#we all hate doing nail trims

[freeforaugust]

Communicate like an adult and get results :)

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for getting upset when my mom insists on clipping my nails?

I (adult male) still live with my mother because of finances/personal situations that make me unable to earn my own living. For the most part, this is fine. However, there's one thing that bugs me: she insists on trimming my nails for me.

I know it sounds weird, and it is. She's been trimming my nails since I was little, and I've always hated it. But now I'm an adult, and I don't need her to trim my nails for me, but every two weeks or so, she insists on doing it anyway. I'll admit that I have coordination issues that make things like that difficult for me to accomplish on my own, and hygiene isn't my strong suit either. But I don't need (or want) her to keep trimming my nails for me. How do I tell her to stop?

I've tried to explain it to her, but it's like I'm speaking another language or something. I've tried more direct methods, like pulling my hand away when she tries to bring out the clippers, but then she just says I'm being childish and it'll be over faster if I just let her do it, and that her dogs (she has two, they both hate me) are more well-behaved than I am. And then she trims my nails anyway, no matter how many times I tell her I hate it!

So yesterday, I finally got fed up. And right as she grabbed my hand and tried to come in with the clippers, I pulled my hand away and jabbed her with my quills! And then I curled up in a ball, so she couldn't get to my paws at all. She tried to reach for my paws, but I just poked her again.

My mom got annoyed, and said we'll have to try again tomorrow since clearly I'm in a bad mood. She seemed upset, and I feel a little bad for poking her so much since usually we have a good relationship. So tumblr, am I the asshole?

Pic of me so you can see that I'm a grown man that doesn't need his nails trimmed!

What are these acronyms?

[delicrieux]

…TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS ! ⋆｡°✩

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ chapter summary. some things in life are unbearable, and in yours? they’re titled gojo satoru and trying to ruin you.

pairing. gojo satoru x f!sorcerer reader

genre. enemies to lovers, ‘my bully is actually in love w me,’ comedy, light-hearted romance, aged up characters (in college), gojo being touchy bcs boundaries do not exist to my king

warnings for this chapter. gojo is being particularly troublesome

wc. 3k

author’s note: HOW ARE WE FEELING JJK NATION?!

ੈ✩‧₊˚

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | twny masterlist | next >

CHAPTER 1: imagine minding your own business undisturbed omg

tokyo jujutsu tech is big. real, real big. but no matter where you go, he's there.

gojo satoru has made it his life's mission to relentlessly annoy you for no apparent reason. it was hate at first sight, or something equally despicable as that. for three years now, you’ve had to endure jeers raging from your sorcerer's ability to the size (or lack thereof, as you’re often reminded) of your ass. yes, that does count as harassment. no, gojo does not care.

you don’t know why he can't just leave you alone. he seems to delight in your anger and misery. they say you need to stand up to your bullies and give them a taste of their own medicine, but that does not work on gojo. the angrier – the better. he wants a reaction. he wants attention. he wants your despair served on a platter for him to lick clean and mouth, “delicious, thank you, more please.”

it's the silence and ignoring he can't take. it's like a personal insult. some deep rooted fear you hope he'll choke on.

gojo claims to hate you quite loudly. boisterously, even. wears his spite like a badge of honor, keeps it nice and clean pinned to the lapel of his uniform.

yet everywhere you go, he’s there – by your locker, outside your dorm room, on every mission you’re sent on, and always in the places you frequent. it's not exactly stalking, but it's like...gojo's way of being just as clingy without getting called out. you have called him a stalker. he laughed, pointed, and said, "what kinda idiot would even want to stalk someone like you?”

out the women's showers, you waddle to the common area. there's a vending machine, and you’d like a bubbly drink to refresh yourself. first, from the moist heat of the showers and then from the humid summer just outside the window. it’s peaceful, despite the temperature. the water still clings to your skin.

you just to locate and rejoice the last bottle of cola before you feel eyes on the back of your neck. of course. of course he's here, and you didn’t even hear him. of course.

"ugh," you groan aloud, fingers stalling against the cold buttons

"your ugliest pj's?" you startle from how loud he is, right next to your ear. too close. he’s always too close.

he makes sure to whistle long enough to make you squirm away. fuck him, he towers over you. can’t see his eyes underneath those super expensive designer glasses, but you know they keen for your reaction. once, to shoko, he said he bought them because they looked cool. unprompted, uninvited, unwanted, you chirped that they looked dumb as hell.

"whaddya got there?" his fingers press into your spine, and maybe he uncovered a new technique to turn you into stone. there is absolutely no personal space in this equation. he has none, and he has no concept of invading yours. with anyone else, maybe you wouldn't mind.

keep cool. you’re cool. stone-faced, unmovable. you don’t care if he’s trying to claw into your marrow with his neatly trimmed nails.

you hesitate for a single moment before you punch in the number. the machine whizzes and thunk, “fuck off, please,” you say, bending down to snatch your drink. he hums, sounding too satisfied for your comfort.

"you're gonna fuck yourself up on all that carbonation. never thought you could get any more hideous, but alas!"

you turn to him, and he has the good sense to move back a step to avoid the mouth that’ll insult him. there's a twitch to his brow, and an ease to his smile as he regards you leisurely. the latter is almost never a good thing. it means he's really enjoying this interaction.

if you shake your cola enough, maybe you’ll be super lucky and the spray will land on his face. now that's an idea. but even if you caught him off guard, his cursed technique would likely be in motion and the soda wouldn't touch him. how troublesome. a waste of a drink. you decides against it.

gojo leans on the vending machine. his own personal attempt cower her into submission. for what exactly? no one knows. maybe getou would have an idea, if he’s merciful enough to share. when you don’t say anything or flinch away like ijichi often does, he sighs heavily.

"aw, are ya still mad about last time? that was days ago. c'monnn, kami-”

"don't say my name."

"i forgot. kawakami-chan doesn't like me, right?"

you thought about switching schools. kyoto tech is also very good. you’d be at peace there. utahime hates gojo just as much as you do, and you have already bonded closely over this shared distain.

it's likely gojo would transfer after you. just to spite you.

"don't you have anything better to do than harass me?" you question.

the most infuriating thing about gojo, and about this situation, is that he’s happy. when you’re like this – huffing, shoulders taut, and frowning – he seems to be enjoying himself the most.

"don't pretend like you don't like it, kami-chan."

this asshole has a god complex. he seems to truly believe the earth would have ended up in a heap of smoldering ruin if not for him. to be fair, he's probably right, but still. you would first bite of your tongue than admit to that. you have considered a lobotomy to get the idea out of your head, but in the joke that is your life, gojo would likely be holding the orbitoclast.

you resent him so much you find yourself burning in his presence. it's like he took a personal class to master the art of pestering.

"doesn’t this ever get boring?"

he laughs, pressing a hand to his cheek as if embarrassed, "i never get bored of you, kami-chan. when are you coming back to the field? been too busy hanging out with losers to do some missions?"

"how pathetic must you be," you snark, "to be thinking of me when i'm not there to torment."

gojo ignores you and moves to tug at your top. the audacity has you reeling, and you attempt to smack his hand away only for it to be stopped at the last second, "yup," he inspects the quality of the fabric, his teeth flashing and making his already smug features look haughtier, "cheap.”

you open the can so forcefully the contents fizzle and spray on your hand. gojo grins so hard you expect his face to crack in half. if only.

"can i have some?”

"stop touching me," you hiss, trying to slap him away again, "why are you always touching me?"

gojo sidesteps. the dodge and dash he does, coupled with his agility, is incredible. had you not seen his many victories in battle, or spent any amount of time with him, you might be enamored. impressed, even.

perhaps that lobotomy is still an option.

"just," his arms dart out to pin you to the vending machine and you immediately aim a high kick to his thigh. but, of course, his infinity protects him. bastard. he doesn't let up though, and those hands slide along the expanse of your thighs until they meet your sides, leaving a warm trail, "makin' sure i can see all of these pores up close."

gojo, as disgusting as you often think he is, does always have a bit of honesty in his insults. you want to scream, maybe, because your pores are fine. great, even, you’ve invested into a new skincare routine, and it’s clearly working. it even works on shoko’s dark circles. he’s so full of shit, it's nauseating.

"fuck off," you shove his hands away and gojo lets you, surprisingly.

"really gross," he comments.

"you're the gross one. self-absorbed stalker."

gojo, an absolutely foul looking monster if you’ve ever met one, waggles a finger at you.

"careful, kami-chan," there's no trace of warning, only amusement, "we wouldn't wanna accidentally bump into each other too many more times."

his meaning isn't lost on you.

you hold up a finger, too. right in his face. pause. take a sip of your soda. there's no reason you should indulge this maniacal sadist in any capacity. gojo has an aura. an attitude. he comes off as unrelenting, and for all intents and purposes, he is unrelenting. in and out your life, an unshakable constant, with a lopsided grin and piercing eyes. you hate him.

you try to sidestep and flee to your room, but he blocks you. step. block. step. block. step block. stepblockstepblockstepblockstepblock-

"god! you're fucking infuriating," you explode.

you want to clock him, strangle him, castrate him, kick his head through the concrete. he's ruining a perfectly nice evening. what is it about you that he just loathes to see, so much so that it drives him to see you hurt all the time? is he truly so bad off? does he live a miserable and joyless existence?

"thanks," he looks genuinely honored, "but how'd you come to the conclusion, huh? after a little brainstorming session or-"

"what do you want?"

"lately?" gojo taps his chin, his tongue poking out, "seemed like you needed some space, so i just waited around here till you were done."

christ, he really is a stalker. you’re starting to worry he's like, actually insane.

"but now we can hang out!”

"i'm going to bed," you declare.

gojo ignores your announcement. gojo always ignores whatever you have to say.

