dragonslayer-5fanfiction

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

WHO IS DELIVERING THE MYSTERY BAGS OF SNICKERS

(reffed post) Okay hold on hold on look look:

So they hit the showers after a training time right? After one of the times Ghost doesn't give them Snickers. And all these guys, newbies and old members, especially the ones who don't interact with him as much, are so scared they've pissed Ghost off.

All because he's gone two days in a row without even hinting at the Snickers.

So one of these newbies stops Soap after a training time, knowing Soap is close to Ghost:

"Excuse me, Sergeant?"

"Aye?"

"Some of the guys and I, we were wondering... 'ave we done somethin' to piss off the lieutenant?"

Soap blinks. once. twice. "Why in the world would you think that?"

"He uh-" the newbie glances back at the crowd of soldiers behind him.

Gaz laughs just a bit, clapping a hand on Soap's shoulder. "Ghost hasn't handed out a single Snickers today, mate. And I think a couple of them did some deserving things today."

Soap blinks again, gear clicking into place before "Ah yer off yer heid, he's not mad. Probably just ran out of the things. The bag was half empty days ago."

Still, when he looks at the group in front of him, even he's not convinced.

So he and Gaz go out and buy bags of the sweet treats. They bring them back in a box, enough to last at least two months.

It's a team effort to get them to Ghost. Soap stakes the place out before they go, he knows when Ghost is asleep, and knows when the base is quietest. And Gaz delivers, quick and sneaky.

And if Ghost's really not mad maybe he'll use them again. (And yes, he uses them again, obviously.)

Ghost and the others NEVER know it's them, maybe Ghost has his suspicions, but.

Still, no one necessarily suspects them either. In fact, most of the 141 thinks Ghost just... went and bought more.

But Gaz and Soap know. And they keep a sharp eye on the amount of Snickers Ghosts hands out and what the bags lookin' like.

They take it deathly seriously, keeping track like it's their own personal mission.

And like clock work, they deliver the night after Ghost runs out each time.

They've gotta take care of their people right?

(Ghost resists the urge to check security feeds for two bag deliveries. After that he absolutely knows it's the sergeants.)

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Imagine Ghost accidentally conditioning the 141...

Ghost is busy. Always. Too much paperwork, too many reports, too many logistics to handle before training. It’s 1400 before he realizes he’s skipped lunch. Again.

Not a big deal. Not the first time. Won’t be the last.

But he is hungry.

His eyes land on the bright pink bag of Valentine’s Day mini Snickers that’s been sitting, untouched, on his desk for a week. They were part of a bulk shipment to the base; some gift or something.

Not exactly lunch. But it’ll do.

He grabs the bag and heads for the training field. He’s two minutes late, not that it matters much because Soap and Gaz already have the unit ready.

"Where’s Price?" he asks, tearing open the bag as he walks up.

"Got pulled away. You’ve got this one, Sir," Gaz replies, raising a brow as Ghost lifts his mask just enough to pop a Snickers into his mouth.

Ghost doesn’t react, just grunts.

Today’s drill is a simple infiltration exercise. Hell, it's something Ghost or Price hardly have to be here for. Their presence would be more of a formality. Gaz leads the attackers. Soap leads the defenders. The teams get ten minutes to plan, to prep.

And then Ghost sounds the time up, and the groups move.

Ghost watches, leaning against a crate, chewing another Snickers, barely paying attention to one of the new guys—until the kid steps right into a trap. Ghost sees it before he does.

Blue powder erupts into his face.

Soap’s defenders descend, but the kid doesn’t go down easily. Blind, but still fighting back, holding his own until his team pulls him out.

Soap's team wins. Barely.

When it’s over, the teams regroup. Ghost is still eating Snickers.

He turns to the recruit, still dusted blue.

"What 'appened?"

"Didn’t see the wire." The kid shifts uncomfortably.

Ghost turns to the unit. "Who set it?"

One of the defenders raises a hand. Ghost considers him for a moment before reaching into the bag.

He tosses a mini-Snickers at the soldier.

The guy catches it. Looks at it. Looks at Ghost. Eats it.

Ghost turns back to the newbie. "Held your own. Tha' matters. Surprises happen. Don’t let ‘em get you again."

And that’s it. Training’s dismissed. Ghost pockets the rest of the Snickers and moves on.

...

The next day, Price is still gone. Ghost doesn’t skip lunch this time, but he still brings the Snickers bag.

They run the same drill.

Same recruit. Same route. But this time, he checks everything. Quick. Efficient. Finds the wire. Disarms it.

No blue powder today.

Gaz’s team wins.

Ghost eyes the recruit and flicks a Snickers at him. The kid catches it mid-air.

...

By the end of the week, Price is still gone. Ghost keeps the pink bag of Snickers on him during training. Like it's just another part of his kit.

One or two mini snickers get handed out every session. And nobody really notices at first. But the team starts moving differently.

They work harder. Smarter. More ruthless. More efficient. No one wants to be the guy who doesn’t get a Snickers.

Even the veterans sharpen their tactics. Gaz and Soap notice. But no one says a damn thing. If Ghost is going to give them snickers, then shut the gel up and let him give them snickers.

...

They're sent on a mission. High stakes.

They don't lose a single man. Not a single injury.

At the end of it, back on their transport home, Ghost pulls the pink danm bag from some unassuming pocket and hands out the snickers.

The men take them without question. They earned it.

But Ghost is running low. The bag nearly empty.

...

At the next training, Ghost doesn't hand out a single snickers. Not on purpose, but the bag is empty, so there's nothing left to do.

But the others notice. Gaz squints. Soap looks like a confused dog. Head tilt and all. The newbies glance at each other, shifting.

...

Two days later, Ghost swings his door open at 0600 sharp—and pauses.

Sitting just outside his door, neat as you please, is a bag of mini Snickers. Not the Valentine’s ones anymore. Just regular.

Ghost blinks. Hums. Pleasantly surprised, he picks up the bag, inspecting it briefly before stuffing it into his tac vest like it’s just another piece of gear.

He doesn’t think much of it. It’s a good snack.

At training, he does as he always does. Watches. Observes. Evaluates.

And then, without thinking, he tosses a Snickers at a recruit who clears a building faster than expected.

He snaps to attention as he catches it, eyes shining. Ghost does not question it.

The pattern continues.

And when he starts running low, Ghost finds a fresh bag of Snickers waiting for him.

Somebody—somewhere—has decided that the Snickers will not run out.

...

At training, at drills, in the field, there is a silent expectation. A new, unspoken rule. Do something exceptional? Get a Snickers.

The machine of the 141—the deadliest operators in the world—now snaps to attention at the crinkle of plastic.

They move with a ruthless kind of precision, bodies coiled, eyes sharp—waiting, anticipating.

Even Gaz and Soap are part of it now—though everyone refuses to acknowledge it outright.

But the moment Ghost hands one of his men a Snickers, he takes it.

Silently. Gratefully. Like a goddamn reward.

Ghost does not acknowledge this. Not out loud. But he keeps handing them out.

And they keep earning them.

They'd quite literally kill for a Snickers. (imagine what they'd do for an expensive piece of chocolate)

...

And then Price comes back three weeks later. He walks into the training area and pauses.

Something is off.

The unit is too sharp. Too focused. The newbies stand stock still in their group, as if waiting for something.

Gaz and Soap exchange a look. Soap refuses to meet Price’s eyes.

But he doesn't acknowledge it, until he begins unwrapping a plastic sleeve holding a new pen. The plastic is thick and loud. And half of their fucking head snaps his way. The hungry eyes of three dozen of soldiers latching on him.

Ghost, standing at the edge of the group, tears open a fresh bag of Snickers.

And now the entire fucking unit reacts. Subtle shifts in stance. Focused attention. Expectant silence.

Price squints. Frowns.

Ghost flicks a Snickers at a recruit. He earned it today.

The recruit catches it like it’s a holy offering and eats it immediately.

Price’s frown deepens. Slowly, carefully, he turns to Ghost. “The fuck did I miss?”

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Been absolutely feral for this idea but - request for a reader that matches their partner's freak. Is forward and horny. Throws them a pick up line, slaps their ass, whispers something filthy in their ear 😂 catch the boys off guard but quickly make them love it 🤭

Ty ty!

Ah! Anon, I love this. I love this idea. It's so fun. I think all of us are used to the guys being forward, but not necessarily their partners. This is a nice spin on it, and I'm here for it! Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader) *Price is f!reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, dirty talk, established relationship, shenanigans, pick-up lines, implied sexual content

Word Count: 600

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price (w/ f!reader)

“I want to bounce on it,” you announce.

John blinks and looks up. Bounce on it?” asks John over his tea mug.

You nod downward toward his dick, and John’s head tilts slightly.

“I mean—I want to sit on your face first. But then I’d like to bounce on it.”

John stares, and you’re not sure if he’s heard you correctly. But then he clears his throat, setting down his mug and the morning paper on the coffee table.

He reclines on his back, resting his head on a pillow. “Come here then,” he purrs, gesturing at his face.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Hey handsome.”

Kyle glances up from the stove, one hand clutching the handle of the pan in front of him. He looks around the kitchen as if there is someone else in the room.

“Me?” he asks, pointing at himself.

With a little swagger in your step, you saddle up beside him. Kyle beams, extending his unoccupied arm to accept you into his embrace. You slide your arm around his middle and place your hand on his chest, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Who else?” you reply with an alluring sweetness that has Kyle grinning like an idiot.

“You’re being awfully affectionate,” he muses, kissing your forehead before returning his attention to the pan.

You rub your hand against his chest, pressing in even closer. “Maybe I want something,” you murmur.

“Like what?” he laughs. “My wallet?”

“Like this,” you sigh, reaching down to gently cup him.

Kyle exhales deeply through his nostrils as you continue to rub back and forth, urging his dick toward hardness.

“I’m making dinner,” he breathes, eyelids fluttering slightly as you dip beneath the waistband of his grey sweatpants.

“You can still make dinner,” you reply softly as you slowly sink to your knees.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“There you are,” muses Johnny.

He strides forward, arms encircling you low at your waist, hands resting on your ass. You drape your arms around the back of his neck, bringing him even closer. A mischievous smile spreads across Johnny’s face.

He has no idea you’ve got the same thing on your mind.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss.

“Missed you, too,” you reply, going in for your own.

“You did?” he asks, an eagerness in his tone.

This time when you go in for a kiss, you slow it down, stretch it out. Lingering. Lingering more until he softens, the tip of his tongue teasing your bottom lip.

“I did,” you affirm, opening wider to allow him in.

Your hands descend, slide under his shirt, caressing bare skin. Johnny shivers, and then he’s grinning.

