sunny🐒☀️ @fartsmellaaaa - Tumblr Blog

thinking about how your words mean something to jon snow

even if they’re said in teasing, accompanied with a laugh or a smile, he’s always attentive to what you say. he knows what it’s like to have people not listen to you — for people to disregard your words or not take them as seriously as they should.

so he always listens. always pays attention. to jon, every word of yours carries weight. every single one.

a remark of “yuck,” when feeding the messenger ravens at castle black breakfast and they do something truly disgusting with their beaks, though you huff a small laugh afterward, jon’s already catalogued it. he wakes up earlier to feed them so you don’t have to, but has you feed them midday so you don’t get suspicious when they’re not so greedy and quick to choke.

even when he’s in a mood, or (rarely) ale-sung, he’s attentive. a muttered “stop, jon,” to his teasing — though said with a smile & only to deflect from your flushed features — and stop, he does. he presses a kiss to your hair in an apology, even though you don’t need one.

a sarcastic “move,” when in close proximity — he’s already taking a step back (he wasn’t even in the way); a muttered “huh?” when someone’s explaining something (and of course he notices, no matter how quiet you were) — he leans down to whisper a further explanation in your ear. “gods, its cold,” while outside doing your chores, and he quietly goes to light your hearth so it’s warm in your chambers when you return (mutter a wish to see his lungs and he’ll part his ribs)

pedroscurls

distracted (one-shot)

summary: after a particularly long shift, you space out and let your intrusive thoughts win.

pairing: dr. jack abbot x resident fem!reader content warning(s): brief mention of power imbalance, mutual pining / attraction, flirting, intrusive thoughts win y'all, no use of y/n. word count: 1.6k a/n: soo… every time i see Shawn’s arms, i literally stop thinking. and i thought that if i were to have seen jack abbot in that scene, I wouldn’t be able to keep to myself. (pulled inspo from peggy touching steve rogers chest after he got the super soldier serum lmao). anyway, enjoy my delusional thoughts. this isn't proofread lmao <3 masterlist. || read on ao3.

bfbkg

Bkg who never drinks but gets drunk one night n all the guys are talking about sex and giving advice and denki asks bkg for his opinion and they all start dogging on him thinking he doesn’t know shit…

bakugou is only drinking because you’re on holiday right now with your girls. without you around, his whole routine has gone out of whack. no visiting you after work or picking you up from your writing class. no lounging on your sofa as he cooks you fancy pasta in your tiny kitchen with your roommate next door. he saves some for her also.

bakugou feels like a train run off the tracks, a zombie in his body, all the colours in his world have fallen flat.

so he’s taken to one of the most popular vices, alcohol with his buddies. his buddies aren’t helping. kaminari doesn’t know how to please this new girl he’s seeing and kirishima thinks he’s suitable to give advice. the third beer bakugou has downed makes them less annoying. just a smidge.

bakugou leans his head on the back of kirishima’s sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling. his beer fisted on his knee. you’re probably leaving the beach now, in that pretty striped bikini you snapped a photo of a few hours ago. you said you were going to sunbathe, eat snacks, listen to music and read your book. group solo time you said. he wishes he was with you now.

“and i know she’s going to leave me for it,” kaminari whines into his palms, “b-but i tell her that i can keep going but she says no she’s fine. i think she finds it awkward because i just came and she hasn’t.”

kirishima knocks his empty can on his coffee table. it’s surprising he’s even got one in his only basic necessities needed bachelor pad.

“you don’t finger her at the beginning? eat her out? girls love that.”

bakugou looks at his phone. no notifications from you. he huffs.

“why are you huffing and not helping me! i’m crying for help here!” kaminari moans, then burps right after. bakugou winces. “i do all the foreplay! she doesn’t come during that either!”

bakugou entertains him. he swings his head on the sofa to look at one of his longest friends. “the fuck are you doin’ if she’s not comin’ when you’re eatin’ her?”

even though kaminari asked him, he and kirishima turn to look at bakugou with these slow drunken blinks.

“hah? what?”

“what do you know about….” kaminari starts.

kirishima leans forward to his best friend, truly interested in his answer, “sexually pleasing women?”

“what are you two idiots on? obviously i know.” though bakugou flushes red at the topic.

sure he’s not the most experienced in womenkind but he is in one. he knows what you like.

“wait how—,” kirishima starts but kaminari cuts in with desperation neither men have seen before.

“kacchan how!” he cries, hands clasped together and shaking in bakugou’s face. “how do i make my lady orgasm?”

bakugou’s quick to push kaminari away, having him fly to the other side of the sofa but still, he looks to him for answers with eager eyes.

“get the hell off me!” bakugou says then remembers to check his phone. still no text from you. not even an update on the sunset on the beach? a selfie? damn. he shuts his device and looks to his friends. “the problem is you idiots callin’ it foreplay. touchin’ her is sex.”

“kacchan!” he urges.

“fuck! i usually eat her out and when she’s close, i add in my fingers. shit has her comin’ down my wrist on command.” bakugou blurts like the words were dragged out of his throat. then his blush deepens. he takes a swig of his beer.

kaminari’s mouth gapes open, “what the fuck? tell me HOW. in DETAIL!”

“who?” kirishima asks, tilting his chair to look at bakugou properly. “why didn’t you tell your brothers you had a girlfriend?”

“none of your fuckin’ business.”

“i bet you told deku!”

“fuck off about deku…,” then bakugou sighs. no notifications, “i met her through round face. she told him.”

“guys we’re going off topic. tell me how kacchan.” kaminari asks, about to crawl into bakugou’s lap.

bakugou shrugs. large motions all huffy and dramatic.

“it’s f-fuckin’ instinctual,” bakugou rubs his eyes. alcohol and thinking about your pussy around his friends. this wasn’t how he was expecting his evening to go. “i just suck and lick at her clit. i’m loud and messy with it… she likes that. stick my tongue in her, kiss her thighs. i dunno i just do everythin’. then when she’s about to come, she gets all grabby at my hair, pushin’ my head into her so i finger her. she explodes with these cute ass squeals.”

“shit, man,” from kirishima.

“damn kacchan… feel like i needa be making notes.” kaminari inches towards bakugou and bakugou grunts, spreading his legs to get comfortable. “but wait, before that, what happens? and what’s the technique when you give head? a—and your fingers—,”

it’s the alcohol that makes bakugou really consider his questions. thinking about you softens him, gets him warm and fuzzy inside.

“my woman told me that foreplay starts in the mornin’. she likes when i kiss her awake and sweet talk her. cute texts during the day. cookin’ for her and havin’ a plan for the evenin’ even if it’s watchin’ a movie. means when we start makin’ out on the sofa she’s climbin’ all over me, grindin and feelin’ for my dick.”

bakugou looks his friends up and down. “i don’t do all that to get my dick wet though. i do it ‘cause i like seein’ her happy.” then after frowning, “i do like eatin’ her pussy. i miss her.”

kirishima feels the urge to open hinge and messaging his matches. he wants whatever his best friend has.

“where is she?”

“on holiday with her friends.”

“why didn’t you go?”

“i said with her fuckin’ friends. i’m not her friend. why would i be there?” he snaps.

kirishima shrugs. “can we see a photo? what’s she look like?”

bakugou can do that. he goes into his photo gallery. he’s got so many photos of you to choose from.

“do you alternate between small licks and big licks? and your fingers, what’s the motion?”

bakugou rolls his lips in pondering, “big one at the start just to taste everythin’. then small licks on her clit. whatever gets her moanin’ loud.” he lazily flicks through selfies of you, “i curl my fingers inside her. brush against her insides.”

“and—,”

“this her.” bakugou thrusts his phone in his friends faces.

it’s a selfie you took yesterday on a boat in your striped bikini. the sun beams down on you beautifully, making you glow while the sea is bright blue behind you. you’re smiling, squinting slightly from the sun.

“don’t look too goddamn hard!” he barks once two heads duck closer to his phone.

“what’s her name? she’s gorgeous?”

“oh wow!”

bakugou doesn’t have a chance to answer when his phone is overcome from a phone call, showing your first name and last name.