"where we heading? your place or mine?"

"you are not going anywhere with me!"

he reaches out to flick your temple. it's so juvenile it takes you by surprise. your hands immediately fly up to protect yourself.

"huh," his face softens as if you’re this small, pathetic thing. not pity exactly, but definitely a worrisome expression, "look,” he snaps his fingers, “look. look,” he snaps them again and you will tear your hair out in 83 seconds if he doesn’t go away immediately, “we both gotta take a mission, right? might as well go together."

"go with suguru,"

gojo sighs dramatically and his whole upper body collapses, like he's pretending you kicked his shin. you reel back a bit from the proximity.

"mmm, but suguru’s so uptight lately," he comments. that’s good. getou suguru, ever the diligent one, was the first person in your sorcery class who made you feel welcomed. you quite like him, but the fact that his best friend is gojo implies there's something deeply wrong with him. you really don’t want to know what.

"go with shoko then," you state.

"shoko's just..." his arms jerk violently as if he's pretending to smash a plate, "not really on board with my mission types lately. says she can’t leave our only doctor since the patients are dying before they have a chance to enter the trauma room."

sad news for shoko, but your mind works quick.

"go alone," you smile, tilting your head to the side. the motion seems to catch his interest, "and don't come back."

gojo clicks his tongue, clearly peeved. victory. you relish this tiny bit of triumph. he starts to walk away and you watch him retreat, hopefully from your life, "i can't,"

"no way you've fallen so far."

"suguru told me to check in with someone before going on my own. it'll just make him and yaga-sensei super worried!"

"oh no," you chime, "i think you should go alone. and die."

he laughs, "come on," a pause, "it'll be fun! team-bonding and shit."

team-bonding and shit is you having a cola and reading a magazine. not fighting alongside the man who torments you like you’re some sort of pet: ‘kami-chan, do a split,' ‘kami-chan, do a roll,' ‘kami-chan, how big is your cup size again?'

the most effective way to hurt him is silence. you turn your eyes away and hum. this must be done delicately. if he catches even a whiff of your intention to flee, he’ll barge right after you. get you in a headlock and make you cry, because maybe he’s grown demented and will enjoy the sight of your tears.

with as much ease as your taunt muscles can muster, you casually pad in the direction of your room. he hasn't tried to tear down your door yet, but that's likely because the senseis would have to reprimand him.

gojo won't leave you be though, will he? as if it's a struggle to keep pace with you, he follows closely and peppers you with requests:

"come with me."

"shut up."

"we can grab dinner and-"

"you can shut up."

gojo sings, "team-building exercise, you're supposed to make a comrade's wishes come true, so come with-"

"i'll kill myself if force me to go with you. stop begging. it's so lame."

he laughs so loudly and unexpectedly that you jolt. this asshole thinks your threat is baseless. it isn’t. you’ll do it, or so god help you. you aren’t one to bitch out on anything, and maybe that’s why he’s so intent about this.

you wish he'd just give up, but it's highly unlikely. he's stubborn, and you aren’t enough to bend him.

"are you implying you'd kill yourself in front of me? for what? to mess with me?"

your face is very serious when you say, "yeah."

"shit, and you expect me to not want to see that? sorry babe, i'll have to tag along," he grins wickedly and you find yourself fighting down a spring at nausea at the sickly pet name. that’s a new development.

you move to stomp away, but he's right there to cage you to the wall. no, please, you’re at your limit. you might crumble into a heap on the floor and never rise again, even if he consistently poked at you for days.

"come," his glasses slide down his nose a bit and you’re met with gleaming, impossible, revoltingly beautiful blue eyes, "on," and he leans down. this close his infinity is gone, and you can feel the hard planes of his muscles, "a mission with me."

"kill me," you bite out.

you don’t like this, nor the rising fluster or the scent of his cologne. he always smells fresh, even in the summer months where sweat sticks like second skin. the cool wall against your back has your skin prickling. maybe this is a new advanced torture method. much more effective than waterboarding, which you would willingly take if that meant he’d let you go.

why must he be so tall? the sunlight bleeding from the windows douses his hair in a halo. it’s completely deceptive to how absolutely giddy he looks. your breathing picks up. what a nightmare. you’d attempt to knee him again if your limbs weren’t suddenly immobile.

he leans forward and murmurs, "is that an invitation for some freaky shit? cuz i like where we are now."

"gross!" you lean back as far as possible.

"i knowwww," he's undeterred by your snappiness, "seriously," he tries, "what else are you doing tonight, huh?" and you wonder why he's getting closer as your neck protests, "don’t tell me," there's a lilt to his voice you don’t trust, "you afraid you can't handle me?"

"is sexual harassment on your daily agenda?" you bite.

he moves away slightly, looking perplexed, as if you’ve given the world's toughest question. his posture becomes defensively slouched. a frown pushes his brows together and for once, the smooth talker has no quip or response.

you’re not one to look a gifted horse in the mouth and scramble.

"hey, hey, you didn’t answer!” he calls out, rushing after you, "hey! kami-chan, where'd your manners go? i need a clear answer."

damn pride. damn self-respect. you’re fleeing.

gojo doesn't let you get away that easy. your path to sanctuary is obstructed again as gojo halts you by plucking at your shoulder. you shake yourself off like a wet cat and bail. yes, you’ve resorted to running, but your room is just within reach.

"why are you running?!" his whine echoes down the empty hall, "answer the question!"

just a bit more and-

he catches up with you and hauls you up by the armpits, spinning, laughing. you squirm, and there goes your drink, your damned, tasty drink. all his antics have been on the short side, but he's never done this before: cradle you against himself, as if he was going to play catch with you.

"let go, creep!"

"creep?!" his voice is scandalized but still mirthful, "for all my gentlemanliness, huh?!"

he tosses you and you can barely right yourself with a solid landing. that's new too, the physical handling. why today of all days has he decided to pick your fights with his hands? does it make you less immune? why are you wondering? you should be running.

"and anyways, where'd your manners go huh, huh, hu-uh? no thank you when a nice gentlemanly guy takes the time of his day, the greatest guy, the-"

you might go insane. actually snap and go coo coo coconuts. kill everyone. this might be the beginning of your villain origin story. your personal vendetta to kill gojo satoru.

"seriously?!" he yells, and you open your eyes (you don’t remember closing them. it's probably a last resort sort of deal. if you can't see gojo, gojo isn’t real), and gojo's much, much, closer.

"would you mind-" you hiss.

"really," he chides, not an ounce of his good humor on his face, and you’re unable to tell if he's taunting or sincere, "all those classes you went to when you were little, and you still can't pay attention to the first thing a good guy says? do i have to spell out your obligations for you?!"

"would you kindly go fuck yourself and allow me to exist in peace?!" you shriek.

a door down the hall opens, and someone, maybe a fellow student or maybe a teacher or maybe someone unrelated all together, pops their head out the crack of their bedroom. you see this in slow-motion, watch a silhouette tilt their head and stare. it's so stupid it could be considered a scene from a comedy.

"would you two keep it the hell down already!?" your would-be-rescuer screams.

gojo glances to the side, unbothered but maybe curious. you run. before gojo can pick up his wits, you slam the door to your room open, lock it, and even fumble a deadbolt for added assurance. your room is dark save for a nightlight plugged into the corner.

your legs are shaking. you feel like throwing up. you’ve never been so terrified in your entire life.

the news reaches you via a text from shoko a good few hours later. gojo goes on the mission alone.

'please die please die please die please die,' you pray.

he returns an hour later, unharmed and cheery.

[zepskies]

Checkerboard

Paring: Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader

Summary: You’re not a supe. You’re breakable. Soldier Boy sometimes forgets that.

AN: A more reformed Soldier Boy (AU post-season 3) has to come to terms with his strength.

Word Count: 1,000

Warnings: 18+ only for nudity. Also language and fluff.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks. 

You’re still half-asleep, because Ben had been absently stroking a thumb across your back. He sits up against the headboard of the bed you so often share, already drinking a cup of coffee. He looks damn-near domestic…

Until he actually looked down at the bruises peeking out at him from beneath the sheets. He sets down his mug and pushes the sheets down.

He then stares at the marks that litter your back, waist, hips, and ass. You shoot him an annoyed look at being bared so early in the morning.

“What’re you doing?” you ask.

He manhandles you just firmly enough to turn you over so he can see your face—out from where it had been buried in your pillow. Despite yourself, you greet his annoyingly handsome face. It's covered with neatly trimmed stubble, and with the back of your hand you touch his cheek in affection. He pushes it away.

“You got something to tell me?” he says, more of a demand than a question. “Answer me. What the fuck happened here?”

He gestures at a prominent dark-bluish mark on the inside of your thigh. You sigh and give him a patient look (and that is an effort in itself).  

“Nothing,” you reply. A cheeky smile starts to play at your lips, but Ben’s brows furrow in irritation. He knows you’re messing with him, and he doesn’t appreciate it.

“You work at a damn desk. Unless you’re getting nailed by the mail guy—”

“Get fucking serious, Ben.” You dismiss that with a roll of your eyes. He tilts his head at you. His mouth works, and his gaze becomes suspicious. But you notice an edge of worry behind his eyes.

Has someone hurt you? Threatened you?

It hasn’t been the first time the latter had happened. Even though Soldier Boy was officially pardoned and now works as a contracted ally with Supe Affairs, he still has plenty of hated enemies. It doesn’t help that you also work in the thick of it—running surveillance for the team.

So you decide to put him out of his misery.

“You really don’t remember?” you ask wryly.

At Ben’s raised brow, your lips quirk at the corner.

“You don’t remember two days ago? When you met me at my office for lunch, which consisted of you rudely sweeping all my hard work to the floor and ultimately breaking my new desk?”

