#unintelligible croaking | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

crestapex · 8 months ago

Text

Boop!

Everyone’s getting booped by kitty paws on tumblr right now so in honor of that here’s big boy Simon with the cat he didn’t want 🐾 I also didn’t give a description for the cat aside from being a kitten in case you wanted to imagine this kitten as your own LOL

Oh, that cat. That damned cat. That’s what Simon thinks, anyways. At first.

He was never too much of a pet person. He loves animals, for sure, but given his choice of career and the way he grew up, pets were just never really in the question. So, when you came home one day with a tiny, soaking wet kitten in your arms, he wasn’t exactly too pleased about it. Not because you were being kind and treating the small critter—that you found huddled up on the side of the road��to some proper care and a warm meal. It wasn’t even because it was a cat, he liked cats a lot, actually. He just never planned on owning one.

And that was exactly why it all had to deal with the fact that he knew the tiny little thing wasn’t going anywhere. A permanent resident of the Riley household. He’d have to pry it from your cold, dead hands. It was no longer just you and him—it was now you, him, and this kitten you now referred to as your child. Not even your child, our child.

So, here he was, staring down at his laptop in complete disbelief. He only left it there for a minute, just to grab a quick snack and return right back. Are you serious right now? He internally questioned, his eyes scanning the trail that lead to the ‘child’ clawing at the armrest on the opposite end of the couch.

Big, wet paw prints decorated the new laptop he had just bought. A trail of them leading from the wet-food bowl in the kitchen, across the wooden floor, and over the couch cushions. He looked over at the culprit, rubbing its furry body all over the armrest, dragging its tiny claws in and out of the fabric. The kitten seemed to have paid no mind to Simon, who found himself sighing and groaning in frustration, crossing his arms and bringing his fingers up to rub the croaked bridge of his nose. He grumbled something to himself, something unintelligible, maybe a few curses here and there.

“Sweetheart!” He called out to you, his voice gruff, laced with clear annoyance.

You quickly came into view, rounding the entrance of the crammed hallway in your cozy little flat. You looked up and over at him, having yet to notice the mighty mess that the small kitten had made. “What’s up?” You asked, brows raised as you began to leisurely walk over to your beloved.

Simon, on the hand, didn’t respond for a half-second, instead staring at you with his permanent R.B.F. that had only slightly softened up since you came into his life. “The cat,” he plainly said, gesturing to the kitten that resided on the couch.

“What about ‘the cat’?” You said, crossing your arms and furrowing your brows. Well, he was still getting used to the new addition to your guys’ little family, that much was obvious.

“Love, am I the only one seein’ this?” He quickly responded, his deep British accent thickening. He now gestured a hand to the paw-print stained couch, and his laptop.

Your eyes followed suit, your arms quickly dropping to your sides and your eyes widening at the sight of a path of little bean-prints decorating the sofa, which you had just cleaned hours ago. You followed the path, and Simon watched as you took in the trail of destruction your new furry friend had caused. How are you just now noticing this? Perhaps you were blinded by the pure love and affection for your kitten that, in your eyes, no evil wrong-doings could be done, not by your precious angel baby.

“Oh… shit,” you turned back to look at Simon, his own gaze set firmly on your kitten. “I, uh, I’ll clean this up,” you nodded, giving him an awkward smile. “Watch our baby, please,” you pleaded, turning on your heel and practically speed-walking into the kitchen.

He watched as you gathered all the kitchen towels you could find, as you pulled open the cabinets under the sink and grabbed a bottle of blue liquid. Sigh. He turned away, watching the kitten intently. He couldn’t be mad at you, it wasn’t your fault, technically. No, it was the god of destruction over here’s fault, the progenitor of chaos. The…

Simon silently walked over to the opposite end of the couch, staring down at the small beast. Its tail swaying wildly, quickly catching its attention, and Simon watched a sort of glint in his eyes. Watching as the kitten jumped around, stretching its paws out as far as it could to try and catch and eliminate the weird, furry snake that seemed to follow it around everywhere. The fur around its little pink beans still stained with the remnants of mushy cat food, though no longer wet and painting everything in sight, at least.

How could such a small critter do so much? Have so much… spunk? The brute of a man hadn’t even noticed the way his brows relaxed at the sight of the little fiend.

He bent down, scooping up the kitten in the palm of his hands, then placing it in the crook of his arm. He was just making sure it didn’t go anywhere, that it couldn’t do anymore damage than had already been done, he reasoned with himself… So small and fragile, he could swear that a single pinch from him would break its bones. That if he were a cat tower this little kitten would never get bored, there would always be a new part to explore.

He watched intently, watched as the kitten laid on its back, quickly finding the drawstrings of his jacket. Watched as it extended its little arms and swung its paws wildly, whacking the dangling drawstrings as it fell entranced by such a simple object. Occasionally, the kitten would miss, tiny claws and beans accidentally digging into the fabric of his jacket, an almost unnoticeable smack at his chest.

He hummed, contently, surprisingly. It was stupidly adorable, but he would never admit that, not after the events that had just taken place. Yet, he couldn’t even stop himself from wrapping a hand around the kitten, bringing the creature up to his eye level, because all it took was one hand, two hands would be too much. He was about ready to scold it, to finally let loose his inner cat-dad.

God, he hoped that you weren’t secretly watching. That you were too busy picking up the big mess that such a tiny kitten had made. Besides, you would never again let him live peacefully without teasing him if you saw the way a stained paw reached out and placed itself gently on his nose. A just barely audible chirp and subtle purring emanating from the creature.

That damned cat, he scowled. It was too good at this, even better than you at working its way into his frozen heart. A heart that was beginning to melt.

#simon… the ultimate cat dad #call of duty #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost mw3 #ghost x reader #my writing #my posts #cats

420 notes · View notes

doctorstethoscope · 8 months ago

Text

Lucky

Summary: Marriage means sticking together in sickness and in health. Apparently, Aaron takes the ‘in sickness’ part pretty seriously. It’s a Hotchner family sick day, and he’s determined to take care of you and Jack.

Pairing: Hotch x blank slate Fem!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Mild description of illness (mentions of fever, headaches, nausea, one reference to vomit). Otherwise it’s all tooth-rotting fluff

You wake yourself up mid-sneeze, which is arguably one of the worst ways to wake up. Aaron’s side of the bed is empty but warm, and you start to stand up to go find him when you’re hit with a woozy feeling and have to sink back into the pillows. “Aaron?” You call out, sniffling a couple of times as you take stock of how you’re feeling.

Honestly, you feel like trash. Your head has started to pound and your sinuses feel so pressurized that you have to stick your face into Aaron’s pillow in case your head explodes from being upright. You aren’t feeling nauseous, luckily, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t miserable when you realize that you’re sick.

Footsteps of socked feet pad down the hallway, and you hear the door crack open. “Hon? Jack is sick, he’s asking for you,” Aaron says.

He’s probably speaking at a normal volume, but every sound is so amplified to your aching head that you just whine, an unintelligible sound that kind of resembles, “Shut up.”

The door opens a little wider, and the creaking of it gives way to the creaking of the bed when Aaron sits down on the edge. “Are you okay?” His voice is softer and his hand finds the place between your shoulder blades, rubbing small soothing circles.

You try to shake your head, but it’s hurting too badly for that. “How’s Jack?” You croak out, just hoping that he feels better than you do.