“What are you after?” he asks with a cheeky smirk.

You draw back slightly, giving him your best smile. Leaning in, you press your lips to his ear, whispering. “I want you. Naked. Right now.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” groans Johnny, taking a step back as he starts stripping.

You admire the reveal, salivating over every discarded piece of clothing.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Simon.”

“Yes, love?”

You cozy up beside your husband, casually draping your arm around him. Simon leans into your touch.

“Let’s pretend I’m a shark,” you begin.

He glances at you. “A shark?”

“And you’ve got some swimmers I need to swallow.”

Simon stares at you for a long second before he chuckles. “You—”

“I’m not a meteorologist but do you think I could expect a few inches tonight?”

Simon guffaws. “Bloody fucking hell.”

“So, anyway,” you sigh. “Wanna go fuck?”

He sighs, shakes his head, but you see the smile.

“Simon,” you sing-song.

“Get to the bedroom, love.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

sending some love:

AWWWWWWWWWWW

This is so sweet! Thank you Dira 😭🤧 I really needed this today.

Those flowers....���

Happy weekend!

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

“ the fuck-it list ” || hq! pt. 5

one || two || three || four

synopsis: there’s a list going around consisting of hot guys on campus that are deemed “fuckable” with theories as to what they’d be like in bed. it’s all fun and games until somehow your boyfriend ends up on this list. 

pairing: various x gn!reader [ suna, aran, kita ]

warnings: mature content. MDI. cursing, suggestive language, mild objectification, atsumu slander/bulling (mostly from suna lol), mentions of soft dom/brat-taming, breeding-kink kita supremacy, not proofread so there may be some errors here and there, and I think that's it :]

notes: NO ONE LOOK AT ME THIS TOOK SO FREAKING LONG THAT WE'RE IN A WHOLE NEW YEAR SINCE THE LAST ONE WAS POSTED LOL But, I wanted to make sure I portrayed the characters as accurately as possible, and I've once again been hit with the burnout stick :'))) so thank you so so so so much for your patience, hope you enjoy!

tagged: @daedaep69 , @ahahadumbo , @viktoryn , @mdsb , @ourgoddessathena , @ushygushybaby , @hyori2 , @lumpywolf , @fantasycantasy, @captaincyberqueen, @tsukiran

SUNA's messy as hell, you bet your ass he knows about the list.

Most definitely clowned Atsumu when the whole mix-up between him and Osamu went down a couple weeks ago. He'd poke that dead horse out of pure boredom or just to document his reactions for a laugh later, resulting in some of the most unflattering, yet entertaining footage of your mutual friend that you were certain he'd keep for blackmail.

“You didn’t need the poor guy’s misery in every possible angle you could think of.” You shook your head at him, fighting the grin on your face. Sitting across from him at a booth in the canteen, you pass the time in between classes by letting him show you photo after photo, video after video of Atsumu’s latest performance.

How his storage managed to survive was beyond you.

Suna shrugged, taking a sip from his drink. “Sure I did. Need to have variety for when I make merch and sell it at his games. ‘m thinking tshirts, buttons, stickers, y’know. The whole nine yards.”

“You’re terrible.” You shook your head again as you sifted through blurry photo after blurry photo.

“Terribly smart.”

“Mm. Debatable.”

“Tsk,” he reached over to flick your forehead, “keep hating and you won’t get a cut of the profit.” Despite him softly glaring at you, he grinned at the giggle you graced him with in response, flicking his forehead back. “Anyway, wanna see the one of him throwing a chair at ‘samu for calling him the mid-twin?”

You paused, eyes widening. “He did not.” 

Suna lifted his arm to give you room to lean against his side. Despite your better judgment, and a smidge of pity for the blonde, you couldn’t deny he had some pretty priceless reactions that never failed to get a laugh out of you. Plus, it was all in good fun at the end of the day—No harm, no foul, right?

Immediately snuggling up to his side, he took the phone back to scroll right to said video, angling it so you could watch it together. You chortled at the sound of your boyfriend behind the camera, panting and laughing as he attempted to hold the camera steady while sprinting away from Atsumu before inevitably getting caught right before the recording abruptly stopped. You blinked in shock, mouth agape as you slowly connected the dots with the last few milliseconds you had. “Did he..Did he tackle you??” 

“Yep. Like a big, blonde buffalo. Life flashed before my eyes.”

“Oh my god,” you replied, hand coming over your mouth as you fought back your giggles. Suna squinted at you, arm that was curled over your shoulder coming down so he could lightly pinch your ear.

“You’re ‘posed to laugh at his expense, not mine.”

This only made giggling harder to contain, eventually morphing into cackles as the last few moments of the video replayed in your mind over and over. Suna pursed his lips, placing the phone on the table to free his other hand as it came to pinch your other ear. He tugged on them, not so hard to hurt but enough to get his point across as he pouted at you. “Quit it.”

More laughs bubbled out of you, now at his ridiculous retaliation as he pulled your ears far enough to resemble a monkey’s. You raised a brow, reaching up to grab at his wrists. “You quit it.”

“No, you.”

You squinted. “No, you.”

“You.”

“Rin-Ow! Stop it, you ass!”

This little back and forth went on for a few minutes, up until it eventually ends with you in a small headlock, biting his forearm in retaliation. It didn’t hurt at all, except maybe your pride, especially when you heard the familiar sound of his phone snapping pictures—When did he even grab it? You pulled back in shock, looking up and meeting your own gaze on the screen as he rapidly snapped away, even having the nerve to give a peace sign in some of them with the very arm you were latched onto.

You gaped in horror, “No you didn't! Delete those!”

He hummed in feigned thought, keeping his phone just out of reach as you struggled to snatch it from him. Rin smirked, “No way, now we both can laugh, babe. We'll call it even.”

With a glare, you opened your mouth to retort but he immediately shut you up by leaning down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, lazily so, and swallowing any protest you tried to voice until you eventually melted into it. You could just feel his smug grin, and you were tempted to bite his bottom lip, but he pulled away before you could commit. He snorted as you still glared at him, although it softened more and more with every kiss he placed on your face to placate your sourness toward him.

Gradually, the kisses started to grow wet, making you squirm away with an annoyed whine, but he merely tightened his hold on you keeping you from getting far. Despite your struggle you couldn't help but laugh, "Ew! Ugh! You're so fucking gross!"

"Mm, gross for you." He placed another to your lips before releasing you. You gently pinched him in retaliation, muttering a small threat to his kneecaps if those photos of you ever saw the light of day.

After the two of you settled back down in a comfortable silence, your mind started to wander back to the discussion from earlier. With the abundance of guys who've been placed on said list so far, Atsumu of all people one of them, you couldn't help but wonder... Looking over at him as he played with his straw, you asked, "Hey...do you think you're on the list?"

Rin paused, then gave a small shrug, "Dunno. Never checked."

You scoffed, "I find that hard to believe. You weren't ever curious?"

"Not really, always thought it was kinda dumb. I only grew mildly interested after 'tsumu threw a tantrum about it, saw it as another way to get on his nerves. Other than that, it's never crossed my mind. Besides, as if I'd give him the satisfaction of knowing I'm on it, too." He blinked, then looked at you. "On second thought, yeah, check and see so I can dox whoever posted it before that knucklehead catches wind."

"Rin." You slapped his arm, knowing he was half-serious. "We can just report it."

He merely shrugged again, internally debating, but didn't say anything as you did some digging on the account to see if anything came up. It helped that the admins of the account started alphabetizing after posting so many entries, it made it easier to navigate through the endless sea of thirst and shameless threads. When you finally made it to the 'R's and noticed how short the section was, you had high hopes. Until, right there plain on your screen, paired with an off-guard photo of him you posted once on your story in past, was his entry.

‘Rintarō Suna. 6’1ft of malicious intent. A straight up walking red flag, but it’s okay—Red’s a sexy color. Definitely the kind of guy who’d call you “Bro” as a term of endearment, then make out with you while using your ass as a stress ball. He can’t keep his hands to himself to save his LIFE yet swears on it that he’s not clingy lol. But don’t let the cuddly side of him distract from the fact that he can be such a little SHIT ♡. He’d edge you for hours, rearrange your insides like furniture, then have the NERVE to tease you for walking funny. You’ll let it slide though…his mouth’s good at other things than just being smart. MASTER at giving head, treats it like an art form, would rather eat a pair of jeans that ever go a day without you on his tongue. 8.5/10. And he for sure takes pictures/videos of you for his viewing pleasure later. Say cheese!’

As you both stared blankly at your screen, him with furrowed brows and you struggling to hold down a smile. Rin eventually kissed his teeth. "Can't even be mad, read me like a damn book. Was this weirdo in the room with us taking notes, or something?"

You chortled, "Don't even joke like that."

"I'm just saying, tweak a few things here and there, you'd think I ghost-wrote this."

"Sooo, I take it you're no longer worried about Atsumu seeing this?"

Suna smirked, "Hell no, at least mine's accurate. Send him the link."

“Your bitch-ass ex is about to piss me off, bro.”

Upon your unannounced arrival into his dorm, courteous of the spar key he gave you for emergencies, you figured now was a good time to exercise that privilege because this was a borderline catastrophe. Granted, you could’ve approached it more delicately, but you were already upset from the nonsense you witnessed on your timeline during your doom-scrolling session.

ARAN gave you a look of disapproval, but decided to address one issue at a time. “First of all, we’ve kissed. Many times. I am well aways from being a ‘bro’. Second, language. Thirdly, when ain’t they pissin’ ya off?”

“Whatever, you better get’em before I do. You know I’m not above drastic solutions, I’ll steal their dog and hold him for ransom, I’m being so forreal.”

He snorted, shaking his head. Closing his laptop to give you his full attention, nodding at the chair across from him for you to take. “How ‘bout we talk first before riskin’ jail.”

You sat down and handed him your phone, “Read that and I bet you’ll be on board in seconds.”

Aran squinted at the screen in confusion, scanning over the contents before his eyes widened to the size of volleyballs and jaw dropping to the table. You nodded in triumph having predicted this reaction, smugly crossing your arms as you said, “Uh-huh. Bet dog-napping sounds pretty good right about now.”

“No.” He deadpanned, but still overtly shook. “What even is this?”

“It’s called ‘The Fu—” a small glare from Aran. You rolled your eyes, correcting yourself, “The Eff-It List’.”

“Ok, I can see that. But, what is it?”

You scoffed, “Basically a perverted forum that talks about strangers and their kinks or whatever. Purely speculative for the most part, but recently they started letting people send in their own entries. And yours came straight from the horse’s mouth.” You reached over to point at an all too familiar username, well aware of it being his ex’s burner account in their hopes to remain anonymous.

