#a mosquito flies into his mouth and he chokes and dies | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bubblyhoney · 3 years

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buncha kisses

warnings: mature language, Good music mention, slight suggestive content, lotta name calling!, basically just fluff

tags: sapnap x fem!reader (a continuation of [renamed from “a collection of moments at the beginning of your relationship”] win for me, basically, with college!au)

words: 1447

A/N: a very sweet anon requested a continuation of college!au with sappy and had some great ideas for me! i love when you guys interact and talk with me pls continue to do so! been receiving a lot of really encouraging attention from some of my favorite people (ahem, for example @strawberrymilkgeorge [among others] <3) so i just wanted to say thanks for that :)

It’s a sticky day in May.

It’s that kind of hot that irritates under the skin and works its way through the hair on your arms. Makes you want to either rip your skin off or sink into a pool full of ice.

May is a month that Florida doesn’t take very well; it’s either raining like it’s the Great Flood, or hot as a mosquito’s ball sack.

And to make matters worse, it’s the due date of a huge calculus project. Like— weighted heavier than the final kind of huge.

You’d gotten up three hours before your final at 9 just to cram. Your desk was littered with folders, chapter notes, and highlighters dull with use. A half-eaten bagel was off to the side, staling by the second.

That was before your AC broke. Yup. Broke. Ka-put. Just full on died—it was almost audible. Your roommate had stumbled into your room, face creased with sleep, and cursed for thirty seconds straight.

Completely understandable, actually.

But you didn’t have time to fret about the damn temperature. You just took your shirt off, kicked the box fan near your bed into the highest gear, and breathed hot anger down into your notes.

The only relief you would find would be lunch with Sapnap after your final. His apartment had air conditioning, and he was surprisingly deft with a knife and cutting board. Dude didn’t know how to figure the mechanics for emailing his film class project to you that one time last semester but could whip up a Greek salad and broiled chicken like no other. Your own little Gordon Ramsey.

He was yours now, officially. As of last month he was yours. A month full of drive-in movies, failed study dates, and an absurd amount of McFlurry’s.

And that’s what is waiting for you in Sapnap’s cup holder when you swing your way into his car with an exasperated look on your face. You just melt, eyes flicking up to his gratefully and silently taking it.

“How was the final?” He lays a hand on the gear shifter and nudges the AC up one more tick. The door closes behind you and you shuffle your legs apart, leg hair tingling in this heat.

“It was fucking brutal. I think I developed an ulcer just looking at the reference page,” you huff and he just shakes his head, laugh hot on his lips. “Absolutely not worth the studying—think I got a good grade, though.”

“Well, that’s cool. I’m proud of you.” The engine chugs to life when he shifts into drive and starts for the side street.

“Thanks.” Your cheeks blush ever so lightly but you pass it off to the heat. A moment passes. “So.” The straw makes a choking noise as it nudges at the bottom of an empty cup. Jesus, you finished that fast. “What’s on the menu for today?” Brandy’s Sunny Day lilts softly into the blasting air as you settle into a comfortable conversation, schoolwork at the back of your mind.

“Thinking of making banana chocolate chip muffins and pigging on those. Thoughts?” Flicking on his left turn signal with his left hand, the right slides onto your knee.

It’s never too hot for that.

“Sounds perfect,” you reply, voice small in a sudden bout of shyness. He double-takes with a smile, squeezing once at your leg.

Pigging is a perfect term for what you two do the second those muffins are out of the oven; it is too easy to shove three of those in a matter of seconds. Bellies full and in a sugar coma, you two lay under the whirring of his living room’s fan and stare up at the ceiling.

“This feels so good,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded. Reaching a hand out, he pats his way to your hand and takes it, immediately squeezing it. “Wish you were kissing me right now.”

“Oh, yeah?” You taunt and hike a leg up onto his hips, swinging onto his lap and leaning to get your lips near his.

And that’s that.

The night is perfect.

Sapnap ushered you into his car at midnight and within four minutes you were on a US freeway with your head out the window. Like a dog.

A lone bird flies past in the dark air and you watch it swing into a patch of trees. You just close your eyes and breathe.

The stress literally melts. Melts into a puddle and drips out of you, falling onto the black pavement whipping past at a moment’s notice. School is a bitch already, much less an American college education. Grades and tests and professors and GPA’s and all that.

You swear Logan Lerman’s character knew what he was talking about when he said “we were infinite” in The Perks of Being A Wallflower. That’s what this feels like: infinity. Going 70 in a car driven by your hunk of a boyfriend, feeling the wind in your hair and the taste of midnight in between your teeth.

