#weepy wednesday | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

69% of Tumblr users are millennials.

emmatriarchy · 18 days

Text

just got online and y'all are really hitting me with feels right out the gate uh?

#ooc #i've been a weepy mess since wednesday

2 notes · View notes

ddejavvu · 2 years

Text

Sun-Kissed - Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader

Summary: Jake finds out why you go through a particular scent of candle so fast

Contents/Warnings: none! pure fluff :)

WC: 1.0K / navi

Please send me top gun requests!!

The first 'darlin'' that leaves his lips is what has you nearly tackling Jake where he stands in the doorway. There's no better way to wake up than to the sound of his voice, and it seems as though, during your catnap, he's taken a trip to the store.

"Three this time," He brandishes the bag in his hand, glass clinking together and swarming your tummy with butterflies, "I cleaned 'em all out for 'ya."

"Thank you!" You gush excitedly, sleepy hands nearly fumbling the bag as you try unloading your haul.

"Easy," Jake chuckles, the sound deep and warm in his chest. You pay no mind to his teasing, "You might break 'em if you aren't careful."

"I'd cry," You groan, picking up each navy blue tinted candle from where it lays in the shopping bag. You set them label-forwards on your nightstand, the block lettering on the picture of the beach reading sun-kissed, "If they're out of these it means I gotta wait a week for restock."

"There's three candles here." Jake frowns, lower lip plumping as it sticks out in confusion, "You wont' go through all these in a week."

"You're leaving on Wednesday," You remind him, trying to keep the glum note out of your voice, "I'll have almost two full days without you."

"Yeah," He still seems confused, and you almost giggle at how one of the most intelligent people you know can be so slow on the uptake.

"I burn them when you're not here," You explain slowly, watching the gears turn in his brain, "Because they smell like you. Whenever I miss you I light one, and let it burn until the whole house smells good."

He stands there, expressionless. His eyes shine, and you wait for anything, any reaction he'll offer you. You'd kill to know what was going on inside his head, what's making him bat his eyelashes like he's a perplexed toddler.

Then he lunges. You're entrapped in his strong arms before you can process that he's even moved, a slight sniffle coming from where he's pressed his face into the crown of your head. He's clutching you tight, almost too tight to breathe, but he's warm and smells like your candles and you can hear his heartbeat through his t-shirt.

"'Dunno how y'got me all weepy," He breathes, a weak chuckle coming from his mouth that's mottled with a hint of tears, "It's just a stupid candle."

"Stupidly good smelling," You hum, face pressed into his chest and words muffled there, "I swear you're secretly running this candle company, it smells exactly like you."

"You found out my secret," He sighs, crestfallen, "I haven't been on base at all. I've been engineering a candle company to get you hooked on my smell."

"Dastardly," You peek your face out of where it's smothered in his chest, hair amiss as you sleepily grin at him, "Are you even a pilot to begin with?"

"Nope," He grins, popping the 'p', "Just smelly."

"Yeah," You fake disdain, your nose wrinkling at the bridge as your eyes scrunch, "I didn't wanna be the one to tell you, but I think you should shower."

You make a break back for the bed, escaping his arms before he can trap you in them again. But he's faster, he always is, and yanks you back with a loud, incredulous chuckle.

"Hey!" He holds you facing him, keeping you pressed tight to his torso. His smile is blinding, as bright as the sun, "I went on a journey to the craft store to find these," He urges, memories of the horrors of the knitting ladies in aisle six flashing through the intensity in his eyes, "I had to fight my way through the cool teens with sewing machines to get those candles for you," He huffs, "Sorry if I'm a little sweaty."

"Did they put up a fight?" You know the group of high-schoolers well, and you envy their craftiness.

"One of 'em tried stabbing me with her needle," He dramatizes what was probably the pointed end aimed in his general direction as she stitched up a loose seam, "I swear I barely made it out of there alive."

"Well thank you, soldier." He bites his lip at the title, and you smirk knowing he won't fight you on it, not today, "I don't know what I would do without you."

Your comment is teasing, and he knows it. But it's truthful, too, and you take your time relishing in his presence now that you're nearing another few days of him away from you.

"Me neither," He admits, and it's shocking to see the great Hangman admit that he isn't always one step ahead of the game, "But I'm glad you've got something to help when I'm gone."

"Me too," You nod, leaning closer to the shining smile of his, yearning for the taste of it, "But the real thing's always better."

He leans in to press his lips to yours and you're sun-kissed, warmth flowing through you as you clutch tight to his chest. He has the remarkable ability to flood the room with brightness when he steps in, and it's even more brilliant when he kisses you. Now you break away glittering, the light in your eyes matching what's still radiating from his smile.

"I love you, darlin'," He speaks soft and low, the epitome of fondness.

You return the sentiment with as much love as you can squeeze into your voice as possible, "'Love you too, Jake."

Stepping out onto the porch becomes a difficult task on Wednesday morning. You mourn the absence of your husband, because it means you nearly fall flat on your face over the box on your doorstep instead of being caught in his strong arms like a damsel in distress. You straighten up from where you'd landed on your knees, peering suspiciously at the open-topped box you're hovering over. In it are round glass jars, what you recognize almost immediately are sun-kissed candles. There's sixteen in the crate, four by four in the cardboard box. There's a note on top of one of the lids, taped there and flapping in the gentle breeze. It's in his handwriting.

Angel, it reads, and your heart skips a beat.

Angel,

I thought you could use more of these, just in case you run out. I don't want you to get lonely, two days feels like a lifetime when you're not there. Don't light the house on fire, please ♥

XOXO, Jake

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #hangman #hangman seresin x reader #hangman x reader #hangman seresin #top gun #top gun x reader #top gun maverick #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #hangman x you #hangman x y/n

5K notes · View notes

loganlermanstanaccount · 8 months

Text

Rigor Mortis (part 7)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 6, Part 8

summary: You spend some time with Miguel.

warnings: smut. f receiving oral, fingering, grinding, switchy behaviour from both sides, angst. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: this chapter beat my ass icl

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 6.3k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all-consuming grief,

It’s going to be a warm night. It's ushered in by the kind of dawn that bleeds red and gold, tawny and autumnal in the waning light. Like the washy colours of a Renoir, and he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing the thing he swore black-and-blue he wouldn’t. Reminiscing and romanticising; for the first time in a while, Miguel is able to see the sun set, legs splayed on the brick of his front steps.

Sitting by worn metal railing, he’s still in his work clothes. He chucked his rucksack on the step above, leaning long legs onto the ones below. They don’t ache as much as they used to, well-trained by a couple months of running and spending more time in the gym. There’s a shake in the fridge, labelled ‘Tuesday, PM’ that he’ll gulp down before bed, and one labelled ‘Wednesday, AM’ that he’ll take before setting off in the morning. In the morning, with cloudy skies and street cars to keep him company. There’s too much pollution, light or otherwise, for him to see some stars. He hasn’t seen stars in a while, now.

Long days seem to have turned into just days somewhere along the way. He can’t quite pinpoint when, and doesn’t really care to, but he thinks his brother would call it “progress”. There’s a grimace on his face as he thinks about it; a word that tastes like mud and feels like swirling cement in his mouth. It’s all bullshit, really. Gabi’s paltry attempt at therapising him, one which he would usually nip in the bud - taking metaphorical shears to slash at weeds and dense conversation. Catch-up calls about how he feels, how he’s doing – when he’s fine, he always is – as if Gabi is waiting for a shoe to drop.

