GGG

XOXO

[biggianteggplant]

MASTERLIST

JUJUTSU KAISEN

Series

coming soon...

Smut

coming soon...

Angst

Nanami Kento

The Frosting Of My Heart

Imagines

JJK Men x Bratty! Reader - Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, Hiromi Higuruma, Toji Fushiguro, Shiu Kong, Ryomen Sukuna

Crate Of Shame - Gojo, Satoru, Nanami Kento, Hiromi Higuruma, Geto Suguru, Toji Fushiguro, Shiu Kong, Ryomen Sukuna

Sleepwalking - Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, Hiromi Higuruma, Toji Fushiguro, Shiu Kong, Ryomen Sukuna

Baby Fever

HAIKYUU

Series

coming soon...

Smut

Kenma Kozume

Fever Sex!

Goshiki Tsutomu

Keep Your Act Up

Yaku Morisuke

Riding him in the storage closet

Angst

Sugawara Koushi

She Called Herself Don Quijote

Kuroo Tetsuro

She Smiled Too Sweet

Sakusa Kiyoomi

Clean Enough?

Miya Atsumu

The Other Woman

Multi

Things They Didn't Mean

Oneshots

One chip challenge w ray and kai - Nekoma, Inarizaki, Karasuno,

Manager by Day, Menace by Night - Nekoma, Shiratorizawa, Karasuno, Inarizaki

Flashing them during an argument - Akaashi, Iwaizumi, Tsukishima, Suna, Kita, Kenma, Hinata, Ushijima, Bokuto, Sugawara

Watching Over their pets while they run errands - Hinata, Asahi, Sugawara, Yamaguchi, Kita, Atsumu, Osamu, Suna, Aran, Ushijima, Tendo, Akaashi, Bokuto, Iwaizumi, Oikawa, Kyotani, Sakusa, Kuroo, Aone

When They're Drunk - Kuroo, Bokuto, Kenma, Akaashi

Pt.2 - Oikawa, Sakusa, Yamamoto, Osamu, Kita

When You're Both drunk - Atsumu, Tanaka, Goshiki, Kyotani

Pt.2 - Oikawa, Suna, Kenma

When You're Drunk - Kita, Ushijima, Sakusa, Tsukishima

Pt.2 - Shirabu, Kyotani, Goshiki

What the fuck is a license, just trust me bro. - Sugawara, Kuroo, Kyotani, Bokuto, Kita, Asahi

Chocolate Covered Almonds - Kuroo, Ushijima, Akaashi, Kita, Kyotani

7 Minutes in Heaven - Ushijima, Goshiki, Shirabu, Kuroo, Kenma, Yaku, Kageyama, Tanaka, Bokuto

HAIKYUU MEN FINDING OUT YOU HAD AN EX- GIRLFRIEND - Kyotani, Kuroo, Tsukishima, Suna, Atsumu, Akaashi, Ushijima, Kageyma, Tanaka, Oikawa, Asahi, Yaku, Tendo, Osamu

BACK OFF, SHE BENCHES TRAUMA. - Bokuto, Atsumu, Kuroo, Tsukishima, Iwaizumi, Osamu, Kyotani, Kita

Nail Biter - Akaashi, Kita, Kyotani, Kuroo, Sugawara, Tsukishima, Shirabu, Goshiki, Ushijima, Tendo, Kenma

Period Comfort - Hinata, Kita, Akaashi, Goshiki, Ushijima, Kageyama, Kuroo, Bokuto, Daichi, Iwaizumi, Kyotani, Shirabu, Sakusa

Sleepwalking - Akaashi, Bokuto, Kuroo, Kenma, Kyotani, Oikawa, Iwaizumi, Kageyama, Sugawara, Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, Hinata, Goshiki, Ushijima, Shirabu, Osamu, Kita, Atsumu, Suna, Sakusa

Getting Attacked By Farm Animals - Kita, Sugawara, Akaashi, Iwaizumi, Kyotani, Ushijima, Atsumu, Kuroo, Tsukishima, Asahi, Tanaka, Oikawa

Bouncing On Them - Kuroo, Kenma, Bokuto, Akaashi, Goshiki, Ushijima, Shirabu, Hinata, Tsukishima, Kita, Osamu, Atsumu, Kyotani, Iwaizumi, Sakusa

Cooking Disaster - Oikawa, Iwaizumi, Kuroo, Akaashi, Kita, Osamu

Pheromone Madness - Oikawa, Iwaizumi, Kyotani, Kenma, Kuroo, Akaashi, Bokuto, Ushijima, Shirabu, Goshiki, Kita, Suna, Atsumu, Osamu, Sakusa

Faked It So Good I Deserve an Oscar - Akaashi, kuroo, kenma, Bokuto

Panties? Never heard of her. - Tsukishima, Kageyama, Sugawara, Kuroo, Kenma, Akaashi, Bokuto, Ushijima, Goshiki, Shirabu, Iwaizumi, Kyotani, Kita, Osamu, Atsumu, Sakusa

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

"Thou Shalt Not Smash (Until Married)"

Wrong Zip Code

TSUKISHIMA KEI

Jurassic Simp

AKAASHI KEIJI

Bag Down, Keiji On Duty

Bratty! Reader

TANAKA RYUNOSUKE

Gonzo the rat

KUROKO NO BASKET

coming soon...