Realization lights up Ben’s face, and his mouth edges into a smirk.

“We were breaking it in,” he corrects you.

Good times, he thinks, before another, less fun realization hits him: his hands are responsible for the patchwork quilt of bruises that litter your skin.

And he remembers, yet again, that he has the very real capacity to hurt you.

You notice how he takes pains to be gentle, slowly brushing the back of his hand across your thigh.

“It’s not the first time,” you remind him.

“It could be the last,” he reminds you. Your face doesn’t change.

You won’t take compound V. Not for him. Not for anyone.

But with shit like this, he wonders why you stay with him. 

“It’s good for you to remember your own strength,” you say, only half-teasing. He turns away from you.

Ben grumbles, “You wanna gamble with your fucking life, that’s up to you.”

You shake your head.

“Don’t do that.” You lean on his shoulder from behind and caress his back—smooth of any scars. You can’t help but prod at him again. “Real men don’t sulk.”   

He shoots you a look over his shoulder. You giggle at his green-eyed annoyance.

The truth is, you make it difficult for him not to care. Not to be a softer man. 

He fucking hates soft. 

But…just for you, he could do it. Just a little.

He closes his hand over yours, which rests on his chest. 

“Sorry,” he says. His voice is deep and holds the weight of his sincerity. That one word also encompasses how much progress his relationship with you has made.

Instead of answering, you kiss his shoulder, the back of his neck. He turns around and strokes your cheek, knowing from your eyes that you don’t hold anything against him. 

“You don’t have to treat me like a porcelain doll, but I don’t need to look like a checkerboard either,” you tease. 

Ben rolls his eyes and slides his arms under you, pulling your naked body onto his bare chest and making you squeal. You meet his eyes as his hand soothes down your back.

“How about this,” he says. “Come up with a safe word.”

You laugh. “We already have one.”

“That’s for other shit,” Ben says, grinning. “Let’s have one just for this. Whenever you wanna remind me to tone it down.”

His hands are careful when they grasp a non-aching portion of your hips. You look down on him fondly, and you consider his suggestion.

“Hmm…pineapples,” you decide. It’s the first obnoxious thing that comes to mind.

“No,” he says. “Veto.”

“What? You can’t veto. It’s my safe word.”

“I’m not gonna be balls deep inside you hearing pineapples in my ear.”

You shake your head at your boyfriend and frame his face with your hands, squeezing his head in exasperation.   

“Fine. How about…checkers,” you suggest. A teasing smile comes to your face, even if it pulls his lips into a frown. “So you remember we had this conversation.”

You can tell he doesn’t entirely like it, but he nods in agreement.

“Good. Now, care to join me for a bath?” you ask. Ben is reluctant; he knows you’re going to pour in a shit ton of frilly-smelling soap and bath salts that feel uncomfortable to sit on. But he’s open to the bath time shenanigans that usually ensue.

“I am still a bit sore,” you say, giving him an imploring look. He levels you with a knowing frown. Using his guilt against him is a dirty tactic, and you always employ it well to your advantage.

“Fine. But we’re using regular fucking soap,” he says. You smile and press a lingering kiss to his lips.

But you both know that the second his back is turned, you’re going to dump in your lavender-scented bath bubbles anyway.

AN: I found this basically sketched out in my files and decided to clean it up and put it out there! Let me know what you think. I know it's a much softer Soldier Boy than we're used to seeing. ;)

[Edit - 9/20/24]: ^That was the original author's note, as this is the first Soldier Boy story I ever put out there. It's also the inspo behind the larger BMD story.

Keep Reading in the BMD-verse:

Next we have another fun little drabble with Wanderlust:

Summary: Your wandering hands are keeping Ben up at night.

▶️ Next Story: Wanderlust

Break Me Down Series Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

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[readychilledwine]

✨️ACOTAR Hands Handcanons✨️

Warnings - sexual references

A/N - "But liz! Where is Az?" I didn't include Azriel because I don't think some people understand how brutally scarred his hands are. A lot of people headcanon him wear rings and watches to distract from his scarring, but his scarring would be so brutal from his hands being set on fire with oil that wearing jewelry for him would be nearly impossible and more than likely very uncomfortable both physically and in the sense that jewelry will draw attention to his hands, something we know canon Azriel hates. If it is wanted, I will do a reblog with Azzy's hands, but they will be accurate, not pretty.

Also, if you're a hand whore like I am, you have to go look at this post from the lovely @thehighladywrites about asking for hand pics 🥵🥵 it's one of my favorites.

✨️ Acotar Body Headcanons Masterlist ✨️ Master Masterlist ✨️

Rhys

Rhys is a firm believer in hands speaking of how well you care for yourself, so the man have perfect hands.

Rhys keeps his nails neat and trimmed, his cuticles cut, and his nail bed moisturized.

Rhys has fine hand creams imported from across the seas. It's made with water from some river you don't remember the name of. It matches his skincare line. Very spoiled Illyrian baby.

Rhys does have calloused hands, but they are not rough and dry. The calloused mainly rest towards the top of his palm near where his fingers begin. It's one small sigh of his skill with blades.

Rhys like to accessorize, but not too much, a few unique rings and a bracelet

Cassian

We're just here to make sure @sarawritestories can't sleep without dreaming of Cassian.

These are some of my favorite hands in all of Hollywood. Say hello to the hands of Alexander Skarsgård. His hands are massive.

Cassian does have rougher hands, but he can not help it. He's tried Rhysie little princess routine, but it doesn't work. That is more than likely due to the fact that he's constantly training and teaching someone.

You truly do not mind, though. Cassian's callouses and small scars in his hands remind you that you are safe. That no one will ever harm you as long as he is around.

One of Cassian's favorite acts of service you provide for him is little at home hand care sessions. You will soak his hands in warm water and then wash and care for them. You trim his nails, apply cuticle oils, and then use a very expensive lotion that helps keep his hands softer.

Cassian's hands are constantly on you. His favorite placement is when he gets to cup under your breasts. Preferably below your shirt. And he doesn't care who sees him doing it. His second favorite placement is your hips or ass.

Cassian does not accessorize since he rarely does not have his hand siphons on. The only jewelry on his hands is his wedding band

Lucien

Soft, warm, and gentle. Lucien's hands are a personification of the male himself.

They are not too large, but they're definitely big, and Lucien has strong hands.

Lucien tries his very best to keep his hands very soft he is constantly greeting and meeting new fae as an emissary, so he ensures his hands are covered while training.

Lucien also knows you appreciate how soft his hands are. He loves watching as you lean into his touch. He loves watching you shiver when he runs them along your body.

Lucien will wear jewelry for special occasions. Otherwise, he tends to avoid it. You never know when he will need to fish with his hair and bare hands to impress you. He had a reputation to maintain there.

Eris

Eris is constantly wearing rings and fine jewelry. His hands are part of his mask of cruelty only you and a few others get to see beyond.

Eris hates his hands. He hates how they've been used to cause pain. He hates how they remind him of his father's, he hates the small scars on them.

It almost confuses him when his hands bring you pleasure. When he watches as you fall apart under his touch.

He has started to care for them more now that he has you. His beautiful wonderful you.

You have noticed the rough skin getting softer. How his nail beds seem healthier. You catch him one night with his expensive hand creme and cuticle oils and your heart melts.

Soon, the jewelry becomes a little less and less, but you told him it would be a lie of you ever said you didn't love the way rings sat on his slender hands.

Nesta

Nail, simple, and with a touch of sparkle.

Nesta keeps her hands very pretty and very soft.

Her nails are also always professionally done on Rhysand's dime.

Nesta goes to the salon once a month. She gets the works. The expensive manicures. Rhys owes her, and she wants pretty hands.

Her grandmother and mama told her hands can make or break a marriage, and this is something she can not shake.

She loves clean, simple polish. Neutral colors or a French tip, that's all. For special occasions, she will do an iridescent polish.

As Lady Death, she tries not to wear too much jewelry, but she does have two favorite rings she wears. One from you, one from Cassian.

Elain

I am a garden hobby girl, so this one was fun.

Elain keeps her nails very short. She is constantly struggling with dirt under and around her nails, so she figures keeping them short is best.

Elain has surprisingly rough hands. A garden is a lot of manual labor, and she refuses to wear gloves, so she constantly dealing with little cuts and callouses.

You bought Elain a nail brush and special soaps meant to help her keep her nails clean so it doesn't interfere with her love of baking or... other activities involving you.

Elain's hands are very small, but they fit perfectly into yours.

Feyre

This is the hands I identified most with.

Feyre's hands are constantly covered in paint now that the lands are in a time of peace.

She's been known to wipe her palette knife off on the back of her hand or dab a paint brush on them if she picks up too much color. Or use them to swatch shades as she's mixing.

It is messy, but you adore it. You love helping her peel off the bigger chunks and helping her scrub them clean.

Underneath that paint, her hands can be a little dry, so you two have been caught many times sneaking into Rhysand's room to steal his hand creme.

Feyre keeps her nails a medium length. She will paint them for fun every so often, but she sees no point since they are typically covered in her medium of choice.

Mor

The baddie of the group.

Mor keeps her hands ready to greet royalty. They are so soft, so well kept, and constantly being pampered.

Mor used hand creme at least once and hour.

She keeps her nails longer, minus two on each hand. Iykyk.

Her nails have to be red. She will not paint them any color but her power color.

She is constantly wearing a ton of rings and jewelry as well.

I personally see Mor as a gold tone girlie.

The only ring she consistently wears is her wedding ring. Otherwise, all her other jewelry is subject to change.

Amren

Nails sharp enough to rip your eye out. Sorry, Lucien.