'Aran Ojiro. 6’0ft of tall, dark, and handsome. If you’re searching for a Service Dom with a heart of gold, then you’ve come to the right man. When it comes down to the dirty and flirty, this hunk would be an Olympic level threat to the bums in your timeline. Not only plowing a hole straight into your vertebrae but cooking you a bomb-ass meal afterwards that will have you wanting his pants around his ankles for a round who-knows-what. Truly a gentleman, won’t finish until you do at least twice. And aftercare of a God, we’re talking rose petal baths, oil massages, honeyed affirmations, and finishing off with warm cuddles in those beefy arms of his. Yum. Aran’s big on communication; tell him what you like, what you don’t like, whatever you say, goes. Will make you feel like royalty but rearrange your insides like a common concubine. This absolute King gets a 100/10 from us.'

The way his face was scrunched up, you would think he ate something sour. You’ve only ever seen him make such a stank face at the twins whenever their bickering escalated to physical violence. He was silent for a long moment as he analyzed the post, re-reading it again and again only to grow more perturbed. He exhaled deeply through his nose before handing you back the phone, reaching into his pocket to grab his own. Aran began to type while you were in the midst of conjuring up your revenge plan.

“So, I was thinking, they normally walk their dog in the morning before class, like ass-crack of dawn early-“

“Language.”

“-and they’ll most likely have their guard down, right? So I’m thinking you’ll hide in the bushes, ready to release the squirrel we’ll use as bait, and while they’re distracted I’ll sneak from behind with a shovel and-“

“There. It’s been taken care of.”

The words died in your throat, stunned to silence. You blinked a few times in bewilderment, and watching as Aran set his phone down to open his laptop back up and resume working on his assignment. Mentally floundering, you leaned forward with raised eyebrows, “Come again?”

“They’re gonna get the post deleted.”

“Wha—Who?” You squawked.

“My ex. I sent a DM statin’ that we know they’re involved and that I’m not comfortable with this being spread, so unless they want student affairs involved for sexual harassment, they better work on gettin’ that post taken down. Give it a minute, bet it’ll be gone.”

You blinked once more. Then, after a few minutes later of more stunned silence, you refreshed the page. Sure enough…his post wasn’t there anymore. Not a trace of it anywhere, as if it never existed. With a disbelieved chortle, you dropped your phone on the table and slumped back in your chair, staring into space. Aran grinned, eyes trained on his laptop screen as he cheekily said, “Ya did say get’em before you do.”

With a playful huff, you crossed your arms. “Damn killjoy.”

“Language.”

You slowly grinned, mischievously. “…Shit.”

“Oi.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender, relenting as you giggled. Aran shook his head at your antics, resuming his work. However, you leaned forward to push his laptop screen down a little so that his attention was on you once more, pausing his typing fingers. He raised an expectant brow, waiting for you to speak. You gave him a pointed look, “You blocked them after sending that DM, right?”

He snorted, reaching over to gently pat your head. “And reported their account.”

You beamed with satisfaction, leaning back in your chair. “Good. Fuck ‘em—Oop!Waitwait, hang on, it was a slip of the tongue, I forgot, I’m sorry!”

Aran immediately closed his laptop and began to stand, rounding the table to approach you menacingly, although fear wouldn’t be the emotion you’d describe as he closed in on you like prey. You didn’t even attempt to make an escape as he scooped you up in his aforementioned beefy arms, squeals following after your giggles as he carried you into the next room, ready to give you what he deemed a suitable punishment for your potty-mouth.

The king hath spoken.

You fought to contain your laughter at the sight of your boyfriend’s gears visibly turning in his head as he stared at your phone screen, brows furrowed and hands on his hips like a dad judging someone’s front lawn. KITA was at a loss for words, to say the least. Like Aran, it merely confused him upon the first read, and re-reading it over and over aided nothing. You could no longer hold it in when Kita eventually looked at you with a blank face and said, “Not true.”

Tickled, you decided to tease him by feigning ignorance. “Hm? You think so? It sounds pretty accurate to me.”

Kita frowned, leaning over your shoulder to re-read it again, just in case he was missing something you were seeing.

'Shinsuke Kita. 5’9ft of calm before the storm. At first, we chalked Kita up as a boring vanilla, someone that doesn’t like to step outside of the norm, and blends in with the mundane. However, what would appear to be a dreary missionary nightmare can easily be disputed when you take a deeper look into those carmel hues of his. As we’ve mentioned in a previous post, it’s always the quiet ones you need to be cautious of. Sure, he’ll invite you over to show off his beautiful garden, innocent enough. Well…needless to say, his garden won’t be the only place he plants his seed. With the right person, and the right amount of pressure, we believe Kita to be a closeted pervert with a RAGING breeding kink. Whether you can or cannot conceive, it doesn’t matter to him–Mating press, full nelson, prone-bone, you name it, he’s doing it. Then, he’ll tell you about what produce is in season as if you aren’t fighting for your life right after, continuing his day like he didn’t take his time molding your insides to the shape of him. Scary. 10/10'

He shook his head, opinion standing firm. “’s too vulgar. Have I ever been vulgar to ya?”

You pursed your lips, shrugging coyly. “Well…there have been a couple times.”

Kita blinked, then took a minute to think about it. And he thought hard. Slowly, he started to become concerned, contemplating the last time you were intimate in case this were a possibility. Surely you would’ve told him if he was acting out of line…

The act doesn’t last long, especially when he looked back at you and plainly said, “Yer teasin’ me.”

With a small chuckle, you gave up. “Fine, you got me. You have been nothing but a gentleman during sex, I won’t argue that. But, you have to admit, there were a few things in here that were spot on.”

“Like what?” He crouched down, continuing his task.

You gestured around, “Well…you did invite me over to look at your garden.”

Kita paused his pruning, looking around at your pointed observation. He hummed, then gave a small shrug. “Not to jus’ sleep with ya afterward. My intentions were strictly pure.”

“Ok, fair. But, you do want a family.”

“‘s a normal goal to have, and in due time, we’ll accomplish it. Once I’ve married ya, of course. That don’t make me a ‘closeted pervert’.”

You grinned, crossing your arms. “You didn’t deny the ‘raging breeding kink’ part-”

“Look at how well yer favorite sprout’s doin’, love.” He was quick to change the subject, beckoning you to come see for yourself. You humored him, crouching down next to him in the dirt, and happily gazing over his shoulder to watch him delicately handle your leafy little guy.

But, if you squint, you could see a little tinge of pink in Kita’s ears.

© 2025-2026 anisespice ッ all rights reserved. likes, comments & reblogs much appreciated!

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Midwest Girl

Warnings: F!reader, hunting mention, (just in case) slight gore/blood description, extreme weather mention (tornado sirens), just self indulgent fluff

An: trying my hand at a drabble 😌 (a very long drabble… more like a poorly formatted fic) saw this post by @succubusvalentine and just needed to write Simon with a Midwest girl lol. Lil disclaimer, this is based on my own experience in the Midwest and where I live in it (omg it's huge there's so much variety in the culture)

Word count: almost 800

Simon with a Midwest girl that absolutely fascinates him.

You were always so sweet and polite, a small smile would pull at his lips every time you said “ope.”

If you were surprised, bumping into something, or remembering something, every single one would be accompanied by a little “ope!”

Or when you would walk past him, a little “let me just squeeze right past ya...” he would be fighting off a grin.

The politeness wasn't a personal thing though.

The first time a stranger started talking to him at the grocery store, he thought they were insane. When his sweet girl started chatting with the older lady who had commented on the tomatoes Simon was holding, he thought you had fallen off the deep end as well. But that's just how you were. His sweet thing, sharing your sugar with the neighbors, helping with their gardens, bringing over dinner or other comforts whenever someone fell on hard times.

Your food reminded him of what home ought to feel like, all comforting and warm. Whether it be your mother's “famous” chili, a casserole brought to a potluck to celebrate some small town holiday, or a simple pasty warming his fingers in the heart of winter, Simon could never get enough.

While there were quite a few things he hesitated to eat, shoving a bite into his mouth usually shut him up and had him devouring the rest, despite the odd name or questionable ingredients.

The weather was its own situation.

The tornado sirens are blaring, he's grabbing things to hide in the basement and wait out the weather, following the safe and logical protocol. Searching high and low for his sweet girl, just to find you lounging on the porch, a bottle of Faygo in hand, watching the sky swirl and shift with a content smile. Brushing him off when he frantically tries to usher you inside, nodding to your neighbors who are all doing the same, outside despite the sirens screaming for you to hide inside where it’s safe. (Of course, if it actually got bad, you would go inside, but it would take a while to get to that point.)

The temperature changes were intense, 20’s and freezing his fingers off one day, 60’s and driving with the windows down the next, it was enough to give him whiplash.

Not to mention the god-awful winters. He would think you were insane for wearing just a T-shirt and jeans when it's nearly in the 30s. You would just smile and wave him off, laughing when the usually stoic man would be reduced to grumbles about the cold bite.

The chill in Manchester was enough for him to be tugging on a winter coat so the colder temperatures were less than comfortable. He would be bundled up in long johns, flannel, a down coat, mittens, and a scarf wrapped over a thick woolly balaclava you had gifted him for the holidays and he would still be shivering like a wet kitten.

It’s hitting the negatives and you’re unbothered.

“It’s not so bad without the wind.” You happily tell him, as if his nose wasn’t numb and his fingers stiff from the glacial weather. He had to buy a proper pair of winter shoes, his assumption that his combat boots would be fine stomping through the snow. After a too-close dance with frostbite, he caved and bought a real pair of snow boots.

The way you interacted with wildlife never failed to amaze him either. Shooing off a raccoon or coyote that was pawing through your trash. Feeding the birds and squirrels, not batting an eye as a deer walks past.

Growing up in Manchester, he had seen his share of wildlife, but it was so different in the States. The deer were bigger, coyotes would bark and scream like banshees in the night, and don't even get him started when he saw a moose for the first time.

But Simon whose girl goes hunting or fishing? He’s whipped.

You’ve got antlers on your walls, maybe a hide or two kicking around. His eyes would nearly pop out of his head when he walked into the garage to be met with the sight of his sweet girl elbow-deep in fish guts, scaling and gutting the fish with practiced efficiency. Blood splattered on your arms and a smudge on your cheek as you smiled at him and handed him a plate of fish to bring inside.

He would laugh at first, the need for a freezer in the garage seemingly useless. But come hunting season, when it was filled with rabbit, venison, and wild turkey, he changed his mind quite quickly.

You had your quirks, but you were his. And he wouldn’t trade his sweet Midwest girl for anything.