MHA

Oneshots

Chocolate Covered Almonds - Bakugo, Todoroki, Izuku, Kirishima, Denki, Sero, Shinsou, Monoma

Jiggle Jump Scare

Smuts

Tamaki Amajiki

1 Word, Fingering

Angst

Hawks

Wings and weakness

[biggianteggplant]

NINTENDHOE

KENMA KOZUME X READER

Kenma had been glued to the screen for hours. You were right there beside him on the floor, both leaning against the couch, the glow of the TV reflecting off his focused eyes. The clicking of buttons and in-game sounds had blended into background noise, and honestly… you were getting bored.

Your eyes felt heavy, almost teary from staring at the same scene for so long. With a slow grin, you decided to entertain yourself.

You slithered your hands onto his waist, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his hoodie. Kenma flinched almost imperceptibly, his focus still locked on the screen.

Without warning, you leaned in and bit his shoulder — not too hard, just enough to make him jerk slightly. “Ow—” His voice was quiet, a tiny noise that would’ve been lost if you weren’t paying attention.

You bit back a laugh. So he’s gonna pretend that didn’t happen? Fine. You could play this game too.

For the next few minutes, you would randomly rest your chin on his shoulder, poke his ribs, brush your knee against his thigh, just to see if he’d crack. He made small noises — soft sighs, tiny hums — but never took his eyes off the game.

Until you leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his. “I think I’m starting to understand your strategy,” you murmured.

“Mm?” His voice was distracted, low.

“You distract them… then finish them off fast,” you whispered, letting the words roll slow and deliberate. “Guess you’re good with your hands after all.”

Kenma’s thumbs froze for half a second — long enough for his character to take a hit. “W-what…” he mumbled, eyes darting for just a moment before flicking back to the screen. The tips of his ears were faintly pink.

You smiled like a cat who’d found its favorite toy.

Thirty minutes later, you decided to strike again. Your voice was casual, as if you were just making conversation. 

“Y’know… I’ve always wondered why some girls don’t get infected when their boyfriends spit on their pussies when fucking..”

Kenma choked on air. Literally coughed. “H-huh—”

You tilted your head innocently, fighting a grin. “Wanna find out why?”

It happened instantly — his character died in-game with a big, mocking K.O. splashed across the screen. His head whipped toward you so fast it was almost comical, eyes wide and unreadable.

You just leaned back, smug. “Oh? Did I make you lose?”

Kenma’s mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but he shut it quickly, hoodie strings pulled tight as he ducked his face into the fabric. The flush on his cheeks was impossible to miss.

“…You’re evil,” he muttered, refusing to look at you.

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” you shot back, already reaching for his waist again just to watch him twitch.

His fingers fumbled on the controller, and he mumbled something under his breath that you couldn’t quite hear. But the way he avoided your gaze, ears burning, told you you’d won this round.

[biggianteggplant]

COYOTE UGLY NOW IN TOKYO!

BAKUGO KATSUKI X READER

It was the kind of place you only heard about in American pop culture — flickering neon lights, boots pounding against wooden bars, whiskey spilling into laughing mouths, and a heat in the air that wasn’t just from the crowd. Coyote Ugly wasn’t a bar. It was an experience. A wild, unapologetic celebration of music, dancing, and not giving a damn about Monday morning.

For years, it was a fantasy for anyone outside the U.S., something you caught glimpses of in movies and music videos — women in denim shorts and cowboy boots dancing on counters while the crowd went feral. But now… it had finally happened. A brand-new branch had opened right in the heart of Tokyo’s nightlife district, and word spread fast.

Fast enough to reach the ears of three particularly loud Pro Heroes.

“Bakugo, you don’t get it,” Kirishima leaned forward over the agency lounge table like he was delivering a life-or-death mission briefing. “It’s not just a bar — it’s a show. It’s insane.”

Sero nodded enthusiastically, already pulling up videos on his phone. “Look at this, man — the bartenders dance on the bar. On the bar. And they pour drinks right into your mouth. You literally can’t be in a bad mood there.”

“I’m telling you,” Denki grinned, tossing an arm around Sero’s shoulders, “the Tokyo branch is, like… THE place right now. And the uniforms? Dude.” He made a vague hand gesture that clearly meant legs.

Bakugo scowled without even looking up from his post-mission paperwork. “Tch. Sounds like a waste of time.”

“Waste of time?” Kirishima gasped as if Bakugo had personally insulted his honor. “Bro, you train all week, you blow up villains, you save lives — you need to relax. Just one night.”

“I’m not going to some tourist trap to watch drunk people embarrass themselves.”

They didn’t stop. For days. Weeks. Every lunch break, every after-mission dinner, every time they caught him in the locker room — Coyote Ugly Tokyo was brought up. The dancing. The music. The crowd. The performers. Always ending with some variation of:

“Come on, man. One drink. One performance. That’s it.”

It was late. The city was buzzing in that neon-lit, post-midnight way. They had just wrapped up a successful joint mission, adrenaline still fading from their veins. And for once, Bakugo was too tired to argue.

“Thirty minutes,” he muttered as they stepped out of the agency doors. “If I don’t like it, I’m ditching you losers.”

The three erupted into cheers like they’d just won the lottery.

The moment Bakugo stepped inside, the sound hit him first — bass-heavy music that rattled the wooden floorboards, the kind that demanded your pulse sync with it. The air was thick with heat, whiskey, perfume, and laughter.

Rustic wooden bar. Neon beer signs. Strings of dim Edison bulbs casting a warm, golden haze. The crowd pressed in around high tables and stools, drinks in hand, eyes fixed on the main attraction — the bar itself.