The inside of the car feels sweet when you duck your head back in, smile wide and hair crazy and a content look in your eyes. Sapnap gives you a glance before looking back at the road nonchalantly and lifting to curl and twitch two fingers at you. You instinctively move forward, eyebrows drawn together in curiosity. Three fingers grip your jaw tight, and then his mouth is on yours as the chorus of The King swells through the speakers. You only get two seconds to hum in happiness and slide a hand up his chest before he’s pulling away and has those beautiful eyes back on the road.

“You’re mean to me,” you sigh, and settle back into your seat with a ‘hmph’. He just looks smug. Bastard.

The nights Sapnap plays video games with his friends are—hm. Definitely something. You like to let him have those nights with no distractions most of the time; and you’re categorized as a distraction by the amount of times he “lags” when giving you a kiss or getting you on his lap.

Tonight, he got off work early and on the drive home called and asked if you’d come over and sit with him while he Robloxes with his friends. (“It’s like you can’t go one day without your hands on me,” you’d teased, but he couldn’t say a thing in response. You were right, needless to say.) “You can bring your paints!” he’d even added, knowing you like to watercolor as a hobby. You weren’t necessarily Etsy-worthy but it was fun and a stress-reliever.

And so here you were. Legs crossed, sketch pad in your lap, watching your adult boyfriend yell so loud that his voice cracks and breaks with every change of tone. You really had to remember to apologize to his neighbors…

“Baby—,” Sapnap starts, swinging around in his chair to hit you with a look so pouty his lip was in danger of falling off. “My dear girlfriend. My lovely woman.” His question doesn’t even need to be asked— he wants you to go get him a drink.

“You’re a misogynist. I’m calling NOW on you.” But you’re already heaving yourself off of his mattress and heading into the hallway, faux-annoyed look on your face. It melts into a smile upon seeing that little canvas mounted on the wall next to the door to his bathroom. It was a haphazard portrait of his parent’s dog Bowser that you’d drawn the few days his step-mom forced him to bring you home over spring break.

When you return to his room a few minutes later with a Bang and a couple of snacks for yourself, Sapnap has his headphones off and is swinging his feet in his chair like a child waiting for their parents to pick them up from school. You approach him, apprehensive smile on your face, and hand his drink over.

“Thank you,” he drawls, mid-yawn, and sets it down on the desk. Snaking an arm around your waist, he drags you between his legs and stuffs his face into your shirt. He inhales deeply but pulls away after a pause, hands tight on your abdomen. You press a thumb into his cheek and rub fondly at his facial hair, watching the way his eyes close calmly and relax.

“You’re so cute it causes me physical pain,” is all you get out before leaning and pressing a kiss square on his pink lips. They move against yours like they were meant to, one hand sliding up the material of your shirt and onto your warm skin.

“You smell like Subway,” he murmurs, and then the moment’s over.

Typical.

A/N: ask or send me some stuff!! requests, rants, anything. :D let me know what you think in the comments!

#sapnap #mcyt #sapnap x reader #sapnap x fem!reader #sapnap x you #sapnap fluff #sapnap fic #sapnap one shot #sapnap oneshot #mcyt imagine #mcyt x you #bubblyhoneyfics

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mybukz · 6 years

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Work in progress: Steel Orchids by Sharmini Marilyn

Sharmini Marilyn’s love affair with reading began with the Peter and Jane series in the ‘80’s. Today she divides her time between her one husband, two children and flocks of students. Stealing a few minutes a day to write keeps her sane. Sharmini says, “This is an excerpt from my work in progress. I have not finalised the title yet and am using my working title “Steel Orchids”. The story takes place in 2010 and 1942. In 2010, after a major blunder in her career, journalist Adira is put in “cold storage” and assigned to interview World War 2 survivors. She meets Jamilah—a cantankerous, depressed old woman living in an old folks’ home who gives Adira a hard time. In her personal life, Adira is also battling a strained relationship with her parents and a rocky new love interest. When the story moves to 1942, it shows Jamilah in a different light. After a personal tragedy, she befriends Sybil Kathigasu. Together they support the anti-Japanese movement and bravely do the right thing even when it is life threatening. As Adira unravels the truth about Jamilah, she draws wisdom and courage to change things around in her life.“

*** Excerpt from “Steel Orchids”

Ipoh, July 1942

Jamilah swings the cangkul down with all her might, her skinny arms trembling with effort. It nicks a chunk of the scorched earth before hitting a rock underneath. She straightens, leaning on the long wooden handle, breathing hard. Rivulets of perspiration run down her shaved head, disappearing under the collar of her baggy shirt.

Shading her eyes, she surveys the small garden. So far, her meagre crops have been safe from the marauding Japanese. They are reluctant to venture out to where her hut is, at the foot of the greenish-blue hills surrounding Ipoh. In these parts, their fear of being ambushed by guerrillas has been greater than their need for food.

