the upper hand with you just once. Your pussy clenches. She likes him.

Oh, in another life, you would let him wreck you. But not now. You suck his finger until you can’t taste his precum anymore and pull off of him.

“Kneel.”

He huffs and his brows draw together. “What?”

“Wrong answer, stupid.” Your foot snaps up, sole pushed against his hard dick, pointy heel somewhere in between his balls. “Try again.”

There it is again, the storm in his eyes. He is so much fun to work with, so easy to rile up, always keeps you on your toes. The same toes that feel Dave's cock throb through his briefs and the leather of your shoe. You move your heel from left to right, just enough to make him squirm and hiss.

“Yes, ma'am.” That's what he says but it sounds a lot like ‘fuck you’.

You laugh at that, sit back in your chair and put your foot back down on the ground. “That's more like it. Come on, chop chop. On your knees.”

He does as he is told. Growling and glaring, avoiding his ridiculous reflection in the mirror, of a tough guy with his pants around his ankles and leaking like his cock is drooling for you. Dave finds himself on his knees as he sinks into the thick carpet. Your feet are right in front of him, he catches a glimpse of his face in the glossy black tip of your heels. He looks twisted, but unmistakably like him.

“And now: touch yourself. Over your briefs. Nice and slow. Eyes on my shoes.” You place one foot on his thigh and his eyes follow the movement without moving too much. “You seem to like them?”

His hand, the one with your lipstick on it, runs along his length, slowly, calculated, avoiding his sensitive tip as he does. “Yes, ma'am,” Dave mutters and squeezes his girth like he's trying to soothe himself because your voice doesn’t do it anymore. It's all harsh now and not sticky-sweet.

Your heel gets pressed into his thigh, the thin end biting into his skin. “Yes, ma'am, what?”

His jaw ticks. His thumb is soothingly rubbing over the head of his cock, knuckle pushed against the underside. “Yes, ma'am, I like your shoes.”

“I thought so. You got so hard for them, didn’t you?”

He takes a deep breath and keeps on palming himself, a steady back and forth. The wet blotch grows. “I-...” He breaks off when you start caressing his balls with your sole. Back and forth. Front to back, in the same rhythm as he strokes himself. “I did get hard for them, yes. For you, ma'am.”

He just wants some of that sugar back, some of those honeyed words from you. He's on his knees already, what else could you want?

You let him kneel and watch his hand move, register his hip twitch. You brush your fingers through his hair, just a light pet.

“Take him out now. I can look at him, right?”

He nods his head and tugs himself out. Caught behind the waistband you get a first peek. Girthy, a stunning color, a dusty rose turning into an earthy pinkish-red, cut, a clear bead of precum forming over the slit before it runs down and spreads over the already glistening skin.

With another tug he pushes his briefs under his sack, forcing it up nice and tight, right under his cock. He has a slight curve, too. Fucking perfect. Your pussy clenches again.

Dave's hand fists the base, some of your red lipstick transfers to his shaft. The closest your mouth will probably get to him. Such a shame, you think, swallowing down some pooling spit, because you really would like to get a sore jaw from sucking him off.

“Now that's a pretty cock you got there. Hold still.”

You crouch over to Dave and place your palm over his hand, giving his dick a good squeeze with Dave's hand. 

“I won't touch him, I promise. But let me guide you.” Molasse thick, that's how your voice sounds. Almost too thick to be swallowed down. 

He manages to do it nonetheless. Ignoring that this is out of the comfort zone of David York, the husband and father. But oh, those words taste delicious for the man who knows rules and laws but lives outside of them. 

His own hand relaxes under yours and with the first stroke another yes, ma'am drips from his lips. 

This is a strange feeling. He guided several hands in his life, taught them where to rub, how to twist, how much to squeeze. But having his own hand touch him with those foreign movements was… new. Sexy. Frustrating too, because you seem to know exactly what not to do.

He looks down between his thighs and sees two hands moving and he really tries to imagine it was just your hand. He wants your touch. Christ, he wants your mouth on him, too. And you would do it, you would gladly accept the proposal and call him a good boy again. But he can't. He can't do it, it's not the right thing to do. He feels his wedding ring slide up over his tip and back down. No, he can’t have you touch him directly.

But he can give in to you a little more. His dignity hangs over the other chair, taken off together with his jacket right at the beginning. You might as well make him your bitch. He throbs against his fingers and Dave asks himself if you can feel it, too. Without being able to stop it his hips buck into his fist, your fists. You were moving his hand so goddamn slow, he needs more. More pressure, more speed.

“Are you not happy, love? Are you being ungrateful?” You slow down even more until your palms reach his top again. Dave has lubed himself up so nicely with his own precum, you can feel it spreading between your own fingers. With a tight grip you flick and twist, like screwing open a bottle, twisting the cork out of a bottle of champagne. 

Dave’s body jerks as do his hips and he moans again, feeding the soundproofing of the hotel room the delicious sounds he makes.

You tut at him, smirking and mocking and twist his hand over his cock again.

“Oh, so you are ungrateful? You have to ask for the things that you want, dummy, That's how this works.” You loosen your grasp and straighten your back, cross your arms and then your legs until the sole of your shoe hovers over his balls. “So…? Are you ungrateful?”

He shakes his head and fights the urge to rock himself against your shoe. More precum gets pushed out of his slit, he fucking aches. He could just spit out the safeword and jerk it in his car, like usual. But he is too proud for that. He is going to finish what he started here, in this room with you.

“No, I’m not. I just-...” he breaks off when you start bouncing your foot, knocking against his balls with almost gentle pats. Dave clutches his girth with a groan, his hips bucking forwards again. “I…,” he strokes himself once, hoping you would get the implications without having to put it into words.

A finger hooks under his chin again, he can smell himself on your skin. A nudge and he looks at your face again, the way you bare your teeth at him in a graceful smile doesn't cover up the authoritative tone hidden in your sweet words.

“You already did so good today. But I want you to do one last thing, yes?” You rub your finger under his chin, smearing some of his sticky precum over his skin. “Will you try it, for me?” 

He'd do a backflip, if you kept up the carrot and stick game for a little longer. 

And then you do it again, showing him the treat he could have if he only was a good enough boy for you. You start licking your hand clean. Languid laps with the flat of your tongue, starting with the little finger.

“Love, I want you to fuck your hand. You don't have to hold back.” You suckle on the tip of your finger before licking Dave's salty residue off of the next one. You stop at the tip, twirl your tongue around the fingernail painted all ruby and smile at him. Just as if you were licking an ice cream spoon clean. 

“Just make sure to keep your hand still and fuck into it.” Now middle and index finger. Your tongue runs over both of them before you put them into your mouth. In and out they go, sluggish and without hurry, you hum at the taste like it's the sweetest cream. 

And then, instead of doing a backflip, Dave starts moving his hips. His eyes glued to your mouth and the red of your lipstick transfers to your fingers before it disappears in the dark, tight, wet cavern of your mouth. 

His hand doesn't feel anywhere close to what he imagines your mouth does. Dave is just glad that he can finally care for his aching boner. With every thrust, in sync with your fingers sliding in and out between your lips, his balls slap against the leather sole of your shoe. It stings, but it stings good. He didn’t even know he liked this before tonight. Before your expensive stiletto pressed and rapped and pushed into them.

He ruts his hips faster now, not matching the speed he needs, but he makes it up with squeezing himself hard. Soft squelches come from between his legs now with every back and forth. More noises for the thick carpet and walls to swallow, never to be heard again.

You’re sucking on your thumb now while Dave's clutching himself harder, hips thrusting in a relentless pace. He fucks his hand like you told him to. 

He looks so perfect in the mirror, that little piece of ass that you can see from your angle. Clenching and unclenching, the movements draw you in, hypnotize you. The perfect cream-white canvas for blotches of red and sprinkles of violet, for scarlet streaks, oval imprints of your teeth even. 

You lick your lips when his thighs start trembling. How good he would look if he fucked himself on your strap-on. In another life, you muse and press your thighs together. The sound your thumb makes between your lips resembles the one that will come from your wet cunt later, when you're at home again. With Dave's salty taste in your mouth and a girthy vibrator, one to match the size of his cock.

His eyes meet yours again, just for a second before they dart down to your tongue again when you start licking your palm. He's still in there, the hard man, the one who's fighting against himself, the one who probably whispers insults inside his head. You can see him in that short moment, somewhere swimming in the stormy mahogany.

You stop licking your palm when Dave winces after snapping his hips harder into his hand and his balls against your sole. He’s at his personal limit.

“Almost there, love, hm?” Another lap to your palm, seemingly unbothered by the state he is in. “Do you want to come?”

He groans and growls, his glutes are burning, his knees hurt, his fucking balls thrum. Oh, he wants to come alright. “Yes, ma'am,” he grits out.

“Say that you're pretty when you fuck your hand for me.” Your tongue flicks over your palm again and reveals your canines again. Just a wolf cleaning her silky fur.

If the need for his orgasm wasn't bigger than his pride, he would have rolled his eyes and fucked that smug smile right out of your face. But he really, really needs to come. He is so close. He can play along a little longer.

“I'm pretty when I fuck my… fucking hand for you,” he snarls and a something in the depth of his guts starts fluttering with a burning strength.

“Good job. You really are pretty like that, love.” You pull the leg of your pants up, the heavy, black fabric now rests bunched up on your knee. Dave still ruts into his hand, chasing the release he knows he can’t have that easily. 

“Say ‘I will make a pretty mess for you, ma'am.’,” you order and push your fingers through his hair, careful to not ruin his side part. A single unruly strand gets fixed with your spit-wet fingers. Nothing that leaves marks on me. Well, he can wash off your little saliva mark later.

More carrots, more sweet words and sugar touches, more of your smug but also content smile. Christ, he just wants to do something right. And you are offering him an easy fix. Dave whines and leans into your touch. Vigorously he pounds his hand, his balls trapped between his waistband and your sole and it all feels so warm, hot, his pulse beats in his ears and throbs in his straining cock. “I will make a pretty mess for you, ma'am. Fuck. I need to move my hand.”

His big browns look up at you, same parts furious, pleading and desperate.

“Say please,” you chirp and tilt your hips to feel the middle seam of your pants pressed against your clit. “Be good, say please and you can come for your ma'am.”

“Please. Fuck, please!” he barks as he steps into your honeyed trap you have laid out for him from the beginning. He is stuck in it knees first, tail between his legs, barking, howling, wagging. How to catch a wolf.

“That's my good boy. Go on, you can come. Make a mess.”

He did good, thank god. Dave starts moving his hand, jerking his cock hard and fast, his teeth sink into his flew to bite back a loud howl when he feels himself coming.

It is beautiful to watch for you, how his eyes roll back slightly, how his hand moves so fast that the smacking sounds are like a rapid fire, how he thrusts a few more times into his tight fist until he squirts his thick creamy cum all over. It feels hot on your skin, like molten wax poured over your shin, down to your foot and finally your high heel.

You moan in unison with Dave. You never are above feeding the soundproofing some of your noises as well. An offering to the gods, to keep you blessed with men like Dave.

He continues to stroke himself, choking on a few whimpers, milking the last remnants of cum out of him. His wedding band isn't shining as much now, all dull and foggy with his seed dimming the golden hue. His hand trembles, his runner thighs tremble too, his briefs, still tucked under his balls, are ruined and he slowly, slowly loosens his hard grip around his cock.

“Love, you did so good. That wasn't so hard, was it?” His cum starts running down your leg now and you both watch it for a moment. 

“I'll get you a tissue,” he mutters breathily, ready to finally get off his knees and gain some dignity back.

“Nuh uh. Clean up without tissues or towels.” Nothing enters my body without my consent. He looks at you and scoffs out single disbelieving laughter. You shrug your shoulders. “Listen, you came this far. You can be a coward and use your safe word. Or you can take responsibility and clean up the mess you made. It's an easy task.”

You are right. It is an easy task, compared to the mess his life is. It's easy. It's easy. It's easy. He leans forward and swallows, thickly. He looks up at you and sticks his tongue out. It's easy. 

You lift your leg up to his mouth, nodding your head, smiling, baring your teeth like a docile pet wolf. Dave's tongue meets your skin, smooth under his slick, powdery scent under his salty stench. He licks a stripe from your ankle up your shin, then another one and another one. Slowly. It's easy. One lick at a time. Fixing the mess he made.

His clean hand holds your foot, nestled in your stiletto, and he laps his cum from the bridge with shorter strokes. 

Dave doesn't flinch away from his own taste, he’s licked his own hands clean often enough to enjoy it to a degree. A form of cannibalism, eating his young, feasting on his own potential.

He cleans your skin, lifting your foot higher and his tongue pressed into the small gaps between the leather and your toes. You pet his head again, humming, purring under his ministrations. Dave's lips purse half above the leather and half above your skin, a small kiss before he sucks his cum out of the tiny gap.

It really is easy. He licks over the glossy black, leather and salt coating his senses, another sugary good boy in his ears and in his hair your claws graze over his scalp. 

A few more licks and kisses and the creamy white has disappeared from the shiny piece of leather. He can see himself in it again. A twisted image, but unmistakably Dave.

He rubs his spit into the smooth animal skin, you can wash his mark off later if you want. He's done. With cleaning and with this. It's over, for tonight at least.

He lowers your stiletto onto the thick carpet again and offers free sight to his spent cock, heavy and sticky. No more wagging, no more dog. He's back to being an equal.

“You did amazing, Dave. Really good.”

Your hand falls to his shoulder, giving him a gentle pat before you rise to your feet and over him your hand to pull him up. He takes it, groaning quietly when his knees crack. Dave feels a little shaky, or maybe more shook than shaky. But he feels good, lighter, loose. Not even ashamed.

“Can I get you anything? Something to drink, something to eat?” You don't even wait for his answer and turn to the minibar, pulling out a cold water for him.

“No, thank you. I'm good. I'll just take a quick shower.” With a thud his shoes land on the floor as he kicks them off. His slacks follow, then his damp briefs.

You watch him undress, amazed and attracted to his confidence and nonchalance, attracted to what lies beneath Dave's clothes, too. In another life you two would be a great match. 

“Do you want me to wait for you?” You turn towards the minibar again, looking for something else. There it is, a kitkat.

“You don't have to, but thank you.” Dave smiles at you and shrugs his shirt off his shoulders. He holds out his hand now, naked in front of you and not bothered by it. Smug. Big dick energy and he can afford it.