And then there was you.

Black camisole clinging just right, the neckline teasing enough to make the men at the counter lean forward without realizing it. Denim shorts frayed at the edges, hugging your hips and leaving your legs bare under the warm glow.

Perfectly curled hair bounced as you moved, catching every flicker of light. A touch of gloss made your lips shine, and the hint of blush on your cheeks paired with smoky eyeliner made your eyes pop even from across the room.

You held a bottle in one hand and a confident grin in the other, hips swaying in time with the music as you poured a shot straight into some laughing guy’s mouth before spinning away to dance with another bartender.

Bakugo stopped walking.

“Holy—” Denki started, but Bakugo shot him a look that shut him up instantly.

You spotted them. Well, you spotted him — the tall, broad-shouldered blonde with a scowl that didn’t match the way his eyes lingered. And when your gaze locked with his for just a second, you smirked.

It was subtle. Barely there. But enough to tell him you knew exactly the kind of effect you had.

Bakugo’s jaw tightened. “Tch. Whatever.” He tried to look away, but his eyes found you again when you hopped down from the bar, weaving through the crowd with a tray in hand.

Kirishima elbowed him. “So… still think this place is a waste of time?”

Bakugo didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t have a comeback — but because you were walking straight toward their table.

You made your way through the crowd, your tray balanced easily on one hand, a few bottles and glasses rattling gently with every sway of your hips. The music pounded — something with a heavy bass line and a sultry guitar riff — but even over the noise, you could hear the chorus of whistles and teasing shouts from nearby tables as you passed.

When you reached their table, you leaned in just enough that Bakugo caught the faint scent of your perfume — warm, a little sweet, but sharp enough to cut through the thick smell of beer and sweat in the air.

“What’ll it be, boys?” you asked, voice smooth and teasing, pitched just high enough to cut through the music without sounding like you were trying.

Kirishima immediately straightened, slapping a hand on the table. “Three beers! And—”

“—And one shot for this guy!” Sero cut in, pointing at Bakugo like a child outing his friend in class. “Make it strong. The strongest you’ve got.”

Your eyes never left Bakugo. Not once.

The corner of your mouth curled up, just slightly, as you tipped your head. “And for you?”

Bakugo met your gaze, sharp and unflinching, but there was a flicker there — a quick, barely-there shift in his eyes that told you he’d noticed how close you were. “Water,” he said flatly.

Denki groaned. “Come on, man—”

You didn’t look away. “I’ll bring you something better.”

And with that, you were gone — disappearing back into the crowd like you’d never been there at all.

When you returned, it wasn’t with the tray balanced neatly this time. You had 3 bottles in one hand, shot glass hooked between your fingers, and that same smirk on your face.

You set the beers down in front of the others without ceremony, their voices already rising with excitement. But when it came to Bakugo, you didn’t put the glass on the table.

Instead, you stepped closer, right into his space.

The music shifted into a track with a faster beat, and you used it as an excuse to sway slightly as you lifted the shot glass 

“Open,” you said softly, but the tone wasn’t a request.

He glared. “The hell—”

You tipped his chin up with your free hand, fingers firm against the sharp line of his jaw. The crowd nearby noticed instantly, cheers and laughter rising around you.

“C’mon, big guy,” you teased, eyes locked on his. “You can handle it.”

Before he could bite back with some smart remark, you tilted the glass and poured. The liquor streamed into his mouth in one smooth motion, cool and burning all at once. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and your hand held him steady the entire time.

When it was done, you pulled back with a flourish, the crowd erupting into applause and wolf whistles.

Bakugo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling — but there it was.

That hint of a smirk.

You tossed him a napkin, the flick of your wrist just as confident as everything else you’d done tonight. “Good boy,” you murmured with a wink, loud enough for only him to hear.

Then you were gone again, melting back toward the bar, your hips moving with the music, climbing onto the counter to dance alongside the other girls as the lights caught in your hair.

Bakugo watched you go, his glass still untouched in front of him, his jaw tight for reasons he wasn’t about to admit — especially not to the three idiots grinning beside him.

The night was winding down, though the energy in the bar never seemed to dip. Kirishima, Denki, and Sero were still buzzing from the performances, laughing and jostling each other as they made their way toward the door.

Bakugo followed at his own pace, hands shoved in his pockets, doing his best to ignore their constant teasing.

You appeared just before they stepped out — slipping between two tables and stopping right in front of him.

That same smirk curved your lips, the one that had been driving him insane all night. “Bet you’ll be back here within the week,” you said, your voice low enough to cut through the music but meant only for him.

He let out a sharp scoff. “In your dreams.”

You didn’t argue. You just started walking backward into the crowd of people, your eyes never leaving his. 

The glow of the stage lights caught in your hair as you moved, the crowd swallowing you inch by inch.

And just before you vanished completely, you gave him one last, slow smile.

Bakugo stood there for a second longer than he meant to, jaw tight, before turning and following the others outside.

(This one just randomly popped into my head, lol. I was actually supposed to make this with a Haikyuu character, but personally, I think Bakugo really fit the role, lmk if you wanna see the same concept with a different character LOVE LOTSSS)

[biggianteggplant]

REMEMBER YOU

NANAMI KENTO X READER

TW: Alzheimer’s, memory loss, emotional themes

You were diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at the ripe age of seventeen. Most people spend that age worrying about grades, crushes, and what to wear to the next school event. You spent it sitting in a sterile white room, staring at a doctor whose mouth moved slowly, as if saying the words gently would make them hurt less. But nothing could soften the blow of hearing that your memories — your entire life — would eventually start slipping through your fingers, one by one.

