#popping jaw | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

catharusustulatus · 6 months

Text

Steddie Drabble, sequel to this post.

TW: child abuse.

Steve doesn’t have much. Eddie had made them a list of things to grab before they’d headed over to the Harrington house, a list of clothes, toiletries, basics and such, with “shampoo” underlined and “bowling pin” circled. They’d borrowed an extra duffel from Marianne across the way, since they didn’t know if trash bags would be enough, and thank god they had, kid sure had a polo collection. But moving it all out of that place - nice car parked yet nobody home, they found, blood still on the carpet - and seeing it stacked up next to Eddie’s exploding menagerie were two different things. And it just seemed to Wayne, well, when Steve was up for it, maybe they’d go to the thrifty mart together.

Steve is quiet, on account of the pain he felt moving his face and the shyness he had shrunken into, having been quickly and sharply beaten and disowned and then thrust into a new life, a new space. Wayne knew it was different, going from a frequent guest who got to put on the charm to a hurting ball of need. To feel like a burden. He saw the same thing happen to Eddie, when he was a child; he changed from an energetic ragamuffin who’d visit Wayne once every couple months to a sad, angry teen who he had to figure out how to live with. But it had worked out. And seeing how gently Eddie cleans Steve’s bruised face, how he changes his whole schedule to take care of Steve, how he cuts fruit for Steve, hearing Eddie whisper Steve to sleep, he thinks it will work out again.

Wayne learns a lot about Steve over the next couple of weeks. He learns how good a cook Steve is, how good he is at making scrambled eggs, tuna melts. How his hair is a source of pride but also seems to show off how he’s doing, like it’s connected to his mood. Some days it’s sky-high and some days it’s flat until Eddie starts whistling up the walk. Wayne loves watching Steve’s hair puff up, his smile grow, and Eddie seems to do the trick. Wayne learns just about every shirt he has is striped, that he can’t hear that well on his left side, that he likes his toast burnt to a crisp.

One morning, a couple weeks after Steve becomes his second duckling, they’re both up early in the kitchen waiting for Eddie to rise. Steve is making bacon and pork sausage, shuffling the meat around and shuffling himself around, like he’s scared to say something. Finally Wayne says “what is it, son?” And Steve starts to cry, one slow beautiful tear down each cheek. He’s been looking better, lately, seeming brighter, but he’s still been holding his breath. It’s time to exhale.

“Thank you. For saving me,” Steve moves the pan to the back burner, meat cooked, looking away. Wayne turns the stove off, and folds Steve into his arms, chuckling. Steve smells like Eddie. Steve smells like Wayne’s tobacco.

“Ain’t no thing about it, boy,” Wayne whispers to Steve, trembling and clutching the spatula. “You’re safe. You’re family.” And he pulls away before he goes softer himself, coughs, turns the stove back on for Steve’s eggs. A small little smile creeps up on Steve’s lips, still shy but an agreement nonetheless. He’s home, making breakfast for those that love him. And later, they’ll go thrifting, get Steve a thicker winter coat, more kitchen tools, some striped pajamas.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #wayne munson #Wayne and Steve are my fave #eddie sleeps in most mornings and Steve and Wayne make breakfast #steve and wayne talk basketball and baseball and football and the best way to prepare a salmon #they go thrifting and start adding mugs to the collection #they buy Eddie a new amp for Christmas #Steve’s jaw still pops sometimes and he’ll get quiet if noises are too loud and he’s terrified of disappointing them #but he’s getting better #stranger things #steve harrington angst

218 notes · View notes

stararch4ngelqueen · 8 months

Text

Like a Horror Movie

A minor Zombie Ghost drabble to christen this account 💀🧟‍♂️✨

Heavily based off that one quote I saw where someone said Zombie Ghost broke his own jaw so he wouldn’t hurt you. 🙃

—

Is that…?

Your own thoughts grew nearly impossible to register over the chaotic rumbling of helicopter blades nearly half a mile away waiting for you.

“Keep running!” You heard a man’s shouting far ahead of you, or behind you, his accent grown heavier from such amplified, horrified distress in a race against time to outrun the dead.

Where it would take you, you didn’t know, but above ground was safer than the badlands below your aching feet.

The cold rain didn’t help, you weren’t sure why. It mingled with the sweat on your skin, tasting like cloyed gasoline on your tongue as it drooped along your lips. You didn’t want to run, but you had to. Evac had been waiting for you, in a helicopter at the end of the field.

Darkness invaded the night, the moon herself shielding her own eyes with dense, tearful clouds, diluting spilled blood and gasoline down along the earth.

You heard the shouting amidst all the gunfire. The gangrenous stench permeating the darkened fields, the flattened weeds under your boots from endless running.

You didn’t want to run anymore, the distress of your windpipes burning with each breath of air. All the bullets you wasted on reckless gunfire towards the mindless corpses that chased after you like relentless athletes had long since vanished.