You shake his hand, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment. “Until the next time then. Take good care, Dave.”

You smile at each other, the possibilities of being reckless crackling between you, but then he lets go of your hand and turns his back towards you, heading into the bathroom. When the water starts running behind closed doors you take his shirt from the pile of clothes and nuzzle into the fabric. It's a good smell. Masculine, of course.

Slipping a few fingers into your pants and deeper, behind the elastic of your lace underwear and still deeper, dipping them into your sopping pussy, you inhale his scent deeply, clenching to the thought of his tongue on your skin.

You treat yourself to a moment with your fingers buried in your cunt before you pull out again. You write your name on the inside of his collar, invisible ink made out of your slick, setting a scent mark, a last reward for this good boy. 

When Dave enters the room again later you have disappeared, in thin air, no trace of you is left. But something churns inside of him when he gets dressed. 

Later, in his car, it clicks. Pussy. It smells like pussy, right in front of him. You god forsaken menace. Of course you had to have the last word. Marking him, mocking him, making him hard again. And of course your pussy smells delicious. Sticky sweet. He groans and adjusts himself, driving home a little faster now.

The house lays in silence when he steps over the threshold. The girls are fast asleep, he checked it immediately with a peek into their rooms. Carol is asleep as well. Soft and warm and plush under the blanket, curled up on her side. Dave kicks his shoes off and steps out of his slacks and briefs. They are still damp in the front, from the precum you urged out of him. But the shirt stays on. 

He slips under the blanket and pulls Carol closer, her perfect ass against his already half-hard cock. A hand gently kneads one of her breasts, the other one tugs down her pajama pants. 

She's awake in no time, whimpering when he grinds against her rear and lets his dick glide between her ass cheeks.

“Therapy was good?” Her voice is so soft, always sweet for him, never harsh, rarely ever does a no come from her.

“Yeah. Missed you…” he mumbles into the crook of her neck, biting and pulling on her skin until she winces softly.

“Dave-...”

He pinches her nipples and she winces again. A waft of your pussy hits him and he breathes it in deeply.

“Color, baby.”

“What?” Carol chuckles, not yet believing that she’s about to be fucked by her always loyal, always loving and caring husband.

“You’ve heard me. Give me your color.” His cock now slides between her legs and through her folds. He’ll slick her up real good, leaking already with a quiet thrumming sting in his balls. Carol’s pussy feels as good as yours smells.

“Green,” she gasps and rocks back against him.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growls before biting the flesh over her shoulder blade and pushing into her.

When Dave finally is satisfied, soaked in Carol and him, she rolls on her back and watches him get a warm towel for her. Whatever this therapist did with Dave, it did wonders. He should go more often.

thank you for reading! and remember, kids, comment or reblog to show me I've been a good girl and did a good job, please and thank you

find my Dave York masterlist here

find my general masterlist here

more a/n: I'd probably suck as dominatrix, shout-out to all the bad ass professionals and hobby dom(me)s out there, you are amazing and I'm literally on my knees for you

dividers: @/saradika-graphics

[muirmarie]

spock with memory loss but not emotional memory loss. he can't remember anything since he left vulcan, but he looks at jim's and leonard's faces and he's like. hmm. i appear to be in love with both of these men. fascinating.

except. y'know. they are absolutely NOT together.

[hi hey have some absolute crack underneath the readmore]

mccoy being a ridiculous mother hen in sickbay and kirk running down from the bridge every hour on the hour all "UPDATE, BONES????" is not. is not helping spock's assumptions.

mccoy GRUDGINGLY allowing spock out of sickbay because lord knows there's some big thing happening and they need the beds, and spock doesn't need immediate medical attention, he just needs, y'know, a cure for the weird memory loss disease he's picked up. you heard me, this isn't amnesia, this is a weird space memory loss disease that mccoy is going to CURE, thank you very much.

he only allows spock out of sickbay if kirk keeps an eye on him. spock's like =/ when will you be joining us, doctor? and mccoy, not nearly as suspicious as he should be because he's so delighted that there's for ONCE a version of spock who actually appears to not be running away from medical, is like !!!!! once i'm sure everyone in sickbay is stable i'll come down to check on you!!!! i'll check on jim too!!! i'll run my scanner over everyone who will allow me to make sure they're okay!!!!! (jim: >=| i did not consent to this. bones: shut up idc i'm already scanning you.)

kirk takes spock back to kirk's quarters figuring they'll bunk together so he can keep an eye on him/make sure the space forgetfulness disease doesn't make him forget anything else.

spock's like. hmm. is this where we live? why don't we keep it warmer for me =/

kirk, oblivious doll that he is, is like yeah, all the quarters are like this, this is indeed where we live! isn't the enterprise the most beautiful ship there is!! also i am so sorry let's crank this place up to a sauna asap

meanwhile spock is sleepy what with the space forgetty sickness but he's like. determined to wait until their bf joins them so they can sleep in a cuddle pile. it seems polite. he's pretty sure he'd be a polite bf. amanda would definitely want him to be a polite bf. plus he feels certain that he needs to make sure the doctor gets some sleep after working non-stop in sickbay. like. that feels like that should somehow be his and jim's responsibility. that feels right.

bones shows up two hours later with his tricorder and even darker circles under his eyes than normal, and is like all right, time to check on my favorite patient <3 (he's still not used to spock not snarking back at him, and is more than a little =/ when spock just sparkles a bit instead of slamming him with an insult, tbh)

spock and jim get a clean bill of health (beyond, y'know, the space-nesia), and mccoy's like, all rightie, i'll be back in the morning to check on you!!! tell me immediately if anything changes!! i should go back to sickbay and check on things

spock: =( what.

mccoy: i need to keep an eye on everything in sickbay

kirk: no he's right you need to get some rest, bones. the on-duty staff will keep an eye on everything, but you've been going non-stop between spock and this new thing

mccoy: i'll grab a nap in my office don't worry

spock: =(((((((

mccoy: ...spock why are you holding onto my wrist. spock why are you - spock why are you dragging me over to the bed. spock - jim why are you laughing

kirk: i mean it is an effective solution

spock: i have the space forgetties and i can't even sleep with my boyfriends????? illogical.

mccoy: ......

kirk: hmm.

mccoy: ????? hmm???? HMMM???? IS THAT ALL YOU GOT????

kirk: i mean, it does sound illogical when he puts it like that

mccoy: ????? i don't know what the two of you have going on on the downlow, but i'm not dating spock. spock, i'm not dating you.

spock: no, no i definitely love you both, so it would be extremely illogical for us not to be dating, and i am, above all else, logical, so ipso facto we must be dating. it's far more likely you just don't want to say we're dating because you'd feel like it would be a shock to my blank slate brain. occam's razor.

mccoy: we're - we're definitely not dating

spock: hmmm jim i am worried that leonard may also have the space forgetty disease.

kirk: bones, just sleep here tonight, it's not a big deal

mccoy, slightly strangled, because he is extremely in love with these two men and this is a bizarre situation even for them: JIM, I -

spock, aggressively laying in the center of the bed and then trapping mccoy next to him by sheer strength and mccoy's surprise, and unfortunately, having pegged mccoy within 5 minutes of meeting him again, saying: what if the space forgetty disease makes me worse during the night and my doctor bf isn't even here to help me =/

kirk: [unhelpfully giggling]

mccoy: gdi why would you say that now you know i can't leave - this isn't you winning this is me GRACEFULLY changing my mind and we are NOT dating and if you use this forced snuggling against me when i ONCE MORE SAVE THE DAY and figure out a CURE to FIX your STUPID VULCAN MIND then i will -

kirk: [leaning over and kissing bones' forehead to shut him up and then walking around the other side of the bed and getting in next to spock] you forgot the key word, there, bones

mccoy, visibly restraining himself from frothing with rage: what.

kirk: yet, bones. we're not dating yet.

[maybe-im-dark]

Half the boyfriend, half the fun

The first thing Wade felt was cold. Not the gentle coolness of an autumn breeze or the refreshing chill of freshly fallen snow. No, this was a biting, numbing cold. His vision was blurry and his body felt...off. he tried to move but nothing happened. As he blinked away the fog in his brain and looked down at himself the realization hit him like a punch in the gut —his legs were gone.

"Crap!", he muttered in a raspy voice.

Slowly the memories returned. He and Logan had been on a mission, targeting a group of small-time criminals, who had holed up in the woods. Get there, take them out, get the cash, done. But apparently something had gone horribly wrong.

"Logan?", he called out.

No answer.

Panic flared as he looked around the wooded area. Using his arms, he began to crawl foward, twigs and pine needles digging into his stomach. Not caring for the blood trail he left behind. A few yards away he spotted Logan and the sight made his heart skip a beat. Logan looked just as bad, if not worse. Instead of being cut, his body was ripped off at one of the vulnerable intervertebral discs, that were not adamantium, torn apart brutally. One half of his metal spine was sticking out of his torso, glinting against the bloodied mess of torn skin, flesh and tendons.

"Oh, no, no, no!" Wade mumbled, dragging himself as quickly to Logan's side, as his upper half would allow. "Come on, peanut, don't do this to me!"

Logan's healing factor was strong, but unlike Wade, he couldn't regrow limbs. They needed to be attached to his body, for the wounds to start closing. Unfortunately Logan's lower half was nowhere in sight. Wade's mind raced. His belt was nearby, scattered in a pile of dried leaves. Wade rolled onto his side, grabbing it. Thankfully his Hello Kitty fliphone —small enough to fit into one of the tiny pockets— was in there for emergencies.

His fingers shook so badly that it was difficult to press the small buttons. As he went through the contact list, the adrenaline started to wear off and the pain set in. Today was really turning out to be a shit day.

The phone barely rang twice, before Dopinder picked up.

"Hey, Mr. Pool, what can i do for you on this fine day?", the cab driver's familiar thick indian accent greeted him.

"Cut the chit-chat, Dopinder! Shit has hit the fan and it's flying everywhere! Get to the coordinates i'm sending, stat!"

He hung up, quickly typing in their location and hitting send twice in agitation.

It didn't take long. Ten minutes later, Wade heard the distant screech of tires as Dopinder slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop. Dopinder hurried over, as fast as he could on the uneven ground. When he saw Wade and Logan, he looked as though he was about to puke, pressing a hand over his mouth.

"Yeah, i know! America's next topmodel isn't in our future anytime soon! Now pull yourself together for fuck's sake!", Wade yelled. "You need to help me find Logan's legs. They're around here somewhere."

Dopinder nodded, his legs wobbling, as he searched the area. A moment later he returned, cradling Logan's legs to his chest like a baby. They were still inside the yellow pants and blue boots. And why would they have undressed him? Surely nobody was that sick. Wade pushed the distracting thoughts aside.

"Alright Dopinder", he instructed, trying his best to sound calm. "Attach them to his torso. He'll up on his own."

Dopinder followed the instructions, carefully pressing Logan's lower half against his upper body. Nothing happened. Logan's wounds remained open, his body still split in two.

"Maybe...maybe he's already dead?" Dopinder suggested, looking uneasy at Logan's unconscious form.

"No, he's just passed out", Wade said. Then quietly to himself: "I hope he stays that way. I'd rather he didn't have to see this sight himself."

The wheels inside Wade's brain turned as he wracked his brain for what to do next. "We need to prevent his body parts from dying off! Ice! We need ice! Dopinder get us to a gas station, quick!"

Wade grabbed Logan's legs and Dopinder hoisted him under one arm and Logan's torso under the other, rushing back to the car. Wade maneuvered himself onto the passenger's seat as Dopinder carefully laid Logan's halves on the backseat.

Then he sped off, ignoring speed limits, though to Wade the drive still felt far too slow. Every red light cost them precious minutes. Finally they pulled up to the first gas station and Dopinder sprinted inside.

Desperately Wade turned to look at Logan. His skin was ashen with deep shadows under his eyes, that hadn't been there before.

"Hold on, honey", Wade whispered, reaching out to gently stroke Logan's disheveled dark brown hair.

A tingling sensation ran through Wade, as he realized, with some relief, that small stumps were beginning to form below his hips. His own legs were regenerating, at last. At least something was working as it should.

Dopinder returned, carrying two large plastic containers and several bags of crushed ice. He filled both containers two the brim with ice, carefully placing Logan's upper half in one and his lower half in the other.

"This is sick! Just sick!" Dopinder murmured as he took in the sight.

"Quit whining and drive to the mansion!" Wade barked.

Dopinder swallowed. But...shouldn't he be in a hospital?"

Wade rolled his eyes. "Yeah and what are you going to tell the doctors? 'Oh the guy in pieces here is actually a mutant with self healing powers, that aren't working right now. If you could fix him up, please!' Newsflash: Most people aren't too fond of mutants! These anti-mutant-propaganda-posters all over the city aren't just for show!"

Dopinder opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, nodding stiffly. He got behind the wheel and drove off. On one hand Wade felt guilty for going off on him. It wasn't fair. But on the other hand, he didn't give a fuck. Right now Logan's wellbeing wad all that mattered, everything else could wait.

"The gate's closed!" Dopinder said as they approached the mansion.

The school was an imposing building from the 19th century made of grey stones, its turrets and bay windows making it look more like a castle.

"Should we...announce ourselves?"

Wade shook his head. "Just drive right through!"

Dopinder floored it, crashing through the gate. The metal wings bend inward, scraping the sides of the car with a horrible screech as a shower of sparks flew across the windshield. Whatever. The professor could cover the damage; the old fart was loaded.

Dopinder parked, leaping out of the car. Wade wadled behind him on his tiny stumps.

"Help!" Dopinder screamed, pounding on the entrance door. "We need help!"

"Yeah, we have a medical emergency! Screw what Professor Egghead says, come out here!" Wade joined in.

The door swung open revealing Hank McCoy in a white lab coat over a beige cable-knit sweater and corduroy pants.

"Mr Wilson, i believe we made it clear, that you are not welcome here! And to have the audacity to insult the professor..."

"Come off it, cookie monster! Logan's badly injured and he won't heal!" Wade cut him off.

Hank adjusted his glasses, irritated. "Yes, yes. I'll take a look at him right away."

"Oh my stars and garters!", he exclaimed as he saw Logan's body halves in the ice-filled containers.

"Holy crap!"

Jean Grey had joined them, without Wade noticing. Not exactly ladylike to curse like that. Did Cyclops know his fiancée used such language?

