#he sleeps without his pillow under his head and instead likes to hold it in his hands

[dontmakemebabyblue]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒐𝒖

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟖 | 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

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ok so I didn’t mean for Ghost's povs to only be him getting emotional over someone napping but hear we are🥲(so please enjoy Simon having an emotional crisis in real time while you drool on your pillow.)

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He tells himself he’ll only stay until you fall asleep.

Just long enough to make sure you settle, that your breathing evens out and your body relaxes. Then he’ll get up go sit by the fire, maybe stand watch by the window. He doesn’t sleep much anyway. Hasn’t for years. Not properly. Not the kind that sticks.

The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and the blankets shift with your movements. He keeps his back angled toward you, giving space, because it feels like the right thing to do. He listens to the soft rustle of fabric as you get comfortable. The way your breath catches slightly just once as if even now, you’re unsure how much to let go.

You shift again. Closer, but still not touching.

The firelight flickers faintly across the wall. He watches it with half-lidded eyes, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting loose against his stomach. He doesn't remove his mask he never does but there's something about being horizontal that already feels unfamiliar. Exposed, even.

Still, he doesn’t move.

You let out a slow, quiet breath beside him. The kind of breath that only comes after days of holding everything in.

And that sound it makes something inside him twist.

So he stays.

Just a little longer, he thinks. Just to keep watch.

He lets his eyes flick around the room once. Checks the door. The windows. Listens for anything beyond the soft crackle of the fire. It's instinct. Habit. The part of his brain that never shuts off. Always scanning. Always tense.

But here? There's nothing to find. No threat. No pressure. Just the warm hush of a space that doesn’t feel temporary, even though it is.

Your breathing changes deeper now, steady.

You're asleep.

He should get up.

Instead, he turns his head, just slightly. Eyes find your silhouette in the dim light. You’ve curled onto your side facing him now, your face half-buried in the pillow, your hair fanned out around you face like a halo. One arm is tucked beneath your chin, the other resting over the blanket. You look peaceful in a way he doesn’t know how to describe. Not innocent. You’re not that. But… safe.

It's unfamiliar this softness. The quiet intimacy of sharing a bed without expectation. Without schemes. Just being here. Just existing near someone and not feeling like the world might cave in if you let your guard down.

He watches your chest rise and fall. Slow. Rhythmic. Almost hypnotic.

He tells himself again that he’ll move in a minute.

Just a minute.

But time blurs. Your breathing keeps that steady rhythm, inhale, exhale. Inhale… exhale. Like a metronome pulling the edges of his thoughts inward. Slowing everything down.

His body sinks heavier into the mattress. Muscles that have been tense for weeks finally start to unwind. Piece by piece. Breath by breath.

He doesn’t realize when his eyes finally close. Doesn’t notice the exact moment when your breathing stops being the thing he’s keeping track of and becomes the thing that lulls him under.

But for the first time in what feels like years… Ghost sleeps.

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tag list: @floweronacloud @full-cover32bitch @headphones-on100 let me know if you want to be added! ( ˘ ³˘)♥

[bradleysass]

sugar - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 658

The world was ending.

At least, that’s what Evan Rosier’s brain was insisting on as it pulsed like a second heartbeat behind his left eye. The pain had started dull, just a low thrum that he thought he could ignore. But as the morning dragged into afternoon, and the search for caffeine yielded nothing but disappointment and dust in the back of their pantry, Evan’s nerves wore thin and his headache roared.

The coffee tin was empty. The fridge contained no soda. Even the little packets of caffeinated lemonade he’d hoarded last month were gone, probably used during one of Barty’s hyper-focus cleaning frenzies.

So now, Evan was curled sideways on the couch like a feral cat, hood up, the blanket drawn around him like a shield against the sun—and sound—and life. His phone was face-down on the floor. The lights were off. The silence was nearly holy.

Which is why, when the front door opened and Barty stomped in talking far too loudly, Evan’s first instinct was murder.

“…and I told him,” Barty’s voice echoed through the entry, “you can’t just say that to someone at a Whole Foods, Reg. It’s not 2006—”

“Barty,” Evan croaked like a wounded beast.

The footsteps stopped.

Then, cautiously: “Hi, love.”

“I swear to god,” Evan muttered into the throw pillow, “if you brought someone home and didn’t warn me—”

“I texted you—”

“My head is splitting and you texted?” Evan sat up and turned toward them with the lethargic fury of a man betrayed by his own household. His hair was a mess, there were shadows under his eyes, and his hoodie sleeve had a suspicious coffee stain that was definitely not fresh.

Regulus hovered behind Barty, holding a six-pack of sparkling water like it might defend him.

“…Should I leave?” Regulus asked, voice quiet, already inching backward.

“No,” Evan groaned, dragging the blanket off his lap and throwing it aside. “Just don’t speak. Don’t breathe loudly. Don’t exist within a ten-foot radius of me.”

“He’s being dramatic,” Barty said, then took one look at Evan’s squinting expression and corrected, “Actually, no, he’s just dying of caffeine withdrawal.”

“There’s nothing in this house,” Evan said, nearly accusatory. “You drank the last of my Coke. I saw you. You made eye contact with me while doing it.”

Regulus bit back a laugh. Evan snapped his gaze toward him. “What. Is. Funny.”

“Nothing,” Regulus replied immediately.

“You could’ve stopped at the corner store,” Evan hissed at Barty, flopping back down on the couch like it physically hurt to remain upright. “But instead you brought home him.”

Barty held up a paper bag. “I did stop. I just didn’t say it yet because you were busy cursing my bloodline.”

Evan blinked. Sat up again. Reached for the bag with suspicious reverence.

He pulled out an iced sugared coffee. Then a can of cold brew. Then a bottle of some fancy espresso milk drink with a label entirely in French. His eyes narrowed.

“…Why are there three?”

“I panicked,” Barty said with a shrug. “Didn’t know what mood you'd be in. And Regulus said your taste is ‘oddly European.’”

Regulus looked smug for a moment, then sobered up when Evan gave him a dead-eyed stare.

“I still hate both of you,” Evan muttered, twisting the cap off the French espresso bottle. “But I’ll hate you slightly less once the caffeine hits.”

As he took a long drink, silence settled in the living room again—calm, blissful silence. Barty sat beside him, gently running a hand down Evan’s back in a slow stroke that didn't jostle or disrupt, just offered presence.

Regulus tiptoed to the kitchen like a man trying to escape a sleeping dragon.

“…You bring him home again tomorrow,” Evan said without looking up, “I will commit arson.”

Barty smiled, unfazed. “But you'll be caffeinated enough to make it look like an accident.”

Evan didn’t answer. He took another sip instead.

[lestapiastrisgirl]

Circuit of Love - Gilles-Villneuve

BONUS SCENE

They were a tangle of limbs and sweat and lazy satisfaction. Max on his stomach, arms folded under the pillow, Charles tucked against his side with Oscar draped half-over both of them like the sweat cooling against their skin was a balm.

For once, no one was rushing toward sleep. Just drifting.

Until Oscar said, way too casually, “So, I bent Charles over his Ferrari in the garage earlier.”

Max blinked.

Then turned his head slowly toward Charles, “You did what?”

Charles groaned, attempting to hide his face in Max’s shoulder.

“I hate you,” he muttered at Oscar, muffled by cotton and muscle.

Oscar just grinned, “You didn’t hate me then.”

Max sat up, dislodging both of them, like someone had just hit the DRS button on his brain, “Hold on. You’re telling me you fucked him. Over the car. Like—over the actual Ferrari?”

Oscar stretched, “He was practically draped over the cockpit. His hands gripping the halo and everything. Not the only white-knuckling he does in that car, but I'm sure the most satisfying. It was very poetic.”

Max’s mouth dropped open in mock horror, “Taking him on hallowed Ferrari grounds? That’s disgusting. I’m so proud of you.”

Charles shoved a pillow over his face as he attempted to roll away from them, “You’re insufferable. Both of you.”

Max leaned down, clearly enjoying every second of Charles’s embarrassment, “Did you moan for him, schatje? Right there in the garage? All bent over like a good little—”

Charles launched the pillow at his head, but Max caught it easily and tucked it under his arm to stop a further assault.

Oscar snorted, “He was gorgeous. Helmet still on the floor. Race suit still half-off. Didn’t even get to take my time. The sight was unbelievable, Max.”

Max made a sound like he was physically restraining himself, “God. That’s so hot I’m going to have to ban you both from Ferrari.”

“You sound like your just dying to have been in Osc's place,” Charles said dryly, rolling onto his back to glare at the ceiling.

“Oh, I wish,” Max said. “What I wish for more though, is to have been about to see him bend you over to take care of you and fuck you in all the ways Ferrari can't.”

Oscar was howling now.

Charles groaned again, dragging a hand over his face, “This is why I didn’t tell you.”

“I want a video next time,” Max completely ignoring Charles. “Jesus.”

Oscar propped himself up on one elbow, eyeing Max, “You think you wouldn't get an invite?”

“I better,” Max’s grin was absolutely unholy. “But we need something solid that we can go back to again and again to remind Charles of the only thing that car is good for.”

"Oh?”

“Ferrari has fucked him over too many times, when he should be fucked over one instead.”

Oscar raised a brow, “Keep talking like that and I'll have to have a mellow dramatic breakdown after a race too.”

“So now you want a turn,” Max said, voice smug and certain. “You want to be bent over your car, in your garage, while Lando’s doing his Sky interview twenty feet away?”

Oscar blinked, “Well… When you put it that way...”

Charles made a strangled noise, “Can’t we go one race weekend without threatening to fuck on company property?”

Max leaned in close, all teeth and delight, “Not when you keep making it so easy.”

“I hate you,” Charles mumbled.

“You love us,” Max corrected, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Are you saying you wouldn't want me to watch Oscar have his way with you in your garage? Or you wouldn't want to watch me put the championship leader in his place?”

