#do not be too hard on me this is low effort and just to test out Dabi lmao

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (15)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: 14

- Next part: 16

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The sun hangs high over Dragonstone. The clanging of swords and the shouts of sparring echo off the ancient stone walls. You move with precision, your blade meeting Jace’s with a sharp clang, the force of your strike sending a shiver through your arm. He grunts, his teeth gritted in concentration, and steps back, his stance wary but determined.

“Good, Jace,” you praise, your voice carrying over the courtyard. “But you need to be quicker with your counter. Don’t just defend—respond.”

Jace nods, sweat beading on his forehead, his grip tightening on the hilt of his practice sword. Beside him, Luke and Joffrey watch intently, their wooden swords clutched in eager hands. You’ve been drilling them for hours now, running through new techniques and refining their form. It’s hard, grueling work, but they’re determined, and you’re proud of how far they’ve come.

You catch a movement out of the corner of your eye and glance up to see Daemon leaning against the low stone wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He’s been observing quietly for some time now, his sharp gaze taking in every movement, every correction you make to the boys’ stances.

“You’re being too lenient with them,” Daemon calls out, his tone teasing. “They’re growing soft.”

You smirk, parrying Jace’s next strike with ease. “I’d like to see you do better, Uncle,” you retort, sidestepping and tapping Jace lightly on the shoulder with the flat of your blade. “But I’m afraid you might end up in the dirt.”

Jace’s face flushes with effort and embarrassment, but he doesn’t falter. He launches forward again, his movements sharper now, more precise. You nod approvingly, meeting his attack and countering with a swift, controlled strike that sends his sword flying from his grip.

“You’re thinking too much, Jace,” you advise, lowering your sword as he bends to retrieve his own. “Trust your instincts. When you hesitate, you lose the fight.”

Luke and Joffrey shift restlessly, their eyes fixed on you, eager for their turn. “Patience,” you tell them with a smile. “You’ll get your chance soon enough.”

From the other side of the courtyard, the sound of laughter drifts over, and you turn to see Rhaena and Baela playing with Aegon and Viserys. The sight makes your heart swell—your family, all together, safe and thriving.

“How’s Rhaenyra?” Daemon asks, his voice softer now, his eyes following your gaze. “I heard she’s resting more these days.”

You nod, a shadow of concern crossing your face. “She’s well, just tired. The pregnancy has been harder on her this time.” You glance up at the stone keep where you know she’s resting, a hand absentmindedly drifting to your sword’s hilt. “The maesters say she needs more rest.”

Daemon’s expression darkens for a moment, then he pushes off the wall, striding toward you with that easy, confident grace that always seems to hang about him. “She’s strong,” he says quietly, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “She’ll be fine. And in the meantime, you’ve got these boys to keep you busy.”

He jerks his chin at Jace, who’s back on his feet, his jaw set with determination. “Well, go on then. Don’t let me distract you.”

You laugh, turning back to Jace. “Ready?”

Jace nods, his eyes locked on yours. “Ready, Father.”

“Then show me what you’ve got.”

The next exchange is faster, more intense. Jace’s strikes come harder, his form tighter. You meet each blow with measured force, letting him push you back step by step, testing his limits, his resolve.

“Don’t overextend,” you advise as he lunges forward, catching his blade and twisting, sending him spinning off-balance. “Watch your footing.”

Luke and Joffrey cheer him on, bouncing on the balls of their feet, eager to jump in. You smile at their enthusiasm, the warmth of it filling you. This—training them, seeing them grow strong and skilled, preparing them for the challenges they’ll face—is everything you’d hoped for when you left King’s Landing behind six years ago.

Daemon watches with a critical eye, his fingers tapping idly against the pommel of his own sword. “You’re teaching them well,” he says, almost begrudgingly. “Better than I would have expected.”

You raise an eyebrow, deflecting another of Jace’s strikes with a quick flick of your wrist. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise.”

Daemon chuckles, the sound low and genuine. “It is. Don’t get used to it.”

The bout continues, your focus split between Jace’s movements and the playful shouts of the younger children nearby. You’re aware of every detail—the shift in Jace’s stance, the tightening of his grip, the way his breath comes in short, sharp bursts. He’s pushing himself hard, testing his limits, and you can see the progress he’s made.

“Good,” you say, meeting his next strike and holding it, your blades locked together. “Now, what do you do?”

Jace hesitates, his eyes flicking down to where your swords meet, and you can see the answer forming in his mind. He shifts his weight, trying to break free, but you twist your blade, disarming him in one smooth motion.

“You hesitate,” you say, stepping back. “That’s the problem. Don’t think—act.”

Jace picks up his sword, his expression frustrated but determined. “Again.”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips. “Again.”

From the sidelines, Daemon watches, his eyes gleaming with something like pride. “They’re growing up fast,” he muses, his gaze flicking to his own daughters, who are now sitting with Aegon and Viserys, pointing and laughing as they watch your sparring.

“They are,” you agree, your voice softening. “And they’ll need to. The world won’t be kind to them.”

Daemon’s smile fades, replaced by a hard, thoughtful look. “No, it won’t,” he says quietly. “But they’ve got you, and they’ve got each other. That’s more than most.”

You nod, meeting his eyes. There’s an understanding between you, a shared determination to protect these children, to prepare them for whatever may come.

“Come on, boys,” you call to Luke and Joffrey. “Your turn. Show me what you’ve learned.”

They rush forward, faces alight with excitement, and you brace yourself, ready for the next round. As they swing their wooden swords at you, laughter and shouts filling the courtyard, you feel a rare moment of peace—a moment where everything is as it should be.

The chamber is quiet, the only sound the soft scratching of quill on parchment as Jacaerys painstakingly transcribes a passage from an ancient tome. The light from the high windows spills over the room, illuminating the rows of books and scrolls stacked neatly on the shelves. You watch your son closely, your arms crossed over your chest as he works. His brow is furrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth as he writes.

“Focus, Jace,” Grand Maester Geraryds murmurs, his voice gentle but firm. The old man stands beside your son, his eyes sharp despite the wear of age. “Precision is just as important as speed.”

Jace nods, his face determined, and adjusts his grip on the quill. You can see the effort he’s putting in, the desire to do well in his studies. It fills you with a deep sense of pride—and a quiet relief. As your heir, Jace will have to be more than just a skilled warrior. He must be learned, wise, and capable of navigating the complexities of the realm that will one day be his responsibility.

From the corner of the room, Rhaenyra reclines on a sofa piled high with cushions, her form graceful despite the weight of her pregnancy. Her ladies-in-waiting hover nearby, attending to her needs, while a servant girl fans her gently. Her eyes are on Jace, a soft smile playing at her lips as she watches him work.

You glance at her, the sight of her surrounded by such care stirring a mixture of emotions in your chest. There’s love, of course, and pride, but also a lingering concern. This pregnancy has been harder on her than the others, and despite her reassurances, you worry.

Jace pauses in his writing, glancing up at you with a hesitant smile. “Is this better, Father?”

You lean forward, scanning the parchment. The lines are more even now, the script clearer. “Much better, Jace,” you say, your tone warm with approval. “You’re doing well.”

Geraryds nods, his expression thoughtful. “Your progress is commendable, Prince Jacaerys. But remember, knowledge is as much about understanding what you read as it is about recording it. We’ll review the text together, and I’ll ask you questions.”

Jace nods eagerly, his eyes bright. “Yes, Maester.”

You smile at the exchange, feeling a swell of pride. Jace is growing into his role, bit by bit, and you can see the promise of the man he will one day become.

The door to the chamber swings open, and Daemon strides in, his presence as commanding as ever. There’s a faint smirk on his lips as he surveys the scene, his eyes lingering on Jace before shifting to you.

“Nephew,” he greets, his tone light but carrying an edge. “I come bearing news.”

You straighten, your attention sharpening. “What is it, Daemon?”

He hands you a folded letter, the seal of the king’s office unmistakable in the candlelight. “A message from King’s Landing,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “Viserys has summoned us all for a family dinner. It seems he wants to mend what he can while he still breathes.”

You take the letter, breaking the seal and scanning the contents. The words are brief, almost painfully so. Viserys’s hand trembles in the ink, the once-strong script now wavering and frail. He writes of wanting his family together, of wishing for peace in what time remains to him.

There’s a heaviness in your chest as you fold the letter again, your gaze lifting to meet Daemon’s. His face is uncharacteristically serious, his usual air of indifference replaced by something somber.

“There’s little life left in him,” Daemon says quietly, his eyes dark with a sorrow that he rarely shows. “Your father is not long for this world.”

Rhaenyra shifts on the sofa, her eyes wide as she looks between you and Daemon. You walk over to her, sitting beside her and taking her hand in yours. The contact is warm, comforting, but it does little to ease the ache that has taken root in your heart.

You exchange a long, searching look with her, the unspoken emotions passing between you like a current. No matter what bitterness or anger has grown in the wake of others’ actions, the love you both hold for Viserys remains. He is your father, her father, and the prospect of losing him—even after everything—is like a knife twisting in your gut.

“What will we do?” Rhaenyra asks softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her eyes.

“We’ll go,” you say firmly, your gaze steady on hers. “We owe him that much. Whatever else has happened, he’s our father.”

She nods, her grip on your hand tightening. “And the children?”

“We’ll take them too,” you reply, glancing over at Jace, who’s watching the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “They need to see their grandsire. It might be the last chance they have.”

Daemon makes a low, thoughtful sound, his eyes flicking over Jace and then back to you. “Are you sure that’s wise? The last time we were all together—”

“I know,” you cut him off, your voice firm but not unkind. “But this time will be different. It has to be.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow, a cynical smile touching his lips. “You’re too hopeful, nephew. But maybe that’s what we need.”

You turn back to Rhaenyra, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. “We’ll go,” you say again, your voice softer now, filled with a quiet resolve. “And we’ll do what we can to honor his wish.”

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but she nods, her expression determined. “For him,” she agrees.

You stand, turning back to Daemon. “Thank you for bringing the message, Uncle. I’ll make preparations for our journey.”

Daemon inclines his head, a glimmer of something like respect in his eyes. “I’ll see to the dragons, then. We’ll leave at first light.”

As he strides from the room, you look back at Rhaenyra, still holding her hand. The future is uncertain, and the wounds between your family and the Hightowers are deep. But for now, you will go to your father, and you will be the family he needs you to be.

For whatever time remains.

The Red Keep looms above you, its familiar silhouette outlined against a sky heavy with gray clouds. As your party makes its way toward the main gate, you cast a glance back at Rhaenyra, who rides beside you on her horse. Her face is composed, but you can see the tension in her jaw, the tightness in her posture. Behind her, Jace, Luke, Joffrey, while Aegon, and Viserys follow closely in a carriage with their nannies.

Daemon rides on the other side of you, his daughters, Baela and Rhaena, flanking him like shadows. The sight of the Red Keep should have been a welcome return, a homecoming, but there is an unsettling quiet, an absence of the grandeur and formality that should have greeted the heirs to the throne.

“No royal welcome for us, it seems,” you murmur, your voice carrying only to Rhaenyra and Daemon. “The King’s own son and heir, his daughter and grandchildren, and not so much as a guard to receive us.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze sweeps over the battlements, her lips thinning into a hard line. “They want us to feel unwelcome,” she says quietly. “To remind us whose influence holds sway here now.”

Daemon snorts softly, his eyes narrowing as he surveys the castle. “They’ve let the vultures roost on our bones,” he mutters. “But we’ll remind them who truly owns this place.”

As you approach the gates, you notice the heraldry of the Targaryens—the three-headed dragon of your house—has been replaced by the sigils of the Faith of the Seven. Banners bearing the seven-pointed star hang where the crimson and black should have flown, the sight of them making your blood run cold. It’s not just a sign of your father’s decline; it’s a proclamation of the Hightowers’ dominance.

You feel a surge of anger, your hands clenching around the reins of your horse. “They’ve turned our home into a temple,” you say, your voice thick with disgust. “This is no longer the Red Keep of the Targaryens.”

Daemon’s eyes flick to the banners, his mouth twisting in disdain. “They’d rather see this castle burn than in the hands of a dragon.” He glances at you, his expression sharp. “But we can’t let their games go unanswered.”

Rhaenyra leans forward, her eyes dark with determination. “We’ll go to Father. Let them see we’re not cowed by their petty displays.”

You nod, turning to the guards posted at the gate. They straighten at your approach, their eyes flicking nervously between you, Daemon, and your men and royal retainers that stand behind your group. “Take us to the King,” you command, your voice brooking no argument. “Now.”

The guards hesitate, exchanging uneasy glances before the senior officer steps forward. “Of course, my prince. If you and your family would follow me.”

As you dismount, you place a steadying hand on Jace’s shoulder. “Stay close,” you murmur to him and the rest of your children. “Keep your heads high.”

Jace nods, his young face set in a determined expression. Luke and Joffrey stand on either side of him, their eyes wide as they take in the unfamiliar surroundings. Aegon and Viserys cling to Rhaenyra’s skirts, their small hands gripping the fabric tightly.

You cast a glance back at Daemon, who gives you a curt nod. His presence is a reassuring weight at your side, a reminder that you are not alone in this viper’s den.

The walk through the keep is a painful reminder of all that has changed. The once vibrant halls feel dim and cold, the energy drained from the very stones. Servants scurry past with bowed heads, their eyes avoiding yours. You can almost feel the judgment and resentment simmering beneath the surface, the unspoken tensions hanging in the air like smoke.

Rhaenyra’s hand brushes against yours as you walk, her touch grounding you. “This place feels like a tomb,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“It’s not ours anymore,” you reply, your tone grim. “They’ve let it wither, just like they’ve let Father.”

As you pass through the corridors, the shift in atmosphere becomes more pronounced. Every corner, every archway, is marked by the influence of the Faith. Priests and septas move about, their solemn faces and plain robes a stark contrast to the opulence you once knew. You scoff under your breath, the sound harsh in the silence.

“They’ve turned this place into a sanctimonious prison,” Daemon says, his voice a low growl. “They’ve done everything but chain him in his chambers.”

“And now they call us back,” Rhaenyra says, a bitter edge to her voice. “To witness what? To watch him die while they hold the reins?”

You stop outside a set of large, imposing doors, the entrance to the King’s private chambers. The guards posted there glance at each other nervously as you approach, their hands shifting on their weapons. The senior officer gestures for you to wait, then moves to knock on the door.

You take a deep breath, your eyes locking with Rhaenyra’s. There’s a moment of shared understanding between you, a recognition of the love you both still hold for your father despite everything. This place, these people, have tried to tear you apart, to destroy the bond that should be the strength of your house. But they have failed.

The doors creak open slowly, and you feel the weight of the moment settle over you like a shroud. 

Daemon’s hand settles on the hilt of his sword, a habitual gesture of readiness. You nod to him, then turn back to Rhaenyra, giving her a reassuring squeeze of her hand.

“Whatever happens,” you murmur, your voice firm despite the knot of anxiety in your chest, “we’re here for him. For us.”

She nods, a fierce light in her eyes. “For our family.”

With that, you step forward, ready to face what awaits inside.

The door creaks open, and you step into the low lit chamber, your family following close behind. The room is filled with the heavy, suffocating scent of incense, mingling with the stale air. It’s a space suffused with shadows, the flickering candlelight casting long, eerie shapes across the walls. In the center of it all, surrounded by heavy drapery and silk cushions, lies your father.

King Viserys, once so strong and vital, is now a frail, gaunt figure against the expansive bed. His body seems to have withered away, skin stretched thin over bones, his once proud features now sunken and pallid. The sight of him, so diminished and fragile, makes your heart clench painfully. He is more ghost than man, the vitality of the king replaced by a husk clinging to life.

You move forward slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last. As you draw nearer, Viserys’s eyes flutter open, clouded with pain but still holding a spark of recognition. For a moment, it seems as though he’s looking past you, his gaze searching for something beyond the room. Then, those eyes settle on you, and a flicker of clarity cuts through the haze.

“My son,” he whispers, his voice barely more than a rasp, but there’s a hint of the old strength in it. “My firstborn… my heir.”

The words strike something deep within you, a surge of emotions you can’t quite name. You kneel beside the bed, leaning closer so he can see you clearly. “Father,” you murmur, your voice soft but steady. “I’m here. We’re all here.”

His skeletal hand trembles as it reaches out, the effort of the movement almost too much for him. You take it gently, holding it between your own, careful not to squeeze too hard. His skin is cold, the bones beneath it brittle and frail.

“Good… good,” he breathes, his lips curving in a faint, weary smile. “You’ve come… as I hoped.”

You feel a presence at your back and turn slightly to see Daemon standing there, his face a mask of grim control, though his eyes are soft with something like sorrow. He steps forward, laying a hand on your shoulder before leaning down to speak to his brother.

“Viserys,” he says, his voice low and steady, “you look terrible.” It’s an attempt at levity, a feeble joke in a desperate moment, and Viserys’s lips twitch, a ghost of a smile.

“Daemon… always… the charmer,” Viserys wheezes, his chest shaking with the effort of speaking. “Still… a rogue.”

You glance back, and Rhaenyra is there, her face pale, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She moves to your side, slipping her hand around your arm, her touch grounding you in this surreal moment. She leans over, her voice barely a whisper. “Father,” she says softly, her voice trembling. “We’ve come as you asked.”

Viserys’s eyes shift to her, a spark of recognition and love in his gaze. “Rhaenyra… my bright girl,” he murmurs. “So… beautiful.” He struggles to lift his other hand, and she takes it gently, holding it close to her chest.

Behind you, the children stand in a somber line, their faces a mixture of confusion, fear, and sadness. Jace and Luke exchange glances, their young faces tight with worry. Joffrey stands beside them, his eyes wide as he stares at the frail figure of his grandsire, trying to reconcile the man he’s heard stories about and little he remembers of him, with the man now before him. Aegon and Viserys, too young to fully grasp the situation, clutch at the skirts of their older cousins, their little faces peering out with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

Viserys’s gaze shifts past you to them, his eyes softening further. “The children… let them… come closer.”

You turn, nodding to the boys, and they step forward, moving cautiously toward the bed. Jace reaches it first, his movements careful, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace of the room. Luke follows, then Joffrey, each of them looking to you and Rhaenyra for guidance.

“They’ve grown so… strong,” Viserys breathes, his voice fading. “Like their… parents.”

He tries to lift his hand again, but the effort is too much. You squeeze his hand gently, your voice catching in your throat. “They’re strong because of you, Father.”

Viserys’s eyes find yours again, a faint, wavering smile touching his lips. “You’re… a good man. I knew… you would be.”

Emotion surges in your chest, and you swallow hard, fighting to keep your composure. “And you’re a good father,” you say, your voice thick. “We’re here because we love you.”

He blinks slowly, as if the weight of those words is too much to bear. His gaze flickers to Daemon, then back to Rhaenyra. “Keep them safe… all of them,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “Promise me.”

“We will,” Rhaenyra vows, her voice strong despite the tears shining in her eyes. “We promise, Father.”

The room seems to close in around you, the air filled with the gravity of the moment. There is so much to say, so much left unspoken, but the words won’t come. You can only hold his hand, feeling the fragile pulse beneath his skin, knowing that time is slipping away.

For now, all you can do is be here, by his side, holding on to what remains of the man who was once your strength, your king, your father.

You stand by the window, staring out at the gardens below, your thoughts a turbulent sea. Rhaenyra sits on a chaise, her hands resting protectively over her swollen belly, her eyes distant as she looks at the fire crackling in the hearth. Daemon paces restlessly, his gaze flicking to the door every few moments, his expression set in a hard, unyielding mask.

The children had been taken to their quarters by servants, their confusion and fear hidden behind obedient nods and reluctant steps. You had watched them go, a part of you aching at the thought of how they must be feeling, drawn into this conflict that they can barely comprehend.

The door opens with a soft creak, and Queen Alicent enters, her presence as tightly controlled as ever. She’s dressed in somber hues, her hands clasped in front of her, her face carefully composed. But the moment her eyes meet yours, she hesitates, taken aback by the intensity of your gaze.

You step forward, your voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Why were we not properly received, Queen Alicent? Why do we wait here, like strangers in our own home?”

Alicent’s composure falters for just a moment before she gathers herself, her chin lifting slightly. “There were pressing matters of the realm that required attention,” she replies, her tone measured, almost rehearsed.

You scoff, the sound sharp and bitter. “I am the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince of Dragonstone. What matter could be so urgent that it overshadows my return?”

Her lips part as if to respond, but she falters again, clearly searching for the right words. Before she can speak, Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the room, cold and accusing. “We’ve seen my father, Alicent. What are you doing to him?”

Alicent’s eyes flick to Rhaenyra, a flash of something like guilt passing over her face before she forces it away. “The King is in great pain,” she says quietly. “The milk of the poppy is the only thing that grants him any peace.”

Daemon, who has been watching the exchange with growing fury, steps forward, his voice laced with contempt. “Peace, or stupor?” he sneers. “You and Otto have drugged him into a living corpse, all while you rule in his name. You’ve desecrated the Red Keep with your Faith, turning it into a shrine to your ambitions.”

Alicent’s face pales, but she stands her ground. “You know nothing of what he suffers,” she retorts, her voice trembling slightly. “His pain is—”

“Spare us your platitudes,” Daemon snaps, his eyes blazing. “You’ve poisoned him, hollowed him out until there’s nothing left. All so you and that snake of your father can control everything.”

You feel a cold, hard resolve settle over you, your anger solidifying into something sharper, more dangerous. “It won’t be like this much longer, Uncle,” you say, your voice low but carrying a dangerous edge. “When the throne is mine, I’ll tear every seven-pointed star out of this castle if I have to do it with my own hands.”

Alicent’s eyes widen, shock and fear flickering across her face. “You cannot mean—”

“Oh, but I do,” you cut her off, your gaze unwavering. “And I imagine you’ll be quite eager to return to Oldtown. I’m sure you’ll find it far more comforting than staying here once I am crowned.”

The silence that follows your words is felt, heavy with the weight of the threat you’ve just issued. Alicent’s face drains of color, and for the first time, you see real fear in her eyes. She stares at you, as if seeing you truly for the first time, not as the young prince she once knew, but as the man who now stands before her—a man forged in fire and loss, no longer swayed by the gentle ideals of his youth.

“You’ve changed,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “You’re not the same…”

“No,” you agree quietly, a steely calm in your voice. “I’m not.”

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens on your arm, her eyes fierce as she looks at Alicent. “We will not let you destroy what is ours, Alicent. Not our father, not our home, and not our children’s future.”