Using telekinesis, Jean carefully levitated Logan's body parts, guiding them as she and Hank rushed back to the mansion. Wade followed as quickly as his stubby legs would allow.

"What are you gonna do? Will he be okay? Why...?"

The door slammed shut in his face.

Outraged, he turned to Dopinder. "Really? They're just leaving the readers with a cliffhanger like that? Well, to be continued i guess."

[bun-z-bakery]

If you’re still taking requests, would you consider writing reader taking care of a sick dogday (and maybe him being difficult abt it?) plz? If not sorry to bother&have a nice day!

Yep! Currently I'm still taking requests! :3 I hope you enjoy!

Cold And Comfort

Dogday has been acting odd and it's gotten to the point where he has distanced himself from everyone, including you.

Naturally, you begin to wonder if you did something that hurt him and he felt the need to distance himself. 

3 days of this was enough and you decided a confrontation was needed. 

“Sunshine?”

You softly call out to him from behind the door. 

It's quiet, only the faint sound of breathing is heard. 

You slowly open the door, closing it behind you as you look around for your giant companion. 

It didn't take long to spot him wrapped in a pile of blankets, he even covered the window blocking the sun rays that he loved to feel on his fur. 

Carefully you make your way to him and gently shake him. 

“Dogday?”

You whisper to him as you take a seat beside him. 

Slowly he begins to wake up, you know from experience that Dogday is the type to enjoy sleeping in and will even sometimes pull you into a nap even if you have work around the house to finish. 

“Angel?”

He moves under the blankets and then slightly uncovers his face. 

He uses an arm to cover his eyes from the sun's rays. 

His voice sounded strained, similar to how it was in the factory. 

“We're worried about you, is so–”

He cuts you off with a series of sneezes, at first you thought it might have been the dust. 

The room was used as extra storage after all. 

But then you remember how he felt when you touched him. 

He was …scorching? 

“Are you ok?”

You try to keep calm as you feel around his face, but he can already sense your rising panic. 

You weren't familiar with toy anatomy, but this certainly wasn't something anyone warned you about. 

Surely he couldn't be sick, right?

Dogday takes a deep breath, you can hear a slight wheezing coming from his chest. That was all you needed to confirm your suspicion. He was in fact sick. 

“I feel terrible, I apologize for scaring you, my Angel.”

He covers himself again as he lets out a painful cough that makes you cringe. 

Seeing him in such a state made you upset. 

You try to think of all the reasons why he could've gotten sick. Allergies? 

“I don't understand how this could've happened.”

Maybe you were in contact with someone who was sick and you gave it to him. 

Does that mean there's a chance Poppy and Kissy are sick too? 

Whatever the case may be, he couldn't stay here. 

“Come on, let's get you out of here this dust isn't helping you!”

You exclaim as you try to pry him out of his blanket cocoon, but he refuses to move. 

“Angel, please don't fuss over me. I can assure you I'll be–”

He coughs before he can finish and you quickly remove the blankets. He begins to shiver once he's fully exposed to the air. 

“Dogday.”

You hold out your hand and he takes it, he's careful not to pull you down with his weight. 

Poor thing was shivering like a wet dog, but it had to be done. Aside from baths, he's never this difficult. 

You couldn't help but wonder why the sudden change. 

It took a bit of convincing, but you managed to get him back to your room and tucked him back into his blanket cocoon. 

“I'm not letting you move an inch.”

“Angel, don't worry about me…”

He attempts to plead with you again but unfortunately for him, you don't give up that easily. 

He was going to get better and you weren't going to let him suffer when you could help him recover faster. 

You gently scratch his ear, it doesn't take long for your gentle touches to put him to sleep. 

Quietly you make your way downstairs to make him a pot of soup. 

If he was able to get sick like a human, surely human remedies would work too right? 

Once you're finished you make your way back to your room with a bowl large enough to hopefully satiate someone as large as him. 

You thank Kissy Missy for opening the door and she gently closes it behind. 

Dogday must've been exhausted if he didn't hear you enter the room. 

You set the bowl on the nightstand and gently shake him once again in an attempt to wake him. 

“Sunshine!~"

You whisper to him and instantly his eyes greet yours. 

He begins to sniff the air before his eyes land on the bowl next to him. 

“Angel please, you didn't have to trouble yourself cooking for me…”

He said softly as he turned his gaze back to you. 

You sigh as you take a seat on the bed and turn to face him. 

“It was no trouble, you're no trouble! But you know what would be?”

He tilts his head to the side. 

“What?”

“No one eating the pot of soup I made.”

You jokingly pout. 

Dogday gives in and finally allows you to take care of him. 

Secretly he does feel guilty every time you need to cook different meals and buy extra medicine when the regular doses aren't effective. 

But he's glad it was his Angel who was by his side. 

Just like you had thought he did get better faster under your care. 

Soon enough he was back to his old self. 

‧₊ ๑˚.・

You lay in bed reading a chapter of a book as you unwind for the night. 

Suddenly you feel something heavy as your lower half sinks into the bed. 

“Hey.”

You chuckle as you hold the book to the side. Dogday lay sideways on the bed, he didn't fit in the bed laying sideways but he was in a good mood. His tail was always a dead giveaway. 

“I don't deserve you angel.”

He says in almost a whisper. 

His voice sounded much healthier than I did a few days ago, you've never been happier to hear his barks and howls again. 

“Is that why you were giving me a challenge?”

It saddens you to know how he felt but with his situation, you could see where he was coming from. 

“You've done more than enough for all of us. I don't want you to deal with more than you already are...”

“Well, your angel seems to think differently.”

You give him a reassuring smile and pet his head. 

“I think you deserve this and much more. Now please get some rest.”

You giggle at the last part as you playfully poke his cheek. 

“I've been resting all week!”

He laughed as he straightened himself to lay next to you.

“Hey, Angel?”

He turns his head to you. 

“Yes, Sunshine?”

You replied as you turned your head to face him as well. 

“Would you mind making that soup again for me?”

You quietly chuckle and put your book down for the night. 

“Sleep and I'll make all the soup you want until you're sick of it!”

You both laugh and Dogday quickly rolls over, hogging the blanket all to himself. 

You put your book on your nightstand preparing to say your goodnights but Dogday beat you to it. 

“Goodnight Angel!”

You playfully snicker as you try to stop his tail from hitting you. You couldn't help but smile at how the little things you do bring him the greatest joy. 

“Goodnight Sunshine.”

[darkcrowprincess]

Mike has a breakdown/ Mike goes off:

The last time Mike had a breakdown. He was 12, and the world was ending. The second time was no different. But everytime it happens, Mike is still surprised when the anger/sadness/powerlessness explodes out of him. It all comes spilling out in the worse way, like a shaken can of coke a cola exploding when you flip open the top. Lets set the scene. A empty office in the radio tower station, as Lucas and Mike wait for Will and Dustin. Mike and Lucas being the only two in the room. Mike has been on edge all day. Lucas is getting a little tired of it honestly. He knows you shouldn't go poking the angry bear known as Mike. But well, they have been avioding the obvious long enough.

"Its almost like you're afraid or something," Lucas says nonchalantly. Mostly to himself. But really to get a reaction out of the skinny, tall, brooding idiot he calls a best friend.

"What?" Mike asks confused. He turns to Lucas. Done with his staring match with the wall. Brings the seat he was leaning on it's back legs fully onto all fours again.

"You heard me, your scared of being with Will. Your terrified to love him. Or terrified to at least tell him." Lucas states matter of fact. No bullshit in his face or in his tone.

Seeing that he's serious, Micheal Wheeler's face goes through so many emotions in the span of seconds. Confused, realization, fear, acceptance, and then finally anger. Actually no anger isn't the right word.

Mike was in two words; pissed off.

"Fuck you. You know what Lucas fuck you.

Lucas doesn't get mad, "Well are you?"

"Im not talking about this!" Mike angrily whispers. Its the whispering that gets you. You can tell thats Mike's pissed because he hadn't started yelling yet. He's trying to hold it in.

"But are you? Are you scared? It will make you feel better if you talk about it Mike," Lucas declares with and honest, yet haunted look in his face. Unspoken between is whats obviously haunting Lucas.

Mike wants to cross that line and bring Max up to piss Lucas off. Get him to hate him and back off with this line of questioning.

But Mike thinks, he doesn't want to. Partly because he's just so sick of hurting his friends. But mostly because Mike is just tired. Tired of keeping it all in. So he pops open the soda.

Mike's pale face becomes red quickly in anger, "Of course I'm fucking scared! Im scared of losing him again!!

Mike yells this out into the room. Its loud and people could probably hear him.

Lucas though, oddly is in favor of the anger. For Mike to be honest, even if he is angry. Lucas feels like his best friend needs it. Seemingly wiser than his age suggests, "Mike your not going to lose him. You haven't lost Will. Will is still here."

"Yeah but for how long Lucas! How long huh? I couldn't handle losing him for a week when I was 12! 12 Lucas! He got lost from my house that day! My house! He was suppose to be safe! And he wasn't! I couldn't do anything! I was helpless! Then the next year with losing El, he was being possessed and hurt by that thing! He was hurt and everyone around us was dying! The best thing I could come up with was to burn up a hole in the ground! That was the best I could come up with to help him! I'm always useless! Every year its some new fucking disaster nightmare that could kill us all, but losing him in this mess is what terrifies me most. And your asking me to listen to my heart and get into a relationship with him. Tell him I love him and act like everything will turn out hunky dory, we'll be skipping off into the sunset, Will and I?! Are you out of your fucking mind Lucas!"

Mike is full on yelling now, and he seems to just be getting started.

Mike throws his hands in the air and starts pacing. Back in fourth like he needs to move.

"The whole town is this close to going crazy psycho mob on us, the upside down is leaking into our world. Plus you know homophobia is still a fucking thing in the 80s. And the cherry on top of all the piles of shit we are dealing with, Vecna wants Will.

Mike starts laughing in a cruel hysterical vocie, pulling his hair tight in his fists, still pacing. "Which is just another can of worms. That creep does not only want to kill my family personally, but he's making the moves on Will. Like no the universe can not let William Byers have a fucking break in this life! Lets add a homicidal pervert to the equation!"

"Mike calm done it will be ok." Lucas says, getting up and going to Mike.

That is the wrong thing to say.

"DONT TELL ME TO CALM DOWN LUCAS SINCLAIR! NONE OF THIS WILL BE FUCKING OK!!" Mike grabs something on the desk in anger. A paperweight. Turning to the window(behind him, no where near Lucas' vicinity) Mike throws the paperweight with all his strength towards the office window and breaks the glass. It makes hauntingly loud shattering noise. It echos loud in the room, and the glass from the impact falls out from the hole made with the round paper weight. Then the room is filled with silence and Mikes harsh breathing. His shoulder moves with his angry breathing, but doesn't turn around.

"Whats going on?" Says a soft familiar voice.

Both boys turn around, there standing in the open doorway is Will.

Mike turns back around, not wanting to make eye contact with Will. Not wanting anyone (especially Will) to see him like this. Mike just keeps staring out the broken window. In the reflection of the broken glass, if you look, you can see Mike Wheeler start to cry. Silent tears appear in his eyes.

Lucas tries to cover for him, " Nothing everything is-."

"Please don't say everything is fine Lucas. Mike shouldn't be yelling at you like that. Especially with everything going on." Says Will. But he isn't yelling. He says this with a tired but gentle look on his face. A look that he's only sending Mike's way.

Lucas is tired too. "I'm going to give you guys some space to talk."

Will nods as he fully walks into the room, heading towards Mike. Mike still hasn't turned around.

"Thanks Lucas, please shut the door too."

Lucas doesn't say anything. No point really, Mike and Will are in their own world. But he does as Will asked.

As he closes the door, he catches Will hugging Mike from behind. Mike leans into the touch as much as he can. Turns around (tears staining his face) and hugs Will fully.

*******

(God this took forever to write!!! But I'm so glad I finished. Would love to hera your opinions Byler shippers!)

[obsessivelysweet]

God that Bleeds Thorns: Part 2 (End)

Hello! Man, time has passed, huh..I've been doing work and life stuff. I've been going to cons as well. I got some inspiration recently, so I started writing again. I've been writing little by little on a couple of drafts that have been collecting dust, lol. This was also in my drafts, I wanted to do a part 2, like what happened after, almost as a comfort post. I didn't really edit this one as much. I just fixed some lines but not everything, so it may not be the best. Which is ok because it was one of my earliest drafts, lol. I'm so sorry for any spelling mistakes, etc. If you read this or are still following me for the once in the blue moon posts, I truly appreciate you. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

If you are new, here's the first part to it

Warnings: None? Maybe some little gore? But mostly it's fluff/comfort.

Characters: Childe, Diluc, Kaeya, Heizou, Cyno, Tighnari, Ei, Zhongli, Kazuha,Itto, Ayato, Danslief, Thoma, Albedo, Xiao, Gorou

Tags: SAGAU, God!Reader, Fem Reader, Comfort,Fluff

+×+×+×+×+×+×+×+×+×+×+×+×+×+×+×+×+×+×

You never intended to use your blood on anyone, but you knew you had to set an example. Thoma, Kazuha, Ei, and Zhongli all came to your aid to help you get to your chambers. You leaned onto Thoma and Kazuha as they helped you get up and started to walk with tears in your eyes, one hand covering your mouth to hold in the sick feeling you had.

Ei and Zhongli headed for the kitchen to start preparing you some tea and fruit to help your stomach.

The ones who stayed behind to clean up were Childe, Diluc, Ayato....and Albedo, but he was more studying the piles of mush from afar. Childe and Ayato were intrigued by how just a bit of your blood could do such a thing. However, while they were just looking and not really cleaning, Diluc brought it upon himself to finish cleaning since these 3 weren't.

Kaeya, Danslief, Cyno,and Xiao went to go check on your acolytes. Just to make sure there isn't gonna be any more treason against you.

Gorou, Tighnari, Heizou, Venti, and Itto try to make a plan to please you, make you smile again, and they don't like to see you cry.

While that was going on, you were in your chambers crying into the chest of Kazuha as he rubbed your back to soothe you. Thoma was getting your bath ready.