“fuck, fuck, fuck,” bakugou whips up from his seat, “she hasn’t called all day. i’m goin’ into your bedroom. don’t wait up for me.”

bakugou storms into kaminari’s bedroom, answering the phone in haste, “baby, finally. i’ve been waitin’ for you to call… no, i’m not drunk…. just a lil.”

once the bedroom door clicks shut, kirishima sighs, “i’m gonna get back on hinge… actually maybe ochako has some friends for me?”

“shit! i didn’t ask what he cooks yn! or what does he mean by curl?”

archiveofsnow

stark man x wife who has a very loud mind. not necessarily bad thoughts. just…thoughts. lots of them. enough for your mind to still be running a hundred miles an hour whilst you're trying to sleep. and, well, stark men of course cannot leave their wife restless like that.

so you're lying there, half atop your husband, wide awake and staring at the wall praying to the old and new that the thoughts running through your mind will just quiet for a moment. but the keep coming. new thoughts popping into your head every damn second. it pulls a very frustrated groan from you that is definitely loud enough to wake the man beneath you.

and he just already knows what to do. because this happens almost every night.

maybe it starts with just a hand slipping between your thighs, fingers brushing teasingly. his eyes aren't even open and his other hand finds your waist to guide you underneath him as he rolls on top of you. lips moving down your jaw, and then your neck, kissing and nibbling downwards. doesn't even bother undressing you, just bunches the fabric of your chemise up to your hips.

i feel like it could go one of two ways (and i love both). either he goes down on you, all soft and slow and teasing. fingers and tongue working you over in such a way that is so soothing in a way. enough to make you all sleepy, thoughts quieting enough to let you drift off with this fingers still working you to the edge,

OR. he flips you over to your stomach, ass up, and to put it bluntly, fucks the thoughts out of you. rough and fast in that way he knows you love. until your hands are scrambling at the covers, your moans barely muffled in the pillow. until you're a complete drooling mess with not a single thought behind those eyes of yours.

and after?? when you're finally all sleepy?? he cleans you up and tucks you back against his side with a little kiss to the corner of you mouth. 😌

myladyship

"After everything you have done. How will you sleep at night?"

"Next to my wife."

wintrynightz

Jon Snow trough the 5 language of love .✦ ݁˖

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Words of affirmation: Jon Snow is a man of few words. He doesn’t know how to sweet talk but his words are always sincere. After all he’s northern, he will always speak the truth. When he compliments you, he doesn’t say it because he wants to see you flustered, he says it because he truly believes in it, and to him he’s simply stating a fact.

Quality time: as the King of the north, Jon doesn’t have much time to spare even if he wishes he could spend all of his time by his lover. Even so he will always find time for you, even if it’s something simple as talking about the day in each others arms before the sunsets.

Gift giving: Northerners don’t have the most money to spend and so even if Jon wanted to he wouldn’t be able to surprise you with something new very often. Even so Jon will never fail to gift you something on special occasions. When your name day comes along he doesn’t find you the most expensive or flashy gift, instead he gets you something which is specially made for you.

Acts of service: If Jon could, he would do everything for you, he doesn’t want to see you stressed or worried about anything. Which is why if you mention you don’t want to do something even with just one word, he’ll be there to do it for you. He’ll wake up earlier and stay up late to attend chores you once mentioned not liking to do, without single complaint. If you wake up in the middle of the night and quietly mutter how it’s too cold in the chambers, Jon will be running to get you another pair of furs without second thoughts.

Physical touch: He’s a touch starved man and all he wants to do is to be as close to you as possible. As soon as he feels the soft touch of your hands on him, playing with soft curls or holding his hands he will melt so fast. Growing up he never thought he’ll ever be met with such softness and kindness you give to him and he will cherish it with everything in him. And Jon never fails to make you feel wanted and loved back. He loves to pull you on his lap as his hand tightly wraps around your waist, and his cold hand will always find yours holding onto tightly.

tismfanatic

I Told You I’d See You Again

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Pairing: Jon Snow X Fem!LadyInWaiting!Reader

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Genre: fluff • angst

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Summary: When you left with Sansa to Kings Landing, you and Jon made a promise full of whispered confessions and kisses that you’d see eachother again. Now, after four years of physical and psychological trauma, you and Sansa were brought to the wall where you reunited with a lost love.

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Warnings: Joffery and Ramsay. Yes they are warnings in themselves. Physical abuse. Beheading (RIP Ned Stark). Death. (RIP Jon but like then not RIP???)

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Word Count: 6.6k

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ A/N: this is probably the most angst/yearning filled story I’ve ever written. But I don’t like just sad times so don’t worry, has a bit of a happy ending.

The godswood was hushed in the way only Winterfell’s heart could be, snow dusting the red leaves of the weirwood as if the old gods themselves had drawn a shroud over their sacred place.

You had slipped away from the warmth of the hall hours ago, heart pounding in your chest like a caged bird, cloak drawn tight against the late-winter air.

The fire inside had been stifling, filled with last-minute farewells and worried glances from those sworn to Sansa’s side. You had smiled where you were supposed to, dipped your head politely, hidden the way your stomach twisted at every mention of King’s Landing.

The capital was a world away—bright, dangerous, and full of vipers. Everyone knew it, though few dared to say so aloud.

It was Jon who had found you here.

His boots crunched softly over the frosted ground, his breath misting pale in the moonlight. You turned at the sound, and even before your eyes landed on him, something inside you eased. Jon Snow was not a man who belonged to many things, but he had always belonged to you.

“I knew you’d be out here.” he said, voice low, almost hesitant.

“Jon.” You tried to smile, though it trembled. “I thought you’d be with Robb and your brothers.”

“They’ll have me enough in the morning.” He shifted his weight, his dark curls falling into his eyes. “I wanted… one last moment. With you.”

The words cracked something open in your chest. You held your cloak tighter, not against the cold, but against the swell of longing you feared might undo you entirely.

Jon stepped closer, the moonlight catching on his pale skin, the soft fur at his collar catching the few snowflakes that were falling. He had always been beautiful to you—quietly so, in the way snow was beautiful. Not dazzling, but steadfast. Constant. A quiet kind of wonder that settled deep in your bones.

“You leave tomorrow,” he murmured, as if saying it aloud made it more real. “With Sansa.”

“Yes.” Your throat tightened around the word.

His jaw worked, a muscle ticking there as though he fought with words he did not know how to shape. His fingers twitched through his gloves. That was Jon’s way—full of things he wanted to say, never certain how to say them. But tonight, perhaps, the weight of time pressed too heavy for silence.

“I don’t like it,” he confessed at last. “I don’t trust the south. I don’t trust their people, or their court. You shouldn’t have to go.”

“I serve Sansa,” you said gently, though your own doubts had plagued you for weeks.“Where she goes, I go. She’ll need me.”

Jon nodded, though his eyes burned with a helplessness that hollowed you. “Aye. She will. But who will I have, when you’re gone?”

The words were like a knife twisted between your ribs, but you knew he never meant it in a malicious way.

You reached for him without thinking, your fingers brushing his gloved hand. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then he caught your hand firmly, as though anchoring himself to the only truth he knew.

“Jon,” you whispered.

“I don’t have much to give you, there not much a bastard can offer,” he said, voice rough with urgency, “but I swear this: I’ll see you again. No matter how long it takes. No matter what it costs.”

Your eyes stung, tears threatening as you tried to hold them back. “Don’t promise me that,” you breathed. “You don’t know what the world will bring.”

“Then let it bring what it will.” He stepped closer, his free hand rising to cup your cheek. His palm was cold, roughened with callouses, but the touch set your skin alight. “I’ll find you again. Not even the Wall could keep me from you.”

You couldn’t fight it anymore. The tears slid hot down your cheeks, and before you could think better of it, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question neither of you had dared to ask. Then it deepened, desperation bleeding into every brush of lips, every shiver of breath.

Jon held you as if he feared you’d vanish with the morning, and you clung back with equal fervor, pouring every unsaid word, every hidden longing, into that single moment.

When you broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both of you trembling, the world seemed to hold its breath.

“You’re mine,” Jon whispered, as if speaking it might make it true across distance and years. “No matter where you go. No matter what happens. You’ll always be mine.”

Your heart broke and healed in the same beat. You nodded, letting your hand rest over his racing heart. “And you, mine.”

The godswood bore witness to your vow, the red leaves whispering overhead like a thousand unseen eyes. In the stillness, you almost believed that the promise would be enough to hold back the storm.