An: I had a lot of fun writing this! Like I said, it’s based on my own experience with where I live so I’m sorry if this isn’t how you’ve experienced it! Feedback is always appreciated <3

Taglist: @pythonmoth @hattiefunny @daydreamerwoah @bi-sk8er @sweetheart4you @shinebright2000

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Of beauty marks - Iwaizumi Hajime

"Iwa-chan doesn't have any beauty marks," Oikawa points out, his voice obnoxious and annoying and-

"He does," you disagree without thinking about it. "On the back of his right elbow, for example."

Four sets of eyes flicker to you and you bite your lip and curse your tongue.

"How would you know?" Oikawa asks, his voice low and daring, like a trap. His eyes pose a challenge, too. Iwaizumi stares down at the table, like he can't believe he's having this conversation in the middle of lunch break, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa... well, who knows what they're thinking, really.

"I'm sitting behind him," you point out. "And he wore short sleeves yesterday."

-

You stare in disbelief. When you accepted the position of Manager of the Seijoh Volleyball Club, you hadn't considered meeting any classmates there. Iwaizumi looked more like a Baseball Player, Oikawa was annoying enough to win every debate he started, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa... well, who knows what they're into, really.

But now they're all here, right in front of you, and shirtless too.

Your eyes flicker over the beauty marks on Iwaizumi's back. They're scattered, like pins on a map. You can't help but think of the saying, and wonder how many past lives Iwaizumi might have had. Or maybe just one overeager significant other.

"You're staring," Oikawa points out with a mean grin.

You send one back. "Get dressed then. You're asking for it."

-

"Need help?" You ask, when Iwaizumi appears next to you after training.

Iwaizumi nods, head bent. It's rare to catch him alone like this. He's flexing his fingers, but keeps his elbows locked to his side.

"I think I injured my elbow," he mutters under his breath. "I don't want to make a fuss about it."

"Want me to check?"

He nods, though jerks his head. "But not here. I don't want-"

"Iwa-chan!" Oikawa sings and you lean around the Ace to stare down the Captain.

"Your boy-crush can wait," you holler back at him. "Iwaizumi needs to help me first!"

"Rude!" Oikawa pouts but turns back to the others.

Your hand curls around Iwaizumi's elbow instinctively as you lead him out the door, the equipment bag now heavy on his shoulder. Your pointer finger brushes over something and you know, without having to check, that it's a beauty mark, slightly raised.

You wonder about the intimacy of kissing that spot, a hidden place, love tucked away like a secret.

Iwaizumi shivers and you apologize, but the feeling lingers, the thought has etched itself into the canvas of your mind.

-

"Hey," you look up from your books, surprised to find Iwaizumi towering over your table, his face set into a scowl.

"Yes?"

"Are you free this weekend?"

You mentally check your calendar. "I think so, yes. How's your elbow?"

"Better," he grunts, one hand rising to grip his neck. You spot the beauty mark winking back at you with this movement and almost miss the hints of a blush on his cheeks.

"There's a firework at the park," Iwaizumi points out, looking pained now. "Do you want to join me... there?"

"Oh, who's coming?"

His face contorts for a moment. "Just... us."

You stare at him. He stares back at you. And then it clicks.

"Like... a date?"

"Yes. Please?"

-

"Call me Hajime, please."

You stare at the ceiling of your room, too wired to sleep.

A firework dances behind your closed eyes, but it's not the one you saw tonight. It's a flashwork of memories, of glimpses and stolen moments.

Hajime, smiling up at the sky. His hand around yours, dragging you along to the best spot. The way his face changes at the sight of a bug, delight turning his features younger.

You know the feel of his lips on your cheek, know the warmth of his hand and the taste of his first name on your tongue.

You curl your toes and bury your head in your hands, irrevocably in love.

-

"I miss you," Hajime mutters, bleary eyed and exhausted. He yawns. "I don't want to hang up yet."

"You have to," you disagree. "You need your beauty sleep."

"Who's idea was it anyway, to study in America?"

You laugh. "Yours, Hajime."

"Sounds fake. Sure it wasn't Oikawa?"

"Sadly so. Hey," you smile cheekily. "Are you wearing sunscreen?"

Hajime furrows his brows. "Course. Always."

"Goód, good. Don't want you to get any new beauty marks without me to check."

He laughs, belly-deep and carefree, before slipping out of his shirt in one fluid movement, twisting to turn his back to the camera. "Still the same, love?"

"Still the same."

-

You find Hajime at the window, back bare, hair a mess.

"Hey," you lean into him, press a kiss to the beauty mark right on top his shoulder blade. "What's so interesting out there?"

"We're married," Hajime points out, his voice airy and dreamlike. "We're really married."

"Hmm," you kiss the next beauty mark, the one right above his spine. "Did the view tell you that or did you figure that out yourself?"

He pinches the skin above your hip in retaliation. "You're pretty sassy for a newlywed."

"Doesn't feel that new," you admit. "Feels like we've been married forever."

"Yeah?" He doesn't try to turn, rather takes your hands in his, rubs his thumbs over your wrists. "In a past life, maybe."

You laugh at the thought. "Oh, so I was the overeager significant other that got you those marks, eh?"

"Like it could have been anybody else.

for @chimielie and @seiwas-interact bc I was inspired by this post

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[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

i saw a tiktok of a heavily pregnant woman saying “maybe i dont give him butterflies anymore but i do give him high blood pressure” then they walk by their S/O with a latter and power tools. and i have been thinking about how the guys would react ever since

Oh, anon. This is so cute! I love this. I know the trend you're talking about, but I feel like I haven't seen it with pregnant women specifically, but I find it even more hilarious if it is. I had a lot of fun with this one. Thank you for sending it in!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, dad!141, pregnancy, married life, parenthood, domestic fluff

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Get off the ladder, cabbage.” John exhales, trying his best to keep his voice calm.

You’re standing just high enough on the ladder to rest your pregnant belly on the top rung. John stands directly behind you, both hands firmly planted on either side of you against the rail. It’s not to support the ladder but to catch you if you fall. A potentially likely possibility since you’re carrying extra weight in front of you. You could easily tip back enough to lose your balance.

“I’m fine, John,” you reply, continuing on as if he’s not worrying.

It’s maddening how relaxed you are, like the potential factor of danger is a completely foreign concept.

“Please,” he emphasizes. “Get off the ladder.”

“Why?” you ask. “I’m more than capable.”

“You are,” he agrees. “But you’re also pregnant.”

“So?”

“Cabbage,” warns John.

“Fine,” you exhale.

John keeps his hands on your hips the entire time. When you’re back on solid ground, some of that tension melts away, but his heart still thumps quickly.

You lightly cup his cheek, batting your eyelashes at him. “Were you worried about me, John?”

John places his hand on your belly. “Worried about all three of you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle sits at the kitchen table, sorting through the mail. With a heavy sigh, he opens the energy bill, removing the paperwork, reading over the breakdown of energy usage for the month.

From his peripheral, Kyle notices movement. Glancing away from the itemized bill, Kyle’s gaze softens when you walk into the kitchen. You’re pregnant, close to your due date. Even waddling around, Kyle can’t seem to keep his hands off you.

He leans back in his chair, appreciating you for a few languid seconds, then his heart drops into his stomach.

“Damn it all. Put that down, love.”

Kyle shoots out of his chair, trying to calmly but quickly make it over to you.

“I’m fine,” you insist, attempting to walk by. “I can assemble it.”

“No.” Kyle’s tone is firm but gentle. “Give it here.”

His heart is pounding, anxiety spiking from not just the power drill you carry, but the cardboard box full of wood you’re attempting to guide down the hall.

��You sit here.” He points to the chair. “Sort the mail. I’ve got this.”

You slowly ease down into the chair, and Kyle breathes deep, trying to calm his nerves. “Bloody hell, woman,” he mutters.

John "Soap" MacTavish

He hears your footsteps first, and then your voice as you curse under your breath.

Johnny lounges on the sofa, reclining against a fluffy pillow. At his feet are his two-year old twin daughters. On the television, a Bluey episode plays. The girls aren’t watching. They’re smashing their dolls together and running them over with the yellow toy excavator.

Sitting up, Johnny glances over the top of the couch

At first, he smiles. Then frowns. Then launches himself off the couch.

“Put it down,” commands Johnny. “Drop it.” He steps on a doll and winces, wobbling slightly.

You turn toward him, pregnant belly coming into view. You’re carrying a ladder, the large one, and you’re not supposed to be lifting anything over a certain weight.

“Down,” he repeats. “Put it down.”

You roll your eyes and turn away. Johnny makes it to you quickly, grabbing the ladder and placing it on the floor.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. “You’re bloody pregnant.”

“Don’t yell at me.”

“I’m—I’m not yelling,” soothes Johnny, cupping your face in his hands. “But you gave me a right scare, yeah?” He kisses your forehead. “I’ll take care of it. Go sit with the girls.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon is curled up on the sofa, a precious bundle in his lap. His two-year old daughter rests her head against his chest, gaze focused on the colorful pages.

“He started to look for some food,” reads Simon from The Very Hungry Caterpillar. “On Monday he ate through one apple.” His daughter traces the outline of the apple, and then runs her finger over the caterpillar. “But he was still hungry.”

As Simon turns the page, he hears your soft but determined footsteps. He briefly looks away from the book, his gaze falling on your belly, round and full of his child. Inwardly, he smiles, knowing that the family you’ve created together is about to grow by one.

“On Tuesday he ate through two pears,” continues Simon. “But he was still—”

His voice disappears, and his stomach flips, blood pressure spiking as he watches you turn the corner. You have a step stool tucked under your arm and a drill in your hand.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, lifting his daughter out of his lap and placing her on the sofa. “Daddy will be back shortly, doll.”

He kisses the top of her head, and then takes off after you. With the added weight, your steps are slow, and it only takes Simon a few strides to walk past you and cut you off before you make it to the nursery.

“What are you doing?” he asks, reaching for the drill.

“Hanging a painting,” you reply like it’s no big deal.

Simon sighs. “Give it here.”

“I can do it,” you insist, turning away from his reaching hands.

Simon plucks the drill out of your hand and holds it out of reach. “Give me the step stool.” With a pout, you surrender it. “Gonna give me a bloody heart attack.”

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[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

tiktok made me do it gf! vs tf141 bf

You and your boyfriend had been fighting.

Not screaming fighting, but the kind where the tension was thick, every comment had a bit too much bite, and the silence after was deafening.

So by the time you both got home?

He was fuming.

You were pissed.

And the car ride was basically a scene from a low-budget, enemies-to-lovers road trip movie.

You didn’t expect it to end in the dining room. On the table. With your boyfriend’s head between your thighs.