Everyone of your trusted acolytes knew why you started crying, why you wanted to puke. It's because that's not you, that was a facade you held onto the whole time. In honestly you knew what your blood could do because you accidentally made a rose into a pile of ashes. You only told your trusted ones what your blood could do. You vowed to yourself you would never use that on anyone only when deemed necessary. That's why you made a code phrase, that way they knew what was about to happen, what you were gonna do. Hearing them cry, smelling their burnt flesh, their bodies turned into a meaty mush made your stomach churn. All you could mutter between sobs was "I'm sorry" "I didn't want to". You didn't have to apologize, your followers knew what a kind being you were. You are pure, holy, a being that could never do wrong so don't cry. They hate seeing you cry.

It wasn't long before you started to calm down, Thoma motioning you to your bath with his head down. Same with Kazuha, helping you up and towards the bath, not looking at you. You didn't like that. Why are they doing that? Seeing their heads down hurt you, made you fearful so you told them in the most softest voice you could mutter "Please..look at me" in this moment you needed them to see you, you who they cared for and loved, you who loved them the same. You felt that if they didn't, they would view you as some monster. With hesitant eyes, they slowly picked their heads up to view your soft face. The way you sheepishly smiled once they did was enough for them. You told them that you needed them to look at you. They could tell something else was bothering you, so they followed your command, hoping it would give you some relief.

After you took your bath and changed, you were greeted by Zhongli and Ei. They came in with warm tea, and your favorite fruit sliced neatly on a plate. They both asked how you were feeling, and you answered a bit better but not quite. Zhongli picked up your cup and handed it to you with a smile. The warm aroma was calming, which he could tell by your relaxed demeanor. Ei started to make small talk as you ate the fruit little by little, along with Zhongli telling you some stories to get your mind off things. They would do everything they could to see you smile. While Thoma brushed your hair, and Kazuha also told you some tales. Before you knew it, everyone else came into your chambers to see if you're ok.

Of course, Ei sneered at them who just burst through the door, but you motioned to Ei its ok. She wanted to apologize for acting so rude, but you stopped her before she could with that soft smile of yours, your warm eyes telling her it's ok. With that, she nodded with a smile and continued to help you eat while you listened to everyone who came in.

Childe, Ayato, Albedo, and Diluc told you the throne room is clean.

While Kaeya, Cyno, Danslief, and Xiao told you, more as a report, that the rest of the acolytes were ok and there's nothing suspicious.

And finally, with loud laughter came in Itto, Venti, Gorou, Heizou, and Tighnari with your favorite flowers, snacks, and crystalflies.

Seeing how much they care even after witnessing that you couldn't help but cry. Once they heard your cries, they stopped and started to panic. Did they do something wrong? Was the food not good? The gifts are not ok? But before they could say sorry you looked up at them, eyes still watery, smiling at them. "Thank you." That's all they needed to hear to confirm that those were happy tears. Your soft smile told them that what they were doing was ok and made you feel safe. They stayed by your side until you fell asleep. You didn't even realize you fell asleep. One minute, you were just looking at them, smiling and conversing with them, then the next your soft breaths could be heard by everyone.

After you did, everyone cleaned up and left your chambers. All felt content knowing you were safe and well. And they will be back in the morning to see you once again.

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER TWO: Imposter Syndrome

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You've been trying your hardest to focus on your work, but there is something else that is bothering you. Claire decides to give you a call and check up on you. It seems like both of you are keeping secrets of your own, and then there is this handsome lawyer who refuses to leave your mind after he quite literally burst your little bubble of solitude...

Warnings for this chapter: Slight angst, mentions of domestic violence, Reader's POV, use of reader's fake name

Word Count: 4.3k

A/n: It took me a few tries to finish this chapter because I couldn't, for the life of me, settle on a plot, but I think I've got it figured out now. I didn't do the classic "this scene from another POV", I switched it up a bit, so what happened in chapter one isn't repeated word for word. I think it flows better like this. I hope you guys like it, and thank you for your support so far! I really appreciate it.

Read Chapter 2: Imposter Syndrome on AO3.

The human body holds up to six liters of blood. Without saline or a blood transfusion, losing more than two liters can be fatal—and every drop lost after that decreases your chance of survival. A paper cut won’t kill you, but a gunshot wound might. It’s a simple equation that doesn’t require a medical degree to solve. 

If the human body experiences trauma though, everything is on the line. A nicked vessel or artery can lead to a bloodbath. Trauma to any of the major organs can lead to internal bleeding and cause the body to suffer fatal consequences. You could lose too much blood too fast, or the blood could travel to your brain, and you could herniate. 

Depending on the place of injury, trauma can lead to a large number of complications that are therefore a threat to life. But it’s not just blood that the human body needs to survive; oxygen is another vital player in the game against time. Without it, the brain dies, and if the brain is dead, there is nothing anyone can do to bring you back.

Many things could kill a human being, and many complications could occur in a split second, and that makes trauma an unpredictable event. 

Your fingers instantly stop moving over the keys of your computer when the black phone on your desk starts screaming. At first, your eyes switch to your phone, but you have any non-emergent calls silenced. That explains it. 

You flinch. You suddenly become painfully aware of the city’s lights shining on you from behind, the blue light of your laptop illuminating your face and causing your pupils to shrink, and the bulb in your desk lamp that is flickering every so often, reminding you that you need to switch it sometime soon. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose, then press the acceptance button. You answer the phone. “This is Doctor Clarke at Metro General,” you say. “How can I help you?”

“Jesus,” the familiar voice reaches your ears, and you let out an almost annoyed sigh. “You sound like hell,” Claire answers. 

“And you don’t sound sick,” you retort. 

You aren’t sure what to make of her sudden mystery illness, or why she didn’t tell you and you had to find out from the hospital administrator who was losing it over the fact that her favorite nurse called out sick that morning. 

The phone goes silent for a short moment before she says, “It’s complicated.”

“Hey, we all need sick days sometimes,” you shrug. “Just took us all by surprise, is all.”

“Are you trying to turn this around on me so we won’t have to talk about you?”

Your lips part in a dry chuckle. “Is this about me?” you ask, even though you know very well that it is. You’re the one trying to deflect.

“You silenced your phone.”

With another sigh, you push the stack of papers you’ve been working on aside and take the next folder from the pile. “I’m fine.” You hold the X-ray picture up to the light, squinting your eyes. “Just... splendid, yeah. You want me to do a psych eval? Urine sample? My social security number?”

You can physically hear her roll her eyes at your comment. “Can’t I just be worried about you without you taking it like a personal attack?”

It’s a loaded, rhetorical question asked in a tone that you are more than familiar with. It is a train wreck waiting to happen, but Claire is your friend—a very caring friend, too—and she hardly ever lets loose when she wants to know something. 

She knows you better than anyone, after all. She knows everything, even the parts you swore to never talk about again—parts you swore you would take to the grave. 

That is the purpose of a new life, isn’t it? Forgetting the past ever happened, then moving on? If that could actually heal trauma, life would be so much easier. Unfortunately, denial tends to make the wounds bleed faster. You will die faster if you keep it all bottled up, but it’s easier said than done when it comes to reality. Sometimes, denial is the only luxury you can afford for yourself, even if it slowly kills you. 

You have seen your fair share of traumatic injuries pass in and out of the emergency room over the years. Not just physically but mentally as well. There is only a small margin of error in an even smaller time frame in which traumatic injuries can be treated without lifelong consequences. The scars though, they remain forever. 

“Look,” Claire continues softly, “I’m worried about you. I know you hate talking about yourself, but every once in a while, I have to make sure you’re alright and not... falling apart or something.”

You swallow thickly, the lump slowly starting to hurt your esophagus. “Why would I be falling apart?” you question, but your voice no longer has the same level of conviction in it. 

Feigned confidence doesn’t go a very long way, you’ve noticed. You can’t stand your ground when you don’t believe in where you’re standing. 

“A little birdy told me you had a bad day. That’s why.”

In the halls of a hospital—any hospital—word travels faster than lightning. You roll your eyes, but you don’t know what to say. She isn’t wrong. You did have a bad day. Your blood is still boiling. Everything in you feels a hundred pounds heavier. You may not be falling apart because there is not much of a foundation left to fall apart, but the feeling is eerily similar. 

You used to be a beloved surgeon at a prestigious hospital for all five years of your residency, but with each year that passed, what had once been just a spark turned into gigantic flames that slowly began torching your skin. They burned your flesh and dragged it down to your fragile bones. Your body went into shock over the years. You became septic. And it almost killed you, too. 

Your heart froze in place before it miserably cracked. It didn’t take long before the inferno took over every last crevice of your life. It burnt out everything that was remotely good for you. You were so dependent on something—someone—that was slowly poisoning you. 

You ran for months. You moved from State to State, you changed your name and your whole identity twice. You tried everything to get away, but your demons kept haunting you. The distance between you and your old life grew bigger until eventually, you reached the other side of the country, hundreds of miles from the hell you escaped from. There was nothing left in your past to exist for, so you became someone else. You lost yourself and gained a stranger’s identity in return. Someone who wasn’t scarred from a battle that she almost fully lost. 

You thought it would be easy to pretend to be someone else, someone without the same wounds that have been inflicted on you, but that turned out to be the wrong thing to believe. 

Claire’s voice rings out again. “What’s going on with you, Liv?” she asks.

You’re not really present at the moment, but this time, you hear her. 

You shake your head. “Nothing.” It’s a blatant lie, but it rolls over your tongue so easily, you are tempted to believe it yourself before your friend even can.

“You keep zoning out,” she says. “You’re not helping your case.”

“It’s been a long day, that’s all. What’s going on with you?” 

Her lips part in a soft exhale. You hit the nail right on the head. “Nothing’s going on with me. I just had to take a sick day. Migraines, you know? I get them sometimes.” 

You don’t buy it. Her voice sounds strained, but more like she is forcing herself to sound sicker than she is. Not that you are allowed to judge, it simply strikes you as odd, considering that she isn’t usually like this, and it makes you wonder what else she is keeping from you. 

A pregnant pause follows. “I heard about the girl,” Claire says then, changing the subject. You’re both way too good at that. You’re hypocrites.

“Annie,” you cut her off. “Her name’s—was Annie.”

You keep replaying it over and over in your mind. From the moment you received the page to the ER to the little girl landing on your operating table, you retrace all of your steps. You rethink every decision you made, every uttered order, every cut, and every stitch. Every time you do, you come up empty.  

Annie was six years old. She got hit by an oncoming car. It was a gruesome sight, but you kept telling yourself that it could have been worse. She was stabilizing when you took her to the operating room. All the tests suggested that controlling the damage could buy some valuable time for the specialists to do their jobs. In your mind, the path was clear to a full recovery. 

Everything you did to save her life ended up doing absolutely nothing. 

It elicited a feeling that you are more than used to—inadequacy. You know that it is utterly selfish to think that way; this isn’t even about you. The feeling wraps like a noose around your heart, but you can’t allow yourself to make this about you. You’re not that type of person. 

Claire takes your silence as an answer. “I logged into the hospital server and took a look at the X-rays,” she says. “That aortic tear was irreparable, as much for you as it would’ve been for the world’s best cardiothoracic surgeon. This wasn’t your fault.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t know that,” you argue. “I could have caught it earlier. I could’ve… I could’ve done something.”

“No, Liv, you couldn’t have. But I think you know that.”

You search the depths of your mind for the right words to say, but you come up with none. “Who blabbed, anyway?” you ask.

In this case, though, the question is, who didn’t? Everyone must have heard about Annie by now, and the people around you care too much. It was bound to reach Claire’s ears eventually. You just didn’t think it would happen so soon.

Claire holds off on her answer for a moment. “Doesn’t matter,” she answers. It’s the kindest choice. “What matters is that you can’t beat yourself up for something that wasn’t your fault.” Her voice suggests that she’s smiling.

“I…I’m fine,” you lie.

“I know you’re not.” 

“You’re the one who called in sick but clearly isn’t. You don’t see me bugging you about it.” 

That shuts her up for a moment. “This isn’t about me,” Claire tries to talk herself out of it, but you see right through her.

“Are you sure?” you ask. 

“I—” She sighs. “I promise you, if there was something going on, I’d tell you.”

You should return the sentiment. You should tell her what you’re really thinking, but you’re mute. When it comes to your own feelings, all words in the English dictionary elude you.

Still, the feeling that Claire is lying to you keeps eating away at you. She has no reason to. Or maybe she has, but it’s none of your business. You’re curious, maybe a little worried, but you can’t expect her to tell you every little thing about her life and then refuse to do the same because you can’t possibly ask for help with something you don’t even understand yourself. 

You’re miserable enough as it is. You would rather suffer through it alone than bother her with your chronic overthinking and the fear of failure. 

“I’m still cat-sitting for Jenny,” she breaks you out of your thoughts. 

You chuckle slightly. “But you’re allergic to cats,” you say.

“I know, but…” She stops herself. “The point is, I still have an almost full bottle of white wine in the fridge and there’s this deliciously cheap pizza place around the corner. Their breadsticks are to die for, trust me. You could come over after your shift and we could look after that stupid cat together. Maybe. Just until we both feel better.”

Until you both feel better. You feel like it would take more than wine and pizza to make you feel better. 

You need to sulk. You need to marinate in your misery. That way, you can suck it up and be better next time. Everything else seems like too much of a waste of time.  

You shatter what little hope she had about you agreeing to her offer like a full wine glass on a white cloth, sure to leave stains. Your hand momentarily motions toward the stack of paperwork, but then you remember that she can’t see over the phone. “I wish I could,” you say, “but I have to finish my surgical reports by tomorrow.”

Claire nods slowly. “Are you sure it’s the paperwork?”

“I promise.”

She accepts defeat. She can’t change your mind. You’re stubborn, determined, and a pain in the ass most of the time. She still loves you, but she has long given up on forcing you out of your shell. 

Sometimes, which is more often than not, you prefer to be miserable because you have no idea how to be anything else.

“Well, I tried. So… at least call me if you need anything,” she says.

You offer her a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re tired. Your heart is pounding from all the caffeine and the frustration of the unknown. You have paperwork. As long as you have paperwork, you’re occupied. It’s as good a reason to avoid talking about anything that could be considered even remotely personal. 

“Thank you, Claire. For everything,” your voice is barely above a whisper. “Take care of yourself. I’ll talk to you later.”

You hate that you’re like this, but you can’t change who you are now or what all those years of suffering have made out of you. You can’t change the fact that underneath Olivia Clarke, it is not who you are. And it will never be who you are because her identity is a fraud.