You did not know, then, how cruel the years would be. You did not know the faces of kings or monsters, the taste of blood in your mouth, or the weight of scars yet unearned.

But you carried that kiss with you. That promise.

And so did Jon.

The road south seemed endless. Spring crept cautiously across the land, but to you, it felt nothing like the renewal you had known in the North.

Here, the air grew warmer too quickly, the winds carried dust instead of snowflakes, and the nights were louder—filled with insects, strangers, and the constant groaning wheels of the royal carriage.

Sansa rode ahead often, her auburn hair glinting bright in the sun, a sight that caught the king’s eye far too easily. She carried herself proudly, as she had been taught, the picture of a lady betrothed to a prince. You followed quietly, as was your place, a shadow at her side. Lady-in-waiting, companion, shield when needed. You did not envy her; you pitied her, though you did not let her see it.

At night, when the fires burned low and the camp settled, Sansa would sometimes lie awake, staring at the stars as though they might tell her the shape of her future. You’d sit beside her, mending a sleeve or brushing her hair.

“Do you think it will be as wonderful as they say?” she asked once, her voice wistful. “King’s Landing. The Red Keep. The court. The songs always speak of it as though it’s a dream.”

You hesitated. “Dreams can be fair or foul, my lady.” You didn’t want to dim her spark but you also needed her to understand that things could be different than the way they were exaggerated in the songs and tales.

Sansa frowned, childlike, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “It has to be wonderful,” she said, almost fiercely. “It must.”

You smoothed her braid and said nothing. Deep inside, you thought of Jon’s eyes in the godswood—dark, worried, warning—and wished you could carry that look with you as armor.

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

The capital was dazzling in its own way: white stone towers catching the sunlight, banners snapping in the breeze, streets teeming with color and sound. Sansa gasped at the sight, her hands clasped in yours like a child too excited to contain themselves.

You, however, did not gasp. Your stomach twisted. For all its splendor, King’s Landing smelled of rot beneath the perfume—fish left too long on the docks, waste tossed into alleys, sweat baking in the sun.

You had such a bad feeling in your gut but you were here for Sansa. You wouldn’t let your fears and doubts get in the way of her happiness.

In the Red Keep, you learned your place quickly. Sansa was betrothed to the crown prince, and every eye turned on her with calculation. The queen’s smiles were sharp like knives. The courtiers’ laughter hid teeth. Even the servants seemed sharper here, watching for weakness they could exploit.

You walked a step behind Sansa, hands folded, eyes lowered, and yet still you felt the weight of it pressing on you. They saw you as hers—her shadow, her confidante. That meant you were worth something, and in King’s Landing, worth was a dangerous thing.

The cruelties began softly. A jab at dinner about your northern accent. A mocking look when you stumbled over the endless stairs of the Keep. Servants whispering when you passed, calling you “the wolf girl’s shadow.”

You bore it quietly, for Sansa’s sake. She needed to shine, to impress, to stand proud before her prince. When she blushed beneath Joffrey’s compliments, you forced yourself to smile too, though something about his smirk made your skin crawl.

At night, Sansa would chatter about him—how handsome he was, how noble, how gallant. You nodded, you hummed agreement, and you swallowed your doubts.

But sometimes, when she slept, you sat by the window and thought of Winterfell. Of snow on your lashes, of quiet halls, of Jon’s arms around you. The memory of his kiss was still fresh enough to warm you against the cold stone of your chambers.

The first true cruelty came on the kingsroad, long before King’s Landing had taught you its lessons in full. The clash between Arya and Joffrey, the chaos with Nymeria, the way Sansa was pulled between love for her sister and her betrothed—it cracked something in her.

That night, she wept in your lap.

“I didn’t mean it,” she sobbed, clutching at your gown. “I didn’t want her hurt. I only wanted him to—”

“I know.” You stroked her hair, rocking her gently, holding her close as if you could take away the pain that way. “I know, Sansa.”

Her tears soaked your skirts, but you let them. Better you than anyone else. You whispered the old songs of the North until she slept, your own eyes burning with helplessness.

In the months that followed, you learned the rhythms of the court. The morning greetings, the endless prayers, the meals where every bite carried hidden meaning. Sansa grew more quiet as the days went on, her laughter grew stiff, and her smiles were painted on with effort.

You stayed close to her, ever ready with a handkerchief, a brush, a word of comfort. When Joffrey snapped at her, you bowed your head. When the queen corrected her, you curtsied deeper. When Sansa trembled after, you whispered courage in her ear.

You found yourself doing the same for other handmaidens in your court. Wiping their tears when a nobles hand touched where it shouldn’t, sneaking them food when they’ve been dealing with a particularly cruel noble.

Once, when Joffrey struck a handmaiden across the face for hesitating too long over an answer, you stepped forward without thinking. The king’s eyes landed on you, sharp and amused.

“Would you take her punishment, girl?” he sneered.

You did not flinch. You would not give him that satisfaction. “If it pleases you, your grace.”

The back of his hand came fast and cruel. Your lip split, your cheek burned, but you kept your gaze steady. Sansa cried out, but you shook your head quickly, silently begging her not to speak for the fear he would turn his hand onto her.

Later, in the privacy of her chamber, she pressed a cool cloth to your face with trembling hands.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered to you, her concern evident in her voice.

“I’d do it again,” you said simply.

Her eyes filled with tears. She leaned her head on your shoulder and clutched your hand tightly, as if afraid you might vanish too.

It was not all torment. There were moments—brief, fragile—where Sansa’s old self shone through. When she laughed at a story, when she hummed as you braided her hair, when she whispered to you about the snow she missed so dearly.

But those moments grew fewer. The queen’s shadow loomed long, and Joffrey’s moods turned sharper.

You bore the weight with her. You let them mock you, hurt you, use you as shield and scapegoat. Because every time you stepped between Sansa and their cruelty, you saw relief in her eyes, and that was enough.

At night, when she finally slept, you let yourself think of Jon. You remembered the way he would hold your face, the warmth of his kisses. The love in his words. You wondered if he thought of you still.

And when you whispered his name into the silence, you almost believed the old gods carried it northward, across the leagues of stone and snow, to where he waited.

The day everything broke began with shouting in the streets. Rumors ran faster than the wind: Ned Stark, arrested. Treason. Plotting to steal the throne.

You could hardly breathe as you ran to Sansa’s side, finding her pale and shaking in her chamber. “They’ve lied,” she said to you over and over, as though repeating it could change what was happening. “He’s good, he’s honorable—he would never—”

You held her, though your own heart cracked. You knew Eddard Stark was an honorable man. He held the laws and regulations of court as well as his duties to high regard. He would never do or be what they’ve accused. But you and Sansa were just small pieces in a too big and malicious world. There was nothing you two could do.

The days blurred. Pleas to the queen and Joffery. Tears. Desperation. You stayed strong for her, even as your stomach continued to fill with dread.

And then came the day of the execution.

You were given the ‘courtesy’ to stand with Sansa next to the execution block. You believed it gave Joffery a sort of sick pleasure for you to be there to witness Sansa’s life officially fall apart. The sun was too bright, the air too sharp, and every sound seemed to echo.

When the axe fell, when Ned Stark’s head struck the ground, Sansa screamed.

You caught her before she collapsed, though your own knees nearly gave way. The world tilted, broke, shattered. Around you, the crowd roared, jeered, cheered.

You held her face to your chest, shielding her eyes, your own tears hot on your cheeks, your eyes locked on the severed head that laid disrespected on the ground. But you could not shield her ears, nor your own, from the sound that would haunt you both forever.

The moment Winterfell’s dream died.

The days after Lord Stark’s beheading blurred together in shades of grief and terror.

The North had always been your compass, its honor a steady star, but in King’s Landing that star had been shattered before your eyes.

Sansa hardly spoke if it wasn’t to you. She moved like a doll wound too tightly, her smiles brittle, her eyes empty. You dressed her, brushed her hair, whispered comfort she no longer seemed to hear. You wanted to rage, to weep, but you swallowed it. She needed you strong, even if she could not be strong herself.

The court was merciless. Joffrey preened with his crown, the queen smirked her triumph, and the courtiers whispered gleefully of treason and justice. You became Sansa’s shield in truth, stepping forward when she faltered, bowing deeper when she forgot herself.

When Joffrey forced her to look upon her father’s head on a spike, Sansa swayed as if she might faint. You caught her hand tightly, whispering, “Don’t let them see you fall.”