Amren sees her hands as weapons and her nails as weapons as well. But like all powerful weapons, they need to hidden.

She hides them using fae beauty standards. Manicures, jewelry, nail polish. Amren fully believes she's fooling other fae with those daggers attached to five small fingers but she isn't.

Amren does not do two curtesy nails. Amren is a starfish. You should be spoiling her. Not the other way around.

Finding out she could do jewels on her manicure was a life changing moment for her.

She practically purrs when she gets a fresh set now.

You swear she is secretly a fire drake with the amount of jewelry she has for her hands and on her nails.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects @sleepybesson @tayswhp @itsswritten @milswrites

[creamecafe]

━ Dating Tangerine Would Include....

SFW Headcanon

Pairing: Tangerine x GN!Reader (No pronouns used)

Warnings: none just fluff. Mentions of love making but nothing graphic. Skip ahead if your not comfortable 🩷

He's the definition of 'I hate everyone except you'

Acts so tough with everyone expect you

Lemon loves to tease him about it

Spoils you a lot

A lot of his gifts are jewelery or trinkets he steals when killing his targets

"Found this beautiful necklace on one of the targets, thought it would look better on you darling"

Spending a lot of time with Lemon, and Tangerine gets annoyed at this

But he can't be truly annoyed at you or even a little bit mad because he's completely head over heels for you

Would kill anyone if they dare to touch in an inappropriate way or threatened you

Teaches you how to use a gun

Is terrified for anything to happen to you or maybe one of his enemies might find you and use you for bait

But you assure him that you know how to protect yourself and he doesn't need to worry

He knows he can tie his own tie, but he love it when you do it for him. He loves your touch; helping him fix his hair, prep his mustache, fixing his collar, etc.

Won't let you pay for your stuff. It can literally be just a water bottle on a Japanese Bullet Train but he refuses to let you spend a quarter of your money

Has your name imprinted on his card and all his bank account on his phone

Showering together is just a must have for him

You help him clean his wounds when he gets seriously injured coming home

Knows how to do hair. Will braid your hair (if you have medium-long hair) or help trim up your hair to your liking (if you have a pixie cut or just short hair)

Loves to keep himself well groomed. He has a drawer of Japanese skincare products that keeps his face baby smooth. Trims his nails every three weeks (Just so he could please you 🤫)

Doesn't want to admit it but he loves doing face masks with you. Pretends to hate it but we all know he'd be into that

Would get matching nails with you (You with colored acrylic nails/colored nail polish with designs and him with nail polish with designs on them as well)

Is a OCD coded mess. This man wants everything tidy; his work, his home, his bedroom.

"Darling, you know I love you. But you make too much of a mess."

• Loves taking care of you after you guys are done making love. Puts your favorite bath bomb in, rose petals,

Thanks for reading! Don't forget to heart, reblog, share, comment on what you think, and follow for more work! You can also find me on Wattpad and my other socials in my bio. Feedback is always much appreciated!

Have a great day/night or wherever you live around the world!

𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐓𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐀𝐓𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐈 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 | 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐚𝐝 | 𝐀𝐎𝟑

[mj-iza-writer]

Whumptober Day 15

Childhood Trauma - Painful Hug - Moment of Clarity - "I did good, right?"

Warning descriptions of nail pulling and finger breaking. Child abuse.

"Whumpee, I need you to look up at me", Caretaker gently took Whumpee's hand into their own lap and set it on a towel.

Whumpee's lip quivered as they slowly looked at Caretaker.

"It's alright," Caretaker promised, "I'm just going to trim your nails. They're growing a little jagged now."

Whumpee nodded worriedly.

"I'm not going to do anything else", Caretaker reminded, "if I need to file them down to shape them, then I will let you know. This will not hurt at all."

Whumpee nodded again.

Caretaker checked in regularly with Whumpee as they snipped away the mishapened nails for Whumpee.

"You're doing so good", Caretaker smiled.

"Thankyou", Whumpee whispered.

"I know you don't like to talk about it, and I completely understand. I'm always curious why your nails grow so oddly", Caretaker tried to keep the conversation going to help Whumpee stay relaxed, "I don't really know a lot about you still. You've left a lot out about you past, and thats fine, but do you think I'd be better at helping you if I know a little more."

Whumpee sniffled as they thought about what to say. They shook as they handed over their other hand for Caretaker to trim.

"I uhm had a fun day with my step mom. My parents had separated when I was young. My dad remarried, but my mom grew jealous and hateful... and vengeful. I went home with her after my visit with my dad. We got our nails done during that fun day with my step mom. They were so pretty. I got sparkly pink nails... I loved them so much", Whumpee paused to take a deep breath, "my mom didn't like them... in fact she hated them. She pulled them off saying that I was a horrible child for having this done.... for having fun.... without her. She still wasn't happy, even with my nail beds bleeding. She pulled each of my fingers back until they snapped."

Caretaker was both shocked and horrified as they listened.

Whumpee continued, "the police were called for a child screaming. Apartment walls are only so thick."

Whumpee looked down at their hands, "I haven't had my nails done in years. The doctors all said they wouldn't grow back right", Whumpee let out a small sob, "my dad and step mom took me in, but no matter what they did. I never wanted my hands touched again. They use to take me to the doctors to have my nails cut until it became too much. That's why I was put into medical care and you got stuck with me."

"Whumpee I am so sorry" Caretaker sighed. This hadn't been fully documented in Whumpee's notes. Not yet, at least. They would update later while Whumpee took their nap. "I promise I don't feel stuck at all."

Whumpee kept their eyes on the floor.

"Are you feeling okay", Caretaker set the nail clippers aside, "that was a lot to talk about."

Whumpee nodded, "it hurts to talk about it. All of it. My mom didn't love me, and my dad couldn't handle me. Why did it take a complete stranger to show me acceptance. Am I really that bad... that hard to love?"

Caretaker hurried to get closer to Whumpee. They let the nails and towel fall to the floor.

"You are not hard to love and accept Whumpee", Caretaker pulled Whumpee into their arms, "sometimes people lack the compassion aspect of helping others. Without that, most people have a hard time caregiving. Others sometimes get in over their head. Helping someone they love... thinking they would get better, but it may never happen or it happens differently than they expected. They may grow upset or mad, thinking they've done something wrong. They love you. They just didn't understand that these things take time. They gave up too early. I, for one, am very happy that you are in my care."

"I still don't want to see them", Whumpee whispered, "I don't feel loved by them. I'm thankful for you though."

"You don't have to see them. That is completely your choice. I support whatever you choose", Caretaker promised, "is there anything you need from me to help you. You were holding a lot inside. Do you feel overwhelmed or uncomfortable."

Whumpee shook their head no, "can we stay hugging for a little while longer? It feels good."

"Yes absolutely. We can hug for as long as you want, and whenever you want."

Whumpee cautiously peaked in on Caretaker later that night.

"Oh Whumpee. You're still awake", Caretaker leaned forward in their chair, "did you need me?"

Whumpee looked down before taking a deep breath, "I did good, right? Please tell me I did good today. I really need to hear it."

Caretaker smiled lovingly at Whumpee.

"Whumpee, you did great today. I promise", Caretaker stood and walked toward Whumpee, "you did so good."

"Thankyou", Whumpee smiled weakly, having assurance is comforting."

"I know Whumpee", Caretaker wrapped them in a hug, "I know."

Whumpee buried their face into Caretaker's stomach, "thankyou."

"You're welcome."

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all.

@villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived

@sacredwrath @porschethemermaid

@monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz

@bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13

@notpeppermint @cyborg0109

@idontreallyexistyet @painfulplots

@whumpbump @everythingsscary

@skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr

@theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee

@candleshopmenace @whumpanthems

@lavndvrr @ivymyers

@starfields08000 @a-living-canvas

@lumpofsand @watermeezer

@indigoviolet311 @whumpy-mountains

@3-2-whump @risk606

@electrons2006 @paperprinxe

@whumprince @kaz-of-crows

@mis-graves @decaffeinatedtimetraveler94

@sausages-things @ragin-cajun-fangirl

@isikedmyself878 @daffyduckcommittedtaxfraud

@valravnthefrenchie @glennemerald

@jasperthecapser @does-directions

@deafeninglittlecrown @jumpywhumpywriter

[luveline]

What about Steve with a cry baby reader? Like she cries at everything and May be Steve is telling her about something hard but also not that deep like a fight with his parents or they r discussing exes and she starts crying bc Steve didn’t deserve heartbreak

thank you for your request! —steve tells you about his relationship with his parents and gets the comfort he deserves a few years late. fem!reader. hurt/comfort ♡ 1.7k CW mentioned child neglect

Steve indulges you every now and then with old movies. You're obsessed with those musical movies from the fifties, soft colours, cool cat leading men and blunt heroines. Your very favourite are the ones with love triangles, though Steve hasn't ever thought you'd like to be entangled in one yourself. 

Entangled in him, absolutely. "That is ridiculous," you say softly, sitting entirely in his lap, an arm around his neck and another his waist. "She loves him." 

"She does." When the heroine of Young At Heart realised one of her love interests didn't have a present for the birthday party they were going to attend together, she bought one for him so he wouldn't feel embarrassed —yet she's planning on marrying the other man. "Poor Frank. He looks shocked." 

"I'd be shocked. Lucky me, you've never sprung a sudden engagement on me," you say, your fingers rubbing mindlessly into his side. Your affection is often thoughtless. You care for him like another must-do, in time and rhythm with your breathing. 

"To another girl, you mean?" he asks warmly. 

You fluster and rub your cheek against the collar of his shirt, rolled and worn from an endless day on the couch together. He should go up and shower soon before bed, only you feel right in his lap, in no way light but a weight he's happy to bear.