Okra, eggplant, spinach and long beans grow valiantly in the sweltering heat. Except for the long beans, the rest still have a few days before they are ready to be harvested. She’ll boil the long beans for dinner with some wild tapioca she managed to scavenge yesterday evening. There will be enough left over for her to wrap in banana leaves and give to the guerrillas or occasionally young women who hide in the jungles behind her hut.

Suddenly, the rumble of an approaching vehicle shatters the quiet evening. A flock of birds burst out from a nearby tree, chirping noisily. The cangkul falls from Jamilah’s hands. Vehicles this far out of town can only mean one thing.

Ali, her husband of three months, appears bare-chested at the top of the stairs. His skin stretches tautly over his ribs.

“Milah, run! Go and hide until I come for you.”

“No, Ali,” she rushes towards him, stopping at the first rung, “let’s go together.”

He glances over his shoulder as the rumble looms nearer, his face as white as the slaked lime paste that is used to bind betel leaves. “It’s no use, they’ll keep coming back until they find one of us here. They can take our chickens and food, but I won’t let them take you.”

“I won’t leave you! We agreed that I’ll pretend to be your deaf and dumb brother if they came here.” The thought of what the Japanese would do to her if they realised she’s a woman makes her want to throw up, but she plants her feet firmly on the ground, staring defiantly up at Ali.

The vehicle grinds to a stop on the other side of their hut. Ali races down the stairs and gives her a sharp slap on the cheek. Jamilah’s hand flies up to her face, her jaw dropping. Ali has never, ever, ever so much as raised his voice at her.

“Think of the baby!” His eyes are ablaze with terror.

Their front door thunders. A man’s voice shouts for the door to be open—first in Japanese, then in Malay.

Jamilah crams a fist into her mouth, choking back a sob and whirls around. She runs, crashing through the undergrowth bordering the garden. A minute later, she slows down and doubles over. Searing pain radiates at the side of her abdomen. The only sounds in the cocoon of the gloomy jungle are her ricocheting heart and ragged breathing. That doesn’t fool her though. She knows her every move might be watched from well-camouflaged hideaways.

Once the pain in her side ebbs, she retraces her mad dash and cautiously approaches the edge of her garden, making sure to stay hidden in the bushes. Two Japanese soldiers are picking her vegetables, even the unripe ones. Their squat bodies are no taller than hers. Another one stands near the stairs, holding a squawking hen under each arm. She hopes they shit all over his khaki uniform. Ali is nowhere in sight, but she can hear voices from her hut although she can’t make out what they’re saying. Her fingers feel the grassy soil quietly until it curls around a large rock. She grips it hard, feeling the sharp ridges cut into her palm.

An inhuman scream from the hut rips Jamilah in two. Ali.

The still air carries his shrieks to her clearly. “I don’t know them! It’s not me!”

Ya Allah, what are they doing to him? Tears pour from Jamilah’s eyes. The only thing keeping her rooted to the spot is Ali’s last words to her.

Another chilling scream. “There’s no one else here. I’m just a useless farmer living alone.”

When the deafening crack of a gunshot cuts off Ali mid-scream, it might as well have killed Jamilah. From her crouch, her forehead hits the hard ground as her arms lock around her waist. She rocks back and forth, keening soundlessly.

A few feet away, the soldiers continue to strip her garden bare.

The moonless night is filled with the riotous cacophony of cicadas when they find her. She’s curled up on her side, staring glassy-eyed at her home, oblivious to the stones digging into her flesh and the bites of fire ants and mosquitoes. The taller guerrilla with the limp squats down. The stench of his unwashed body assaults her.

He taps her shoulder. “Kakak, what are you doing out here? What happened to you? Where’s Abang?”

“They killed him.” Her voice is toneless. There’s no need to elaborate who ‘they’ are.

The men look around wildly as if the Japanese could be springing out from the undergrowth at any moment.

“Have they gone?” The other guerrilla asks. Before the war, girls would have been swooning over his looks.

Jamilah spits. “Yes. But don’t worry, Ali didn’t betray any of you.”

The taller guerrilla jumps up. “Someone must have betrayed you and told them we come here for food. Even very strong men break under their torture. It’s not safe for you to stay here anymore.”

He bends down, holds her under the armpits and pulls her to a sitting position. “You have to leave, Kakak. Hide in the jungle or go to your relatives far away from Ipoh.”

“Ali was all I had. I can’t leave him.” Her head snaps up. “I can’t leave Ali, in there, to…to… the rats will…”

“No! If you move his body and the Japs return, they will realise Ali was lying and he would have died for nothing.”

“He’s my husband. I need to see him!”

The handsome one clutches her arm. His calloused palm chaffs her skin. “Your husband has gone. What’s left in your hut is not him. No women should see things like that.”