“He’s running a fever and he threw up a little. I changed his bedsheets and cleaned him up, and I already called in to keep an eye on him today. I think you should call in too.” His hand moves to your cheek and then your forehead, presumably checking for the same fever Jack has.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll call in, though, if you insist.” Even though you’re speaking sarcastically, his answer is predictable.

“I do.” Aaron stands up and kisses the top of your head. “I’m going to go find some medicine. I’ll be right back with that and some water for you, alright?”

You hum, a noise of affirmation, but you’re fast asleep by the time he returns a minute later.

When you wake up, you’re alone. The curtains are half-open, exposing just enough light for you to be able to see, but still comfortably sleep. The nightstand is cleared off aside from a glass of water, a dish with three pills in it, and a silver handheld bell.

You wrinkle your nose, eyes adjusting to the light as you reach for the glass of water with one eye shut. The bell is knocked to the floor instead, a result of your poor coordination, and the door opens.

“You rang?” Aaron says softly, and you can hear the smile on his lips.

You groan in response, covering your ears with both hands. The ring of the bell echoes in your head for a long moment, and you take the time to wonder if divorce is still an option. “What were you thinking? A bell, seriously? My head hurts.” You’re all but whining, but Aaron doesn’t appear to take it personally.

“Sorry, my love. I thought it would be easier than shouting for me,” he apologizes, helping you sit up. You take the glass of water from him and use it to swallow the pills he hands you, and he kisses your forehead as he takes the glass back. “Is it just a headache?”

“I think I- I- achoo!” You cut yourself off with a loud sneeze that turns into a groan of pain. “No. What about Jack? Is he feeling any better?”

“He’s sleeping, but his fever is steady. I was thinking, if you’re up for it, I could set you up in the living room. We could close the curtains, turn on a movie, bundle you up on the couch. How does that sound?” Aaron suggests, one arm wrapped around you to rub soothingly at your upper arm.

It sounds nice, actually, so you manage to stand up with the duvet wrapped around you and shuffle out to the living room couch. Aaron knows you well; the couch has already been primed with your favourite throw blankets, a couple of pillows, and a bottle of Gatorade nestled against the arm.

There are Disney Movies queued up on the television, and you sit and let Aaron wrap you up in blankets as ‘Lion King’ starts to play.

For a few hours, you doze in and out of sleep while Aaron stays nearby, always with a hand on your back or an arm around you. You awaken to drink a bit more water, sneeze a few more head-splitting times, and eventually you find that you can’t fall back asleep.

The blanket is too hot now, and you push it off only to start shivering. That’s how you find yourself curled up against Aaron’s side, tucked under one large arm while you clear your throat to bring up what you’ve thought all day. “You shouldn’t have called in.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he whispers, stroking a thumb over your shoulder. “I want to be here. I promise.”

“You just had two whole weeks off for the honeymoon. Strauss won’t be mad?” You ask, and a knowing smirk splits Aaron’s face.

“You mean the third honeymoon? Because I got called to work on the days we were supposed to leave the first two times we tried?” He reminds you, holds you a little closer. “Strauss owes me a day off. And I want to spend the day making sure you’re being cuddled back to health.”

You can’t think of a rebuttal no matter how badly you want to, because your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a door opening. “Daddy? Momma?”

Aaron squeezes your shoulder and then stands, making sure to tuck the blanket around you so that you don’t get too cold again. Confident steps carry him down the hall to where you can imagine Jack is standing in the doorway.

There’s murmured conversation, Aaron’s voice saying, “Are you sure?” and Jack’s insisting that he is. When Aaron returns, the boy is bundled up in his arms.

“Somebody wanted to join us for movie time and cuddling,” he explains to you, setting Jack in the big armchair. When his son starts to protest, Aaron defends himself. “Momma is sick, too, buddy. I don’t want you making each other worse.”

“Give him here. It’s okay, Jack, you can lie down with me,” you offer, holding out both arms. “I’ll try not to get you sick.”

“Too late for that,” Aaron grumbles under his breath, but he carries your son over all the same. When he tries to sit, you hold up a hand.

“Uh uh. You said you’d make sure I get cuddled back to health, right?” You rub Jack’s back, holding him against your chest as he curls up in your lap. The movement brings with it a wave of nausea that you ignore. “You’re in quarantine, Hotchner. We aren’t getting you sick, too.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He moves into the kitchen, leaving you and Jack alone for a few minutes while he clanks pots and pans around.

You bring a hand up and lay the back of it against Jack’s cheek. “How are you feeling, little man?” You ask quietly.

“Tummy hurts,” he mumbles into your neck. “But it hurt more before.”

“Yeah? Do you want to take a nap and watch some movies with me?” You offer, and he snuggles in a little closer.

Finding Nemo is playing now, and you watch Jack as he watches the screen with increasingly droopy eyelids. He’s on the verge of falling asleep when Aaron returns, carefully balancing two soup bowls.

He places one on the coffee table for Jack, and sets the other in your free hand. “It’s turkey gnocchi. It shouldn’t be too hard on your stomach,” he explains in a whisper, turning the TV down.

“Thank you, baby.” You turn your head away when he leans down to kiss you. “Quarantine, remember? Go, be healthy somewhere else.”

Aaron’s eye roll is predictable but he stands up all the same, prepared to exit the room as per your demands. He’s almost over the threshold when he pauses and you start to ask what’s wrong, but before you can speak he lets out the loudest sneeze you’ve ever heard.

It’s so loud that Jack wakes up just in time to hear Aaron sneeze twice more in succession, and he pokes you to get your attention. “Is Daddy sick?”

You grin, holding him a little closer. “I think he might be, buddy. Aaron, are you okay?”

Aaron sniffles a couple times from the doorway, and you notice how congested he sounds when he says, “I’m fine.”

“You’re fine, really? So you’ll go spend the rest of the day in bed while Jack and I get to hang out?” Maybe baiting him with his son isn’t the nicest way to get your husband to admit to feeling ill, but it’s really the only way you can think of.

It works, if the growing frown on Aaron’s face is anything to go by. “Well, I didn’t say…”

“No, no. You’re fine, you’re healthy. So go on, don’t let our germs stop you.” Jack is giggling in your arms now, having caught on to the game. “Go, before we get you sick. ‘Cause that was just, what? Allergies?”

He’s moving back towards you now, pulling the bowl of soup out of your free hand; the other is still wrapped around Jack.

“Wait, wait. I can’t lie down with my husband, and now I can’t even eat soup?” You complain, and Aaron plops down next to you on the couch.

“It’s one or the other, sweetheart. And I don’t mind your germs all that much,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around you. Jack crawls between the two of you, lying on top of the space where your bodies press together.

“Is that so?” You ask as he hands you back the bowl, beginning to eat it since your hands are both free now. It’s delicious, like everything Aaron cooks, and still warm enough that you can feel it in your belly. “I’m the luckiest newlywed in the world.”

Instead of responding, Aaron pulls a blanket up over the three of you and grabs the remote. ‘Ice Age’ starts to play as you swallow another spoonful, and Jack rolls over into his dad’s waiting arms.

The living room is quiet for a few minutes, save for the sounds coming from the TV. Jack is half asleep with his head on Aaron’s stomach and a hand resting on your knee when Aaron finally says, “You aren’t, you know.”