You're skewed sideways, your legs laying across the rest of the couch, his legs kicked up on the coffee table. He keeps trying to force himself up for a shower and you keep leaning into his front or scratching your nails from his ribs to his hip, convincing him otherwise.

"If we ever… got engaged," you begin unsurely, eyes on the television to avoid his gaze, he's sure, "would we have a nice party like that?"

"When we get engaged we'll do whatever you want. We can have a party, send out ivory invitations with eleven point four Times New Roman font. All the trimmings." 

"Eleven point four." Your eyes soften with your smile. "What do you know about invitations?" 

"My mom had tons of stupid parties. She didn't always send out invitations, but when she did, she'd have them done right. I got to lick the envelopes." 

"Lucky Stevie." 

You shift backwards so your weight is on the couch rather than Steve, your back to the armrest and your thighs over his legs rather than on top of him. He can see your face better in this new position, and it's fitting: the love interest on TV starts spouting about how beautiful the heroine is, how her face is a tribute to the heavens if there ever were one. Smiling as you are, Steve has to agree. 

"What were they like, the parties?" 

Steve bites the tip of his tongue. "Fine," he says eventually. "They were fine. They'd set up buffet tables covered in hors d'oeuvres and everyone would walk around in their cocktail dresses and tailored suits drinking champagne and whiskey." His tone lightens toward the end, a put upon theatric for you to make it sound less snotty. 

"Did you wear a suit?" you ask. 

"Button down, usually."

"Nice! I bet you looked adorable. Do you have any photos?" 

"Honestly, baby?" Steve squeezes your leg. "I was miserable, then. You don't wanna see any photographs. I was never smiling."

"What?" 

"I hated my life. All my mom cared about was making us look like a perfect family, and all my dad cared about was work. I was happier when they started taking months-long business trips to Missouri."

"What do you mean?" you ask, putting your hand against his face. It's smaller than his but still big, still encompassing as you stroke his cheek and scratchy stubble. "You… what?"

He tells you because he knows you love him. It makes a hard thing easier, being loved. "Nothing, just, things were bad. My parents didn't even really like me, you know? They bounced me between little league and swim team and basketball when I was old enough. Track, cross country running, everything. Killer sun tan every summer." 

Any trace of a smile is gone from your face. "They didn't like you? What are you talking about?" 

"I was an annoying kid," he says. "You know how I was when we first met? Imagine that and worse." 

"There was nothing wrong with you when we first met." Your lip trembles. 

"Baby," he says quickly, on an exhale, the word half love and half apology, "don't be upset. I'm sorry, it wasn't as bad as it sounds. I'm making it sound worse than it was." 

Your eyes turn glassy. It's awful, being so close he can see the tears well, collecting in the corners of your eyes. You stroke his cheek tentatively and ignore them. 

"It was fine, sweetheart, really, I had everything. They'd leave me a fucking credit card when they went away, I never had to ask for anything. They gave me a car for my fifteenth birthday… I think they thought it was my sweet sixteen." 

Your face crumples like a wet paper towel. You try to fight it but you're a heavy crier and you always have been. It shocked Steve when you first met, how quickly you can fall into tears, but it doesn't necessarily mean you're extremely upset. He can maybe fix it before you give yourself a headache if he tries. 

"I'm sorry," he says again, dotting a kiss on the meat of your thumb. "I didn't tell you so you'd feel sorry for me." 

"I do feel sorry. I feel so sorry," you say quietly. 

"Don't cry…" Steve shifts into a better sitting position as the first tear trips over your waterline. Your hand falls to his collar. Your fingertips rub his collarbone. "I was lucky, I had everything I needed." 

"You just told me your parents didn't like you, Stevie, I wouldn't call you lucky. That they went away for months– How old were you?" 

He winces. "Fifteen?" 

"You were still a kid." 

"I was old before my time." 

"No, you weren't." You sniffle. "I didn't know about that, Stevie. I didn't know about any of this, I'm so sorry."

"Why are you sorry? I never told you." 

You bring both hands up now, placed gently against his chest, talking to him with a tenderness that makes his body ache, "If you think that it didn't matter, I'm really sorry. Imagining you that young, sitting there thinking they didn't like you? That breaks my heart." You're not overly dramatic despite the tears, but you say it with conviction. "You're not supposed to feel that way." 

Steve laughs quietly. "I know that, dummy. Why're you this upset about this? It was years ago." 

"Because it happened to you," you say, pouting at him sympathetically. "I don't know. I guess I figure how heavy that must be carrying around this whole time, thinking they didn't like you and that it was your fault." 

Steve tries to say something, his mouth dry as sand, but he supposes he had said that, in a way. It is what he thought, what he thinks. If he were better, if he were more interesting, more attractive, more talented, they'd stick around. He pushed himself in every sport they'd let him play hoping he'd see his dad standing in the bleachers one day. 

"You're not annoying," you say, wiping your tears. You square your expression into a steadier set. "You're amazing. If they couldn't see it then and if they refuse to see it now, that isn't something you did, Stevie. Maybe they gave you a car and an Amex card, but what you deserved most was–" Your determination to calm down wanes as your voice turns airy and scratchy, like you're trying not to sob. "You deserved to feel cared about. 'N' I'm sorry you didn't, because I love you more than anything."

Steve pulls you in for a hug. Mostly because you need one, but it doesn't hurt to hide his face from you know. His eyes burn, his heart pounding in his throat and between his ears as his arms climb up the length of your back. He focuses on that, the feeling of his hands and his bare forearms against your soft shirt. His chin goes over your shoulder and he presses the side of his head to yours with more force than he intends. 

"Don't wind yourself up over it," he murmurs. "I know it sucks, I promise I get it, and I love that you're sorry, I love you, but it's not worth crying over. They're not worth it." 

You tuck your arms behind his shoulder. Steve indulges in your smell, the warmth of your closeness. Talking about his parents is like poking at a purple scar. It's healed for the most part, but it's far from invisible. He usually ignores it all. 

"Is it weird that I'm kind of vindicated by your, uh, reaction?" he asks under his breath, as though someone might hear him and call him out for it. "I don't want you to cry, but…" 

"I'm in your corner." You pull him impossibly closer. "I'll always be upset for you. Even if you don't think it matters anymore, that's the kind of stuff that stays with you, you know?" You kiss his hair. Twice. A third time. "Sorry, I know I always make stuff about me, crying 'n' all." 

"That's not true," he murmurs, rubbing your back. 

He hates that you're crying, but he's glad, too. Glad all that pain isn't made up. Your reaction is proof he didn't just imagine how much it hurt to always want something he couldn't quite grasp. 

"You didn't deserve that," you say. 

"I know." 

"I love you." 

He knows that too. "I love you. You gotta stop crying, okay? You need your tears for the end of the movie when he crashes his car. How are you gonna bawl your eyes out for Sinatra if you've wasted them all on me?" 

You laugh wetly. "I think I've made a wet patch in your hair." 

Steve relaxes, reassured at the sound of your laugh, precious as spun silver even doused in waterworks. "That's cool. I needed a shower anyway." 

—

thank you for reading!

[ratsummer]

Lads I do not remember if I read about this from one of you on Tumblr or if I was talking to my bestie or if perhaps I was just daydreaming all along BUT I have not been able to stop thinking about the ghouls needing to have their claws trimmed on tour and their different reactions 😭 like fully I am imagining Copia sitting on the bus with fucking dog nail clippers because they've been touring long enough that their claws have grown back out and it's time to knock them back before they get to their next hotel. Please if someone has made a post about this send it to me I feel that I'm losing my mind!!! Anyway, here's how I think each of the ghouls behave!!!

Aurora: The goodest girl. Perfect princess. Only whines a little until Papa gives her a little piece of candy to suck on for her trim. She gets a little kiss on her head after each snip, so by the end she's purring and happy swishing her tail. She's a treasure.

Rain: A bit fussy, but overall just about as perfect a princess as Aurora. He'll try to yank out of Copia’s grip here and there if he thinks he has the clipper up too high on his claw. He doesn't mind trimming them a bit but Papa can you PLEASE leave them a LITTLE long??? Also gets lots of kisses, a nice pat on the butt when he's sent away to get the next in line.

Cirrus: She's very good and still, but SUPER tense because she hate hate hates the sound and the feeling of the nail trimmers snapping her claws off. It makes her skin absolutely crawl. She wears headphones and listens to music and it helps, but she does have a low growl going the whole time, tail lashing a bit. Copia goes very quickly for her, and then she gets a nice shoulder massage and kisses.

Mountain: A bit like Cirrus, the feeling bugs him a lot. His ears flick with each snip, and he will whine about it. He's gotten MUCH better at not flinching though, which Copia's once-bruised ribs are very grateful for. But Copia is very good at what he does and it's over quickly. He always makes a nice cup of tea before he trims Mounty's claws so he can send him off to relax right after.

Cumulus: This girlie does not appreciate a nail trim. She tries very hard to wheedle out of it. Oh, Papa, I have to go to the bathroom, my stomach is bugging me. Oh, Papa, I need a snack first. Oh, Papa... could we spend some alone time together first~ I need you~ Copia does have to get stern with her sometimes. It's just a few moments, my love. Come now, be a good ghoul for your Papa. And she will... but her tail is twitchy and she's pouting and whining the whole time.

Swiss: Truly a good boy! Doesn't mind a trim. It's a bit annoying, but he likes the attention from Copia. Copia also is a bit more fussy with Swiss' claws, as they tend to be a bit dryer and more brittle than the others (tour kinda dries him out), so he's grateful Swiss is good. He's always sure to rub in some good cream and file and shape them a bit so they don't snag and snap on anything. Swiss is purring the entire time, leaning in for an affectionate nuzzle or head bump here and there. Papa showers him with affection the whole time, praising his sweet ghoul, let's take care of you, my beloved.