He’s waiting for Miguel to have an epiphany, a breakdown the size of a collapsing star. It’s not coming, he keeps telling his brother, and the sooner the younger O’Hara realises – without the wide eyes and the pity – the better for the both of them. After all, Gabriel is his baby brother, and he’s spent his whole life worrying on his behalf: playing hide-and-seek in little closets and putting back together broken toys. Trying to drown out the sound of shouting and broken plates. They’re too old for all that, the worrying and gulping back tears, walking its well-travelled paths – and it doesn’t feel right that Gabi should do the same for him.

He sighs, deep and heavy and rolling down that quiet street. After what feels like forever, he’s tempted to lie down, to rest his head on the stone, close his eyes and think of something else. Of someone else - lots of someones, at this point in the day. He’s not the weepy type, but he is tired; shaking off the wear and tear, and fighting off sleep.

Then he sees it; a figure walking towards him, all sandals and khaki shorts and smiles. Mr Estevez, donned in his year-round attire of a polo shirt, a little tight around the middle, and cargos cut off below the knee – finally appropriate, considering the weather. He’s strolling closer like he’s got all the time in the world. If Miguel wasn’t so exhausted; the bone-deep kind, the kind that seeps into skin and lines a casket; he would’ve been annoyed. Instead, he hisses, furrows quickly deepening.

“Buenas, Miguelito!” Mr Estevez beams, scratching at scraggly facial hair.

Miguel frowns, but greets him nonetheless: that politeness drilled into him during childhood rearing its head.

“Buenas tardes, tío.” He grits his teeth as he gets up from his seat, creaky joints and all.

His landlord, the building’s handyman, owner of half a dozen shops all over the city, and Miguel’s uncle-that’s-not-really-his-uncle; Mr Estevez wears many hats, staying bright and informal regardless. He’s known the older man since he was 6, so he can’t be too disappointed; his tío has been late for weddings, funerals, and his little boy’s birth – it’s not much of a surprise that he’d be late now, too. Miguel stretches out a rough palm, and the man stops just shy of his hand, completely ignoring it. Before he knows it, Miguelito is engulfed in a great big bear hug, with wet kisses pressed to the apples of his cheeks. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, as usual, so they hang limply; arms flailing to his sides like a t-rex.

They separate, and he coughs at the great big hand that slaps his back. Grumbling, he walks up to the door, bag over his back, and stands expectantly. Mr Estevez doesn’t follow, instead dusting himself down to sit on the steps.

“I just need to get into the building.” Miguel starts. “Forgot my keys, and I've been here for hours. M’tired, and I–”

“Let’s sit, Miguel.” He scoots over, making space. “Look at the stars.”

It’s clear the older man isn’t moving. Begrudgingly, he obliges. “We’re in the middle of the city. You only see “stars” in the river – beer bottles and tinned crap reflecting the lights.”

“Language.” He gets a sharp nudge to his ribs.

“Discúlpame, tío.”

They stew for a moment, bathing in the silence that follows. The man besides him is the first to speak.

“I spoke to your mother.”

He’s scoffing and moving to get up, before feeling a firm hand on his shoulder.

“She’s worried, Miguel. Says you haven’t called in a while.”

“She hasn’t called me either."

“She’s stubborn.” The man besides him chuckles, bringing gentle eyes to meet his own. "Pig-headed. Remind you of someone?"

Miguel rolls his eyes, he just can't help it.

"She’s also the one that moved back home, so either way–”

"You know it's all been hard on her."

" –on her? It's been hard for her, surrounded by family, after she abandoned me? A-After…" His voice gets dangerously hoarse, threatening to crack under the weight of those words.

He can't stand the pitiful look sent his way: brows drawn, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Sorry. It's… It's nothing. I'm fine. Just fine."

"I didn't ask if you were fine, Miguel."

–even though you're definitely not okay. That part is left unsaid, spat onto the pavement like bitter backwash.

Mr Estévez sighs, ruffling a hand through Miguel's hair. It makes him hiss and dart away from the hand, pouting like he's a little kid again. He doesn't like it; the way he feels like all this life he's lived has been for naught. Trials and tribulations, and yet he doesn't feel that ache of growth; still stuck in the shoes of an awkward teenager.

"You think too much, Miguelito. Always have." He smiles, the kind that deepens the wrinkles around his mouth. It twists Miguel into knots, mouth dry as he tries to untangle himself from that feeling. "I'm worried about you, kid."

He sniffs, eyes trained towards the pavement. There it is again, worry; complicating and unravelling what was meant to be just another day.

"It's today, isn't it?"

All Miguel does is nod, shakily. It's been 2 years since his heart was ripped out of his chest. It heaves now, an erratic rise and fall he’s doing his best to control. Breathe, deeply and calmly; try not to think about his little girl in that hospital bed, and those blank eyes staring back.

“M’fine.” It comes out more desperate than he intends it, and he curses under his breath. If Mr Estevez hears the crude language, he doesn’t react.

Miguel is tense, hunched over the bag on his lap and curled into himself like prey – spitting and prickly and clearly uncomfortable. He’s never been the weepy kind, but the older man can’t help but think it’s a shame; so much love, and nowhere to keep it but inside. Miguel's bottled it up; the memories of precious Gabriella, all that warmth she brought out in her father; and he's turned them to poison pills to keep himself sick.

Miguel would never admit it, of course. He’s too stubborn. Pig-headed.

His tío sighs, moving to get up. He groans, in that dramatic sort of way he knows Miguel can’t stand, but still, there's a rush to help him up. Producing the door keys with a flourish, he pulls from the depths of cargo pockets, and unlocks the main door. Ushering in the younger man, who has grown so tall he needs to duck as he climbs the narrow stairs, there’s a finger prodded into the back of that cotton button-up.

“Miguel?” He starts, revving up a conversation he’s been meaning to have for a while now.

“Hmm?”

They both wait by the entrance of the apartment. The keys jingle in Mr Estevez’s hand.

“If I open the door, will I find out that you’ve driven away another one of my tenants?”

Conveniently, there seems to be a rather interesting spot in the hardwood that Miguel pokes with a dress shoe.

“...depends on your definition of 'driven out', tío.”

“That’s the third one this year! Not even 2 months– I knew there was something up. Not a single one of those little smiley faces to my messages, and–"

“I’ll make up for his side of the rent, you know I will.”

“I don’t like it. You should be saving up, to go get a house and settle down somewhere."

“I like living here, and I’ve said multiple times I’d pay the extra to live alone–”

“And then what? You rot in your room for the rest of your life?”

“I don’t– rot feels a little–”

“Nonsense. You’re lonely, Miguelito. If you don’t like it, you move out.”

They both know he won’t. It’s not really an option; the apartment is affordable and he likes living so close to his old neighbourhood, his old haunts. It’s like he’s tethered to that place with a bungee cord wrapped under his ribs, always snapping back.

“No promises, tío.”

“Doesn’t matter, Miguelito.” He sighs, scratching at stubble. “It’s been hard to find other tenants, with half the neighbourhood drying up. But as soon as I do–”

He points an accusatory finger at Miguel, and the sentence is finished for him.

“...best behaviour, I know.”

“Best behaviour.” Mr Estevez repeats, and starts to fumble with the keys. He throws a little comment over his shoulder. “I liked your lady friend, ages ago… the scary one, with the blue hair. She was–”

“Xina’s not scary, when you get to know her.”

“She was funny. Very pretty. Always paid rent on time, gave me food when I came to fix the heating…”

“It's out again, by the way.” Miguel chews his lip, with a strange expression. “And yeah, she was.”