You didn’t cry in front of him. You nodded. You thanked him. You even smiled. But that night, in the darkness of your room, you pressed your hands against your eyes until you saw stars, wishing you could hold every detail in your head forever.

you had accepted it. If your mind was destined to erase you piece by piece, you would leave yourself a trail. Candy wrappers from flavors you loved. Polaroid pictures of nights where the world felt wonderful. Movie tickets from films you swore you’d never forget. Food packaging from snacks that made you feel like a kid again. Every scrap was tucked away like treasure — in shoeboxes under your bed, in albums only you touched.

Nobody knew. Not your friends. Not your relatives. Not even your boyfriend, Nanami Kento.

Your family carried the secret with you, silent guardians of a truth too heavy for anyone else. You told yourself you were protecting him, that he didn’t need to know yet. Maybe you were afraid that if you told him, he’d start looking at you differently — like you were fragile, like you were already half gone.

Years passed, and somehow, you and Kento found yourselves married. He was steady in a way that felt rare, someone who never raised his voice unless it was for something he believed in. Living together meant sharing laughter, quiet mornings, and — unintentionally — the first cracks in your facade.

It started small. You’d misplace your phone, your keys, your charger. The book you had just been reading would vanish from your mind as if the pages had never existed. You’d hide candies in the cupboard for later, only to forget about them entirely.

Kento would find you wandering the apartment with a puzzled expression, and he’d laugh softly. “I love how forgetful you are, love,” he’d murmur, reaching out to scratch gently under your chin or along your jaw — a small habit of his when he wanted to make you smile. And you did smile, but it was thin. Your heart sank each time. He didn’t know. And the guilt sat heavier in your chest with every passing day.

The breaking point came on your anniversary. You dressed up for the occasion — him in his perfectly pressed suit, you in the same dress he once said reminded him of your first date. The restaurant was warm with candlelight, the air thick with the smell of garlic and rosemary.

You sat across from him, fingers intertwined, when you looked around at the unfamiliar walls and felt your stomach twist. “Kento… where are we?”

His expression faltered. There was no way you could have forgotten this place — the spot where he’d nervously asked you out for the first time, where he’d kissed you under strings of golden lights, where he’d dropped to one knee years later with a ring in his trembling hand.

“This is where we started, remember?” His voice was soft but unsteady. “First date… first kiss… where I proposed to you…”

The memories hit you like a rush of cold water — sharp, sudden, and unforgiving. And right behind them came the guilt, heavier than ever.

The rest of dinner was quiet. Not the easy kind, but the kind where every scrape of silverware sounds too loud, where every smile feels forced. You tried to laugh when he made small talk, but it caught in your throat. He smiled when you said you remembered, but his eyes stayed dim.

When you left, the evening air felt colder than it should have. You slipped your hand into his, and for a moment, he held it tighter than usual.

As if he already knew he was holding on to more than just your hand.

Kento had known for a while that something was wrong. Not in the way that made him panic — not yet. He didn’t want to pry too much. He didn’t want you to think he was accusing you of… losing it. That was the last thing he wanted — to put the idea in your head that he thought you were going crazy. So, he let the little moments slide. The misplaced objects. The occasional blanks in your conversations. He brushed them off as quirks.

But everything clicked one night.

He came home from work, exhausted but ready for that familiar warmth — the amber glow of the lamps you always left on, the soft hum of your favorite playlist, the faintly sweet scent of the mixed-berries candles you lit on Fridays when dinner was something special.

The apartment was dark. No light. No music. No warmth. Just silence, heavy and wrong.

Kento stepped inside, loosening his tie, and called your name softly. No answer. His brows furrowed as he made his way to the bedroom. The door creaked open — and before he could say anything, a sound tore through the air.

A scream. High, sharp, and raw enough to make his stomach drop.

You were on the bed, hair messy, eyes wide with genuine terror, your body trembling. “W–who are you?” Your voice shook so hard it barely sounded like you. “How did you get in? Please don’t hurt me… please leave me alone… my husband will be coming home soon, and you won’t like the things he’s gonna do to you…”

The words shattered something in him.

It all hit him at once — the anniversary dinner, the forgotten candies, the misplaced books, the little pauses in your sentences. He had thought about it before, deep down. But every time, he swept it away, refusing to believe it. He didn’t want to think it. He really didn’t want to.

He backed away quietly, murmuring, “I’m sorry,” before leaving the room. He sat on the couch until the sounds of your restless breathing softened into sleep.

Later, he came back in, moving with the careful quiet of a man who didn’t want to wake a ghost. He washed up, changed clothes, and laid down beside you. In the soft glow from the streetlights outside, your face was calm, peaceful. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his chest aching with a weight he couldn’t name.

You stirred. Your lashes fluttered open, and that familiar smile returned. “Ken… you’re back… are you hungry? Do you want me to make dinner for you?” you asked, cupping his face, thumbs brushing over his skin like nothing was wrong.

“No, thank you, darling… I had a filling dinner with Gojo.” It was a lie. He had skipped dinner entirely, expecting to come home to the smell of something you’d made, the warmth that made everything feel lighter. But now, his appetite was gone.