Charles turned scarlet.

Oscar just grinned and dragged the blanket up over all three of them like it might save any of them from what they’d just started.

Spoiler: it wouldn’t.

-

I didn’t have this ready in time for Canada and thought I could stick it in at the beginning of the Austria chapter, but sadly, it messes with the flow.

Hope you enjoy!! 💖

[pastabaguette]

the last one is for all the people that are asking me to draw gamquius. i have a confession: i don't like gamquius. equigam? i don't know, both names are bad. i once saw someone call it high horse, which i like better.

anyway this is all you get. to clarify, they are NOT having sex in his thought bubble. they are only kissing. i'm not very good at drawing kissing because i don't care about kissing in the slightest, real or fictional. sorry about this.

( i don't actually care if you ship high horse. that's fine. i'm just being dramatic for the sake of humor. )

[blueberrisdove-sideblog2]

Mydei curled beside you like a lion cub—if lion cubs were six-foot-something beasts made of muscle and quiet fury. His body was too big for the bed, but he didn’t care, didn’t move, just kept one heavy arm slung over your stomach like a warning to the world. His face was buried half into the pillow, half into your shoulder, and even though he was pretending to sleep, you could feel the tension in his jaw. He was pissed. At himself. At you. At everything. But mostly at the fact that he didn’t know how to fix it without looking stupid.

“You done sulking?” you muttered, voice a little hoarse from yelling earlier. His grip on you tightened like a vice. “I ain’t sulking,” he grunted, voice low and rough, scratchy from smoke and snapping earlier. “M’trying not to snap your fuckin’ head off again.” You rolled your eyes, but your heart stuttered a little at that. That was his way of saying he regretted it. Not the best way, but it was Mydei. He wasn’t the type to apologize. He was the type to hold you like this instead, like a storm that didn’t know how to rain without breaking something.

His hand slid up under your shirt, this time just dragging his callused palm up your ribs, not even trying anything. Just touching. Just claiming. “You always run your mouth,” he muttered against your skin, voice low and grumbly like thunder. “But you’re mine. You get that, right?” You didn’t answer right away, just let him touch you, let him prove his point in silence. Eventually you breathed out, soft. “You’re such a damn caveman.” He snorted—barely a laugh—but you felt his body finally relax.

He pulled you closer like it was instinct, like his whole body only knew how to pull you in and never let go. His mouth pressed against your collarbone, not a kiss, just heat and breath and teeth barely brushing skin. “Don’t care what you call me,” he mumbled. “Just shut up and stay.” You blinked up at the ceiling, heart thudding hard. He wasn’t romantic. He wasn’t sweet. But that? That was something close. That was as soft as it got with him.

You didn’t say anything. Just reached down and grabbed his hand, dragging it back to your waist. His fingers flexed, tightening like he was proud. Like good. He didn’t say another word. Didn’t have to. His body said it all—pressing you down, wrapped around you like armor. He’d argued with you, nearly scared you off, and now he held you like if anyone even looked your way again, he’d break their jaw. And honestly? You wouldn’t want it any other way.

[cece693]

Just something short I thought of—sad Bucky because he thinks reader is planning on leaving him or just doesn't love him anymore. Like, you're ignoring him (not on purpose), but that makes the man go down a spiral of doubts which leads to comfort. It's definitely shorter than my other works, but I hope you enjoy it!

Did I Do Something Wrong?

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader tags: sad bucky, misunderstandings, reader is just busy, I promise, comfort, fluff all the way, short little fic, might even be considered an imagine

Bucky tried not to let the little things get to him. The first time you brushed his hand aside, you’d been running on only a couple hours of sleep. After returning from a week-long mission, you were bone-tired—so you mumbled a distracted “Sorry,” shut your eyes, and promptly drifted off. Bucky told himself not to worry. You were exhausted, that was all.

But days passed, and the pattern persisted.

The next time he reached for you—lightly resting his palm on your waist while you scrolled through mission logs—you shrugged him off without a second glance. Then there were the mornings he woke up alone, the bed already cooling on your side by the time he blinked blearily at the clock. You were usually a late riser, but now? You were gone before the sun had fully climbed the sky. Sure, you’d told him you liked to get a head start on the day, to train or do paperwork, but it still left Bucky feeling abandoned.

And then there was Natasha.

Bucky had caught you and Nat in a quiet corner of the common room, laughing together, your heads bent in conspiratorial whispers. From a distance, it looked so intimate. He tried not to imagine the worst—he trusted you, he knew Nat was a close friend—but old insecurities, the remnants of a lifetime of trust issues, began to creep up. If you were distant from him, but so playful and close with Natasha…maybe your feelings had changed.

It all came to a head late one night when you finally tumbled into bed after a punishing day. Bucky was waiting for you, eyes filled with longing, an unspoken plea hidden in the furrow of his brow. You settled under the covers, practically collapsing into the pillows. You felt Bucky shift closer, his arms trying to wrap around your waist—but you were so groggy you hardly registered it. Without meaning to, you scooted away, giving yourself room to breathe.

It was enough to break him.

“Do I—” Bucky started, then swallowed hard, heart pounding. “Do I disgust you now?”

The sheer pain in his voice made you crack open your eyes. You squinted at him, your exhaustion making things blurry for a moment. His expression was drenched in equal parts hurt and fear. The exhaustion clinging to your brain cleared in an instant as alarm and confusion set in.

“Bucky,” you murmured, voice heavy with fatigue, “why would you say that?”

“I don’t know.” He let out a rough exhale and ran his metal hand through his hair. “You never let me touch you anymore, you brush me off, you’re gone before I wake up. Half the time, I see you with Natasha instead. I just—I can’t figure out what I did, and it’s killing me.”

Your heart twisted as you finally registered the desperation in his eyes. He looked so lost, like a man expecting the worst. Pushing yourself upright, you shifted closer until your knees bumped against his hip, your gaze locked on his.

“Bucky,” you said softly, leaning in to brush a thumb over his cheek. “I’m not—I would never want to push you away. I haven’t been avoiding you on purpose.”

“But you are,” he insisted, voice small. It cracked a little on the last word. “You keep brushing me off, you don’t let me hold you. I…I don’t understand.”

You inhaled, guilt gnawing at your stomach as you realized how it must have looked from his perspective. “I’m so sorry,” you breathed. “I’ve just been so worn down. Between missions, late-night meetings, and a sleepless schedule, I’ve been running on fumes.” Your hand cupped his jaw, urging him to look right at you.

“I wake up early because…well, I know how important rest is for you. With the nightmares and everything, you don’t always sleep that well, and I didn’t want to risk waking you. So I figured if I slipped out quietly, you could stay under for a few more hours, maybe get some real rest.”

He blinked, startled. “You—You left so I could sleep better?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice soft with apology. “You’re not disgusting to me. Far from it. I’m just so drained that half the time I don’t even realize I’m brushing you off. I’m on autopilot.” You sighed, pressing your palm against the place where his flesh arm met his shoulder. “As for Nat, we’re just close, like you and Steve. She’s been checking in on me, and I’ve been venting to her about mission stress. That’s all.”

Bucky’s posture loosened. You could see the confusion in his eyes giving way to fragile relief. Still, the ache in his voice lingered as he asked, “So, you’re not fed up with me? You’re not looking for a reason to leave?”

“No,” you vowed. “I love you. I’m sorry I made you think otherwise. I’ve just been overwhelmed—no excuse, I know, but I promise, it’s not you.” You gently pulled him closer, letting him lean against you. “I’ll always need you, Bucky. Never doubt that.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling the breath he seemed to have been holding for days. Quietly, he brought a tentative hand to your waist, as if checking if it was really okay to hold you. Instead of moving away, you leaned your weight into him, letting your body mold to his.

You pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’m still tired, but not too tired to show you how much I care.” Wrapping your arms around him, you rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades, hoping to soothe his lingering fears. “Just let me make it up to you, okay?”

Bucky managed a small, wobbly smile, eyes burning with unshed tears of relief. “You don’t have to make up anything,” he murmured. “Just let me know what going on. Even if you have to leave in the morning, wake me up first. Tell me, so I know it’s not because you don’t want me around.”

A rush of warmth spread through your chest. “Deal,” you agreed, brushing your nose lightly against his.

With that reassurance hanging like a comforting blanket between you, Bucky allowed himself to settle into the bed, your arms wound safely around him. Soon enough, your shared warmth and the quiet of the night eased the frantic anxiety in his chest. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling that familiar scent that reminded him you were his—and that no amount of exhaustion or misunderstandings could ever truly sever the bond you two shared.

In the morning, you did wake him up, gently this time. You had a briefing in a few hours, but before you left, you let him know—forehead pressed to his, your heart full of affection. Bucky watched you go with a subdued smile, heart so much lighter than it had been before.

[un-fwuit-un-fwog]

First Choice

Synopsis: The Prefect has to choose a dorm to move into, and they immediately think of Leona.

TW: it's relatively vague, but it's mentioned that The Prefect was uncomfortable with the thought of staying in other dorms for reasons you would imagine a woman wouldn't want to stay in a space with all men (specifically, she's overheard jokes, and noticed looks that made her uncomfortable (I try to keep it vague though))

Fem! Reader x Leona

You sat in Crowley's office with your arms crossed and a tired expression on your face. You had walked back to Ramshackle after another long day of classes and mayhem just to find the roof had caved in.

Crowley sat in silent contemplation as if he were actually mulling over the issue like someone who actually cared before snapping his fingers with a triumphant smile on his face: "Because I am so kind, I shall allow you the opportunity to choose one of the 7 dorms to move into!"

Your face remained blank. It's not that you disliked the idea of being able to sleep in a building that you didn't have to worry about leaks, mold, collapses, and cave ins, but you weren't too fond of the idea of having to live with a bunch of men.