“Aren’t what?” You set the soup bowl aside and curl up, your temple pressed against his shoulder.

“The luckiest newlywed in the world.” His lips graze the top of your head, but he pulls away just in time for you to sneeze into your elbow. “I am.”

You wipe your nose with your sleeve- unnecessary, but it feels wrong not to- and laugh aloud at that. “You are, really? With a wife who’s eating up your personal days and getting the whole family sick, you’re the luckiest?”

“Yeah.” He speaks quietly, confidently, voice not wavering. “Yeah, I really think I am. Come here.”

You can’t get much closer but you try, cuddling up as close as possible to your husband and son while Aaron eats some of the soup Jack didn’t end up tasting before passing out. The movie plays on, and you hardly pay attention; you’re too busy thinking about exactly how happy- and lucky- you really are.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x you #hotch x reader #hotch x y/n #hotch x you #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic

419 notes · View notes

no1frogfan · 2 years ago

Text

i did it. i became a member of nume's patreon. and let me fucking tell you people. LET ME FUCKING TELL YOU. i'm on a fucking ASTRAL PLANE right now. it's not safe to be this horny anywhere on planet earth. if you were on the ISS you'd be able to feel the horny energy i'm emanating all the way in SPACE. you'd be able to feel the heat even if you were standing on the goddamn SUN. i'm never going to need another source of smut inspo ever again in my life.

IT'S SO WORTH IT.

Dirty talk with Miyuki 😏

🔞uncensored ver available on Patreon <Here>!

#miyuki kazuya #daiya no ace #unintelligible croaking

269 notes · View notes

no1frogfan · 1 year ago

Text

FEAST YOUR EYES UPON THIS MASTERPIECE!!!!!!

I've been absolutely enamored by how expressive Kuroo (and Yaku!!) is in the comics by @reineydraws, so obviously commissioning her was the next step. AND NOW LOOK AT THIS BEAUTY.

This was actually my first commission, and I only had a general idea of what I wanted. Rei was so helpful and communicative, which made the whole process really easy and smooth. She answered all my questions and clarified any murky details. I couldn't decide on the colors, so I actually commissioned two versions, and it turns out they are both perfect.

In conclusion, THANK YOU REI. This is the best thing in the world. I've been alternating between cackling at Kuroo's goofy-ass face and melting at this adorable chubby frog.

💟💜💟 Already dreaming up more ideas 💜💟💜

#unintelligible croaking #commissioned by froggy #kuroo tetsurou

27 notes · View notes

evieelyzabethh · 9 months ago

Note

Love your work. <3 Could you write something with reader x spike where they're kinda' pining for one another, but one night he gets injured and has to stay over at her house? She patches him up and maybe offers him a bite? Doesn't have to be nsfw but +5 cool points if it is. <3

Hello, my loves, long time no see!!! I hope this is to your liking <3

Spike is so incredibly reckless. You knew this, he knew, everybody knew that Spike was a walking accident waiting to happen'. He likes to think he can handle himself. "I'm bad, baby," he'd tell you, "M' the big bad slayer killer. I can handle a few scratches." But you were never worried about what he could handle, you were worried about the fact that his blood was always staining your couch. That and the fact that his lack of self-preservation kept you up at night.

Usually, he has some decorum. He doesn't come to you with every scrape and bruise, even though you handled him with much more care than he was capable of extending to himself. It was his way of punishing himself, depriving himself of your head scratches and soft hands for bothering you too much. You scolded him for this, of course. It seems like its every other week (more like every other day) when you and he argue, most often in front of the Scoobies who waited anxiously for you take your arguments to the bedroom, about him leaving you to worry about whether or not he was ash.

"I mean, fuck Spike. Is it really that hard to just give me a call if you plan on bleeding at your place. A little 'Hi, yeah, I don't think I need my wounds treated with modern medicine, I'm gonna take my chances with old whisky and tetanus like the good ol' days'." And every time he takes his well-earned lecture with a smirk and a bowed head.

"Yes, mother, next time I'll break your door down at three in the morning for some pretty pink bandages."

"If you were so ashamed of the pretty pink bandages, maybe you should think before you run into knives!"

Spike has maybe told the truth a grand total of two times in his whole life, so his word means absolutely nothing. He continues to ignore your street like the plague unless it's an absolute emergency.

Now was an emergency.

You barely heard the faint knocks on your door from your bedroom, where you sat on your bed, music blasting from your stereo and some reality court show droning on in the background, catching your attention when someone decided to be particularly messy. You had thought it was your neighbors blind dog scratching at your door again until something large and loud hit it. Quickly arming yourself with a frying pan, you crept to your door, tearing it open for a very injured Spike to nearly fall flat on your floor before he caught himself using your doorframe.

His left hand clutched at his bleeding side and he walked with a limp over to his couch which now had a plastic cover. His dead heart was touched.

"Aw, you were waiting for me, " he croaked out. He fell on his back, one of his hands falling over the side and his eyes closing as soon as his head at the pillow. His shirt had claw marks that were lined with blood and his duster had barely escaped the carnage, a few holes separate from the preexisting moth holes sticky with some supernatural substance.

"Have to be prepared when it comes to you." You patted his cheek, thumbing over his cheekbones to try and arouse some consciousness. "Can't have you fallin' asleep on me. You might not wake up." You weren't going to leave his side until you were sure he wasn't going to die in your absence.

He babbled unintelligently, his mouth moving but having no connection to his brain to form any sort of actual thought. His eyes flit between closed and aware, his head moving to catch up with the spinning room, his mouth impossibly dry, and his head pounding. In his head, he insisted he was fine, but the words wouldn't come out right. He spat them out garbled and messy until he was too choked up to even try anymore.

He was barely conscious when he felt your wrist at his mouth. He had enough sense to shake his head and nudge away your wrist with his nose, but his lack of strength made his attempts futile. "No," he mumbled.

"You'll feel better," your voice swam around in his head until the words lost meaning and he just smiled at the sound of your voice. You swiped your thumb across one of his canines, the red contrasting with the pearly whites of his teeth swiftly wiped away by the pink of his tongue. After the taste of your blood was on his tongue, his sense was surrendered to instinct as he brought your wrist to his lips.

You didn't know what you were getting into. Vampires get their life force from blood, so it just made sense to have him feed from you to expedite the healing process. The more he drank, the louder your heartbeat grew in your ear and the closer he pulled you to him. You had only done this once before, when you were both drunk and dizzy and jokes being whispered in your ear turned into tiny nips from your neck that Buffy nearly walked in on.

In complete shock of what had happened then, you never brought it up, halfway convincing yourself that it never happened in the first place. If it did happen, he had enough sense to pull away then and you hoped he had the sense the pull away now, but now was much different. Now, there was a newfound hunger. A desperation. Like he had been starving himself for years and you were the first bite of food he had eaten. Had to have been good food to, with the way he inhaled you, indulged in you like you were some ambrosia or golden mead.

"Spike," you moaned. "I'm getting a bit light-headed." Your voice was high and thin, fearful as you made attempts to pull your arm from his lips. Through his haze, his fangs contracted back, and his tongue swiped whatever lingered on your skin.

"I'm sorry." Sorry for going too far, sorry for almost turning you into an empty Capri Sun pouch, sorry for being reckless again.

" 's ok."