You kissed his forehead and slipped back into sleep.

Kento laid there for hours, trying to sleep himself. He tried counting breaths. He tried shifting positions. Nothing worked. Finally, he slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen, his hands trembling as he reached for his phone.

When your father answered, Kento told him everything. Every small incident. Every gap in your memory. The anniversary night. And now — this. The other end of the line was silent for a long time before your father finally said, “Come visit tomorrow.”

The next day, the drive to your parents’ house was quiet. Kento’s left hand gripped the wheel, his right hand wrapped around yours, squeezing gently.

“I wonder what they need us for… very sudden for them to ask us to visit...” you said, tilting your head in curiosity. He only grunted in response, his thumb stroking the back of your hand as if to ground himself.

When you arrived, the same familiar coziness greeted you — brick walls covered in climbing vines, the neat rows of plants your mother loved. But something in the air felt off. Your parents smiled when they saw you, but their eyes didn’t match.

You hopped out of the car, running to hug them. “I’m gonna go to my room! I wanna see my old stuff!” you announced, darting upstairs.

Kento joined them in the living room. The three sat in silence until your mother spoke.

“She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at seventeen… we thought she told you after everything. If we knew she hadn’t… we would’ve told you ourselves. I— we’re sorry.”

The words stopped his world. His chest felt heavy, his hands cold, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Tears stung his eyes before he could stop them.

They talked for hours — about your treatments, about your struggles, about the slow progression. Kento couldn’t blame you for keeping it from him. You had wanted to enjoy life, to protect him from the heaviness. But still, it hurt.

Your father patted his back before leading him upstairs. Your mother knocked on your door. “Come in!” you called.

They stepped inside to find you on the floor, surrounded by dolls. You looked up at them and then at Kento. “Who’s this man, Mom? I don’t wanna do homework today—”

Your mother clapped a hand over her mouth, tears spilling before she turned and fled the room.

“Why is Mom crying? Did I make her cry again? I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to…”

Your father’s hand landed gently on Kento’s shoulder before he left, leaving the two of you alone.

Kento sat beside you. “I know you didn’t,” he said softly. “You’d never want that.”

You nodded, picking up your dolls again. But after a while, you set one down and stared at it in silence. Then, you turned to him, taking his hands in yours, squeezing tightly.

The tired look in your eyes said everything you couldn’t put into words.

And in that moment, Kento knew. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He went with you to treatment sessions, scheduled little trips, filled your days with the things you still loved. Nights were harder — when your episodes stretched on endlessly, when the fear came back into your eyes. He sighed often, but not out of exhaustion with you.

It was grief.

Because loving you meant watching you slip away, piece by piece — and holding on to each fragment like it was the last.

[biggianteggplant]

Nothing But a Box

Content Warning: teen pregnancy, abortion, emotional grief, trauma, references to isolation and guilt.

It started with a deep clean.

Bakugo hated clutter. Always had. The apartment was mostly spotless—except for the storage boxes under the bed. You kept promising to go through them, and he kept telling you, “You either clean that shit out or I’m throwing it.”

You laughed it off every time.

Until today.

You were out on patrol. He had the day off. So he figured he’d handle it. Quick, simple. Trash what needed trashing. Box the rest.

It was going fine, until he found a small, taped-up pink box.

He almost didn’t notice it, shoved behind a bin of old sweaters.

Bakugo grabbed it with one hand, inspecting it. No labels. No writing. Just an old pink box. Dusty. Tucked away like it hadn’t been opened in years.

He sat down, wiped it off, and muttered, “The hell is this?”

He peeled the tape and opened the lid.

Photos. High school era. You in uniform. A little awkward-looking, soft smile, those eyes he always loved—still there, but dimmer somehow.

Candy wrappers. Hair clips. Broken pencils.

Old notes from friends. Folded up like secrets, still smelling faintly of perfume.

Then he saw it.

A pale pink envelope.

Angel’s Wings Women’s Clinic.

He blinked, lips parting slightly. “The fuck’s this?”

He thought it might be... medicine, or a newsletter. Something dumb.

He opened it.

And froze.

Two pregnancy tests.

Both positive.

Several ultrasound photos.

And a small sticky note:

“Grieving is hard, especially for someone as young as you… you can write your feelings here.”

“This isn’t required, but if you’d like, you can write a letter to say goodbye. It can help you heal. You’ll never have to show anyone.”

Bakugo stared at the tests. At the prints. His mind blanked.

Slowly, hands tighter than they should’ve been, he unfolded the paper underneath.

To the baby I never got to meet <333

I don’t know what your name would have been. I don’t even know if you were a boy or girl. But I do know that you were real. That you were a spark inside me that I never forgot.

I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you.

I’m seventeen right now and I’m scared. I didn’t know who to tell, or how. The father didn’t want to stay. I didn’t think I could give you the life you deserved. And I didn’t want you to grow up resenting me for how little I have.

Still… I love you.

Even if it was for a short time. Even if it wasn’t enough.

I think about you more than I want to admit.

I wonder if you would’ve had my eyes.

If you’d have been quiet like me or loud like your dad.

I wonder if you would’ve liked the stars, or cats, or pancakes for breakfast.

Maybe, one day, if I’m stronger, if I’ve learned how to stop hating myself… maybe I’ll be ready. And maybe, wherever you are, the universe will let you find your way back to me.

I hope you weren’t in pain.

I hope you didn’t feel abandoned.

You were not a mistake.

