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This is just bloomin lovely hannu 💕 incredible as always

The Practicalities of Spooning - Peter Parker

Summary: You don’t quite understand how spooning works, so you ask your best-friend-turned-crush, Peter, to explain it to you. Demonstrations ensue.

Warnings: Fluff fluff fluff fluff fluFF.

A/N: When I was thirteen, me and my best friend used to spoon each other at sleepovers. Not as weird as it sounds, but it definitely did not help the crush I used to have on her lol. Anyway, I was reminded of that the other day, and I thought…hey, why don’t I write about a fic about that? So that’s what this is, just… People are older and feelings are actually reciprocated. Haha. Happy reading! This is actually my first time posting anything Peter-related, so I’m lowkey freaking out rn hjdfhjd. Lemme know if you have any thoughts pls!

Masterlist

It’s a sleepy Sunday afternoon, and you’re feeling very relaxed. You’ve decided to stretch out horizontally across your mattress, lying on your front as you flick through a book, humming softly beneath your breath. Sat up against the headboard is Peter, your best friend, and every once in a while you draw your eyes up from your book to look at him, smiling a little as you watch the way he furiously types out text after text to Ned - the two of them apparently in the midst of a passionate debate.

This is how it’s supposed to be: you, Peter, and an air of absolute serenity.

There’s just one thing on your mind…

“Pete?” You ask slowly, finally bringing your book from your face. You slip a bookmark between the withered pages and place it aside before sitting up on top of your mattress, pulling your knees to your chin. You watch as Peter drags his eyes from his phone, and when he notices the somewhat serious expression on your face, moves it to sit on your bedside table.

“What’s wrong?” He has his eyebrows furrowed as he stares at you, strands of brown wispy hair wafting slightly in the breeze brought through your open window.

“I have a question,” you begin, eyeing your friend closely. “It’s kinda weird, though.”

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19 with Steve? Please and thank you!

Soft angel artsy Steve. I hope you like it!

Kisses meant to distract the other person from what they were intently doing.

Steve Rogers is quiet.

Bare feet. Bare chest. Long cotton lounge pants tied low at the hips. His hair is messy, sleep mussed; golden strands catch the early morning sunlight as he sits, hunched over the small wooden desk butted up against the window. His hand moves in determined strokes, rippling the muscles along his broad, strong back.

No files. No schematics. No mission briefings.

He’s focused, but peaceful. A rare glimpse of Sunday morning domestication. Of normalcy. As if putting his life on the line for the sake of the world isn’t his day job.

He’s so engrossed in his work he doesn’t hear you approach, startles a bit when you press warm hands onto his back, slide them up over his shoulders and wrap them around his neck.

“Hey, handsome,” you murmur, leaning over his shoulder to press a kiss onto his temple.

“Mornin’,” there’s a smile to his reply, but he doesn’t break stride, long fingers working magic across the paper stretched before him.

Color coats the tips of his fingers. Soft purple, dusty pink and sunset orange gather beneath his nails, along his cuticle beds, staining the skin down to the first joints. The box of soft pastels you’d gifted him last Christmas sits open to his right, neatly and carefully maintained.

You watch as he smooths fingers along the paper, carefully blending each swath and stipple of color into a dusky, watery sunset. It’s beautiful. Not unlike everything Steve has a hand in.

You move your hands from around his neck, slide them beneath his arms and spread them across the front of his chest. You lean forward, press against his back, place soft kisses along his shoulder and up his neck. He’s silent until your mouth reaches his ear, and then he breathes a long sigh through his nose.  

“Do you know,” he murmurs finally, “how incredibly distracting that is?”

You smile against his skin, smooth your hands down his torso, along the muscles that involuntarily tighten beneath your fingers, “Mmhm.”

“And you aren’t a bit sorry for it, are you?”

“Nope.”

Steve chuckles, leans back in his chair and tugs at one of your hands, effectively pulling you from behind him and down onto his lap. He settles you there, presses the pastel he was holding, warm yellow, into your own hand, and guides it over the paper.

“No,” you protest, “I don’t actually wanna mess it up.”

“You won’t,” and his lips press against the back of your shoulder now, “I just need a bit here.”

He guides your hand along the horizon line of the drawing, and then your fingertip, blending out the final touches of color as he presses intermittent kisses against you.

“There,” he says, satisfied. His hands drift to your waist, bleed color onto the soft white cotton of your sleep shirt.

Your eyes sweep the finished product, admiring Steve’s ability yet again, “It’s beautiful,” you say, “Makes me feel like I’ve been there before.”

“You have,” he answers, bunching the fabric in his fingers, tugging it up to expose bare thighs. Lips move along your skin as he continues, “Remember Beirut? The botched mission where Sam broke his leg. And you were so sick.”

“Oh.”

And images flash across your mind, pieced together and half forgotten with the hazy sickness of flu. Steve carrying you up flights of stairs. Holding your hair back while you were ill. Pressing a cool cloth to your forehead. It had hit you hard, crippled you for several days, had forced Steve to familiarize himself with you in ways that were too intimate for either of you at the time. In ways you were grateful you couldn’t remember much of now.

“Good times,” you tease as he tugs your shirt over your hips, slips his fingers beneath the hem and skirts them across your stomach, “I can see why you want to remember them.”