You may have escaped the worst time of your life and traded it for a fresh start, but that doesn’t take away the paralyzing fear that still sits deep in your bones, making it impossible for you to sleep at night. It may be a fresh start to a new life, but the slate is far from clean. There are bloodstains that you can’t get out. Stains that will haunt you forever. 

Every day and every night that you spend at the hospital, you’re reminded of the terrible past that threatens to overshadow your future whenever you set foot outside. Your name may be Olivia Clarke, but that will never be your real name, no matter how badly you try to pretend it to be. And on some days, it breaks you just a little more when you fail at the one thing you have always excelled at. The one thing you have dedicated your life to. To do something good, to be worth something, and to prove the cruel monsters in your mind wrong about their assessment of you. 

You don’t want to be a coward. You don’t want to be weak. You don’t want to be dependent on anything or anyone ever again. You forgot how to be happy. You became someone you’re not because the person you used to be was broken by someone she thought she could trust. 

He took everything from you, and he took all that you are. Olivia was never taken advantage of. 

Claire saved your life. She knows the truth, but facts aren’t enough. She’s your only support system, the only one who knows who you truly are, deep down, and yet she knows nothing at all. 

Long after you’ve hung up the phone, you start wandering the halls of Metro General. You haven’t quite figured out what you’re looking for yet. You want to be alone. You want to be not needed. You want to exist somewhere that isn’t here. And you don’t want to be found, just for a little while. 

When you get settled on an empty bed in one of internal medicine’s abandoned hallways that had to be emptied after severe budget cuts affected the hospital, the tears start pouring out without warning. You barely manage to stifle the sobs that slip past your lips. You hate crying. You used to believe that it was a sign of weakness, but tears have become as much of a partner in crime to you as the pain has. 

It’s not as easy as it used to be to hold all of those treacherous feelings in—feelings you don’t even understand yourself—and that makes you hate yourself enough to cry even harder. Because you try, try, and you try even harder as you give all of yourself over and over again to be someone you never thought you would turn into, and still, you find yourself failing more times than you could possibly count. 

Your life ended when you met the man who ruined you; ever since then, you have only been a shell of the person you used to be, and there is seemingly nothing you can do about it other than accept that Olivia Clarke is who you are now, and she is all you can be. 

You didn’t expect another lonely soul in need of an escape to find his way to your little haven. This hallway isn’t even on the hospital map anymore, but he still somehow found his way here. 

Your eyes switch to his cane, the red glasses, and the way he so awkwardly carries himself when he seems to realize that he, in fact, isn’t alone. You know that feeling of instant disappointment all too well, and he just caught you crying, which only makes matters worse. 

After the initial awkwardness has dissipated and you get to talking, you take a moment to appreciate him. His name is Matthew. He is a defense attorney. He is unlike any man you’ve ever met before. You’re cautious when it comes to new people, but there is something almost calm about him. He’s funny, charming, and he’s respectful. He made you feel comfortable from the start.

There is a mystery surrounding him. You know all about mysteries. They draw you in. They make you feel less alone in a way. He is the biggest one you have encountered so far. 

People tend to consider you an enigma, too. Most of them are wary of you because you barely share anything about yourself. You’re still learning, even after two years, to be someone new. You’re constantly reinventing yourself because all you were before is gone now. You lost yourself in the fire. So, most people you meet don’t talk much when they do; you’ve gotten used to having only one friend. It keeps your identity safe, as guarded as you are. It’s the safest bet for everyone involved—or everyone not involved. 

Matthew is different. He seems genuinely curious, but he doesn’t pry. And that makes you open yourself up to him, even if it is just your body language. He’s sitting right next to you, his calm voice like a gentle symphony in your ear. He serenades you every time he speaks. That is a dangerous quality. He’s an attractive man, and you can’t keep your eyes off of him. You can’t stop listening. He’s like a work of art—a damaged work of art.

The man before you is broken and bruised. That’s what makes him so mysterious. The hesitation you showed when he introduced himself, indirectly asking for a piece of you in return, shows when you ask about his injuries. 

You have seen all kinds of injuries, including those on a blind man who fell down the stairs. Matthew doesn’t fit the profile, and that only makes him more mysterious and therefore more interesting to you. 

You have to stop yourself before you ask too many questions. You don’t want to push him away, but you also can’t draw him in. You can be nice, but that is as far as you are willing to go. You hold your walls so high that no one can break through them, no matter how fascinating or attractive they are. 

Matthew is a dangerous man because he makes you feel things that you have long told yourself never to feel again. But it’s hard when he makes it so easy to like him. 

You patch him up. It’s not just professional courtesy; he seems like he desperately needs someone to look after him. You are being nice to him, that is all. You keep telling yourself the same thing. 

You’re still disappointed when you get paged to the emergency room and you have to leave him behind. The chances that you will see him again are low, and they shrink to zero when you return to the hallway four hours later and find it dark and empty again. The plastic packaging of the bandages you used on him is still lying around, but that is all that is left of him. All you have is a memory of a very unexpected encounter that will probably never occur again. 

But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing, after all. At least like this, you can’t make the mistake of falling for a guy claiming to be nice. At least like this, you can keep your fragile and already broken heart safe from enduring the same kind of pain ever again. 

You pass the nurse’s station in the emergency room on your way out. Dropping the chart of your last patient on the counter, you wish everyone a good night. 

“Liv, before you leave–” One of the senior nurses stops you dead in your tracks, “Someone left a card for you,” she says.

You turn around, frowning at her. “A card?” you ask. “Who did?”

Her lips curl into a mischievous smile. “Handsome fella. And he had good manners.”

Your mind reels. There are only a handful of people that would fit that description. Every time someone leaves something behind for you, your first response is to panic. Your blood pressure spikes. You can feel your heart beating up to your throat and your vision blurs. You’re not a fan of the suspense or knowing grins, and it’s obvious. 

The nurse’s smile fades and she rummages through the stack of papers next to the computer. “He only knew your first name and his blindness made it a bit harder to figure out who he was talking about, but thankfully we only have one excellent trauma surgeon named Olivia,” she says, her eyes still twinkling. She can’t help it. 

You let out an audible exhale. Your body relaxes. Your heart rate slows down. You can finally see her clearly again, and she slides the card across the counter for you to take. You want to apologize for the hostility, but her face tells you that she understands. 

The next time your heart starts beating faster, it isn’t out of panic. You look down at the names on the card and the distinctive number on the back, and your brain releases a sudden rush of dopamine. It’s late, you’re tired, but somehow this little gesture puts a surprising smile on your face. 

You shouldn’t be as excited as you are. Your plan for this evening has been tossed far out of the window in an instant.

“So,” the nurse asks, “who is he? A patient? A friend?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “A guy from Hinge?”

You shake your head. “Just… a guy I met,” you answer. 

If he were an official patient, this would be highly unethical and you would have to toss his number into the nearest trash can.

The blood has permanently settled into your cheeks. You’re not usually the kind of person who blushes. It’s infuriating.

With a chuckle, she leans over. “Well, either way, the guy was smoking. Said you should give him a call. I hope for your sake that you do.”

You keep twisting and turning the card. “What else did he say?”

“Not much. Just said that I should give this to you and that you should call him if you want. You must’ve made quite the impression.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip. You would’ve never suspected this. You are essentially still a stranger to him, and he still left you his number. He wants you to call him.

It makes no sense, and yet it flatters you like nothing has in quite a while. 

You let out a soft sigh before stuffing the card into the pocket of your coat. Looking up, you meet the nurse’s curious eyes. 

Your mind is taking its time to process your thoughts and the feelings connected to your thoughts. 

She chuckles at the bewildered look in your eyes. You must look like a fool. “Where does one meet a specimen like that anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?” she says. “‘Cause I desperately need me one of those.” 

A beat of silence follows. Then, you wet your lips and answer, “Abandoned hallways. Way more effective than Hinge, apparently.”

The subtle joke makes her laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You put in the effort to fake a smile with your nod. “Well, thank you,” you say. “You guys have a good shift. If you need anything, page me.” 

“Will do,” she says. The other nurses nod. Of course, they listened in on your conversation. 

With another small wave in their general direction, you make your way outside into the cool night air. You retrieve the business card from your coat, your eyes roaming over the names carefully printed on it, and the Braille that has been added for obvious reasons. 

Nelson & Murdock. Attorneys at law. 

From what he told you, this is probably the only somewhat expensive thing he and his partner afforded for a semi-successful marketing plan for their practice. It almost makes you chuckle.

Matt Murdock is a very fascinating man, though as you stare at the card and the number on the back you can’t help but feel a slight hint of unease bubble up in your chest, and you ask yourself, what did you get yourself into?

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson

[r-i-03-17]

Hey everybody, I'm back. Sorry for not being on for a bit, but I wasn't really sure what to write, since my writing isn't THAT good, and I can look back at my other Yaz and Sammy headcanons and cringe, it's taken me a lil bit to figure out exactly what to write. But either way, I hope you guys enjoyed my other headcanons, and I hope you enjoy this one. Peace out, see y'all later 🙂. (WARNING: If you're not aware some of my headcanons/stories have more "mature" elements, nothing blatantly NSFW, but definitely implied things, so if that's something your fine with, then be free to enjoy, I'll always give a warning when my posts have "implied" elements, like this one does.)

It was their daughter's 4th birthday, and Yaz and Sammy had spent the entire morning preparing. They've had other parties sure, but this one was special, they had a surprise for their daughter that was sure to make this one of her best birthdays yet.

Sammy was making the food, humming to herself while sunlight beamed through the window above the oven. She took a deep inhale and exhaled out happily. She was happy with herself, she had a family, her daughter, her wife, her friends, and her dog. After the car accident she had right before her child was born messed up her hip pretty bad, so she couldn't move as fast as she used to, but that was ok . Yaz's job helped financially cover what the farm couldn't, she worked long hours and was always so helpful. When Sammy had to do physical therapy, when she had surgery, Yaz was always right there, helping her, helping get to the shower when she had a hard time walking, giving her cuddles when she was in pain, and always making her food when she felt too sick to make any herself, and Sammy appreciated it, probably more than she could ever express.

Speaking of, Yazmina was outside cutting up firewood for a fire they were going to have when it got dark, she was about twenty feet away, axe in hand, and a decent pile of wood already stacked. She was wearing a white tank top, exposing her six pack, that was gleaming with sweat from the hot sun. Yaz's jet black hair was hanging down over her shoulders, while she dumped a bottle of water over her head and on her tan arms to cool off. She didn't notice Sammy staring out the window, watching her like a teenager staring at her crush, thinking to herself how lucky she was, that not only did she have an amazing life with an amazing wife, but also that wife happened to be super hot, literally and figuratively, she made a mental note to herself to bring her out a a new bottle of water once she put her pie in the oven that she was making. Sammy felt a hand grab her shoulder and it made her jump, when she flipped around, Brooklyn was standing there, a birthday card in her hands.

S: Jesus Brook, don't sneak up on someone like that, you just about gave me a heart attack.

B: Sorry Sammy, didn't mean to interrupt you checking out your wife 😏.

S: 😳. I wasn't.....I didn't....I was just....

B: 😏😏.

S: 😑.

Brooklyn laughed, she loved teasing Sammy about that kinda stuff, even after all these years, she still gets super flustered, it didn't bother Yaz at all when she teased her, so Brooks main target was usually Sammy.

Brooklyn opened the window, and yelled out to Yaz.

B: Hey Yazmina, you didn't notice your wife checking you out? She's been staring at you for the past 10 minutes.

Y: 😏. Good, means I must be doing something right 😉.

Sammy blushed while Yaz and Brooklyn started laughing, to be completely honest Sammy never minded the teasing or anything like that, if anything she loved it. In some weird way it made her feel all bubbly and happy inside, like she felt when the first started dating. Whenever Yaz grabbed her by the hips and lifted her up to kiss her, or when they would just lay on a couch late at night watching a movie, or when they would sit on the front porch swing with Koda (Sammy's Rottweiler) after they put their daughter to bed, talking about their days, and when they their friends we're going to visit again.

Suddenly Darius, Kenji, and Ben pulled up the driveway with a big trailer towing behind them. Sammy called their daughter downstairs and revealed the surprise to her, her very own Shetland Pony, named Tucker. Yaz and Sammy's daughter loved him, hugged her parents, and led her new horse to the barn. As the two of them looked on, Sammy's head resting on Yaz's shoulder, they both thought to themselves " I'm so lucky".

Ok guys I hope you enjoyed this one, idk when I'll make another, but I probably will eventually.

[just-wrting]

Fell For You

Title: Fell For You

Pairing: LA!Vinsmoke Sanji x Reader

Summary: You know that a certain charming cook gets feelings easily, but when he asks for your help, you can't refuse.

Word Count: 1629

Master List

A/N: I promise I've been working on this stuff, life just isn't cooperating with me. If it's not feeling physically like shit, it's having a rough time mentally or just working at a weird time. I'll make my way through this list eventually just maybe when I do a challenge it'll be after seeing my neurologist.

It’s been a week since you noticed the change. When you first met, you didn't think he had been flirting with you, but now you have the feeling he is. It’s a bit of a surprise really, considering not many men have ever been into you.

It started with small gestures, your favorite foods more often, and frequent snacks. Then it escalated to a pet name and gentle hands on your shoulders during fights. You aren’t opposed to any of these things, it just confuses you.

“Man, it must be nice to get an extra portion,” Luffy whines. “Sanji, can I have more meat?”

“Since there’s more than enough, yes. Just stop asking (Y/N) for their portions.”

You watch Sanji as he piles Luffy’s plate with more food. It’s impressive how much he’s able to put away without getting sick. You wouldn’t mind giving him some of your food, Sanji has just gotten a bit protective.

It’s not completely unwarranted, you’ve never been good at fighting. In fact, you’re so terrible at it that you’re wondering how you ended up as a pirate. Maybe fate had interesting ways of making you miserable. Being with the Strawhats made it easier to deal with.

“I prefer smaller meals anyway, so I don’t mind sharing,” you reassure Luffy. “I’ve gotta save room for the best part of the meal, dessert.”

Sanji hovers around you. You’d rather have him sit down, but he’s stubborn and has yet to actually sit next to you. Whenever you offer, he gets this odd look on his face and mumbles some sort of excuse.

“It’s your lucky day then, mon chou, I’ve made some eclairs.”

He sets the tray in front of you, giving you a soft smile. You’re unsure of what a mon chou is, but you let him call you that. He seems quite happy when you respond to it, so you’ll play along a little longer.