You mulled over your options for a moment before sighing and pulling out your phone. Crowley looked at you quizzically. "I wanna make sure it's okay with him first" you mumble under your breath.

Moments later, you get a text from Leona: "Whatever."

You figured that would be as close to a yes as you could get, so you relayed the information to Crowley.

Just then, another buzz of your phone came: "Don't bring the d*mn cat."

Well, that complicated things. You weren't too fond of the idea of leaving Grim behind. Crowley, on the other hand, thought it was a glorious idea. He'd send Grim off to Heartslabyul (without consulting with Riddle first, of course). Surely, some time in the strictest dorm would do the little critter some good.

Before either of you could protest, he was already out the door holding grim by the collar.

When you arrived at Savanaclaw, it was already late. Ruggie greeted you with a snicker and tossed you a basket of laundry to bring up to Leona's room.

"Can't have ya freeloading" was the hyena's excuse.

"Delivery." A yawn slipped from your mouth as you dropped the basket of laundry just inside the door.

A rustling came from the bed before moments later a grumpy lion finally lifted his head to look at you. "The h*ll are you doing here?"

". . .You said I could stay, remember?"

Leona's tail flicks back and forth a few times before he flops back down. "Was half expecting ya to choose a different dorm instead."

With a hum, you closed his door and picked the basket back up to set it next to his closet. "Now, why would I do that?"

You heard a scoff come from Leona "In case ya haven't noticed, Savanaclaw isn't exactly a prissy little proper dorm with a-"

You cut your upper classman off by throwing a pillow at his face.

"Oops, my hand slipped" you hum as you set the laundry basket down again.

Leona growls, but he doesn't move. If anyone else were to throw a pillow at him, he'd likely rip their throat out, but with you, he didn't have that compulsion. "The h*ll was that for?"

"Is that really what you think I'd be looking for in a dorm I'll have to move into?" As you speak, you casually sit on the edge of his bed so you can meet his eyes and give him a 'really?' look.

"Yes." His response is blunt and to the point.

A sigh slips from your lips as you stand up "Seriously?"

"Well what else would you be looking for?" He scoffs with a roll of his eyes "And which of those criteria would you find in this dorm?"

"You're here." You reply without having to think and as if the answer is obvious.

In response, Leona just stares at you disbelievingly.

"I'm serious. The moment Crowley said I had to move into a dorm, this was the first one I thought of, and because of you."

He remains silent, his expression only becoming more skeptical. Don't get him wrong, when you said he was your first thought, your first choice, it made something tighten in his chest. However, anyone can lie, and your current sentiment sounds completely improbable to him.

Another exasperated sigh leaves your mouth before you motion for him to scoot over.

Surprisingly, he complies and gives you space to sit crisscross next to him. "I'm the only girl in this school."

"Obviously." You give him a quick warning glare at his snarky comment, and he raises his hands.

"As I was saying, I'm the only girl in this school. I'm not saying I particularly distrust the other students here, but that doesn't change the fact that I constantly find myself in settings here that make me feel unsafe."

Leona's once swishing tail stills, but his expression remains neutral.

"Sure, I have friends in other dorms, but, for one reason or another, I never feel fully at ease in those spaces."

"And you do here?"

"Yes."

The room falls silent for a moment before you continue: "I can't fully explain it, but. . .I said that the reason I chose to come to Savanaclaw was because you're here. That matters because. . .I feel safe around you."

Leona scoffs before he can stop himself. "I tried to kill you."

"Yes, but I've never worried that you'd do worse."

Leona's eyes widen a fraction at the statement. He debates asking for a moment, but eventually decides to: "And you have about others?"

Silence falls once more, but this time it feels much heavier.

"Some of it is just a lack of knowing,. . .but sometimes I hear people make unsavory jokes. . .and sometimes I catch a glint in people's eyes that I'm not sure I want to know the thoughts behind."

Before the atmosphere can get too awkward, you clap your hands together, "That or sometimes I just feel like people don't know how to treat me because I'm a girl." you add, trying to lighten the mood.

"But I've never felt that way with you. You respect my space and my boundaries but still treat me like a normal person."

Deciding it's probably best not to talk about the previous subject too much as you seem uncomfortable with it (not that he's going to forget it though), he follows along with the topic shift. "Nobody else in any other dorm does that?" he scoffs "It's the bare minimum, nothin' special." His words don't come off as being said in a way to subtly tell you to pick a different dorm to stay in, that he doesn't want you here, but rather as genuinely curious and with a barely noticeable undertone that way maybe. . .threatening?

"It's not that nobody else does. . .it's hard to explain. You not only treat me with respect, but by doing so, you encourage others around you to do the same. Last time I stayed here, you always seemed to be there to step in if anyone crossed any boundaries or said anything that made me uncomfortable. When I returned to your room looking even slightly uncomfortable, you'd notice and take me seriously when I had a concern instead of brushing it off."

Noticing you had just rambled off praise, you quickly add "And you're a dorm leader, so staying in your room would surely deter anyone from trying anything! Cause you're big and scary. . .haha."

Leona is eerily silent for a while before he huffs and lets a grin creep onto his face. "I didn't know you thought so highly of me, Herbivore."

You roll your eyes and lightly punch his arm, grateful for how he lightened the mood.

"Well, I could easily give the same praise to plenty of other people, some of whom are even dorm leaders." you scoff playfully. "I genuinely don't know why it's just you that makes me so comfortable."

"Maybe ya have a thing for me." the lion jokes.

Normally, you'd be put off by such a comment, but coming from Leona, you can tell it has nothing nasty or creepy behind it.

"As if!" You try your best to sound firm and to match his sarcasm, but a light blush creeps to your face.

Leona originally wasn't going to push the matter, but seeing your positive reaction, he continues, "Oh? I seem to recall you mentioning that I was your first choice though."

"You know I didn't mean it like that!" you hiss, irritated by the smirk on his face.

You move to get up, but before you do, Leona lightly stops you. "What are you-"

He cuts you off by resting his chin on your shoulder from behind and lifting his phone into the air. You catch on to what he's doing, and decide to just go along with it. . .but not without getting him back for a bit of his earlier teasing.

You lift one hand to cradle his cheek that isn't pressed against your neck and give your best smile. If Leona is phased by the action, he doesn't show it as he quickly clicks the picture and posts it on his virtually dead magicam account, making sure to tag the other dorm leaders in the post.

"You're a jerk" you sigh, watching him hit post.

You leave the room a bit later to take a shower in the bathroom attached to his room, and only then does he allow the faintest of blushes to creep onto his face.

Partially because of you holding his face, partially because of your praise, but mostly because of something you said much earlier.

He was your first thought. He was your first choice.

Leona was never first.

You had 7 dorms to choose from and you chose his arguably unappealing one where it was always humid and full of sweaty guys roughhousing.

It wasn't that you thought of the dorm first, you thought of him. He was your first choice. He is your first choice.

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[julymusings]

will you hold me instead, and tell me that it's over now?

i look forward to a little me and you, so now i hope that you don't tell me that it's over

or; patching jason up after an intense mission [2.1k]

jason todd x fem!reader; angst/fluff; brief mentions of human trafficking and allusion to murder (he's talking about how the mission went); mention of his scars; jason being insecure & thinking he's not good enough😞; description of injuries and the first aid applied to them (please do not take anything as actual medical advice); this is me hard-launching my physical touch x touch starved!jason agenda

You don’t know how early it is when you hear the sound of the front door opening and closing, just that it’s too early. It’s not like you could sleep anyway; you spent the night drifting in and out of semi-consciousness, too worried to let yourself relax. You always got like this when Jason went away on missions. Several days, and sometimes even weeks, spent anxiously anticipating the state in which he would return home—you haven’t been able to get a manicure since before you met him.

You’re still a little delirious when a hand ghosts up your arm, stirring you from your half-sleep. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room and register the sight in front of you. Your boyfriend is on one knee on the floor in front of you, brushing strands of hair out of your face with endearing eyes.

“There she is,” he says when you lift your head off the pillow and reach out to him. He catches your hand and kisses your fingertips, spreading a warmth up your arm that combats the midnight chill. You push yourself up to a sitting position, and he takes the opportunity to cup his hands around your face and bring you in for a kiss.

“Missed you,” you mumble against him, and his lips curve upwards against yours.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.” His mouth travels up from yours towards your temple, leaving a path of gentle kisses in his wake. Your palms, pressed flat against his chest, slide up to loop around his neck. He tenses, choking back a strained grunt. But you catch it.

You pull back abruptly. “Are you hurt?” Your eyes frantically dart around, scanning his entire body. Now fully alert, you reach over to the bedside table and switch the lamp on.

“’s just a bruise, baby, I’m fine.” A hand comes up to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness. But with newly unobstructed vision, you can see more than just a bruise. He has a busted lip, a shallow gash on his temple, and splotches of purple and red peeking out of his shirt collar.

“You’re bleeding, Jason,” you chastise him, getting up off the bed.

He stands alongside you with a huff. “It’s nothing,” he sighs. “Doesn’t even hurt.” But when you take his hand and start pulling him to the bathroom, he follows without argument. You lead Jason to sit down on the edge of the tub and fetch the first aid kit from under the sink, setting it down next to him on the bathtub ledge. You stand between his legs, your positions making you a half-head taller than him. He gazes up at you and for the first time tonight, you notice how dark and deep the skin under his eyes is.

“Off,” you order, dragging up the hem of his shirt. He helps you pull it off, wincing when it requires him to lift his bruised arm.

“Someone’s eager,” he muses, raising his eyebrows in a teasing manner. It earns him a swat on the arm; he grunts loudly and doubles over in pain.

You gasp. “Oh my god! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I—”

But when he looks up, it’s with a coy smirk and a twinkle in his eye. You swat him again.