You wobbled a bit as you stood, fingers wrapped around your wound as you shuffled into your kitchen in pursuit of your first aid kit. "You gonna tell me what happened?" He only groaned from the couch.

"Maybe tomorrow. I'm tired." You laughed on your way over to him, wrist already covered in gauze with an all too familiar needle and thread in hand.

"You're tired?" The smell of your blood was all too pungent, still. He turned his head towards the wall, studying the numerous music posters and paintings you had hanging.

"Going out to fight evil is a very hard job." You chuckled.

"I know. That's why I stay in here to patch you up." Your fingers were like magic. They always had a way of calming him down. Especially the way you hummed to yourself while you worked. You were never content with just silence. "I expect an answer in the morning." He smiled.

"Yes, ma'am." He fell asleep before you even finished and by the time you were done, you were too tired to walk the down the hall to your bed. You laid your head down on his chest, with no heartbeat to thrum and no breath to rock you, you still fell asleep just like that. Who knew cold bodies were so comfortable.

#btvs #btvs imagine #btvs x reader #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy the vampire slayer fanfiction #spike btvs fanfiction #spike x reader #spike btvs #buffy the vampire slayer x reader #spike btvs x reader #spike btvs imagine

410 notes · View notes

luveline · 1 year ago

Note

omg jade for a miguel x spider girl what if they’re spending the night together and she’s sleep talking and miguel is like ???? i sleep talk and it’s silly sometimes 😆

Miguel latches the door lock gently. Your snores echo in the silence of his apartment, huffing things that tell him you're laying on your back before he sees you. You've kicked the sheets down to the bottom of the bed, and your pyjama shorts are falling off of one hip and tucked too high on one leg, exposing the expanse of your thigh. Alarm clock light shines champagne on your skin and the graphic printed on your shirt, the super powered puppy dog you love so much barking one of his catchphrases: Chāojí wāngwāng!

He scrubs at his face. Things are rough lately. He hoped you'd be awake still to talk to, even if it was about nothing at all. He just wanted to hear your voice.

My own fault, he thinks, walking quietly to the dresser to change into his own pyjamas. They match yours. If anyone ever saw them he's not sure how he'd feel, but they were a necessary purchase at the time. You'd been morose about something, and matching made you happy.

Miguel changes and combs his hair haphazardly. He sprays some deodorant in want of a shower he's too tired for before he crosses back to the end of the bed, taking the blanket into his hands. He shakes it out over you, covering you once again. Then he rounds the bed and climbs in next to you, hooking his arm around you to drag you firmly into his side.

“Couldn't wait up for me?” he whispers, shifting to get comfortable in the mess of pillows you insisted on. You lift your head like you might kiss him, and for a selfish second he hopes you're awake, but then you breathe out another snore.

You're heavy when you sleep. He makes sure you're not about to suffocate on his chest and encourages your arm into a more comfortable position. Your chest half on his chest and side, your face in his neck, you look like a rom-com couple from one of your under the desk movies, but Miguel's far less comfortable. He'd wanted to be close to you, but he's wondering if he should've just spooned you.

“Miguel,” you say, your voice a croak in the dark.

He chuckles in surprise. “What?” he whispers.

You mumble. He brushes a hand up your face to draw your head back, thumb on your cheek. Your eyes stay closed.

What the…

“Hello?” he whispers.

You don't answer. Perhaps you'd woken for a split second and sensed him, or perhaps you're having a dream. You love to tell him about your dreams in the mornings, occasionally shaking him awake to tell him before you forget. He's always pissed to begin with, endeared by the end, pissed again when he sees the time.

He closes his eyes and decides he'll miss you by himself for a bit.

Your voice comes in a muffled squishing atop his chest, “It's his car.”

He blinks. “That so?”

“For the commute.” Your whispering turns intense, “He has to drive there, Miguel.”

Well, in whatever dream you're having, you're talking to him. He quite likes knowing that. “Where's he going, cariño?” he asks, picking the spot on your forehead a moment before he kisses it fondly.

You make this sound that he only ever hears when you're tired and he's touching you in ticklish places, a gurgle of a laugh as you nuzzle into his chest. “Stop…” you say playfully.

This is ridiculous.

Miguel's getting jealous of dream Miguel. Who does that guy think he is? You laugh, say something completely unintelligible, and jolt up hard enough to startle him.

“Ah!” you say, eyes finally opening, blinking down at him with a slowness that almost looks painful. “...Miguel?”

“What is wrong with you?”

“We were… uh…” You blink at him some more, your arm shaking with fatigue where you anchor yourself on the mattress. He slides a hand under your armpit to hold you up. “I think I was dreaming.”

“You were talking to me.”

“I was?” You lean down into your hand, rubbing your eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I'm just… that was so weird…” You seem strangely unsettled. Miguel helps you onto your back but keeps an arm behind you so he can hold you. You're content to be held, pushing one leg over the other, speaking into his chest. “You were tickling me.”

“Sorry,” he finds himself saying, giving you a pat. “I won't do it anymore, cariño. You can go back to sleep.”

“Thanks, Miguel,” you mumble.

He waits for you to doze off, but your heart seems to be beating too quickly. Maybe dream Miguel drove you both off a cliff. “You want me to kiss you?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you mumble, tipping your head up.

He kisses your forehead. A long, slow press of the lips with no end in sight. Invigorated by your contended sigh, he kisses you again, again, these lazy gentle mouthings that barely count as kisses at all as he tugs the blanket up to cover your collar. You make a sound like a hiccup caught in your throat and before he knows it, you're sleeping again. You sleep soundly for the rest of the night, or he thinks so. He falls asleep not long after you with his lips still pressed to your forehead, so there's no way to know for sure.

655 notes · View notes

camomileapplesyrup · 5 months ago

Text

my father never really behaved like one. he was violent. he beat me and my mother. he cheated on her with hookers every night, and got off on the idea of assaulting them behind my mother's back. after my 4th birthday, he up and left. from then, my childhood with him was meeting a string of women from russia, all claiming to be engaged to him. no one stayed long enough but one woman. who became my stepmother.

we didn't like each other. as a small little girl, who watched her big professor father dancing around in suits all day and then slapping my mom before storming away, i didn't have much faith in my safety with this woman. i saw an evil lady, who was corrupting my father with her evil lady ways, turning him against me to prioritise her son who she brought with her. this illusion dropped one night during an argument that lasted hours.

after hurling an array of expensive china at each other, and slamming all the doors in their big house, my stepmother sat crying in our red armchair, repeatedly murmuring things in russian i wish i would have understood. my father saw me approaching and snarled at me. something along the lines of "don't entertain the attention seeking goose. she is playing the victim." as a young 13 year old girl, the only thing i could conjure up was "well, you hit her, dad. don't you think that's why she's crying?"

whatever happened after that was a blur. he went on a tirade at me, clearly bothered by the correction. he looked like a big, puffed up toad, in my memory. croaking unintelligibly with anger and offence. but, im his daughter after all. i didn't understand a thing, i yelled back at my father, attempting to mimic his emotionless-debate-arguing.

that night i saw my real mother in her.

my real mother, in the same house, who never cowered. never ran away, or cried without a glare. my mother who made sure i saw her slap back. slap back so hard it made my father stagger against the very same doorframe i stood.

amidst my heated conversation with my father, the woman whom i hated so much, called out my name. she looked at me and choked out a sentence i'll never forget. in her thick, russian accent, she said "you are a strong young woman. never cower in front of your dad, or any man who hurts you. thank you."

it was the first and last time she ever complimented me. for the first time, we saw each other for what we truly were. two women victimised by an abusive men, who shrunk into the very thing he wanted to avoid most. two women who respected each other enough, to stand up to him. no matter how far apart our worlds were, in that moment, we became the very core of our beings and forgot everything else.

i'll never forget her defeated voice, and tear stained face. i'll never forget what she gave me that day.