You were never a mistake.

You were my what-if.

And I will always carry you in the quiet spaces of my life.

Love,

Mom.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe right.

Didn’t feel right.

This wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t something you’d left out casually. It was deliberate. Hidden.

And he understood that now.

Not because he was smart with feelings. He wasn’t. But because this was the kind of pain you keep folded away—neat and quiet—so it doesn’t scream at you every time you look at it.

The front door opened thirty minutes later.

He hadn’t moved.

“Babe?” you called out. “I grabbed food, and there’s a sale on those stupid sodas you like, so—”

You saw him.

Sitting on the floor. Pink box open. Letter unfolded.

Your breath caught.

He looked up at you.

And for the first time, you saw him completely speechless. No scowl. No snark. Just quiet. His expression unreadable. Broken in a way only someone who had never cried in front of you could be.

“Ah…” you whispered.

He nodded, jaw tight.

“I didn’t think you’d ever see it.”

He looked back down at the letter.

“You were seventeen?” he finally asked, voice hoarse.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t speak.

You stepped into the room slowly. “I didn’t really tell anyone.”

“Did it hurt?” he asked.

The question shattered something.

“Physically? A bit. Emotionally?” You hesitated. “It felt like... I died a little.”

He stared down at his hands, still holding your letter.

“I would’ve...” His voice cracked. “If I’d known you then—fuck. I would’ve done anything. Anything to make sure you didn’t go through that alone.”

You smiled, sad. “You didn’t even know who I was, Katsuki. You were off saving the world in high school . ”

“I don’t give a shit!” he snapped suddenly, voice louder than he meant. “I don’t fucking care if I didn’t know you back then! The fact that you went through that—and never told me—what the fuck was I supposed to do when I found this?”

You flinched.

He realized and softened instantly.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said, quiet again. “I’m just… I’m mad that you ever felt like you had to carry this by yourself. Like you couldn’t tell me.”

You sat down beside him.

“I didn’t want to be seen as ruined,” you admitted.

“You’re not ruined,” he said, low and fierce. “You hear me? You’re not ruined. You’re stronger than anyone I know.”

Your voice wavered. “Sometimes I think about them. When I see kids. Or when the sky looks a certain way.”

You leaned into him, and he let you. He always let you.

And for the first time, you felt like the box didn’t belong to just your past anymore. It belonged to the both of you.

(Don’t ask me why this was so specific—I swear it didn’t happen to me. But it did happen in real life. Not to me, but to someone who deserved better. This one’s for them, and for anyone else who had to go through something like this while carrying the weight alone. ALSO I'M BACK BABIES<333)

[biggianteggplant]

I LOVE YOUR WORKS SM, I KICK MY FEET WHENEVER I GET A NOTIF THAT YOU'VE POSTED SMTH!!! LATELY, I'VE BEEN SEEING STUFF ABOUT AKAASHI BEING CANONICALLY WEIRD (i love him.) IF IT ISN'T TOO MUCH TO ASK, I'D LOVE TO SEE HIS FREAK GETTING MATCHED 🤫 (no specific scenario, I TRUST YOU!! 🫶)

Case File #369: Akaashi Keiji – The Panty Sniffer

Akaashi Keiji — a fine, respectable man. Always so calm. So elegant. Hair neatly parted, tie centered, not a wrinkle on his shirt. The type to hand in reports early, open doors for strangers, and say “excuse me” even when you bump into him.

What a delicious man, truly. Clean cut. Thoughtful. Book-smart with an ass that’s got its own gravitational pull.

But let’s not pretend we don’t know.

Let’s not act like he doesn’t sniff panties like it’s wine-tasting. Like he doesn’t tilt his head, murmur “2019… slightly acidic… notes of lavender and lust,” and then tuck it in his drawer next to a fountain pen and a receipt from your favorite café.

Because beneath that starched collar and soft-spoken voice is something dangerous. A sickness. A quiet, well-organized obsession.

Akaashi Keiji is not just a panty sniffer. He is the panty sniffer.

And God help you — You like it.

It starts off innocent.

You’re rifling through his drawer looking for a charger. You find socks. Stationery. Bookmarks. Then… a ziplock bag. Neatly sealed. Folded inside?

Your lace panties.

One of your older ones — fraying at the waistband, slightly stretched out, nothing remotely sexy about it. It’s folded like a precious relic, as if he's preserving it.

You freeze.

“Keiji,” you call. Calm. Too calm. You lift the bag like it’s radioactive.

He glances over from his desk, reading glasses halfway down his nose, as if you’ve just asked him what he wants for dinner.

“Oh,” he says, setting his pen down. “You weren’t supposed to find those yet.”

Yet.

“Why do you have these?” You blink at him. “Why is it folded like a love letter?”

He shrugs. SHRUGS.

“You don’t wear those on Wednesdays anymore,” he says.

You stare. Excuse me what.

“I’ve upgraded you to the black mesh pair. You switch into them after work around 4:15. Thursdays, it's the red ones. Fridays, sometimes nothing.”

“…how do you know that—”

“I do your laundry when you fall asleep. You toss everything on the chair and leave your hamper open. It’s practically an invitation.”

YOU ARE MALFUNCTIONING. He’s speaking so casually, as if you’re the one being weird for asking.

You try to say something. He’s already walking over, rolling his sleeves up.

“You left them behind once,” he murmurs. “I missed the way you smelled.”