Alicent’s gaze shifts between the two of you, and you can see the realization sinking in—the understanding that the balance of power is shifting, that the control she and Otto have wielded for so long is slipping through their fingers.

Her voice is thin, almost pleading. “The King—”

“Is dying,” Daemon finishes, his voice cold and unyielding. “And you’ve hastened it with every lie and every drop of that poison you call mercy.”

Alicent’s mouth opens, but no words come. She takes a step back, her hand clutching at the front of her dress as if she can’t quite catch her breath.

You watch her, your expression hard, unrelenting. “This is your last chance to show some dignity, Alicent. Stop hiding behind your piety and your pity. Stop pretending this isn’t about power.”

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The room seems to hold its breath, the silence stretching taut and fragile.

Daemon crosses his arms, his lips curling into a mocking smile. “I suggest you start preparing for your departure, Queen Alicent. It’s clear you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

With those words, the last semblance of calm shatters. Alicent turns, almost stumbling in her haste to leave the room, the door swinging shut behind her with a resounding thud.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, turning to Rhaenyra. She’s watching you with a fierce pride, her eyes shining. You lean down, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“It’s time to take back what’s ours,” you murmur, your voice firm, resolute.

Daemon’s eyes gleam with satisfaction as he nods. “And burn anything that stands in our way.”

The dining hall is aglow with candlelight, the flickering flames casting warm hues over the long table set with platters of roasted meats, fruits, and fine wine. Despite the opulence, there’s a tension that underlies every gesture, every forced smile. The Targaryen family sits divided, an invisible line running down the center of the table, separating what should be a united house.

Viserys, at the head of the table, looks more at peace than you’ve seen him in a long time. The shadow of pain still lingers in his eyes, but for tonight, it seems dulled, replaced by a fragile contentment as he gazes around at his family. His thin frame is swathed in the royal colors, and he smiles faintly, his eyes lingering on you and Rhaenyra, then shifting to Daemon and the children.

You’re seated beside Rhaenyra, your eldest sons—Jace, Luke, and Joffrey—lined up next to you. They sit straight and tense, their eyes darting cautiously between their cousins across the table. Daemon, his face a mask of calm, sits at your other side with Baela and Rhaena, who watch the scene unfold with the quiet intensity of those too young to understand but wise enough to sense the undercurrents.

Opposite you, Alicent is seated, her expression strained but polite. Otto is beside her, his eyes sharp and calculating as ever, taking in every word and gesture. Aegon slouches in his seat, his gaze unfocused, while Helaena hums softly to herself, her fingers playing with the delicate golden bracelet on her wrist. Aemond sits straight-backed and still, his single eye moving slowly between you and Luke, his gaze intense and unreadable.

The dinner begins, the clinking of utensils and soft murmurs filling the space. You make small talk with Rhaenyra, your hand resting lightly on hers, trying to ignore the simmering resentment that prickles at your skin. Viserys’s presence is a fragile bridge, holding this fractured family together for one last time. For his sake, you force yourself to maintain the facade.

Viserys’s voice is weak but warm as he speaks, breaking the strained silence. “It brings me joy,” he says, his words slow and deliberate, “to see you all here, together. My family.” He pauses, his breath hitching. “I know… there have been disagreements, misunderstandings. But we are all blood. We are Targaryens.”

Rhaenyra nods, her smile gentle but strained. “Of course, Father. We are here to honor you.”

Alicent offers a tight smile. “Yes, Your Grace. We are grateful for this opportunity to be together.”

The words are hollow, and everyone knows it. You catch Aemond’s eye across the table, and his gaze is cold, calculating. There’s something simmering beneath the surface, something dark and unresolved, but for now, he holds his tongue.

You focus on the food, the rich flavors tasting like ash in your mouth. Jace shifts beside you, his discomfort palpable. “Father,” he murmurs under his breath, his eyes flicking to Aemond and then back to his plate. “This doesn’t feel right.”

You squeeze his shoulder gently, leaning in. “I know,” you whisper. “But we do this for your grandsire. For him.”

Jace nods reluctantly, his jaw clenched. You glance at Luke, who is picking at his food, his face pale and tense. You know he feels Aemond’s gaze on him, the weight of that unspoken animosity pressing down like a physical force.

Viserys raises his goblet, his hand trembling. “To peace,” he says, his voice wavering but resolute. “To family.”

Everyone lifts their cups, the toast a murmur of voices that lacks any real conviction. You exchange a look with Rhaenyra, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all. Peace, for now, is a hollow word.

As the dinner progresses, Viserys’s condition starts to deteriorate. His head droops, his breathing becomes labored, and the color drains from his face. You can see the pain creeping back into his eyes, and it’s clear that he’s struggling to keep himself composed.

“Father,” Rhaenyra says softly, concern etching her features. “You should rest.”

Viserys shakes his head weakly. “I’m fine, my dear. I want to… to be here. With all of you.”

But it’s obvious he can’t continue. He slumps forward slightly, his hand slipping from his goblet, and a murmur of alarm ripples through the room. Servants rush forward, helping him to his feet, and Viserys grimaces, his body trembling with the effort.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “I’m… I’m tired.”

They begin to escort him from the room, and you watch, a heavy ache settling in your chest. This might be the last time you see him like this, trying so desperately to hold his family together, to remind you all of what once was.

As soon as Viserys is out of the room, the fragile mask of civility shatters. The silence that follows his departure is taut, brittle. You can feel the shift in the atmosphere, the unspoken tensions that had been held at bay now breaking free.

Aegon leans back in his chair, his lips curling into a lazy, mocking smile. “Well, that was cheerful,” he drawls, his words dripping with sarcasm. “The great family reunion.”

Jace’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. “Show some respect,” he says, his voice tight. “He’s your father too.”

Aegon’s smile widens, more of a sneer now. “Oh, don’t be so serious, nephew. We’re all one big, happy family, aren’t we?”

Luke shifts uncomfortably, his gaze darting to Aemond, whose single eye is still locked on him. “We should just leave,” he mutters to Jace, but the anger simmering beneath his voice is unmistakable.

“Leave?” Aemond’s voice cuts through the room like a blade, cold and sharp. “Running away again, are you, Lucerys?”

Rhaenyra stiffens beside you, her eyes flashing with anger. “That’s enough, Aemond.”

Aemond leans forward, his gaze never leaving Luke’s face. “Tell me, nephew,” he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery. “How does it feel to know your father has to constantly shield you from the truth? From who you really are?”

Your blood turns to ice, and you see Luke’s hands clench on the table, his face flushing with anger. “Stop it,” you say, your voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

Aemond smirks, but before he can speak, Rhaena interjects, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “You have no right to speak to him like that. You’re nothing but a coward who hides behind his words.”

The tension in the room escalates, the hostility crackling in the air like a storm about to break. Alicent’s face is pale, her eyes darting nervously between her children and yours, as if realizing how close to the edge this all is.

“Enough of this!” she snaps, her voice strained. “We are here to honor the King’s wishes, not to fight.”

But it’s too late. The façade has crumbled, and the old wounds are bleeding anew. Jace’s voice is taut with barely restrained rage as he turns on Aegon. “Maybe if you spent less time whoring and drinking, you’d understand what family actually means.”

Aegon’s eyes flash with anger, and he rises from his seat, his hands balled into fists. “You little—”

“Don’t,” you say sharply, standing as well. “We won’t do this.”

But even as you speak, you can see the fear and anger in your sons’ eyes, the way Aemond’s smirk twists into something cruel.

The room then erupts into chaos. Aegon lunges across the table, his fist aimed at Jace’s jaw, while Luke shoves Aemond back, his face twisted in anger. Shouts and cries fill the air as the boys collide, chairs scraping across the floor, goblets and plates crashing to the ground.

You’re on your feet in an instant, moving toward the melee. You see Aemond’s hand grasping at Luke’s tunic, yanking him forward with a vicious snarl. The rage in Aemond’s single eye is visible, a dark fire that seems intent on consuming everything in its path.

“Get off him!” you shout, reaching out to seize Aemond by the collar, pulling him away from Luke with a sharp jerk. Aemond stumbles, his grip loosening as you push him back, your own anger flaring.

“Control yourself!” you bark, shoving him toward Alicent and Otto, who stand frozen in shock. “Keep him in check!”

Aemond straightens, fury blazing in his gaze. He recovers quickly, his expression twisting with a hatred that sends a chill down your spine. “You think you can command me?” he sneers, his voice low and venomous. He takes a step forward, eye locked on yours, his intent clear.

But before he can make another move, Daemon steps in, his presence like a wall of iron. He stands beside you, his gaze steady and unflinching as it meets Aemond’s. “If you’ve any sense, you’ll stand down,” Daemon warns, his voice dangerously calm. “You’re outmatched, boy.”

Aemond hesitates, his eye flicking between you and Daemon, weighing his options. His face twists with frustration, but he doesn’t advance, his fists clenching at his sides.

You take a deep breath, your own fury simmering beneath the surface. “This ends now,” you say firmly, your voice carrying over the din. “We’re leaving. We’ll return to Dragonstone until it’s time to come back.”

You turn to Alicent and Otto, who are watching the scene with wide eyes, the shock slowly giving way to something more calculating. “Keep your son in line,” you tell them coldly, your gaze hard and unyielding. “Or there will be consequences.”

Alicent’s face blanches, her eyes darting to Aemond, then back to you. You can see the memory of your earlier words flicker across her face, the promise you made—the warning of what would happen once you were crowned. Fear and something else—regret, perhaps—cloud her expression.

“No, wait!” she says, her voice rising in desperation as she takes a step toward you. “Please, don’t leave like this. We can—”

Rhaenyra is beside you in an instant, stepping between you and Alicent, her gaze like a shield. “There’s nothing left to say,” she states, her voice cold and final. “This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have come.”

Alicent’s eyes flash with a mix of frustration and sorrow. “You can’t just—” she begins, her voice breaking. “Please, I’m asking you—”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardens, her chin lifting defiantly. “You’re asking for what can never be given. The Prince you knew is gone, Alicent.”

Alicent looks past Rhaenyra, her gaze searching yours, pleading with a desperation that seems to come from the depths of her soul. “You were once kind,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “You weren’t like this.”

You stare at her, the woman who once sought to win your favor, the girl who had idolized you. But that was another lifetime, another world, and that person no longer exists. “I was a fool then,” you say quietly, your voice firm. “I’ve learned too much to be that naïve again.”

Alicent flinches as if struck, her face crumpling with a sorrow that she can’t hide. Otto steps forward, his hand on her arm, his expression unreadable. “It’s done, Alicent,” he says softly. “Let them go.”

For a moment, you see the struggle in her eyes, the hope that something can still be salvaged. But it’s a fleeting illusion, and she knows it. Slowly, painfully, she takes a step back, her hands falling to her sides.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens on your arm, her strength and resolve bolstering you. You glance at Daemon, who gives you a curt nod, his eyes gleaming with approval.

“Let’s go,” you say, your voice steady. “We have no place here. For now.”

You turn, guiding Rhaenyra toward the exit, your children following closely behind, their faces pale but defiant. As you leave the hall, you feel the weight of Alicent’s gaze on your back, the unspoken pleas and regrets trailing after you like ghosts. But you don’t look back. This chapter, this farce of reconciliation for the sake of your father, is over.

The path ahead is clear, and your course is set. Whatever comes next, you will face it on your own terms, not theirs. And when the time comes, you will reclaim what is rightfully yours, no matter the cost.

The council chamber of Dragonstone is swarming with a charged energy. Maps and scrolls clutter the large table at the room’s center, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over the faces of those gathered. You stand at the head of the table, surrounded by your advisors, Rhaenyra seated to your right and Daemon to your left. Discussions of defenses, alliances, and plans have filled the air for hours, the stakes rising as the realm teeters on the brink of turmoil.

But now, a heavy silence has settled over the room, anticipation thick in the air. The door bursts open, and a breathless messenger rushes in, his face pale and drawn. All eyes turn to him as he stumbles forward, his gaze locking onto yours.

“Prince,” he gasps, his voice strained with urgency. “My lord, I bring grave news.”

You feel your heart tighten, a sense of foreboding creeping over you. “What is it?” you demand, your voice sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

The messenger hesitates, his eyes flicking to Rhaenyra and then back to you, as if unsure how to deliver the blow. “King Viserys… your father… he is dead.”

The words hang in the air, echoing through the chamber like a death knell. For a moment, there is nothing but silence, a stunned, suffocating stillness that seems to freeze everyone in place. Rhaenyra’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock, while Daemon’s expression darkens, a shadow falling over his face.

“My brother has been slain,” Daemon says, his voice low and full of barely contained rage. His fists clench at his sides, and there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes, a fire that promises retribution.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens on your arm, and you turn to her, seeing not just grief in her eyes but something else—something deeper, a pain that seems to be more than just the loss of her father. “Rhaenyra?” you murmur, concern threading through your voice.

Before she can respond, the messenger continues, his voice trembling. “There is more, my lord… Aegon the Elder has been crowned king. It was done in King’s Landing, before the masses, by High Septon Eustace.”

A wave of shock ripples through the chamber. Your breath catches in your throat, the words striking you like a physical blow. The Hightowers had moved quickly, far too quickly. The realization of what this means, of what has been stolen from you, tightens in your chest, a cold, burning rage building inside you.

“They have usurped my birthright,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, disbelief mingling with fury. “They’ve stolen the crown.”

Chaos erupts around you as your advisors begin to shout over one another, voices rising in anger and shock. Some call for immediate retaliation, others demand caution and strategy. The room fills with a cacophony of voices, the noise rising and falling like the tide. Daemon, ever the warrior, slams his hand down on the table, his eyes blazing. “This is war,” he declares, his voice ringing out above the din. “They’ve declared it by this act of treachery. We cannot let this stand!”

But your attention shifts from the tumult of the council to Rhaenyra, who suddenly lurches forward, her hand gripping the arm of her chair, her face contorted with pain. “Rhaenyra!” you exclaim, fear spiking through you as you move to her side, your hand reaching for hers.

She gasps, her breathing ragged, her face pale as she struggles to compose herself. “The babe…” she whispers, her voice trembling. “It’s too soon…”

Your heart drops like a stone. “No, it’s not time yet,” you murmur, panic rising as you look down at her, your hand hovering over her belly. “It’s too early.”

She shakes her head, her eyes squeezing shut as another wave of pain washes over her. “The babe is coming,” she chokes out, her voice strained.

The room falls silent as everyone turns to look at her, the shock of the news momentarily forgotten in the face of this new crisis. Daemon’s eyes widen, and he takes a step closer, his earlier rage replaced by concern.

“Get the maester!” you shout, your voice echoing through the chamber as you turn to the nearest guard. “Now!”

The guard rushes from the room, and you turn back to Rhaenyra, your heart pounding with fear and helplessness. She grips your hand tightly, her fingers digging into your skin, and you can feel her trembling. You lean closer, your voice soft but urgent. “Hold on, Rhaenyra. Hold on, my love.”

She nods weakly, her breaths coming in short, painful gasps. “I’m trying,” she whispers, her eyes meeting yours, filled with a mixture of fear and determination. “But it hurts… Gods, it hurts…”

You glance at Daemon, his face set in a grim mask, then back to Rhaenyra, your mind racing. The chamber is still buzzing with shock and confusion, but all you can focus on is her, the terror in her eyes, the way she’s clutching at you like you’re the only thing anchoring her to the world.

“Stay with me,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to hers. “We’ll get through this. We have to.”

But even as you speak, you can’t shake the dread that’s curling in your chest, the sense that everything is unraveling, that the world is shifting beneath your feet and there’s no solid ground left to stand on. And outside these walls, the realm is already starting to burn.

The screams reverberate through the halls of Dragonstone, a haunting, guttural sound that twists the gut and chills the blood. You sit beside Rhaenyra, your hands clenched tightly around hers as she writhes in agony, her body arching with the pain that seems endless. Her face is slick with sweat, strands of her hair plastered to her forehead, her eyes glazed with exhaustion and torment.

“It’s been three days,” you murmur, your voice hoarse with worry and helplessness. You brush a damp cloth across her brow, your heart aching with every labored breath she takes. “Please, Rhaenyra… please hold on.”

She grips your hand with a strength that belies her frail state, her nails digging into your skin. “I will not die,” she rasps, her voice raw, each word a battle. “I will not leave you. I will not leave our children.”

Tears burn in your eyes, but you force them back, leaning closer. “I’m here, my love. I’m not leaving you.” It’s all you can say, all you can do. You’ve been here for days, refusing to leave her side despite the pleas and orders of the maesters and midwives.

The room is stifling, the air thick with the smell of blood and sweat, the sounds of Rhaenyra’s suffering echoing off the stone walls. You can hear the whispers of those gathered outside, their voices hushed with fear and speculation. The door remains shut, guarded by loyal men, but you know the weight of this moment is not lost on any of them.

Beyond these walls, Daemon and Jacaerys have taken charge of the war council. With the news of Viserys’s death and Aegon’s usurpation, the realm is poised on the edge of chaos. But here, in this room, there is only Rhaenyra, her pain, and your helplessness.

She gasps, her body tensing as another wave of pain wracks her. “It’s wrong,” she whispers, her eyes wide with terror and agony. “Something is wrong.”

You press your lips to her knuckles, your voice breaking. “You’re strong, Rhaenyra. You’ve always been strong. You can do this. Please, just hold on a little longer.”

She shakes her head, a sob tearing from her throat. “No… the babe…” Her voice cracks, her grip on your hand tightening even more. “Something’s wrong.”

You look up at the midwives and maesters, their faces pinched with worry and resignation. They’ve seen it, too—the signs of a labor gone horribly awry. But they’re as helpless as you are, caught between the duty to their patient and the horror of what is to come.

Rhaenyra’s cries echo in your ears as she fights against the agony, her body convulsing with each failed attempt to bring your child into the world. You don’t know how long you’ve been here—time has lost all meaning, stretched into an endless cycle of hope and despair.

And then, finally, after what feels like an eternity, there is a terrible, wrenching scream, a sound that seems to tear the very air apart. Rhaenyra’s body goes still, her face pale and slack with exhaustion and pain. And in the silence that follows, a cry does not come.

The room is frozen, every breath held as the midwives move, their hands trembling as they lift the still, silent form from between Rhaenyra’s legs. The babe is small, too small, its skin pale and twisted, malformed. Your heart clenches with a pain so fierce it threatens to tear you apart.

“No…” you whisper, your voice breaking as you reach for the tiny form. “No, please…”

Rhaenyra turns her head, her eyes clouded with tears as she looks at the child cradled in your hands. “Visenya,” she whispers, her voice a broken breath. “Her name… is Visenya.”

You stare down at your daughter, your heart shattering as you take in the sight. The tiny, twisted limbs, the malformed face, the scales that dot her skin—a cruel mockery of the dragon she was meant to be. A sob tears from your throat, and you pull her close, your tears falling onto her still, silent form.

Rhaenyra’s body shakes with sobs, her hand reaching out to touch Visenya’s cold cheek. “I’m sorry,” she chokes out, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

You can barely breathe, your grief a weight that threatens to crush you. But even through the pain, there’s a spark of something else—something dark and fierce, a fire that burns deep in your chest, igniting a rage that you can barely contain.

“They did this,” you whisper, your voice shaking with fury. “The Hightowers. They killed her.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, her tears mingling with sweat as she looks at you, her face a mask of grief and despair. “What… what are you saying?”

“They took everything from us,” you say, your voice rising with each word, the anger boiling over. “They stole the throne, they murdered my father, and now this. They killed my only daughter. Our daughter.”

The room is silent, the weight of your words pressing down on everyone present. The midwives and maesters exchange fearful glances, their faces pale with shock and horror. But you don’t care. The rage has consumed you, and there is no turning back now.

“I swear,” you say, your voice steady despite the fury that blazes within you, “I will make them pay. Every one of them. I will burn their houses to the ground, tear their families apart, until there is nothing left but ashes and blood.”

Rhaenyra’s grip on your hand tightens, her eyes shining with pain and anger. “We will avenge her,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “For Visenya.”

You nod, your gaze never leaving your daughter’s lifeless form. “For Visenya. For all of them. Fire and blood.”

The vow hangs in the air, a dark promise that seems to echo through the room. And you know, in that moment, that there will be no peace, no forgiveness, until the debt has been paid in full.

The war has begun, and you will not rest until every one of your enemies has felt the wrath of the dragon.

[luveline]

Hotch request! Please sir, can I have a Hotch request? I'm trying to follow what you said about comfort but also Hotch being angry. So I get low blood sugars cause of my diabetes and I'd love if you wrote something about them being on a case and BAU!Reader is really busy trying to get stuff done, so she has a bad low blood sugar and sits down but one of the local officers thinks she's slacking off so she tries to keep going and Hotch comes in and defends her, making sure she has everything she needs and doesn't faint. Love you <3

ty for requesting!! hope this is okay <3 fem, 1.3k

“I understand.” You frown, phone pressed to your ear hard. “I totally understand, but it’s really important that I get to talk to her.” 

“She’s on heavy medication,” the nurse replies, unimpressed by your asking, “she wouldn’t be much use anyhow.” 

“I understand, but–”

“Listen, I’m sorry, but we have a lot to do here. I’m sorry we can’t help. Bye.” 

You groan in frustration, bringing your phone from your ear to see the Call Disconnected notification flash across your screen. How are you and the team ever supposed to get answers if nobody wants to help? Your head rushes. You kid yourself into believing it’s annoyance like a hot flash, you’ve been sweaty for ages, but then reality cuts through. What usually makes you sweaty and dizzy?

“Where’s my test kit?” you murmur to yourself. 

The door opens while you’re looking through your bag. 

“Agent,” Officer Debs greets, a stout, sturdy woman with sharp eyes, “any news from Georgetown Psychiatric?” 

You rummage frustratedly through your things. You should know better than to misplace your test kit. Doesn’t matter. You’ll just have to eat something quickly before you get any worse. “Uh, no, nothing they could help me with.” 

“Did you call them?” 

Your eyelids are getting heavier. You sit down on impulse, worried you’re gonna fall if you stay standing. “Yeah, I called them.” You’ve had diabetes for long enough to know what to do, but it’s always harder than it felt the last time when your blood sugar drops. It can be so sudden. 

Realising you might need help, you clear your throat, about to ask Officer Debs if she can get the glucose tablets from your bag. You should’ve grabbed them —your thoughts are starting to thicken like someone’s poured cornflour into your skull. 

“Is now the best time for a break?” Officer Debs asks. 

You focus very hard on bringing your attention into the present. “No, sorry,” you say, standing up. You open your phone and direct to the contacts page, clicking your favourite contact at the very top. 