You couldn’t stop, you knew that. One goal was on your mind as you continued along, pushing your limits to fight, to survive.

You could only imagine a haven on the other side of this, waiting for you with open, protective arms, promising a safe life that consisted of late mornings waking up to tired, dreary multicolored eyes, as the life you once had burned bright behind you.

You could’ve sworn you had an extra magazine on yourself, a strange attempt to grasp hold of it left you gasping and turning around, instantly failing your mission once you saw a tall, hulking beast coming to an abrupt halt at least eight feet away.

Is that him…? You recognized that uniform, sleeves torn from pitiful attempts to block the bloodied, infected flanges that scratched against his skin before sinking their teeth in.

But, the mask.

It had to be him, the meat on his body still clung to his bones, the decaying process too early still to peel the skin off his face.

“Lass! The fuck are you doing?! Hurry!!” Your partner called to you, the only other survivor from your once strong bodied team.

It was him. There was no one else you knew that was like him.

But, why was he here?? He was supposed to have secured this evac sight. He was supposed to be waiting for you, with a rifle in hand and an outstretched palm, lifting you up onto the platform towards that shimmering haven you desired.

The picturesque of such a high hoped eternity vanished like the snuff of a candle light within a canopy.

The watercolor that made up his eyes had long since washed off its leather canvas, replaced by two pearls without their iridescent sheen, measly shielded by dark, heavy lids.

Oh, Simon.

The way he stared you down wasn’t like that of an undead beast, like in the movies. He didn’t groan, or growl or grunt. As in life, his syllables were silenced by choice, giving him an etch of humanity based off your memory of his personality.

Did you fight? Of course you did. You’d never go down that easily.

But you knew better than to believe he was still alive. Like a stalking beast preparing to pounce, a killer always waits, preparing to pounce at just the right chance.

You weren’t unsuspecting, but waiting. Your heart ringing in your ears, your tears indistinguishable from this odd, putrid acid rain.

You were waiting, because you couldn’t go on. Not like this. You couldn’t see yourself rushing towards that helicopter, towards a dark, dreary existence, towards a life that meant living in dreadful solitude.

Did you scream out? What did you yell? Where did they bite you first?

You simply dropped your pistol, your rifle hanging carelessly by your side. An open target with blinking red lights and white flags, one that even the undead variant of the man you loved wasn’t stupid enough to resist.

Did it hurt? What did you think last? I’m sorry, I wasn’t there to protect you, or stopped you. Stopped you from reaching this point.

But, where did he come from? Why did he chase you all the way here? Or was he waiting for you? Could he tell, or was did this disease render him absolutely starved?

You didn’t need to scream it, you just needed to stand and wait, unable to fight the flinch of his body bursting from his spot, thick mud sloshing under his boots as he ran towards his prize.

When his unlatched, severed jaw failed to make its mark, it didn’t matter. This undead version of the soldier you loved wasn’t the man you knew, yet his ever strong determination remained.

You would’ve closed your eyes, should’ve even, but you couldn’t. Despite your hard flinch, you refused to let your last memory be of darkness as hot, heavy top teeth attempted to sever the sinews of your neck. Humid, heavy fermented breath and blood dampened the fabric fabric protecting your clavicle once his head drops lower, the straps of your helmet proving too pitiful to protect you much longer.

Even in death, he would find a way to kill you. He could break open your rib cage to feast at your quick beating heart inside, and you’d let him, dying while knowing he held onto your heart one last time.

His hands grasped hold of your shoulders, his heavy, dead weight forcing you off your feet in seconds, your tense body preparing to meet the cold, muddy ground.

The world went quiet, the screaming of your teammate ceased, your eyes merely catching a glimpse of the stars peeking through the crying heavens as your lover prepares to eat you whole.

The warmth of cotton sheets remained ever so soothing against the skin along your bare back, a hint of detergent making a pitiful note in the layer of expensive cologne.

An expensive brand you had bought him for his birthday.

Your eyes opened to promptly gaze into the darkness of the night, greeted with muffled breeze beating along your bedroom windows.

“Simon—?” Your croaked, emotional tone rasped out into the warm, stuffy ambiance, your aware self processing the emotions your dream state simply refused.

Warm arms reinforced their hold along your waist underneath cashmere blankets, tattooed skin nestled snug against your back. Usually, you’d hear his patterned breathing as during rare chances you had woken up while he slept, but this time, he merely waited.

Maybe you mumbled words in your sleep, or swatted your hand along his side, something to have roused him from his slumber.

Click. The warmth of a bedside lamplight vanished the darkness blanketing the room, the solidarity of each of your senses pointing out where you were.

Simple, minimalist decorated walls. A rich, dark red throw blanket you recalled wrapping yourself in while on the couch during movie night now sprawled over the corner of your bed.

The very same blanket Simon wrapped you in before carrying you off to sleep, temporarily embracing you in an exotic cocoon as your mind processed which dream you were to have.