“Asshole,” you mutter, but you can’t help the slight twitch at the corner of your lips. “Why didn’t you take care of this earlier? Alfred wasn’t at the manor to help you?”

He shrugs his good shoulder. “Don’t know. Came straight here.”

“Did you tell anyone where you were going?” You ask.

He looks at you blankly, as if to say, don’t you know who you’re talking to?

You sigh, exasperated. “You shouldn’t have done that, Jason. What if ended up becoming serious? And you didn’t make it here in time? What if—” 

He interrupts your doom spiral by pressing a finger to your lips. “I know, honey, I’m sorry. But I wanted to see you.”

You sigh. There’s a sadness to it, one that comes from familiarity with the fact that he does not care for himself as much as he should—as much as he deserves. But there are no words to make him believe that you haven’t tried, so all you do is lean your forehead against his, hoping he can hear what you're not saying. You need him to hear you.

“You’re not sorry,” you whisper.

“No, I’m not,” he whispers back.

You start with his shoulder, which is decidedly not ‘just a bruise,’ but rather several bruises, all clumped together to form one giant Franken-bruise which covers his entire shoulder. It gets rubbed with ointment and you’re not sure who it pains more, because while you’re spilling out frantic apologies as you try to speed through it, Jason is white-knuckling the edge of the tub with a wad of gauze between his teeth. 

His lip doesn’t require any medical attention, but he insists you kiss it better anyway, and who are you to deny him? 

You tend to his temple last, but he’s antsy now. His leg bounces up and down, one hand is drumming its fingers on the tub, and the other is fiddling with the loose threads that hang from the hem of your shirt; you have to scold him into sitting still.

“Where’s the dermabond?” You ask, sifting through the contents of the first aid kid.

“Used it up last month, remember? After you just had to feed that fuckin’ squirrel.” His voice is gruff at the recollection. “Should be a new pack under the sink.”

You fetch the new box, picking at the plastic wrapping. “Can you blame me? He was so cute.”

“Yeah, was. Until that greedy fucker decided he wanted the whole picnic.” Jason sees you struggling with the plastic covering and takes it from you, breaks it open, then hands it back. “Bastard.”

You giggle. “You know, you could’ve just let him have the cupcake. It wasn’t worth risking rabies for.” You fish out the glass tube of surgical glue, tossing its cardboard box aside.

“‘Course it was. My girl wanted red velvet, she should get her red velvet.” Jason’s hands finally rest on the backs of your bare thighs, squeezing them lightly. He grins when that makes you let out a little squeak.

You roll your eyes, though there’s a warmth flowing in your veins that courses from the tips of your ears to the bottom of your feet. “My hero,” you muse with a smile.

There’s a pause. Then:

“I’m not a hero,” he responds. His tone is still light, but his eyes feel far away.

You start to clean the blood from the wound, which has since clotted and dried, with a saline-soaked cotton pad. He stares at you while you clean and then close the cut with the glue. And when you finish, supplies set aside and glue cured, he’s still staring. His eyes are traveling all over your face, taking in each feature, committing every ridge, every angle, every pore, every freckle to memory. The light-hearted teasing demeanor from mere moments ago is long gone. You're a deer caught in emerald headlights.

You recognize this shift. You noticed hints of it since he arrived home, but assumed it was just due to the pain. Now it’s obvious that there’s more. It’s the same shift that comes when the news becomes a circus, or when he stares at his scars in the mirror for too long.

His hands slide up your body slowly, reverently. One stops at your waist while the other continues, blazing a trail up your ribcage, over the side of your breast. He pauses at your shoulder for a split second, squeezing the flesh every so gently before continuing up your neck. His thumb drags across your collarbone, brushing against the spot that always lights up your senses and parts your lips in a breathy sigh. He stops when he reaches your face. He cups your cheek. Your hand covers his and you lean into his hold, the stroke of your small, soft fingers juxtaposing the rough callouses of his knuckles. You stay here for a moment before turning to press your lips to his palm once, twice, thrice, four times, each one lingering a little longer than the last.

“What is it, Jason?” Your hands come to cradle his neck before dragging up to his hair, and his move to wrap around your torso and pull you closer into him. You place a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Hmm?”

“I’m not a hero,” he says again, softer.

“Jay,” you whisper. “You know that’s not true.”

He says nothing, only heaving a heavy sigh and burying his face into the crook of your neck. You’re content to stand like this, to simply hold him and graze your nails against his scalp for as long as he needs while he inhales the comforting scent of your skin.

After what could have been one minute or twenty, he pulls back to look up at you. He looks exhausted. “It was a human trafficking case,” he says. “They knew we were closing in on ‘em, so we had to act fast. They were…trying to…” He trails off, unsure how to put it in words delicate enough to spare you. He breaks eye contact. “Destroy the evidence,” he finishes.

You don’t respond. Despite the heavy silence that follows this admission, you know he’s not done. It takes another several minutes of stroking fingers and feather-light hairline kisses to coax it out of him.

“There was a woman. She…we didn’t—“ His voice cracks. “I didn’t get there in time.”

“Oh, honey.” You run your palm over his forehead, pushing back his thick waves. His eyelids slide down over glassy irises as he sinks into your touch. You lean down to press your lips to his forehead. “You know that’s not your fault,” you whisper. He shakes his head, eyes still closed.

“But if I’d just—”

“No, Jason.” You grip his face between your palms. He opens his eyes at the sudden sternness. “But nothing. You did everything you possibly could—”

“You don’t know that,” he interrupts.

“I do know that. I know because you are always doing everything you can. For me, and for everyone in this city. And I know that it wasn’t just you on that mission. Do you blame anyone else for what happened?”

He says nothing, but his eyes are welling with tears.

“You saved so many other people, Jason. You are a hero, and you know that. You have to know that.” Some of his tears spill over, but you brush your thumbs across his cheeks and kiss them away.

He pulls you onto his lap so your legs are straddled over his and rests his head against your sternum. His arms squeeze impossibly tight around your waist, but you don’t say anything. When his shoulders tremble and you feel the dampness on the front of your shirt, you still don’t say anything. And when he places a hand on the back of your head to pull you in for a hard, searing kiss that leaves you both breathless, you don’t say anything. You just look at him, at how pretty he is, and hope that he can hear you.

The sounds of buzzing echo in from the next room. To your dismay, he turns away, towards the direction of your phones. “I should get that,” he says. His voice is hollow. “It’s probably the bats wanting to know where I am. They’ll send a search party if I don’t check in.”

He’s about to move you off his lap, but you stop him. “In a minute, Jay.”

Jason’s forehead crinkles. You use your thumb to smooth it out.

“Please?” You breathe out. “Just let me look at you a little longer. I love looking at you.”

He relaxes back into his seat. And you keep looking at him. At his beautifully rosy cheeks and shining eyes, his puffed lips. The scar that runs diagonally down his slightly crooked nose.

It’s dawn now; the tangerine beginnings of sunrise elicit a soft glow that spills through the window. Jason takes it all in. The two of you together in the home you share, arms around each other, your face all honeyed and beautiful in the light.

And you know he can hear you.

love when you guys leave messages/feedback it really brightens up my day<3

divider is from here

[sturnioz]

‘TASTE.’ — MATT STURNIOLO

pairing. matt sturniolo x fem!reader genre. smut, established relationship.

word count. 2.1k

❝let me taste you. please.❞

content warnings. explicit content, heavy kissing, fingering, oral (female receiving), light hair pulling,

dividers by. @issysh3ll

You’re jolted awake by the sharp ring of Matt’s alarm, the sound piercing through the quiet morning. Squinting through tired eyes, you lift your head from the pillow in search for the source, but before you can react, you feel a familiar weight shift across your back as Matt leans over you with a groggy grunt, silencing the alarm on his phone with a quick tap of his finger before he flops back onto his side of the bed with a sigh.

He yawns deeply, rubbing a hand over his face as if he’s trying to rub the sleep away before he settles back under the covers, his arm instinctively curling around your back, pulling you closer. You close your eyes, wanting to drift back off again, but sleep seems to leave you. 

The bed is still warm and inviting, and the thought of getting up definitely feels too much for you to do, so you turn onto your side, facing him instead. As you shift, the blankets slip down, and a chill brushes over your naked skin, making you shiver at the contact. Matt notices this immediately, and without a word, he pulls the blankets back up over your shoulders, tucking them snugly around you before scooting closer.

His arm wraps firmly around your waist, and he buries his face against your throat, his warm breath fanning across your skin as he exhales deeply, his body relaxing fully against you. 

You let yourself relax too, the warmth of his embrace lulling you into comfortableness. For a brief moment, you think you might be able to drift off to sleep again—until you feel the soft press of Matt’s lips against your neck. His kisses are lazy and unhurried, the graze of his mouth and warm breath tickling your skin. 

A sleepy giggle leaves you, and you arch away at the sensation brushing over a sensitive spot, which causes Matt to chuckle and hold you tighter with his arm to draw you back against him.

“Stop movin’...” he drawls out, his voice thick with sleep. He nips playfully at your neck, the corners of his lips curling into a smile and he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes heavy-lidded.  “Let me kiss you.”

“I’ve got morning breath,” you protest, turning your head away as he tilts closer in an attempt to claim your lips. “And you’ve got somewhere to be, remember? That’s why your alarm went off.” 

Matt groans dramatically, rolling onto his back beside you as he drags a hand through his tousled hair, the strands sticking up in every direction. “Don’t care,” he mumbles, his voice muffled as he throws an arm over his face. “I just want my kiss.” 

You laugh softly, shifting onto your elbow to peer down at him, causing the blanket to slip down slightly and you tug it higher to cover your naked chest. “You want a kiss that badly?” 

“Well…” he drawls, drawing the word out as his tired eyes peek over his arm to sweep lazily around you, narrowing them in consideration as he lips quirk into a small smirk. “There are a few ideas I’ve got in mind, but for now…” he trails off, shrugging slightly. “I’d just like a kiss.” 