Don’t know m where test kit is, you text clumsily. Hotch should still be in the precinct. Do u have it ? 

“I hope you’re texting someone about the case,” Officer Debs says sternly. 

You shove your phone into your pocket. “Um,” you say, getting confused now, and not wanting to be shouted at. You grab for the page of phone numbers you’d been making your way through, can’t get your hands to work. “I wasn’t. But I’m getting to it.” 

“We really don’t have time to waste.” 

“I know, but my blood sugar–”

She talks over you. “What’s the point in all our officers working day and night when you FBI agents can’t be bothered to put in the same effort?” Her voice rises. “It’s ridiculous!”

“It’s not ridiculous, we’re trying our best just like you are.”

“Clearly not!” 

“My blood sugar,” you say, more insistently. “Stop shouting at me.” 

The door opens quickly, creaking hard on its hinge. Hotch doesn’t slam it open, he never slams anything, but he doesn’t hesitate either. “I have it, you left it in the car after you tested this morning,” he says, your kit in his hand. He gives Officer Debs a surprised up and down. “Who’s shouting?” he asks, unimpressed. 

You wouldn’t like to be on his bad side. “Hotch, I need a tablet.” 

If he’s shocked at your lethargy, he doesn’t say. He ignores the officer from that point on. “Yes, I think so, too.” 

Hotch is more efficient than you were, grabbing your tube of glucose tablets and shaking one out into his hand. “Can you take it yourself?” 

“You want to chew it for me?” you ask. 

He tips it into your palm. “Very funny.” 

He opens the test kit on the desk and starts to extract the pieces. It’s quite complicated, especially for people unfamiliar with it, but you’re pretty sure Hotch learned how to use it the day he knew you had diabetes. He wipes his hands with an alcohol wipe and presses a test strip into the meter, careful not to touch the end, before wiping your finger with a new wipe, and readying the lancing stick. 

“Gonna stick you, okay?” he asks quietly.

“Mm,” you hum, the glucose tablet like chalk between your teeth. 

He sticks you. Some days it feels more painful than other days, but today it’s like a pinprick in a haze. He squeezes your finger, wipes the first drop of blood with a cotton ball, and dips the test strip into the second bead of blood, careful not to jab your cut. 

In the five seconds it takes for you to get a result on the meter, he kneels down, pressing another cotton ball to your finger to stem the flow of blood. “Good,” he murmurs to you. The meter flashes on the table. “Not so good. Fifty nine, huh? How’d that happen?” 

You shake your head slowly from one side to another. “I’ve no idea.” 

“Okay. Well, that tablet’s not gonna do it, honey. Do you have any gels?” 

“No,” you say apologetically. 

“That’s fine. I’ll get you a drink.” 

Officer Debs clears her throat. You may be foggy, but her awkwardness is palpable. “I’ll get it.”

“It has to be full sugar. Coke, if you can,” Hotch says. She nods in understanding and leaves in record time. Hotch turns back to you, his severity melting away. “She was shouting at you?”

“Tried to tell her about my blood sugar. She told me we’re not here to waste time.” You close your mouth, licking the glucose off of your teeth.

“How did you get so low?” he asks.

“Must have done something wrong this morning. Am I okay?” 

“We’ll see. I think you’ll be alright.” 

“Don’t usually get so dizzy.” 

“When was the last time you were below seventy?” 

“Don’t know,” you mumble. 

Hotch peels the cotton ball from your finger and packs your things away cleanly. “Let’s see how you feel in ten minutes. After your coke. Now… what did the Officer say to you?” 

He’s getting his facts straight. Again, you wouldn’t like to be on his bad side. You relay your conversation, Officer Debs hadn’t even been that bad, just uppity, stuck on her own assumptions rather than willing to listen when you’d needed a hand. Her lack of empathy could’ve really affected you. Low blood sugar is no joke. 

You tell him, savouring in the warmth of his hand on your leg, how uncaring he is to be kneeling in front of you on the precinct floor. He frowns at you long and hard. 

By the time Officer Debs returns, he’s on his feet again. “A word?” he asks her. 

You don’t hear all of what he’s saying through the door as you sip your coke. He doesn’t shout, but he defends you with a heavy gravity. Officer Debs speaks up and he cuts her down, something about understanding, and then a more clear telling off, “I don’t want to hear about Agent L/N’s performance from you again. She’s my agent, and if she needs a break, she’ll take one. It’s none of your concern.” 

“I understand.” 

You feel much peppier when he comes back in, though he appears less so. “You’re nasty,” you say, smiling, happy to be defended, and happier to know you’re not gonna pass out.

He crosses the room. Still frowning, he takes your face into his hands, and he leans down inch by inch, until he’s pressing a soft, soft kiss to your lips. You barely have time to close your eyes before he’s pulling away, thumb pressed into your soft cheek. “Nobody gets to shout at you. Especially over your blood sugar.” 

“It’s usually you telling me off for letting it get low,” you mumble. 

He stands up straight, leaving you wanting for another kiss you won’t get, hands stolen back from your cheeks. “You’re ageing me prematurely. Drink some more coke, please, sweetheart.” 

“What do I get in return?” 

He touches your face briefly, as much of a promise as you’re going to get. 

[doumadono]

EMERGENCY REQUEST

Hii, i was wondering if you could write platonic Aizawa emergency request in which hr has a daughter ho has veen strugling with self harm and su1cidal thoughts, please.

I had been really low latly and i relapes after 7 months of not self harming.

Thanks love 🩷

A/N: I'm so sorry to hear that you've been struggling lately, Nonnie. Remember, setbacks are a part of recovery, and it's okay to ask for help when you need it. You've made progress before, and you can do it again. Sending you love and support ♥

EMERGENCY REQS MASTERLIST

Aizawa is incredibly protective and caring towards you, his precious daughter.

He always makes time for you, even with his busy schedule as a pro hero and teacher at U.A.

Aizawa is observant, noticing even the slightest changes in your behavior.

One day, he accidentally walks in on you wrapping your wrists in bandages after harming yourself, and he's filled with terror.

Despite his fear, he immediately approaches you, sitting down beside you on the bed. "What's going on?" he asks straightforwardly, his voice laced with concern. "Why are you doing this to yourself, sweetheart"

You look up at him, your Y/E/C eyes filled with pain and uncertainty. "I... I just can't handle it anymore," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. You explain that the pressure of hero studies and internships has been weighing heavily on you, and you don't know know how to cope anymore. "One day, I accidentally hurt my hand... and... it felt so good... like all my stress was relieved," you begin, tears streaming down your flushed face. "So I started doing this... from time to time... and... I couldn't stop... I was punishing myself for not being perfect, daddy," you say, your sobs becoming uncontrollable.

Aizawa listens attentively, his heart breaking at the thought of his daughter struggling alone. Without hesitation, he offers his unwavering support, reassuring you that you're not alone in this, his strong arms wrapping tightly around your trembling form as he offers you the tightest hug he can.

You hug him back tightly, whimpering, "I'm sorry, daddy, I'm so sorry!"

As you're held in his arms, you don't notice the tears streaming down Shota's face as he comforts you. He soothes you with gentle words and his presence, rocking you back and forth in his arms. "You're perfect just the way you are," he assures, clearing his throat to hide the hoarseness in his tone from the tears he shed for you. "We're in this together. You're not alone. We're a team. Always remember that you can come to me with all your problems, even the ones that seem small or irrelevant. Your problems are mine too. I'm your dad, and I'll do whatever I can to help you. Always."

You nod, listening to your dad's words. "I didn't want to bother you with..."

He interrupts you, shushing you, gently cupping your wet cheeks in his hands and making you meet his gaze. "You are never a bother. Never. You're my entire world, babygirl."

Aizawa makes sure to prioritize your well-being, adjusting his schedule to spend more time with you and offering words of encouragement whenever you need them.

He often says sweet little things like "I love you, sweetheart" or "you mean the world to me." He also praises your efforts, saying things like "you did very well on this test. I know you worked hard for a good grade, but even if it's not what you expected, remember that grades don't define your skills, knowledge, or spirit."

Through your journey, Aizawa learns to open up more to you, strengthening your bond and creating a safe space for you to express all of your feelings.

Even though Aizawa is hesitant at first, after realizing the seriousness of the situation, he doesn't hesitate to ask his friends for help.

And of course, they respond.

Hizashi visits Aizawa's apartment every day, bringing groceries and always having a little sweet snack for you that he knows you enjoy.

Despite the challenges you both face, Aizawa remains by your side, ready to support you through every step of your recovery journey.

[lelengerine]

pairing. chenle x reader

synopsis. you would have never guessed who'd be the one to stop the tears from falling when you flunked your finals

genre. academic rivals, mainly comfort with sprinkles of fluff, no pronouns are used for reader, lmk if i missed anything!

wc. 1.3k words

notes. i love chenle. that's it. that's the post. (someone hold me back from all of those pictures he posted on ig recently for tds... im no longer sane....) im also not sure why tags aren't working for me but i have given up so here we are!! likes and feedback are highly appreciated!

m.list

being competitive was something that came to you naturally—striving to excel in everything you do, yet it was clear academics grasped the highest regard. you’ve held onto the idea that hard work always leads to success, but no matter how much effort you put in, there’s always been one person standing right there beside you—or ahead of you, rather. 

zhong chenle. he was sharp, quick-witted, and never missed the chance to land a smirk when he bested you in an exam. 

to you, chenle wasn’t just competition, he was the one you so desperately wanted to surpass as if that alone would prove your worth, the one who always made you question your capabilities in the dead of the night when the silence engulfing your room was almost deafening. so when your final exam results were returned and you saw a grade much lower than you anticipated, the disappointment sank in your chest like a heavy weight. 

from the sullen look on your face alone, rumors were quick to spread that one of the top students of your batch received a low grade. you’d hear whispers shared around the room and could only clench your exam papers underneath your desk to conceal your frustrations. 

a silent scoff escapes under your breath. the same people who sucked up to you for homework answers when they forgot to do it themselves were now the ones pointing daggers at you with their murmurs. 

couldn’t they even try to be a little discreet with their gossip? have they got no ounce of shame?

and despite your thoughts of cursing them all, your lips refused to actually speak your mind. you plaster on a brave face throughout the day, dodging the thinly veiled comments from your classmates, but the pressure continues to gnaw at you and by the time you reach your usual quiet spot in the library, you couldn’t hold it in anymore. the tears you’ve been suppressing spill over, hot and unchecked, as you stare down at the test paper in your lap—now littered with wet patches and crumpled edges.

you don’t expect anyone to find you here, but then the sound of footsteps becomes too loud to deny, and you quickly wipe at your eyes, hoping to regain composure before whoever it is sees you in this state. you glance up, and for some reason it just had to be him standing in front of you, not with the smug expression you’ve come to expect, but with something softer, something that catches you completely off guard.

“are you… okay?” chenle’s voice is tentative, unsure, like he’s not used to asking the question. and you can tell, even in his hesitation, that this isn’t a question he’s asking out of obligation, but concern. 

you want to say something sharp, something to push him away. after all, why should you let him see you like this—vulnerable, defeated? but the words catch in your throat. the only thing you can manage is a stiff nod, though even that feels like a lie. chenle doesn’t press further. instead, he takes a cautious step closer, then another, until he’s sitting beside you, a quiet but solid presence at your side.

the silence between you is thick, weighted by everything that’s unsaid, but for some reason, it’s not uncomfortable. you sense chenle watching you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face as if he’s seeing something new in you. then, gently, so gently you almost don’t believe it’s happening, his hand lifts, and his fingers brush against your cheek, wiping away the tears that have clung to your skin. the warmth of his touch lingers, soft and careful, as if he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he’s not delicate enough.

“it’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice steady, soothing in a way that makes your chest tighten. “you don’t have to hold it in. just… let it out.”

it’s such a simple thing, but the way he says it—soft, sincere, as if he’s offering you a lifeline—breaks something inside of you. the tears fall harder, faster, no longer restrained, and for the first time, you don’t feel ashamed for crying in front of him. there’s no judgment in his gaze, no pity—just an understanding that feels so foreign coming from the person you’ve always considered your rival.

he stays silent, watching you, but not with the cold, competitive eyes you’re used to. there’s something different there now—an openness, a vulnerability that mirrors your own. when you glance up at him, his expression is soft, almost tender, and it makes your heart stutter in confusion. he’s never looked at you like this before.

“why are you here?” you finally ask, your voice raw from crying. “shouldn’t you be… laughing at me or something? isn’t that what rivals do?”

chenle lets out a soft laugh, but there’s no trace of mockery in it. it’s a warm sound, the kind that wraps around you like a blanket on a cold day. “i guess that’s what you think of me, huh?” he says, his eyes crinkling at the edges in amusement. “but i’m not here to make fun of you. you’re upset. and believe it or not, i don’t like seeing you like this.”

his words throw you completely off balance. you’ve spent so long painting him in one color—seeing him as nothing more than competition—that this softer, more compassionate side of him feels like uncharted territory. 

you don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. the quiet stretches between you, but it’s not awkward. in fact, it feels strangely comforting, like a ceasefire between two soldiers who’ve spent years fighting on opposite sides of the battlefield.

chenle shifts beside you, his gaze dropping to the crumpled piece of paper still clenched in your hand. his voice drops to a more serious tone. “i heard what people were saying today. about your grade.” he pauses, as if carefully choosing his next words. “they shouldn’t judge you. i bet your score is still higher than most of theirs. and even if it wasn’t… it’s none of their damn business.” his words touch you more than expected, and you’re not sure if it's because you’re still feeling sensitive. 

it’s as if he’s speaking from experience, like he knows exactly what it feels like to be in your shoes, and for a moment, the reality of your rivalry seems to fade, replaced by the stark realization that chenle is probably the one who understands you the most in this situation. he knows the pressure, the expectations, and even the crushing weight of failure.

and that realization brings a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you. you’ve spent so much time resenting him, seeing him as the enemy, that you never stopped to consider that maybe he was fighting the same battles you were. the tears welled up again, but this time they’re not for your fallen grades—they’re for the way you’ve treated him, for the assumptions you’ve made about him.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, the words barely audible through your choked sobs. “i’ve been so awful to you…”

chenle’s hand brushes against your cheek again, this time a little firmer, more reassuring. “hey,” he says softly, his thumb wiping away another tear that slipped past, “we’ve both been pretty awful to each other, don’t you think? it’s not just you.”

his chuckle returns, and you can’t help but look up at him, startled by the sound. his eyes are crinkled again, and there’s something so genuine in the way he’s looking at you that it makes your heart flutter in a way you don’t understand. “besides,” he adds with a grin, “i didn’t know you could cry so cutely. who knew, huh?”

your face burns with embarrassment, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “don’t say things like that,” you mumble, though you can’t quite hide the small smile tugging at your lips.

“got you to laugh though?” chenle points out with a snicker, but this time it feels different—lighter, as if the weight of years of rivalry is starting to lift. “let’s call it even,” he says, his tone playful but sincere. “you don’t have to feel guilty anymore. we’re both here, right? so, no more holding grudges. deal?”

you nod slowly, still feeling a bit shaky, but there’s a sense of relief settling in your chest. maybe things between you and chenle weren’t so black and white as you had thought. 

[wafflefries13]

The Consequence of Late Night Calls

Summary: You've been friends with Katsuki for years, and you've always thought it's been just that - friends. But when you get a late-night call, it might just change things.

AN: Last repost! The original post got eaten by Tumblr. I'm still really proud of this one. I wrote it back when I was first starting to publish fanfic and I like how it turned out.

Warnings: College au, drinking, language

The call shocked you out of a deep but impromptu sleep. You jerked up from the noise, a page of lecture notes sticking to your check. It fluttered back to the desk covered in its own mess of loose leaf documents, used textbooks that cost more than a weekend trip to Disney World, and a laptop missing three of its letter keys. 

You dragged your tongue against your teeth, trying to get rid of the cotton feel coating the inside of your mouth. Rubbing stars into your tired eyes, you wondered when exactly you had fallen asleep. Was it somewhere near memorizing the latin terminology for court rhetoric or around reading the case file and trial records you were going to be tested over on Monday? Deciding wondering was basically pointless, considering you had pretty  much forgotten all of it anyway, you pawed blindly around for your phone. 

“Hello?” You answered, eyes still closed, although it probably came out and more of a mumbled groan than anything else.  

“(Y/NNNNNNNNN)!” 

You pulled the phone away from your ear, wincing at the sudden loud noise. Blinking bleerally, you looked down at your phone. You had taken the caller ID picture a year ago, at a sorority Halloween party you barely remembered aside from the copious amounts of alcohol consumed followed by an ill-advised scavenger hunt that ended with a call to the police and the dean’s car somehow ending up in the agriculture department’s greenhouse crowded with Jack-O-lanterns. It was a profile shot of Bakugou Katsuki, his mouth opened in a mid-yell scowl, as was his standard expression, and eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. One hand extended to try and block the camera, the other clutching a brown bottle. He was wearing a fantasy barbarian king costume, chest bare to show off the taut muscles he worked so hard for all of high school to get. When he’d shown up in it, or, rather, when Kirishima had dragged him along in his own dragonborn costume, you couldn’t believe he still had it. You remembered sitting in your basement in 9th grade, pricking your fingers with a sewing needle as you and the rest of your newly formed D&D group, Bakugou and Kirishima included, spent way too much time and effort into creating your costumes. 

Rubbing at the bridge of your nose in a vain attempt to chase away the headache you could already feel forming, you brought the phone back to your ear. You could hear the low thump of bass heavy music in the background. 

“Hi, Suki,” You said, trying not to sound condescending, but it came out like that anyway. 

“Hey!” He said sharply. The rest of his reply was slurred smooth. “I told you not to call me that.” 

You smirked. “It’s cute.” 

“It’s embarrassing! ‘M not cute.” 

“No, you’re calling me at-” You pulled the phone away again to check the time. “Katsuki, it’s like two in the morning, what the hell?” 

You heard someone shout something on the other side of the line that Katsuki mumbled a reply to. To you he said, “Was thinking about you.” 

You felt yourself blush despite yourself. “You were thinking about me?” 

There was a clunk and a bump. You could imagine him falling against a wall and sliding down to sit until the room stopped spinning. “Yeah. I don’t like it.” 

You ignored the jab in your heart. “Well, thanks.” 

“It keeps happening. I’ll just be, like, doing stuff, and then I just think, ‘What would (Y/N) think of that?’ ‘I wonder what (Y/N)’s doing right now.’ ‘(Y/N) would know what to do now. She’s so smart. And her hands look so soft. And her eyes are so pretty.’” He was quiet for a second. “It’s annoying. I can’t stop thinking about you. And it’s worse when you’re here.” There was a shuffling as you heard him try to stand up then give up again. “Why aren’t you here? I want you here.” 

You were wide awake now. You clenched and unclenched your hand, trying to process the information your obviously drunk friend had just confessed. Your stomach churned in a mix of anticipation, anxiety, and straight up butterflies. 

What the hell did all of that mean? Well, of course you knew what it meant, or you knew what it meant when spoken by a sober person of sound mind and body. But there was no way, you tried to rationalize, that The Bakugou Katsuki, the guy you’d known since freshman year of high school when he’d punched a guy who had flipped up your uniform skirt on the first day, the guy who had surprised just about everyone in home economics when he busted out a three tiered cake like it was no one’s business, the guy whos ego was big enough to have its own gravitational pull, was confessing his feelings to you in a drunk rant at two in the morning. 

“Katsuki,” You said in a soft voice. “I-” 

There was a retching sound from the other end of the line. Katsuki coughed, tried to say something, then threw up again. “Aw, fuck.” 

That headache was back with avengence now. You sighed, looking for your keys. “Katsuki, where are you?” 

“Uhh, on campus? At the Kappa Alpha Betta Whatever house. There’s a party. Why aren’t you here?” 

“You know I hate all the Greek life bs. Stay where you are, okay? I’m coming to get you. You’re completely wasted.” 

“‘M not. I can handle what I drink.” There was another pause before he wretched again. 

“Did you just throw up again?” 

“...No.” 

“Cool. I’ll be there in ten.” 

You didn’t wait for him to respond before hanging it. You didn’t think your heart could take it if he kept going on like he had been. Grabbing your keys and heading out of your crowded studio apartment, you hopped in your car to go save your drunk friend from making any other ill advised decisions that night. 

You realized that you were probably over thinking the whole phone call as you drove through deserted streets. You couldn’t help it, it was a bad habit you had formed as a kid that now  made you obsess over court documents and testimonies in class. But now, instead of helping, it was picking you apart. What did Katsuki’s tone imply when he was talking to you just now? Could you trust the tone of an inebriated person? What did he mean when he said he thought about you a lot? You’d known each other for years now, being involved in almost all the same activities. Wouldn’t it be natural to think about someone you spent so much time with? But you’d known Kirishima for just as long, not to mention the rest of the self-named “Baku-Squad.” You’d never gotten a late night drunk call from any of them. Heck, Katsuki had known Izuku way longer than he had known you, and you were pretty dang sure Katsuki had never called him going on and on about how he always thought about him. 

Stopping at a red light, you pressed your forehead into the soft faux-leather of your steering wheel, willing your thoughts to calm down and just come to a rational conclusion already. Expect, you know, a rational conclusion that wasn’t that the guy you had carried a torch for for almost as long as you had known him might actually have feelings for you back. 

You turned on to the street lined with sororities and fraternities across from the main campus. You had to slam on your breaks almost immediately to avoid running over a tipsy, giggling co-ed who was stumbling out into the road. She didn’t even look up at you. 

You didn’t know exactly which house Katsuki was stranded at, considering you could see at least three different parties all going on at first glance. His “Kappa Alpha Betta Whatever” wasn’t very helpful, either, considering all the Greek letters adorning the houses blended together in your mind at some point. And you really didn’t want to tramp through a bunch of different houses tonight. 

Thankfully, you were saved the trouble when you saw Kirishima’s 1969 Chevrolet Chevelle park half off the curb in front of one of the houses. You’d know that car anywhere. Kirishima had dragged your group to various scrap yards and auto-repair stores all summer after he got his license, the first of you all to do so, in an effort to fix up the worn down Chevelle that he’d bought for a hundred bucks and a turkey sandwich. 

You parked on the other side of the street then jogged across to the house that was practically vibrating with heavy music and Greek life energy. Stepping over a semi-conscious frat boy laying in the doorway, you scanned around the house for any sign of Katsuki’s pomeranian-puff-ball hair. 

You spotted Denki lounging on a couch, a lampshade on his head and a tangle of phone chargers clutched in his fist. His hand sparked every now and then as he used his quirk to recharge the collection of phones. 