The door swings open. Mr Estevez doesn’t let him off the hook, though, engulfing him in a warm hug. This time, in the doorway of his apartment, eyes screwed shut; he doesn’t try to wriggle out of it, melting into his tío’s arms. It feels different now that he’s not a kid: angry and hurting with a different sort of ache, but he leans into it, all the same.

~~~

There's a pressure released from the apartment, lately. Miguel feels… well, first of all, he feels ; thinks with his heart and not his head, sometimes. It's lighter, coming home with that weight on his shoulders and with someone there to distract him from it. Living life, he thinks, for the first time in a while. Vivid and vibrant and awake ; relishing the autumnal weather. It's always been his favourite season, despite how childish he thinks having a favourite season is; something you had asked him on a whim one morning.

Normally, he wouldn't entertain it, and with all the shit Pete spews, sometimes, he's had plenty of practice ignoring it. A well-timed dirty look, and then he'd get his head down and work; occupy himself with something less frivolous. But when you say it, with half a piece of toast sticking out of your mouth, it doesn't feel like a chore to answer. It doesn't feel like a stupid question, and he finds his face growing warm at the thought of you caring about these little things – wanting to know him , however that comes.

And so, his answer is Autumn. It's a little stilted; but catching him off guard after a run will do that to him. It's purely practical , he says, eyes tracing the slopes of your body in that shirt and shorts that stops at your thighs; high enough that he feels like a perv for looking. Autumn has temperate, even weather. Perfect for sweaters and hoodies. Warm enough that you don't need a jacket. Just right. You snort, nudging him. Bullshit, Mig. You flutter your eyelashes mockingly, your tone light. You just think it's the prettiest.

And he hums, catching you off guard. You're both drawn towards that little window over the sink, the one that overlooks a fire escape and the street. He's had that view for three years, now. Sleeves always rolled to his elbows as he does his washing up, but never quite looking. The street just below is framed in its windowpane, quite the pretty picture. Crisp leaves scattered on the sidewalk, carpeted in red and honeyed amber. And he can feel it from the other side of the glass; smell it, touch it, taste it. Autumn: hot chocolate and giggles, the crunch of leaves underfoot, and cupping tiny palms to warm them up. Sunsets seen for the first time, watched through bus windows on the way back from school – he misses those the most.

"You don't think it's beautiful?" You say, leaning your head towards the half-open window.

You don't notice, but he looks over to you, swallowing roughly. He says it with a small voice.

"I…I do."

You're darting to the bathroom not too long after, breaking the spell. Frustrated, he resists the urge to curl up into a ball and scream into his palms. He's got what he wanted; a good fuck, a pretty face, a warm smile. Friends, at the most, who happen to get the other off after a long day. A welcome distraction, at the least. He's got what his body has been telling him he needs for the past few months. It makes him feel weird, so oddly settled; but, all things considered…

Miguel is doing okay.

“...and I wouldn’t normally ask, but I swear , I left him…o-on read and he won’t stop texting me.”

Really, actually; he’s doing fine.

“It feels weird– mmffuck– but I can’t ignore him any longer.”

Maybe even… good. Better than okay.

“I still have a bunch of my stuff over there. At least half of it is clothes and books, a-and I’ve put it off for as long as I can…”

He hums in response, pulling quiet curses from you, above. Pressing the flat of his tongue onto your clit, your hips jump up and he purrs ; rearing up to dive even deeper into your pussy. Too quick for him, you catch on, hand in his hair to pull him up.

Sitting up on your haunches, he rests his head on your bare thigh – licking the taste of you off of his lips.

You tilt your head, looking at him with those eyes he can’t help but marvel at. A beat passes.

“...so?” You start, expectantly. “Will you help me or not?”

His response comes in the form of teeth nipping at pillowy skin. You yelp, and swat him away whilst he chuckles.

“I’m serious , Mig. It’s too much to pick up by myself. And you’re the only person I know with a car…”

“ Ouch, hermosa. ” He frowns as you peter off. “Is that the only reason you’re fucking me? For my car?”

“If I say it’s because of your sparkling personality, will you help me?”

For a moment, it seems like he’s got his brows pressed together like he’s seriously considering it, but it ends up being just smoke and mirrors. He’s pretending , biding his time to hook a hand under your legs and force you to lie down onto the bed. Your head hits the covers with a gentle thump as he hikes up the lip of that big tee even further; squeezing your thighs around his head like earmuffs.

It’s when he makes eye-contact, tongue circling your hole, that you realised you’re fucked. Up until now, he’s been toying with you – playing with his food, so to speak – lazily swirling his tongue around your clit and pressing buttons to see exactly where to push. And you'd welcomed it, a hand in his hair as you talked about your day – which he'd asked for, of course.

Now, he's insatiable, eating you out like a man starved; all tongue and wet kisses to your swollen bud. You're slightly raised up on his shoulders, clamping around his tongue as he fucks into you fervently. Big palms spread you wider, and he hums into it, content.

"So pretty ," He sets you down, pupils blown as he studies the way your back arches and the way your legs shudder in the sheets. He slides upwards, sitting next to you, tracing a hand across the gentle curve of stomach that peeks out from your big t-shirt.

Still coming down from your high, you're only just able to register it: he looks mesmerised, a dopey smile plastered on his face.

"What?" You scoff when a moment passes, and his hand inches closer towards your lower lips.

"M'just looking." He shrugs, with a little smile on his face. "I'm not allowed to look?"

You scoff, but you're still shaky so it comes out a little more pathetic than you intend. Nevertheless, you start to sit up but he stops you with a gentle hand at your chest.

"Call him." He says, pressing two fingers to your clit and then down to your gushing slit.

Maybe it's the way he hunches over you, eyes flicking towards your lips, or the way he slips those fingers in; but your eyes go wide, and you're choking on your next words.

"Call… Call who?" Playing dumb, dancing on a razor's edge, and Miguel only quirks up an eyebrow at the stupid question.

"You know who." He says it low, smooth and dulcet as he curls his fingers at that sweet spot, experimenting. "I'll help you, fine. But I want you to call your ex, too. Let him know when to expect us. Is that okay, sweetheart ?"

That last word comes with a twang, the lilting tone of what sounds like mockery. He twists the knife, nudging the flat of his palm onto your clit – still tender and throbbing from your last orgasm.

Before you change your mind, you pick up the phone laid face down on the bedside table, pressing shaky fingers to its screen. You don't dare to look up, knowing Miguel is watching; dark eyes studying your every move.

Flicking his wrist this way and that, he swallows roughly as your fingers stutter on the screen. Not completely satisfied, he still has the time to look smug, settling into a comfortable pace. Finally, your phone rings with a tell-tale dial tone. It rings once. It rings twice, and–

"Hello? " The voice is muffled as it says your name. Put it on speaker, Miguel mouths and you oblige.

"Hey, J-Jamie." The phone is shaky in your hands, so you lay it out next to you on the bed.

"It's late, baby." You don't have time to be annoyed at his tone – or the unwarranted pet name – because Miguel speeds up, pumping in and out of you with a little more force.

"I… I know. S-Sorry." You clamp down the moans that threaten to erupt, rocking your hips in time with the thrusts.

Head lolling back into the sheets, you spend a good ten seconds in oblivious bliss, until Jamie breaks the silence.

"You've been ignoring me for ages, baby… and then you call out of the blue. What is it?" He's tired, it sounds like. Irritated for sure.

"Just w-wanted to–" Miguel presses his thumb to your clit and you jump. Once back down to earth he has to prompt you to answer. "-my stuff! Fuck , I just want to pick up my stuff."

"...now?"

Tomorrow. Miguel mouths.

"Tomorrow. " You repeat, wrapping a hand around his forearm to slow him down. It's too much, too fast; and he has the audacity to add another finger, scissoring out to stretch your cunt.

"O-kay. " He clicks his tongue, with some things rustling in the background. "Okay. You're acting weird, but..."

You're conflicted. His tone makes you melt, reaching for your phone to answer when Miguel snakes a hand under your shirt, palming your tits. To your surprise, he presses shaky kisses to the skin, rolling around your nipple with the flat of his tongue. You keen, clamping a hand around your mouth to stop the noises that spill out.

"...we still need to talk about what happened. About how we left things."

Anger flares up at your chest; hot at the sheer gall. He wants to talk? Now, when you had been met with a brick wall of silence; begging and begging for even a simple explanation?

What made it sting even more was that even after the breakup, everything happened on Jamie's terms. He broke up with you, providing little warning. He completely ghosted you, refusing to answer countless calls and messages. And now, he wants to talk; to make himself feel better and wank off his own ego, no doubt. It's not bitterness that makes you press Miguel closer, to revel in the pleasure that he gives you, you convince yourself. It's for you ; finally, unabashedly, just for you.

You don't bother to answer, hanging up the call with a click. Tugging at his hair, you pull him off with a wet pop; slick-soaked fingers slipping out of your cunt.

He cradles your chin, angling you upwards.

"You okay? Too much?" It barely registers; you're too focused on the tangle of curls framing his face, and the rosy pout of messy lips.

You shake your head, writhing against the sheets.

"More." You move his hand over to rest between your legs. "Please, Miguel."

His eyes flutter, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

He says it with sobering clarity, bolstered by just how precisely he slots against your bare pussy. You can feel it, the full length of his cock; pressed up against you as he slips it out of his sweats. Head spinning, it slaps onto your stomach. Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets. Oh fuck. He's big.

"Just like that." He coos, spitting into his palm and pumping his cock. “Wanna see how pretty you look when I make you cum.”