You arch an eyebrow as his hand slips beneath the covers, the warmth of his palm gliding up your bare legs. Your lips twitch in a knowing smile. “That doesn’t feel like just a kiss.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Matt responds with a feigned look of innocence on his face before a cheeky grin spreads across his lips. His hands slide higher, finding your thighs, and with a firm but playful tug, he pulls you closer, guiding you to settle on top of him. “Kiss me.” 

A breathy laugh escapes your lips as you shift to straddle him beneath the heavy blankets, and for a moment, you just sit there, perched above him with a soft smile. You don’t kiss him—not yet—and the flicker of anticipation in his expression only makes you hold back even longer. 

Matt’s grin softens as his head sinks deeper into the pillow, his gaze tracing your face. One of his hands rests lightly on your hip, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin while the other moves upward, trailing along your side.

“Y’look good on me, y’know that?” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower—quieter. His hand tightens slightly on your hip, pulling you closer until your hips press flush against his, and the satisfied sigh that slips from him feels like a reward.

“Do I?” you hum softly, your own voice playful but laced with affection. You reach for one of his hands, your fingers brushing against his before you guide it between your thighs. Matt’s breath batches in his chest the moment his hand is in place between your legs, and his gaze darkens a bit, eyes never leaving yours as his finger grazes across your puffy folds.

“Yeah, you do,” he replies, his eyes flitting between your eyes and your lips, taking in the soft sounds coming out of your mouth when he puts pressure. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful.” 

The words make your heart stutter, warmth blooming in your chest and heat pooling at the pit of your tummy. The way he looks at you—like there’s no one else in the world—makes it impossible to look anywhere but back into his sleeping but affectionate gaze. 

His thumb brushes against your clit, and you feel yourself rolling against his digit without even realising it. Matt’s voice breaks on a low, rough noise when he feels your hips roll into his hand, and his eyes flutter half-closed for a moment as he relishes the feeling.

“You tryin’ to make me lose it?” he whispers, pressing his thumb harder against you. 

You smile softly, “Just like it when you touch me.” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” He hums, his hand rubbing a little more between your legs. “I like touchin’ you. You’re soft.” 

His eyelids grow heavier, his gaze dipping to your lips as his thumb lazily traces circles against your clit. He shifts beneath you, trying to relieve even a bit of pressure in his boxers as his breathing deepens.

“C’mere,” he whispers, tilting his chin up slightly as he tries to tug your closer. “C’mere, pretty girl. I want my kiss.”

“You’re so demanding this morning.” you tease as you look down at him.

“Only when I want you this bad, baby.” Matt breathes in reply, his half-lidded eyes meeting yours, the intensity in them making your breath hitch. “Let me taste you. Please.” 

You barely have any time to react when the other hand not rubbing against your pussy slides up the curve of your back to the nape of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair with a firm but gentle touch as he pulls you down toward him, lips touching yours.

His mouth is warm and insistent, moving against yours with a hunger that feels almost desperate. He lets out a low, gravelly sound in the back of his throat as the kiss deepens quickly, his tongue flicking into your mouth to taste you, making you lose yourself entirely. 

It’s not just a kiss—it’s consuming and fucking overwhelming, like he’s been starved of you for years when in reality, it’s only been a few hours since you fell asleep curled up beside him. 

You feel the tension in his body beneath you—the lines of his muscles, the way his chest rises and falls in time with his heavy breathing. His hand at the back of your neck keeps you firmly anchored to him, his fingers curling deeper into your hair as though he’s silently begging you to stay.

He tilts his head slightly, angling the kiss just right, and presses his mouth harder to yours. The motion is deliberate—needy.

Your entire body burns under his touch, a spark coursing through your veins every time his lips move against yours, but when you finally pull back—your lungs burning for air—Matt’s lips follow yours with a frustrated grunt, unwilling to let the moment leave. 

He presses a few soft, lingering kisses to your mouth before trailing across your cheek, leaving a warm, wet path in their wake as his breathing grows heavier, matching your own.

His mouth doesn’t stop there. You feel his mouth move along the line of your jaw until his lips find the curve of your throat, letting out a low sound that rumbles from his throat, his breaths coming out quicker, turning into open-mouthed pants that fan warm air against your skin. 

His lips part even more as he presses hot, unhurried kisses to your flesh, each one lingering just a moment too long. His tongue barely grazes your skin with each kiss, his hands tightening their hold on you—one still tangled in your hair while the other still rubs between your thighs, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles around your clit and you moan, your arousal dripping onto his fingers. 

“Let… let me taste you somewhere else.” 

“Where?” you breathe out shakily, the open kisses that are being pressed to your throat and the way his fingers rub against your clit making your head feel cloudy. 

“Where do you think?” he murmurs against the column of your throat, nipping at your skin gently before he drags his tongue across the mark. “Please.. don’t make me beg, baby.” 

His hand gripping your hip tugs you up his body, and you move forward on your knees, feeling his lips trail kisses down your collarbone until he can nuzzle his way between your breasts—he lets his tongue lick around your nipple, suckling the sensitive nub into his mouth as you gasp and mewl.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he moans under his breath, tilting his head back to look up at you through his lashes while his hands slide up thighs, gripping a handful of your ass to pull you up higher until he’s eye level with your pussy—your knees on either side of his head. 

Matt’s breath stutters, and his tongue runs over his lower lip as he stares between your legs. 

“C’mere, get closer. Sit on m’face.”

Your hand reaches out to brace against the headboard in front of you for support, your fingers gripping the wood as you slowly lower yourself down. His hands grip your ass tighter, bringing you down the last few inches until you’re right above his face. 

He nuzzles his nose against you before running the flat of his tongue up the length of your folds, and your head tilts back with a soft moan, your free hand reaching down to thread your fingers through his hair, guiding him deeper into your pussy as you slowly rock against his mouth. 

You can feel every flick and swirl of the wet muscle, each movement sending jolts of pleasure through your veins as Matt squeezes your asscheeks as he tastes you, and your legs quiver as his tongue dives deeper inside. 

He starts to alternate between open-mouthed kisses and gentle flicks of his touch as he holds you above him, burying his face in, pressing his nose against your clit for extra stimulation as he eats you out—like he’s been starved.

Your breathing grows ragged as Matt moans against your folds, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine, broken whimpers leaving your lips as he moves to suckle on your clit while pressing two fingers into your soaking entrance—pumping them in and out, stretching you open as he finger fucks you in time with his tongue. 

“M’so close—ah... Matt…” you whimper out your warning, your thighs tightening around Matt’s head as you teeter on the brink. You feel the need to raise yourself up from his face, feeling so overwhelmed, but Matt chuckles as he moves with you as you try to move away, refusing to let up. 

“S’alright,” he murmurs against you, his tongue continuing to work you over once again as he fingers massage your inner walls. “Taste so fuckin’ good, baby—can’t stop.”

You cry out, your own fingers tightening in his hair as he sends you tumbling over the edge—your juices flooding his mouth as you cum hard, your inner walls spasming wildly around his tongue and hand. Matt hums softly, licking you through it with long, slow strokes to help you catch your breath, pressing kisses to your pussy as you tremble and shake above him. 

He lets up when a broken whimper leaves your lips from the sensitivity, and Matt carefully pulls back, slowly shifting you down from his face to settle you onto his lap as he sits upright to look at you properly, his chin glistening with your arousal. 

His hand smoothes up over your waist in a soft, soothing gesture, cooing as you slump forward against his chest, continuing to tremble through the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

“Hey—hey, baby…” Matt whispers, rubbing slowly up and down your spine in soothing motions, attempting to bring you back down from the feeling as he presses kisses to your temple. “I’ve got you, pretty girl… I’ve got you.” 

© STURNIOZ

[raestromboli]

plug!chris catching you riding his pillow ᡣ𐭩

coming to your place after a long day of dealing was a natural thing for chris to do. so when he and some of his friends that tagged along with him had no more clients left, they suggested an evening at some fancy restaurant to spend their money. chris, of course, quickly waved them off because he wanted to spend his time with his pretty little girlfriend after being so busy the past few days.

so imagine the surprise he felt as soon as he heard the most lewd noises coming from your bedroom . . noises that he’d recognise anywhere.

he feels like a perv, but that’s the least of his worries.

chris peeks through the small gap between the doorway and your conveniently opened door; it’s just enough for him to see just how perfect you look. the pillow, the one he usually sleeps on, between your thighs, a wet spot visible on its pillowcase, your tits free from any restraint, with your finger cradling them gently, and your face . . . fuck, your face.

your have the most vulgar expression imaginable. god, you’re better than any wet dream he ever had. your face is tilted to the side, eyes closed with pleading brows pinched upwards. your cheeks were dusted with the prettiest shade of red. his fresh love hoodie is bunched up and being held up by your teeth to expose your pretty tits bouncing every grind of your hips you take, and you’re letting out the cutest little muffled whines and moans.

it’s no surprise that your boyfriend gets hard instantly, hands flying to his crotch with no hesitation as he unzips his pants, sliding down just enough to take his cock out. his bony fingers wrap around his leaky cock and hisses lowly. his eyes were solely trained on printing the beautiful image right into the depths of his mind.

a pitiful pout grows on his lips. he can tell that you’ve been going at it for a while now from how much you’re panting and how you lean forward on your hands every other minute because of the annoying, yet delicious burn in your fleshy thighs, and chris wishes he could be under you instead of that damned pillow, holding you down because he knows how much you squirm on his dick and pistoning his hips into you just right.

there’s no doubt in his mind that he’s definitely not going to do that, but chris wants to savor the thrill of this a little bit too . . . wants to watch you pleasure yourself without him.