But honestly? You were just doing your part to deescalate the situation (and thanking the tiktok algorithm for showing you videos of girls doing this because now you know how to win every argument).

Captain Price – “outta your fuckin’ mind—”

Price was seething the whole ride home.

Hands clenched on the wheel. Jaw tight. Not saying a damn word.

You were equally stubborn, arms crossed, watching the passing streetlights like they personally offended you.

And once you were inside, he didn’t even wait for you to take off your shoes before he launched into it.

"You can’t just run your mouth and expect me to—" "John—" "No, sweetheart. Let me finish."

You walked into the kitchen and leaned on the island, letting him get it out.

He paced. He ranted.

You just stood there, thinking: God, his arms look good when he’s angry.

And then he got that tone. That gruff, righteous, maddeningly sexy tone that made you wanna kill him or jump him or both.

So you snapped.

Not with yelling.

No.

With tits.

You grabbed the hem of your shirt and just lifted.

Bam. Boobs. Front and center.

Price—mid-sentence— Froze.

Eyes locked. Mouth open. Brain offline.

The silence was glorious.

He blinked. Slowly.

Then—

"Sweetheart…" His voice dropped an octave. "You think that’s gonna fix this?"

You grinned. "Is it working?"

He took two steps forward. Big hands grabbing your hips. Lifting you up onto the dining table like you weighed nothing.

"You’re outta your fuckin’ mind-“ "Little bit." "And I’m gonna ruin you for it."

His mouth was on you in seconds.

Argument? Never happened.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick – “middle of an argument.”

Gaz was pissed.

You’d said something smart in the car, and instead of backing down, you doubled down, which led to the kind of quiet fury that had him driving with one hand clenched and the other gripping the wheel like it owed him money.

The walk into the house? Silent. The door slam? Dramatic. And the way he tossed his keys? Downright unholy.

He followed you into the kitchen, hands on his hips.

"You wanna explain why you always gotta test me in front of people?" "I wasn’t testing you—" "Don’t interrupt, I’m actually mad—"

He launched into a speech. Pacing. Gesturing. Muscles tight, jaw clenched, voice low and full of controlled rage that had your thighs pressing together.

Finally, mid-rant, you had enough.

You turned, lifted your shirt, and let the girls breathe.

Kyle made a noise you’d never heard before.

Kind of like a dying animal and a man getting punched in the chest at the same time.

He staggered backward. Blinking.

"Why would you— babe, no—" "Yes."

"We’re in the middle of an argument—"

"Are we?"

You hopped up on the counter. Spread your legs. Tilted your head with a smirk.

"Still mad?"

Kyle dropped to his knees like a devout worshipper.

"I hate you so fuckin’ much." "No, you don’t."

He kissed your thigh.

"Shut up."

Then he showed you exactly how not mad he was.

Simon "Ghost" Riley – “...Lucky you’re cute.”

Ghost didn’t do yelling.

He did quiet, lethal rage.

And tonight?

You’d pushed him a little too far.

So the drive home had been tense. His hand never left the gearshift. His jaw never unclenched. He didn’t speak a word.

When you walked inside, he followed silently.

And then, in the kitchen—he cracked.

"You can’t just talk to me like that and then act like it’s fine." "I didn’t mean—" "Doesn’t fuckin’ matter, does it? You meant it when you said it."

His voice was low, steady, the kind of angry that made your stomach flip with a confusing mix of guilt and want.

You stood there for a minute. Silent.

Then:

"Simon." He looked at you.

You lifted your shirt.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Hand flexed.

He stared at your chest like it personally betrayed him.

Then— He stepped forward.

Grabbed your waist. Lifted you onto the dining table.

Voice dark and slow:

"You’re fuckin’ lucky you’re cute."

Then he dropped to his knees.

"Real fuckin’ lucky."

(You didn’t even apologize. You just thanked him.)

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish – “babe..what the fuck?”

Soap was livid.

Not because of the fight itself— But because you laughed when he was trying to be serious.

And now?

He was stomping around the kitchen, arms waving, pacing like a man who just found out his team lost the World Cup.

"I try to be serious ONE time, and you—" "Johnny—" "No, don’t ‘Johnny’ me—"

You watched him rant, shirt sticking to his back, arms flexing.

And then, when he hit peak drama—

You flashed him.

No warning. No buildup. Just tits.

Johnny straight up froze.

Mid-word.

His mouth hung open.

"Babe… what the fuck—"

You grinned. "Still mad?"

He walked forward like he was in a trance.

Lifted you right up onto the table.

"You are a MENACE," he growled. "An absolute demon. And I love you so much it’s terrifying."

And then he made very, very good use of his mouth.

(You bought a new dining table a couple days later)

Moral of the Story:

Arguments? Overrated.

Tits? Unmatched conflict resolution strategy.

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Something you’d learned about John Price after one month of marriage, is that he is just as hardheaded (if not more) as any other middle aged man when trying to put something together.

He was only in his early 40s but gosh, could that mess act like an old man sometimes.

He completely waved you off when you suggested he take a look at the instructions for the vanity he bought as your wedding gift because, and I quote, ‘don’t need that when I can put it together with my own eyes, lovie.’

After back and forth for twenty minutes, with a huff, you threw your arms up you gave up. Deciding it’d be best to just go watch re-runs of the Golden Girls than to watch your stubborn older husband struggle.

And you didn’t hover, but simply peak your head in every hour because the stubborn guy looked like a dream working on- well- anything Price did for you around the house. In an overly corny shirt that said ‘only fans’ that had literal electric fans on it, but it hugged his pudgy stomach and large muscles perfectly, plaid grey pajama pants that you could very easily see his manhood swing with every little movement, and a confused look on his bearded face as he looked from the picture of the vanity and at whatever mess he had created—

You could’ve eaten him.

Literally.

You decided against it.

10 pm is when the hammer hit the nail on it’s head. John frustrated and just a tad sweaty, looked at you with those ocean eyes of defeat as you leaned on the door frame with that all but knowing smirk on your face.

“Tell me you didn’t throw the instructions away baby.”

You pondered for a second, John’s eyes filling with worry that made you laugh.

“Oh come awn, Price. Your lovin wife knows better than to actually listen tuh what yer sayin.” You said, revealing the little booklet from behind your back, “Just think it’d be easier if we did it together, wouldn’t it?”

And it was.

You quickly made the last pizza delivery order of the night, half pepperoni and half cheese of course, filling your stomachs with it and wine that sat on the floor as your tipsily fumbled your way through putting together the object you’d intended to. The room filling with both of your laughter, the sound of a drill and you singing along to ‘Just The Two of Us’ by Billy Withers & Grover Washington Jr that played from the speaker. Swearing up and down that this was a classic hit John should know.

The ends of John’s eyes crinkling up because, shit, that man loved the absolute hell out of you even if it hadn’t been long since you’d known each other or gotten married, he’d fallin in love with you a little more every. single. day.

The vanity was finished around 2 am, ending with sloppy kisses, John lifting you to your joint bedroom to give you a little extra loving for helping him out.

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[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

prompt: you and Price get in an accident (1.6k)

-

He comes into your life like nothing less than divine intervention.

A fender bender, of all things. It’s a bad day and you’re distracted, too busy thinking about your dad calling to tell you that he lost ten thousand from his retirement fund when the stock he’d invested in crashed and how you’re supposed to help him out of this mess, and the roads are slick with that last snowfall of early spring, still unsalted even hours after the snow started. 

So when you slam on the brakes at the last second after noticing the car in front of you stopped at a red light, your car slips on the ice and slides forward, hitting the back of the stopped car and sending it forward a foot. It’s quick and sudden, and though you stepped on the brakes early enough to avoid a worse collision, your head snaps forward with the jolt and the seatbelt yanks you back violently, winding you. 

Your hands go tight around the wheel, eyes so wide that they nearly pop out of your head as you stare at the car directly in front of you. All of the dread in the world pools in your mouth and then down your throat when you swallow, heart galloping in your chest. You almost can’t believe it for a second.

Then the car in front of you—a big, fuck-you SUV that only worsens your anxiety because of all cars to hit, it had to be someone with a fancy, brand new car that probably has a lawyer on speed dial—puts their hazards on and the driver’s side doors opens and reality snaps like a rubberband back into you. With shaky hands, you put your car into park and put your hazards on as well. 

“Oh shit,” you whisper under your breath. An understatement.

A tall man in a brown parka steps out of the car and stares at you through the windshield, a stern expression on his face. He has a beanie pulled down over his head and a full beard, and for a second, the mental image of a bear emerging out of its den flickers in your imagination, all snow-dusted and irritable. 

He’s grizzled and older than you. The only consolation is that he doesn’t match the image of the driver that you had in your head—no seven thousand dollar suit or bluetooth earpiece; instead, he seems like the kind of man who’d drive an old pickup or a schooner, wearing an Aran sweater and a skipper's cap, with a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. He seems out of place in the middle of the road in your small town. 

But he is real, and even though you watch him march over to you, you flinch when he raps on the window with his knuckles. 

“Roll the window down,” he instructs, voice muffled through the glass, and you do because the command cuts through the buzzing in your ear. When you do, he reaches into your car with one hand and pops the lock, then takes a step back to open the door. You’d freak out if the situation were different, but you must be in shock because all you can do is stare at him dumbly as he leans into the car and undoes your seatbelt. “C’mon, sweetheart. Out.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing to get you to step out of the car. All he has to do is step back and you get out, knees nearly buckling, like jelly under you. He holds your elbow to steady you. Your elbow feels delicate and tiny in the width of his palm. 

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, looking all over your face.

You want to answer him, but all you can do is whimper, “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, none of that. It was an accident. You alright though? Anything hurt?”

“Uh…I don’t…I don’t know.” It hasn’t really sunk in yet, you think. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be sore all over, but right now you feel fine. On the verge of shaking out of your skin, teeth nearly clattering together, but more or less okay. 

“Nothing too bad then. Wanna give me your insurance so we can deal with this, sweetheart?” 

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Let me just—” You move to reach back into your car to fetch your purse, but he stops you, insisting on getting it for you. 

And you let him, docile like a doll, watching as he leans into your car and across the seats to grab your purse, big frame looking comically large in your little car. Looking like he’d barely fit in the front seat if he tried to get in. 

He comes back out with your little purse in hand and opens it, handing you your wallet and purse by its strap. Your fingers are still shaking when you pull out your insurance information and hand it to him. Everything feels surreal and muted, and the tears are going to flow at any minute now if you don’t get a handle on it. 

He must notice because a knuckle fits under your chin and lifts your head up. “Hey, what’s wrong? 