~~~

When tomorrow comes, you’re still sore from the litany of bruises and hickeys littered. It’s a Saturday, and you’re up bright and early. Well, Miguel is up bright and early, clattering around in the kitchen as you wake up.

He seems energised, mug of coffee in hand whilst you rub the sleep from your eyes. You waltz into the kitchen through the open doorway, morning breath and all.

"Morning," You say, soft and giggly at the way he jumps ten feet in the air, too wrapped up in himself to notice at first.

"Morning." He breathes, melting when he sees you in the shirt he had picked out for you last night. He shakes himself out of it. "Hungry? I can make something."

"No, no. M'good." You sidle up to the counter, head clocked at the fancy machine on the heavy slab. There's a question on the tip of your tongue, one you roll between your teeth. "Could I have some coffee? I mean… could you show me how?"

Where you expect laughter, mockery, or surprise that you've lived here for months and can't figure out the coffee machine; he nods, patient and calm. You ask him more questions; curious with every flick of a switch, and the way he lights up when talking about it. To your surprise, you want to know more – anyway that comes.

He's talking about expensive beans, and his favourite roasts – and a place across town that sells the exact kind he likes, but it's too fucking gentrified for him to go there more than two or three times a year. That makes you giggle: his little pout, the press of brow; and he looks up in surprise before joining you in light laughter.

You finish, pouring cream into his special mug with a flourish, and he steals a sip before you can. You elbow him away, angling for that stolen taste. When you do, it is deep and rich; sweet in a way that reminds you of Miguel, grounded and balanced and silky. In short, it's the perfect cup of coffee. More than content, you hum.

"Is it good?" He asks because he's already making mental notes, planning to greet you with a hot flask of the stuff in the mornings – if it means he gets that smile, of course.

"Very." Fervently you nod, lips curved to the ceramic as you blow; and Miguel is trying really hard not to stare. Maybe it's the fact that he's seen you in a way not everyone gets to; pretty and vulnerable and writhing on the tip of his cock; but it has him fending off vivid daydreams. Your lips wrapped around his length, his hand pressing you further down, feeling that warmth as you choke on his–

He blinks and you're gone, padding off to your room with that mug of coffee. You return not too long after, phone in hand and tapping away at the screen. Miguel ignores the way it makes him feel, having your attention and then losing it just as quickly. Like a kicked puppy, he resists the urge to beg for more – of your time, of your attention – turning away to clean up instead.

"I spoke to Jamie," You start, leaning with your back to the counter as he rolls up the sleeves of a comfy sweater. "He said he'll be around later in the evening, after his shift. Around 10. Is that okay?"

He shrugs, not caring either way. You're a friend, and he's helping you because that's what friends do. He can still taste you on his lips, but it doesn't mean anything. Not in a way you'd want, anyways.

"Sure." He doesn't turn around, stealing glances at the open window whilst he clatters around. "I've got a session later on anyways."

He catches a flash of something on your face, and you're pushing it away; prickly and uncomfortable. In his defence, he's stopped bringing people over for faux chemistry tutoring and there's less banging coming from across the wall. Less , but not completely gone, because you've learnt he has a penchant for dropping shit and cursing like someone's Dad.

But you can't help but think about Sarah , and Jia …. and how close he would get to Sita on the dining table. Fuck .

You're sighing now, tracing the curve of his jaw as he settles in front of the window: jaw set, arms crossed, and distant. He does that sometimes, goes off somewhere else – all teeth and claws. Tense, brows drawn up in a way that makes you want to smooth them out.

You put your phone down and mug away, sliding across linoleum to gently nudge his shoulder with your own.

"Are we…" He starts, and you track his line of sight to a quiet street below. He hums, without looking away. "Are we good?"

It makes you turn. You blink, as if out of all the nonsense you bicker about daily, that was the most ridiculous. Good? Good? Of course we are, of course we always will be. How could we be anything else? You shut it down before it spills out of your mouth, overzealous and desperate.

He clarifies with a nervous cough. "Last night. Was it… good?"

His frown deepens, and you wonder if it's just you that hears it in his tone. His real question, the one that makes you splinter and creak like a felled oak tree: Was I good? Am I good enough?

"Yeah. " You say it like the most obvious thing in the world – and to you, it is. For all his flaws; assholery and its trimmings aside; Miguel has never been a bad lay. You don't even think he has it in him; he couldn't half-ass it if he tried.

"It was–" Fucking amazing . The kind of thing you'll fuck yourself to for the foreseeable future. Cathartic and breath-taking and hot . All of the above.

Miguel finishes your sentence with something a little less… horny. "It was a lot, wasn't it? I wasn't really thinking, how uncomfortable it could be for you, and–"

Gently, you laugh and cut him off. "I've been having mediocre sex for basically the whole of my adult life, Mig. This is… exciting and new. I like it, I really do."

Exciting and new. It brings him crashing back down to earth. You're enjoying the way he makes you feel, the thrill . Not… him. Not really, anyways. That pang of disappointment feels different, for some reason. He's never liked the song and dance of flirting, but he cherishes its rewards: of being wanted, and someone wanting him . So that fiery flame of need; deep and heady; is unfamiliar under his skin.

"We can slow down, if you'd like." You bring a hand to his arm, warm and gentle. "I don't mind. We can go back to just messing around on the couch…."

You've got a cheeky smile when you say it; a vague memory of a different time, when you had gotten a little too comfortable on the sofa, leading to hands stuffed in trousers and pressed up against one another. Quick and desperate, you had wanted to see him fall apart; like he did your first night together, and the next, and the next.

He gets closer, sandwiching you between the counter and his body. With a gentle hand, he strokes your hip, bunching up the fabric to get a peek of thigh.

“What do you like?” He’s deadly serious, red-brown eyes searching your face for something he can’t quite place. And just like that, the air is thick with tension. All you can manage is a limp shrug.

“I don’t know, really.” It comes out as a croak , as you’re much too occupied with the shrinking gap between you both. “I haven’t done the things you’ve done.”