you roll your hips so expertly that chris feels even more jealous of that inanimate object, imaging your slick stained on the pillow glistening on his dick instead. the hurried movements, how you know when to push down further and how to keep the steady rhythm, how your face twists in exquisite pleasure with no care for the world—your boyfriend can barely stop himself from cumming right then and there.

chris strokes himself to match the roll of your hips, teeth digging in his bottom lip helplessly as he feels himself getting closer, just like you do. your hips get more erratic, humping the pillow faster and faster while your muffled whines get louder and longer. chris grips the doorway with his free hand to not go through it and disturb you, completely head over heels from how fascinating you look.

the only thing he’s late to realise is that you’re not even watching anything lewd to help you reach your high, and that becomes clear when you start crying out his name in a high-pitched tone that makes him go weak in the knees.

he thrusts into his own fist uncontrollably, but reluctantly gains the ability to stop himself only after seeing your heavenly closed eyes open, the fucked out look taking over your face as he grips his shaft tighter to not cum in the hallway right then and there.

you cum with a strangled cry of his name, gripping the sheets with shaky hands to ground yourself.

you came thinking about him. that alone makes chris wonder if he should kick his feet up high and giggle like a schoolgirl or burst into the room and fuck your sensitive pussy ‘til your cum completely coats his cock. he chooses the latter.

you pant heavily, little moans slipping past your lips as you lazily rock your hips against the pillow. chris doesn’t let you bask in the post-orgasm haze, however, because he’s barging into your room unceremoniously. with zipped pants of course!

squealing in surprise, you yank your blanket over your body, nervously looking at him with big, startled eyes while he casually strolls over to your bed, hands hidden in the pockets of his jeans and keen eyes focused only on you.

“chris. . i-i can explain!” you try to reason, but when your boyfriend simply smirks at you, you know you should stop talking.

“explain riding my pillow?” he’s only teasing, but it still makes you stutter and stumble over your words. you pout for moment, pulling your hoodie over your body before curling further into your blanket in sheer embarrassment. there’s an apology spilling out of your lips, but chris tuts at you condescendingly as he grips onto the blanket and pulls it away from you.

“fuck you lookin’ at? i want you to do it again.” there’s a smirk rising on his lips as he watches your eyes widen and your lips part to protest.

“but!—“

“nah, you wanna be a slut and ride my pillow. all i’m asking is for you to do it again, a’ight? then maybe, i’ll fuck you if you’re good.”

[chuluoyi]

࿐ ࿔ 🕰️ 「 03:12 A.M 」

tw: pregnancy. just a little something based on ask~ gojo annoys you on daily basis, so now you return the favor and he can't refuse it bc you're his baby mama😋

a part of gojo's love entries

“satoru— your baby is hungry,” you pouted, poking his cheek repeatedly. “sa-to-ru!!”

it was 3 in the morning, and ideally, you would have been sleeping... only that suddenly you were awoken by rumbles from your growing belly.

yet your husband was still sound asleep without any care in the world, prompting you to poke him until you succeeded in making him hear you out.

satoru begrudgingly cracked his eyes open, still having his face tucked under the blanket and yawning. “ngh, sweets… what is it?”

his sleepy voice was thick, low and raspy. usually you’d swoon and leave a hickey or two on his neck but not now, as the overwhelming hunger made you almost curl.

“baby is craving mochi,” you said, eyes shining up to him ever so innocently. “get it for me, satoruuu.”

“oh?” if he wasn’t awake before, now he was after hearing your nagging tone drawling his name. he faced you and drew you closer. “what do you want again, hmm?”

“ice cream mochi!!”

“oooh that.” satoru scratched his head at the memory of him eating the last of it yesterday. “but we ran out of them, sweetheart… wait till morning, yeah? i’ll go to market to get some.”

“but...”

“can’t baby wait a few more hours, hmm?”

“no! want it— now!”

satoru blinked at your insistence. you looked positively adorable while sulking at him too.

“why mochi all of sudden, huh?” he decided to humor you. “you used to say they taste bland.”

“that’s because of your sperm infecting me,” you sullenly accused. “and don’t pretend you haven’t been feeding me mochi for weeks. baby likes it more than i thought.”

“hey! don’t bash my sperm! they did no wrong and completed the deed splendidly!”

“you’re just a one-time donor, don’t be smug.”

he whined and you huffed, before suddenly your stomach grumbled loudly and you curled up. “mmhm.”

“hey… what’s wrong?” satoru quickly sat up and placed his hand on your baby bump. “really hungry? wait, i’ll get you something to nibble on first.”

he rummaged through his work uniform and found several bite-sized chocolate bars he brought around, and unwrapped the foil. “here.”

you immediately devoured the treat to sate your hunger, but still, your baby longed for more—

“mochi…” you mumbled despondently, your expression turning heartbroken. and one second later satoru realized how much he wanted to squeeze your cheeks, and relented.

“okay, okay, sweets~” he gave your head several comforting pats, making you look up. “i’ll go and get the mochi, yeah? you stay put and wait for me, 'kay?”

“yay.” a little smile bloomed in your face and satoru chuckled, finding you so unbearably endearing.

and so, for you, he ventured out to the closest 24-hour convenience store, picking up some ice cream mochi along with other treats to replenish your stock, before teleporting back home.

he was expecting that you'd still be all sulky while waiting for him, but instead, he found you peacefully asleep, hogging his pillow.

each breath that caused your chest to rise and fall made you appear all the more vulnerable and soft in his eyes.

you looked so irrevocably precious to him. his sweet little wife... in that moment, satoru felt like he was the luckiest man alive, getting to have you as his.

“you naughty girl.” he let out an amused laugh before reclaiming his spot next to you. the hold you had over him— you made him go through the cold night air, and now you were monopolizing his pillow and he had to resume sleeping without one at all.

and yet all he could feel was love. for you and your baby, as he pulled you close to his chest.

“both of you sure love teaming up against me, huh?”

[maskedbyghost]

its really satisfying that you left the last part of toxic ghost open ended but a part of me just wants to know for certain that they kiss and make up :(

for those of you who wanted a happy ending for toxic ex!simon and reader… here you go.

You knew you were getting sick last night. Still, you didn’t think it’d hit this hard after you went to bed with a sore throat and a headache that wouldn’t go away. You figured you’d sleep it off, or at least wake up feeling kind of human, but instead you opened your eyes around 9AM and everything hurt, your face was hot, and even lifting your arm to check your phone felt like way too much effort.

You didn’t call in, you didn’t text anyone. You just laid there in the dark under the blanket, sweating and freezing at the same time, because getting up meant moving and moving meant throwing up and, honestly, you didn’t care if work thought you were dead, at least then you wouldn’t have to explain why you hadn’t been in.

At some point you fell asleep again, and it was dark out when your phone buzzed against your leg. You groaned without opening your eyes, because your head was pounding and your mouth tasted awful, and your muscles felt like they were trying to unstick themselves from your bones.

Eventually, you managed to grab the phone and flip it over, squinting at the screen like you were staring directly into the sun.

Simon: Where are you. I’m outside. It’s pissing rain, love. Come out.

You just stared at the screen for a second, because your brain was lagging and it took you a second to remember it was Thursday and he always picked you up on Thursdays, even after everything, even when you didn’t ask.

You thought about ignoring it, but then your thumbs started moving anyway.

You: i didn’t go in. i’m sick. i stayed home. sorry lol

You stared at the message for a little while longer than necessary, waited to see if he’d start typing, but nothing popped up. No little bubble, no read receipt, no sarcastic response telling you that of course, you’re sick, you always do this, you run yourself into the ground, and then act surprised when your body taps out.

So you let your arm fall limp again, dropped the phone somewhere near your side, rolled onto your stomach, and pressed your cheek into the pillow with a sigh. You didn’t even remember closing your eyes again.

You’re not sure how long you were out for, but it’s dark now, and the streetlights outside are casting that ugly orange glow through your curtains, and everything’s gone quiet except for this faint sound, like the low thump of footsteps and something rattling in your kitchen.

For a second, you wonder if you’re hallucinating. You feel hot and cold at the same time, and your mouth is dry, and your head is full of cotton, and you’re already planning on going back to sleep, until your bedroom door creaks open just slightly, and the sound of your ex muttering under his breath breaks through the silence.

You don’t even lift your head, just crack one eye open and glare at the blurry shape in the doorway.

“Simon,” you croak, your voice low and miserable, “are you serious right now?”

“I didn’t break in,” he says, like that’s a completely reasonable thing to lead with, and then he walks in, holding a glass of water in one hand and your little thermometer in the other.

“You literally broke in,” you mumble, dragging the blanket up higher over your shoulder, because your shirt is sticking to your back and you feel gross and you don’t want him seeing you like this, not when you can barely keep your eyes open.

“I didn’t,” he says again, smug in that way that makes you want to throw something at him, “I used the spare key you gave me when we were together.”

You groan. “That’s not permission.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly sound convincing when you said ‘i’m sick lol,’ did you?” he replies, kneeling by the side of the bed and handing you the water. “You think I’m gonna read that and just go home?”

You take the glass, mostly because your throat feels like sandpaper and not because you’re giving in.

He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, and you’re too tired to swat him away.

“You’re burning up,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, and then he’s gone again, off to the kitchen, apparently, and you can hear him digging around in your cabinets for something.

You sigh and let your eyes fall shut again. You should tell him to go.

But your bed feels warm now. The apartment smells like him. And for the first time today, you don’t feel like you’re about to fall apart.

So you don’t say anything. You just wait for him to come back.

He comes back ten minutes later, holding one of your mugs filled with soup that looks questionably edible and wearing the most annoyingly smug expression.

You sip it anyway, mostly because he sits there and watches you do it, one hand hovering under the cup as if you’re going to drop it at any second, and even though you shoot him a look, you don’t have the energy to tell him to piss off.

“Your skin’s all sticky,” he says quietly after a while, eyes scanning your flushed face, trying to figure out just how bad it is.