He takes the panties out of the bag — slowly, delicately — and inhales. Deep. With reverence.

“You wore these after a long day,” he whispers against the fabric. “I remember. You were tired. A little irritated. I could still taste you.”

You’re about to combust. Fully.

And then — he kneels.

You back up, almost tripping over his bed, but he just tugs you forward, tilts his head, eyes hooded and serene like a prayer.

“You don’t mind if I remind myself, right?” he asks. “Of what’s mine?”

And before you can even breathe out a no — his mouth is already on you. Desperate. Perfect. Like he’s trying to memorize your scent with every flick of his tongue.

He moans like he’s starved. You swear he’s smiling.

After, when your legs stop shaking and your soul returns to your body, he wipes his mouth with the same pair of panties — folds them back up — and tucks them into his drawer with a satisfied hum.

“I’ll wash these later,” he says. “But not just yet.”

not you being down bad for my unhinged imagination 😏 i love u for it. stay delulu, it’s safer here 💅 sorry if this reply doesn't quite match the “matching his freak” energy 😭 i promise the freak comes out stronger in the next post LMAOO - L

[biggianteggplant]

WYA BRO

HEY GUYS SORRY IF I WAS GONE FOR A BIT 😭

I’M DOING WELL AND READY TO GET GOING AGAIN BUT DEFINITELY LOW ON BRAIN JUICE

PLS REQUEST OR MAYBE COMMENT DOWN BELOW WHAT YOU WANNA SEE NEXT ‼️

I SPECIFICALLY WRITE FOR KUROKO NO BASKET, HAIKYUU, JJK, MHA 😋

and if you guys wanna see other fandoms just pls put them on my request box <3 love yaaa 🫶

ALSO I JUST WANTED TO ADD THAT

To everyone who sent me requests dw cuz they’re alr in my drafts and will be posted soon

[biggianteggplant]

GIRLS’ NIGHT WITH WAKATOSHI

It was girls’ night, and the couch had officially turned into a civilization of its own.

Pizza boxes were everywhere. Like, everywhere. On the coffee table, under someone's leg, one on top of a decorative plant that would never be the same again.

A bottle of wine lay sideways on the floor, blessedly empty. Someone was pouring a mixture of Sprite and vodka into a bowl, calling it “witches’ brew.”

And in the middle of this divine, feral chaos sat Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Your boyfriend.

Stoic. Calm. Built like a demigod carved from volleyball-shaped marble.

And, tonight, looking mildly confused but not displeased as he held a glittery pink Solo cup someone gave him filled with sparkling water. Because of course he wasn’t drinking. That was too chaotic for someone like Waka-chan. But he was here. Present. Among the girlies.

You had warned him.

“Are you sure you wanna come?” you’d asked earlier that day. “They’re intense. Like, chaotic intense.”

His reply?

“I like your friends. And if they’re part of your life, I want to be there.”

And now, here he was. Sitting between your best friend in a face mask and your other best friend trying to French braid someone’s leg hair.

To your eternal shock and quiet delight… he fit in.

Someone passed him a Hello Kitty blanket. He took it without comment.
Someone else asked if he thought love was real. He said, “Yes. It’s y/n.”
The entire room screamed.

Then came the stories.

“Oh my god, Waka-chan,” someone slurred, already on her fourth cup of witches’ brew. “Tell us something juicy. Like. National level tea.”

He blinked once.

“Okay.”

“WAIT WHAT—”

“So,” he began, as if reading a weather report. “Atsumu Miya once got his head stuck in a vending machine because he dropped his credit card inside and didn’t want to lose the points.”

The room exploded.

“NO HE DIDN’T.”

“He did.”

“What happened?!”

“He got stuck. We had to call staff. They had to partially unscrew the casing. His jersey rode up and there are still pictures somewhere.”

You wheezed. “You helped him?!”

Ushijima nodded. “He cried.”

At this point, one of your friends was on the ground pounding the floor, screeching, “ATSUMU, NOOOO.”

“Okay,” you said through laughter-tears. “That’s it. You’re in. You’ve been officially adopted.”

Somehow, someone remembered the sacred ritual of every girls' night

Truth or Dare.

It started innocent.

Someone had to text their ex “I miss you.”
Someone else had to lick a leftover pizza crust that was under the couch for some reason…
Another was dared to call a restaurant and ask if they sell dinosaur eggs.

Then someone turned to Ushijima.

“WAKA-CHAN. TRUTH OR DARE.”

He blinked. “Truth.”

“Ughhhhhh.”

“Okay. Be honest.” Your friend pointed dramatically. “Would you still date Y/N if you saw them in their most embarrassing state ever? Like. Peak embarrassment. End-of-days shame.”

Ushijima’s face was completely still. “Yes.”

You blinked.

He turned to you. “I already have.”

The table flipped.

“HE’S ROMANTIC, LADIES.”

“HE’S DANGEROUS.”

You covered your face. “Stoppppp.”

Then it was your turn.

“Truth or dare?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Dare. MY MAMA DIDN’T RAISE NO PUSSY.

The room went still.

Someone grinned. That dangerous kind of grin you’ve only ever seen on cartoon villains and your friends after two shots.

“I dare you to show Waka-chan… THAT video.”

You froze.

THAT video was a war crime.

That video had the energy of a cursed Vine and the production quality of a hostage tape.

That video crawled out of hell and stole your dignity.

It should've been deleted, deep-fried, ritualistically burned, and launched into the sun.