Your own knees nearly gave way when the boy-king turned his eyes on you. “Ah, the little wolf’s shadow,” he said with a cruel grin. “Still following her around like a dog? Perhaps we’ll find a place for you at court too. A whipping girl, maybe.”

The laughter that followed was jagged as broken glass.

You bowed your head, jaw clenched, nails digging into your palms. You said nothing. Later, in the quiet of her chamber, you let Sansa sob against your shoulder until her throat was raw.

Life in the Red Keep became a game of endurance for you two. Each day brought new humiliations, new cruelties. You learned to read Joffrey’s moods before he struck. You learned when to distract the queen’s attention to spare Sansa a question. You learned silence was often the only shield you had.

And yet—there were unlikely mercies.

Tyrion Lannister was not like the rest of his kin. Sharp-tongued, yes, but his wit never carried cruelty. When he became Hand of the King, the court sneered at him, but you watched closely. He listened to Sansa where others mocked her. He offered small kindnesses—a word, a nod, a cup of watered wine when her hands shook.

You began to exchange quiet words with him too. Once, after Joffrey had humiliated Sansa before the court, Tyrion found you in a corridor, your hands trembling with fury you dared not show.

“Best not to let the boy see your anger,” he advised softly.

You stiffened, but his eyes held no malice. Only weariness.

“I don’t need your counsel, my lord,” you murmured.

“Perhaps not.” He inclined his head. “But the both of you need allies, even small ones. And you’ll find few here willing to bleed for the last two wolves in the keep.”

It startled you. But over time, you allowed small trust to grow. Tyrion never overstepped, never treated you with scorn. It was a strange friendship—quiet, unspoken, but real.

Sometimes, when Sansa slept, you wondered if he saw in you the same thing in you two that you saw in him: a soul trying to survive in a place built to crush the weak.

The day of Joffrey’s wedding to Margaery Tyrell dawned bright and hot. You dressed Sansa carefully, smoothing her gown, braiding her hair with steady hands though your stomach churned with dread. Weddings were meant to be joyful, but here, joy felt like a dangerous facade.

The feast was a blur of music and laughter, though every sound seemed brittle. Joffrey strutted, drunk on power and wine, tormenting Sansa with jests and cruel mockery. You kept your gaze down, your hands folded tight, praying silently for the night to end.

And then—chaos.

Joffrey coughing, choking, his face turning purple as he clawed at his throat. Screams. Shouts. The queen’s shrill cry.

You froze, one arm instinctively around Sansa’s waist. You watched as the boy-king convulsed, as the hall erupted. You felt no pity. You felt no mourning. Only a hollow, stunned silence.

But then all eyes turned. To Sansa. To Tyrion. To you. To anyone who might bear blame.

“Come,” whispered Ser Dontos, suddenly urgent at your side. “Now. Quickly, if you two want to live.”

Sansa trembled, wide-eyed, and you pulled her close. You trusted no one—but in that instant, you knew staying meant nothing but death. You nodded sharply and tugged her along.

The next moments were a blur of rushing feet, pounding heartbeats, shadows and alleys. You clutched Sansa’s hand as though letting her go meant losing her forever.

By the time you reached the river, breathless and terrified, the Red Keep was behind you.

King Joffrey was dead.

And you were fugitives.

The escape was not salvation. It was the beginning of a new kind of prison.

Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion had never been consummated, yet it still marked her in the eyes of Westeros. She was a pawn, a prize, a Stark of Winterfell with claim and name worth killing for.

Wherever you went, hunters followed.

When Littlefinger’s schemes wound their way to the Eyrie and beyond, you found yourself swept into a web of lies and dangers. You absolutely loathed him, yet you had no power to break free. All you could do was cling to Sansa, whispering reassurance when she doubted herself, bearing the scorn of others so her shoulders could remain lighter.

But nothing could prepare you for Ramsay Bolton.

When Sansa was handed to him, you went too—her shadow still, her shield, her sister in all but name.

The dread set in the moment you stepped through the gates of Winterfell reborn. The castle was familiar yet twisted, its stones haunted by memory. The banners bore the flayed man now, crimson on pale, a grotesque mockery of what was once your home.

Sansa’s face was carved from ice as she was presented as bride. You stood at her side, head bowed, every muscle tight with foreboding.

And Ramsay… Ramsay smiled.

Life in Winterfell under Ramsay was worse than King’s Landing in its cruelty. Joffrey had been a spoiled boy with far too much power; Ramsay was something else entirely. Something darker.

He delighted in fear, in pain, in breaking spirits. And when he turned that attention to Sansa, you stepped between them as often as you dared.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it did not.

When Ramsay struck her, you moved forward. When he demanded obedience, you took the punishment in her stead. He seemed to relish it, amused by your defiance, by how far you would go to protect her.

The bruises became your constant companions. The nights bled into terror. But Sansa endured, and so did you.

“Why do you always stand in front of me?” she asked once, her voice trembling as you cleaned blood from your lip.

“Because I can,” you whispered. “Because I must.”

Her eyes glistened. “I don’t want you hurt for me.”

“It’s too late for that,” you said softly. “You mean a lot to me, Sansa. If taking a beating means you live another day, I would do it ten times over.”

You embraced then, two broken pieces clinging together in the cold. In that moment, you were not lady and servant, not Stark and companion—you were sisters.

And always, in the silence of your heart, you thought of Jon.

On the darkest nights, when Ramsay’s laughter echoed in the halls and despair threatened to swallow you, you clung to the memory of the godswood. Of his lips against yours, his voice promising, “Not even the Wall could keep me from you.”

You repeated it to yourself like a prayer. You had to believe it. You had to believe he was somewhere at the wall also repeating your words in his mind. You had to.

Because if you didn’t, you feared you would not survive.

Unbeknownst to you, Jon was going through his own version of struggles.

The Wall did not sleep. It groaned and sighed like some great beast, its ice shifting with the wind, its surface glittering cold beneath the pale sun. For Jon Snow, it had long since ceased to be a wonder. It was home now, though home was a word that rang hollow in his chest.

Winterfell was gone to him. The halls of his childhood, the voices of his kin, the warmth of the hearth—those belonged to another life. His was the black now: the rough wool of his cloak, the bite of wind against his skin, the weight of duty on his shoulders.

And yet, even here, your memory would sit with him.

At first it was only at night. He would close his eyes and remember the day you met, the way your love grew until the two of you couldn’t ignore it. He remembered the godswood, the snow in your hair, the way your lips had trembled against his when you kissed him. He would remember the promise he had made—I’ll see you again.

When the days were long and grueling, when his muscles ached from training recruits or from long patrols on the ice, he would hear your laughter in his memory. He had not realized how often you laughed, how often your smile had cut through the gloom of Winterfell’s stone halls. Here, without it, the silence was heavier.

He never spoke of you. Not to Sam, not to Grenn, only to Ghost, who watched him with red eyes that seemed to know too much.

You were his secret, his solace.

When the Watch brothers named him Lord Commander, Jon felt the weight of it settle like a yoke across his shoulders. He had not sought it, had not desired it, yet it was his. He bore it with quiet resolve.

But still, there were nights when he stood at the top of the Wall, looking north into endless white, and thought of you. Did you still live? Did you still smile? Or had the vipers of the south swallowed you whole?

The uncertainty gnawed at him more than the cold ever could. He had promised. He had promised. What was a man if he could not keep his word?

Sometimes, when exhaustion left him weak, he let himself imagine you walking through the gates of Castle Black, cloak heavy with snow. He would step forward, take your hand, kiss your snow touched lips and at last breathe again.

It was foolish. But it kept him warm when the wind cut sharp enough to bleed.

The knives came fast.

He had known discontent brewed among the brothers. His choice to side with the Wildlings was not a choice they approved of. He had heard the whispers, seen the looks. But he had not expected the steel.

“For the Watch.”

The first blade pierced his side. Jon gasped, the cold sharper than fire. Faces swam before him—men he had led, men he had trusted. And yet they carved him open as though he were nothing.

Another blade. Another voice. “For the Watch.”

Jon fell to his knees, his vision darkening. He thought of Robb, of Arya and Sansa, and Bran and Rickon. He thought of Winterfell, of snow falling on the courtyard.

And then—he thought of you.