You lifted up the edge of the lampshade. “Hey there, Pikachu.” 

“Heeeeeey~” He said, giving you a thumbs up. You could already tell he was too far gone, although you didn’t know if it was from drinking or the over use of his quirk. 

“(Y/N)!” You heard a voice call behind you. A body fell heavily against your back. Sero wrapped his arms around you in a backwards hug. “Where you been? We missed you!” 

“Studying. I’m boring, remember? I’m looking for Katsuki, you seen him around?” 

Sero snickered. “Bakugou, huh? He’s been looking for you for a long time, right, Denki?” 

“Heeeeeey~” 

You swallowed hard. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

Sero snickered again, flopping on the couch next to Denki. “Can’t tell. Part of the bro code. And he said he’d kill me.” 

“That does sound like Katsuki.” 

Sero covered his eyes with his arm, head leaning back. With a wide smile, he waved his hand in the vague direction to the back door. “I think he’s out by the pool or something.” 

You waved bye. “Thanks, I’ll go check it out. You guys take care of yourselves, okay?” 

“Look at ‘em go,” Sero said to Denki as you left. “You think they’ll have a spring wedding?” 

“Heeeeeey~” 

*~~~~* 

You managed to weave your way through the crowd of bodies clogging the house to finally spill out into the back yard. You had no idea how people were able to stay this energized this late into the night with this many other people around. You remembered once being stuck at another party, early on in your college days. When it became super clear you didn’t want to be there, overwhelmed by the noise, the crush of bodies, and the suffocation of social enterprise, Katsuki had dragged Kirishima over to you, planting him in front of you as your ‘extrovert shield.’  He’d stayed with you behind the boisterous redhead for the rest of the night. 

You wondered if Katsuki remembered doing that, if he remembered any of the small nice gestures he did for you over the years. And now, with his call, with what Sero said, with your over analyzing brain, you were dissecting every interaction you could remember. Was the time he opened a door for you a signal? Was the reason he would ask to study with you for chemistry, when he was way better in practically every subject than you, just so he could be close to you? Were the times he had given you his jacket when you were cold meant to be a more intimate moment? 

God, you were going to go crazy. 

Walking around the pool, you finally spotted the hot-headed blond. He was sitting slouched over on the end of one of the reclining pool chairs, forearms braced on his knees.  You almost called out to him, stopping cold when you saw the girl behind him. She had draped herself over his back, chin rested in the crook of his neck, one had massaging his shoulder, the other conspicuously sneaking under the hem of his shirt to rub circles on his abs. 

You clenched and unclenched your hands, worry gnawing at you as a headache at the back of your skull. Had something changed between the time he had called you and now? Had there been nothing there to change at all? Had you been misreading this situation the whole time? 

Katsuki looked up, his permanently affixed scowl even deeper. The second his jewel-red eyes met yours, you felt your heart skip a beat. He jumped to his feet so fast the girl behind him fell back against the chair. He tried marching over to you, which was made only slightly less intimidating by the drunk sway to his step. 

You didn’t remember him being so tall. You’d just seen him this afternoon. There was a flushed blush across his face, adding a surprising softness. Were his arms always that strong looking? Were his eyes that piercing? Was his jaw that strong? 

“You came,” He said, voice rough as whiskey soaking into gravel. 

You spread your hands. “Well, you said my name three times, so, here I am!” You laughed nervously, trying to ignore how his gaze pinned you down. 

He took another step towards you, hand reading up. “(Y/N), I-” 

His cheeks turned from pink to green. Lurching to the side, he vomited into the pool. You tried to help him back up, hunched over and trying to catch his breath. The crowd of people around you groaned in disgust before rolling in to sarcastic applause. Katsuki flipped them off. 

“Alright, Suki,” You said, rubbing his back. “Let’s get you back home.” 

He grumbled, leaning his full weight against you. You almost stumbled and fell with the sudden shift of balance. Katsuki slid his arm around your waist, hand firmly grasping your hip, as if he was the one trying to prevent you from a drunken stumble. His fingers felt like fire through your clothes. 

You decided to go around the house instead of trying to push your way through it. Soon you were making your way across the street. It took some maneuvering to unlock and open the passenger door. You practically dropped Katsuki in where his head fell back with a groan. You grabbed his seat belt and stretched across him to fasten it. It wasn’t until he started petting your hair that your realized your position of half-way laying across his lap. You jerked back, some of your hair getting caught in his fingers. He made a disappointed sound at the loss of it. 

You slid back into the driver's seat, trembling hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. You had to take a few steadying breaths before you were ready to start the car. Pulling out of the neighborhood, you glanced over at Katsuki. His eye brows were furrowed, eyes closed, mouth pulled in a small frown. 

God, he looked adorable. 

You hit the break harder than you meant to at the light. Adorable? Where the hell did that thought come from? He’d probably be furious if he knew you ever thought that. 

But…

You risked another look at him. When he let his face relax like this, you could see the slight chub that still clung to his cheeks. Another thing he would hate to know that you thought was how much you loved the softness that it leant him. It was cute. 

Almost without your realizing it, you lifted your hand. You were overcome with the sudden urge to poke his cheek. A car horn blared behind you when your finger was less than an inch from his face. You let out an undignified squeak, hands slamming back to the wheel. Katsuki grumbled and turned in the seat, head resting against the window. You could feel the blush burning up your face. 

A few minutes later, you pulled back to the apartment complex. You both lived in the same building, Katsuki directly below your own unit. And now you were overthinking his reason for not living on campus. 

When you opened the passenger door, Katsuki almost fell out. You jerked forward to catch him then dragged him out. He half woke up, as feeble on his legs as a newborn horse. 

You lugged him through the lobby. He was muttering under his breath, but most of the words you could make out were curses. Not unusual for him. You pressed the button for the elevator repeatedly. It just blinked back at you. You sighed in frustration. They had been doing maintenance on your building all week, but now might have been the absolute worst time to do the elevator. 

You shook Katsuki’s shoulder a little bit. His head jostled like a bobble-head. “Suki, I’m gonna need your help here for a minute.” 

His head lolled forward, forehead coming down to press to yours. In a quiet voice, he whispered, “I’d do anything for you.” 

You shoved him upright, face burning. “Then walk up the damn stairs yourself!” 

Despite that, you still ended up half-carrying him up four flights of stairs. You were uncomfortably sweaty when you reached the door to Katsuki’s apartment. The two of you had traded copies of your apartment keys when you had moved in. “In case something happens to your dumb ass and I need to come save you,” He had said. He would frequently stop by, usually when you were hours deep into an all-nighter. He’d bring his laptop and work on whatever 12 page essay way due on your bed while you poured over case reports. You’d sit in silence, just together, sharing the same space, content with nothing more than knowing the other was nearby. Or he’d bring you real food to make sure you weren’t just eating ramen all the time. In turn, you’d pull him out for game night with the squad, make sure he’d actually call his mother once in a while, and lend an ear to his semi-nightly rants on whoever he decided to hate that night. 

You fumbled with the keys, jamming the key in the lock then pushing it open with your shoulder that wasn’t currently occupied by a half-asleep, full-drunk boy who had at least 50 pounds and ten inches on you. 

There was always an expectation with the rooms of single college boys. Greasy pizza boxes, empty bottles of booze displayed like expensive decor, at least one poster of a half-naked girl somewhere, probably a basket of clothes that should have been washed weeks ago. And while you knew plenty of guys who fit that description, Katsuki defied expectation. His apartment was always immaculate. His shoes were lined neatly by the door, a calendar above his desk  color-coded with assignment due dates, bed made. Katsuki may give off the persona of a punk, but you knew he was a straight-laced nerd through and through.  

With the last of your strength, you lugged him across the room, dropping him on his bed. With a groan, you stretched your arms up until you heard a satisfying pop in your back. Hands on your hips, you watched as Katsuki moaned, burying his face in his pillow and pulling his feet up from the floor. You sat on the end of the bed, tugging his feet to you to unlace his shoes. You let them fall haphazardly to the floor, too tired to care about his level of neatness.  

You grabbed a bucket from his hall closet, putting it next to the head of his bed for when he inevitably woke up vomiting in the morning. Checking his bathroom, you put a couple of painkillers and a glass of water on the nightstand with a post-it note saying “Drink Me.” 

Brushing your hands off, you looked around and checked your work. Satisfied that he wouldn’t kill himself between now and when you would inevitably check on him in the morning, you decided it was finally time to head back upstairs and get some well deserved sleep. 

But… 

You turned back at the door. Katsuki was splayed like a starfish, gently snoring with his mouth wide open. You also noticed his blushing red fluffy cheeks. 

You tapped the door knob a few times before sighing in surrender to temptation and turnin back. You knelt down next to the bed. For a moment, you just watched him sleep. He looked so peaceful now. You reached out. Your index finger sunk into his cheek like it was a marshmallow. You couldn’t believe you had never done this before. God, he really was adorable. 

Your thoughts were abruptly cut off as Katsuki’s hand shot up and grabbed your wrist with an iron grip. With a shriek, you tried to scramble backwards. Katsuki lazily opened his eyes, not at all bothered by your struggles. With seemingly no effort on his part, he tugged you forward. Off balance, you fell into his chest. Katsuki wrapped his arms around you in a bear hug, slinging a leg over yours, trapping you on the bed. 

“Katsuki!” You hissed. You squirmed in his hold, not getting any extra room. He just hummed, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You were pretty sure your face was hot enough to start a fire. “Katsuki, let me go!” 

“No,” He mumbled. His voice rumbled against your skin sending shivers through your whole body. 

“Katsuki!” 

“You can’t leave. If you leave, you won’t come back.” 

You stopped struggling. “What are you talking about?” 

He squeezed you tighter. “I’m loud. I get angry real easy. I fight a lot. And you…” He trailed off, his breath catching and rattling in his chest. “You’re so much better than me. You’re nice and smart and talented and pretty and caring and… and…” You could feel the hot tears landing on your skin. He was starting to shake. His grip had loosened enough for you to get out, but instead you brought your arms up and pulled him in closer. “If I let you go, you’ll see how much better you are than me. And you’ll leave. You’ll leave me because you’re better and you deserve so much better. But I’m a selfish bastard and I just want you for myself because I love you so damn much.” 

Your heart dropped into your stomach. You wiggled your hand up, threading your hand into his hair and tilting his head to look up at you. 

“I love you too,” You said softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.” 

Katsuki crushed you to his chest, letting out another loud sob. You could feel hot tears pressing against your eyes. You had no idea Katsuki felt this way about anything; about you, about himself, about your relationship. 

But one thing you knew for sure: You loved Bakugou Katsuki. 

~~~

The first thing Katsuki noticed when he woke up was the head ache. His head felt like he had a railroad spike jammed through his temples. God, what did he do last night? There was the party at Kappa Alpha Betta Whatever house. It’d been fine for a while, hanging out with the guys, playing beer pong, winning some extra cash from freshman in poker (where did he put that money anyway?). And then…

And then someone had said your name. He’d heard it across the room, an amazing feat in and of itself, but his ears were trained for any news of you. He’d jerked up right when he heard it, missing his shot at the beer pong table. He gladly took his drink and went prowling through the house. Who had said your name? Were you here? Were you coming?  

It might have been selfish, he knew how much you hated loud crowds, but damn it, he wanted you here. He remembered the last Greek life party you had been at. He’d lost you at some point between getting into an argument with that damn Deku and pulling Denki down from a keg stand. He’d finally found you huddled into some back corner, looking like a rabbit about to dart from a hungry fox (he wouldn’t mind being that fox, honestly, he could eat you right up.) You’d lost the color in your face, hands shaking as you clutched your red Solo cup almost hard enough for your nails to pierce the plastic. 

He snatched Kirishima by his collar as he carved a path through the room. He planted the extroverted red-head in front of you, creating an extrovert shield between himself and the love of his life you. He’d spent the rest of the night talking to you. Nothing special, he couldn’t even really remember what about. But he did remember the relaxed slope of your shoulders, the spark in your eyes, the smile that played on your lips at whatever lame joke he had just made. 

Back in the present (or last night, whatever), he was still stalking through the halls looking for whoever had mentioned you. He heard it again, the tail end of your name, coming from the living room. 

“-(/N) never had it so good.” There he was, lounging along the bottom stairs with a smug look on his face as he regaled the small crowd he had attracted. Katsuki recognized him as one of those legacy kids, the one who showed up to the first day of orientation in a sleek black Bugatti and took up three parking spaces, talked in almost every one of his classes when he even bothered to show up, and was, without a doubt at every party on or off campus. 

And now he was telling a story about you. What were you ever doing with an asshole like him? 

“You would never guess it from how she dresses, you know,” The guy continued, lazily waving his half-empty beer bottle. “But she is stacked.” 

Katsuki tensed up, his heart jumping into his throat. He pushed aside the crowd until he stood right in front of the bragger on the stairs. “What did you just say?” He asked through clenched teeth. “You're talking about (Y/N) (L/N), right?” 

He lazily swept his gaze up, grinning wide when he saw Katsuki. “Yeah, (Y/N)? You know, she comes across as a frigid bitch, but let me tell you, she’s an incredible lay.” Katsuki’s vision went red. The crowd started to subtly shuffle away, feeling the cold change in atmosphere. “Not much besides that, honestly. Thank god her tits and ass are amazing, cause her face sure wasn’t doing it for me. Super boring, too, heard she’s failing her classes. Oh, well. Hey, I could use a side-piece when I’m running my own firm, you know?” 

The asshole never saw it coming. In the span of a heart beat, Katsuki had grabbed his designer jacket and hoisted him off the stairs, pinning him to the wall so his feet kicked to try and reach the ground. 

“You listen to me, asshole,” Katsuki hissed. “You never talk about (Y/N) again. You never look at her, you never talk to your shit-stain friends about her, you sure as fuck never tell another lie about her, or so help me, you’ll get to find out what color your liver is.” 

Katsuki was half-way sure the jerk had pissed his pants. He dropped him in a heap, landing in the puddle of spilled beer on the floor. He brushed his hand off on his jeans, eager to get whatever germs the gossip had off him.  

He was almost out of ear shot when he heard the rich kid spit and say, “Fine. She’s probably crawling with it if you’re dicking her down.” 

The kid’s head made a dent in the wall as he richoched back from the impact of Katsuki’s punch. He would easily have a black eye and a broken nose, the chipped tooth would just be a  bonus. 

Katsuki’s head was fuzzy with rage, stalked through the house, bee-lining it to the nearest source of inebriation. How dare he? How fucking dare that absolute ass-wipe ever even think of saying such horrible things about you? He wasn’t even worth knowing your name, much less saying it. Not to mention the fact he must be blind to think you were anything less than stunning. Ever since he had known you, you had been nothing but kind and smart and caring and funny and…

“Baku-bro, you doing okay?” 

Katsuki didn’t realize how tight he was holding his fists until he relaxed. His nails had made half-moon indents in his palms, his knuckles brushed red from the punch. 

Kirishima had his mouth pulled down in that stupid puppy dog pout. “I’m fine,” Katsuki brushed him off. He grabbed a beer out of an iced cooler, twisting off the cap in a single motion and chugging half the bottle. 

“Well, that’s good, cause I don’t think Tim Flood is making it out of here without a few stitches.” 

“Good.” Katsuki finished the beer and chucked it into a recycle bin. He grabbed another and stalked out of the room. Everything felt too hot, too tight. His head was pounding. If you were here, you’d get a bag of ice and press it against his forehead. You’d probably call him an idiot for getting into another fight, that he needed to learn how to manage his temper better. He’d call you a dumbass but let you lead him away somewhere dark and quiet, away from all the other more insufferable dumbasses. You’d find some pain killers, get him some water, because that’s just the kind of caring person you were. Maybe you’d bring him upstairs, lead him to an unoccupied bedroom. The two of you would sit together on the bed, maybe just a little too close. You’d hand him the water, his hand would brush against yours. You’d look down, shy, blushing cutely. He’d lean forward, thread his hand through your incredibly soft hair, angle your face up to him. Your plush lips would part slightly and he’d lean forward and - 

“Are you sure you’re good?” Kirishima asked, abruptly cutting off Katsuki’s impromptu fantasy. “Cause you don’t look so good.” Katsuki bit his tongue. “Is it because of what that guy said about (Y/N)?” Katsuki whipped around, glaring daggers. Kirishima smiled and put his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, bro, it’s okay! No one believed him, anyway.” 

Katsuki scoffed, taking a swig of the beer. “(Y/N)’s too good for him anyway.” 

“I bet you think (Y/N)’s too good for everyone here, right?” 

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you need to hurry up and tell (Y/N) you like her!” Sero shouted, jumping in out of nowhere. 

Katsuki dropped his bottle, Kirishima catching it just in time, and grabbed Sero by the front of his shirt and lifted him up. Sero just grinned his stupid, wide grin. 

“Come on, Katsuki,” Denki said, slinging an arm around Katsuki’s shoulders. “We all know you’ve had a thing for (Y/N) since high school. Why don’t you just put us all out of our misery and tell her already?!” 

Katsuki felt his face heat up. “I don’t- I haven’t - Fuck you!”  Katsuki couldn’t remember why he was friends with these three idiots as they all burst out into laughter.

 He snatched his bottle back and pushed through the crowd. He needed some air. He heard Sero yell after him, “You have to tell her eventually!” 

And… That was mostly it. Katsuki’s memories of last night sort of started to trail off after that. He knew that he drank, he drank a lot. At some point he ended up by the pool. And maybe he’d called someone? Oh, hell, he hoped he hadn’t called someone. 

His eyes snapped open at the soft groan. There you were, just inches away from his face, fast asleep and tucked in his arms. You were pressed close, breasts pushing against his chest, legs tangled with his, one hand clutching his shirt. Your lips were parted ever so slightly, breathing heavy and even. 

And you were so fucking close. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His arms tightened around you and he tensed. How the hell did this happen? Did you actually come to the party last night? When, and why? What had called you down there-? 

Oh. Oh, the call! He had called you last night? Some time in his drunken haze he must have figured out to bypass the timed lock he had put on it specifically to avoid calling people with a too-honest tongue. But had you…?  Nervously, he looked down. He sighed in relief. You were both still dressed. At least that was one mistake he knew he hadn’t made. 

Alright, that was one problem. Now, on to the next one: How was he going to get out of here without waking you up? Craning his head around, he checked out the room. Wait, this was his room. He was in his apartment! A picture of last night started to form in his mind. He’d called you, blabbering God knows what, and then you’d been a good person (why were you such a good person?) and had come to get him, to make sure he was okay. And then what? He’d somehow seduced you into his bed? No, it was more likely you had stayed to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit, maybe sat on the bed because it was the middle of the night and you were exhausted, and then… This. 

Okay, okay, no, this was fine, he could fix this. He could slip out, let you keep sleeping. He’d make some breakfast in the kitchen and then you’d wake up, wander in rubbing the sleep from your eyes in that cute way you did when you pulled an all-nighter studying. He’d chastise you for lugging his drunk ass up here, for being out so late at night. You’d wave him off, compliment his cooking, tell him to take better care of himself, and then smile up at him with that blindingly beautiful smile and sparkling eyes. 

“Morning.” Katsuki yelped at your greeting. He stared, wide-eyed, down at you, as you look back up at him lazily with those sparkling eyes. “It’s kinda hard to breathe here.” He realized then just how tight he was holding you. He jerked backward, his shout of surprise cut off as he fell off the bed. He rubbed his sore hip, looking up when he heard your giggle. You were leaning over the bed, smiling shyly when he caught you staring. 

He gulped hard, feeling his face burning up. “Hi.” 

You tucked a loose threat of hair behind your ear. “Hi.” 

He should say something. He needed to say something. God, why wasn’t he saying something? 

“I-“ Katsuki stopped with an incomplete thought in his mouth. He suddenly felt uncomfortably hot, his stomach clenching and throat going dry. Your face dropped as you lunged forward, dragging a bucket in front of him (where did that even come from?). He surged forward, clenching the sides of the bucket in a white knuckled grip, and threw up. 

You slid off the bed and knelt next to him. You rubbed small circles in his back, whispering small comforts as he coughed up bile and alcohol and who knows what else. You reached over behind him and grabbed a glass of water from his nightstand. 

“Here,” You said. “Rinse and spit. Don’t swallow or gargle, it’ll just mess with your gag reflex.” Rubbing the spike of pain growing in his forehead, he did what you said. When he caught his breath, he accepted the pain killers you had and dry swallowed them. You really had prepared for everything, huh? 

Katsuki shoved the bucket away with his foot, leaning back against the bed. “Fuck…” 

You hummed in response and scooted to sit next to him. “So,” You said. 

“So,” He said back. 

“I don’t suppose you remember much from last night?” 

He clenched his jaw, mouth going dryer than it already was, if that was possible. He tried to laugh, but it sounded forced and strained, even to him. “Hey, we’re both still wearing pants, right?” You didn’t laugh back. 

“So that’s a no then?” The seriousness with which you said that made him pause. 

“I, uh, think I called you?” 

“MmHmm. You didn’t sound too great, so I came to pull you out.” 

“Huh. Thanks for that.” 

“Yup.” You paused for a second. “Do you remember… anything else you said?” 

Fuck. 

“Uhh, I owe you breakfast?” 

You looked away. “Is there anything you maybe told Sero that you wouldn’t want him to tell me?” 

Double fuck. 

“If this is about Halloween last year, Mina was the one who brought the Ouija board.” He smirked at you, waiting for you to laugh with him. Instead you didn’t even look up, staring a hole in the carpet with the intensity of your gaze. 

You let out a sigh through your nose, pushing off your knees to stand. “I’m gonna head out,” You said, rubbing the back of your head and still not looking at him. 

Katsuki jumped up, immediately regretting as his head began swimming. “(Y/N), wait-“ He cut himself off with another surge of nausea and lurched towards the bucket. 

“Katsuki,” You said, sounding frustrated. “Look, I…” You sighed, running a hand through your hair and turning back to him. “We’ve known each other for a long time now, right? And for all the time I’ve known you, you’ve been stubborn and pig-headed and aggressive and just, you know, you. But still, in all that time, despite everything, I still…” You pressed your lips, looking for the right words. “I’m happy when I’m around you, Katsuki. I feel at ease, I feel protected, I feel like I can be better at anything. And I’ve thought about this a lot, so much that it makes my head spin and my heart hurt, but through all the trouble I still think it’s worth it. Because at the end of the day it means I still get to be with you and sometimes I just feel like that’s enough, but now I…” Your lip was trembling, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. Katsuki wanted nothing more than to take a big step forward and wrap you in the biggest, tightest hug of your life. Finally, you sighed in defeat. “But if you can’t say it, if the One and Only Katsuki Bakugou can’t say it, then how the hell can I?” 

Your voice broke on the last word. Katsuki was so stunned and suddenly pinned with guilt that he couldn’t move when you spun on your heels and rushed out of his apartment. 

Oh, fuck. 