“No, no,” you say, reaching up to swipe your fingers over your eyes. “I’m just—I’m really embarrassed. I’ve never been in an accident before.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” His voice is much softer now, pitched low in the way handlers talk to spooked animals. He puts his thumb to your chin, holding you in place. “No one got hurt. Could’ve been worse than it was, and we’ve both got insurance, so what’s done is done. I don’t look mad, do I?”

Trapped between his thumb and knuckle, you can only give a slight shake of your head. “No.” 

“Then let’s just take it one step at a time and no tears. Okay?”

You sniff. “Okay.”

“Okay. I’m going to call the insurance, so you get back in the car and sit tight, alright?” 

You nod. 

“Good girl,” he says, a hint of praise in his voice. “Put the heat on too. It’s too cold for that jacket.”

That makes you go warm all over, flustered and tongue-tied. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to expect a response out of you. The only thing he expects you to do is get back in the car and turn the heat back on, the warm air billowing into your face when he leans in to crank it up all the way. 

Though most of the sound is muffled from inside the car, you turn down the heat and crack the window open slightly to hear him give his name to his insurance company. John Price. Even his name evokes the image of him somewhere else in the world, settled into the nooks and crannies of history. 

John handles everything for you while you sit in the car like he told you to, settling everything with the insurance companies and calling for a tow truck right after that. You don’t realize that, of course, until the tow truck pulls up in front of his car and he comes back to usher you out of your car. 

“How am I supposed to get home?” you croak. The tow truck driver hitches your car to the bed of the lift and pulls it up, your little car looking pathetic all alone up there. 

“I’ll drive you home then bring mine in later.”

“Why can’t I drive my car to the garage too?” You’re petulant now that you’ve learned that he won’t bite, and you know it’s petulance because you don’t actually put up much of a fight to get your car taken off the tow truck. 

That petulance trembles when his expression grows stern again. “You’re getting it checked by a mechanic before you get behind the wheel again,” he tells you in no uncertain terms, eyes daring you to contradict him.

You don’t. It’s hard to argue with someone so adamant on your wellbeing. A mechanic in later days will tell John, with you by his side, that your car was mostly fine apart from some slight damage to the bumper, but that you made the right call to bring it in just in case the frame cracked during the accident.

John’s arm will be around your waist at the time and he’ll pull you tighter into his side when the mechanic says that. And what do you do but go with it, curling into his side like it’s natural. You’ll have already fucked him by then anyway. It’ll be no less forward than letting him take you for coffee and then back home, following you up to your apartment and into your bed. 

Now though, you let him usher you into the passenger seat of his car and shut the door behind you, the wind cutting off abruptly. It only comes back when the door opens on his side. 

You rattle off your address and watch bemusedly as he programs it into his GPS and hits save. You don’t have the temerity to question him, to poke a hole in the bubble of familiarity ballooning around the two of you. The real world seems far away in his car, like you’re in limbo, the rules different here somehow. 

“How about a coffee?” he asks at the next light, putting his hand on your thigh and shaking when you don’t respond right away. “Does a hot drink sound good right about now?”

“I guess?” you say. In truth, it sounds great, but you’re losing the thread of this conversation, your old preoccupations getting further and further away from you. 

John gives your thigh a squeeze, lingering for a beat before pulling away. “Good. It’ll be a nice little pick me up before we go home. My treat.”

All you can do is nod, your throat dry.

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Oh! A baby fever?

Haikyuu character headcanons

Kageyama, Hinata, Bokuto, Iwaizumi x f!reader

Author's note: Might have to write a...freaky version of this but I cant make any promises. um you can tell who I clearly enjoyed writing for and who I didn’t…(hinata) Anyways, your husband wants a baby.

p.1

Warnings: none just cringey cutesy stuff

KAGEYAMA

“What kind of baby puts their hand on a fire?...”

That's only one of the responses he's made to the countless baby memes you've sent to this poor man.

He doesn't hate the constant videos, seeing that it makes you smile watching as a child screams in agony at a moving cactus, but it does make him wonder…what exactly did it mean?

Were you trying to suggest something?

It had never truly occurred to him that you might be thinking about having children...

Sure, you’ve joked about a little version of him running around, perhaps even naming it Tobio Junior, but the thought of it becoming a reality seemed far-fetched.

With his rigorous training schedule and your demanding job, the idea of a child—especially one that would inevitably put everything in its mouth—felt like a daunting challenge, especially if both of you were often too exhausted to keep a watchful eye.

That is what he thought at least.

Not until now, with your legs intertwined as you lay together in bed.

Even after being married for some time, the simple act of cuddling with you still sends a rush of warmth through him, making him feel like a teenage boy  again, especially when your arms brush against his.

You were engrossed in your phone, scrolling through your usual social media feed, but you could sense your husband's gaze stealing glances at your screen as you both leaned against the bed frame.

With that in mind, you stumbled upon an adorable video compilation of babies accidentally learning curse words.

You couldn’t help but giggle, and as you did, you noticed a soft chuckle escape your husband’s lips.

That’s when the thought struck you—you were finally going to ask him the big question.

“…do you want kids, Tobio?”

His laughter fades as he glances up from your screen, a blank expression settling on his face for a moment before a rosy blush creeps across his cheeks.

“what? W-why ask me that now?...” He stumbles over his words, trying to mask his embarrassment, his eyes darting around the room, avoiding your gaze.

“Well, do you?”  A pause hangs in the air before he shifts his gaze to the side, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

He hesitates, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. “It’s not that I don't, I just…” He trails off, clearly wrestling with his thoughts. 

“I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

And he does, perhaps a bit too much, because suddenly, babies seem to pop up everywhere he turns.

He sets out for his morning jog, only to be bombarded by billboards advertising a new baby formula.

While trying to help you pick up your favourite snack, he catches sight of baby clothes out of the corner of his eye.

Even when he’s scrolling through funny videos on his phone, his feed is inundated with baby content! Is this some kind of sign? Should he just agree?

He can’t even shake the images of having children with you from his dreams, especially when you’re near; all he can picture is a tiny version of you both...and If he’s being honest, it does kinda send his heart racing…

.

“Let's do it.”

He slams his hands down on the kitchen counter, the sound startling you as you turn to him, puzzled.

“...Do what exactly?”

“Let's make a baby.”

HINATA

“Hey, set it to me too! I'm open!”

You and your husband were finally in Brazil, basking in the sun on a beach adorned with golden sands.

The sand was warm beneath your feet, and the sound of waves rolling onto the shore mixed harmoniously with the distant laughter of children playing.

After a few weeks of adjusting to Hinata’s work commitments, you had carved out some precious time to enjoy the beach together, with him bringing along a volleyball for some fun in the sun.

It turned out to be a brilliant idea, as you watched him from a distance, energetically playing volleyball with a group of older kids.

You could have joined in, but you knew that Hinata's boundless energy would leave you breathless, so you opted to lounge on a sunbed beneath the shade of an umbrella, escaping the harsh rays of the sun.

Just as you were settling in, a gentle tap on your shoulder pulled you from your relaxation.

You turned to find a little boy, accompanied by a girl, pointing excitedly at a sandcastle they had built.

“Help us, lady!” the boy pleaded, bouncing on his heels.

How could you resist those adorable faces?

With a soft laugh, you set your drink aside and knelt down in the sand, eagerly listening to their requests.

They needed someone to help fortify their castle against the incoming tide, and you were more than happy to assist.

What started as a simple request quickly turned into an all-out building project—digging trenches, constructing walls, and even adding little seashell decorations.

The kids bickered, giggled, and occasionally got distracted by the waves, but you found yourself immersed in their world, enjoying every second of it.

After a delightful time playing and laughing, Hinata eventually came looking for you.

He was surprised to find you happily engaged with the kids, managing their playful squabbles with a gentle hand.

Watching you, his heart swelled with affection, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to see you with a child of your own.

As the evening air grew cooler, you and Hinata eventually parted ways with the kids and made your way home, your fingers intertwined as you walked along the shoreline.

Then, Hinata suddenly stopped, causing you to pause mid-step.

“You good?”

He hesitated before asking, “Do you like kids?”

You raised an eyebrow at the unexpected question but nodded slowly.

“Yeah… they’re nice.”

A comfortable silence enveloped you both until he suddenly blurted out,

“Do you want kids with me?”

BOKUTO

“Legit, the craziest thing happened to me last night baby.”

You and your husband decided to swing by his sister's place today because he was feeling a bit nostalgic and wanted to see her, apparently “missing her presence”.

Now, as you settle onto the couch with his sister's one-year-old son comfortably resting in your lap, you find yourself softly humming along while your husband animatedly recounts his latest dream about aliens coming to Earth to whisk him away to their home planet—just another one of his delightfully eccentric stories.

You suddenly feel a tiny hand tugging at your collar, causing you to look down to see the little guy completely captivated by your outfit.

Your heart melts a bit as you coo at him slightly, leaving your husband to his own world.

For a brief moment, you don’t realize how he’s paused but instead, gazing—no, admiring you—as you interact so tenderly with the child.

When you turn to face him, you catch him in a moment of admiration, and a wave of confusion washes over you.

“Is something on my face?”

“You look really beautiful like that.”

His compliment elicits a light scoff from you as you try to mask your embarrassment.

“Like what? I'm literally not doing anything.”

“Exactly”

In all your months of marriage, you’ve never seen him so direct and candid about his feelings. Did he bump his head on the way in?

“Are you sure you’re not an alien right now?”

His laughter filled the room as he leaned in to plant a kiss on your cheek, then stood up with a dramatic stretch glancing over to you and the child.

“I wanna play with the baby too, come on, give him ‘ere”

“Don’t drop him” you tease.

“I won't drop him…” he replies, pouting slightly.

Snuggled up in bed at home, you felt completely worn out from the day’s adventures. I mean Bokuto was literally pulling you everywhere, left and right, and his boundless energy while playing with the baby had left you utterly drained.

To make matters worse, despite being cozied up together, his restless movements wouldn’t let up!

Sure you'd grown accustomed to his little shifts in bed–stealing the blanket from you or  somehow ending up upside down on top of you—but this was pushing it.

“Babe…” you groaned, trying to get his attention. Yet, he continued to fidget. 

You were getting fed up now.

“Bokuto, stop moving.”

This prompted a response from him.

“Did I wake you up? M’sorry.”

“Is something wrong? Why’d you keep moving so much?”

He let out a small sigh. “I’ve just been thinking…”

Now you were intrigued. Usually when Bokuto’s thinking it's either about something serious, or, well, what he's gonna have for breakfast–which can be serious in its own right.

“About what?”

“Us”

“You're being too vague, what about us?”

“I think I wanna get you pregnant.”

You stared at him for a full minute, as if he’d just asked if pigs could fly.

“...what.”