Your face rose in his mind, clearer than any memory of banners or blades. The way you had looked at him that night, eyes full of fear of the future and love for him, lips whispering his name. He felt the press of your hand against his chest as though it were there still.

As the final knife slid home, Jon let the darkness take him with one thought: At least… perhaps I’ll see her again.

But death was not the end.

He woke gasping, the world searing bright, his lungs burning as if they had forgotten how to draw breath. His body was cold, too cold, and his heart hammered as though it might burst.

They told him later of Melisandre, of sorcery and fire. Jon heard, but he hardly listened. The only thing he knew was this: he had been given back.

Why?

He did not know. But in the dark of his chamber, he whispered your name, voice hoarse, and something inside him ached with fierce certainty.

Not even death could keep him from you.

Afterward, everything felt rawer. The cold sharper, the silence deeper, the world thinner. He did his duty still—met with the wildlings, bore the stares of the brothers, walked the halls like a ghost among men. He had brought the betrayers to justice with a face too tired to give away any other emotion.

But the thought of you no longer brought him solace. It was a knife twisting in his ribs, sharper now than ever. Because he had come so close to never keeping his promise. Because he feared he had failed you already.

Yet he clung to it. To you.

He remembered your hand in his. The vow spoken beneath the weirwood. The kiss that had been both beginning and farewell.

Jon Snow was many things—bastard, brother, commander, corpse—but he was still yours. And if there was any justice left in the world, any bit of good, the old gods would lead you back to him.

Winterfell was a cage.

Its stones were familiar, but they carried no warmth. They echoed with Ramsay’s laughter, with the scrape of locks and bolts, with screams muffled by walls too thick.

The days blurred into dread. Sansa endured with a face carved from frost, but you saw the cracks: the way her hands trembled as you braided her hair, the way she flinched when boots sounded in the corridor. You hid your own bruises, your own scars, as best you could, but some could not be hidden.

You shielded her when you could, always stepping forward, always drawing Ramsay’s cruelty toward yourself. He delighted in it. Sometimes he hurt you simply to watch Sansa break. And each time, you wondered how much more your body could take, how much more your spirit could bear.

But still you clung to the promise whispered years ago in the godswood. I’ll see you again. You whispered Jon’s name into the dark, and sometimes it was the only thing that kept you from collapsing.

Hope came in flickers.

Sansa whispered of an old woman in the kitchens, of promises that help would come if she lit a candle in the tower. You listened, heart pounding, afraid to believe.

But one night, you crept with her to the broken window, the cold biting your skin. Together, you struck the flint, the flame trembling as though it too feared discovery.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with her, the two of you staring into the night, praying someone saw.

“Do you think anyone will come?” she asked softly.

You took her hand, squeezing. “Someone will.”

For both your sakes, you had to believe it.

Theon Greyjoy was a ghost of the arrogant boy you once knew. You had grown up with him in Winterfell, seen him boast, laugh, strut like a rooster. That boy was gone. In his place was a broken man who called himself Reek, eyes hollow, shoulders bent beneath invisible chains.

At first, you despised him. For betraying your house, for standing idle as you and Sansa suffered. For being Ramsay’s creature.

But there were moments—small, trembling—where his old self flickered through. A glance, a word, a hand hesitating where once it would have obeyed.

And then one night, when Ramsay’s cruelty pressed too far, Theon found you both.

“You can’t stay here,” he whispered, eyes darting in terror. “He’ll kill you. Or worse.”

Sansa stiffened, her voice icy. “And why should we trust you?”

“Because…” His throat worked, tears glinting in his broken eyes. “Because I can’t watch him hurt you anymore. Not after everything I’ve done.”

You studied him, your heart heavy. He was no longer the boy you’d known, but something in his voice rang true. Perhaps even broken things could still choose to stand.

“Then help us,” you said softly, taking his shaking hand in your own. “Prove it.”

The escape came on a night when the snow fell heavy, muffling the world in white. Theon led you through hidden passages, his steps sure even as his hands shook. You held Sansa’s arm tightly, your heart pounding with every creak of the stones.

Behind you, Winterfell slept fitfully. You prayed Ramsay did not wake.

At the battlements, the drop yawned below, the snow piled thick.

“We’ll never survive it,” Sansa whispered.

“We’ll die if we stay,” you murmured back.

Theon’s face was pale, his breath ragged. “It’s the only way.”

You looked at Sansa, at the girl you had followed from Winterfell to King’s Landing to this twisted mockery of home. You thought of all you had endured together, all the nights you had held her when she cried, all the blows you had taken for her.

“If you jump, I jump,” you said firmly.

Her eyes filled, but she nodded. Together, you grasped hands. And then—

You leapt.

The air tore past you, the snow rushed up, the world spun white. Impact stole your breath, pain lancing through your body. But you lived. You lived.

And for the first time in years, the gates of Winterfell no longer held you prisoner.

The snows were merciless, but hope was fiercer. You stumbled through the drifts with Sansa, half-carrying her when she faltered, half-dragged yourself forward when your own legs nearly gave out. Theon pressed on too, his face a mask of determination and guilt.

When riders came—Bolton men, hunting—the end felt near. You braced yourself, clutching the small dagger you’d stolen, prepared to die before you let them take you back.

And then a shadow thundered from the trees.

A woman, tall as a tower, sword flashing in the pale light. She struck with fury, cutting down men twice her size as though they were stalks of wheat. Beside her, a squire fought valiantly, though clumsily.

Brienne of Tarth.

You had heard whispers of her—a woman knight, sworn to Catelyn Stark.

You knew the squire too. Podrick had been a good friend to you in your years in Kings Landing.

When she dismounted before you, kneeling in the snow, her voice rang with a vow that made your knees weak.

“Lady Sansa. I swore to your mother I would keep her daughters safe. I offer you my sword and my life.”

Sansa’s lips trembled, tears freezing on her cheeks as she looked at you. She looked afraid to trust another person and you couldn’t blame her. Both of your walls had been built with iron, refusing to crumble anymore. You steadied her with a hand, your own chest aching.

“You can trust her,” you whispered, though your voice shook.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.

Under Brienne’s protection, the path turned northward. The snow was bitter, the road perilous, but for the first time in years you felt a flicker of true hope.

At night, huddled by the fire, you and Sansa whispered of what lay ahead.

“Jon is Lord Commander now,” she said softly, as though afraid the words might vanish if spoken too loud.

Your heart clenched at his name. “Jon?”

“Yes.” A small, trembling smile touched her lips. “At Castle Black. If we can reach him—”

You closed your eyes, the image burning bright. Jon, alive. Waiting. The promise not yet broken.

Sansa reached from her own horse to hold your hand, the same flicker of hope in her eyes. She knew what Jon meant to you.

You let yourself whisper into the wind, so quiet no one else could hear: “Not even the Wall could keep him from me.”

And as the snow fell, you prayed the gods were listening.

The gates of Castle Black groaned open beneath the weight of the storm. Snow swirled in great white sheets, the wind cutting through wool and fur alike, but you barely felt it. Your pulse thundered too loud, your chest too tight. Each step forward was an agony of anticipation.

Sansa’s hand gripped yours from her own horse, trembling though she tried to hide it. Brienne and Pod fell behind, giving her space. Even Theon lingered back, eyes lowered, his shoulders hunched in shame.

And then he was there.

Jon.

Standing in the courtyard, dark cloak swirling about him, hair damp with snow. His face was pale, lined with weariness deeper than his years, but his eyes—gods, his eyes were the same. Grey as a storm sky, piercing as ever, widening now with disbelief.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The wind howled, snow whipped, and the years between you stretched like a chasm. Jon and Sansa simply stared at eachother, almost as if they believed the other was simply an illusion.

Then Sansa broke.

She stumbled forward, a sound torn from her throat, half a sob, half a laugh. Jon caught her, arms wrapping around her so tightly you thought he might never let her go and you found your lips curling into a smile for the first time in a long time.

“Jon,” she gasped, clinging to him. “It’s you—it’s really you.”

He buried his face in her hair, his shoulders shaking. “Sansa.” His voice cracked. “I thought I’d lost you as well.”

You watched, tears stinging your eyes, your chest aching with the sight of them. Brother and sister, torn apart, reunited at last. You wanted to give them this moment, every heartbeat of it.