Jamilah flings his hand away and reaches up to grab her hair but her fingers form empty fists. It tips her over the edge. She hammers her head, wailing from the depths of her soul. A rough palm clams over her mouth and she is yanked to her feet by the two men on either side of her. Half carrying, half dragging, they take her deeper into the jungle until they come to a gurgling stream. They drop her under a towering Meranti tree and step back. Jamilah crosses her arms over her chest and looks past them stonily, her grimy face a criss-cross of tear tracks.

“As soon as it’s light, you have to leave here. Follow the stream. It will take you to the next town,” the taller one instructs.

The other one crouches in front of her until she is forced to look at him.

“Don’t stay in the jungle for too long. Not all our brothers share our respect towards women.” He drops his gaze meaningfully to her chest.

Jamilah instinctively tightens her arms. He jerks his head once and straightens. Then the two of them turn around, the rustle of their footsteps receding until all that she can hear is the sounds of the jungle. A twig snaps. Something makes a small splash in the stream. She shivers. Her threadbare shirt barely provides any protection from the plummeting night temperature. Dampness from the layer of rotting leaves on the ground seeps into her pants.

Tears leak down the corners of her eyes as her hand drifts down her stomach. “I’ll keep us safe,” she whispers.

#Sharmini Marilyn #Steel Orchids #work in progress #fiction #Malaysian fiction #Malaysian literature #women's fiction #historical fiction

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sprinkles-and-lightning · 7 years

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Slyndra

((Hey! This is a story idea that I am considering fleshing out into a publishable novel/novella/series/etc. If you could give it a read and let me know what you think, that would be great! Constructive criticism is welcome, and I would really like to know if you're intrigued enough to want to read more. Thanks!))

Brittle twigs snapped and leaves rustled in the muggy warmth of a summer morning. It was in the low nineties, but the skyrocketing humidity made it feel so much worse, not to mention the buzzing swarms of mosquitoes and flies that seemed nearly omnipresent in the woods. Sparse grey clouds gathered, peeking ominously through the treetops, but not even the rain would give respite to the incessant heat.

Nolan groaned, swatting at a sudden cloud of gnats. The tiny bugs seemed to find the most uncomfortable places to kill themselves. Little kamikaze warriors on suicide missions in his eyes, up his nose, or straight into his mouth. This was the fifth time he'd found himself choking on one since he'd arrived. Bugs should not be this tiny! Or at least they should have the decency to leave him alone.

He sighed gently, pulling the stiff fabric of his shirt up over his mouth and nose. The quicker he got out of here, the better. So far, everything he'd seen looked so unnatural. All the plants he'd seen were green, even the leaves on trees. How could anyone stand to live in such a place? Not only was it completely dull, but the color was almost sickly. Nolan frowned and wiped the sweat from his brow. Unless he was only imagining the color. The trip could have have a bad impact on him.

He shook his head and decided that couldn't be the case, and either way it didn't matter. He was tasked with finding the outsider. Arwin had assured him that it would be the person he first spotted in this strange world, but Nolan had yet to see another living thing other than the swarms of minuscule insects.

The trees clumped together in tight groups, forcing Nolan to mostly maneuver around them through equally dense patches of thorny bushes. He remembered arguing about whether or not to bring his full leather armor, which would have made him slightly less uncomfortable, but apparently whoever he was meant to be getting might have been spooked by the armor. Nolan had silently wondered how anyone who would run from a soldier like him could possibly be expected to be of any help, but he didn't dare voice his opinion. It was not his place.

Scarce few people had been considered for the job Nolan had been tasked, but the prestige gave him no right to speak out against his assignment. However, he simply could not understand the importance of fetching an outsider to come to their aid. The people of Terraria had not been accessible for eons. Perhaps they had died out. Their kind could be completely extinct. No one had seen one in a long time.

Nolan shook his head and pressed forward through the bushes, earning himself a scratch along his cheek when a spiny branch whipped up and caught him in the face. An aggravated groan rumbled in his throat, and he ignored the slight sting as he stumbled out of the bushes into what he first assumed was a small clearing. Upon brushing away the barbs clinging to his outfit, Nolan discovered that it was less of a clearing and more of a trail. Four men could have walked along it easily in stride.

A spark of hope raced through him. Perhaps he would find the outsider soon after all. Then it only became a matter of getting them back to the portal before the day was out. Hopefully the outsider would go willingly. If not, then Nolan had to get creative. Though young, he was expertly trained in the art of overpowering people. That skill probably attributed some to why he was there instead of someone else.

He would soon discover that in this strange world, that skill alone would likely not be enough.

#writing #idea #slyndra #not rp related #((lol slyndra looks like I just stuck a few extra letters in sandra))#((...I wonder if that's how I named this...I don't actually remember :P))#((it's actually the name of the other world that the pov character is from))

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