Phantom: Pathetic. The saddest, wettest eyes. Acts like Papa is mad at him and this is his horrible, wretched punishment. He slinks in, tail wrapped tight around his leg. He kind of ragdolls too, making it hard to maneuver him for a good trim. Copia is patient with him though, believes he'll be fine with it someday as long as his experiences are always calm and gentle. Phantom gets to sit in Papa's lap for his nail trims, held close and cuddled the entire time. Like Rory, he gets a kiss between each snip, but also back rubs, soft reassurances, lots of praise. Eventually he discovers Phantom is perfectly happy and content to sit still and purr in Papa's lap during his trim if they get to listen to music together or if Copia turns on a video for Phantom to watch during his trim.

Dew: Oh, the problem ghoul. He has come a looooooong way. This poor ghoul used to not be able to get through a nail trim without a sedative and a muzzle and an extra set of hands to help hold him still. He would beg and plead to not have to do it, I'll be good Papa I promise I promise I will be so careful not to scratch up the hotel bedding or the towels or the floors! He hates the sound, he hates the feeling, but most of all he hates disappointing Papa. So now, Dew gets to wait until they make it to their hotel, and he can take a long, hot shower to relax and soften his claws a bit beforehand. Papa just holds him for a while and takes deep breaths with him. Waits for his tail to go still, or just a single thump here and there. Sometimes they have to wait a few minutes between each clip for Dew to calm back down. When he's all done Papa absolutely spoils him. They cuddle up and turn on a calm movie, Dew gets back rubs and praise and smooches.

(Aether, who trims Dew's claws at home, HAS accused him of faking it for attention. Dew vehemently denies it, of course.)

[atarathegreat]

Tell Me Everything is Okay! Armin Arlert.

Over the years you've been a great source of comfort for the blonde. His low self esteem and waning confidence always find a port in your words to grow like a baby in a womb. Armin would've been ashamed for anyone else to see him in such a state, head in his hands and unable to make eye contact with you as he ranted and rambled about his insecurities. You never seemed to mind all the hours it would take to make him calm down. A soft smile plastered on your face all while you rubbed his back and shoulders, assuring him that, yes, he can feel less than he is but he needs to acknowledge the good he's done.

"I don't know..." Armin sighs, rubbing his hands down his face as he looks up to you for the first time since entering your room, "This can't work, can it? A whole invasion?"

You shrug, warm hands never leaving his shoulders, "You planned it. I think it'll work."

Once more he sighs, shaking his head. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many uncertainties. People could die, get injured, get captured. There were so many ways his plan could go wrong. And you believed it would work? You had to be aware of the ways it could fail, the ways it could make Armin a mass murderer.

"Armin." Your soft voice reached through his worries and pulled him to the forefront of his mind, warmth from your hand layered over his, "We can pull it off. I know we can. You're a genius!"

He moved with you as you pulled him into a hug, careful fingers caressing his neatly trimmed hair. The way you seemed to calm all his nerves with a simple touch, the way you smiled at him, the way you cared about every little thing he said made Armin feel safer in your arms than the walls ever made him feel. "Thank you." Came his usual mumble, his ocean blue eyes closed and seeing over his plans again.

The fabric of his shirt pulled easily from where he'd tucked it in his pants, your hands running under to rub his back without the cover in the way. You liked his skin, how soft it was and how warm he always stayed. "You're amazing, Armin." Hearing those words awoke something needy in him, something that begged for you to praise him again. However he could make you praise him, he wanted it.

It wasn't something he ever thought to do. Who kisses their best friend? But there he was, holding your face, his lips pressed firmly to yours as he silently begged for you to grab him, dig your nails in, anything. Armin needed for you to show any sign that you wouldn't hate him, wouldn't push him away. "Armin?" You sounding breathless was almost what he needed, almost. He licked his lips, glancing at your chest for only a moment, "I just... I-I-I don't know..."

But you were intuitive when it came to your friend, not that it wasn't easy to read what he wanted in his eyes. Armin was the opposite of opaque in every way. The way his heart stuttered when you smiled at him, you're lithe fingers trailing too slowly up his arms where they wrapped around his biceps. Armin was sure then that he needed your approval in everything. Why else did he seek you out for reassurance? Why else were you the only one he needed to tell him that his plans made sense for him to believe it?

"I just..." Armin always mumbled, rambling on and on about whatever was on his mind at the moment and right now he was focused on getting your praise. He leaned his weight into you as if to make sure you couldn't escape from him and the bed, his lips capturing yours tenderly. His hands were soft despite the last few years of training and ODM usage as he trailed them under your shirt, "...I need you to speak like that again. I need to, to know that you're pleased with something I'm doing."

"That's fine." Gentle fingers pulled at his buttons, opening his pearl white shirt to reveal the body beneath. He groaned as you dragged your nails over the faint lines where straps had been for too long or too tight or tugged on too roughly. "Will it make you happy?" Doe eyes peered at him through pretty lashes, your hues taking in his needy expression. It was unbelievable that you'd ask, that you would thread your hands into his sleeves and push the shirt from his shoulders. Happy was putting it lightly. And in that little, hardly lit room, Armin came to terms with the fact that you might have had the strongest hold on him. His voice was low and nearly too quiet to hear when he responded to you, "I'd be so damn happy..."

Excitement filled every inch of Armin as he moved to make you comfortable. If you weren't then you wouldn't praise him or smile at him, or-

He didn't have time to worry about all the things you'd deny him. The sound of fabric falling to the floor was like blood in his veins, and he positioned himself under your knees while never breaking his eyes from yours. Pink was barely visible in the candlelight, but he took the blush on your cheeks as a good sign, as a subconscious praise for his actions. It was enough to take the doubt in his mind and throw it out the window. He pushed the bottom of your nightgown up, tucking it under your breasts to save them as a sort of present for when he got there.

"Tell me this is okay." Soft, open-mouthed kisses trailed from your knee down toward your sex, "Tell me I'm doing something good." The depths of his eyes begged and pleaded for you to praise him. "Doing amazing, Armin." It was your breathy voice mixed with the positive words that just got to him. He bumped his nose to your clit and licked a stripe up through your folds, his eyes never left yours. Armin wanted to see the way you reacted to him. "Good, Armin, feels good." You whispered with your eyes closed, wanting nothing but to feel the way he could make you feel.

The way you tasted was fascinating to him, a sort of experimental find, one he didn't want to share. So many people looked at him with contempt or indifference, not even Sasha smiled at him anymore. But here you were with your hands grabbing at whatever was under your fingers and moaning out his name. Knowing that he could make at least one person happy while being the worst version of himself...

He never wanted it to end.

Kisses were placed carefully as he moved upwards, your release coating his lips and dotting where he kissed until he reached up under your breasts. "May I?" Armin looked like a child asking for candy. He'd argue that's exactly what he was doing. There was nothing but sweetness on his tongue when he tasted you and your clothes were little more than a worthless wrapper in his way. Each second that you took to respond was another muscle that tensed in his body. "You may." He'd always appreciated your giggles, and when they came from underneath him he nearly couldn't breathe.

Unwrapping your upper half brought him closer to you, his lips leaving more gentle kisses on the bare skin and his ears picking up on every single one of your sounds. Warmth enveloped your chest, Armin flicked his tongue out to feel your nipple. He completely dove in, sucking the tip of your breast into his mouth and swallowing as much as he could fit into his mouth.

Shame. He should've felt shame, but he didn't. Armin was satisfied, even as he begged you to let him do whatever he wanted, as he begged you to tell him he was doing something right. Of course you obliged, moaning his name and keeping him close as he explored every inch of your bare skin. How could you deny him when he was so sweet?

There was a pain in his own stomach that demanded his own pleasure. Armin wasn't concerned about it and only allowed himself the slight friction of rubbing against your leg. Gentle fingers reached past his waistband and touched his cock, the sensation made him hiss as he bucked harder against you. "It's okay, Armin. We'll both feel good, okay?" How was he supposed to deny you? Those pretty eyes and smiling lips that told him it was okay.

Angry, red, and swollen, Armin rubbed his tip around your hole as his moans mixed with yours. Velvet wrapping around him was only pulling him deeper into his mind and the wordless pleas for you to assure him of every movement. He started slow and felt the way you sucked him in, your muscles clenching to hold him as tight as your body could. You wanted him, needed him, and bad. He'd mindlessly teased you, not meaning to, up to this point. "Armin, move faster." The lilt in your tone brought him to a mindless, mind-numbing speed. Armin wanted you to praise him, and he was too far gone in his mind and his want for it that he barely recognized when you came.

Moans, cries, pleads. They all reached his ears but he wasn't there to respond to them. His vision went white and warmth spread through his body, the strength of his orgasm bringing him back to his senses. You looked so perfect, fucked out and begging for one more. Armin reached down and wiped the tears from your face, moving more softly to add to the already thick ring of cum around his base. "I'm sorry." He whispered as he kissed your cheeks.

[starrylevi]

Levi is one of those “ I don’t want a pet ,” people . Until you come home all wide eyed and holding what has to be the ugliest cat he’s ever seen .

He claims he hates the thing , calls it a bastard . But some days when you are coming home if you are quiet you can hear him inside talking to it . Having whole conversations with this cat .

“ I know , I miss them too .”

“ Mreor “

“ Mm ,, we need to trim your nails soon .”

“ mrrp .”

No because you’re so right!!! He would treat this cat better than he treats himself! They would have the healthiest food, the best toys, the comfiest lounge spots!!

Here’s a short but cute little Drabble ♥️

——-

“What is this?”

“He was tearing up all of our shit so I had to get him a scratching post.”