#child abuse #abuse story #tw abuse #raised by narcissists #narcissism #radical feminists do touch #radical feminist safe #radblr #radical feminism #radical feminists do interact #feminism #literature #abuse survivor #spousal abuse

138 notes · View notes

no1frogfan · 1 year ago

Text

Idk what some of these categories are, but this was fun!

Maybe this is just prevalent in a small corner of the fandom, but I also see a lot of divorce & rich boy aus across my dash, and I wonder what y'all think of those! (Personally, divorce is a B for me, and rich boy au is a D.)

No pressure, but I'm also suuuuuuper curious >> @mangoisms @paleokarst @vs-redemption and anyone else who wants to join!

fanfic trope tierlist incoming!!

link to make your own: here

i'll explain any of them in the comments if asked (;

p.s. you can customize the number of tiers and what you name them if you want to elaborate more on some!

tagging (no pressure): @heroesfan101 @kailali @meggsngrits @fushigurro @saintokkotsu-main @true-deru @auslanderka @baka-tsuki @ceenthesis @everything-always @giogama08 @prettyiwa

+ anyone else who wants to do it - would love to see your responses and i know i forgot a few!

#It's so interesting seeing everyone's preferences!#thank u for the tag ix!!#ix 🌦️#unintelligible croaking

177 notes · View notes

sheisjoeschateau · 10 months ago

Text

"Oh, so we DO love Steve... | PART V

⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ SERIES MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting, ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

CHAPTER WARNINGS: tw - major character death (?), attempted CPR, screaming, crying, strong language, trauma (so much f*cking trauma), regrets. 18+

***

When Steve watched you tumble off of the wall and down to the ground, he felt his entire world stop spinning.

It was as if he could literally see the surge of electricity that coursed through your veins, grappling onto your body before it repelled you off the fence.

You fell, landing flat on your back, and Steve knew that if you’d had any air left in your lungs that the fall alone had knocked the wind out of you.

And Steve felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. Crouched at the top, just watching the nightmare unfold in front of his eyes.

“BAUMAN!!!!”

The scream that ripped from Steve’s lungs scared him more than he already was.

Jonathan, Eddie and Dustin all shouted your name in response. They rushed over to your body. Your way-too-still body.

Everyone completely freaked. Steve kept cursing and shouting, knees pressing into the concrete underneath where he was hunched over and gripping the edge. Every inch of him was shaking and ready to pounce off the top of that wall onto the ground. The walkie-talkie was going off still, and that only heightened everyone’s senses that were already in override.

Jonathan knew what Steve was debating, as he got closer to the ledge. “Steve, don’t move —”

“Fuck, FUCK.”

“DO NOT MOVE.”

“BAUMAN — ”

“STAY UP THERE. The box got — fuck, it got switched, fuck!”

Jonathan was frenzied. Sheer panic brought his voice up several octaves, to where he was just shrieking.

Eddie was almost shell-shocked next to Dustin, who was the most frightened that any of the guys had ever seen the kid. He clutched the walkie-talkie as it kept blasting off with Murray’s voice, shaking.

“Jonathan…” Dustin’s voice sounded so small, so terrified. Like he was suddenly six years old again.

Eddie went from reaching for you, to reaching out to Dustin. He was so conflicted, needing to help and not knowing how. The metalhead stuttered unintelligible words of fear.

And up on the ledge still, Steve raked his hands through his hair, throwing his head back to groan more curses to the sky.

This was hell. Absolute hell.

Here he was, stuck at the top, unable to do anything. Steve frivolously paced, tugging at his hair until the scalp burned.

“Group 2 to Group 4, do you copy?”

Steve felt bile rise up in his throat watching Jonathan’s fingers graze your neck, searching for a pulse. When it wasn’t there, he reached for your wrist. No sign of life… Jonathan looked sick. Turning to Eddie, who was staring at him — pale as a ghost — Jonathan’s voice shook.

“Lift her head,” Steve heard Jonathan croak. He was positioning himself over you, straightening you out on your back. He took his hands, pressing them to your chest.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, God no, please no. Steve heard himself saying it in his head, over and over. But when Eddie looked up at him, his eyes heartbroken, Steve realized it wasn’t in his head. Steve was saying it out loud.

“Group 4, this is group 2 – do you copy????”

Jonathan was telling Dustin, in as calm a voice as he could muster, how to help. And Dustin looked up at Steve, whimpering for him. But seeing his older brother-slash-mother-like figure at the top in complete dismay only made him want to cry more. Dustin was scared, he was so scared… Jonathan brought him back to focus.

“Hey, hey," Jonathan spoke to him gently, shakily. "Look at me. Look at me. Help me, alright?”

But Jonathan’s trembling voice was not reassuring at all. Dustin followed his lead, though. He kept his hands cupped underneath your head, your hair pooled around yourself on the ground.

Steve got a grip on himself for all of two seconds. Enough to at least speak to his kid, voice wrecked and his words rushed.

“Dustin, h-hang in there, kid, alright? It's okay. S'okay. Jonathan – y-you know CPR, yeah?”

Jonathan fervently nodded his head, getting to work.

The walkie-talkie was a chaotic clusterfuck of voices, begging for an answer. Murray. Erica. Hopper. Eleven. Lucas.

Eddie lost it, grabbing it from the ground and biting back a scream before he tried to tell them, not knowing how — “C-code red, code red, we — we . . .”

Your eyelids – glued shut – made Steve’s open eyes burn. Your lifeless chest, no sign of air, made the sound of his own breathing sound so loud it was jarring. He couldn’t breathe. He still had fucking oxygen in his lungs, yet he couldn’t breathe.

Steve just kept murmuring your name into his fist. His voice was low and unintelligible, as if he was speaking some twisted prayer out loud while he paced back and forth. He felt acid pricking at his eyes, blurring his vision. Steve swiped at my face, roughly rubbing his palm down his from forehead to chin.

Steve bit at his own cheek, willing the trembling to stop. Stop, damn it. Don’t make this real. It’s not real.

“God damn it,” Jonathan muttered.

“Keep going,” Steve barked down at Wheeler. It was meant to be a command but Steve’s voice was thick with emotion and he hated it. He watched every chest compression and every puff of air exhaled into your mouth and over your lips, wishing to God that it was his own lips crushing against yours. Because if it were him, he would give you no choice. You were stubborn as fuck, and no one needed to be easy on you. That wouldn’t work.

Murray was going berserk on the other side of the walkie, and so was Hopper.

“Where the hell is my niece, what’s going on?!?!”

Eddie was on the verge of a full blown panic attack, trying to get a word out and explain. For the love of God, how could he explain???

Dustin glanced up at Steve, and that was the worst thing he could’ve done. He was crying. Steve’s kid was fucking crying.

Fuck, this was real.

Steve’s body had never violently convulsed with shakes like this his entire life. Not when he first saw the demogorgon. Not when he came face to face with the demodogs. And not even in the Russian torture chamber.