When at last Sansa pulled back, Jon cupped her face in his hands, studying her with a mix of grief and relief. Then, slowly, his gaze shifted.

To you.

His breath caught. His hands fell away from Sansa’s face, hanging uselessly at his sides. His eyes widened, then softened, then filled with something rawer than you had ever seen.

“Love…?”

Your ever lasting pet name on his lips shattered you.

It was not the first time you had heard it—he had whispered it to you many in Winterfell’s court and godswood, murmured it in stolen kisses. But now, after four years of silence, after the weight of torment and separation, it felt like a miracle.

You stepped forward, your legs unsteady, tears blurring the world. “Jon…”

And then you were finally in his arms.

He crushed you against him, as though afraid you might vanish if he loosened his hold. You buried your face in his neck, sobs tearing free, your fists clutching tightly at his cloak.

“I thought—you were gone,” you choked.

“I thought the same of you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. His hands framed your face then, trembling as his thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks. His eyes devoured you, searching every line, every scar, as though to assure himself you were real.

“You’re alive,” he said, over and over, like a prayer. “Gods, you’re alive.”

Your laugh was a broken thing, wet with tears. “Barely.”

At that, his expression shifted. Grief. Rage. His gaze dropped to the faint bruises at your throat, the scars you could not hide. His jaw clenched, his whole body taut with fury held barely in check.

“What did they do to you?” His voice was hoarse, dangerous.

You shook your head quickly, pressing your forehead to his. “Not now. Please. Just hold me.”

And he did. He held you as though he could keep the world itself at bay.

Later, when the storm eased and warmth could be found in the Great Hall, the four of you—Jon, Sansa, you, Brienne—sat together. Food was laid out, though you barely touched it. Your eyes stayed on Jon, drinking in every detail, afraid to blink.

Sansa held your hand, her head resting on your shoulder, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time in years. Brienne stood guard nearby, silent as ever, but you felt her watchful gaze soften.

Jon reached across the table, his hand finding yours beneath the wood. His fingers twined with yours, rough and warm, and for a moment it was as though no time had passed.

“I kept my promise,” he murmured low, for you alone.

Tears burned again. “So did I.”

That night, in the quiet of a chamber that held nothing but you and him, you showed him the truth.

You let the cloak fall from your shoulders, revealing the bruises, the scars, the thinness of a body too long starved and beaten. His eyes roved over you, and the pain there nearly undid you.

“Every mark,” he whispered, his hands shaking as they hovered just shy of your skin, “is one more I’ll carry with you. They’ll never touch you again. I swear it.”

You reached for him, cupping his cheek, forcing his stormy gaze to meet yours. “Jon Snow,” you said softly, firmly, “you are the only thing that kept me alive. Every day, every night, I thought of you. Of our promise. That’s why I survived.”

His lips trembled, and then he kissed you.

It was not the hurried, secretive kiss of Winterfell, nor the desperate imagining of years apart. It was broken and healing all at once, tasting of tears and firelight, of longing finally, finally fulfilled.

When you pulled apart, your foreheads pressed together, Jon whispered, “Not even death could keep me from you.”

And for the first time in years, you believed in tomorrow.

dipperscavern

thinking about how your words mean something to jon snow

so he always listens. always pays attention. to jon, every word of yours carries weight. every single one.

tootsuro

boyfriend iwaizumi hajime tries his best to have self restraint when you’re ovulating.

he notices immediately when you were staring at him like a predator on the hunt.

“…why are you looking at me like that,” he asked, voice slightly tinged with fear as he paused mid–pull-up stretch. to your eyes, his sweaty tan skin looked so hot right now. his spiky hair that stuck to his forehead seemed so attractive. his slight groaning made you press your thighs together.

you just squinted at him, inhaling.

“haji,” you said thoughtfully, “you look really… scrumptious today.”

he nearly dropped the dumbbell, now realizing what was going on, he blinked.

“what?”

you tilted your head, eyes tracing him like you were appraising a five-star meal. you make a squeezing motion as you stared down at his biceps, biting your lip in the process.

“hon, are you ovulating right now?” he asked, defeated.

“did you just ask me if you want me to be stuffed and filled with your babies? yes.” you admit, walking over to him and trailing your fingers down his chest.

god, help me. he thought to himself.

—

he rolled up his sleeves to wash the dishes.

he immediately looks at you when you gasp.

“what’s wrong?” he asked, concerned. you just bite your nail.

“your forearms,” you whispered, reverent. “why would you do that to me this early.”

“…they’re just arms.” he says, drying his hands on the towel.

“no,” you corrected. “they’re your arms. I want them wrapped around my neck. although if you want, your hands are fine too.” you say, he just showed a tight-lipped smile, like he’s trying not to laugh.

he thinks you’re dangerous.

you leaned against the counter, chin in your hands.

“do you work out for me specifically?”

his brain malfunctions, what was he supposed to say to that?

“I guess?”

“is that right?” you ask, smiling mischievously as you squeeze his arms. you caressed the skin on his arm, then bit your lip.

"ah-ah, hon I know what you're planning to do." he says, immediately covering your mouth with his palms, which you lick in return. he looks unfazed, you pout and just turned your back on him and walked once corner of the kitchen and laid your forehead on the pillar.

"that's right, give yourself a timeout." he teased.

—

later, you were curled up together on the living room couch, some show playing in the background neither of you was really watching.

your legs were draped over his lap, his arm solid and warm around your shoulders. he was focused on the screen, jaw relaxed, thumb absently tracing slow circles against your arm.

you can feel his broad chest and strong shoulders.

god, please hold me back. you thought.

you tilted your head back to look at him, eyes lingering shamelessly.

“haji.”

he hummed without looking away. “what.”

without thinking, no filter, no hesitation, you blurted, "haji, let me have your babies.”

the sound he made wasn’t quite a gasp, not quite a choke.

the show kept playing but he did not move.

then very slowly he turned his head to look at you.

“…excuse me.”

your eyes widened. you clapped a hand over your mouth. “I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT—”

“yes you did.”

“I MEANT IT AFFECTIONATELY.”

“there is no affectionate way to say that.”

you were already laughing, face burning. “I can't help it!”

he dragged a hand down his face, ears glowing red. “I am begging you to consult me before speaking.”

“I can’t,” you said helplessly, snuggling closer. “my brain is offline.”

he exhaled slowly, then shifted so you were straddling his lap and his hands settling firmly on your hips like he needed the grounding.

“you’re lucky I know what’s happening,” he said, voice low but fond. “otherwise I’d think you were trying to ruin me.”

you grinned up at him. “would it help if I said I just think you’d be a really good dad.”

that did it.

his grip tightened just slightly before he pulled you into his chest, forehead resting against yours.

“…you’re not allowed to say that right now,” he muttered.

you hugged him back, content, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

“you’re very headlockable.”

"I'd love it if you did that though." you smirked against his skin.

he snorted despite himself, pressing a kiss to your hair. "hon, just sit still and watch the show before you say something insane.”

"no." you muttered stubbornly, trailing kisses down his jaw.

well, who was hajime to deny you of your needs anyway.

"fine." he said, you grinned victoriously, immediately getting to your feet and practically dragged him into the bedroom.

—

a/n: okay, I'm in a creative slump, and busy finding an internship. boyfriend!iwaizumi is all I can give for now, sorry for being inactive. also, this is boyfriend iwaizumi hajime (27) athletic trainer okay. I love this series.

masterlist | taglist form

aeonmnei

— “do i really need to be shirtless for this?” hajime asks gruffly, sitting neatly on your dorm floor as you write on a piece of tape, godzilla t-shirt tossed unceremoniously on your bed.

your anatomy exam is coming up, and you’ve been studying like your career depends on it (spoiler alert: it does), but you’ve been going batshit crazy just staring at your notes. so what better way to get off the books than to hang out with your boyfriend?

“yes,” you reply, placing ‘pectoralis major’ on his chest. “it wouldn’t work the same if you had a shirt on. active recall, visual learning, and such.” “right,” he mutters, brow furrowed as he watches you. “so…?” “so, flex your deltoid,” you demand. “c’mon, haji. this is important.” he flexes his shoulder obediently, looking away as you stick another label on his body.

you’re kind of surprised hajime agreed to this in the first place; though honestly, you really didn’t give him much of an explanation, simply texting him, “come to my dorm @ 10pm,” with no further instructions. you laughed when he called at 9:42 saying he was at the building, having to hold it in as you led your bright-eyed boyfriend into your room.