This is some hell of a weird dream, right? I mean there is no way your husband, Bokuto Kotarou, was casually suggesting in the middle of the night that he wanted to have kids…right??

“No, I said that wrong…” He ran his fingers through his hair, searching for the right way to express himself. “What I mean is, I want to get you pregnant. I want to have a baby with you.”

“Mhm…”

“Would you…let me?”

IWAIZUMI

“Just one more babe, you're doing great!”

You had been working like a dog today, and I mean like a dog. 

All you said was you wanted to lose a little weight, mind you, that was a week ago, and all you did was ask your husband to keep an eye on you.

But you didn't think it’d be like this though!

What happened to all the sexy gym scenarios you heard so much about?!

Your husband had forced suggested that you follow him to the gym today for a little workout session.

Y'know,  just a little stretching, maybe two little squats, oh, and of course, can't forget the 20 reps of 10 kg bench presses! Where’s the little in that?!

But of course, as the lovely, caring husband that he is, he clearly saw how tired you were and suggested the best suggestion ever to be made by him– a snack.

But just a tiny one. 

100 calories max. 

And you had to promise to burn it off later in the week.

But…a little white lie wouldn't hurt anyone right?

“Baby…do I really have to buy this? I can literally hear those candy bars over there calling my name.”

You hold up the protein bar in your hand with a grimace.

“You asked me to keep you in check… I can’t just let you have whatever you want, can I?”

“Sure you can.”

He gives you an unwavering look.

“...but then what’s the point of this?”

You just groan in response when you feel a little bump against your leg.

Looking down, you see a pair of big, teary eyes from a child.

“S-sorry…” Her tiny voice was so cute that you couldn't help but glance up at your husband, heart eyed.

He shakes his head, knowing exactly what you’re thinking, then looks down at the child, who can’t be more than seven.

“Hey kid, where’s your mom at?”

“I-..I dunno…” The child starts crying again, prompting you to kneel down to her level and shoot your boyfriend a look for making her upset.

“Don't worry baby, I'll help you find her, don't mind the big, scary, intimidating, brooding man behind us.”

“Wh- hey!”

“Come on, let's go.” You take the little girl’s hand as she looks around with wide, hopeful eyes.

Walking around with the child, you begin to engage in a conversation, finding that she had a similar niche interest like you. 

It was a perfect distraction for her, especially since her mom is nowhere in sight. Meanwhile, all you husband could do was watch from behind keeping an eye on both of you.

He can’t help but feel a rush of warmth in his chest as he sees you bonding with the girl. It brings him a strange kind of happiness,a desire to witness this moment, to see you with—... no. 

No no no no no.

Is he really considering—he can’t be… can he?

A blush creeps onto his cheeks as the image of you with his child flashes in his mind. Great, he probably looked like a pervert to the unknowing eye!

Kids? Now? You've only been married a month now, he can't just ask for that! Oh, but they way you’re both smiling at eachother right now, you're little giggles, and the child's small hands! He can't take it! Nope! He can't do this anymore!

His thoughts are interrupted when he notices that you’ve both stopped walking, just in time to see the little girl dash toward what appears to be her mother.

“Mommy!!”

She wraps her arms around her mother, who looks immensely relieved to find her daughter safe. The mother bows and thanks you profusely, while you modestly brush off the gratitude.

Later, after the commotion settles, Iwaizumi tosses you a packet of your favorite sweets, which you catch with surprise.

“Really? What for?”

He doesn't reply, only approaching you and leaning forward to plant a kiss on your cheek.

“I'll give you one tonight.”

You gulp slightly at the close proximity of his hot breath practically breathing down your neck. 

“...give me what exactly?”

“My babies,” he reply’s a matter of factly, “pinky promise.”

He links your pinky with his, chuckling at your surprised expression before heading out of the store.

You could only look around confused as you come to gravity with the meaning of his words…i mean it didn't seem that bad- but still! And he had the audacity to walk away like it was nothing?

“Hey! C-come back here, what’s that supposed to mean!”

Is this really baby fever? No. But some of these made me giggle while I was writing them so be happy okay 💔💔 I write for the love of the game vro 🥀🥀

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

pregnancy cravings with miya atsumu.

Pregnancy cravings never really made sense to Atsumu. Then again, he never got to the part of anatomy and physiology when he was studying physical therapy before he decided to go pro as a volleyball player.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t supportive; no, he prided himself on being a great husband. And now, with you, his wife, pregnant with your first child, he was determined to be the most supportive, loving, and accommodating partner ever.

Nothing was going to stand in his way—not distance, not logic, and certainly not impossible cravings.

It started simple. Like it always did.

You wanted a specific pastry from a bakery on the other side of Japan? Done. He booked the fastest delivery service he could find, and when that wasn’t an option, he flew there himself, picked it up, and brought it back.

Talk about rich.

Homemade food? Good thing Osamu had drilled the basics of cooking into him, though he still got yelled at by his twin when he accidentally burned rice. But hey, effort counted, right?

Then, the cravings started getting weird.

You’re sitting on the couch with a blanket over your lap when you look up at him with serious eyes. “I want Osamu’s cooking.”

Atsumu blinked. “Alright, I can ask him—”

“But I don’t want to eat it. You eat it.”

He frowned, confused.

“Huh? Ya want me to eat ‘Samu’s cookin’?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Atsumu scratched his head, wondering if this was some kind of test. “And that’s gonna make ya feel better?”

“Yes.”

“… Even if ya don’ eat it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Atsumu blinked. “That doesn’t make no sense.”

“Atsumu, please don’t question me.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Osamu. “Oi, ‘Samu, I need ya to cook somethin’—no, not for [Name]—for me.” There was silence on the other end before Osamu sighed heavily and reluctantly agreed.

That night, Atsumu sat at the dining table, stuffing his face with his brother’s food while you sat across from him, smiling in satisfaction as you watched. Osamu just did his part as a supportive brother for his twin.

The next day was even worse.

“A seedless mango,” you murmured, rubbing your belly.

...

“A what?”

“A seedless mango. I want it.”

“… [Name], sweetheart, baby, I love ya, but that don’t exist.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I want it.”

Atsumu groaned. “Where am I gonna get a seedless mango?”

“Figure it out, please?”

He spent hours searching online, calling fruit vendors, and even asking Osamu if his suppliers had some secret black market seedless mango (Osamu asked him if a volleyball that was going 120 km/h hit his head).

No luck.

In the end, Atsumu cut up a normal mango, carefully removed every trace of the seed, and handed it to you with a hopeful grin.

You took one look at it and frowned.

“It’s not the same.”

Atsumu wanted to cry.

-

“I need you to wear a face mask.”

Atsumu blinked at you from your bed. “Huh? Why?”

You huffed quietly, fidgeting with the sheets. “Because your face is annoying.”

Atsumu gasped, hand clutching his chest. “My face?! The one ya love so much?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya vowed to look at forever in sickness and in health?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya called ‘beautiful’ when I asked ya if I was hotter than ‘Samu?!”

“I love you, but right now, your face is irritating me.”

Atsumu stared, utterly betrayed, before sighing in defeat. He got up, went to the closet, grabbed one of the disposable masks he’d bought during flu season, and put it on.

“There. Happy now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Very.”

Atsumu flopped onto the bed with a groan, pulling the blanket over himself. As he lay there, sulking, you scooted closer and rested your head on his chest.

“I love you, you know that?” you murmured.

He grumbled. “Ya sure? Feels like ya hate me sometimes.”

You chuckled. “No, I love you. My hormones just don’t.”

He sighed. “Yer so lucky I love ya more than life.”

“I know. Pregnancy is so weird.”

And the worst has yet to come.

-

Atsumu should be asleep by now, but no, he had to be individually popping popcorn. One kernel at a time, as per your request.

He initially told you, “Yer kiddin’.”

You were not.

And that was how Atsumu found himself in the kitchen at three in the morning, painstakingly popping one kernel at a time in a tiny pan. Every time he accidentally popped more than one, you, who were sitting on a stool with your hands on your belly, would click your tongue disapprovingly.

“You put in two, Atsumu.”

“This is torture,” he grumbled, but he kept going.

-

“I want ice cream,” you said.

Atsumu perked up. “Oh, easy. What flavor?”

“I don’t know.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Uh… okay. I can get a few different kinds?”

“I need to taste them all.”

Atsumu frowned. “Like… all the flavors?”

“Yes.”

“… Babe, there are like fifty flavors at the ice cream shop.”

You nodded. “And I need to taste all of them before I decide which one I want.”

Atsumu let out a long, suffering sigh, but being the devoted husband he was, he marched straight to the ice cream parlor and ordered a ridiculous amount of sample cups. The poor employee stared at him in disbelief.

“You… want every flavor?”

“Yeah.”

“Every single one?”

“Yeah.”

“Sir, that’s—”

“My wife is pregnant, and if I don’t do this, I might not make it to the end of the week.”

The employee, upon hearing this, immediately started getting to work.

When Atsumu got home, you took one spoonful of each, nodded, and, after going through every single cup, announced:

“I don’t want ice cream anymore.”

Atsumu fell to his knees. Defeated.

-

“I need you to stand in the corner for a while.”

Atsumu looked up from his phone, confused. “Huh?”

“The corner. Stand there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like you should.”

Atsumu squinted. “Babe, are ya makin’ me into a damn decoration?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Atsumu sighed but did it anyway. He stood in the corner of your living room for a full ten minutes while you sat on the couch, happily watching TV. At some point, Osamu FaceTimed him, took one look at the scene, and hung up.

-

The next day, you called him while he was at practice, which was rare in itself because you did just leave messages whenever you knew he was practicing.

“Babe,” you said in a tone that made his stomach drop.

“… Yeah?”

“I need you to bring me a cheeseburger.”

He let out a relieved laugh, wiping the sweat off his brow. “That’s easy! I’ll grab ya one on my way ho—“

“But replace the buns with pancakes.”

Atsumu froze. “Come again?”

“You heard me.”

“I dunno if I did, sweetheart.”

“Pancakes. Instead of buns. Oh, and I want honey to go with it.”

Atsumu nearly dropped his phone.

“Yer messin’ with me.”

“I’m really not.”

And you weren’t. That evening, he stood in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the precision of a professional chef before assembling the most unholy creation he’d ever laid eyes on—a cheeseburger with pancake buns, honey drizzled over the meat.

You took a bite and hummed softly. “Oh my god, this is better than sex.”

Atsumu, who had spent hours perfecting his technique in the bedroom, felt personally offended by that.

-

“Atsumu,” you murmur. “I need you to switch sides of the bed with me.”

He sighed. “No.”

“Atsumu.”

“[Name], baby, darlin’—I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because my side is closer to the door in case of an intruder.”