~~~

“Idiot,” You murmured to yourself as you fled up the apartment stairs, furiously wiping at your eyes to get rid of the oncoming tears. “Idiot, idiot, idiot.” By the time you reached your apartment and slammed the door behind you, you weren’t sure if you were talking about Katsuki or yourself. 

You felt sick. Anxiety gnawed at your mind like a starving coyote. Had you really just confessed your feelings to Katsuki? Had you really just confessed your feelings to Katsuki like that? Would he ever speak to you again? Would things just become too awkward that you’d be edged out of your friend group? They had known Katsuki much longer than they had known you, after all. God, what if he was calling Kirishima right now and telling him about the disaster of a morning, after you had taken advantage of his blitz out state and slept in the same bed with him? 

Well, no. Kirishima was probably still knocked  out from his own night of heavy imbibing. Not to mention that even he, the most kind-hearted and patient person you knew, would have to draw a line at listening to Katsuki rant while dealing with a massive hangover. 

And no, Katsuki wouldn’t do that to you. Despite his rough deminor, his abrasive personality, and his profane tongue, Katsuki was actually a sweetheart deep down. Maybe really deep down, but still. He wouldn’t be so intentionally cruel, even if you told him that you shared all of his baby pictures of him playing in his All Might onesie online. 

So then why were you still huddled on a heap on the floor, back pressed against the front door, crying? Why was this pit of loneliness blooming in your chest?  

You yelped at the sudden banging on the door. Who could be here so early in the morning? You had paid rent this month, right? You sniffed, rubbing your eyes and smoothing out your clothes. You hoped your cheeks weren’t the blotchy red they got whenever you were upset. You took a deep breath to steady your voice for whoever was outside. 

Opening the door, you looked up at a wide-eyed Katsuki, panting hard with determination set on his face. You groaned internally. 

“Katsuki,” You began,” About what I said, I’m sorr-” 

Without waiting for you to finish, Katsuki surged forward. You tried to take a step backward, almost falling, but he caught you, a strong grip on your shoulders. Without waiting for you to get your bearings, Katsuki leaned in, smashing his lips against yours. 

It wasn’t a graceful kiss, all clashing teeth and urgency rather than romance. His eyes were screwed closed. He stayed pressed against you, not moving, grip so tight on your upper arms you thought there might be a mark later. 

Just as suddenly as he had come forward, he jerked back, but kept his hold on you. You both breathed heavily, eyes locked. Your mind whirled, a hundred voices shouting at the same time. For once, you decided to ignore them and let your body do what it wanted. 

You reached up, wrapping your arms around Katsuki’s neck and pulled him back in. This kiss was controlled, soft and sweet. His hands dropped from your shoulders to wrap around your waist. He pressed in harder, adding desperation in the kiss, as if he thought you would vanish any second. When you both pulled away this time, he leaned his forehead against yours, noses bumping into each other, sharing the same breath. 

His voice was rough. “Sorry,” He said. “I had to brush my teeth first.” 

[jhuzen]

married life [m.reader]

this is me taking the first step in creating the househusband hcs of our tall hsr men for us gays and bi kings. happy pride ansismdkf (i mean to say that also in haitham’s post bUT OH WELL). anyway, i still hate luocha. otto trauma so true so real (honestly, his only saving grace in mhy games is ayato because he’s not blond). today, we have ourselves some househusbands.

𖦹 househusband hcs with gepard, sampo, jing yuan, blade, dan heng, caelus and old man welt, no luocha but i’m open to be convinced why i should start loving him, mostly fluff, domestic stuff, modern au though… aren’t they more modern if they can travel the space? huh. normal world au then. forgot to add that ceo reader is implied

GEPARD LANDAU

He’s a very reluctant househusband at first, actually. He’s one who firmly believes that relationships are a team effort (and they are and should be), and thinks that it wouldn’t hurt for the both of you to work together. Of course, you encourage him regardless, and with both of your career-oriented selves, you were basically the couple that could foster a ten or so children and still be financially sound.

Serval is the one who convinced Gepard to lay low a little in his job and relax for once. You’re making a decent income a month — enough for you to be the only one working and still have a comfortable life together.

You have to thank your sister-in-law and her craftiness. She wasn’t Gepard’s sister for nothing. She knew your husband more than anyone and knew that he was too down bad to even refuse in entertaining the thought of not taking care of you. All she had to do was do a little convincing.

“If I were [Name], I sure wouldn’t mind coming home to a nice meal like this every night,” she’d muse with a hum while she ate off of Gepard’s cooking. He came home early that one night and thought to surprise you. Of course, Serval just had to taste test since she’s looking out for you, her beloved brother-in-law. “Also wouldn’t mind being taken care of by my own spouse…”

Gepard quickly folded. What if his sister was right and you wanted that kind of life? But it’s not like he also wants to quit his job just like that. So he made a gradual decrease in work until he can finally have a schedule that can commit as a househusband and occasionally help when he’s needed at work as a consultant.

Your beloved husband is a bit mid from the start — basic in cooking, in chores, but it’s his perseverance that pushes him up to S-tier househusband status. He will really go out of his way to learn recipes that you suddenly brought up in the middle of a conversation and will execute it to the highest standards. He will become a lot more meticulous in his chores around the house.

If he can, he’s definitely the type to drop by and join you in lunch. He’s a lot more free now, and if there’s nothing else to do in the house, he’ll take some lunch and go to where you work and just eat lunch together. Everyone is looking at the windows of your own office in envy while they watched you get spoon fed by your cute husband (they don’t know how embarrassed Gepard is since you technically just coerced him to feed you so people can see you on purpose).

So very attentive to you. He wakes you up early (even earlier if you have meetings where you have to discuss things to be extra prepared) for work. Your lunch is just top tier, but the plating is too cute — with the slightly uneven shapes to create cute animals. He’s the kind to even put a note in your packed lunch every time without fail.

He knows how hard you work and only wants the best for you. And when you recognize his efforts, he’s quick to get flustered from your compliments. He will fold like a wet cardboard. He’s too weak.

“Dear, please,” you could only laugh at your beloved’s winsome attitude. Currently pressed against the marbled counter of the kitchen, you can only shower him in a plethora of love-filled kisses as you expressed your unending gratitude. Your lips left tiny pecks from his cheeks down to his neck, only serving to fluster him even more.

You pulled back but not before leaving another quick kiss on his nose, “What’s got you all knotted up, love? No one’s watching.” You cooed, leaving your poor husband whining at the thought of earlier — when you so cruelly asked him to feed you in front of your subordinates while you busily ‘worked’ on your projects.

But somehow even with the unbridled embarrassment that you brought to him, Gepard couldn’t help but feel the elation engulf his entirety at the prospect of you showing him off in your own mischievous ways. Even with your busy schedule, you were more than willing to let him come inside your work and take the time off just to let him join you for lunch. He’d already heard enough drama around the neighborhood to be grateful that you can still balance your work with your marriage.

He was grateful to have you as his partner for life. And even then, he wouldn’t mind having to visit you just to feed you. It was certainly a rare thing that he’s heard partners would suggest, so to be given a privilege as seeing you everyday at work was something he would cherish more than ever.

A kiss on his temple knocked his fleeting thoughts off the rail and pulled him back to reality, blinking at your curious smile, “…Shield for your thoughts?” You inquired with a gentle tone, eager to pry just what has got your husband so spacey all of a sudden.

He only grinned before pulling you in for a proper kiss and murmured against your lips, “Just thanking my lucky stars for having you as my husband.”

Now it was your turn to be flustered.

𐂂

SAMPO KOSKI

Your friends still think you’re a legend for even managing to wife up the untamable Sampo. But somehow, you pulled him in and he was more than willing to be a househusband. For more reasons than one.

But let’s get out the pinnacle of his reasons out of the way — it being, him living so comfortably? Financially supported by a handsome guy like you? Sign him up. He’s more than willing to take care of you while you take care of him. He’s a sleazy guy, after all. Wouldn’t wanna get married to a broke man. Kidding.

Anyway, he mostly sells the story of getting married just for benefits for laughs. But really, you’ve somehow managed to actually trap him as a prisoner of love. He’s a huge simp for you and actually considers your high-end job a bonus. A really good bonus. But other than that, you’ve got Sampo completely wrapped around your finger. And he’s a very eager househusband.

A surprisingly good househusband. He’s meticulous in his work and can cook. But what really sells him is how well he can budget and actively get discounts just by smooth talking the vendors in the market. You once went with him, telling him to go nuts and buy everything that he needs, and you came home with only just a good half of your money spent. He was scarily good and from then on, you made an oath to take notes from your husband’s amazing haggling skills.

He’s a very resourceful man. If you need anything, he’s there to lend a hand. He’s always there to fix equipments that break down. Really, you rarely get issues with the things at home, because the moment he senses that there’s something wrong, he’s already on the case. Your husband is a jack of all trades.

All he requires is a small fee of some attention and loving from you. Seriously, he will mope around and will let you know that he’s upset that you forgot to give him a goodbye kiss earlier when you left for work.

You wake up much earlier than he does, but please wake him up. He wants to cook you breakfast and see you off like a loving househusband that he is. He will sulk if you so much as even think of leaving him without waking him up. He’s a big drama queen and unless you make up for it once you get home, he will continue to walk around the house with a pout on his face.

The only way to make this man completely crumble underneath you is to spoil him. He’s working so hard with the upkeep of your shared home! If you take him out on surprise date nights, he will melt. Shower him with lavish gifts from all the money you saved up, courtesy of Sampo’s extreme bargaining. He will latch onto your arm the entire night like your pretty little arm candy (even if he’s taller than you).

Oh, right. You will get sudden visits from Natasha or even Seele and Oleg, just to check up on your married life. They’re mostly just there to whack some sense into Sampo if he’s being difficult to you. Suffice to say, they’re always surprised when they come visit your homely abode that’s clean and has a refreshing atmosphere. Seele plugs her ears every time you say it’s all because of Sampo that your house is even remotely presentable. She’s in denial.

It was a grueling day, leaving you completely vulnerable to the throes of exhaustion. You ought to take some vacation days, maybe go on a different country with your husband for a treat. Surely, he’d like that. You noticed he’s been working just as hard as you at home. Speaking of which — the reason for your home’s unfamiliar silence was in fact the lack of singing from your lively husband. You were so used to hearing his voice that the silence felt incredibly deafening when you were alone.

“Love? You home?” You called out, glancing at the shoe rack by the door to see his outdoor shoes in the same place and the indoor shoes missing. He’s here. You pursed your lips, brushing off the peculiarity and headed to the joint dining room and kitchen, seeing a nice still hot meal sitting on a nice plate. But it was the only thing on the table, no other plates or even a husband waiting on you with a smile. You peered at the food to see a card beside the plate, scribbled with a sad face.

“…What.” You sat the card back down before finally poking your head in the living room, seeing your husband watching another sad show while screwing in some panel from what you can only guess a part of your heater. You sauntered up from behind him, before grabbing his face and tilting his head up to meet your gaze.

He made no noise and had it not been for his evident pout, you would’ve only been left wondering what you did to make him so sulky again. You sighed before leaning to press a kiss against your lips. You could feel him finally smile against the kiss.

“So you still love me?” He asked, insinuating that you felt otherwise for not even giving him a kiss goodbye earlier.

“Not like I have a choice,” was your only cheeky response.

“Wha— Hey!”

𐂂

JING YUAN

Out of everyone, he is probably the most eager one to be a househusband. He is so ready to retire. He’s been moaning about it at work constantly, about how he’s just ready to settle in somewhere nice and be taken care of. And when you decided to finally tie the knot with him, you didn’t even have to ask twice, that man is already turning in his resignation and is already making your shared home even cozier than ever.

He’s a very languid man, but that does not mean he’s going to flake out on chores. He can do them all efficiently just for the sake of getting them out of the way so he can keep relaxing after. That, and of course making sure that you come home to a clean home. Aeons know how stressful it is to come home from work and seeing your own home completely cluttered. Jing Yuan has suffered the same thing before he met you.

Jing Yuan loves you through his cooking other than sleeping in with you. He creates the greatest dishes for you. Often are you eating your lunch with so much pride. Your subordinates would come inside your office during lunchtime to pass some papers and they would see you just completely enjoying life with your husband’s cooking.

He likes to greet you with a nice warm meal after your work. And he’d just watch you eat his meals with a fond smile while you continue to talk about each of your days with each other. Of course, occasionally, he’d open his mouth and you would have to feed him as well. Yanqing would sometimes come home to such a sight and never has he seen a more domestic scene than before.

Another one of his much favored ways to show his love is through after work massages. You’d come home and be completely smothered with love just by his touches. Sometimes he’d give you a nice neck and shoulder massage while you’re eating and talking about your day. Or you could both be lounging on the sofa and he would absentmindedly massage your overworked hands.

However his most favored time spent with you is when you’re on a day off and that he would successfully persuade you into staying a little bit longer in bed with him. Just sleep until the afternoon, with limbs tangled against one another. He loves spooning his husband that takes care of him so dearly. Just feeling your back pressed against his chest while he’s nuzzling his nose into the nape of your neck. Bliss. Utter bliss.

The two of you scream old married couple. Just two old geezers enjoying their lives. It’s really such a relaxing relationship. Being married to Jing Yuan is like a vacation from your problems and him being married to you is an adventure without the nauseating exhaustion.

Yanqing is inadvertently your child the moment you got married to your husband. And suffice to say, you were far more content in your life than you could ever imagine. Never have you felt the genuine happiness swell within you the moment you came home to the two of them cooking together. You still have a slightly motion blurred picture in your phone and neither of them know about it.

Overall the most chill househusband. But even in his passivity, you can feel the radiating warmth of love for you. He just… loves you so much that he’s more than willing to take care of you and the little family that you and him have created. He will wait for you by the door with his half-lidded gaze completely fixated on you with so much adoration. He’s lucky to have you.

You were used to the hectic mornings you often faced upon waking up. It was always a rush job in the morning, speeding through all your morning routine before finally leaving for work. But today was not that day. You could tell from the way the sunlight hit your eyelids. You always left just before the sun could even come up, but right now, you had other plans.

You wanted to prepare a nice breakfast for your husband. He had been working so hard all the time, taking care of you and Yanqing with no days off unlike you. You figured you could get the day started and surprise the both of them with some of your cooking prowess. Suddenly filled with the motivation, you sat up, ready to face the first hour of your time off work for a few days.

However, your plans were soon foiled when a strong arm hooked around your waist and immediately pulled you back down on the bed without even breaking a sweat. You sighed, looking off to the side to see one golden eye peering at you sleepily. Lips turning up into a smile, you shifted to fully face him.

“Can’t even let me make you some breakfast in bed, huh?” You teased with the same fondness as the very first day you and him got married.

A quiet grunt was all your lover gave, only to follow it up with his own gruff response a minute later, “While that sounds nice, I believe I can also reap benefits just from canoodling with my husband for let’s say… until the afternoon.”

Your hands were tied at that point, and with one last charming smile from your dozing husband, you dove into his arms, letting him press some kisses on your face before falling asleep, with you following after.

𐂂

BLADE

No one in this world knows how you managed to charm and marry Blade in the first place. Even his family considers you a miracle worker for bagging the hard to get man. You could only reminisce of the times he would give you the cold shoulder when you tried to ask him out. You were cringe but Blade somehow liked it.

Regardless, he’s one of the reluctant househusbands at first. Blade doesn’t like the feeling of not going out and making money like you. He believes that as long as he can, he will contribute to this relationship. It’s really adorable. And you were supportive of what he wants, but when he realized no one can take care of you while you’re busy being the breadwinner, he decided that he’ll take one for the team and take care of everything in the house instead.

He is meticulous in cleaning. Your house is always sparkling clean the moment you arrive at home. He’s constantly on the hunt for any dust that could taint your shared humble abode. He once read that an unclean house can cause sickness to the occupants, and he has never let a single dust touch a furniture ever since then. Your health is his priority and he will do everything in his power to keep you healthy.

You know what? Screw it, he wears his apron without a care too. He goes out of the house in a pink frilly apron you gifted him as a silly little joke and he’s not ashamed of it. Even Kafka’s incessant teasing isn’t enough to deter him from wearing it. You gave it to him and he loves it. That’s all that matters.

Surprisingly loved by your neighbors. In contrast to his gloomy disposition, he’s always seen around the market and with people’s tendency to draw closer to mysterious handsome men like him, let’s just say he’s managed to unintentionally charm your neighbors. Everyone calls you lucky for getting him, everyone calls him lucky for having a good husband that provides.

Really, he cares so little about the money you make. All he needs is your love and attention. It is imperative that you give him calls on certain times of the day, let him know that you’re still alive at the very least. It’s not like you can’t make do on such a promise either, you loved calling him just to take a break from work for a little while. Even just hearing his quiet grunts of agreement while you gossiped about your subordinates was enough.

He wakes you up… like really early. Super early. Like at least a few hours before you call in for work. His reason? To get enough time with you before you go to work. It’s adorable. You two could be just lounging at the balcony, sipping coffee or tea while you both watch the sunrise.

Speaking of which, with him comes a package. His aforementioned family. Kafka and Silver Wolf’s visits are a must. They are a part of him and now they are a part of you. Kafka could be dropping by just to chat and gossip with you (somehow both of you know a lot about people’s own businesses) or Silver Wolf would just barge in and hog all your game systems (she says no one plays them since you’re both old men so she gets the privilege). Either way you’re already used to it, and one guest room is always at the ready.

Getting married to Blade is honestly the best thing you’ve ever done in your life. You still don’t know how you pulled him, but with him resting on you while the both of you watched shows, showing you his vulnerability tells you that doing so is not an accident or a mistake.

“…Would it kill you to step back a little? It’s hard to cook.”

“But you’re so warm. So soft… so…”

Quite possibly out of all the forms of affections that you’ve expressed towards him, Blade finds your nosy hands cupping around his chest from under his clothes the least practical. Especially when you’re doing it while he’s cooking your breakfast before you’re off for work.

He flipped the omelet with ease despite his claims of difficulty just seconds ago. Of course, it wasn’t as hard when he’s standing still. But on times where he had to go get some things, you in your sleepy daze had to trudge behind him like a shadow just to persistently warm your incredibly cold hands.

Regardless, other than the difficulty in moving, Blade finds it even harder not to burn the kitchen down as his concentration dwindled with every kiss you pressed against his neck, unrelenting and incredibly soft, so filled with love in every individual peck that met his skin. His face turned a rather dark shade of scarlet while you busied yourself with him.

“Keep this up and you’re going to be late.”

“At least it’s extra time with you~” you cooed.

Blade only sighed before leaning against your back, using his free hand to softly knock into the side of your head as his form of half-assed discipline.

Well. Maybe he wouldn’t mind that extra time too.

𐂂

DAN HENG

He’s not so much as a reluctant househusband. In fact, he relishes in the idea of just staying home and doing his work there. He likes the comfort of being able to sit things out for once after having to look after his two gremlins for friends. However, he does want to make sure that you’re always safe when you’re working.

After a lot of reassurances, he finally decides that you can handle your own. He will compensate for it by taking an extremely good care of you and your shared home. And this man does not play around. He’s sort of like Blade, excelling at everything that needs to be done not just because, but it’s to keep you safe. He cooks you healthy meals and scrubs any dirt off the face of the world.

Easily one of the greatest househusbands in the list. Dan Heng has the right temperament and while he’s often aloof to most people, when it comes to you, you could already feel how he seems more lenient, a little softer on you.

He does all his work efficiently to get them over with as fast and as best as he can so he can have time to visit you in your work. If he knows he has time, count on your beloved husband to come and bring you some freshly cooked lunch in your office. Almost everyone in your company already knows who he is. He’s the elusive husband of the big boss, coming in just to bring you some lunch.

Speaking of which, might wanna keep your subordinates in check. Dan Heng is a looker, and the fact that he’s just as considerate, combined with his mysterious nature, people are bound to be more attracted to him. Though honestly, none of their little admiration could measure up to Dan Heng’s love for you.

In his eyes, you are the only one important, right next to his own family with Himeko and the rest. And he will do all that he can to make sure that you’re alright in any aspect of your life. However even with that dedication, it’s also your job to keep him intact. He focuses so much on you that he sometimes forgets to wind down.

Taking him out on something with a serene atmosphere usually does the trick. Bring tons of books to entertain yourselves, and if the stories get too old, you chat about things you have yet to tell each other. Dan Heng really appreciates the effort you put in, investing your time in him despite the fact that you’re running a conglomerate, but even then just a little gesture from you is enough for him to know how grateful you are for his own efforts as well.

Old married couple 2.0. March said so herself when she decided to barge into your home to show you her pictures from her recent travels. She and the raccoon are tied at the tally of visits. Often they just crash just to make sure Dan Heng hasn’t driven you insane yet with his very… unromantic nature. Safe to say March still couldn’t believe that dear old Dan Heng was the first to pop the question in tying the knot.

Speaking of unromantic, your husband does come off as one, often giving you practical solutions than giving you any words of comfort when you’re stressed. And perhaps it’s because you understood that’s his way of romancing you that you and him ended up married in the first place.

Exhaustion was more of a friend than a foe after having to bury yourself in the tower stacks of paperwork. It’s times like these that you had to wonder if running the family company is even worth it.

“I’m too tired to driiiiive,” you whined, looking at the spreadsheets in exasperation.

And as if he had a sixth sense, a knock on your door was heard and you gave the green light with little regard for the person behind the door. You then looked up and almost cried at the sight of your beautiful husband, with two coffees in hand.

“Come on, I’ll take you home,” it was all he had to say to prompt what little motivation you had left in your system, letting your sluggish self spring back to life. You bound to him with a grateful smile on your face and greeted him with an embrace.

You took one cup from him and graced him with a kiss on his cheek, “Hang on, let me get some take home work. I need to at least finish a good third of this.”

Your poor husband was a lot more worried than he could let on with his stoic face — seeing you on the ropes, completely hard at work and barely functioning at the sheer exhaustion was almost enough to tempt him into stopping you from bringing home your work. Alas, he supported you regardless and only thought to compensate for your extra work with an even better dinner.

“Anything you want for tonight?” He asked, thoughtful as always.

“Mmm… chicken fried rice?”

“Chicken fried rice it is.”