He wanted to sob – but hell no, he couldn’t let himself. Not yet. Not fucking yet.

So Steve bit his cheek until he tasted blood, lips tightly curled over his gritted teeth, frantically pacing with his arms crossed and fingernails digging into his elbows even through his shirt.

When Jonathan sighed, exasperated, Steve was suddenly screaming at Jonathan. He didn’t even register it until it was happening. Wheeler shouted back, a storm of words tearing them both at the seams. Wheeler never overreacted. He never shouted unless it was a joke.

But this wasn’t a joke. It was real.

And the distraught anger that boiled inside of Steve was evident as he shrieked back at Jonathan and Eddie below out of sheer disdain towards them for being down there with you instead of himself. It wasn’t even their fault. It was nobody’s fault, and somehow that made it worse. Because it meant that Steve had no one to blame.

So, he blamed God. A god that he wasn’t sure he even believed in.

Eddie finally flipped his shit, screeching into the walkie-talkie. The trees. The world. “She’s. Not. Breathing!!!!!! The fence turned on too soon!!!!”

“Murray, turn it back now!” Steve cried out.

“Steve’s stuck up top, he needs down here! He’s a lifeguard, Erica, help!” Dustin’s cries were heart wrenching.

Erica came onto the line. “I’m on it, Steve, hang on!”

After another agonizing 15 seconds, Murray said it was clear — his voice cracking.

Eddie flung his bat at the fence. No electricity.

Steve hurled himself down the wall.

Flinging himself to the ground, Steve could feel himself begin to hyperventilate again as he looked over your pale face up close. Your full lips were no longer that tempting shade of rose pink.

They were blue.

So, Steve moved fast – straddling you and thinking back to lifeguard training a few summers ago. One of the few things I’d done right in high school was learning CPR. He locked his knuckles against your chest, starting compressions while ordering Jonathan to keep doing mouth to mouth.

“How long has it been...” Steve’s question sounded like a statement, muttered through his actions.

“Over three minutes,” Eddie spoke, his voice also shaking. Then he mumbled, “...if not longer.”

Steve’s stomach churned. He grit his teeth, jaw clenched, forcing the next round of sobs back down his throat. Your name was choked on his lips, mixed with vulgar curses muttered under his breath. Your lips were still parted from the attempted resuscitation, and your eyelids were beginning to peak open. But your lively irises were trapped behind her hooded eyelids, dead and unmoving, and the thought of not seeing them ever again fucking wrecked Steve.

One, two, three. “C’mon, Bauman.” Four, five, six, breath. “Bauman, c’mon —”

Steve’s arms began to burn as he frivolously tried to pump life back into your slender frame.

God, I hate her, Steve thought. I fucking hate her.

Of course it would be her that this happened to. Of fucking course. Not me. Because that would be too easy. Then she would keep so stupid fucking calm, like she always is in situations that infuriate me. She would keep herself together. Her stubborn attitude would keep her emotions at bay. Because God forbid she be visibly scared. She had to be the goddamn hero. Because she is perfect. Impossibly perfect.

So fucking perfect.

“Bauman, cmon, please,” Steve pleaded.

“YOU GUYS, TALK TO US. WHAT’S HAPPENING?” Robin sounded panicked over the walkie.

Eddie didn’t even know how to answer. He just stared, helplessly.

Steve’s shoulders slumped, and he felt the stupid tears that sloped down his face and onto his trembling lips. He tasted the salt, the bitterness making him want to curl up and die. He'd never felt this sick in my life. He never wanted to feel it again.

But he would feel it ten times worse if this is how it was gonna end.

If Steve was never gonna see another day with the niece of Murray fucking Bauman bothering the ever-living shit out of him, then his world was just going be dull again.

Funny how he once thought that’s how he’d preferred it. The world in which you didn’t exist. Steve had raved to you about it, day after day. About how much better his life would have been in that world if you had simply never come into the picture. How much happier he would be, because you wouldn't have been around to ruin it. You would simply cease to exist, and all would be right in the world.

Now he had spoken it into fucking existence. And if there was ever a regret that Steve Harrington had in his life, it was having ever thought for a second that it was what he actually wanted. He would rather be forced to rewatch all his days as King Steve and watch everything horrible that he did and bitterly regretted now, if it meant avoiding this.

Because now, all he wanted was you.

God, please, let me keep her...

Jonathan stopped giving mouth to mouth, heaving for air. Dustin looked at him in pure horror, and for the first time ever I saw Eddie look more terrified than the kid.

“Jonathan,” Dustin croaked.

“Whoa whoa, w-what —” Eddie stuttered.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop.” Steve screamed.

Steve sounded like a strangled animal, growling at Jonathan — who now just wept and wept, overwhelmed. He tearfully argued back with Steve, voice booming and defeatedly saying something about how it’s not working. Something about it being too late. And Steve wanted to punch him square in the face.

On top of that, the walkie-talkie kept blasting off in Eddie’s hands with everyone’s voices. Mainly Murray, who was demanding information, screaming —

“Someone tell me what’s going on with my niece right now!!!!!!!!”

Eddie stuttered something to Wheeler, moving to take his place. Wheeler obeyed, moving aside.

Steve swapped with Eddie, giving you mouth to mouth while he pumped your chest. Jonathan murmured into the walkie, all stuttered and shaky, something about them trying. Still trying.

And all the while, Steve kept murmuring your name while blowing air into your lungs, and it sounded like a broken prayer on his tongue. Eddie was openly crying at this point, his tears silent but his motions panicked as he continued pumping your chest while Steve willed life back into your airways.

Dustin was whimpering like a child, petrified. Jonathan held him, winded and freaked.

Another minute ticked by, and you still weren't breathing...

Don’t leave me here, Steve begged you in his head.

Lips, air. Breathe, breath, breath.

Don’t fucking leave me here.

Chest compressions. Pump, pump, pump.

I don’t know how to be without you anymore. You ruined that world for me. That world is gone. I don’t want it back, don’t fucking let me go back there.

Steve was ready to throw himself into that electric fence, and escape the world he had created for himself with his own ignorance.

And then he saw your eyes scrunch.

Your face moved.

Steve’s breath hitched as he saw your hand twitch.

“Bauman. . . ”

He barely breathed your last name, almost afraid to say it again. As if that would make you disappear again.

The most guttural cough escaped from your throat, sending you into a choking fit before it began to level out. All the while, Steve watched life color your face again. Your eyes tried to focus, your eyelids still slightly hooded. But your chest rose and fell, air finally filling your lungs.

Steve felt as if someone had revived him. A rush of air escaped his mouth, his shoulders sagging as he let the overwhelming sensation of relief rattle his bones through body-wracking sobs. “Fuck…”

Steve immediately sought your touch, his hands on your face as his fingers grazed your jaw and your neck.

Eddie choked on a sigh of own relief as he distanced himself to let Steve straddle you.

“Don’t…touch the fence,” you murmured, your voice small and strained as you caught your breath.

Fucking hell. Even now, just barely back to life, you're cracking a joke.

Steve laughed hard. So hard, incredulously. Kinda hysterical. He watched tears splash down onto your cheeks, realizing that they were his own. But Steve didn’t give a fuck how pathetic he looked as he crushed his lips against yours and cried while doing it. He was completely on top of you at this point, caging you with his legs and arms. His elbows dug into the earth beneath you both, one hand brushing your hair off your forehead and the other grazing your shoulder. And your collarbone. And the soft divot of your neck. Steve just had to touch you. He had to feel you moving, to assure himself that you were really alive again.