“I’m here, love,” his voice rasps against your neck, the bridge of his nose brushing against your lower left clavicle.

Your head turned just enough to meet his gaze as his rose, greeted with the warmth of his tired, half asleep face, his hair slightly rustled after a minor process of anxious, short sleep.

The lamp ignited the warmth in his ever so exhausted eyes. Tiger’s eyes hues submerged in the deep blue waters of Alaska, heavy lids shadowed over with visible concern for your cold sweat riddled distress.

Warm blood pulsing through his heart, urging his cells to maintain the tone of his skin, the hint of pink in his cheeks, the hues of fool’s gold that made up the palate of his irises reflecting off the warm light.

His eyes flicker along the details of your face, as if instantly suspecting something. His hand makes a gentle effort to cup along the outskirt of your bare thigh, his heavy palm settling around your waist.

“Don’t tell me you had a damn nightmare already,” he mutters against your hair, practically able to hear the hitch in your breath after such an unsettling silence.

“Let me guess. The Walking Dead?”

“Nuh uh.” You mumble, silently thankful for the sound of his beating heart close to your ear, a smile tickling your face. “Shaun of the Dead.”

“Christ’s sake,” he grunts out, adjusting the position of his head, settling his cheek along your skull. The upside over movie streaming, he can tell if you’re lying about it in the morning on your watch history.

He didn’t ask what you dreamt of, not yet at least. He didn’t want to know, not unless you offered, or he was cruel enough to pry. For now, Simon wondered what that dream would’ve meant, if it contained the undead.

He thought for a while, wondering if you found yourself dreaming you were bit by a zombie. What an impossible image for him to come by.

Your hair smelled of honey and oat, your skin kissed with warm sugar from your lotion, and a faint butteriness from your homemade dark chocolate drizzled popcorn you made for horror movie night.

No, you were too sweet to be considered sickly deceased in such a crude manner. Him, however?

No, no he began to suspect, but those were thoughts he refused to ponder.

“Only one week in, an’ you’ve lost it. Don’t plan to watch anything with zombies for next weekend.”

“What about… Friday the 13th?”

“Pick something else in the morning, go back to sleep princess.”

Y’know how you’re trying to sleep and you wake up after feeling like falling? Imagine that. That’s what happened.

Idk how to write zombies, so this is all I got 🧍🏽‍♀️📱

#simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #cod #cod modern warfare ii #cod zombies #call of duty x reader #ghost x reader #ghost cod #simon Riley zombie #ghost zombie #zombie ghost #his jaw wiggles #until his jaw falls off #until it’s jaw dropping to the floor #until it pops back on like a Lego piece #until it falls into the river in Lego City

361 notes · View notes

br-uwu-cewayne · 2 years

Text

Thinking about the sounds basically all of late 30's/early 40's (where i typically like to place him) Bruce's joints must make constantly, like

The man is a walking bag of pop rocks.

He gets up to give his presentation and the entire Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors winces at the loud pop from his right knee but he just keeps breezing on. Most are just convinced he's got some kind of arthritis though.

The batfam, on the other hand, who know exactly what it is, full on flinch in sympathetic pain. Not because it's particularly painful, just the sounds seem like it should be, and they know that it's from all the hard hits and trauma his body's been through.

Like... helping with cleanup after dinner.

("B, we have a butler." "No, I have a butler. And it builds character. Teaches responsibility. Now grab a dishtowel and get to it.")

Bruce is at the sink doing the rinsing and his left elbow crackles and Dick fully drops a plate on the floor.

Or one night he's having stoic silent re-bonding time with Jason in the batcave, working on the car. He's on a skateboard under it and plants his feet and pushes to shift his position and his ankles click-click-click like the engine turning over, making Jason jump and bang his head on the hood.

He reaches up to a shelf in the library for a book almost just out of reach and his shoulder casually snaps out and back in to place as he extends and retracts, and Tim accidentally tears a page in the book he's reading.

He turns his head slightly just to look to the fucking left a bit at the dinner table, his neck gives a little machine gun like ratta-tatt, and Damian is pushing his ate away, appetite fully lost.

I must reiterate here, Bruce is having absolutely zero reaction to these sounds. At all.

The man is a fucking bowl of rice krispies 24/7, and he's just... whistlin' through his day, off to play No Thoughts Head Empty Wii Music On Loop Brucie paying his speeding tickets at the GCPD, completely oblivious to the entire bullpen flinching as he leaned over the counter.

And don't even get me started on what the Supers must pick up on.

#my good man... you are not in your late twenties anymore #you are not even in your 'late twenties.'#it is... obvious my guy #lmao ffs what if thats how Gordon figures him out?#A bored Brucie giving an over exaggerated yawn at some stuffy city hall function: jaw go POP!#On a stake out later that week and Batman opens his mouth just to take a sip of his coffee: jaw go POP!#'...jesus CHRIST bruce.'#bruce wayne #batman

1K notes · View notes