𐂂

CAELUS

Not a single soul expected for this man to get married. Everyone thought he’d just end up on the streets willingly, constantly rummaging through trash can after trash can, falling in love with one and settling down with it in his own odd way. Surprise surprise, he is now a househusband that digs through the high end trash cans placed inside your shared home.

Quite frankly, if Caelus was being honest, he also did not expect to trip into you and quite literally fall in love. And for you to reciprocate it. He always thought you two were just the best of friends, with you supporting his hobbies with little to no judgment. So imagine his surprise that he keeps feeling every time he wakes up right next to you (and right next to his five foot pillow of a trashcan, but it’s a separate affair on its own).

Moving aside your husband’s very odd addiction of living the life of a trash panda, Caelus is actually a pretty decent househusband. His specialities are mostly the meals he makes for you. They’re always so delicious and is often the highlight of your day even without him around.

He’s very active around the neighborhood and is always armed with the latest news around town. The other stay at home spouses love him. And you were quite surprised to find out that he’s far more connected in the very place you both live in than you could ever be. When you’re free, you’d sometimes accompany him to the market and somehow end up staying very late because a lot of people recognize him and seem to want to chat with him.

Caelus parades you around as his beloved husband and people are just dropping jaws when they realize you have definitely been interviewed in one of those famous magazines about businesses and all that jazz.

Surprisingly, just like Sampo, Caelus is your man when it comes to spending wisely and learning how to haggle. He knows his way around almost everything and even you couldn’t help but be proud of yourself of fishing out such a dashing man that is wise in finances. Good man, honestly.

One fact about him that you like are his skills in caring for children. There’s something so wonderfully domestic whenever you would come home early and see him playing with the children — Hook and Clara, if you can recall. He’s mostly just babysitting for them on days that he’s not completely hammered to death with housework.

His favorite thing to do with you is grocery shopping at night. Just the two of you cruising around every aisle, more often than not, you’d push the cart with him in it getting gradually buried by every item you decided to purchase. It’s a good way to spend some time together while getting something productive done. And perhaps coax you into buying a little more food than you and him intended in the first place. Dan Heng always advices you not to be too swayed by your husband antics… but it’s clearly not working.

Caelus is a silly little man, with his weird eccentric jokes and his equally strange fascination for all things related to trash cans. But it’s probably because of this that you found yourself enamored. He is your respite in the suffocating world of your workforce. He pushes you in situations you never thought would be fun unless he was with you.

“If you loved me, you would’ve gotten ten more boxes of cookies.”

“And if you loved me, you wouldn’t be willingly burying yourself in that cart instead of helping me pick between chocolate or strawberry milk.” You quipped back with a snarky grin, not even bothering to look at your childish husband who continued to be sprawled out in the cart at ten in the evening while you shopped.

Caelus pouted, you always did make good points. It’s why he could never win an argument against you. Or maybe he could… if he wasn’t so completely smitten at the sight of you. You were always seen as the dignified boss of your company, dressed in three piece suits that could suffocate anyone and their wallet.

But here you were, dressed in a loose shirt (likely one of his just judging from the fit) and some pair of joggers that you haphazardly threw on.

Absolutely breathtaking.

He lent out a hand to reach for the carton of flavored milk that you finally chose, adding it onto the pile. He waited until you were at the end of the cart, getting ready to muscle your way through pushing an incredibly heavy cart, courtesy of your husband.

Caelus looked up at you, “Don’t I at least get a kiss for helping out?”

“Cae, I’m dying from pushing you. How ‘bout we entertain that incentive once you got out of the cart and started helping me, hm?”

Maybe he’s just a simp, but how could he deny his demanding husband’s whims?

𐂂

WELT YANG

This old man is the definition of a reluctant retiree. Well, it’s not actually a retirement for him. He still gets to be the voice of reason, only that he won’t actually personally animating. Who’s to blame? You. To be accurate, this old man officially decided to step down from his hands-on job as an animator so he can be a househusband. You’re a priority after all, and only the heavens know how bad you need to be taken care of.

Welt joins the ranks of a godly househusband. He knows his way around almost every single thing that needs to get fixed. His cooking? Top tier. His housework game? Absolute perfection. Floors are swept, counters are wiped and dusted, sheets and clothes are washed and pressed. He is perfect.

And on top of that, he still manages to balance his work from home as the consultant for any new anime that is about to be produced and can still care for you without even breaking a sweat. Old man Welt is always pulling through.

So let’s get this out of the way — actual old married couple. Not just vibes. You two are old men who look at the screen with squinted eyes. Well, only Welt does that while you laugh at him and then proceed to forget where you placed your own phone despite being on it just a few minutes ago.

Regardless, you live a much more balanced life, just two husbands cruising through life with little worries. You live on a good neighborhood, living comfortably and get a lot of visits from yours and Welt’s friends/family. Most of which are from the trio and Himeko. You and Welt always host these family dinners on weekends where everyone is free. Life is good.

However despite all the glamour of living a comfortable life in this marriage, there is one glaring difference between you and Welt — mostly it’s the fact that you have worse time management than he does and often gets the short end of the stick, always pummeled to death with your paperwork that could leave anyone in a fit of raw despair. Welt looked at your work the one time you left to answer a phone call from office and shuddered at the heavy load.

Welt is essentially your clock when it’s time to unwind from work. You have a tendency to overwork at times and it’s something that Welt always makes sure to keep an eye out for. He just wants what’s best for you, and oftentimes, what’s best is for you is to finally get some shuteye after suffering through another overnight that you pulled.

Also, there is an unspoken rule of not letting any man with long blonde hair inside your home. It’s just a house rule. The top of all other house rules in fact, as it takes the most priority in fulfilling.

Regardless, Welt is so… househusband-shaped. He knows what to do as one and does a damn good execution of it all. Maybe it’s because of his compassionate self that you were quick to fall for the old man. He didn’t even have to try and show off, all he had to do was be himself and you’d still give him the world with every penny you’ve earned from your job.

A taut frown tugged onto Welt’s lips as he squinted on the labels from the spices that Himeko sent from her recent overseas trip. Not that he didn’t trust his good friend’s tastes in any form of flavor, it’s only that he wanted to make sure none of it had any ingredient that could probably send you into an anaphylactic shock. Yes, he is this meticulous when it comes to you.

Alas, his cautiousness grants no extra clear sight in viewing the labels and he struggled, holding them in different proximities. Are the characters really that small intentionally or are they so incoherent because they manufacturers made an error in the sizing the font before printing it on the packaging.

Fortunately for him, you came into the rescue as you plucked the packaging from his hands. Welt didn’t need to look up to see the same smug smile plastered on your face whenever you’d catch him doing the same thing to his phone. Well, he loved looking at you so he did it nonetheless.

“Having trouble again, old man?” You teased and Welt only had to sigh in response. “Is this from Himeko’s package?”

Your endeared husband nodded, “Of course. I had to see what else she gave us. And I’m looking over the ingredients so I can keep you out of the hospital as best as I can.” He turned to the stove and lowered the heat. “Now kindly read it for me, dear.”

You only nodded, flipping over the packet, “Sure thing.”

There was a silence that followed, with Welt expecting you to run your mouth about the ingredients already. He looked back to you…

…And saw you squinting at the same bundle of text that he’s been staring at.

Welt scoffed, playful and light in nature, “And you call me old.”

“It’s the manufacturer’s fault…!!”

[wheeloffortune-design]

I never had trouble with spelling. It just comes naturally to me, words make sense, I never had to make an effort (if one doesn't count voraciously devouring books since age 6).

So, naturally, I became a language snob kid, who evolved into a language snob teenager.

One of the mistakes I made, and that I see many other people make, is to equate bad spelling with low intelligence, or lack of education. So often I've seen comments mocked for mixing your and you're or its and it's. (And the equivalent in French, which is the language I grew up with. People are ruthless with French.)

At the same time, many people I love have trouble with language, spelling, syntax, writing. I've witnessed how hard they worked and how hard they cried when work wasn't enough. It took me too many years to bring this compassion I had for my loved ones, to a larger empathy for people in general.

Two of the smartest people I've met can't spell at all. Neither can one the the most talented and kind person in my life. Neither can a colleague who brightens my days. If I manage to not judge their character by their spelling, I can do the same for everyone else.

(strangely, tumblr speak helped. typing in all lowercase, this lack of punctuation, rewriting the rules of grammar to suit a subculture-- i watched a language evolve in the span of a decade, and sometimes new words appear so fast that i miss their meaning if i don't log in for a week. it's fascinating.)

So, after being a language snob kid and teenager, I try to be a compassionate adult. Not everyone has a brain wired for letters, for reading, for classes and tests.

A language is, first and foremost, made for communication. If the goal is met and people can understand each other, you don't need anything else. Rules of language are there to establish a baseline so more people can opt in and find a common ground. Rules of language should not limit us, but help us.

I'm a writer, and when I hear people say words, I spell them in my mind. This is easy to me. But also, I'm a graphic designer, and I know communication is more important than the words it comes in.

So, be kind, and compassionate. Not everyone can spell, and that's okay.

[choccy-milky]

A few months back, I asked if it was okay to write using Clora and Seb. Finished the work - thought I'd lost it on my hard drive and a virus scan located it.

Not sure if it's sad or happy, but the basic premise of it is Clora getting frustrated/upset at Sebastian and Sebastian comforting her, Sebastian getting upset at a predicament Clora's in and Clora comforting him, and them both getting frustrated/upset and having to comfort each other.

If you'd rather I didn't post it, that's fine too, but just wanted to test the waters and double check that you'd be okay with it if I gifted it to you via AO3, or see if you wanted a sneak peak of it before posting it.

OMG im so happy you were able to find it and recover the work you did!!😭🙏 AND YES OF COURSE YOU CAN POST IT AAA I CANT WAIT TO READ IT!! you can DM it to me first if you want, but i also dont mind if you post it straight away on ao3!! IM LOOKING FORWARD TO IT SM AAARGHHHA💖💖💖IT SOUNDS ANGSTY WE LOVE THE HURT/COMFORT I HOPE MY HEART CAN HANDLE IT🥺💖💖TY AGAIN FOR USING CLORA AND SEB AND TAKING THE TIME TO WRITE SOMETHING ABOUT THEM😭

@sunshine-goblin AAA THANK YOU!!! im honoured its your fav fanfic AND ALSO THE LONGEST YOUVE READ BAHAHAA fr, when you say its as long as four books in lotr it rly makes me realize how insane i am😃👍 aw IM GLAD I COULD INSPIRE YOU TO DRAW MORE AND WRITE AS WELL😭 I was curious so i creeped you and everyone go look at their HL blog @sunshines-legacy your MC is so cute and so is your art🥹💖 as for tips on writing a longfic and brainstorming and motivation and stuff, my motivation was my brainrot and unhappiness with the canon story/ending LMAOO, and looking at the story of the game and playing around with what i was unhappy with/what i WISHED could have happened instead, was a lot easier than just coming up with plotlines from scratch. but something i highly recommend is just OUTLINING and making a timeline, one of my fav parts of writing was just putting on some cafe ambience in the background and doing stream of conscious type word documents where id just barf ideas and then worry about making it pretty later....like look at how many versions of the same chapter i have BAHAHA or like different renditions bc i couldnt decide if id wanna keep a scene/what order, so id make a timeline and keep smoothing things out until i was happy with it and whatnot

brainstorming is defs my fav part of the process and the most helpful part to me. just getting a blank document and writing stuff you want to happen without worrying about how it connects to the story, and then a lot of the times as i was doing that id just keep going and it would kinda tie itself together/id come up with a solution as i was writing / once the ideas kept flowing. so basically : TIMELINES AND OUTLINES I VERY MUCH RECOMMEND, but very low pressure and barebones ones. for example, this is what my outlines/brainstorming look like

its honestly just me talking to myself LMAO, and a lot of the time ill interject and be like "OH YEAH AND THEN THIS CAN HAPPEN" as the ideas come while im writing BAHAHA. its a super fun process and honestly nothing feels better than just getting hit with that flash of inspo, and since its all very low effort theres no pressure to actually write well and its just a chill fun time AND GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR OWN PROCESS / WRITING💖💖💖it can be difficult but HOPE U HAVE FUN TOO💖💖

@a-little-lysdexic WAIT REALLY?? LMFAOO OMG THATS CRAZY....SAME BRAIN...🤝🤝...that would trip me up so much if i were you omg BAHHAHA but aside from having similar tastes in names, IM GLAD YOU LIKE MY ART AS WELL, TYY💖💖💖

THANK YOUUU im glad you're liking it!!! and that its taking over your life BAHAHA💖💖 the video you're thinking of was by @silverxstardust for chapter 13 of my fic, and you can watch the video here! (AND TY AGAIN TO SILVERXSTARDUST FOR DOING THIS!)

[nuitnotions]

heya, can you please do captain price in a relationship (the good and the bad) headcanons ?

hi anon!! sorry this took me a bit to get to this. i’m going to keep this sfw bc i can’t confirm your age but i do hope this will suffice! <3

heaven’s slice

❂ John calls you the softest part of his soul, but he’s just downplaying the fact that he’s always had a tender hand in love. He takes his time learning you, testing every one of the love languages on you until he finds it, and even then he’ll pepper in a touch of the secondary languages because he simply feels like it’s never enough of a physical manifestation for what you do to his insides. He takes it incredibly slow with you, even when you’re making more direct advances. He wants to do this right, he wants to do right by you, even if it leaves him breathless and shaking with the restraint when he drops you off at your doorstep, a kiss to your temple, leaving only when the lock of your front door sounds.

❂ He may not have three Michelin stars, but he’s not useless in the kitchen and that is his driving force. He’ll sneak a look at your recipes and try his best to get it anything close to your dish, when he puts the plate down before you, he will always proclaim that it never compares to yours but he tried. He makes the effort to make the house a home as much as you do. Cleaning, cooking, laundry, he will do as much as possible when he is home just so he can see you with your feet up on the couch and that pretty smile that thanks him.

❂ He’s a provider and money is of no consequence to him. He’s just all too happy to have you comfortable at home while you wait for his return. No matter how much you try to decline, he will find a way to have you spend his money. It makes him happy, gives him a different type of purpose. You message him innocently about the cutest thing you spied in the window of a shop and the notification that follows is money being paid to you, “Go get it. And send me picture of you with it.”

❂ This man will communicate with you; it may not alway be the prettiest conversation to be had but rest assured that it will be had. He sits you down, either across from him at the dinner table or on his lap in his recliner, and his voice goes low as he breaks it down to you. It’s not the matter of the route taken for John, it’s the destination, and he will not relent until you both reach that destination in his endeavor.

❂ You’re not something he hides; his men know your name and have seen you on his person and in his office. He’s learnt enough to know that complete separation between home and work life would leave room for ravines, steep and dangerous. He remains careful with his mentions of you, but at the same time he stands by the belief that you are not a separate entity to him. You may be “sweetheart”, “love”, “angel” when he directly addresses you, but to everyone else? You’re his sweetheart, his love, his angel. All the better to not hear your name on his men’s lips if you ask him.

hell’s ventures

✧ John tries very hard with you, he does, but this man can be short of patience when under duress. Lashing out with biting words always cripples him to his knees barely minutes after they leave his mouth because that smoke clears from his mind and he can hear the bedroom closing behind you. The guilt will haunt him for days into a week and sometimes, that guilt will convince him to just give you space. Yeah, not usually the best solution and it takes a bit for him to learn that.

✧ With him priding himself on being a provider, your provider specifically, sometimes he takes your independence to mean that you don’t need him. It’s an insecurity, of course, one that you’re not at fault for highlighting, yet it does trigger it within him. On such occasions, John may be more overbearing in the days to follow. Batting your hands away to help you with your shoes, insisting on washing your hair, dressing you until you’re finally putting a hand to his chest to stop him. It always warrants a long conversation, and it’s frustrating to have to repeat these same old words him, but you love him despite that niggling voice in the back of his mind.

✧ John is very insistent on communication, but that does not vouch for him being absolutely incredible at it. His timing and wording can be atrocious now and again, a well intentioned discussion growing heated and edged quite quickly. You can try to walk away but John will follow you, unrelenting on getting the two of you on the same page before bed because falling asleep with that anger is a no-go for him. He’s a hard headed bastard and it usually takes some more yelling for him to Click.

✧ John can be very overprotective, very well bordering possessive; you jokingly blame it on his age. Well, sometimes he can take the banter, and other times... When someone is hovering too close to you, smiling too sweetly at you or talking just a bit too much with you, he’s tugging you into him, voice coming from the pit of his stomach and dripping with malice at the supposed perpetrator (read: victim). The argument once against boils down to how overbearing the man can be and yeah, he admits to that and you still choose to be with him despite it so get used to it already, sweetheart. He sleeps on the couch for that particular night.

✧ With the slight age difference and vast lifestyle differences, there is always this unconscious hindrance on both your ends. He second guesses whether he is the right choice for you, if he’s depriving you of a more vivacious life or soiling you with his dirty hands and you sometimes wonder if you’re just not at the maturity level he is at, if this clean slate of a life you have compared to his overcrowded canvas bothers him. It’s more an internal conflict than anything and it will rear its ugly head in the heat of arguments, something you both pointedly ignore. It needs to be addressed, you are both so well aware and yet… yet the timing for this particular conversation never finds its fit.

[touyaspeach]

4 days...

Minors do not interact.

Masterlist

Satan hates brats like you. You get on his nerves, spitting back everything he asks of you, testing his patience with a voice dripping with honey. Does he look like a fly to you? It's irritating.

It's more irritating because he knows you do it specifically to peeve him. Because "he fucks you so good" after. He can't stand it. He could make you feel just as good without the goading, he's sure, but you'd insist. And you'd be back here.

If that's what you want, that's what you'll get, he thinks, pushing you down onto his bed, all but ripping your clothes away. Not ripping them does take a considerable amount of effort on his part.

Satan hates the way brats like you get his cock hard so fast, it's almost like his body enjoys your challenge. You whine, a satisfied little noise as he pushes it into your core. This is what you wanted, to be manhandled, to be taken. He likes that, likes that you can handle it rough.

And he does love you, for all you try his patience. Which is why he gives in so often.

He smirks, planting a hand on your back to keep you pressed into his blankets as he fucks you hard, slamming his hips into yours at a maddening pace.

"This what you want, kitten? Want me to ruin you?" His voice is low, nearly a growl and so unlike his normal demeanor. It sends shivers racing down to your core.

You muffle a strangled affirmative into the sheets, the sound lost and drowned by the obscene slapping of skin and your moans filling the room. A stack of books falls somewhere beyond your comprehension but neither of you care. It feels too good -- he feels too good.

"You better come hard for me, better make it worth it." He says, panting. He releases his hand on your back in favor of playing with your clit. You push yourself up on all fours as he does, pleasure like lightning shooting through you before it crashes over you in an intense orgasm.

He fucks you through it, and then another, and just as he's about to fill you up, he pulls out. Pumps his load all over your ass, watches it drip down your gorgeous thighs.

You whine, indignant that he wasted it.

"Only good kittens get my cum," he huffs, runs one hand through his hair to push it from his brow, "maybe you'll remember that next time.

[leclsrc]

low life ✴︎ mv1

genre: 18+, pwp, this is just. nasty Smut guys, max and reader do not like each other, fem!reader who’s a sky sports reporter (not always mentioned, but the foundation of her relationship w/ max)

word count: 3k

You really don’t like Max Verstappen. What you’re doing in his hotel room is a separate issue.

nsfw warnings under the cut! 

18+ because… penetrative sex, unprotected sex (don’t be a fool cover your tool!), dirty talk (degradation), guys… like max is mean (is that so ooc /j), crying, rough rough sex, descriptions of size lol

auds here... the very much asked for repost of the hate sex fic... sequel to come... perhaps... hoping ur **** banks are filled as u have repeatedly told me they would be if i reposted ahjsjdhhs

Your back hits the wall with a dull thud when he slams you against it, hands firm against your waist to keep you close to him.

You wince, a brief fuck you escaping your lips breathlessly before you tug him in by the collar of his shirt, pressing your mouths together. He pulls away to mumble it back, quiet and slurred—fuck you, too.

It’s not sweet or gentle; but then again, nothing about you two ever is. Your fated juxtaposition as reporter and driver have always led you both to the same place of teasing and annoying each other with taunts and remarks that rile the both of you up. There’s always someone around, though, to make sure nothing escalates: Charles, Horner, sometimes Ted, your boss. 

None of them are here, and that’s precisely what allows for you both to be doing this. The kiss is so intense you’re positive it bruises, and Max’s grip on you only tightens, breaths mingling, becoming shorter as the moments pass. His fingers flex and loosen around your waist, and your hands tangle behind his neck, so you’re keeping him flush against you when you bite his lip hard.

He detaches the both of you from the wall—you’re not even sure if he locked the door—and throws you onto the bed. He does so with barely any effort and the realization sends a rush of arousal through you, makes you grow wetter under the skirt you wore today.

Max hovers above you, one knee on the bed but standing. He chews his lip and tastes a faint hint of blood. “I hate you,” you spit. You sit up a little, tugging on the hem of his shirt, your fingers dangerously close to where he needs them most.

He tugs his shirt off from the back and still your hands don’t stop lingering, fingers coiling into his belt loops. “You hate me?” He tests, and his voice is low and annoyed, the way it always is with you. You two have always been like this, cat and mouse, and neither of you ever gives in first. 

You untangle your hands from his belt loops and start unfastening his belt, your gaze lidded as you watch his composure dissolve fast. “Yeah,” you continue, your voice skittish and mocking. “You’re a fucking dickhead.” You pull his belt off and travel back to the bulge in his jeans, squeezing to watch him jerk with the sensation of it.

“Right, call me a dickhead,” he says, his hand coming to ghost over yours, guiding you along his hard-on. “And keep acting like you haven’t soaked through your panties.”

You blink and find yourself quiet, without a concrete rebuttal, mind cloudy from thinking of what you’re touching. You hear him laugh from the depths of where your mind has totally disassociated, focused only on his cock, his voice, his teasing. You glare at him, watch his tongue poke into his cheek as he cocks his head to the side, like he’s asking—this is it? I win?

Rolling your eyes, your grip on his bulge grows antsy, and you buck your hips up into the air. He removes his hand, and it lands on you, tugging at the hem of your skirt. He takes time to stare at your legs in them, the short material providing a wonderful image to him. “You’re such a dick,” you muster, trying desperately to ignore how close his hand is to the apex of your thighs. 

He’s hard against your fingers, thick and heavy, and you can’t help but wish you could pull it out, press it against your lips, make him cum all by yourself.