You chuckled quietly. “Tsumu, please. I need to sleep on that side.”

Atsumu stared at you, conflicted. He had never—not once—slept on the other side. It was unnatural. Wrong. It went against the very foundations of your marriage.

But you were looking at him with those tired, hormonal, pleading eyes. And he was sure you’d tell him you could barely see your feet now and often experience heartburn, all because of his unborn baby.

With a heavy sigh, Atsumu switched sides with you.

“You’re a good husband,” you whispered, patting his cheek.

Atsumu, lying in the unfamiliar position, staring at the wrong wall, whispered, “I’m a broken man.”

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

bokuto’s idea of cleaning is moving things around until you can’t find anything anymore.

you’re on a frantic hunt for your keys, and he’s fidgeting by the door trying to explain how he “organized” the living room by “shifting the couch three inches” and “putting everything in piles.”

you stop ripping through the basket by the door and turn to him, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a guilty puppy. “where?”

he gestures vaguely around the room. emphasis on vague. “you know.. around.”

“bo,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing. “where are my keys?”

“I probably put them somewhere logical!” he insists, grinning way too big for someone who’s turned your life into a scavenger hunt. “okay, hear me out — if I were a set of keys, I wouldn’t want to be out in the open. too risky. so I put them somewhere safe.”

your stomach sinks. “safe where?”

he rubs the back of his neck, tongue between his teeth. “uh, maybe the important stuff pile?”

your eyes flick to the coffee table, where a stack of unrelated objects collects — unopened mail, mismatched socks, the TV remote, a half-eaten granola bar, and for some reason, a singular shoe. you dig through. no sign of keys.

“the tiny stuff pile?” he tries again, pointing his thumb toward the shelf in the bedroom nervously.

you push past him, rifling through an even more concerning assortment: probably dead batteries, loose change, bottle caps, and an entire head of garlic?

you take a deep breath and walk into the living room, feeling the frustration build. and then, as you look under the couch, you spot a glint of metal. you kneel down, slide your hand under, and pull out exactly what you were looking for.

“there!” you hold them up like a trophy. “your safety zone my ass. this is just chaos.”

he watches you, a soft smile spreading across his face. “I knew you’d find them,” he says, quieter now.

you turn to him, keys dangling from your fingers. “you’re lucky I love you.”

bokuto takes a step closer, grin melting into something close to relief. “so lucky.”

he leans down, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs.

“you better.” you whisper back, laughing at the way his nose scrunches when you kiss it.

“dinner?” he suggests, hands landing at your hips as yours wrap around his neck. “no piles, I promise.”

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

pregnancy cravings with kageyama tobio.

You have always been the love of Tobio Kageyama’s life. It’s an undeniable fact, one he never says out loud but proves in everything he does. That includes waking up at three in the morning because you, his pregnant wife, are convinced you need to take a walk around the park at that exact time.

“Do you need fresh air?” he asks, voice thick with sleep as he throws on a hoodie.

“No,” you reply, swinging your legs off the bed. “I just think the moon looks nice today.”

Kageyama has, at one point, genuinely considered the possibility that you might be talking to the dead. The way you suddenly wake up, sit up, and make these impossible requests—it’s like you’re getting instructions from something he can’t see.

But he doesn’t complain. If you want to go moon-gazing, then you will.

Because that’s what a doting husband does.

The cravings are manageable at first.

You wanted a very specific fast food meal from when you were a kid? Fine. He’ll look it up, track down if the restaurant still exists, and, if it doesn’t, find someone who can replicate it. He doesn’t care how long it takes. If it makes you happy, then it’s worth it.

What’s the point of building a network of connections through volleyball and sponsors if he wasn’t going to use them to his advantage?

But then, things escalate.

-

You, wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, looking at him with wide, expectant eyes. “I need something.”

Kageyama is already moving to grab his car keys. “What is it?”

You hesitate, then mumble, “A photocard.”

He stops mid-step.

“A what?”

“A photocard.” You turn your phone screen to him, showing a picture of him and Hoshiumi, that one from spring of last year during a promotional beach photoshoot.

“This one. I want it. I haven’t even seen this yet until now.”

He squints. “How does that satisfy your appetite?”

You huff. “It’s not about eating; it’s about fulfilling my craving! I just need it, Tobio. I need it now. Please.”

Well, the magic words are said.

This is probably the most bizarre request he’s gotten so far. But he sighs, pulls out his phone, and calls his manager.

“Yo, Kageyama. What’s up?”

“I need a photocard.”

There’s a long pause.

“...A what?”

Kageyama pinches the bridge of his nose. “A photocard. Of me and Hoshiumi-san. The one from spring of last year—the beach one. Can you find it?”

His manager sounds amused. “What, are you collecting your own merch now?”

“It’s for my wife.”

Understanding dawns in an instant. It’s like a universal language for all spouses that aren’t the one who’s pregnant.

“Ohhh. Pregnancy cravings?”

“Yes.”

A laugh.

“Yeah, alright. I’ll see what I can do. But, uh, you might wanna brace yourself, man. My wife went through the same thing, and it only gets weirder from here.”

And his manager is absolutely right.

-

There’s that time you woke up at midnight and shook Kageyama awake, eyes wide and desperate.

“Tobio.”

He jolts upright, a bit disoriented. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I need you to find me a volleyball signed by Oikawa.”

“[Name].”

“I need it.”

“Can’t I get it in the morning, then? I don’t even think Oikawa-san’s awake at this hour.”

You sigh as you cuddle closer to him, letting him lean back against the bed. “Ok,” you answer, “but it has to be a specific color of pen. I want it green.”

He stares at the ceiling. This is some kind of divine punishment. Maybe he was an awful person in his past life. But still, he does it.

Because he loves you. Because you’re carrying his child.

And because, somehow, despite all these absurd requests, you always looked at him like he’s your whole world.

“To [Name]—Congrats on the baby! Clearly, you have a better eye for talent than your husband does! Much love, Oikawa Tooru ♡”

You squeal when you sees it. “Oh my god, I love him.”

Your husband blinked profusely.

“Huh.”

“Oh, of course, I love you the most. You’re my top one.”

“I better be,” he huffs softly as you kiss his cheek, “or the other men you love can grant your cravings instead of me.”

“Tobio!” You laughed.

-

March 14 – 3:12 AM

Demanded I make her an ice cream sundae.

In complete silence.

She said, and I quote, “If you make a single sound, I won’t eat it.”

I dropped the spoon on the counter. She made me start over.

March 17 - 4:12 PM

Wants a mango.

But only if it’s been peeled and sliced by me.

Also needs me to stare at it for a full ten seconds before she eats it. (?)

-

“Oh my god,” you gasp, turning to him immediately. “Tobio.”

His heart jumps, looking up from his laptop. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I need you to wear your jersey to bed.”

Kageyama stares at you. “...What?”

“I don’t know, it just—” You clutched your heart like you’re about to faint. “I just need to see you in your full uniform while we sleep. Knee pads, too.”

Kageyama swallows a groan. He loves his wife, but sometimes you make his life unnecessarily difficult.

Still, that night, he lies in bed next to you in his full volleyball uniform. You sigh contentedly and cuddle into him. “This is so nice.”

Well, at least he already showered before getting on the bed. He’ll be ready to go as soon as he wakes up and has breakfast.

Kageyama, stiff as a board, stares at the ceiling and wonders if this is what true love feels like.

It is.

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[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Favourite Positions: Aone

It always starts slow with Aone.

Not because he’s hesitant—no, he knows what he wants—but because he treats you like you’re something he’s afraid to break. Like you’re porcelain in his calloused hands, delicate and precious. Every movement he makes is calculated, controlled, like he’s memorizing the way your skin feels under his touch.

He looms over you, body heavy and warm, eyes so intensely focused it makes you squirm beneath him. But he doesn’t move until you nod, until you reach up and brush your fingertips along his jaw, silent permission passed between you.

Then he breathes.

Like he’s been holding it in this whole time.

His hands slide under your thighs to pull you closer, gentle but firm, fitting your hips against his like puzzle pieces that only ever made sense when pressed together. And the second he’s sheathed inside you, it’s like the entire world stills.

“You okay?” It’s the first word he’s spoken since his mouth met yours.

His voice is rougher than usual—breathless, already wrecked—and the weight of his body above you is grounding. Comforting. You nod, and he leans down to kiss your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth like he’s trying to calm himself down.

You can feel how tense he is. Not from discomfort, but from restraint. He could take you fast. He could chase his own release and be done in minutes. But he never does. He moves slow. Deep. His strokes drag like honey, hips rolling into yours with deliberate pressure, drawing out your pleasure with an intensity that’s overwhelming in the best way.

And all the while, he never stops looking at you.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it.

It’s not like him to speak, but tonight there’s a flush high on his cheeks, a fire behind his eyes that he can’t hold back. His forehead presses to yours. His nose brushes along your cheek. His fingers find your hand and lace between them, anchoring you to him as if he's afraid you'll disappear.

“Don’t look away,” he says softly, thumb stroking over your wrist.

Like he wants to memorize the way your face twists when you moan, the way your eyes flutter when he hits that spot just right. And when your breath hitches and your legs tremble around his waist, he doesn’t pick up the pace—he slows down. Drags it out. Holds you tighter, kisses you deeper.

It’s not just sex with Aone.

It’s connection. It’s adoration. It’s devotion.

And when you finally come undone, back arching, nails clawing at his shoulders, he doesn’t let you fall apart alone. He follows seconds after, burying his face in the crook of your neck like he needs to hide the sound of his own release.

The silence that follows is warm. Safe.

He doesn’t pull away.

Just rests his weight on you, arms locked around your waist, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

“You’re okay?”

The same question again, but this time it’s softer. Sleepier.

And when you nod, tangled up in his arms, you hear the smallest, faintest exhale.

Like he’s home.

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Ex!husband Ghost, and you have a baby. He has them wear those clothes with little cameras in the buttons, and doesn't tell you about it. This way, he knows what's going on at home when he's not there. Then, when he sees you next, he casually brings up things he's seen on the camera. If you ever find out about it, he was just doing it for your child's safety. It's nothing to worry about.

ughhhhh he'd be so gross and sneaky about it. there's a camera in the kids' jackets which are hung up by the door, so he can see the living room, and on a particularly rough night, where you're at home, the babies are asleep, and you're sitting on the couch with a glass of wine as you cry because you're so stressed, he calls.

coaxes you into the most intimate phone sex, muttering about how everything's gonna be alright, how he's gonna take care of everything, how there's nothing to worry about—he just inflates your tired mind with everything it wants to hear, and now he's pulling back into your driveway and slithering back into your bed.