You’re making assumptions, of course. Filling in the gaps of what you’ve learnt in the past few months; of alleged threesomes and a laundry list of women at his feet. He’s an asshole; pretty and gruff and sarcastic; but God , he knows how to touch you just right.

“I could show you.” He slots a knee between your thighs and your head spins. “Make you feel good. ”

Before you can think, you’re nodding; chewing at your lip to bite back moans when he rucks up your shirt. He nudges your legs apart, both hands on your waist as he slots himself between them. You can feel it; quickly hardening, loose underneath sweats. Miguel slides wide palms to your ass, kneading its globes. With one hand, he picks up your leg by the thigh, and snakes the other to your pussy. Bare, because you’re trying to kill him, of course, and he groans at the feeling of his hand at your cunt; already wet and pliant for him.

After a few wet taps to your hole, obscene, he slips himself out and you heave; pussy fluttering at just the thought of him inside you. Gathering up your slick on his palm, Miguel pumps his weeping cock, pressing its tip to your hole.

"Still sore, Miguel." You hiss, looking down at where you both meet with the prettiest pout he thinks he's ever seen.

It has you clawing at his back for purchase as he finally sinks in, stretching you out in that wonderful way he did last night. Except this time, he's slow and careful; steeling himself with shaky breaths.

"Oh, fuck. " He settles in about halfway, stopping to hike up your leg just a bit higher. "Want me to make you feel better?"

He says it breathless and crooning, forehead comes to rest on yours. With that other hand flat on the counter, you're lifted up to only toes on the floor, and he angles himself to buck up; filling you deep, and cock sliding past that sweet spot inside. He sets a pace, grinding into you, rather than fucking. If last night was dirty ; taboo, quick and primal; then this morning feels different. Intimate and reverent, he rolls his hips perfectly ; sending flashes of that first night down your spine.

With the moans that spill out of your mouth, it takes all of Miguel's willpower not to swallow them in a kiss. Impossibly close, he traces up your thigh with a large palm; eventually pressing into the small of your back. Arching into him, your lips barely brush together, and you're both panting into open mouths; drunk on pleasure.

"Miguel." There's a warning somewhere in your tone; underneath the layers of lust, you remind him of your previous agreement.

"I… I know. " He swallows, nose pressed to yours, eyes screwed shut. He thinks if he opens them, he might spill into you right then and there.

He's trying, he really is, tracing your cheek with his nose and mouthing at your neck – light kisses against the skin. He smells like coffee, bittersweet and heady, and you groan, rocking into him in a way that rubs up against your clit – before finding an ounce of restraint and putting a hand to his neck.

You apply a little pressure, intending to push him away, but he likes it: eyes fluttering open, and mouth curved into a little O. It's a pretty sight that has you drooling, tits pressed against him as he practically purrs . And so, you pull him closer; nails dancing underneath his shirt, whispering filth into the shell of his ear. You're close, grinding into him like the push and pull of waves, merely waiting for the crescendo of orgasm to take you out to sea.

"I'm close, Miguel." All he can do is hum, pulling you closer. "Fuck, I feel so good. You make me feel so good."

"Yeah? " He asks, needy in a way you haven't quite seen before.

"M'gonna cum," You nod. "...because of you, baby. You did good. So good. Shit, ohh –g-god–"

You clamp down on him, gushing around him with shaky legs. And Miguel is good; patient as he watches you fuck yourself through the aftermath. When it finally slows, he slips out with an obscene squelch clamping a hand to the base of his cock and leaning heavily on the counter.

"It's okay," As if on cue, you kneel in front of him as best you can, tugging down your shirt to expose collarbone and the swell of tits.

Miguel growls, grunting as he splatters thick cum across your chest, pumping his poor cock through it.

He wouldn't have lasted a second longer, not with that smile across your face; smug as you swipe fingers across your chest and lick up the mess he's made.

He's sighing, tucking himself back into gray sweats and pulling you up with a hand in yours; grumbling as you absentmindedly follow him to the sofa.

You're leaning back onto the arm of the tattered material, and he settles to sit so your legs lay in his lap. He's frowning, again, and it makes you giggle, still licking up what's left on your fingers.

He rolls his eyes, tapping a spot on your chin. A fat glob of his cum, dripping from your jaw to your neck. You miss it on the first swipe, and he gets impatient on the second, grabbing your hands and clambering over you. He drags the flat of his tongue to your skin, licking it up for you – and your eyes go wide. That… that felt good.

You giggle at the sensation, so attuned to your roommate that you can hear it: his eyes clattering into the back of his skull, as he rolls his eyes a second time.

"Is that okay?" He says it into the skin, pausing over a particularly tender spot. "Not too far?"

"Feels nice, Mig." You sigh, content. Sun streams in on a lazy morning, and you're sore in the kind of way that feels good; fucked out and blissful.

You lean into it, and then he sucks , teeth clashing onto the skin as he gives you a hickey and the juncture of your jaw. You wriggle, and he pins you down with one big hand holding down your arm, nipping and kissing and soothing it with a flash of tongue. This time he smiles, wrapping around your middle, tugging down your shirt to decorate your chest with hickeys. You play with his hair, wrapping soft curls between your fingers.

You spend a little too long like that; curved into him, spines moulded to the shape of each other. It feels nicer than either of you would care to admit; the pretense of sex wrapped around you both like a thin veil. Before he leaves, Miguel indulges himself just this once; head on your chest and sinking into those arms wrapped around him. You smell like coffee and sweat and Autumn, somehow. He presses kisses wherever he can reach, for a bit longer.

Miguel is okay. He's doing just fine.

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #rigor mortis 😼#miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #kat_writes😼#spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman 2099 x reader

905 notes · View notes

petriquors · 1 year

Text

POV: You just had the worst week ever

a/n: gn!reader, post-timeskip. This one’s for you, sad boy indie car person.

Listen to this.

On Sunday, your boyfriend dumped you, beginning the worst week of your life. (So far, you remind yourself, rolling your eyes as far back into your skull as you can.)

On Monday, you found out your regular coffee shop closed.

On Tuesday, you got chewed out by your boss for a mistake you didn’t make.

On Wednesday, your train was out of service and you had to walk several miles home from work.

On Thursday, rent was due, which comparatively isn’t that bad, but still. Ugh.

Things ain't always set in stone; that be known, let me know.

Today, Friday, you dragged your aching body and tired mind through a fairly normal day of work and back home again. You change into pajamas, crack open your bedroom window for some fresh air, and fall face-first into bed, finally able to enjoy some peace and quiet.

Seems like streetlights glowing happen to be just like moments passing in front of me.

Except someone is playing the saddest music you’ve ever heard in your building’s parking lot.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you moan, out loud, because who’s going to hear you? A man’s soft croon and your own aggravation fill your ears; you can’t decide if you’re angry or…if the song, in all its weepy emotional-ness, is exactly what you need right now.

See, I know my destination, I'm just not there.

Annoyance makes your face feel hot, but curiosity stirs in your stomach. You aren’t sure which one makes you sit up.

You swing your legs over the side of your bed, then lean forward with your elbows on your thighs. The song beckons, but the weight of your week holds you down like a monster dragging you to the depths of melancholy.

I'm just not there.

Rubbing your eyes, you fight against your lack of will before standing and padding over to the window. Your fingers brush the cold glass that separates you from the world outside, trace the white pane, and press your fingers against the bottom of the glass.

Raising the window higher, higher, you push it above your head, high enough to stick your head out into the cool spring air. You spot a car, windows down and lights off, with a silhouette of a man faintly outlined by the full moon in front of him. The music floats from his radio, forlornly vocalizing everything you’ve felt this week.

Life just ain't fair.