“This is more than a post, Levi.” You say with bit of a snicker as you gesture to miniature cat castle.

Levi shrugs. “It was the only one they had in stock.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Look it up yourself then.” He challenges you.

“I bet not every pet store was sold out of a scratching post.” You say, playfully rolling your eyes.

He narrows his eyes at you, crossing his arms. “You’re the one who wanted this dumb cat.”

“Hey, he’s not dumb!” You frown.

A soft meow cuts your conversation short.

“Tch.”

“What is it?”

“He’s hungry and I just fed him.” Levi bends down scoops the kitty up as if he weighs nothing before making his way to the kitchen with the feline friend.

“So you’re going to give him more food?” You ask as you follow behind him.

“He has snacks.” Levi briefly turns his head towards you as he answers.

“Hm. I didn’t get him any snacks.”

“I know.” He carefully places the kitten beside the kitchen cabinet. “I did.”

You try to hide a smirk as you see him open up a bag of treats before placing a few down on the ground. “Alright now, don’t get too greedy.” Levi mumbles as he softly strokes the back of the kitty.

“I think you like him more than I do.” You snicker as you watch him be so careful and tender with the kitten.

“Shush.”

[laswells-ashtray]

Okay, so we have Young Price already, but let’s to a mashup: Sergeant dragon hybrid Price with human MacMillan!

I can imagine the things this man has to go through on a daily with Johnathan being the only hybrid on base ALONG with being his youngest sergeant.

Imagine John is upset with Mac over something petty and flies to the roof to pout until Mac talks him down.

I could also imagine other military bases being after John to use him for their own gain and Mac protects that boy with his life. It even gets to the point where they’ve got a meeting with the board to discuss John’s place on Mac’s team going forward. Not to mention that the sergeant has to wear a tight muzzle and padded gloves since he’s seen as a ‘threat’, which pisses Mac off to a whole other level.

On a lighter note, some funny things about dragon hybrid Price is that when he’s upset about something, he’ll blow smoke from his nose or beat his tail on the floor to try and annoy Mac. Something else is that when he was playing around with a rookie he got too rough and accidentally hurt the man with his claws, prompting his captain to trim them.

Bad idea.

Trying to trim John’s nails is like trying to get a cat into the bath. A mess. He ends up succeeding after a few threats and candy sticks and now John is lounging in his office doing a word search and eating his well earned candy like a kid.

One thing MacMillan realises pretty quickly is that other people don't like John for the same reasons he does. He likes John because John is an asshole who disrespects authority while still being one of the best soldiers he's ever seen. Unlike half of the other blokes he works with, John doesn't try to kiss his arse and sook up to him. John has a fierce personality and no off button.

He doesn't see John as a dragon hybrid who's value lies in his use. He sees John as an asshole who steals his fags and perhaps has wings.

When another Captain asks him about loaning John out for a few missions, he stares back at them blankly before he realises why they're asking.

"No, but you can take Kerr or Wallace."

"They don't exactly have the... capabilities I'm looking for."

"Shame."

He isn't letting people treat John like a weapon, that's for sure.

When they force John into the muzzle he wants to kick off, wants to call everyone involved a cunt but he doesn't. He stands silently, listens to them discuss the benefits of allowing them to pass John around different teams as needed and keeps his hand on the back of John's head. If he loosens the muzzle while no one is looking then that's on him.

Despite how many of them try to go over his head, they don't get John. They don't get to pass him around like he's a threat instead of a sergeant. Because MacMillan tells them privately that if they so much as attempt it then he'll put a bullet through Sergeant Price's kneecap and then no one will get to work with him. John doesn't know and if he did, maybe he'd hate him but Mac knows it's for the greater good inevitably. And maybe he's selfish. But no one else is getting his sergeant.

The incident with the nails that happens is a poor thing, MacMillan feels bad for all parties involved because John might not have intentionally scratched the poor rookie but he can also see the boy's pinkie bone.

He's the one who approaches John about the idea of trimming his nails, only after looking into it and making sure it isn't some cardinal sin in the dragon hybrid community. They probably should have long before now but he has a habit of letting John away with things he shouldn't. Besides, John has been talking to that new CIA girl and she appears to be decent impulse control for him. God bless the poor fuckers who started spreading the rumours that they're involved, MacMillan likes Kate, he does. He also likes that she tries to be discreet when checking out that soldier of his with the brown hair and the tattoo of scissors on her arm. So, he's been letting John away with more recently because at least he's been behaving with his new friend.

He is, of course, the only one that John will allow close enough to trim his nails. Doesn't mean he won't be a dick about it though.

"Stop twitching."

"Stop clipping my claws."

"I swear, you're like a nippy wee wain. Right, five-gallon jug and a three-gallon jug, how are you getting four bloody gallons?"

"They did this in Die Hard 3. Fill the three and pour it into the fi- Oi, quit it."

"See? Wasn't so bad now, was it? If I give you a mint crumble will you et me do the next one?"

"... Give me two."

[steam-beasts]

Day 5: Exhibition – Short fic

Duncan huffed and snorted as the workers rubbed the shampoo into his fur. He wrinkled his nose and hissed as a cleaner rubbed bit of the conditioner into his face. Being a monster engine was cool, don't get him wrong; he could move more, he found out how delicious humans were – meat and just food in general was and, even if he never admitted it, enjoyed being pet and getting belly rubs.

Oh, but nothing could even BEGIN to describe how much he hated the washdowns now. He even had to get his more monstrous form AND humanoid form cleaned for "hygiene", so they claim. Pah, such a joke. The shampoo tasted awful, starkly contrasting how it smelt, and speaking of smell...the citrus scents were so strong when he was getting washed, it hurt his nose and made his eyes water.

They clipped his nails down to a shorter length and dried his fur, in the end making him a puffy fluffball. Once it was all done, Duncan just grumbled "... Finally" and sauntered away.

__________

Duncan soon got back to the sheds, where his friend/partner Rusty was sitting and waiting for him. He gave Rusty a faint smile, and sat down beside them, his tail curled around Rusty's tail in a romantic gesture as they wordlessly snuggled up to each other. Rusty hummed, reaching out their paw to feel Duncan's forearm, noting the extra poof in the fur "The washdowns have been maming you extra fluffy lately, haven't they, Duncan?"

Duncan's mood immediately shifted "Puh! A waste of time if ye ask me! In my opinion, gettin' my fur all clean is pointless when ah'll just be gettin' all dirty durin' work! Especially at the quarry!"

"But you haven't exactly had much dirty jobs lately, Duncan" Rusty pointed out.

"So?"

"So...maybe there's something being planned for you? Why else would you smell so nice?"

Duncan grunted in response "Ah'd rather smell like shite than somethin' that's constantly stabbin' my nose". He then checked his claws "...and they cut my claws! How am ah supposed to tear open a cow with these?"

Rusty rolled their eyes "Oh calm down, Duncan. They'll grow back"

"Yeah, sure. Ye definitely wouldn't be sayin' that if yer claws were trimmed up! They're basically yer fingers"

The little diesel chortled in response. Suddenly, the sounds of distant giggling and chattering was heard. Soon enough, a group of young school children (probably from a nearby primary school) appeared, following Mr Percival towards Duncan and Rusty.

"We couldn't get any of the other engines here, but Duncan and Rusty are off for the day, just for you children" He said with a smile, gesturing to the two engines. Duncan spluttered and gawked "Children?!"

"Well, I suppose this is why you've been getting washed so much, Duncan" Rusty chuckled. The children all rushed over and immediately began petting the two beastly locomotives.

"So fluffy!" Two girls said in unison, gently stroking Duncan's tail.

"Such big claws!" A boy pointed down at both of their claws.

"Who's a good engine? You are!" One girl exclaimed, petting Rusty profusely. Rusty smiled and thumped their tail in response.

For once, Duncan didn't snarl or growl, towards children, he couldn't do that. Instead, he let out a deep purr.

It was in these moments he didn't mind being in an exhibit of sorts.

[lastoneout]

I was trying to look up info on local cat groomers because my cat really needs her nails trimmed and she's a brat so we can't do it ourselves at home, but we also feel bad for constantly bothering the vet about it bcs just trimming her nails isn't really their job, and I found this one lady who's FAQ is just like "a responsible cat owner MUST have their cat bathed every six weeks with soap and water it is IMPOSSIBLE for a cat to keep itself PROPERLY clean with it's tongue you absolutely 100% MUST give them a bath NO EXCEPTIONS and actually cats LOVE being bathed they don't mind the water at all and bushing a cat is TERRIBLE for them they all hate it and it will NOT properly control shedding AT ALL" and I'm just like?? So we're just lying to people now?? We're just gonna lie to people??? Just go online and lie?????? We're just lying????? THAT'S WHAT WE'RE DOING????????

[ereardon]

At Sea [Bob Floyd x Reader]

Chapter 3

Overview: I’ll be home in five weeks. That’s what naval aviator Y/N told her fiance before leaving for deployment in the Atlantic. But time ceased to stop when she met Bob Floyd, the ship surgeon. Shy and honest, Bob quietly slipped into Y/N’s life, creating a complicated dynamic on an already intense mission. Falling for Bob was not in Y/N’s plan, and as she continues to weave a web of lies, she must make a choice: return to the life she left on land, or forge ahead into the unknown with Bob. But before Y/N can decide, disaster strikes, leaving Bob to make the decision that will alter their lives forever. 

Chapter summary: Y/N and Bob have a close encounter that leads Y/N to ponder cheating on her finace

Pairing: Navy Doctor Bob Floyd x Female Aviator Reader

Warnings: Implied emotional cheating, lots of Naval inaccuracies

WC: 1.2K

Masterlist here; previous chapter here

You could see Bob the moment you stepped out onto the deck. He had his back toward you, his face gazing out at the dark sea. 