The eclair is firm, with a sweet cream filling. The chocolate is semi-sweet, having a bit of a bitter taste which is nice and makes the pastry not overpoweringly sweet. Not that you would care, dessert is dessert, and Sanji has made some amazing treats. You could get used to this sort of treatment.

—-

Almost everyone else is asleep, but you can’t help yourself. Most of the eclairs were eaten while you savored yours, so you’re craving another. Sanji promised you he’d bring you more later, but he hasn't come yet.

You know he’s awake, when you see the table covered in various desserts. There’s brownies cut neatly into squares and hearts, cookies of all different types, and even mini cakes halfway decorated. It’s an impressive layout, and you can’t wait to dig in.

“I don’t think he’ll mind,” you whisper, trying to convince yourself that your crime will be okay. “He won’t even notice if a few of these are missing.”

“Actually, I keep track of all the food we have on the Merry,” Sanji says from behind you. “Though if it’s you, I don’t mind if some go missing.”

You pull a chair closer to the table and wave him over. “Since you’re the chef, where do I start?”

Sanji is slow to take a seat, and he makes sure to sit a ways away. “As long as you like them all, it doesn’t matter. Do tell me how they taste, as a favor.”

You give him a cheeky grin. “Oh, you’re asking me for favors now? You’ll owe me a favor then.”

He looks away from you, so you dig in. The first dessert is the colorful array of macaroons. They melt on your tongue and the tartness of fresh raspberries pairs well with the sweetness of the cream, and you close your eyes to savor the taste. It’s such a delicate sort of cookie that you can’t help but enjoy.

Sanji’s gaze makes you feel a bit warm, wondering if you got it all over your face somehow. It doesn’t stop you from savoring the treat.

“Give me another one,” you demand, eyes still closed. “I want it to be a surprise.”

There’s a pause. After a moment, you hear a fork against a plate. You feel like maybe you’re teasing him, but you don’t want to open your eyes. You’d like to try to guess what he’s feeding you.

“Open up.” His voice is barely a whisper.

You comply, feeling the rich cake settle on your tongue. As soon as you feel the fork drop it, you close your mouth to savor the cake. This one was certainly made with your favor of sweets in mind, with a sweet chocolate taste almost overwhelming your senses. It’s paired with a cherry filling, and you’re shocked by how perfectly it compliments the chocolate.

“This is amazing,” you mumble out, covering your mouth. “I could get used to this.”

After opening your eyes, you’re glad to see Sanji has moved his chair closer to you. The moon light makes his light blonde hair look pale, and you’re tempted to study how handsome he really is. Once he notices you staring however, he looks away from you.

“Can I ask you for another favor?”

You nod. “As long as I can keep trying these.”

You don’t think he hears you, due to the fact that he’s nervously playing with a towel. It doesn’t bother you. It’s clearly something that he isn’t too sure about, so you’ll wait until he’s ready.

“I’ve been having a hard time figuring out how I feel about someone. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before,” he explains softly. “Can you help me figure out what it is?”

You toss the last bite of a second macaroon in your mouth. After finishing, you start talking. “Sure. How about you start by closing your eyes.”

After Sanji complies, you scoot closer to him. Waving your hand in front of his face, you’re satisfied that he’s got his eyes tightly closed.

“Think about this person. Just about them during the day to day life. Now tell me what happens. What does your body do?”

Sanji’s face starts to turn red. “Is my face turning red? I get the feeling it is. That and my chest feels tight, my heart is racing, and my stomach feels weird. Not nauseous, but like I can’t eat.”

“I bet your hands are also sweaty, aren’t they?” you ask, and he nods. “Now, can you imagine holding hands with this person? What about kissing them? How about holding them tightly during the night as you sleep?”

Somehow, his face gets more red. “I-” he pauses and swallows hard. “I can.”

“That settles it. I think you have genuine feelings for this person. Perhaps even love them,” you tease.

Suddenly, his eyes shoot open. “I’m sure I left something in the oven.”

As Sanji makes his way to the oven, you pout. While it’s convenient for him to have forgotten something in the oven, you wanted to know who this person is.

Determined to get an answer, you follow him and sit on the counter. You kick your legs back and forth waiting for him to pay attention to you. Thankfully, he sets the next set of cookies on the counter next to you.

“Don’t touch them, they’re hot.”

You ponder his order, still pouting. “Only if you tell me who this person is. Consider it my payment for the favors.”

He sets his hands next to your thighs and leans his head against your shoulder. You can smell his soap due to how close he is and you can feel your heart start to race. Desperate to ignore the feeling, you keep teasing him.

“Is it…” you drawl, “Zoro? Is it because he can wield three swords? That is impressive.”

Sanji lets out a groan. “That green haired oaf? Impossible.”

“Well then, who is it? Come on, Sanji.”

He doesn’t respond and instead continues to rest his head on you. It’s quite cute to see him like this, and you really want to fluster him even more. You’ve got a feeling about who this mystery crush could be, but you want to hear him say it.

“Please. I’ll keep it a secret,” you say in a singsong voice.

Still, the silence drags on. This time, he turns his head to place his nose in the crook of your neck. You have to stifle a giggle since his breath tickles.

“Mon chou, why do you want to know?”

“Maybe I just wanna know about you. Maybe I like the drama. But that doesn’t matter,” you say. “Can I cash in my favor? Right now?”

Sanji nods and mumbles in agreement.

“Then, can you kiss me?”

“Don’t ask such a thing of me, mon chou.”

He pulls his head out of your neck and faces you. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone look this flustered, and you know you’ve confirmed it. However, there is a sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Why can’t I? If you do, then I know who you like. If you don’t, then I’ll keep guessing.”

Sanji hums in thought, his face close to yours. All words die in your throat. Despite how nervous you know he is, his hands are steady as he holds your cheek.

“Because I’m not sure if I can stop myself.”

His lips are soft as he kisses you. It’s more tender than you expected, and you wrap your arms around his neck. He tastes sweet, and you find yourself wanting more.

Despite his claims, Sanji keeps his hands on the counter. That doesn’t stop him from kissing you senselessly. You aren’t sure how long you stay like that, though when he finally stops kissing you, the cookies have cooled.

[chronicbeans]

Puppeteer Wally Darling x (G/N) Puppet Reader

idk if this will be a series or just a one off so LET'S GOOOOOO (if you want a part two, let me know in the comments of this post.

TW: Obsessive and Possessive Behavior, Kidnapping? (Can you kidnap a puppet? IDK but we're putting that warning just in case), Controlling Behavior

Wally Darling grins widely as he puppeteers the star of the show, (Y/N) (L/N), in a scene within their home. As sad as he is that he cannot voice them, as well, just bringing their personality to life through their motions is enough for him. Voicing his beloved (Y/N) is all up to Sam, their voice actor/actress. Sam, who also happens to be out sick, today. Just like yesterday. And the day before that...

"Aaannddd... CUT! Great job, Wally. You did great! If only Sam were here. Have you heard any word from them?" The director sits back in their chair, staring at the puppeteer on set. Everybody has been asking him about Sam, today. Why are they asking him? Is it because they don't get along?

"No. Sorry. I haven't heard a word. They don't tell me anything." "Alright. Well, you can go take a break, Wally. You've been filming for about... Woah! I must've lost track! You've been filming for NINE hours straight! Isn't your arm tired from being upright for so long?" Wally shakes his head, grinning as wide as a Cheshire. "I can't feel my arm at this point... but I can keep going! I'm always happy to keep going! (Y/N) means so much to me-!"

"Take a break, Wally... And put that puppet back in the storage, will you?" The director looks over to one of the camera people, telling them to turn off the camera, before muttering to themself "He's an amazing puppeteer, but Jesus... He treats that thing like it's alive..."

He quickly runs to his little office, taking (Y/N) with him. Placing the puppet on his desk, he gives his arms a rest as he lies back in his seat. Letting out a long sigh, he looks over to the limp puppet on his desk. Sitting it up and leaning it against a pile of books and folders, he smiles. Surely, the director won't mind if he keeps (Y/N) out of that dingy old box for a little while... As long as they get back in there by the time he leaves, it should be fine.

"I wonder why everybody keeps asking me about Sam, (Y/N)? Do they think I did something to them? Sure, we don't get along, and they clearly don't have as much passion for you as I do! I would never hurt them, though! Do you think I would hurt them?" He looks down to the puppet, smiling. Of course, it doesn't answer. It still feels nice to act like (Y/N) answers and understands. "Thank you for the kind words. It really helps! I love working with you, but the others can be so stressful, sometimes!"

Wally looks away for a moment, checking a few papers on his desk. His schedule seems rather empty for the next week. He had already gotten most of the filming for the episode done today! Only two more scenes require (Y/N). He wishes that there were a few more, to be honest. He prefers working to having nothing to do all day. Maybe he-

"Where... WHERE AM I?!"

Wally's eyes widen, hearing the familiar voice. He looks over to (Y/N), seeing that they have now toppled over onto their side. Their arms flail slightly, as they squeak out "Where am I?! Who? What?! This isn't the neighborhood!"

As much as he wants to squeal with excitement, they are being rather loud. That, alongside the fact that they are voiced, and still sound like, Sam... and people are a bit suspicious of Wally for some reason... He quickly grabs them, placing a hand over their mouth as he quickly says "Be quiet! Someone might hear! I'll explain as much as I can! Just be... Quiet. Here, let me help you back upright."

He picks the puppet up, feeling them squirm a bit in his hands, then sits them back where they were. They raise their arms, which shake as they do so. As they look up to him, he feels his heart swell with joy.

He doesn't know how this has happened... And, frankly... He doesn't care. (Y/N) is talking! (Y/N) is moving! (Y/N) is... (Y/N) is alive! Shaken, yes, but still alive! It's his greatest wish come true! All the work he's put in to bring this character that he loves oh so much to life... Did he have something to do with this? Did his wish for (Y/N) to be able to talk back, move, and live a life in his world make it actually happen?

It doesn't matter. All that matters is that his little puppet is here, in front of him, and able to truly interact with him.

"What's going on...?" Their legs shift slightly, but not much. "Why do my legs feel weird? I can barely move my legs?!" Wally pats their head, saying "Shh... It'll be alright. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what is going on, either. I can tell you where you are, though. First thing's first, though... I'm Wally Darling! I already know who you are, (Y/N). Before you ask, I'll let you know how I know your name."

He goes through everything. The studio, the show, how they are a puppet. To his shock, they already knew they were a puppet, just not exactly what it meant... They didn't know somebody was controlling them in their world. The poor little thing seems so confused! It looks like their head is spinning!

He picks up (Y/N), grinning from ear to ear as he says "Don't worry, (Y/N)! I'll keep you safe! This world is large and dangerous for a puppet like you! I, as your kind puppeteer, will make sure you are safe from harm!" To his shock, (Y/N) only flails, saying "I want to go back to my world! My neighborhood!"

Wally's eyes widen. They want to go back? To leave him? He knows that it is the right thing to do, but he simply cannot have it. As much as he wants to make his lovely little puppet happy... they can just learn to be happy with him! There's no reason why they can't, right?

A simple shake of his head was all it took for them to visibly lose hope. "I'm afraid I can't do that. I care about you too much to let you go back! Think about it... I explained how your world is a show, right? It is like... think of it like a little lie. Would you rather go back to your world, cursed with the knowledge that everything you say and do, see and hear, and all your friends, are just a lie? That it isn't real? Or would you rather stay here, where everything is real?"

(Y/N) shakes their head, again. "I could go back and tell them the truth! I could let them know what is going on! I could-" "Not if I don't let you. I control what you do in that world. If I don't let you tell them, then you can't." "I still want to go home. I want to see my friends, again. I want to go back to Home and take a rest." "You can take a rest at my house!" "I WANT TO GO HOME!" "Be quiet! The others might notice! I might be treating this like it is normal, but if others saw you moving about, they would scream! Stay still-!"

Wally quickly places his hand over their mouth, again, as the director walks in. "What is going on in here?!" Wally chuckles, nervous, as he says "I'm just practicing my (Y/N) impression! You know, since Sam has been out for a while. We don't want to get behind on episodes just because they are gone! Who knows when they will be back?"

The director's eyes trail to the limp puppet in the man's hands. "I thought I told you to put that thing away! Why do you still have it out?" Wally flinches, quickly thinking of an excuse. "Well, I needed to practice not only the voice, but also puppeteering while talking. Since I usually only have to puppeteer, I thought it would help to practice doing both?" The director sighs, nodding.

Then, the best words he has ever heard come out of their mouth happen.

"Just take that puppet home with you, if you want. You clearly have something wrong in the head to be so... ungodly attached to it. You'd probably would keep it in better condition than when we leave them in the storage boxes, anyway."

With that, the director slammed the door to Wally's office shut. The puppet in Wally's arms began to move once more, looking up to Wally with fear. They immediately begin to squirm, trying to get out of his grasp, only for him to hold them still with ease. "Come on, (Y/N)! Let me show you just how much you'll love it here! I'll show you how happy your show makes the children of this world, as well as how much fun this world can be! Anything for you to stay, (Y/N)!"

He grabs a small, cardboard box, then places the struggling puppet inside. Quickly stapling it shut, he then pokes a few little holes into the top. Yes, technically, a puppet cannot breathe, but he still feels bad keeping them in a dark box during transport. Picking up the box, he takes it to his car, saying "Don't worry. The ride will be short. I love relatively close to the studio! Just stay calm, alright?"

"LET ME OUT! WALLY! WALLY! LET ME GO!!!" The box shuffles in the car seat, the puppet inside clearly being in distress as he drives down the road. "WALLY!" (Y/N) peeks out of one of the holes in the box. "I don't know what you are doing, but you are clearly not being a nice neighbor! LET ME GO!" "It's too late. Even if I wanted to, we are already at my house! Come on, let me show you around!" "You could just drive me back-" "LET ME SHOW YOU AROUND!"

He quickly swoops the box into his arms, carrying it into his house as the puppet inside throws itself against the cardboard walls, attempting to escape. He rushes inside, closing the door behind him, before placing the box on his couch. Popping open the lid, (Y/N) pokes their head out, frantically looking around the room.

Their face would've grown pale, if it could've, as they survey the room. Their expression twists, as much as their felt face could allow, into a look of anxiety and fear. Looking around, Wally is slightly confused. What could be wrong with his home? There isn't anything that is obscene or dangerous, as far as he is aware. Then, it hits him.