“I do,” he insists, fingers drifting ever higher, “It’s where I first knew I loved you.”

“Ah,” you arch against his touch, tilt your head back onto his shoulder, allowing his mouth access to your neck, “That’s so-” you shudder as stubble drags across your skin, “-wrong,”

There’s a pause. You sit up straighter, process his words again.

“That’s so wrong,” you repeat.

Steve’s silent, fingers rubbing lazy circles along your ribcage.

“Beirut?”

Lips touch the nape of your neck, “Yeah.”

“That was way before we were together.”

A noncommittal hum.

“Steve. Months before.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Yeah, well?” You shift in his lap, turn so that you can see his face. It’s sweet, all the places pastel dust has found its way onto him. A swoop of purple across his forehead. A dusting of orange along the side of his nose. Your heart swells, flutters in your chest as you smile at him, “you never told me that.”

“Technically I did. You were just in too much of a fever pitch to remember.”

And you shake your head, your laugh exasperated as you regard him. Fingers move to rub away the color on his forehead, but you only make it worse, spreading yellow alongside it. Steve mirrors your smile, and it’s sweet and lovely and a little bashful.

“So I’m slow on the uptake,” he shrugs, “It all worked out in the end, right?”

“Yeah. Because I was tired of waiting. Because I kissed you.”

And he laughs, tucks a lock of hair behind your ear as he closes the distance between your mouths, “I’m not above returning favors.”

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Memory Lane (26/100): Chris Evans - Details Magazine - May 2012

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Baby

MASTERLIST

Characters: Bucky x reader

Summary: After you spend the night at Bucky’s for the first time, you drop a nickname that turns the ex Winter Soldier into a blushing and stuttering mess.

Warnings: Fluff to a shameless extent, blushy!bucky, implied smut but nothing major

Words: 904 (short but sweet bc writers block is a biotch)

A/N: I’m getting a toothache from all of the sweetness. I’ve always pictured Bucky using petnames so often with his SO that when they call him one back he gets all cute and shy about it because he’s not used to it.

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Who are the two boys as your background?

OH MY GOD IM SO SORRY THIS IS LATE. They are the loves of my life, Thomas Brodie Sangster and Aaron Taylor-Johnson💕💕

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♡

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Love at First Cuddle (Stiles Stilinski imagine)

Summary: Stiles is completely infatuated with his roommate.

Word count: 2.5k (idk how it grew to be this long…it’s almost solid fluff!)

A/N: I honestly have no idea what this is. I sat down and I had twenty minutes to write and I was like ‘okay Hannah write something short and sweet. 800 words max’ and then suddenly it’d been an hour and 2.5k and ?? I’m still not sure what this is ?? my heart is SOFT. also this is in a loose third-person pov because I wanted to show Stiles’ flustered, I-really-like-this-person-ness, you know? happy reading lmao!!

unrelated to the fic, but I listened to Harry’s cover of Girl Crush on loop as I wrote this. def def give it in a listen if you’re in the mood for Soft Things.

“Yo, Y/N, are you-”

Stiles has to force himself to break off mid-yell when his eyes fall on a figure splayed across his sofa, head buried in the soft pillows covering the end. As a soft smile begins to play on his lips, he carefully shuts the door behind him and hangs his coat up on the peg, shuffling gently into the main living room. He pauses just in front of the sofa, squinting his eyes at the face of his roommate.

Y/N is… Well, first and foremost, she’s asleep. Stiles feels fondness ripple through his chest as he notes the textbooks spread across the coffee table, the mug of tea standing on the pawprint coaster, and the strands of messy hair covering her forehead. He rolls his eyes when he sees a trail of drool printed to her cheek, but still finds himself sighing endearingly.

Y/N is the most beautiful girl he’s ever met.

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“I loved you on this day. I love this memory.”

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) dir. Michel Gondry

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hi hi hi hi i love you i love you i love youuuuuuuuuu

My love my love my love my love 💕💕 HANNU YOU’RE SO SWEET 💕

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I just thought I'd let you know that I love your imagines! I just finiahed reading all of them and they're great. ❤

Thank you so so much! You’re so lovely!! 💕💕I’m glad you liked them!

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x

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BOI LOOK AT THOSE ARMS

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my babies on sunday brunch

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Dylan O’Brien as Thomas on Maze Runner: The Death Cure Production Stills

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SELFISH - Stiles Stilinski smut (Epilogue)

Title: You Are My Everything

Summary: Six years on, we check in to see how life is going for you and Stiles…

Word count: 7.1k

Warnings: there are two sections of smut! We got cowgirl + doggy style, mild spanking, oral (fem receiving) and dirty talk.

A/N: I’ve decided I’m gonna stick my extended ‘thank yous’ at the bottom of this post so it doesn’t clog up your dash having it all above the cut. However, I’m still gonna say THANK YOU to everyone who’s kept up with this series. You guys fuel my fire. Thank you for giving me the space to grow. 

ENJOY THE EPILOGUE!!! :))

Song of the part: Dandelion Hair - Joe Brooks ft. Melissa Polinar (listeN TO THIS GODDAMN SONG)

THE FINALE | SERIES MASTERPOST

Previously on SELFISH…

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