You suck in a breath. It smells like rain-drenched pavement, fresh grass, blooming flowers—all things you didn’t have the time or energy to pay attention to in the last seven days.

“Hey! Guy in the car!” Your shout is answered by a man sticking his head out the car window. He looks shocked; even as moonlight washes his features, you see embarrassment color his face.

He’s pretty, you think, and your heart shivers.

He looks sad, like he’s had a week just like yours. As fate would have it, you feel connected to this stranger, and you think you have nothing at all to lose.

“Sorry,” he shouts back, “I can—”

Quickly, you shake your head. Don’t turn it off. Don’t stop. Don’t leave. “What song is that?”

🤍 YAMAGUCHI, Suna, Oikawa, Atsumu, Ukai Jr., TERUSHIMA, Akaashi

273 notes · View notes

archivistea · 2 months

Text

someone needs to take the word core away from spotify

#t.txt #poll #spotify #polls #idk anymore

33 notes · View notes

artsyunderstudy · 11 months

Text

WIP WEDNESDAY!

I was really not sure I'd post today, but fuck it. This is an illustration I was/am(?) working on for tomorrow's chapter of Someone Wicked. Very last minute, you say? Yes. Yes indeed it is. I am ... 30% sure I'll finish it in time. It's fine, I kinda started working on in on a whim while on vacation, but now that I'm back I'm focused on making headway on actually writing chapter 5 because I have quite genuinely run out of runway. We're in it now, guys, and chapter 5 is proving to be a beast. A fun beast, I think. I hope.

Here's the drawing. And a small bit of the excerpt it's attached to.

“Simon, it was good,” I say, trying not to let on how viscerally true that is. How much every moment of that moment meant to me. “It was so good. You made it good.”

Also gotta mention, Jesus Christ guys ... the overwhelming love for this very self-indulgent fic is making me seriously weepy. Thank you. Really glad you're enjoying it so far. Means a lot to me, honestly.

Tags under the cut.

@imagineacoolusername @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @martsonmars @valeffelees @cutestkilla @takitalks @bazzybelle @ileadacharmedlife @aristocratic-otter @urban-sith @basiltonbutliketheherb @letraspal @palimpsessed @whatevertheweather @nightimedreamersworld @carryonsimoncarryonbaz @raenestee @erzbethluna @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @confused-bi-queer @moodandmist @yeonjunenby @shrekgogurt @thewholelemon @whogaveyoupermission @thehoneyedhufflepuff @creepyspice @onepintobean @ebbpettier @orange-peony @theearlgreymage @ic3-que3n @captain-aralias @fatalfangirl @prettygoododds @stitchyqueer @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @forabeatofadrum @ivelovedhimthroughworse @amywaterwings @stillmadaboutpetra @mysterioussheep @rimeswithpurple @c0nsumemy5oul @facewithoutheart @hushed-chorus @blackberrysummerblog @larkral

#snowbaz fanfic #wip wednesday #artsyfic #artsyart #someone wicked

118 notes · View notes

mandowifey · 1 year

Note

Nora, she/her, hobbies include sewing, cooking, baking, people watching and trying to control my hoe thoughts behind my cute face🤍

I'm cheating because I know a majority of characters you like. Love you cutie 💋

I assign you: Father "Paul Hill"/ John Pruitt.

Note: This is SFW, and not edited/proofed.

X x X x X x X

Ash Wednesday was a special event on Crockett island.

Folks bore their ashen crosses and funneled out of the church to partake in a sort of potluck feast. Almost everyone brought a dish, and this being your first time participating in the festivities, you did too.

You felt out of place amidst them all, your crossless forehead made you feel like an outsider looking in. As you place the tray of cookies down, you feel the sensation of someone standing near you. A gasp caught in your throat as you jump and place a hand to your chest as you turned and saw him.

Father Paul lifted both hands and smiled uncomfortably. "Sorry about that." His breath comes out in an awkward laugh, his lips stretching into a slight grin that exposed his lovely ivory teeth.

The expression tugged your heart and caused you to gawk as blood pooled in your cheeks.

"You're Y/N, right?"

He's talking to you, idiot.

"Hm! Oh, yes!" You push some loose hair behind your ear and shake your head in a smile. "Sorry, the sun must be cooking my brain."

Paul smiles again, rendering you weak in the knees.

"Tell me about it."

Quiet settles between the two of you, and your lips press into a line as you try to scrounge up a conversation topic. The Monsignor picked up on it and began to motion with his right hand towards the tray of cookies you brought.

"Kind of you to bring something." His dark eyes soften and he nods with his head in the direction of the opposite end of the table. "I'm not much of a cook, but I did provide silverware, so that counts, I hope."

That makes you laugh. "I enjoy cooking, even though I tend to lose track of time and burn things." You admitted with a soft smile. To your delight, he laughs as well.

"Well, some of us have a different calling in life. Maybe you weren't made for cooking, but for something else?" His angular brows lift inquisitively and he smiles.

Your face slowly burns a bright pink.

"M-maybe." You try to laugh and not let your brain wander anywhere inappropriate. He's a priest, for fucks sake.

After a moment, Paul turns his attention toward the crowd. The sun reflects in his eyes, brightening the normally dark pools. Some of his hair had come loose and dangled in short, curled strands over his forehead. Bright sunshine illuminates his profile as a look of deep thought crosses him.

You cannot help staring. It was useless to lie to yourself. You had been pining for Father Hill the moment you attended the first service. Something about the way he carried himself, wise beyond his years and always looking on the verge of tears.

A weepy priest.

"Well, I think I'm gonna steal one of these cookies and head back to my flock." His lips tug into a smile as his eyes fall back on you.

You freeze.

Oh no.

Mouth agape, you watch as he extends an arm and plucks a cookie off the top to carry towards his soft lips. What you see and what Paul fails to is the very burnt underside of the cookie. It wasn't intended, you simply had gotten distracted while baking and ran out of time to make anything else.

The sound of the crunch makes your heart stop beating. You stare at his face and watch the sudden upwards jerk of his brows. He hadn't been expecting that. His other hand comes up to cover his mouth as he chews. Paul makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and you watch as he makes an effort to finish the cookie in one more bite.

Your embarrassment was palpable, and you silently wished the ground would open up and swallow you.

"Wow these are-"

"Don't. Don't say a word, please." You say as you bring a hand to cover your face.

The holy man laughs. "Not as bad as you think. It has a uniqueness that suits you." His voice was sincere.

Moving your hand, you look up at Paul and feel your cheeks burn. "Are you saying I share traits with a burnt cookie, father?"

The name slipped out and you felt your heart clench.

Paul stiffens and you watch as those heavy lids of his lower and the corner of his mouth tug. He looked like he was drawing closer to you, watching you with that onyx gaze.

That was when you notice the smudge near the corner of his mouth. "Oh! You got something, here." You tap the right corner of your mouth. It snaps him out of his trance, and his eyes immediately brighten again.

"Here?" He wipes the wrong side.

"No no, other side."

"Here?"

You laugh quietly as he misses again.

"Little to the left."

Paul swipes over his mouth, smudging it worse.

"Got it?"

Was he doing it on purpose? He was grinning at you, those shapely brows lifted, making his round eyes seem even bigger than usual.

"No, jeez, here-"

Without much forethought, you lick your thumb pad and reach up. Gently, you swipe and clear the smudge off the corner of his mouth and smile as you do. Then you realize he's locked in on your eyes.

What were you doing?

You're cupping his jaw and cleaning the corner of his mouth, except your thumb moves on its own now. You drag the pad along his soft bottom lip and watch as his pupils dilate to the size of dimes. The predatorial stare knocks your breath away. Who was this looking at you?