This place is Wally sized, not (Y/N) sized. The small puppet, who is only around 3 feet tall, give or take, will have a bit of trouble navigating his home. Especially with the fact that they don't seem used to their puppet body. Normally, he would feel bad or sorry, then help accommodate his beloved little puppet. Considering the fact that they clearly want to escape him, however...

This is perfect.

Even more so, because felt hands won't have as much traction and grip on things like doorknobs, windowsills, and the likes. It's going to be harder for them to try to get out without his permission. As much as he hates knowing that he is making (Y/N) unhappy, it truly is for the best!

"Aww... (Y/N), this will only be for a week! Then, I have to go back to work! Maybe... Maybe, when I puppeteer you at work, on set, you'll go back to your world? Just wait. If my theory is true, you'll be back in no time!" The puppet nods, folding their arms. They look away from Wally, clearly upset and full of dismay.

Wally picks up (Y/N), holding them in his arms gently, almost like he is cradling the most precious thing in the world. To him, he is. Nothing could compare to (Y/N)! The effect they have had on the children who watch the show brings him such joy. The way they talk about kindness, acceptance, generosity, and creativity is all that he has wanted to see in life. He has always wanted that kindness, that acceptance, and affection for himself! Now, he can. Now, he can have (Y/N).

His co-workers may call him crazy, saying something is wrong with him... having crushes on fictional characters is childish in their eyes- something an adult shouldn't do. They've been on his back for him talking to the puppet like it could talk back, how he never seems to let it go, and how his little obsession is made stranger, considering that he puppeteers the character. They've always told him that (Y/N) isn't real and to let go. Jokes on them, because now Wally's precious, sweet (Y/N) is real! They're real and they're his.

[lillysilvermoon]

Intuitive message for you

Pile 1 (water cave) | Pile 2 (girl and sea) | Pile 3 (earth dragon) | Pile 4 (Pink Fae)

Pile 1

Signs: 6666, 4, 44, 333, 3333, 5, 55, good skills involving hands, black hair.

If you choose this Pile probably you are having some kind of problem to trust someone. There is two young guys, one of them isn't very trustworthy so you need to let your eyes opening! The one with black hair is some you can relay on, the other one... I don't think he is bad, but probably have problems with jealousy which can be dangerous if it's too much. In matter of material stuff you can trust him.

Girl you need to see beyond the veil, your illusions about this situation are making you blind, you need to wake up. I'm seriously, has been too long... look, I know it's difficult to look to our shadows, but IT IS NEEDED. You won't go anywhere if you continue pretending everything is fine when clearly is not child. Stop living by illusions and start to see reality. Dreams are awesome! But stop living in your head and begin to make them your reality. You will be very disappointed if you don't start quickly. You have all support you need, we are right here with you. Just ask for help and we will help.

P.S: stop being so rude with others, people own nothing to you and have nothing to do with your problems. You'll end up alone if continue doing this with your friends.

Crystal oracle: Pyrite. Brings you new ideas and to connect you with the opportunities you need.

(Damn... I think someone here are doing something very wrong,,,, whatever it is, your guides love you a lot and they are just worried, I know the message sounds though, but the energy was like they/she/he (I think was more than one) feels anxious like they all know you can do this but you aren't give yourself a real chance and they are all worried) you can do this Pile 1, really. You just have to do the first step.

Pile 2

Signs: pink (I felt pink bubble happy energy lmao and I saw like a pink energy in my minds eye), roses, blond hair, caramel macchiato, Starbucks phineas&Ferb (omg has been SO LONG since I watched this, I used to love as a kid), 444, 555, 333, 1, 66

I think this is my romance Pile but let's see.

She needs to have more patience, relationships take time, to build trust and a solid foundation. This things takes TIME. You can't expect him to just be comfortable with so little time. Besides, are you focus on YOUR stuff??? Your had so many goals but now you are acting like this man it's all your life. Sweet, he likes you a lot, but if you start to make him your only priority the universe you make sure you don't see him for a while (I'm sense some distance like you live in a city and he lives in other. Hmm, I think this is not something to worry about, you look like someone who has many goals and ideas. You just need to go back to balance, it's not to stop likes him or anything just... don't like by this relationship ok?) You need to learn about moderation and balance. Talk to him, go on dates but have your own life. You don't need to talk to him every time neither go out with him every weekend. Even tho if it's the only time you can see him, enjoy your friends too, do your things. It's all about balance.

Also, this message here it's not for the romance group, it's for some of you that are overworking yourselves. Stop doing this, work smarter not more. Doing hours and hours of something it's not productive, it's being stupid (this is not me but I agree) you are just stressing your body and debilitating your health. You will end up burn out or sick. You, like the other person, need to learn about balance, but in your case has nothing to do with relationship, has to do with you thinking doing much is doing better when it is not. You need to create balance between work and have some fun. And stop trying to controlling everything god damn. Learn to follow the flow because you can't control everything and do you even stop to think that, sometimes, you didn't get it not because you are not good enough but because you were TOO GOOD for this and deserved AWAY BETTER?????? Because that's it.

Crystal oracle: blue quartz. Brings you harmony and work your communication. Talk about what/how you feel will help to improve your relationships.

(It's a young woman your guide and I liked her energy a lot lmao I'm laughing here she is too funny)

Pile 3

Signs: dragons, elementals kingdom, green, 6666, 22, 33, 444, green areas, spells, rituals, moon goddess, candle magick and celtic traditions.

Some of you want or are trying to work with dragons and the elemental kingdom (I think maybe you should check out Pile 4) and you need to go inwards. Look, for some maybe you need to have some introspection moment to realize WHY you want to work with them (I feel like for this group is because you motivation isn't right, like, you think you want to work with them for a reason but actually it's not this and you will find out with some introspection) in the other hand the other group here are focusing too much on material stuff (like altar, rituals, offerings etc) which are all important but to work with them you need to meditate, that's the better way to communicate with them. Yeah, is this simply but you don't believe in me so here I am having to give you the message through other person (lmaooooooo I don't know who it is but they are like "why this child just don't listen to me?? I need to say the SAME thing through OTHER PERSON to be heard?? I'm sorry but I'm laughing I got you Pile 2, really🤣).

Well, you have everything you need to talk to them. I feel like this Pile works with a moon goddess, maybe it's her who try's to say this but you don't listen lol, I think this is my witch Pile (high five 🙌💗)

If you are not a witch or are trying to contact the dragons, you are a part of the very small group who chose this because you are needing some time off, you can meditate but it's not what you are being asked, it's literally turn off your phone and go outside, think about the things you need to figure out, having this time off, alone, will help.

Crystal Oracle: aquamarine. Has a very soft energy and help to calm your mind. When you have bad thoughts say to yourself "this thought isn't mine"

Pile 4

Signs: new age spirituality, gold ray, astral fairies (? I don't know if it's exactly this the name but,,,), angel energy (I don't work with them, but I think it's archangel zadkiel because is the name I heard....), 3, 333, 3333 (it's a number of luck, your angel are trying to say to you to maintain hope, this is really your Pile in case you were between 2 piles, is really this one. This number talks about optimism because things are getting better)

It's a HUNDRED PERCENT angel energy, your card has an angel in it (and it's literally the ONLY ONE in my deck which has an angel lmao).

Okay, I'll put EXACTLY what is written in my book of the deck because I feel its needed: "Now is a time of resurrection and awakening, a time when a period of your life comes to an absolute end making away for dynamic new beginnings"

We ask you to tune into higher frequencies, you jumped so many timelines so fast and we know you are tired, but this all will past. There is so much joy and happiness on the horizon (I saw a beach and the ocean color omg looks like Hawaii but maybe can be a place you visited in meditation or astral travel and it's not here on earth). We are always with you, and we know what happened was hard to deal, but you made it and we are very proud. Don't give up now child, you can do this. And we can help, but you need to maintain your energy care, it's not good for you and will do no good if you fall back into your old behaviors, and we know you know. Talk to us, we continue here.

(I think you have so guide/work with a astral fae who looks like the one in the picture). I think it's just this, they want you to know you are not alone and never will be, but when you do whatever you do that low your frequency they can't reach you (and I want you to know that it's okay, you are just human and maintain a high frequency it's had, you have my support and virtual hug. But try your best okay? I believe in you too Pile 4, really y'all have a very good energy, feel lots of joy and I think this is my empath Pile - I feel you🥺💗)

Crystal Oracle: rose quartz. When was the last time you really faced your feelings? Sweep it under the rug block your heart chakra harms your body. This crystal brings you emotional balance and self-care. Your emotions are a reflection of your current state of mind.

[strangelysamantha]

Part 2 of Photos with Jonathon Byers. 🦋📸

photos part two ☆

jonathon byers x fem!reader.

warnings: being exposed, mention of sexual photos, slight fighting/fighting, bullying.

summary: your brother, steve harrington, catches jonathon with graphic polaroids of your body.

a/n: thank you for this request!! flashback to season one of stranger things! <3 my masterlist is pinned on my page!

part one

—————————————————————————

just before you reach the parking lot, you see a small group of people surrounding jonathan and his car. steve was with his so called "friends." you notice jonathan's bag is on the trunk of his car. school supplies spilling out. you rush over to the group. steve is holding up a pile of photos in his hand, tommy is looking at the photos as well. he looks as if he's amazed. you reach the group, standing closer to jonathan, still concerned. nancy had approached the situation as well. "what's going on?" she intervenes. you see her exchange looks back and forth between her friends and jon. he looks at you, with a sad face. tommy chuckles, "here's the starring lady." he stares into nancy's direction. she frowns, not understanding. "what are you talking about?" carol looks at the photos, taking them from steve. the way they were angled made it difficult to see what they were talking about.  

she turns her head to look at jonathan. "this creep was spying on us last night." carol takes a photo from the stack. "he was probably going to save this one for later." nicole grabs the photo from her hand and hands it to you. nancy comes closer, both silent, examining the photo. the picture is of nancy, with her shirt off. you stopped looking at the photo in your hands. it made you feel sick. you look over at jonathan. he doesn't bother to look back at you. you tried to say his name, but he didn't utter a word back. you just wanted to know why he would take this photo of her. steve carefully takes the photo from your hand and walks up to jonathan. he begins talking, "see, you can tell that he knows it was wrong, but...man, that's the thing about perverts, it's hardwired into 'em." he yanks on the collar of jonathan's shirt. "you know, they just can't help themselves."  you look at steves hands, as he rips up the photo. tommy laughs from where he stands by the car. "so, we'll just have to take away his toy." steve walks to the trunk of the car, where the bag lays on it. "no please, not the camera." jonathan tries to take his bag back, but tommy blocked him from doing so. he opened the bag again. his face turns white. you look over at nancy. she looks disgusted and as confused as you were. steve pulls out more photos that were deeper in his bag. four photos to be exact. steve stares in your direction. his smile dropped, his eyes getting heavy.

"jonathan- i'll fucking kill you!" nancy intervenes. "steve! what are you talking about!?" she grabs his arm. "this little son of a bitch- has nude photos of my little sister!" he screams before making eye contact with him. "you've been fucking my sister haven't you!?" jonathan looks at you, and then back to steve. "haven't you?!" jonathan smiles, "yes, yes i have. no point in lying, the evidence is right in your hands." steve takes a big breath before walking over to jonathan. it's now time for you to intervene. you squish yourself in between them. "steve back off." he smiles before laughing. "or what? your gonna fuck him again? be a slut again? who's flannel is that? some boys? go ahead, do what you always do. whore around and run away. it's what you are good at." your taken aback by his words. "fuck you." you use all your force and pent-up anger to shove him. tears start to stream down your face. you look him in his eyes, "this flannel isn't some boys, it's hoppers. and jonathan's the only person i have slept with. he is my boyfriend." steve groans. "you've got to be kidding me."

you turn around and look at jonathan. "now, i don't know what the photos are. or what they mean. if you don't feel the same way you need to tell me that now." jonathon sighs, looking at you. "i do really like you." you nod, a small smile hung on your lips. "we'll talk later." you go to leave but notice nancy. "oh, nancy. barb is missing. she didn't come home last night. so, good luck because her parents are soon going to be asking where she is. you were the last one to see her." you know that sounded insincere, but you just wanted to show them how childish they were acting. nancy frowns, she nervously glanced around the group, before leaving as well.

while you're turning to walk away. you hear steve call out your name, you shake my head. "no, not right now." you continue to walk away from the group. you would usually go to barb about these things, but you couldn't. because she is missing. and everyone is too busy worrying about jonathan taking stupid photos then the actual problem at hand.

you decided to just head back home. your parents were still on a business trip. when you reach your house, steve's car was outside. you quietly open the door and rush to your room, desperate to avoid him. he called out your name, but you ignored him. you open your door, slamming it shut behind you, locking it. you change into a night gown. you were completely exhausted and over everyone. you pull back the thick comforter on your bed, before you hop in it. your eyes slowly shut, and you drift off to sleep.

[anamelessfool]

WIP WHENEVER

Thank you @kissingghouls for the tag!!!! I tried to pick something a little unique for this challenge...

VISITATION (From 'Domestics')

(family, humor, self-indulgent fluff, Dad Secondo)

2013: Papa Emeritus Terzo, Copia, and Nihil visit their estranged brother Secondo after the birth of his youngest child.

I have this whole ficlet series similar to Bestiary but based on small domestic moments in the lives of the brothers and the characters in my AU. Why? Because it's fun and ridiculously self-indulgent.

I love me a good flashback....

⛧⛧⛧

“Which way am I turning here?” Copia asked.

“Left,” muttered Terzo.

“Left...”

“Right.”

“Oh, Right then?”

“Yes, left is right!” Terzo paused then groaned. “Left is correct.”

“Marian couldn't come?” Terzo asked Copia idly. He smirked. “Hope your leash is long enough.”

Copia frowned. “At some point I wil fly out of this car, yes, jerked back by the leash, your Unholiness,” he replied flatly. “But ah… I'm into that.” Two hours in the car with Terzo gave one plenty of time to practice talking trash. “We should have arrived twenty minutes ago.”

Terzo shifted in the passenger seat. Car rides made him sick, and therefore extra irritable. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Nihil in the back. Nihil was staring ahead, expressionless, his eyes dull like a mesmerized cow. “We would have made time if we didn't stop back there.”

“Terzo, the old man barely asks for anything these days,” Copia said firmly. “So when he asked to stop and buy a balloon for his new grandson I um…had to indulge him.”