Roughly, as always, he hooks his fingers into the elastic of your skirt and yanks it off. You absently hear fabric ripping when he drops the tiny bundle of cloth on the floor beside him, his own focus zeroing onto your panties. You roll your eyes, raising your foot to kick at his hip. “Stop staring.”

Having snapped, he doesn’t miss a beat before tearing your underwear off—and this time, you’re not mistaken. You lift your ass so he can yank it off better, and let your head raise to watch Max gather spit in his mouth, letting it drop onto your pussy.

You whine. “What the fuck, Max?” The insult is half-hearted because you stutter halfway throughout, your hand removing itself from his hard-on to find leverage on the bedsheets. “Stop being so gross.”

“I’m gross?” He poses, his lisp heavy. His fingers spread his spit over your clit until you’re shivering, head drooping back down, grip on the blanket tightening. “You’re the one who came to me after the race. To ‘congratulate’ me. Like I didn’t know that was bullshit.”

He rubs faster, watches your thighs tremble.

“You’re the one in my bed, in my room, with my fingers in you,” he continues, and you’re not sure what has more of an effect on you—his words or his hand. “The one who wore such a short skirt on the paddock today, and insisted on interviewing me before the race.”

He sees right through you; he does, every time, without fail, sees your tactics and techniques to gain just a lick of his attention. He pushes a finger into you, and then another, watching them fuck in and out of you. “I wonder what your boss’d say if he knew my most outspoken critic is here fucking herself on my fingers.”

He’s rough with it, impatient, but also calculated, like he knows exactly how you feel. His fingers tug and curl in you, his thumb plays insistently with your clit, unrelenting. Everything he does is overwhelming, wrenching a cry out of you. His words, his teasing—they’ve got you so wet you’re gushing slick all over his fingers, causing an embarrassingly loud noise to vibrate through the room. “Should I tell Kravitz his favorite reporter’s slutting herself out to his least favorite driver?”

Max is bluffing and you know it, but still the way he phrases it has you clenching around him, hips canting to chase your orgasm. He slows down, prolongs the edge, because as per Max Verstappen law, he’s a fucking asshole all the time. “F—fuck you,” you stammer, mind lost. You can feel his dick growing at your hip, and you long to have it in your grip again. 

“Don’t worry, schat,” he says, feigning concern. “I won’t tell a soul. You’re gonna let me fuck this pretty cunt, anyway.” His fingers speed up, thick and glistening, and you try to mentally stave off your own climax—but you’re done for. You lie flat and cover your face with both your hands, trying your best to take it, his fingers plunging in and out of you quickly.

For someone who hates you, he reads your signals too well. He sees it in the furrow of your brows, the way your moans are higher and higher in pitch, your shaky legs. He feels it, too, the clench and grip of your sopping cunt—you look so cute like this, he thinks, so pretty.

“I’m gonna cum,” goads itself out of you in a whimper. “Max—fuck—I’m gonna cum.”

You can feel it, the tension knotting. You clench around his fingers, and your hand slams and wraps over his wrist in attempt to slow him down, but to no avail. His thumb speeds up over your clit, and yes, you’re here, just on the very, very brink of it—then he pulls his soaked fingers out.

You groan out loud, and it tapers into a whine. “Asshole!” You cry, pouting. You’re flushed everywhere. “I was so close, Max.”

“I know,” he says simply. He tugs his dick out with one hand, strokes over it with the one he just fucked you with. You grow warm at the sight of it, lifting your head slightly, transfixed. “Flip over. Wanna see your cunt.”

He’s abrasive with his words, uncaring, with no filter whatsoever. You stay put, crossing your arms. You’re acutely aware you don’t have the upper hand, but stand your ground. “I was going to cum, like, right then.”

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Max says, swatting your bare thigh. “Get on your knees, face down.”

You yelp at the slap, and then the one that comes next, pausing to decide your next actions. Begrudgingly, you refuse to make eye contact as you heave yourself off the bed, peeling your sweater off and flipping over fully, drawing your knees in. Having worn nothing underneath the thick top you wore, you’re totally exposed now, a realization that makes you shudder.

Faintly, you hear rustling behind you, and you assume maybe he’s shoving his jeans down. You have barely any time to call his attention before a big hand lands on your ass, and you whine out loud at the pain and surprise of it. You can hear him stroking over his dick, messy and fast, the way he always is.

“Spread your ass,” he grunts. You know better than to let him ask you twice, and while you normally would, to push his buttons, you’re in the interest of gaining an orgasm before the night ends.

Burning with embarrassment, you reach over, smushing your face into the bed and spreading yourself apart, showing him everything: your puffy, glistening cunt, a rivulet of slick dripping onto his bed. Behind you, Max strokes over his cock faster, grunting a cacophony of Dutch profanity. He can almost feel your pussy wrapped around him, and reaches over with his free hand to run fingers over your cunt, to feel it flutterin from his touch alone. His.

It plays back as a fond memory—the times you would test him on camera, ask him about dubious moments during a race with a tone sharper than any other reporter’s. The times you held a sort of confidence over him. He’ll admit, you were right most times—but now, here you are, spread out for him like a slut.

It’s funny, almost. He finishes jerking himself off and guides the tip of his cock to your waiting pussy, dragging it through the slick. He’s waited this long, and God knows he deserves this, this godly feeling of having you around him.

“Fuck you, asshole,” you mutter, because of course you always need to get the last word in.

He hums, letting his dick slide in between your folds. He feels you shudder, and it pleases him. “That’s what I plan to do,” he says, jerking his hips forward and finally sinking into you for the first time. It’s even better than he predicted, warm and tight, and still fluttering around him like a vice.

He grinds into you, deep strokes, and your grip is sliding with how good he hits you. He can feel your slick collecting around his dick, but he can hear it even better, a squelch that turns him on as much as it totally humiliates you. He’s not sweet, he never is. He’s raw, desperate, rough when he fucks into you, bruising you in and out, knocking the temptation to fire a taunt at him out of you in a single thrust.

“I—I hate you,” you moan out, and you should anticipate the spank that comes, but still it jolts a yelp out of you. “I fucking hate you.”

He retaliates by fucking you harder, which you were almost certain was impossible at this point, but he’s drunk on the feeling, on watching your ass bounce every time his hips meet you. He’s thick, and big, and it feels like he’s splitting you open, making you take it, without mercy. 

He yanks a fistful of your hair and pulls you up, flush against his back. Your hands slip from where they’d been spreading you open and you can’t find purchase fast enough with how hard he fucks you. The angle sends his dick even deeper into you, your eyes rolling back, chest flushed, drool escaping the corner of your lip. “Still hate me?” He asks into your ear, a hand coming to pinch at your clit. Your body curls it on itself but he doesn’t let it, holds you in place, makes you stand his endless teasing. 

You’re silent save for the panting and whimpering that escapes you, and Max slows his pace to a drag, so you can feel it better. It’s still not enough, you find, and you tilt your hips back to try and encourage him to go faster again. “Answer me.”

“I can’t,” you try, and you hopelessly realize your mind’s so muddled you don’t even remember the question he’s referring to. “I can’t, just fuck me.”

He laughs, because he’s Max, and he pounds hard, once, before slowing down again. “Beg for it.”

It’s an embarrassing proposition, and you pause, letting his statement sizzle into the thick, tense air. “I’m not begging for shit,” you say defensively.

“Hmm?” He stops moving and lets go of your hair—the sudden loss of grip has you tumbling forward, flopping onto the bed unceremoniously. You try to grind backwards, to feel his cock sink into you further, but he holds your hips still and you whine.

“Max,” you say, on the edge of desperation.

“I said beg,” he repeats, nonchalant. You shake your head, petulant, and he tugs you back up. Every time you change positions—pressed against him, then bent over for him—you’re hit with a new dizzy whiplash of having his dick pressed against a different spot, and you seize, feeling a throb of pleasure ripple through you.

He thrusts once, then stops, and you shake your head again. “P—” you try, pausing, the humiliation welling up in you, warmth spreading all over your body. “Please, Max.”

“Please what?” He thrusts again, and again this time, building a drawn-out pace. You grind back against him, and thank God he lets you. 

“Please—” you whimper, “Max, please, I need you to fuck me.”

It’s his greenlight, fucking you hard all over again, yanking even harder at your hair so he can take a good look at your fucked out face, eyes rolled over, tongue lolling out. Your lids flutter every time he hits that spot inside you, legs spasming. “This is what you wanted, hmm?” Fuck, his dick’s literally tearing you in half. “My dick in this cunt?”

His vulgar words go straight to your core, slick coating his cock again and again. Stupidly, you nod, slipping a hand between your legs to play with your clit. Absently, you hear him ordering you to open your mouth. Already slack-jawed, you lean back, open it a bit more.

He drops spit into your mouth, thrusts hard and tells you to swallow—you follow immediately, drunk on the feeling of his dick pounding you, splitting you in half. Any other time, you would call this gross, but you find yourself growing wetter. “Always calling me an asshole,” he sneers, “a dickhead, a cheeky motherfucker. Just anything. You’re so mean to me, schatz. But now…”

“It’s so good,” you moan, lost in the sensation. “Want it so bad.” Whatever shreds of dignity you have left are flying out the window. You’re barely coherent.

“Now you’re wrapped around me like a good slut.” He drops your hair and presses your cheek against the sheets, forcing a cry out of you. “Tell me—what’d you call me last week, after the race in Sao Paulo?”

You can’t forget. He pulled an asshole move there, and you weren’t afraid to air out your grievances. But here? Why would you need to clarify your muddled brain to tell him that? You shut your eyes. “I—I called you a,” you attempt, “a dirty driver.”

“Yeah, you did. You like taking cock in my bed then? After calling me dirty?” He tugs you up, and you follow, boneless almost, then he drops you down anyway. You’re dizzy with pleasure. “Answer me.”

“Y—yes,” you stutter. “So much.”

“I know you do,” he pants. “‘Cause you get dumb when you have a cock stuffed in you, huh?” His words are too much, all at once, building up inside you until you’re clenching around him, cumming totally untouched. He just laughs at how you look—absolutely wrecked, debauched, sweaty and still writhing around his dick. 

He thrusts, at a bruising pace that doesn’t let you recover from your orgasm. “There you go,” he digs mockingly, “cumming all over me.” He looks down at where your cunt, puffy and slick, is spread around his dick, and lets another glob of spit land on it. He rubs his thumb over it, then brings it higher, over your ass. “Maybe next time I’ll get to fuck this one, huh?”

“Max,” you beg, but he’s uncaring of how sensitive you are. 

He reaches over to rub your clit, his pace quickening until your moans are involuntary and being forced out of you at a staccato rhythm, thin ah ahs that has Max keeping himself from cumming. Jesus, you’re still wet, so perfect around him, the perfect little cocksleeve.

“You’ve been so good, schatz,” he heaves, “apologizing for being so mean, letting me use this cunt. ‘M gonna cum, and you’re gonna take that, too. Yeah?”

You nod, mindlessly, listening to him breathe hard, feeling him lean forward and press his forehead to your shoulder, shuddering, dick twitching—and then he’s unloading inside you. The sheer sensation of it is euphoric and jerks another climax out of you, both of you convulsing around each other.

Wordlessly, you unbend, to press your back against his chest like earlier, and you reach your arm behind you to hug his head close to yours. He thrusts again, and you can feel his cum dribbling out of you, warm and sticky. 

“Fuck you,” you pant, “this is so gross.”

But your grip doesn’t let up, and you let Max press a sloppy kiss to your neck, his facial hair ticklish against the thin skin. You both pause for a minute, breaths loud and brief. His lips linger against your skin, another kiss pressed into it, a way for him to channel the immense pleasure he feels.

“I always knew the mean Sky Sports reporter would be a good fuck,” he says into your neck. You elbow him, skin slippery, and let out a fuck you again. He’s silent, then.

“...Round two?”

[agentmarvel]

angry sex with gaz AWOOGA

ohhhhhh my god let's fuckin' GO!

nsfw under the cut - gender unspecified

MDNI - 18+ (MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED. PLS STOP TESTING ME, Y'ALL)

It is DIFFICULT to piss Gaz off. He's so chill about 90% of things when it comes to you. Forgot the dishes? No biggie, he'll dry if you wash. Dinner isn't quite ready? No sweat; hand him his apron, and he'll help cut veggies. Laundry is piling up? Don't worry, he'll throw a load in after his shower.

He does, however, have a possessive streak. The only time he really gets angry when it comes to you is when he takes you out for a nice evening and the local meatheads can't seem to take a fucking hint. You're not feeding into it, not egging anything on - hell, he isn't even sure if you're aware of it most of the time.

It starts with a hand on the back of your neck or an arm around your waist that sits a little lower than is decent, low, teasing murmurs, a hand inching beneath the hem of your shirt...

Then it morphs into kisses, far more than the usual sweet peck. Kyle makes direct eye contact with whoever is looking just a little too intently when he slips his tongue into your mouth.

You always know; he's shit at hiding it. But you'll play dumb because you know what happens the second you get home.

Speaking of, he's all too eager to get you outta there after he's had his fill of fun with it.

Hand on your thigh all the way home, grumbling about how the other guy is lucky Gaz didn't tear his throat out where he stood. He doesn't care what you wear when he takes you out - you look stunning in everything you wear, and he can fight if anyone has anything to say.

At home, all bets are off. You don't even get to lock the door behind you before he's crowding you up against the wall, leaving little love bites with a grunt of "mine" between each one.

Don't even make it to the bedroom. Living room floor is perfectly fine with him.

MATING PRESS. He wants to look at you the entire time he's rearranging your guts, appreciative of the fact that you chose him. Any person in the world, and you chose him.

Oh, he's definitely mouthy about it, too - "Just don't get it, do they? Maybe if I put a pretty rock on your finger, they'll take the fuckin' hint." - "Couldn't fuck you half as good, could they?" - "Fuckin' beauty, aren't ya?"

He'd outright admit that he wouldn't think twice about killing someone if they ever tried to touch you. There's no reason for it to sound as hot as it does, but everything sounds sexy coming from his mouth.

He's vicious with you. He leaves marks that your clothes can't quite cover, makes sure you'll be sore the next morning, has you nearly in tears with how hard he's fucking you (but it's so good, you're begging him not to stop).

It happens every time he takes you out, so who can fault you for putting in extra effort to make yourself look even hotter the next time?

[another-lost-mc]

Player Two LEVIATHAN x gn!Reader 1.7k words | NSFW | Yandere-ish | Developing Relationship Content Warnings: Manipulative and possessive thoughts/behaviour, some suggestive thoughts towards the end. obey me! masterlist

When you arrive in the Devildom and try to get to know him, Leviathan's immediately suspicious of you and even more skeptical of your bold declarations. He has a hard time believing you really like gaming. He assumes you’re just trying to sound like you do to get close to him, for some foolish reason.

He hates to admit how much more interesting you are when you manage to actually convince him that it's a genuine hobby of yours.

When Levi shows you his room, you're amazed and he feels a sense of pride, like his hobbies are validated by someone that understands him. He pretends not to stare at you while you slowly browse the shelves of games and collectibles in his room.

You notice he plays a Devildom MMO game, and you're instantly curious about it. Levi didn’t think you’d be into those types of games - they require a lot of time and effort.

He thinks that maybe, just maybe, you’re not such a boring normie human after all.

You ask him if you can watch him play the game, and you point out similarities and differences when you compare it to the human world MMO you played before.

When you're both called to dinner, it interrupts your conversation about Levi's guild. You tell him funny stories from your previous gaming guild, and he's finally convinced that your interest is legit.

Levi decides to do something nice to help you out - a test to see how serious you really are. He won't give you another chance if you blow this one.

He might happen to have a spare laptop you can use, and he offers to lend it to you. If the game is already installed and ready to play, Levi's just trying to be nice and do the boring installation stuff for you. And if Levi sends you a Recruit-A-Friend invitation to set up your own account, it's because he gets perks from it - he really doesn't care if you play or not.

Levi even goes as far as adding his payment info to your new account to pay the subscription fee. He doesn't have the patience to wait for you to borrow someone else's credit card. "You can pay me back later,” he tells you, even though he has no intention of ever asking for the money back.

You might know how to play an MMO, but he believes he's still got loads to show you about this one. His desk is a bit cramped, and it’s inconvenient dragging the laptop back and forth between your room and his.

He offers to lend you a spare headset - one that’s brand new and still in its packaging from today's Akuzon delivery - so you can use voice comms together, and he can stream his screen to yours while he talks to you directly. Isn't that convenient?

He's already set up a private voice comms server just for the two of you - don't tell his brothers about it though, okay? It's only for the two of you.

When Levi creates a new character to play with yours, he says it's easier than trying to show you things on his maxed-out character.

He chooses to level a tank class to protect your squishy glass cannon character, and he reminds you that he's doing you a favour and saving you from so many unnecessary deaths. If he happens to show off along the way, who could blame him? He's really good at this game, and if you try hard enough, maybe you can be too.

He raids the game's most difficult content with his guild at night. For some reason, he really wants you to watch him play. He doesn't want you to level your character without him, either. (He won't ask you not to, but he secretly hopes you don't.)

You mention that one of his guildmates, someone that doesn't raid, offered to play some low level dungeons with you while Levi's busy. For some reason that upsets him, but he doesn't know why.

Levi's half-focused on his raid while he occasionally checks your character status. He absolutely does not keep track of how long you're in the same dungeon as his guildmate. And he definitely isn't checking whether you're in a separate voice channel together.

By the time his raid is over, you've already sent him a message wishing him good luck and goodnight. He's a bit disappointed that you went to bed so early (even though its well past midnight).

He sees another message from before that, when you told him about a cute pet you found in the game (it's a reward anyone can get from doing a simple quest, it shouldn't be that exciting). You mention offhand that you like collecting pets and you might try to find some more tomorrow.

Levi acts like it's not a big deal when you log in and discover he's sent your character dozens of new pets for your collection. He shrugs and claims he had duplicates that he had no use for. (They weren't, he bought them all specially for you, but he won't admit it.)

By the time you hit max level with your character, Levi's bought you expensive crafted gear and he's planning on getting you the other items you need so you can try raiding with him his guild.

Sometimes he thinks of your character as his own virtual Henry - and spending so much time together means he starts to think about you as his Henry outside the game, too.

What Levi doesn't realize is how genuinely happy you are that he's given you a chance. He was so defensive and secretive about his hobbies, and you hoped having a shared common interest would make it easier for you to make friends in this strange place.

You wanted to prove that unlike his brothers, you understand why gaming and anime gives him so much joy. You don't think it's a waste of time or money, and you can appreciate the hard work he puts into those hobbies even if no one else does.

And you knew he was skeptical of you at first, but things are so much different now. He's not calling you a stupid wannabe human otaku anymore, and he encourages you and helps you like a friend would.

You used to ask Levi if he wanted to play with you - but now, he's asking if you want to play with him, and you know that means he likes you, in his own way.

Sure, it might be weird playing a game with someone in different rooms of the same house, using voice comms to talk to each to each other because it's easier than typing everything. It's definitely easier than having to drag your laptop around, and that's what he tells his brothers when they comment about how weird it is living with two nerds instead of one.

One thing you notice about Levi is that he's more confident behind his screen. He doesn't stutter or get shy the way he does if you try to talk to him in person, but you're socially awkward sometimes too so it doesn't bother you.

The truth is, he notices that you're more talkative over voice comms with him too. You're not afraid to ask him silly noob questions anymore, and he doesn't call you a noob now even if you do.

Levi realizes that there's something very intimate about having your voice in his ear when you're on comms together. It makes him feel things because this is something you only do with him and not with his brothers.

You're friendly with his brothers, sure - but you never sound this happy except when you're spending time with Levi. It's not even limited to gaming anymore - you get excited talking about the new anime series he invites you to watch with him, or the manga you ask to borrow.

When you mention you like to read, he lends you his copies of the TSL novels. If there's other books or movies you want, he buys them for you so you don't have to ask his brothers for anything.

He thinks that he's the only one to see your true, authentic self. He likes you now, and he doesn't want to share.

The first night you join him for a guild raid, Levi notices that you're not nearly as talkative with the larger group of players present. When you do speak, you're so quiet. He hasn't heard you sound this small since you first arrived in the Devildom.

When you're alone again after the guild raid ends, you thank him for inviting you and tell him how much fun it was. You sound more like yourself again, and even though Levi didn't expect you to be so shy around his friends - well, part of him likes keeping this version of you for himself.

He can't help feeling just a bit selfish. He likes the way you laugh openly at his jokes or the way you tease him (or yourself). When you're gaming together, you gasp loudly if something surprises you, or you groan if you do something silly that gets one of you (or both of you) killed. Normally those types of things would annoy him, but with you, it's fun.

Your relationship with Levi changes, and grows, and maybe you underestimate how much of an impact you've had on him. You don't mention when things between you start to shift towards something more than friends, and neither does he.

His brothers know there's something going on between you. You blow off their invitations if it interferes with plans you already have with Levi. They start to make subtle hints and jokes about Levi and you and dating, and Levi scoffs loudly and slams the door when he stalks off to his room.

You're not dating him, you're just friends. Sometimes he thinks about you in ways that aren't strictly platonic, but his denial still runs deep.

So what if Levi starts recording your conversations so he can listen to your voice when he has trouble sleeping? He doesn't feel bad because it's not hurting anyone.

When you play together late at night, your voice is softer, quieter and breathier. Maybe you're just trying to be considerate of everyone in the house trying to sleep, but the reason doesn't matter. It's like you're whispering in his ear and it sends his mind spiraling.

When he gets hard listening to the sound of your voice telling him how amazing he is, or how lucky you are that you met him, it doesn't mean anything.

It's a harmless little secret. You're his friend, his Henry.

You might not realize it, and he might not admit it, but you've lured him in - and he won't let you go.

[riality-check]

come get part 4 of platonic hellcheer coparenting! part 1, part 2, and part 3

Chrissy is trying very hard not to be scared out of her mind. For all her effort, she’s failing miserably.

Three separate tests sit on the counter. Three separate tests from three separate brands. The odds of all of them are astronomically low, and she should know. That Google search is the most recent tab on her phone.

(For a moment, when she was typing, she stopped herself, reminded herself that her mom tracks her search history. Then, she shook herself out of it, remembered that she’s twenty years old and hasn’t lived with her mother for a second since she turned eighteen. Then, she kept on typing.)

But oh, God. She’s twenty years old, and there’s three positive tests sitting in front of her.

She’s twenty years old. She can’t even legally get a drink - she’s got a good fake though, and that bartender never looks too hard anyway - but she’s supposed to have a baby? A baby?