“you will be to blame if i don’t pass this,” you tell him, revelling in the slight twitch of his body as you slide a finger over his skin to pat down the adhesive. “right. can’t have that,” he says under his breath. you snicker. despite his reluctance, he’s not angry. maybe just disappointed. you’re not worried, though. he’d get what he came for soon enough.

sneaking a glance at him, you quickly scribble ‘teres minor’ on another scrap of tape. hajime’s ears are bright red, but his bottom lip is pursed up and his jaw is tight. tell-tale signs of his enjoyment.

“i know you’re a little embarrassed, but i need you to lift your arm up for me,” you tell him sweetly, tape hanging from your fingertips. hajime lets out a flustered grumble in reply, dim light highlighting hard planes of muscle as he accedes.

“it’s kind of itchy,” he says, after a moment. “well, it’s tape,” you answer matter-of-factly, pasting ‘frontalis’ on his forehead, then look at him doubtfully. “also, you need to stop scowling. you look cute when you’re not scowling.” “‘m not scowling,” hajime says under his breath, but his eyebrows relax immediately. you bite the inside of your cheek. cute.

another couple minutes pass by as you continue to stick labels on him, humming a tune while you treat your poor boyfriend like a whiteboard.

“...how long will this take?” hajime asks, stiffly, two pieces of tape hanging off the hollows of his cheekbones. you stretch out, making a big show of checking the clock on the wall. it’s almost midnight. “i’m basically done,” you reply. “i’m not going over the accessory muscles.”

hajime tilts his head, narrowing his eyes knowingly at you. “yeah, just wanna know, so i’m not peeling gemellus inferior out of my butt tomorrow,” he remarks wryly. you mirror his expression, enthused. “hah. i forgot you know this already.”

hajime pinches your inner thigh playfully. it doesn’t hurt—he could never hurt you—but you yelp anyway, more tickled than anything. “hey, i’m pretty smart, you know,” he reminds you, smoothing over the subtle sting with a callused thumb.

you scoot over towards him, running your hand down the label reading ‘rectus femoris.’ “i know you’re pretty smart,” you say, gaze locked on his, “otherwise i wouldn’t allow you to be sitting shirtless on my floor.” you pull, and the screech of tape being taken off skin is the only sound in the room for a second.

the sudden dilation of his pupils makes you laugh through your nose. “oh, that’s all,” hajime says lightly, body hot under your touch. “because i’m smart.” “and muscular,” you add, leaning over him as he sits back on his forearms, watching you intently. “mm, that’s part of it?” he asks, voice just breathless enough to make your stomach tighten.

“yeah,” you murmur, hooking a fingernail under ‘external oblique.’ your eyes drop to his bare chest, then drag back up to his face as you smile. “do you take a makeout session as gratuity for your model work?”

hajime swallows, his jaw fluttering. a blush blooms over his cheeks and he rolls his eyes. “that’s what i thought you called me here for,” he mumbles, warm hand coming up to rest on the curve of your lower back as you giggle. “c’mere.”

he peppers your face with soft kisses, leaving wet marks. your laughter fills the small room when you feel something sticky on your cheek.

“haji, i can’t take you serious with that stuff on your face!” “take it off, then!”

hello. folks. birfday post 4 me and him cuz we junebugs like dat

evamame

papa?

picking up your husband iwaizumi hajime after his days work at the gym is over with your baby wrapped up on your chest. something had gone wrong with his car, resulting in it currently at the repair shop being fixed. this left you and your one year old son in charge of pick up duty. you slide open the door and step into the vast gymnasium of japan’s national men’s volleyball team, greeted with the sound of shoes squeaking on freshly polished hardwood floor and the smack of volleyballs being spiked over the net. sitting on a bench off to the side of the court is hajime, writing some type of report in a notebook with a focused expression. you walk along the sidelines to him, holding your baby’s head to shield him from any unsuspected volleyballs that may fly your way.

hajime only looks up from his work as you seat yourself next to him, typical. he’s always so focused and invested in his job. only during his work hours is he like this, though—he always makes time for his two favorite people.

hajime smiles at you and places a kiss to your temple in greeting, putting his notebook and pen off to the side before shifting in his seat to face you more directly. “hey. didn’t realize you were here.”

“must’ve lost track of time again, right?”

“as usual,” he admits a bit sheepishly, “i really need to finish filling out this sheet of supply orders for next month.”

“hmph. you have that nice smart watch but you hardly ever pay attention to when you need to clock out of work,” you gesture to the sleek black band on his wrist as you speak.

“sorry, love i—” his words are cut off by the babbling of your son, who’s stubby arms are reaching for his papa. he looks up at his dad with wide and admiring eyes, dawning the same tan skin as his father and the same deep brown color in his wispy head of hair and irises. there’s not a doubt in sight that he’s hajime’s child; he’s practically the spitting image of him.

you two can’t help but chuckle at his efforts to cling to his dad, his movements restricted by the wrap holding him close against your chest. “you wanna give papa a hug?” you coo.

the restraint doesn’t give in, and your son looks up at you with an adorably frustrated face of confusion and surprise at the spectacle. “you can’t get anywhere in this wrap, huh?” you say as you gently pull him out of the restraint, handing him off to hajime.

once your son is in hajime’s arms, it’s within an instant that he wraps his small and chubby arms around his neck. hajime holds him securely against his chest, an affectionate laugh escaping his lips at the way his baby boy looks up at him with such adoring eyes. “looks like you really missed your papa,” hajime says fondly before placing a peck to the top of his delicate head. at this, your baby giggles loudly and begins to blabber incoherent sentences, ones that hajime pretends to understand nonetheless.

“you know, once we got here, he kept asking me ‘papa?’ the whole walk from the parking lot to the entrance. i guess he recognizes this place pretty well now.”

“oh, really?” at your words he peppers kisses all along your son’s chubby cheeks, “papa missed you too. so, so much.”

and it’s not without your son first being showered with praise and love from the team that the three of you leave to go home, praise that your baby accepts with innocent giggles and lots of squirming—all from the comfort of his papa’s warm embrace. undoubtedly his favorite place to be.

masterlist | taglist | tags: @scoupsworld @amaliaaliena @mires765

a/n: iwaizumi is such a good boy dad. a little self indulgent bcs i have big baby fever.

sleepykina

Sleepy kisses with iwa ❤︎

The room was quiet, dimly lit by the orange glow of the streetlamp leaking through the curtains. Rain tapped softly against the windows while the TV played some movie neither of you were actually paying attention to anymore.

Iwaizumi laid back against the couch with you curled against his side, your head tucked beneath his chin while one of his hands lazily rubbed up and down your arm.

You’d fallen asleep maybe twenty minutes ago.

He knew because your grip on his hoodie had loosened, your breathing evening out into something soft and steady. He smiled to himself, glancing down at you for a second.

Cute. Way too cute.

He looked back toward the TV, completely relaxed until he suddenly felt something soft press against his jaw.

Iwaizumi froze.

His eyes immediately darted downward.

You were still asleep against him.

“…What?”

Before he could even process it, your lips brushed against his cheek this time. A tiny sleepy kiss, absentminded and gentle, like you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

His entire body locked up.

Slowly, he looked around the empty living room like someone else had seen that.

Then he looked back down at you with wide eyes.

“Did you just—”

Another kiss.

This one landed near the corner of his mouth.

His face immediately started heating up.

You didn’t react afterward, just snuggled closer into his chest with a quiet sigh, still fully asleep.

Iwaizumi stared at you in complete disbelief.

You kissed him all the time when you were awake—walking past him in the kitchen, sitting next to him on campus, literally whenever you felt affectionate—but this?

This was new, and somehow worse.

Because you weren’t even conscious.

A few seconds passed before you shifted again, pressing one more sleepy kiss directly onto his lips.

Iwaizumi’s brain completely short-circuited.

His breath caught so suddenly he almost choked on it.

“…No way,” he whispered, staring at you like you’d just done something illegal.

Meanwhile you only frowned slightly in your sleep, mumbling something incoherent before burying your face into his chest again.

Like nothing happened.

His heart was pounding embarrassingly hard now, ears burning red while he sat there stiff as a board, one hand hovering awkwardly over your back because he genuinely didn’t know what to do with himself.