“Isn't this thing just brand new? A little ball that sleeps and cries? Why—why does it need a fucking balloon?”

“That thing… is your nephew,” Copia said, and he squeezed the steering wheel. “Have you ever taken care of anything small and helpless like that? You'd understand.”

Terzo muttered something in Italian and dropped his head against the door, staring out the window. Copia assumed if he wasn't so carsick he would really put on a pissy show for them all.

“We’re nearly there,” Copia said, slowing to an agonizing stop at the intersection, looking carefully right and left, waiting the appropriate three seconds at the stop sign, and then continuing on.

[They pull up to a plain suburban house.]

The door opened, Secundo towered over them all, his dark intense presence unmarred by his years away. The former Papa Emeritus II of the Satanic Church of the Void was now wearing a checkered button-down shirt and dark khakis. His grip on his cane tightened as his shark-like gaze flicked from guest to guest. Four Infernal Eyes regarded each other on the porch. Secundo's pitted face moved slightly. “Shoes. Off.” He shifted back, granting them entry.

They were led inside to a sunken foyer. Beyond a small railing was an ordinary living room with a beige carpet. There were halls nearby leading to kitchen, basement and bedrooms. All with as few stairs as possible made it easier for Secundo to easily walk around in his current state. His time as Channel of the Void left him permanently weak in his left side, but they all knew it could have been much worse.

Copia was struck by how unbelievably ordinary the place was. There was an unusual number of crammed bookshelves and a piano near the window, but other than that there was very little evidence of this being the home of a former leader of The Satanic Church of the Void. A single taxidermied goat head loomed over the television that displayed a muted cartoon program. Two small children sat near it in the center of a pile of wooden blocks.

Copia pulled his own shoes off, then knelt to help Nihil out of his. “It's nice to see you again, Secundo.”

Secundo never dropped his intensity and simply changed the words he spoke. “Yes, it is, Copia. Welcome.”

“Is that…is that little Paul?!” Copia nearly squealed as he pointed towards the little face peering from between the metal railings. The boy Paul had a shock of messy dark hair and a wild look that was all too familiar. “He's a small version of Terzo! Look!”

“That had been my unfortunate impression as well,” Secundo replied flatly.

Terzo gave them all a painfully polite smile, then joked. “Not to worry, I had nothing to do with it.”

Nihil’s head whipped from Paul to Terzo. “Yes, definitely our little scamp! An even smaller Terzo, heh!” Both grandson and son threw him identical scowls.

“Do you remember us?” Copia asked Paul. The boy cocked his head, thinking. He was born at the Ministry but the whole family left by the time he was five. “I remember we took out my old trike and you were pedaling up and down the hallways…”

“I distinctly remember you pedaling up and down the hallways on his tricycle,” Secundo said with an amused smirk.

“Just that once! To teach him!” Copia shot back.

[They settle into the collection of couches and proceed to observe the newborn.]

“Nihil, would you—” Sandra frowned. The old man had fallen asleep in the recliner within the past five minutes. She chuckled. “Well then, we will try later! How about you, Terzo?”

Terzo furrowed his brow. “No, certainly not. No thank you, sorella.”

Secundo looked quietly invested from his place on the opposite couch. “He'll reconsider later.”

My AO3 Series | My FicList

Tagging @katyaoaksdottir @fishwithtitz and @thew0man and you, yes YOU!

[dramaaallama29]

Bear(v)

To hold up; support

TEXT: 1388

Jongho sneezed for the umpteenth time. He feels sick and all he craves is the thing he cannot stand the most. You guessed it. His hyung's cuddles. He glares lightly from the kitchen seeing a just as sick Wooyoung getting coddled by San and Yeosang. Jealousy?.. No. Wishing that it was him? Maybe(we all obviously know that he does). He jumps suddenly hearing a voice behind him.

"Jongho? What are you doing?" Jongho sighs, turning around.

Mingi's POV

I frowned seeing the state he was in. His cheeks were all flushed, eyes all glossy- wait. I reached towards his forehead using the back of my hand.

'You feel warm, are you feeling okay?'

He nods, moving my hand.

" I'm fine. Just hot. Maybe from being under all those covers earlier" He replied.

I narrowed my eyes. Jongho grabbed the bottle of water off the counter rushing out the kitchen claiming to be tired. I sighed walking into the living room.

"Mingi!" I nearly fell over trying to steady us. Damn literal dog! I can't help but smile at him.

'Hi Yun.'

Wooyoung's POV

I shifted for the umpteenth time resting my head on Yeosangie's shoulders while Sannie had his arms around me.

"Feel like trying to eat again?" Yeosang asked.

I shook my head dreading the possible outcomes. Literally that bathroom has been the most I saw in the past 24 hours.

"Water at least? Just a little" San asked, giving me the 'if you refuse I'll be the saddest eyes' and who am I to say no to those eyes?

I grumbled agreeing which at least earned me kisses. After three dreadful sips I pushed the cup away. I could not do it. Not again.

" Done? I'm proud of you Youngie" my best friend gently spoke as he cuddled me practically on top of him.

My eyes slipped shut. I could fall asleep right here. I heard San set the cup down.

" We all might as well sleep out here tonight. No schedule calls for a cuddle pile" He said, dimples on full display. I brightened at the idea and so did Mingi.

Upstairs, Jongho was muffling his coughs with a blanket.

' I wonder if I can sneak at least some cough drops' He thought to himself.

Only to shake his head not even a moment later. Everyone in the Ateez household KNOWS nothing gets passed mama Hwa. He pouts a bit curling up more. Whoever decided to turn on the A/C would soon meet the same fate as those poor apples. A knock, jolted Jongho from his thoughts.

" Hey there." 'Speaking of the devil' thought the maknae bitterly.

Seonghwa's POV

My tuition is never wrong. He's been too distant. I was discussing my concerns with joong when San busted in.

"Hyunnnnggggg" He whined.

'What's up Sannie?' I said.

"Everyone needs to come to the living room." San stated.

I glanced at Hongjoong and raised a brow.

"What for?" Joong said.

"Cuddle pile duh"

God why are my dongsaengs so cute. I pulled him into a hug and felt him melt against me.

'Is everyone waiting on us?' I asked.

He shook his head.

"I still have to find Jongie. I came to get you both first" I nodded.

"I'll go get him, '' I said, pressing a kiss to San's forehead before letting him drag Hongjoong downstairs.

I made my way towards the maknae’s room and decided to knock unlike some people in this household.

Jongho's POV

'Come in.' I turned towards the door.

"Hey there" Seonghwa said, stepping inside.

Was I too loud? He caught on? The last thing I wanted was hyungs to worry about me. Wooyoung is still sick. I frowned a bit trying to push back the thoughts but it keeps swarming.

"Are you okay baby?" he asked me.

I couldn't recognize his facial expression but I know I have to be careful about what I say next. I sit up.

'Yeah just watching videos on my phone.' I cringed at my answer.

Real believable when your phone isn't even close by... I give him a smile. He just sighs and runs his hands through my hair. It took a lot of of me to not lean into his hold.

"Everyone wants to hang in the living room. We were just missing our little bear" My nose scrunched at the pet name but I couldn't help but to blush.

'I'll meet you down there hyung. I just need to use the bathroom' I told him to get up.

He nodded, watching me a little longer before leaving. I let out the breath I failed to realize I was holding. That was a close one. I quickly went to the bathroom and snuck some cold medicine. Once I was done, I went back to my room to grab the gray fluffy blanket I was laying with earlier.

"Here goes nothing," I thought as I walked out of my room.

~~~

One word. They all thought of the same thing at the sight of their maknae coming into the living room wrapped up.

"Cute!" Wooyoung exclaimed.

Leave it to him to say what everyone's thinking. Jongho didn't know if his cheeks were red from the sickness or the way his hyungs were looking at him. Most likely sickness, right? He ended up squished between Mingi and Hoonjoong. Yunho put on 'Spirited Away.' Everyone was silently watching the movie, basking in each other's presence, however a certain bear was growing sleepy by the minute.

~~~

Hoonjoong's POV

I was surprised when I felt someone's head on my shoulder. I glanced to see only to shock myself even more. Jongho. I smiled repositioning his head so that he's more comfortable.

"He's asleep?" whispered Hwa.

I nodded, not wanting to speak in case I accidentally wake him up. By the minute I feel myself getting hotter. I look down again to see Jongho looking somewhat sweaty. I carefully tried to move the cover to cool him down only for him to whine. Whine at me. Whine. At. Me. That caught everyone's attention.

"Aw what's wrong Jongie?" I heard Mingi ask.

All Jongho did was cuddle up more to me. Now I can definitely feel the concerning amount of heat radiating off of him.

"Hwa" I said looking towards him.

Instantly, he's trying to coax Jongho into saying what's wrong which surprisingly didn't take long. He must be feeling pretty crappy right now. Now we got two sick maknaes on our hands.

~~~

Things escalated too quickly. It went from Jongho saying he felt sick to him nearly being sick to poor Hongjoong. He managed to make it in the bathroom in time. That's when he broke completely. Crying and throwing up. Literally, while Seonghwa and Yeosang were comforting him. Yunho went to get water, hot packs and medicine. San stayed with Wooyoung who was upset. Hongjoong was trying to convince Wooyoung that Jongho will be okay and that it isn't his fault he's sick. Mingi was turning on a show he knew Jongho liked.

After nearly 20 minutes Jongho came out looking pale and weak. Wooyoung reached for him pulling him onto his lap immediately once in arms reach. Jongho was too tired to even do anything. Besides, he secretly wanted that anyway. The volume was turned low. Yunho came back giving Wooyoung medicine and Jongho the hot pad since he told them he took medicine already. The parents decided to wait until he's better to talk to him about how he went about this. They had a sick cub to nurse to health.

Towards the end of the movie it was San who busted the biggest uwu. Wooyoung and Jongho were both asleep. Arms and legs wrapped around each other. San's little outburst didn't go unheard. Everyone looked at the pair fondly.

"Now we really have to sleep out here. I don't have the heart to wake them up." Hongjoong said.

They silently agreed. Mingi and Yunho found themselves cuddled up, asleep. Yeosang was asleep, being held by Seonghwa who was also sleeping. San could barely keep his eyes open. He wanted cuddles too.

"C'mere Sannie" Hongjoong said quietly.

He didn't have to tell San twice. Matter of fact San was asleep right after he was snuggling up on Hongjoong.

__________

TBC

[bunglegaydogs]

Mori's a little shit

I have so many things piling in my head that I want to rant about, and all of them are going to be fucking novel length, so for that I do apologise.

However, let's get into the crux of this post.

This one probably won't be as long, but it is just me rambling on and on about how much I hate Mori but love the way Asagiri wrote him to be a pretty complex chacter. I despise the fucker though.

I don't think it needs to be said, but I'll say it anyway; Mori's a piece of shit. We all know this. We all fucking know this. He's a manipulative, sick, twisted man who uses people for his own benefit and doesn't see the value in ther lives, only in how they can be useful for him. Two prime examples of this, of course, being Yosano and Dazai. I'm going to go so much more in depth into these two in this, don't worry.

Mori uses people to his own gain and manipulates their actions without them ever realising it until it's too late or has already happened. Sound familiar? YEAH IT FUCKING SHOULD. Dazai. Having been under constant surveillance and command by Mori for four solid years, he's bound to pick up some things. Like he said, "Someone drilled that information into me." sorry it was "Someone imprinted that knowledge into my mind before." I think Im thinking of a different translation I read? DOESN'T MATTER SORRY LOL. Anyways, Having been under the direction of Mori as such a young kid, and having nobody else there for him, Dazai naturally picks up Mori's instincts and demeanour, etc. Also, the fact that Mori has drilled battle techniques into him and taught him all he knows shows this. There are moments we see that Dazai is behaving like Mori did, or would. This is just how much Mori has been around in his life to affect him to this degree, and taught him relentlessly how to be in life and in battle and when strategising. We already see that Dazai is a cunning little shit before he joins the PM in the opening of Fifteen, where he rattles Mori by what he says.

God, there's so much to unpack in this one fucking thing.

But, I'm going to do a separate post going more in depth about Dazai and Mori's relationship as well as Yosano and Mori, I'm going to touch upon them in this though because God it's awful.

"That's why Dazai cannot die."

Mori isn't looking out for the wellbeing of a 15 year old, he's looking out for how much value and worth he has in his plans. After everything is in place and it's all gone according to plan, Mori gets rid of his subordinates accordingly. Just like Odasaku. Then, when things don't go to his plan, and the people he used leave, he grows bitter and resentful. When Dazai left the mafia, he grew bitter and still saves his executive spot for him. When Yosano was taken away to the institute, he grew resentful that he'd lost such a valuable asset to the war. Man's was obsessed, Elise's wholeass demeanour and outfits and everything changed after Mori had lost Yosano. It's fucking creepy. Elise is literally a younger Yosano, and that shit's vile.

Not only is this guy a big nonce, but he dehumanises the people around him and pulls the strings so that it goes his way. Whereas Dazai's predictions and proficiency at seeing every outcome and every detail are for the ADA and helping people, Mori only uses this skill to control and manipulate people into doing his bidding.

When Yosano was clearly distressed and did not want to keep going any longer, he manipulates her by shooting the soldier and forcing her to save him. It's so fucked up. It's so unbelievably fucked up.

We can't really see how much he has affected anyone else in the mafia, as these are the only two we get a pretty solid backstory with Mori for. However, another example of Mori being fucked up is Kyouka; just what the fuck happened there?

Kyouka sees a glimpse of Mori and it sends her into a full blown frenzy. She literally breaks down. Now, I don't know if that's because of him reminding her of the Mafia or being in the Mafia, or if there's something else that we don't know and that Kyouka was also manipulated and a victim of Mori's abuse, too.

If you couldn't tell, I fucking love Yosano and Dazai and I actually hate Mori for what he put them through. But, Asagiri is such a good writer, and the way he writes Mori is so fucking spine chilling and awful in such a good way to read. Asagiri's writing shows the depth of these characters, and makes them actually people with personalities, not just some words or drawings on a page. Harukawa bringing the life to them through his art is actually just stunning, and the expressions he's able to show with just the eyes, the hands, the stance, everything. These two are the perfect duo in writing and art, and honestly, I fucking love them.

Sorry sorry, rant over.

In conclusion, ngl Mori's a little bitch.