She can barely take care of herself. She’s working a terrible minimum wage job, taking phone calls at a truly mediocre pizzeria, but that’s not enough to support her and a kid. Never mind the fact that there’s no place for a baby here, not with a roommate, and she can’t afford this place without her roommate-

Someone knocks on the door, shaking her out of her thoughts.

“Coming!” she calls, and she gets up off the bathroom floor, wipes her tears, and answers the door.

It’s Eddie. True to his word, it’s only been ten minutes since she hung up on him, and it looks like he spent every minute of it sprinting over. She’s pretty sure his shirt is on backwards, and both his shoes are untied, and his hair is thrown up into a bun that honestly just looks like one big knot.

They’re both such messes. How the hell are they supposed to have a ba-

“You okay?” he asks.

Not hi or can I come in or screw you, you’re on your own.

You okay? he had said.

Chrissy can’t help it, she starts crying again right there.

“Woah, okay, yeah,” Eddie says, coming in and immediately hugging her. “Yeah, stupid question. Sorry.”

She hugs him back, clinging onto him because, honestly? She doesn’t have much else. Jason sucks. She’s not going back to him, ever. And her parents-

Oh, God. Her parents. They would want to know, even if she hasn’t spoken to them in years, and-

“Not stupid,” Chrissy says between sobs, just to get her mind off that particular track. “Not a dumb question.”

“I think I should have been able to tell that you aren’t okay,” Eddie says gently, leading the two of them to the couch.

“No,” Chrissy says, pulling back. She wipes off her tears, puts on an intentionally fragile smile, and says, with her nose almost completely clogged up, “I think it’s a perfectly reasonable question.”

That makes Eddie laugh, which makes her laugh, and it feels a little bit better.

They sit down together, and Chrissy watches as Eddie keeps himself quiet by toying with one of the many rings on his hands. It’s the one on his right ring finger, the one he keeps playing with, the one with a big stone in the middle. It doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of them.

Chrissy wonders where he got it from.

Neither one of them says anything, until Chrissy surprises herself by breaking the silence.

“So,” she says, and that’s all she’s got.

“So?”

“So, what do you think?”

“What do I think?” Eddie asks, tilting his head to the side in confusion. “What do I think? This isn’t up to me, Chrissy. You say how this goes. I’m just along for the ride.”

Oh.

“So, if you don’t want to do this, that’s fine. If you want to, I’ll do it with you. If you want to but want me to get lost, I’ll do that-”

“Why would I want you to get lost?” she asks, interrupting what’s clearly become a nervous ramble.

Eddie stares at her. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“What?”

“Chrissy, I’m a twenty-two year old high school dropout who tried to start a band with his friends and got scammed by a shitty record company. I live with my uncle in a trailer park, I’m studying for the GED, which is way harder than it has any right to be, and I’m never going to be able to love you the way that you deserve.”

Eddie spreads his hands out in a ta-da! motion, and while he’s smiling, Chrissy can see how it’s strained at the corners of his mouth.

“You done yet?” she asks. 

“What do you-”

“Eddie, I’m a twenty year old who hasn’t spoken a word to her parents since the second I turned eighteen. I’m working the world’s worst minimum wage job to try to pay for community college, I used a fake ID at that bar where we met again, and I spent way too much of my life in an unfulfilling relationship because I couldn’t see another option for myself. And, newsflash, I also can’t love you that way.”

“At least you’re in college,” Eddie points out.

“You’re getting your GED,” Chrissy counters. “So you’re no slouch, either.”

“Looks like we’re both wrecks.”

Chrissy laughs, and it quickly turns into a cough, reminding her that, oh, yeah she’s spent a lot of the last half hour just crying. Eddie lets her cough it out, then grabs one of her hands. He toys with it like how he was toying with his ring earlier.

“I think,” Chrissy says slowly, “that if we’re both wrecks, then we should be wrecks together.”

Eddie’s fingers freeze where they’re wrapped around her own. “Are you serious?”

Chrissy thinks for a while. Thinks about the fact that while this is still scary, it’s been significantly less scary since Eddie got here. Thinks about the fact that he’s just as scared as she is. Thinks about the fact that, even though she is scared, this kid will at least grow up with way more love than she ever had.

She already knows she’ll never track internet search histories and calories. Ever.

And, while she doesn’t know Eddie all that well, she thinks that there’s some stuff he’d never do, too.

“I think misery loves company,” Chrissy says.

“I don’t think we’ll be miserable. Not if it’s the two of us.”

“Just the two of us?” Chrissy asks instead of pointing out how Eddie is probably right in a way that makes her heart hurt.

That night, after they’d gotten it over with, was good. Because Eddie is sweet and makes things easy in a way that Chrissy loves.

She thinks it’ll be hard, but she can’t imagine being well and truly miserable with him. But maybe that’s just young adult optimism, since it definitely isn’t the blindness of young love.

“No, of course not,” Eddie says. “My uncle is a fucking saint, he’s gonna try to help out in every way possible, whether we want him to or not. And the guys are all back, and while we’re taking a bit of a break - living and working together for a few years means we just need some space - they’ll help out.”

“I don’t have anyone,” Chrissy says. “Like, at all. I don’t talk to my parents, and I’m never talking to Jason again.”

“Okay. What’s mine is yours, then,” Eddie says, like it’s no big deal. No big deal at all that she can’t have anyone help out the way that Eddie’s friends and family are.

“I’m sorry,” she says. For not doing enough, for not being enough, for choosing the hardest option, even though she does think it’s the right one.

“You’re sorry? You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Eddie says. “If anything, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Derailing your life. Since we’re doing this, right?”

“Yeah,” Chrissy says, and she surprises herself by not hesitating, not even for a second. “Yeah, we’re doing it.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, letting out a long sigh.

“And you didn’t derail my life. I think I derailed yours, but-”

“What kind of life do I have?” Eddie asks. Chrissy wishes she could wipe that self-deprecating smile off his face. It makes him look too sad. 

Sad and Eddie shouldn’t belong in the same sentence, she thinks.

“Let’s not say derailed,” Chrissy says. “Let’s say… switched tracks. We were running on different ones, and now we’re on the same one.”

“When trains do that, they crash,” Eddie points out.

“We’re better than that,” Chrissy says. 

Eddie snorts, but he doesn’t have anything to say to that. 

“So, new track?”

She puts her hand out to shake, but Eddie doesn’t grab it. He just wraps his arms around her shoulders, pulling her in for a tight hug.

“New track,” he says, and both of them ignore how he sounds a little choked up.

part 5 exists and so does part 6!

[kywaslost]

I’m Proud of You - Aizawa

A/N: I love this idea <3 I hope it turned out alright. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that, but I’m so happy things are better for you now. I’m proud of you <333 I’m sorry this feels rushed, I’m trying to write while I still have the energy to do so. It’s been a very rough past few weeks for me.

You were at the top of your class. You turned in every assignment on time, aced all of your exams, and took time outside of school to tutor your classmates. Aizawa saw how hard you were working, so it shocked him when he saw how your grades began to drop all of a sudden.

Your behavior in class was different, too. Your uniform wasn’t as neat as it usually was, and you weren’t putting as much effort into your appearance as you used to. It was common this time of year, when students began to sleep more than put effort into their appearance. But then you began turning in your assignments days later then they were due. Your test grades were decreasing, and sometimes your tests weren’t even completed. Aizawa was growing worried, and when your grades were considered failing he was sent to your home to speak with you and your parents.

It was a Friday night, and Aizawa was hoping your family would be home. He was dressed professionally in a black suit, hair tied back out of his eyes as he drove to your home. Upon arriving, he took a deep breath and knocked on your front door. He could hear loud voices coming from behind the door, and footsteps rushing towards it.

“(brother’s name), go get your sister, dinner is almost ready,” he could hear your voice faintly. “I’ll be there in a moment.” Then the door cracked open.

You looked like a mess, in Aizawa’s opinion. Your hair was messily tied back and you were changed out of your school uniform. Except the clothes you were wearing looked as disheveled as your hair. To be honest, you looked like you had just had the fight of your life.

Your e/c eyes widened in shock at the sight of your homeroom teacher. “Mr. Aizawa, hi,” you hesitated. “How can I help you?”

A loud shout erupted from deeper in the house and you flinched, averting your gaze from the man in front of you. Aizawa’s eyebrows rose with curiosity. “Hello, Y/N. I was hoping to speak to you and your parents?”

You looked timid as you glanced over your shoulder. “Now isn’t a good-”

“Y/N!” a small voice yelled as a child ran up to you, tugging on the back of your shirt. “Something’s burning!”

You let out a worried sigh, quickly glancing at your teacher as you turned, picked up your younger brother, and quickly walked into the house. “Sorry, eraser, come in. Just give me a moment.”

Aizawa followed you into the kitchen, watching as you quickly turned off the stove and oven, quickly throwing on an oven mitt and pulling a tray of garlic bread out of the oven. You set the tray down, then your brother. You quickly pulled out two bowls, filling them with spaghetti and bread, then handed them to your brother. “You and (sister’s name) can eat in your rooms. Be quiet, ok? We have company.” Your brother nodded with a wide smile as he ran back deeper into the house.

You huffed, leaning against the kitchen counter and hung your head low. “I’m sorry, Mr. Aizawa. We weren’t expecting anyone.”

Aizawa scanned the area around him. Children’s toys littered the floor, and he recognized your textbooks resting beside the toys. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, and he could still hear bickering from down the hall. “I tried calling your parents but no one answered.”

You glanced up at him. “Yeah, they aren’t known to answer their phones when it comes to school stuff.” You took a moment to collect your thoughts. “Why are you here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’ve come to talk about your grades,” Aizawa started, but was interrupted by a crash coming from deeper in the house. Your father came storming down the hall, screaming at the top of his lungs as he grabbed his keys and stormed out the door, not sparing you or your teacher a single glance.

Your eyes brimmed with tears of shame. “I’m so sorry, eraser. I’m trying, I promise.”

Aizawa stepped closer, resting a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I can tell, Y/N. Mid telling me what’s going on?”

You sniffed, wiped at your eyes. “My parents fight a lot, leaving me to take care of things around the house and making sure my siblings get their homework done. I didn’t want to say anything…”

“Can you elaborate?” Aizawa gently guided you to sit at a bar stool beside him. “I’d like to know how to help you.”

You shook your head. “I can handle it on my own. It’s not that hard, I promise.” You smiled slightly as you looked over to your siblings’ school work sitting on the kitchen table. “I help them with their homework as soon as I get home, and then they play while I pick them up around the house.” Then you glanced at the kitchen. “Then I make dinner. Once that’s over I help them get in and out of the shower and settle them into bed.”

“And your parents don’t help?” Aizawa’s eyes softened slightly. “At all?”

You shrugged, looking away. “Not really. I mean, they used to, but now they’ve been fighting a lot, so I’ve been taking care of the kids.” You took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about my grades. I’m really trying, Mr. Aizawa. I just can’t get to my schoolwork until late, once I’ve made sure the kids are asleep and mom and dad or alright. But most of the time I fall asleep, and then I wake up late.”

This was a lot to process for the hero beside you. He was trying to think of ways to help you. He could see clearer now, how hard you were working to not only take care of yourself, but also your younger brother and sister. “I’m going to try my hardest to help you,” he promised after a moment of silence. “I can extend your due dates, and never hesitate to ask for help before exams.” He ruffled your hair softly. “But you’re safe here?”

You nodded, glossy eyes meeting Aizawa’s soft black gaze. “Yeah, we are. We’re safe here.”

Aizawa nodded back, retreating his hand from your hair. “I’m going to speak to your other teachers. They need to know about this.” Eraser pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket, as well as a pen, and scribbled on the paper. He slid it over to you. “Here’s my number, in case you no longer feel safe here, or if you just need help taking care of your siblings.”

He stood to leave, and left you with one last thing to think about. “You’re going to make an excellent hero some day, Y/N. Take this as extra training for dealing with children while on the job.”

[danplansfwtickle-blog0]

Title: tickled blue

Description: hosuh finds jays weakness and uses it against him.

(Gentle) ler: hosuh

(Shy) Lee: jay

——————————————————

“Quick jay! Distract hosuh while I get Dan!” Stephen yelled, pointing to the silver haired boy that stood in fright, looking at jay who stared him down.

Daniel yelped as Stephen took chase, separating him from hosuh into another room, while Jay, had hosuh all to him self.

“Well hosuh, now that you can’t protect Dan like you always do, what are you gonna do now?” Jay asked smugly, repeatedly batting that back of the knife in the palm of the opposite hand of his.

Daniel and the rest of the group had decided to play a game of how well hosuh can go without Daniel’s help in a serious situation, but instead of Stephen chasing hosuh, it was Jay, since Stephen could always keep Dan distracted and held back. It was also a test to see how hosuh would do and what he would use to defend himself.

“Uhmm, *gulp* run?” Hosuh nervously replied, before making a B line for the front door, but jay was faster and had sped in front of him and blocked hosuh’s only exit.

“Wanna dance scaredy cat?” Jay mocked, before grazing the edge of the prop knife with a pointer finger.

Hosuh turned the other way and ran down the long hallway, jay slowly getting closer behind him, it was obvious that Jay clearly didn’t like hurting Hosuh, but still wanted him to learn self defense, he was his friend after all, a very caring one at that.

Hosuh then turned a corner and felt a hand grip the back of his collar. Hosuh yelped and turned around, only to be faced by Jay who was clearly putting in effort to be intimating, his eyes shone his multicolored irises, sharp and predatory like a cat.

Hosuh shuttered and shoved him out of the way before running into the bedroom and shutting the door behind him, but failed to realize there was no lock on it. Hosuh found out that the beds where too low to hide under and the closet would be too obvious, he trapped himself by mistake.

Oh no.

Suddenly the door swung open and closed, jay blocking the door. Hosuh turned and held out his hands as if trying to calm down an angry animal.

“You trapped yourself hosuh, what a foolish move~ you really gotta think more clearly next time” Jay slowly approached hosuh, building tension to the act.

Hosuh backed up until a wall made contact which made him jump. Before Hosuh knew it jay had him in a corner, Jay looking down on him similar fashion how Stephen would trap him.

“Please don’t do this, let’s try another way to do this” Hosuh said with fear dragging in his tone.

“Oh no hosuh… we don’t need another way to do this, this is the only way, and believe me I wish there was” jays voice was menacing and dark. “But Im afraid your life has to end here”

Hosuh panicked, he knew shoving him would only stun him and not give him enough time, so what can he use?

Jay raised the prop knife, ready to bring it down hard on hosuh, but hosuh in a deep state of panic, place his hands on jays sides and tried shoving again, but only ended up in accidentally gripping sides too tightly, which caused Jay to recoil and yelp, protecting his sides.

“What?! Sorry did I hurt you?” Hosuh asked in a panic, thinking he might of did his training a bit too seriously.

Hosuh was gonna ask again, but noticed that his body language did not give the intention that he was in pain, but jay was covering his mouth, his face reddening.

“Jay?” Hosuh was now puzzled. “Jay are you okay?”

Jay nodded slightly. “Y-yeah, just…”

Jays train of thought paused, refraining from looking at hosuh. Hosuh tried to look at him but he refused to make eye contact back.

Hosuh was even more puzzled, then attempted to place a hand back onto jays side but Jay swatted his hands away.

Hosuh was slowly putting two and two together.

Then it hit him but jay was getting back into character as if nothing had ever happened. Pinning Hosuh back against the wall.

“Alright, enough stalling, let’s get this death over with here and now- AHAHACK!” Jay was cut off by a hand touching his side, making his drop the fake knife and stepping back.

Jay was finally able to make eye contact with hosuh and this time he looked more like the victim.

Hosuh looked at Jay and then his hand, then gave a compassionate smile, giggling.

“Heh heh, someone has lost their touch” Hosuh joked, walking up to Jay making him back into the bed, on all fours crawling backwards before hitting the wall.

“Hosuh don’t!” Jay said, trying to stay strong, but his pink face gave him away.

“Why? Is there something wrong with your side?” Hosuh teased lightly.

Jay thought for a moment started to agree. “Y-yes! I h-have uhhh… a disease that is very contagious” he lied.

Jay covered his face with his fists, hoping Hosuh wouldn’t do anything for the love of god. His face became redder when he felt and heard hosuh talk and touch his side at the same time.

“Riiight hereee? This side?” Hosuh asked, a smile still lingering on his face.

“y-yes! hahahaha! Stohohohp! IHIHITS SENSITIHIHIVE!” Jay cackled, feeling five fingers brush against his side just barely.

He really is sensitive.

Hosuh smirked sheepishly, but playfully. Deciding that he would play with him a bit.

“Hmmm, you said diseases huh? Well I think I know just the cure!” Hosuh cheered, noticing jays face go extremely apprehensive.

“Then maybe this other side must need to attention too, don’t want it be left out~” Hosuh said, using two pointer fingers to rapidly but gently jab at his side making jay giggle and jump like crazy.

“N-no! PLEHEHEHEASE! NOT THERE EHEHEHEITHER!” Jay begged.

*he kinda acts like a dog..* hosuh thought to himself, invisioning a blond dog wagging its tail to the sensation of tickling. *aww*

“Oh, not there?”

“Nohoho!”

“Wait! I just noticed something!” Hosuh alarmed, stopping his small attack.

Jay still covering his face, peaked through his fingers to see hosuh frozen for a second before he spoke.

“Hold still..” Hosuh said, jay wasn’t sure why he listened but part of him said that Hosuh was just messing with him. And then he felt it. A hand sliding up against his bare skin under his hoodie, let alone his shirt.

“Hohohohosuh! Wait! No!” Jay cackled. “CUHUHUT IT OHHAHAHAHAOUT!”

“Awwwww does someone have a ticklish side? Why are you giggling?” Hosuh teased, watching jays face go red from the teasing.

Jay tried covering his face but it didn’t seem to matter anymore, he just used a pillow instead, half-hazardly covering his blushing face.

“What? Does it tickle? Does it tickle when I wiggle my fingeeerrs alllll ovverrr yourrr siiides~” hosuh now using both hands to attack both sides.

“NOHOHO NOT BOTH HAHAHANDS!” Jay cackled again.

Hosuh grabbed the pillow from Jay and tossed it to the side.

“Come on I wanna see that innocent face that you have been hiding” Hosuh said, continuing his poking torture at jays sides.

Yep the dark stare jay had once claimed was a now shy and timid face trying it hide it self from the world with a pair a of hands.

“Come on, I wanna see the hole face” Hosuh urged playfully, using each poke to line up to each he spoke out next, leading up to his belly. “Come on. Come on. Come on. Commmeee oonnn~”

Jay was refusing to show but hosuh knew the exact way to get him to open up.

Hosuh stopped his torment and looked down at jays stomach and lifted his hoodie/shirt. Jay instantly looked down and froze in terror. Without warning Hosuh place both hands on his stomach but held them there.

“When I count to three, you better have that face unveiled…” hosuh warned, but jay was now stuck in a mental game of tug of war with himself and hosuh. “1…” Jay squeaked feeling hosuh’s fingers flex slightly. “2…” Jay started to squirm, hosuh had started to wiggle fingers ever so lightly but naturally. “Aaaaannndd…don’t make me reach that belly button…” Jay pulled his legs up and was about to kick Hosuh off, but hosuh was faster this time.

“Not so fast you adorable rascal of a friend!” Hosuh called, getting back into position.

Hosuh then called out “3!”

And then jay was met with hosuh scribbling his fingers across jays belly.

“AHAHAHAHA STOHOHOHOP IM GOHOHOHONNA DIE! Hahaha!!” Jay tried curling into a ball, but hosuh eventually had to use a bent knee to hold his legs down, then eyes jays belly navel.

“N-no! Hosuh please! I beg of you!” Jay pleaded with a few giggled escaping him.

Hosuh went to reach for it but jay grabbed his arm, to which. Held that hand and the other and held them just high enough above the both of them before Hosuh started to tease effortlessly at jays belly and his center.

If jays wasn’t howling with laughter before, then he was now. “HOSUHUHAHAHA!” Jay threw his head back, spilling out what ever laughter was held back from before.

“Aww your shy~ the sociopath is not only ticklish but is shy, how ironic haha” Hosuh continued his feet when jay spoke again.

“N-NO TEHEHEHEASING!” Jay howled.

Hosuh smiled brightly, a smile that had an evil trap behind them.

Hosuh let go of his hands and started to reach under his clothes again and went for his ribs, jay tensing up.

“Wow your just one big ticklish spot, let me ask you something though, does this sociopath have any cracked ribs I need to check?” Hosuh teased like he always did but raised his voice to sound more playful, tracing each rib on jays body, making him shift.

Hosuh fake gasped. “Huh? You have broken ribs? Well we need to get those fixed!” Hosuh started to tap each and every one of them. Top to bottom. “I need to check how many are broken first though, hold still”

“Stohohop! IT TICKLES!!” Jay clenched his arms down but failed to move hosuh’s hands away.

“Awww does Jay have ticklish ribs? No wonder he’s been all giggly..” Hosuh stopped for a moment, the. Said.

“I have one more question for you jay, then I’ll stop” Hosuh promised.

Jay tensed again, waiting for his fate one last time…hopefully…

“What is a tickle monsters favorite fruit?” Hosuh asked, seeing jays eyes go wide, knowing the answer, he looked away and not even answering.

“It’s…” Hosuh put both hands down on jays stomach, to which Jay tried pushing him off but obviously failed again. “RASBERRIES!!”

Hosuh took in a deep breath and blew into jays belly button, sending a wave of intense ticklish energy into his system, causing him to squirm like a kid, a huge wave of laughter over took him and Jay was crying laughing, squeaking, wheezing and giggling intensely.

He couldn’t breathe.

Hosuh stopped after a second blow and let jay breathe for a good minute.

“You doing alright Jay?” Hosuh asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Y-yeah, just a little…winded…” Jay said with a breathy but tired giggle.

“Well that’s good” Hosuh sat up at the edge of the bed and jay sat up and came up behind and hugged Hosuh.

“Hosuh?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know that you would look just as cute if this were to happen to you?” Jay joked, feeling a painful jab in his side.

“Jay!” Hosuh screamed, blushing, getting up from the bed and turning around.

Jay out his hands up, knowing he had just set himself up for some more torture. Which he will regret later….probably…

End.

——————————————————

Author: hey so I wanted to try and take a jab at what I think would happen if hosuh was a ler against jay, and I love every moment of what I put into this, you guys better like it too lol 😂 got mild inspiration from @ghostlee and the story they wrote, that they traded with a story of mine! Ok it was some inspiration not just “mild” inspiration now that i think about it.

Have a good day/night/noon everyone! I know this is long but I enjoyed it too much to stop 😅