Paul's lips part just slightly and you realize you're still touching him. Before you could begin to apologize and withdraw, you feel the curl of his cold fingers around your wrist halting you.

He offers a smile.

"Thank you."

Then, his lips kiss the pad of your thumb and you feel a wet flick, then a gentle suck as he cleans the chocolate off your digit before releasing you.

At a loss for words, you stand in awe. Had that just happened? You can see that he's about to head off and you quickly find your voice.

"Let me make you more sometime?"

Father Hill stops and looks back at you inquisitively.

"Cookies, let me show you I know what I'm doing."

Your heart felt like a wild bird trying to escape its cage, and you wonder if he's able to hear it. Or if he could smell the arousal that had begun to build within you from the short exchange between you both.

"I'd like that." He nods, and you watch him wander back into the crowd.

Leaning against the table, you look at your thumb and then smile at yourself. What you had failed to mention to the Monsignor before was you had been distracted by the handsome priest talking to your neighbors this morning. Your eyes follow his shape as it mingled in with the townsfolk.

You promise yourself this next batch of cookies would have extra chocolate in them.

#hamish linklater #father paul #father paul hill #john pruitt #father john pruitt #paul hill #paul hill x reader #john pruitt x reader #john pruitt x you #paul hill x you #father paul x reader #midnight mass #father paul headcannons #father paul headcanons #father paul headcanon #father paul headcannon

101 notes · View notes

hippolotamus · 10 months

Text

Worthy Wednesday Fic Challenge

@trickiwooao3 says

We see the same (admittedly excellent) stories recommended over and over and over. Let's expand our horizons! Recommend and briefly describe a fic or two or three (or more) that you've never (or rarely) seen mentioned. Extra points if you don't personally know the writer. Tag @trickiwooao3 or #Worthy Wednesday

Thanks for the tags trickiwooao3 @apothecarose @stereopticons @jesuisici33

Schitt's Creek

communion by coffee_and_glitter / @fictasticvoyage

A short lil fic, clocking in at just 611 words, but I love it. Anyone who's known me for more than 5 seconds knows I have a thing for rain and storms. This fic hit just the right notes for that mood.

Their summary:

In the early days of their relationship, thunderstorms are the background for some important feelings.

Boys don't wear makeup by @myolivebranch

A slightly longer one that I'm shamelessly in love with. If you're in it for the queer feelings (and the unintentional well meaning practices of adults) may I direct you to this fic? Please. Sit. Read.

Their summary:

When Patrick is seven years old, he spends a Friday afternoon with his cousins, and they practise putting on makeup.

9-1-1

i wouldn't call it a mission by ASweeterArrangement / @eddiequinns

This time travel fic had my heart from the summary. The author tags it as 'silly'. I say it's anything but. I sure got very weepy for a silly little fic.

Their summary:

It’s not commonplace but it’s not unusual either for Buck to wake up in his loft to the sound of Eddie puttering around in the kitchen downstairs. What is unusual is that when he gets close enough to see him, Eddie looks a little... different - his hair’s got a good amount of gray in it and his cheeks are a little rounder and - is that a wedding band on his finger? “You’re up,” Eddie says, and his voice is pretty much the same, if not the tiniest bit raspier, which is at least a little relieving. Buck looks up from Eddie's left hand to his face and realizes there are more lines around his eyes than there were yesterday. Plainly put, Eddie looks older. Like, quite a bit older. “I uh - I don’t really know how to start this…” “Uh,” Buck says unhelpfully. “I’m sure you can probably tell I’m - well, I'm not your Eddie.”

whatever it might have been by onegirlandherpen

A subtitle for this could be or how to destroy your heart in 400 words or less. Because that's exactly what happened. Be warned there is no happy ending to this one, but you'll thank the author anyway.

Their summary:

Eddie and Buck flirted and joked and came so close many times to falling head first over that line between best friends and lovers. Then, lightning struck and Eddie’s world stopped with Buck’s heart.

It's late so no pressure tagging @alyxmastershipper @panbuckley @mammameesh @ramonaflow @elvensorceress @rmd-writes @monsterrae1 LOML @lizzie-bennetdarcy and anyone else who wants to play along

#worthy wednesday #sc fic rec #911 fic rec

16 notes · View notes

mldrgrl · 1 year

Note

Hellooo

Hope you’re having a great Hanukkah 😊🕎💙!

I was thinking how our favorite writer and former detective celebrate the holidays, like Hank somehow convinces Stella to adventure in the city to the see the tree at Rockefeller Ctr or they go to London?! Or something just low key and stay with Karen and Fisher and Becca?

Happy holidays and here to a great 2023! 🥳

Hello! Thank you for the holiday wishes - my roommate is the one that actually celebrates Hanukkah, but I’m raising Tucker in a multi-cultural household so we participate too. 😃

I know exactly what Hank and Stella are doing for Christmas. Wednesday night they took the train up to Connecticut (it was supposed to be Thursday, but the weather was so iffy they thought it was better to leave early). They met Becca, Tony, and Ziggy at Grand Central, which Hank grumbled about, but he’s warming up to “the boyfriend” and Stella warned him to play nice. Karen and Fish met them at the station - Fish wore a Santa hat and a shirt with a printed Santa suit on it, because of course he did.

Friday night the kids Fish teaches music to have a concert so they’re all going to watch them play. Hank gets to meet a kid he’s been zoom teaching guitar to for the last two years in person for the first time. He might have an ‘allergy attack’ during the show. At least, that has to be the only reason his eyes are red and weepy.

Christmas Eve, Karen busts out the matching pajama sets she got for everyone, including Ziggy, to take family photos. Fish barbecues steak and lobster (lots of vegetables for Beckster and Tony). The girls have way too much egg nog and decide they must go for a midnight Christmas swim, because the pool is heated so it really doesn’t matter if it’s snowing.

Christmas breakfast is late because everyone is hung over the next morning. Tony printed and framed photos of Becca and Ziggy for everyone. Fish announced that next year, to coincide with his 60th birthday, he was taking everyone on a cruise to the Bahamas. Karen gets Hank a nice bottle of whiskey and Stella a necklace that she designed and made. Hank insisted on getting Fish a novelty apron that says “I like my butt rubbed and my pork pulled” which Stella also insisted she would take zero credit for and if he got it, she wouldn’t be putting her name on it. Hank got it and it was Fish’s favorite gift. Stellas gift to both Fish and Karen was a wine tasting journal and a selection box of French and Italian wines. She also got Becca a new journal, vetoing the How to Break up With Anyone Book that Hank wanted to give her (just as a joke) and a new camera backpack for Tony.

As for what Hank and Stella got each other - that’s behind closed doors only 😉

Happy holidays!

#Hanella Christmas

22 notes · View notes

yourpalghost · 3 months

Text

Sorry im chatty this morning but

Yall sometimes

Sometimes its SO hard to accept that I’m sick.

Like, I know a lot of it is shame and what not. Most of it is. Some of the problem is imposter syndrome and stuff of the likes. Downplaying my own issues, thinking im doing it for attention, etc.

Like. Im not important enough to be sick. I SHOULD be able to do XYZ. Oh its not THAT bad, people have it worse. Does that REALLY hurt or are you just faking? Afterall, thats also just normal.

So like, I have chronic fatigue so i’m always tired and since my baseline moved, i don’t notice how tired i am until its even worse and sometimes the worse isnt an extra sleepy feeling, its my body feeling heavy, brain fog, and often times being more prone to crying (i call this the sleepy weepies).