You crept up behind him, one hand on his arm. “Hey.” 

He jostled beneath your touch, kind brown eyes looking down behind wire frames. “Hey there.” 

“So what’s the plan?” 

Bob held out one hand. It was steady, nails trimmed neatly, silver watch fastened slightly loosely at the wrist. “Come and see.” 

You let your fingertips rest in his. There was a moment of hesitation before he started to lead me away from the edge of the deck. You saw the flicker of a question cross his eyes in that moment of hesitation. Wondering if he should kiss you or not. 

You found myself disappointed he didn’t. 

He led you across the ship deck, toward the stern. You passed a few people, their eyes darting between you and Bob, down to your hands. 

At the stern of the boat, you were sheltered behind the funnel. Almost immediately, the wind died down. Your flyaway hairs, which has been whipping at your temples, settled. 

“Why weren’t we meeting here the whole time?” you asked. 

“Good question.” 

“So what’s the game plan?” 

Bob smiled. “Do you always need a plan?” 

“You don’t know me very well, but I’m super impatient, and always in a rush. I’m chronically type A. I hate gum because I think hearing people chew is disgusting. And I'll make you stop every hour on a road trip to pee.” 

He leaned closer. “Nothing you’ve just said has turned me off.” 

“Oh, I know, I was trying to turn you on.” 

Bob laughed, and it was contagious. There wasn’t much laughter on a mission like this. He was a breath of fresh air. 

Below deck, Bob led you through a labyrinth of doors through personal quarters before landing at a door at the end of the hall. He turned the handle. 

Inside, white string Christmas lights had been looped around the ceiling. Pressed against a wall was a bed, but massive, like two standard issues had been shoved together. 

You turned to Bob with eyebrows raised. 

“I thought you might be getting sick of listening to me talk. And you’d rather watch a movie instead.” He walked over to the computer monitor facing the bed, plugging in a jack and forcing the screen to light up. “Our options are limited,” he added. “The Lion King. Hercules, or Shrek.” 

You laughed and took a seat on the edge of the bed. It was monumentally more comfortable than your cot out in the barracks. “Love your taste in films.” 

“You’re a little older than my usual movie-watching companions,” he replied. 

“They’re all classics, don’t get me wrong. But I feel like you can’t go wrong with The Lion King.” 

Bob nodded, inserting the DVD as you slid off your shoes, climbing further onto the bed toward the corner. On the desk, you spotted a bottle of pinot noir, and two coffee mugs.

“Where did you get wine?” 

“I have my ways. Is red OK?” 

“It’s perfect.” 

“Good.” He grabbed the remote and then bent down to untie his shoes. When he stood, he flushed, and you patted the space on the bed next to you. An invitation. 

When Mufasa reached up his paw, and Scar let him fall into the valley, you felt Bob��s breath do a sharp intake. You looked up at him, his eyes rapt on the screen, but a small tear had made its way into the corner of his eye. You looked at him for a beat too long, and then worried that he would catch you staring, you turned your head back downwards. This time, you laid your head down on his abdomen, slinging an arm across him. There was a moment of hesitation before his hand came down on your shoulder, gently resting across your upper arm. 

You stayed like that, cuddled together, until the movie was done. As the credits rolled, it was clear neither of you were ready to untangle yourselves. Thirty seconds passed before you pushed yourself up into a seated position facing Bob. “A classic.” 

He nodded. There was something he wasn’t saying. It was clear from his eyes. 

You scooted closer, until your knees were touching his. “What are you thinking?” 

“That no matter how many times I watch this movie, it never ceases to impress me.” 

“Strong feelings for a Disney movie, but I get it.” 

“I had a patient once,” Bob said. “He was six. His father had just died, and he was dying, too. One day he asked me to watch a movie with him. It was the end of a call shift, so I stayed, and we watched The Lion King. I’ll never forget the way he broke down when Scar let Mufasa fall. And all I could do was hold his hand and tell him it was just a movie. But it wasn’t just a movie. That was his real life. He wasn’t going to wake up the next day and see his dad. He might not even wake up the next day. What do you say to someone like that?” 

You shook your head. “I don’t know.” 

“Nobody does. And that’s what makes it so hard. All you want to do is tell them it’ll get better. But sometimes that just isn’t true.” 

“You do the best you can. That’s all anyone can ask for.” 

Bob was quiet. You reached up, placing both hands on either side of his head, slowly stroking his blond hair. As you started to pull back, his hands shot out and gripped your wrists. “I want to kiss you,” he whispered. “But I won’t.” 

“Why?” You were breathless. 

“Because you deserve a really amazing first kiss. And I don’t want our first kiss to be because you feel bad for me.” 

“That’s not it.” 

He pressed his eyes closed for a second. “Even if it isn’t, you still deserve more.” 

You laid back on the bed. Bob mimicked your movements so you were facing each other. “It’s nice how highly you think of me,” you murmured. “But don’t.” 

“I can’t help it.” Bob trailed his fingers over your hip. “Can I ask you something? And feel free to say no, no matter how pathetic I look.” 

“Anything.” 

He was timid. You could see it in every line across his face. The way his voice shook as he spoke. “Will you stay here tonight? You don’t have to. I promise I won’t try anything. I just really want you here.” 

“Yes.” You said it without hesitation. His smile – soft, quiet, harrowing – was enough to get you to commit murder. Another girl would say no, go back to her bunk, contemplate what she had done to get herself into that position. Another girl, a better girl, would feel guilty.

But guilt felt like a far off whisper. Instead, you were overcome by excitement. It bubbled in your chest. 

Being with Bob made you feel weightless. And that terrified you. 

Please follow my library page @ereardonlibrary

Tagging some people who I think may like this (but feel free to message me and say you're not interested and I won't tag you going forward!): @blue-aconite @horseshoegirl @clancycucumber230 @kmc1989 @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @spinning-away @bvbfloyd @startrekfangirl2233-writes @shanimallina87 @xoxabs88xox @xomrsalliej4787xo @sio-ina-bottle @joaquinwhorres @thedroneranger @callsign-magnolia @sometimesanalice @stargazer-88 @tomanybandstolove @laracrofted @iangiemae @teacupsandtopgun @palepeanutponyshoe @mrsjobarnes @desert-fern @double-j @djs8891 @gigisimsonmars @fanficfandomlove @bobfloydsbabe @katiedid-3 @katieshook02 @na-ta-sh-aa

[whitmerule]

today's 'biting my tongue then patiently explaining' moments with clients

A:

client rings up: can I make an appointment to bring my cavoodle puppy in to have his feet tidied up a bit and have the hair around his eyes trimmed back? me (audibly working on another dog in the background of phone call): You don't need an appointment for that! I'm happy to do that as a walk-in, because that won't take more than ten minutes. I can use that time to tidy those things up for you and introduce him to the salon so his future grooms are less stressful, come in any time today before 4:30!

client: turns up with puppy me: puts the current dog I'm working on in crate, visibly talks to the other dog who is currently here me: spends ten minutes working with their puppy client: asks about prices for grooming in general me: explains pricing system client: yes I think I'd like a full groom for him please me: great, once I'm done with him here we can look at the calendar and book him in for his first puppy groom client: ... you mean you can't groom him right now? me: .... [internally, looks at crates with other dogs that I'm working on, looks at whiteboard with all the dogs booked in for the next week marked on it, looks into the camera like I'm on the office] me: .......... [remembers the multiple phone calls I take most days where caller assumes they could just get their dog groomed today or tomorrow and are vaguely affronted that I'm booked out six weeks in advance] me, brightly: Not right now, but let's look at the calendar and see when I might be able to squeeze in an appointment.

(further dog groomer grumbling below the cut)

B:

me, ringing client 10 minutes after their appointment should have started and getting message bank: ... hope all's well, please let me know ASAP if you're still planning on making this appointment, jsyk it's a 90 minute slot so I can't promise a completed groom if you're more than 15 minutes late, and if you're 30 minutes late we'll have to reschedule client: turns up 28 minutes late me: well, it's going to have to be just a bath and tidy, not a full groom doggo: is matted me: 😩 this is not going to be pretty, I will have to shave out the mats and won't have time to blend the shaved patches into the rest of the coat her: ??? why me: ... also there's a late fee (because I say so that's why)

me, after running 25 minutes into my next dog's slot to try to make this poor girl more comfortable: marks groom as complete, sends text to owner me, 90 minutes later: picks up phone to check?? that owner got text?? [your dog is still here and is barking shrilly and anxiously because she is not crate-trained, she has now been here for almost four hours pls get your dog I am not doggy daycare I don't have time to take her out to poop or play] owner: oh I'll be there in a while, gotta pick my daughter up from school, bye! me: [......... ok well if she has a toilet accident and steps in it I'm not going to bathe her again for your convenience, I have two other dogs I'm working on now]

C:

owner and dog I've never met before: arrive me, who's running well behind on this matted collie thanks to above dog: [oh thank goodness you're a smooth-haired jack russell mutt you will take like ten minutes then i can let you cage dry] doggo: is good doggo! is a bit worried! is actually very unsure of what's going on and also doesn't like other dogs [ABOVE DOG IS STILL BARKING IN CRATE] but is happy to be comforted and cared for! is even ok for nails! me, when owner picks terrier up: just so you know, she was very good and communicative but a bit anxious, especially when other dog was barking owner: oh yes, she hates other dogs and also we just picked her up from the boarding kennel two hours ago so she hasn't even been home yet, k thx bye! :D me: [... WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO YOUR DOG]

me: collie, you and I are the only sensible people in this room collie: 👀 me: and I'm not too sure about me collie: (now that you are not brushing my tail you are my bestest friend 😌)