You kissed him again.

Tiny. Quick. Sleepy.

And that was what finally broke him.

A helpless grin spread across his face as he dropped his head back against the couch with a quiet groan. “You’re seriously doing this unconsciously?”

You only cuddled closer in response.

Iwaizumi looked down at you again, expression softening almost immediately despite the violent beating of his heart.

Yeah. He was completely done for.

superbassbuck

fight now, fuck later. | bucky barnes (18+)

⤷ civil war!bucky x black widow!reader

⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, civil war canon compliant, smut, mentions of size difference, widows have a red room variant of a super soldier serum, sexual tension, enemies to lovers, sex pollen, touch starved, bucky is so down bad, dry humping, bucky is a virgin, virginity loss, premature ejaculation, multiple orgasms, body worshiping, arguments, banter, physical fights as foreplay

⭐︎ word count: 11.1k

⭐︎ a/n: first time writing for civil war bucky and a black widow/avenger reader, kinda nervous. this is also my first attempt writing sex pollen. i hope i make the founding fathers proud with this one. gif

synopsis: While Bucky Barnes is on the run, Steve entrusts you to look after his old friend while the rest of the team tries to resolve the conflict with Tony Stark peacefully. As if babysitting a grumpy ex-Hydra soldier wasn't hard enough, an airborne toxin gets released—one designed to weaken a super soldier's resolve with the intention to trap them... and an unexpected side effect that skyrockets their libido. Between the constant bickering and fighting for your life, you have to keep reminding yourself, "I refuse to be Bucky's first."

← previous fic | main masterlist | next fic ➜

astarlinggirl

First off, I’m obsessed with your vibes. I love me some Mitski and Ethel Cain. I’m also a huge lover of unhinged women in media (I crave more of it). I adored your alt reader and Jack Abbot head cannons. Imagine him letting you dye a matching strip in his hair to whatever color you have at the moment. Everyone at the Pitt would tease him but he wouldn’t care. 🫦

jack abbot x alt!reader

summary: jack practically begs you to dye his hair so you can match.

wc: 1k words (holy yap)

a/n: firstly tysm twin, may we be blessed with more insane women in film, and thank you for this adorable ask. i quite like this dynamic where jack's sort of the softer, silly one, and reader is the more reserved one (but they still love each other bad). enjoy <33

You're touching up your roots, sitting in front of the bathroom mirror in one of Jack's old shirts, the faded cotton hanging off one shoulder, when he comes home from his shift.

Jack leans against the doorway silently watching you, a soft smile on his face before he asks you if you need help.

You shake your head, “Go rest, baby. I’m nearly done anyways.”

He comes in anyways, washing his hands and taking the brush from you.

You click your tongue, despite the fact that your cheeks are warming.

There’s a comfortable silence then, as you admire Jack through the mirror, watching his brows knit together and pursed lips as he evenly spreads the cherry red dye all over your scalp. One hand sections your hair while the other paints each section carefully.

Once he’s done, he crosses his arms, his lips tugging into a smug smirk.

iamkeruhh

dean dating a girl with a cat .ᐟ

headcannons ٠࣪⭑ Dean Winchester x cat lover!reader (f), cat being lightly described as a black cat + female (but you can use ur imagination if you have a furbaby ofc), softie!reader implied, I was inspired while shopping for my new kitten lol

٠࣪⭑ Dean put off telling you he’s allergic to cats for as long as possible, he wasn’t really a pet guy in general, but he saw the way you adored that little furball, and he just couldn’t break your heart. Until one day Sam mentioned it and he sent daggers toward his brother, accusing him of lying. You didn’t believe it of course but you appreciated him trying to not make you feel bad (no wonder he sneezed so much after spending the night at your place).

٠࣪⭑ Dean was intimidated at first— sure, he’s gone up against things nightmares are made of— but that little feline was like your personal bodyguard and teddy bear wrapped up in one, he couldn’t compete.

٠࣪⭑ plus Dean didn’t really do cats, dogs maybe but cats? That’s a whole different story, he doesn’t even remember the last time he’d even seen a cat before you strolled in his life with your little void of black fur.

٠࣪⭑ your cat would honestly kinda be in the same boat. Before you’d met Sam and Dean there weren’t many men in your life, well… there weren't many people in general, so she’s a little territorial in the beginning. That is until Deans sat on your bed while you shower, your cat just staring him down from where she’s sat at her spot on the opposite corner, then she goes up to him. Hesitantly sniffs his leg before deeming him safe enough to approach, “hi, cat…” Dean murmurs skeptically as the fuzzy feline walks up to him, he’s stiff as a board, “look I know I’m not your preferred company, but our girl’s showering so I’m all you’ve got right now… please don’t bite me.” She stares again, much closer to him now, he could reach out and touch her without much effort, and she just climbs on his lap— like it’s nothing, she adjusts her little body and a low purr starts. That was the day Dean realized his girlfriend's cat is just as obsessed with him as his girlfriend.

٠࣪⭑ when you move into the bunker (Deans choice, surprisingly) there is no escaping the cat, she follows you everywhere, her little stuffed mice and decapitated feather toys are scattered through the library, her bowls are in the kitchen, her food and treats are next to his beef jerky, and don’t even get him started on the cuddling.

٠࣪⭑ cuddling used to be simple, just holding each other, just you and him. But every time (without fail) your fuzzball decides she deserves a spot between you two as well. Even when things get a little more… intimate… she will make her presence known with a loud MEOW!! and jumping up to rub against Dean's bicep. It never fails to make you absolutely crack up, perfectly ruining the moment. The first time you got intimate within the fuzzy princess’s vicinity, Dean could’ve sworn the cat thought you were in danger with how loud she was yelling at the two of you.

٠࣪⭑ he’d never admit how much he’s grown to love your cat, even when she makes his nose stuffy and his eyes itchy, but you’ve caught the way he pets her when she settles on his chest while he’s in his Dean Cave, and the way he murmurs “here ya go, sweetheart” with a little head scratch when he fills her bowl, and how he’ll giggle like a little kid when he plays with her while she has zoomies— it warms your heart to no end.

snoopyooob

As a generally quiet member of the Tumblr community, I feel it’s really important for people to speak up about this in The Pitt Fandom right now.

Personal kinks and fetish preferences vary from person to person, are ultimately unique, and no one should feel ashamed of being sexually aroused. However, recently I’ve noticed a huge increase in dad!bf fics and fauxcest, which have been perpetuating harmful pedophil1c behaviours and tropes, often veiled behind the liberty that fan fiction allows when it comes to writing and portraying sex. However many people read fanfics passively and without any intention of engaging with the content, so they’re probably unaware of what they’re supporting. Nevertheless, allowing this kind of content in fandom spaces creates a predatory environment for minors and signals to those with ill intentions that a community permits vulnerable individuals to be exposed to such material. This, in turn, fosters a breeding ground for grooming and sexual abuse. I think everyone should be aware of the content currently published under the Pitt tag and, unfortunately, also under the Jack Abbot x reader tag. report and block.

This doesn’t apply to fics with clear signs of consenting adults, nor is it meant to criminalize fics that feature the terms ‘daddy’ or ‘kiddo’. I personally enjoy age gap works, and find them hot.

residentsuperhero

no fool for discretion

synopsis: Sometimes, dating Adrian Chase means sneaking through basement windows because he really wants you to see his secret basement and really doesn't want you to meet his mom.

gif by @/chaseadrian

pairing: adrian chase x reader tags: 18+!, smut, established relationship, (protected) sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, humor, fluff, quiet sex, hand gagging, mild sensory deprivation, not fully sub or fully dom adrian but a secret third thing, overstimulation, biting word count: 5.8k notes: brought to you by this request! title from the song "big dumb sex" by soundgarden which I firmly believe Adrian would like because it reminds him of all the glam metal songs about sex that Peacemaker likes but it has none of the subtext.

“Honestly, I’m kind of looking forward to meeting your mom!”

Adrian slammed on the brakes so hard you had to brace your hand against the dashboard, your seatbelt cutting tight across your skin. His eyes were wide, a grimace of pure panic on his lips.

“You can’t meet my mom!”

You blinked back at him. “Sorry?”

“There’s no fucking way you’re meeting my mom,” he said again, his tone firmer this time, but not any more elucidating than the last outburst.

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