“Y-you,” Steve stuttered. “You were dead. Your heart. Stopped.”

His choked words hung in the air, desperate and broken. Haunted by the memory that had just been his reality not even a minute ago.

Your eyes opened a bit more, softly glazed over and searching his own. Your heart seized, seeing the tearful anguish in Steve’s eyes up above you. You wanted to take it away from him, never wanting to be the source of his sadness.

Your hand slowly reached for his, taking his wrist and pressing his palm to your chest.

“S’okay, Harrington,” you sighed. “S’working now.” Thump, thump, thump.

You watched as Steve clenched his eyes shut, gnawing his lip and whimpering unabashedly at your heartbeat that drummed under his touch.

Fuck’s sake, he thought. Of course she is comforting me. She just died, and yet here she is – comforting me.

God, you were insufferable. Steve fucking hated it. He hated you. He hated you so much.

So fucking much…

Steve buried his face into the crook of your neck, nose pressed to your skin as he wept freely. You held his hand to your chest while his other arm wound up around your head.

“Hate you,” Steve weakly mumbled against your neck. All anguish, no heat. “Fucking hate you.”

You could only sigh, just staying there, letting the soft sounds of your breathing against Steve’s ear ground him again. Whether it was seconds, minutes, or hours that passed, you didn’t know. Didn’t care.

And no one else said anything. The boys fell silent. Completely silent. Watching in disbelief. So much had just happened, revealing so much more at the same time…

The walkie-talkie squawked again. All channels were tapped in. Joyce, your uncle’s crackly voice, and Hopper.

“Someone give me fucking update,” your uncle demanded over the walkie in a wobbly, distressed voice. “Kids, c’mon. What’s happening?” …even Hopper sounded emotional. “Please, please tell us she’s alright,” Joyce’s sweet voice was full of tears.

Eddie jumped at all the voices. He sniffled, remembering he needed to answer. Through his own tears, he told them, “G-group 4, w-we… we got her. Steve’s got her, sh-she’s breathing… She’s alright.”

As Lucas came back through the channel — “Oh thank God” — they could hear Murray in the background sounding like an uncharacteristically relieved mess.

Somehow, Steve pulled himself away from you. He looked down at you, swiping his elbow across his nose hastily. So much snot. Not that you minded, or even noticed. Your eyes were closed again, fluttering exhaustedly.

“Do you wanna,” Steve hiccuped, still stuttering. “Wanna — s-stand up?”

You gave a weak nod and managed to feebly peel your eyelids back open. Steve leaned back on his knees, ready to help you stand.

Jonathan was right behind you, arms slipping underneath your shoulder blades to help lift you off the ground. Steve clasped his hands in yours, pulling you to him after he’d risen to his own feet. You stood too, your footing wobbly and weak. Steve let you lean into him, one arm snaking around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. His left hand gripped the back of your neck, balancing you. Balancing both of you. He kept murmuring a series of little I got you’s, repeatedly saying it was all okay in a hushed tone only meant for you.

Steve finally glanced up to look at the others.

Dustin was a quiet, relieved mess. He looked shaken to the core, glancing from Babe Bauman in Steve’s arms to Steve himself. He trembled, hugging himself. Eddie quickly moved to comfort him, wrapping a tight arm around him as he bit back his own tears. Steve made a mental note that he would undoubtedly thank him for that later. Jonathan looked at Steve with more empathy than he ever thought him capable of radiating in his direction. The oldest Wheeler looked exhausted yet wired at the same time, and Steve caught the sight of his bottom lip trembling before he looked away.

In spite of the relief, all three of them were asking themselves the same question: how long has something with these two been going on?

Steve suddenly felt seen for all that he was. Fragile, underneath his cocky bravado. He felt like a sham, who only pretended to not be emotionally affected by anything. He felt like deep down, he was still that prick from high school, who didn’t know what he had until it was taken away from him. Only then did he learn, right? Only after he was made to face the hell he had created for himself, was he able to finally see the mistakes that he’d made and wanna make them right. It happened with Nancy. It happened with school. It happened with Max and how he failed her as a brother (or mother, according to the kids). When was he ever gonna learn…

Steve could feel everyone’s eyes on him. Him, and you. He knew that the three guys were watching, and that they’d all seen him fall apart completely. The two of you were definitely found out now — no going back. But Steve didn’t even care. He couldn’t now.

Without any control over himself, Steve shamefully sought comfort and privacy by adjusting himself in your arms. His girl. He buried his face into your shoulder, clinging to you desperately and trembling.

And you melted. Your head was fuzzy and everything hurt, so you couldn’t really focus on much that was happening the way that Steve could. But all that mattered to you right now was him, as he held you like he’d lose you all over again unless he did, his breathy cries rattling his bones. You cradled his head against your shoulder, softly murmuring to him that it’s alright, it’s okay.

Sometimes, Steve would find himself smiling in your embrace, despite the anguish as he couldn’t stop mentally reliving what had just happened. He had to forget it. You were here. You weren’t gone.

He got to keep you.

He’s going to keep you.

Even if it fucking kills him.

***

thank you guys :') I know this chapter stretched out an already stressful situation but it needed to drive the point home: Steve's hatred has transitioned into love.

tag list: @erastourvip @get0ut0fmyr00m @xprloki @eddiemuns0nl0ver @marrowfrog00 @poppet05 @wiltedflowersundertowers @originalthingparadise @pleuviors @pumpkinonice @ihaveproblemsihaveproblems @brinleighsstuff

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #murray bauman #eddie munson #dustin henderson #rockstar eddie munson #enemies to lovers trope

259 notes · View notes

bonkled · 1 year ago

Text

"I landed before any of the others. Alone, I have played the role destiny dealt me for a century, and now you come to me and call yourself my leader?"

Kopaka had closed the gap between them with deliberate, glacial movement. He was immense, and stood too close for comfort. The air around Tahu had become even colder, leaving him shivering. Kopaka continued in a voice reedy and dry from lack of use. "I have studied in the greatest libraries on the island. I have walked every Wahi in meditation of the prophecies you irreverently spit and I have come to understand their context. You are no leader to me."

Perhaps it was divine will truly moving through Tahu, or maybe his ego had just been so stroked by prophecies of his own greatness. Either way, Tahu knew he had to make a powerful impression on his stubborn brother.

In an instant, he willed his hands to become superheated and he took hold of Kopaka by the forearms. Tahu had him caught in a savage vice grip that hissed and sputtered on contact.

"I am the will of Mata Nui! I bear his mask and I walk his path with blind devotion!"

"Quiet." Kopaka croaked as he pulled his brother down and sharply brought his knee up toward his chin. To his shock, Tahu drove his face down toward it as he was pulled, causing Kopakas knee to crash against his Kanohi Hau and stomp back down into the snow. Splintering pain shot through his leg as his heel slammed into an inconvenient stone. Tahu had not let go. He was still howling about divine providence and delivering the Matoran from darkness. Obnoxious.

Kopaka manifested a storm of freezing rain around them; bitter cold, cruel sheets that froze in layers upon each other.