“I feel disgusting,” you mutter, leaning your head back against the headboard, your voice barely audible. “I haven’t even showered since yesterday. Every time I try to get up, I feel like I’m gonna fall over and die in the tub.”

Simon doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands up and walks out again, and you don’t even ask where he’s going this time because you know he’s about to do something ridiculous.

You’re not wrong.

When he comes back, he’s rolling his sleeves up and giving you that look again, the one that says don’t argue with me, and then he’s pulling the blanket off of you in one smooth motion before you can protest.

“What the fuck are you doing,” you mumble, trying to grab at the blanket, but you already know you’re not getting far.

“You said you feel gross. I ran the bath. C’mon,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“I don’t need—”

“You do,” he says, already hooking his arms under your knees and back, lifting you up like you’re made of feathers. “And don’t even start, alright? You’d do the same for me if I looked like you right now.”

You don’t answer. You just let your head fall against his shoulder, hating how much nicer it feels to be held, hating how solid he is under you, how natural this still feels.

He carries you into the bathroom like this is something he’s done a thousand times before, and sets you down gently on the closed toilet lid with a towel over it while he checks the water, adjusting the temperature the way he knows you like it.

“Arms up,” he says gently, and you just stare at him.

“Simon, you can’t—”

“Love,” he says, and there’s just that soft, exhausted edge that always made you give in, “just let me help you.”

You sigh, but your arms go up anyway, and he peels your shirt off carefully with every movement, trying not to make you feel worse than you already do. He doesn’t look at you weird, doesn’t say anything about your messy hair or the sweat sticking your shirt to your back.

He helps you step out of your sweats next, kneeling in front of you, eyes at your knees, and doesn’t once try to make it weird, doesn’t even really look, he just steadies you while you hold onto his shoulder, and then he eases you into the warm water with both hands under your arms.

And it feels… better. Not good, but better.

You sink down slowly, the water sloshing around you, and rest your head back against the edge of the tub, already feeling your body melt a little under the heat.

Simon crouches next to you, arms folded on the edge of the tub, chin resting on top, watching you like you’re something fragile.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says quietly, eyes scanning your face.

“You’re still not allowed to break in,” you mumble, eyes closed, face tilted slightly toward him.

“Didn’t break in,” he says again. “Got a key. That makes it legal.”

You hum under your breath and let him stay close.

You’re too tired to tell him to go. You’re too tired to admit you’re glad he’s here.

So you don’t say anything. And neither does he.

He just stays there next to you while the steam fogs up the mirror, his hand reaching out every now and then just to check the water or brush your hair behind your ear, as if he’s trying to make up for something he still doesn’t have words for.

You don’t even remember falling asleep.

One second the water was warm and his hand was brushing through your hair again, and you were floating there with your eyes closed, forehead a little cooler, chest feeling a little less tight, and the next, it’s the middle of the night and you’re dressed in his shirt you don’t remember being put in, your skin is dry, your hair smells faintly of shampoo, and you’re tucked into your bed in fresh sheets you didn’t wash yourself.

The room is dark, except for the soft glow spilling in from the hallway, and everything is quiet except for the sound of slow breathing next to you. His, familiar and close, close enough that when you shift a little, you feel the weight of his leg against yours under the blanket.

He’s lying on top of the covers, still in joggers, without a shirt, one arm under his head, the other resting lazily on his stomach. It looks like he passed out trying to stay awake.

And for a while, you just look at him.

There’s nothing dramatic about it. You’re not trying to have some revelation or relive your whole relationship in the dark. You’re just looking, and he’s here, asleep next to you like he never left.

You’re not sure if this means anything. You’re not sure if it fixes anything.

But your chest feels a little lighter. And he still smells like home.

So you lean in slowly, still a little unsure, and press your lips to his.

And the moment your mouth touches his, his lips part like he’s been waiting for this exact thing in his sleep.

He doesn’t open his eyes at first, just kisses you back without a second of hesitation, and when you pull away, you hear that rough little sound in his throat, the one you used to love so much.

He blinks slowly, eyes finally fluttering open, and that grin spreads across his face before he even says a word.

“Took you long enough,” he murmurs, voice scratchy and smug.

You roll your eyes. “You’re in my bed.”

“Wasn’t about to leave you sweating half to death in a tub,” he says, stretching slightly but not moving away. “You were snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You definitely do,” he says, still grinning, and you’re too tired to fight him on it, so you just let out a low breath and press your forehead to his shoulder.

After a pause, he speaks again, quieter this time. “So what now?”

You don’t answer right away. You just stay there, pressed against him, thinking about all the things you could say, all the reasons you should still be angry, all the cracks he left behind that haven’t healed yet.

But you’re here, and he’s here.

And you don’t want to start over with someone else. You just want this to stop hurting.

So you mutter into his skin, “Don’t make me regret it.”

He exhales slowly, that smile softening.

“I won’t,” he says. “Not this time.”

You nod once, too tired for anything else.

He pulls you closer, and neither of you says another word.

-------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies

[xoxojisu]

childhood katsuki comforting you through a storm. part two to this!

the storm starts in the middle of your sleepover.

you and katsuki are seven, tucked in on his bed together, which is much too old to be using the 'just kids' excuse to be sleeping together, but neither of you really care. he’s already complained about the pillow not being “fluffy enough” twice and yelled at you once for stealing his blanket (his mom gave you two for this exact reason), but you both still ended up huddled close together under the same blanket anyway.

and then the thunder starts.

it starts slow. distant and growly, like the sky’s just clearing its throat.

you freeze.

katsuki doesn’t notice at first, grumbling about wanting snacks before bed and digging through his closet for some mystery candy he swore he hid behind this specific piece of all might merchandise.

but then the second crack comes. louder, closer, meaner, and your fingers clench in the edge of the blanket.

katsuki turns around just in time to see you jump.

“…hey.”

you don’t say anything. you just stare at the window like it might break open any second and swallow you whole.

another rumble. you squeeze your eyes shut.

“…are you crying?”

“n-no,” you whisper, even though you are.

he’s silent for a second.

then you feel the blanket shift.

his hand touches your arm, hesitant.

“…you scared of thunder or something?”

you nod, barely.

he’s quiet again.

you expect him to laugh. to make fun of you like the other kids do. to tell you you’re a baby, or loud, or dramatic.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he grabs your hand.

not gently. not softly. he'll have to go through years of work before he learns how to do that. just firm. warm. solid.

“‘s okay,” he says, glaring at the window. “’s just noise. can’t hurt you.”

you nod, again, but your lip wobbles.

katsuki scowls.

“stupid sky,” he mutters. “bein’ all loud for no reason. i could be louder than that.”

you peek up at him. “…really?”

“hell yeah!” he puffs his chest. “i’m way scarier than a cloud. i’ll blow it up.”

you blink at him.

“…you can’t blow up the sky, kats.”

“can too,” he insists. “once my quirk gets stronger. i’ll punch it. i’ll make it shut up for scaring you.”

you laugh, soft and watery. his little cheeks turn bright red but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“c’mere,” he mutters after a second. “you can sit by me if you’re that scared.”

you sniffle. scoot closer.

he lifts up his arm for you to come into his space, and you crawl in without thinking.

you’re tucked against his side now, head under his chin, heart beating just a little slower.

he keeps holding your hand.

when the next thunderclap hits, he glares at the ceiling like he was about to fight god. his arm tightens around you.

“dumb storm,” he grumbles. “i got you.”

and you believe him.

because even at the young age of seven, you're certain that if anyone could protect you from the sky, it’d be katsuki.

masterlist

[dddvader]

Nights like this (1)

“Are you mad at me?”

Bob looks at him with those sad dark-blue eyes – blue like forget-me-nots. Ironic, given the episodes of amnesia.

He shifts awkwardly by the bed, hugging a pillow to his chest, and John, even half-watching through barely open lashes, sees the uncertainty written all over him. With a resigned sigh, he throws back the blanket on the free side of his bed. This is, what – the third night this week? It’s not like John’s counting though. Just a careless observation.

“Just get in. And don’t even think about elbowing me.”

“Will you hold me?”

The audacity wakes John up completely. He even lifts his head from the pillow, all the indignation in the world etched into the sleep-creased lines on his face. A question. Offense. The last one – twice.

“When there’s someone behind you, it feels like the nightmares can’t really get through,” Bob explains with that ridiculous half-laugh, easing himself into bed – a bit closer than necessary if you ask John. No one’s asking, unfortunately.

“I like being the little spoon. Makes me feel… safe.”

John stares.

He could use a gaze like the Sentry’s, he thinks to himself – something that crushes people like insects and ends arguments in an instant. But no, of course not – all John can offer is a mix of surprise, irritation, and exhaustion in the glare that he gives him. Bob doesn’t seem to care at all.

He moves again, shifts, presses closer. John feels his own body tense at that closeness, and nearly flinches away when Bob suddenly places his long-fingered hand on top of his, gently guiding it to wrap around his middle. John seems to forget how to breathe.

“Just like that,” Bob murmurs, as if he’s taming a wild animal, pressing his cool but surprisingly soft hand over John’s – right against his firm chest under the cotton shirt.

It stupidly brings back memories of holding Olivia like this, those rare nights spent at home instead of in the barracks or a trench, and John fights the urge to flinch away for the second time in a couple of minutes. But Bob, sensing his traitorous hesitation, presses in even closer.

Warm. Touchable. Smelling of popcorn, fresh laundry, and a little sweat where John’s pressed to his skin.

John ends up face-to-face with the softness of his brown-ish, more like…chestnut hair, he’s not really an expert, nudging his nose into it without thinking, exhaling slowly.

“Are you sniffing me?” Bob asks immediately, trying to turn around, only to bump the back of his head into John’s face.