I have a connective tissue problems which lead to constant pain so my baseline moved so I don’t notice the pain until it gets worse but sometimes the “getting worse” is just feeling like im gonna vomit for no clear reason, feeling dizzy, or sweating all of a sudden(also brain fog but I usually attribute that to the fatigue). (Not to even mention the literal excruciating periods I have that literally leave me shaking and in so much extra pain Im regularly on the verge of blacking out AND STILL GO ABOUT LIFE. Thats its own additional bullshit)

And these two things are going on together at all times

Those questionnaires that are like “where is your base level of pain”? I cant answer them because the pains so constant my brains blocked it out so its at a zero. Its like how your brain blocks out your nose or the sound of your heart beat in your ears. How it sometimes blocks out the feeling of certain things against your skin and just registers it as pressure.

My finger is fucking shattered right now(its healing up well) but like aside from the initial SURPRISE of getting it fucking crushed, it “doesnt hurt”. Because i regularly experience worse pain than BREAKING A FUCKING BONE. The pain is at zero but i feel sick. If someone else who wasn’t an experiencer of chronic pain jumped in my body, they would be on the ground in agony. And like I know im IN pain because painkillers when I do use them jusy dull itfrom distracting to noticeable unless im fortunate enough to have been granted the big boy pain meds that make you silly. That shit? Works. When it wears off, my whole body aches and hurts and it sucks.

AND WHILE ALL OF THIS IS TRUE, I STILL FEEL LIKE IM NOT SICK ENOUGH TO BE CONSIDERED SICK.

I hurt all the time and im so fucking tired all the time but I just keep going because “its not that bad” and while I need various aids (knee braces, wrist braces, honestly a chair or scooter, migraine glasses, and more) I just dont use them or cant justify getting them.

God the way that a mobility aid would improve my quality of life is astounding and I recognize thats enough of a reason to then say “then I need it”, brain also wont let me! Because idk man? I just gotta “push through”.

I started this forlorn and now im mad. Mad at me and my situation and everything really. Im so fucking tired and in lots of pain and I just wish it didnt suck so hard. I just wish i wouldn’t push myself. Yall I have to have other people tell me “you dont want to go to the store, you want to go for a walk” so I dont push myself to be productive on my days off. I had to convince myself to stay home from classes today instead of pushing myself through it to then have to recover wednesday and not vane enough time to recover and then push myself through thursday and then have to push myself all the way back through again to start the damn cycle over next week.

Im working on accepting that im sick and its hard and we all have days where we relapse into “no im not im just xyz” but gdi. Im sick im sick im sick. I am disabled, my shits debilitating, its chronic im sick IM SICK I AM SICK

#ghost chatter #air vent rattling #vent #sick #chronic illness #chronic pain

3 notes · View notes

conchobarbarian · 6 months

Text

sunday scaries

monday mopeys

tuesday tearfuls

wednesday weepies

thursday throes

friday frights

saturday sulkings

3 notes · View notes

ddejavvu · 2 years

Note

what about a cuter weepy wednesday where the reader is kind of a baby and crybaby and one day peter comes home late so she’s overthinking and just starts crying when she sees him covered in blood but he’s all okay and comforts his precious baby:(

Despite the ache in his ribs, the pain shooting through his calf, and the sting of the cut on his cheek, Peter managed to catch you as you leapt into his arms. He let out a soft grunt, chuckling weakly into your shoulder as you buried your face in his neck.

"I'm okay," He cooed, a scraped hand running gently over your back as you sobbed into his shoulder, "I'm here, I'm okay, everything's fine."

"It's not fine!" You sniffled, your arms tightly wound around his shoulders, "You're all bloody and beaten up!"

"It's nothing," Peter shifted slightly on his feet, kicking off the shoes that he'd slipped on to complete his outfit before he took the elevator up to your apartment, "Really, angel. It's just a few scrapes, I can clean 'em up in no time."

"Lemme do it.' You reluctantly slid out of his arms, giving him a pitifully teary gaze as you pressed a kiss to his (mostly) unscathed lips, grimacing at the taste of copper.

He watched you work with a soft smile on his face, his eyes drooping slightly from how exhausted he was. You ripped off the last plastic piece on the spider-man bandages you'd picked up from the store, covering the gash running down his cheek.

"There," You looked somewhat satisfied, albeit still upset that he'd gotten so beat up. You leaned down to kiss the pad of the bandage on his cheek, tilting his jaw up gently so that you could reach it better. You tried to pull away afterwards, but Peter reached for your cheek, tugging you down into a proper kiss.

"Thank you for taking care of me." He murmured, lips brushing softly against yours as he spoke.

"Thank you for not dying." You sniffled, laughing tearily at his weak chuckle.

"I try my best, angel."

280 notes · View notes

chen-chen-chen-again-chen · 1 year

Text

WIP Wednesday

Thank you for the tag, @whogaveyoupermission! My brain is not very good at being a brain right now (depression sucks), but I am slowly creeping along with drafting my Lucy series, Rosethorn girl. In the latest instalment, Lucy came out gayer for Natasha than I anticipated; such is the beauty of the creative process.

Thank you, so many thank yous to everyone who has shown some love to the little snippets and bits of art that are part of the Rosethorn girl universe. Here's some more non-cursed AI-generated art:

My Gran

By Simon Snow Salisbury (age 7)

Pencil crayon on printer paper

Excerpt from an interview with the artist

Q: “Can you tell me a little bit about your subject?”

A: “This is Gran. Gran is your mum and she is brilliant at baking cakes. This cake had pink icing and lots of blueberries. I should’ve drawn more but I ate most of them already. Gran said it was okay it would be our secret and she added more blueberries after.”

Tags and a little story about Lady Ruth & wee Simon under the cut.

Excerpt from Ruth’s journal

June 28

Simon turned seven last week. At each of his birthdays, I can’t help but remember what it was like before I got to meet him, when he was just a hint dropped in Lucy’s letters.

Sometimes, it felt like I was being so silly - how can you miss someone that you’ve never even met? But I would wake up, with tears on my face, from dreams where I was holding him.

Simon and I made a cake today. Pink-purple icing flavoured with raspberries and blueberries, and a veritable flotilla of blueberries on top. I loved the look on his face when we cut it open, and he saw how the cake was marbled inside, vanilla white and blueberry purple-pink swirling together.

I hugged him, trying to be mindful of his wings and his tail. They’re special, but they aren’t what makes him special; he’s special because he’s Simon.

What a miracle it is, to be able to hold him outside of a dream.

He wriggled and asked, “Gran, can I have some cake?”

I laughed and let him go. “Of course, my best beloved. Of course.”

Sidebar: I love the address to the reader “O Best Beloved” from “The Elephant’s Child” (one of the Just So Stories) by Rudyard Kipling. I was charmed by the idea of either Lady Ruth or Andrew (Simon’s Grandda, who is a character in this universe) reading Just So Stories to wee Simon.

Sometimes I get weepy when I think of this universe and remember canon things like, “Oh, Simon never got to bake as a kid with his grandmother” or “Lucy and Simon never got to have Serious Talks about his fridge art” or “Lucy never lived past this age.”

And then I say “fuck the Mage” and try to write again.

Finally properly tagging (thanks to @larkral’s LIFE HACK): @artsyunderstudy, @bookish-bogwitch, @captain-aralias, @cutestkilla, @facewithoutheart, @fatalfangirl, @hushed-chorus, @ionlydrinkhotwater, @johnwgrey, @larkral, @martsonmars, @moodandmist, @nightimedreamersworld, @sailor-blossoms, @whogaveyoupermission, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe

#WIP #rosethorn girl #Lucy lives #fuck the Mage #simon's scrawlings #cover art by DALL-E #lady ruth salibsury #WIP Wednesday #my fic tag

25 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

shipvehicles

Ship Vehicles

mazuwii

Mazuwii

bluehair-love

Blue Hair Love

clerssic

celflags