Tahu now sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, mumbling unintelligibly, eyes rolling around in their sockets. Without a word or a second glance, Kopaka then turned and strode away into the white.

#bionicle #bionicle art #bionicle fanart #bionicle au

335 notes · View notes

no1frogfan · 1 year ago

Note

Excuse you it’s not just ****** ******!! What about ******** *** or ********* *******??? PLEASE. LYING TO MY FACE as if I don’t have the receipts!!!!!!! Don’t make me print them out on real paper and start highlighting your transgressions!!

happy iwa's birthday to THE iwa lover <3 even if you have forsaken him recently!!!!

Torn between being recognized by you as the Iwa lover and your casual statement that I have FORSAKEN HIM????

RUDE! 😭😭😭

I told nugget yesterday “It’s your co-husband’s birthday” as a joke and he immediately responded with “Happy birthday, Iwa” because he only recognizes Iwa sasffssd

#unintelligible croaking #ix 🌦️

8 notes · View notes

jae-bummer · 2 years ago

Text

Gentle Pressure

Request: 1 & 4 from the prompt list with Joshua!! Maybe something cute?? 💓

Prompts:

1) "Please don't stop touching me."

4) "Okay...so this is new."

Pairing: Seventeen Joshua x Reader

Genre: Fluff

You let out a soft groan as your bedroom light flipped on.

"Y/N?"

Squinting, you looked over to the figure in the doorway that you couldn't quite focus on. You slung your forearm over your eyes before muttering an unintelligible response.

"Wake up sleepyhead," the familiar voice chuckled, crossing the room to sit on the bed beside you. He gave your shoulder a gentle shake, but you were unmoved.

"Not sleeping," you croaked.

"That sounds suspiciously like something someone who was sleeping would say," he hummed.

Removing your arm from your eyes, you glanced to Joshua, your best friend in the entire world.

"Go away."

"Rude and uncalled for," he muttered, now resorting to flicking your nose.

"Noooo," you moaned, rolling away from him. Your whole face already hurt and that didn't make it any better.

"Sensitive today," he clucked. "What's wrong?"

"Headache," you rasped. Turning back toward him, you winced. His cheerful expression had quickly fallen into one of concern. Reaching upward, you moved to rub a finger over the crease between his brows, but he immediately pulled away.

"Aw.." you complained, your hand still hanging in midair.

"Did you take something?" Joshua asked, springing up and beginning to flutter around the room. "What about ice? That can help with..."

"I took Tylenol," you grumbled slowly. "Tried ice. Drank water. Turned off lights."

You watched Josh's eyes grow in alarm before launching himself toward the door and smacking the switch, once again plunging you into dim lighting.

"Jeonghan even made me this awful ginger drink he said would-"

"Never trust Jeonghan, especially when he's mixing ingredients together," Josh laughed lightly.

"He was just trying to help," you muttered.

"Pfft," Josh laughed. "He could smell your weakness. He can't control himself. His goblin sensitivities take over."

Making his way back toward you, he sunk into the mattress again. Pulling himself toward the middle, he sat crisscross, and furrowed his brows. Looking behind him, he snatched one of your pillows and set it flat against his lap.

Patting it lightly, he nodded to himself. "Let me try to help."

"Would said help involve me moving?" you croaked.

"Unfortunately," he nodded in mock sadness. "But I think it'll be for the greater good."

Heaving a sigh, you shifted your body backward. Targeting him with a questioning expression, he nodded as you leaned back into the pillow and placed your head in his lap.

"Okay..." you hummed, looking up at the underside of his face. "So this is new."

He smiled down at you, causing your chest to stir with something akin to butterflies. This whole moment felt entirely too intimate, and headache aside, you weren't mentally prepared to handle whatever was going on here.

"Tell me if this doesn't help," Joshua cooed, sinking his fingers into your hair. "If it still hurts, I'll stop."

Rubbing gentle circles into your scalp, you tried not to illicit a moan of pleasure. While your headache was still rooted deeply in your skull, this was definitely providing some sort of solace. The pain instantly eased enough for you to close your eyes and exhale softly.

The simple sound caused Josh to shutter to a stop, wary of causing you any discomfort. "Are you okay?"

"Joshua Hong," you ground out. "Please don't stop touching me."

After a beat of silence, your words slammed back into your understanding. Opening your eyes, you could see Josh's ears turning red.

"I mean - I," you stuttered.

"No, no," he said swiftly, beginning to move his hands again. "I get what you meant."

His fingers moved more quickly and erratically than before, causing you to hiss out an "Ouch."

Stopping again, Josh looked down at you with wide eyes. "What did I do?"

"Just," you whispered, reaching up to grab his palms. You moved them around your head slowly. "Gentler. Like you were doing."

"Right, gentle," he said sternly. "Got it."

Allowing yourself to be leisurely pushed into the pillow, it wasn't long until you fell into an easy silence. You could tell Josh had been nervous, but you were unsure if it was centered around his fear of hurting you or simply having you this close.

It felt like you had been friends forever, but as you looked back on it, you had never been very physically affectionate. In general, skinship could be overwhelming for you, so you didn't necessarily seek it out. If it happened, that was fine, but it seemed like Josh never wanted to make you uncomfortable in that way.

But the thing was, he could if he wanted. Glancing up at him, you reckoned with yourself. Joshua was one of the few human beings in this world who felt cozy. As an entire person, he was warm and agreeable and safe. Even though this contact was new for both of you, you had never felt more secure than you did in this moment.

When what he was doing felt this good, it was easy to blur the lines of friendship you had so carefully set up between the two of you. He was the type of boy you fall in love with without meaning to. He was the type of boy you could happily introduce to your mom. He was the type of boy you would gladly file your taxes with and trust with your credit information.

That was Josh. Safe, stable, loving, Josh.

Chewing on your lip, you finally noticed that he was watching you as well.

"Whatcha thinking about?" he said quietly.

"How good this feels," you fibbed. To be fair, it wasn't an outright lie. It did feel amazing. It just wasn't at the forefront of your mind.

"A little bit of pressure helps things loosen up," he hummed. "You'd be surprised how often I do this for the members."

Your stomach sank a little bit at his words. For whatever reason, you had felt special with him doing this for you. It was silly to get hurt over him interacting in the same way with other people he cared about.

"It definitely helps," you whispered, looking away.

After a few moments of silence, you felt him poke your cheek. "Hey."

"Hey," you exhaled, looking up at him again.

Sucking in his lips, he seemed to be warring with himself. Halting his motions, you were surprised when he pulled his hands from your hair. You remained still as he set his palms on his knees and took a deep breath.

The next part felt like it was in slow motion. Before you could even register what was happening, Josh began to lean forward. Arching his back until his face hovered directly above you, he paused. Without saying a word, he placed a small, tender kiss at your hair line.

Your mouth popped open at the small gesture. A feeling of comfort unfurled in your chest and burned brightly. Had he really just done that?

"That...that was also new," you managed, searching his eyes as his gaze remained locked on you.

"I...I thought maybe it would feel good," he said, his voice raspier than it had been only a few minutes ago. "For you. Pressure and all that. Lips are softer than fingers and-"

"Josh," you laughed. "You don't need an excuse to kiss me."

"I don't?" he croaked.

"No," you breathed, admittedly surprised by your own words.

A small, delicate smile played across his lips while his eyes danced mischeviously. "In that case..."

656 notes · View notes