“For fuck’s sake, Bob!” John winces at the dull thud, tightens his arms around him in a warning grip, and nudges him back with his forehead. “I’m not sniffing you, you moron, where the hell else am I supposed to go? Now lie down, will you? Lie still!”

Bob freezes at the snap, even curls in on himself a little, and mutters a barely audible, “Sorry.”

John instantly feels like an A-grade asshole which he is but…

For some reason, hurting Bob always hits hard – a sharper kind of guilt that spreads through his chest, nauseating and raw. Makes him want to back off, to take it back. To, well, not be an asshole.

“Little spoon, huh?” he exhales after a couple of minutes of dead silence, unable to force out an apology, and presses his cheek to the soft hair, finally letting his sore, tired eyes close.

He’ll never admit it, but his nightmares don’t let him go easily either but there’s no way in hell he’s going to cry to Bob. Or anyone else. No offense to Bob but John? He’d rather take a one-way ticket into the Void.

“Little spoon,” Bob echoes flatly. Then, not resisting the urge, adds dryly, “And you’re the knife.”

John lets out a short laugh at that pettiness and, being typical John, argues:

“No, I’m pretty sure I’m the big spoon, Bobby.”

“You were supposed to be,” Bob mutters, nudging him with a shoulder at the nickname he despises so much. “But the big spoon’s supposed to be about kindness and safety. And you’re an asshole, so knife it is.”

“Knife it is,” John sighs, surrendering under the weight of his exhaustion. “Good night, little spoon.”

Bob doesn’t answer. At least not right away. Probably presses his thin lips together in silent pout, sulking like a kid, but somewhere between being asleep and awake, John hears a soft “Night,” and a hint of a smile ghosts across his face.

English is not my first language, I’m not so good at it, but I needed to try myself. Feel free to rub my face in the mistakes, I’ll actually appreciate it tbh 🙂‍↕️

[giuliannna]

PICTURE PERFECT

— hamzah makes it known that he’s taken by you ᥫ᭡ requested by this ask

the room is quiet, lit only by the soft glow of his laptop screen, casting shadows across the walls and your sleeping face.

you’re curled against him, your cheek resting upon the soft blue fabric of the crewneck covering his chest. you’re completely enveloped in a deep sleep, your breathing slow and even.

hamzah is halfway propped up against the headboard. his laptop is perched on his thighs, a single airpod placed loosely his ear. he has an editing program opened up, but he hasn’t clicked anything in a while.

because now.. he’s just staring at you.

you look peaceful. way too pretty for it to be fair. the kind of pretty that makes his chest ache a little. your lashes are resting against your cheeks, your lips slightly parted. one of your arms is draped across his torso, neatly manicured nails resting limply just below his collarbone.

his arm is wrapped around you, palm flat on your back beneath the blanket - holding you against him without even realizing it, like second nature.

he glances over to the corner of his screen, spotting the icon for the camera application. without thinking, he opens it up right away, hovering his cursor over the photo button.

click.

the picture is stupidly cute. him, curls a little messy, his expression soft and tired. you, asleep and delicately draped over him. the lighting is bad, the quality is grainy, and still - it’s perfect.

he stares at it for a second. he then picks up his phone and opens instagram, tapping on the ‘edit profile’ button.

change profile picture?

he grins to himself as he selects the photo and saves the new alteration to his account’s appearance.

satisfied, he puts his electronics to the side and focuses in on you. his hand finds your waist under the blanket again, thumb tracing little patterns as he presses a small kiss to your hair.

the next morning, you wake to the sound of birds outside the window and the soft vibration of your phone on the bedside table. you squint, reach for it, and tap on the text notification you received.

the message was from a friend you weren’t very close with, and attached to it - a screenshot of an instagram profile.

hamzah’s profile.

you freeze. you narrow your eyes at your phone.

“lol. the girl in this youtube guy’s pfp looks like you.” the message read.

of course she didn’t know it actually is you - only your closest friends and family knew about your and hamzah’s relationship. it was better that way. easy, peaceful. out of the public eye.

but apparently, hamzah wasn’t being so private about it anymore.

you don’t reply. you close out of the conversation and open instagram instead to check for yourself.

sure enough, there it is. a photo of you and him, plastered on his account for everyone to see. your sleepy face pressed into his chest, his lazy grin. as his literal profile picture.

you turn your head slowly.

hamzah’s still asleep, one arm slung over your waist, mouth parted slightly against the pillow, blissfully unaware. you stare at him, then at your phone again.

you should be mad. or at least fake-annoyed. but all you can do is bite your lip to keep from smiling like an idiot.

as if his unconscious mind felt your heart swell, he groggily pulls you closer in his sleep, holding you just a bit tighter.

you lie there for a minute longer, letting the sun warm your back, letting the moment exist.

eventually, you snuggle closer and nudge his arm as sunlight slips through the blinds, bright beams falling across the bed and his face.

“hamzah,” you mumble, lifting your phone and turning the screen toward him. “what’s this?” you ask teasingly.

he squints, blinking himself awake. your phone is right in front of his face, still displaying his instagram profile. the macbook photo he sneakily took last night - now his profile picture for the world to see.

“oh,” he says, voice scratchy from sleep. his lips tug into a cheeky smile. “you noticed.”

“you didn’t even ask me!”

“you were sleeping. and looking really pretty. so, i just did it anyways. couldn’t disrupt you.”

you stare at him. “hamzah.”

“what?” he laughs breathlessly, grabbing your waist and pulling you closer until your phone slips out of your hand and drops somewhere between your bodies. “i know we’re not public - but just let me have this. please, just this one thing? to let people know?”

you groan, hiding your face in his chest.

he kisses the top of your head. “c’mon, i like showing you off.”

“you’re annoying.”

“just admit we look good together and be done with it,” he teases.

you mumble something into his chest that sounds suspiciously like “we do,” and he just beams, arms tightening around you like he’s never letting go.

“uh-huh. and everyone else will know it now, too.”

xoxo giulia

taglist: @gulicore @thevoicelikesmartydoes @slushedup @arroganceisherfavoritecolor @layzerzlovesu46 @babysitter19 @marixoa @starjely @viennawaiits @a1exaaaa @freakzah444 @anginluv @gabwilliams @sturniyolo @screamertannie @brlwla @yourstrulykiya @thefantastickid @hamzaholic @isathefantastic @divinesturn @forestlv4r @mayapuma20 @ottakugirl @hamzahsbestone @pulcen @rustnroll

[hoe4hotchner]

Ok so one, I’m so glad that your doing ok, two I love your fics so much and thank you for writing them, genuinely would be lost without them. I have a request 😈 so what if Hotch and reader are in a established relationship, and it’s after he’s in the hospital from getting stabbed (also fuck foyet) and the reader works for the BAU and isn’t sleeping because they keep having nightmares about Hotch getting hurt and he notices and is really sweet and just comforts the reader and lets them cry it out. I’m in a really hurt/comforting mood but I totally understand if your not!! I literally love anything you write so feel free to ignore this!!! 🩷

Wide awake | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x gn!reader | WC: 0.6k | CW: nightmares

The nightmares started the night Hotch came home from the hospital.

You should have been relieved. You should have been able to breathe now that he was safe, now that he wasn't in critical condition anymore, now that he was in your arms instead of in a hospital bed, but your mind wouldn’t let you. Sleep became a battleground, your subconscious looping through horrors you couldn’t escape.

It was always the same: a dark room, the glint of a blade, Hotch’s agonized gasp as it sank into him. Sometimes, it was slower, like a grotesque, drawn-out movie scene. Other times, it happened in flashes, they were chaotic, flickers that always made you dizzy—the way it had felt in real life once you had gotten the call from the hospital. The worst ones were when you were there, trying to reach him, but your body wouldn’t move, or your voice wouldn’t work. You were stuck watching, screaming in silence while Foyet grinned at you over Hotch’s slumped body.

You woke up gasping, fingers clutching at the sheets, at your own skin, at anything you could physically touch, anything that would ground you. But it never did.

You told yourself you couldn’t wake him up, not when he was still healing. You couldn’t burden him with this. So you stayed still, staring at the ceiling, waiting for dawn.

Hotch noticed. Of course, he did.

The first night, he frowned at the dark circles under your eyes but didn’t push for an explanation. The second night, his hand found yours under the dinner table, thumb brushing over your knuckles. By the fourth night, you felt his gaze on you constantly—studying, worried.

The fifth night, you broke.

You woke up in a cold sweat, chest heaving, and when you tried to slip out of bed quietly, Hotch’s voice stopped you. “Talk to me.”

His voice was soft, rough with sleep but concerned. He was already shifting, sitting up against the pillows, reaching for you. “Come here.”

You hesitated, shame coiling in your chest, but he didn’t give you a choice. He pulled you into his arms, pressing a hand to the back of your head until your forehead rested against his collarbone. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, a stark contrast to your own erratic breathing.

“You’re not sleeping,” he murmured. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” You shook your head. There was no point in lying.

Hotch exhaled, holding you tighter, wincing a little as he shifted in his spot. “Nightmares?”

Your throat closed up. You nodded, and he sighed, pressing his lips to your hair. “I’m here,” he said, his voice was quiet. “I’m okay.”

That was what broke you.

A sob wrenched out of you, sudden and raw, and before you could pull away, his arms tightened around you. “Don’t,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles into your back. “Don’t hold it in.”

So you didn’t.

You clutched at his shirt, crying into his shoulder, and he just held you, his embrace was steady and warm. He let you shake, let you break apart in his arms, whispering soft reassurances in between pressing kisses to your temple. He didn’t tell you to stop, didn’t try to quiet you. He just let you feel.

When the sobs finally slowed, exhaustion creeping back in, he shifted, guiding you back down onto the bed. He kept you close, one hand in your hair, the other rubbing slow patterns on your back. “I’m here,” he whispered again, voice thick with emotion. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And this time, with his arms around you, you believed it.

Sleep came easier that night.