That video should NOT — under any circumstances — ever see the light of day. Not in this timeline. Not in any multiverse.

Your soul momentarily left your body. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No no no no no—”

“Oh, come on.”

“Yeah, it’s not even bad,” someone lied.

“She was SO cute,” someone else said. “Like a little wet hamster.”

“Nooooooo,” you whined, clinging to the pillow like it could save you.

Ushijima turned his steady gaze toward you. “You don’t have to.”

And then, so gently, his hand touched your back. That same comforting stroke — slow, up and down — that always made your heart weirdly soft.

You sighed. “Okay. Fine. You know what? Let’s just die together, right here, right now.”

Your phone connected to the TV.
The video loaded.
The room waited.

And then…

There it was.

You.
Naked.
In a bathroom.
Sitting on a tiny IKEA stool.
Wet.
Giggly type of drunk
Being bathed by your friends like a baby panda.

Your hair was covered in bubbles. Your face was flushed pink. Boobs squished together like the world’s worst anime screenshot. You hugged your knees, eyes droopy from wine.

“No cold water… please… I’ll cryyy—”

Someone off-screen said, “She’s gonna melt like sugar!”

You squealed, “I’M DELICATEEEE.”

And then the water splashed and you shrieked. The camera shook from laughter.

The video ended.

The silence was deafening.

You refused to look at anyone.

“I was vulnerable,” you whispered.

“No,” someone giggled. “You were soup.”

Ushijima finally spoke.

“...you were very pink.”

You whipped your head toward him. “That’s what you got out of that?”

“I think it was endearing,” he said, tilting his head. “Also, I didn’t know your voice gets that high.”

Someone let out a scream that turned into a cough. Another rolled off the couch, face red from laughing.

You just… stared at your boyfriend.

“I can’t tell if you’re being kind or repressing trauma.”

He smiled—actually smiled—and leaned toward you, voice low. “Both.”

Later that night, with your friends all asleep in a tangled web of limbs, half-hugs, and someone muttering in their sleep about Atsumu’s vending machine crimes, you found yourself brushing your teeth in the dim light of the bathroom.

Ushijima leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you.

“Still embarrassed?” he asked.

You nodded. “I’ll never recover.”

He walked toward you and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I liked it,” he said. “It was real. You were happy.”

You paused. “And very, very naked.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But mostly happy.”

He touched your cheek, eyes gentle. “I love seeing you like that. Loved.”

You blinked.

Then, with a grin: “Even if I looked like a wet hamster ?”

He smirked slightly—barely, but it was there. “You’re my wet hamster.”

You groaned, but you were laughing. And blushing.

You were still deeply embarrassed, still planning to burn every copy of that video—but somehow, with Waka-chan there holding you afterward, it didn’t feel quite so mortifying.

Just… weirdly sweet.

And maybe even kind of perfect.

a/n:

hey guys! sorry for disappearing for a bit — i was seriously running out of brain juice and needed to take a break (especially from all the hate and overwhelming requests in my inbox 💀) had to protect the mental peace yk?

but i’m back now, kinda refreshed, slightly unbothered, and ready to give you more chaos <3 thanks to everyone who’s been patient and kind, you’re the real ones 😭💗🫶🏻

[biggianteggplant]

"your" fics look ai generated lol... ??? its so obvious too ??

It’s funny how people accuse me of using AI.
Like… I’m literally an English major and an artist.
I’ve been writing since I was 16, and I’ve never needed AI to speak for me.
I love writing. It’s something I care deeply about, not just something I do for clout.
Honestly, I’m so against AI taking over creative work—it makes it harder for real writers to be seen.
So when people say my writing is “too good” or “looks like AI,” I really don’t know if I should be flattered or offended 😭
My mom and sister literally see how long I sit with my laptop, rereading, editing, tweaking every little word.
You want proof? What do you want me to do—write in wrong grammar? Remove my commas, dashes, exclamation marks, and every other punctuation I carefully chose?
Or maybe set up a whole timelapse of myself writing a fic just for you?
(As if I’m about to waste my storage like that for you. Be serious 😭)
At the end of the day, this isn’t just writing to me—it’s a piece of who I am.
And every single word? It’s mine. Always has been.

Please do block me if you don’t like the way I write.

No way I’m letting anyone ruin this cunty little image I’ve worked hard on 😌

[biggianteggplant]

The Other Woman.

Miya Atsumu x Reader

You were his manager. Professional, poised, and always in control. Atsumu Miya was your client, a star athlete with a magnetic charm that drew everyone in—including you.

It started innocently: late-night strategy meetings, shared laughter over coffee, and the occasional lingering glance. You knew he was married, that he had a family waiting for him at home. But the lines blurred, and before you knew it, you were entangled in a web of secrecy and desire.

He would come to you after games, his presence filling your apartment like a storm. In those moments, you felt alive, cherished, and wanted. But as dawn approached, reality would set in. He would leave, returning to the life he had built with someone else, leaving you alone with the weight of your choices.

You tried to end it, to reclaim your dignity and peace. But Atsumu had a way of pulling you back in, with sweet words and empty promises. He would say he needed you, that you were the only one who truly understood him. And you believed him, every time.

You ended it.

Or at least, you tried to.

You stood across from Atsumu in the privacy of his hotel room, your hands trembling as you said, “This can’t keep happening. You have a wife. A kid.”

He didn’t flinch.

He leaned back on the bed you’d shared too many times, arms crossed, lips curled into that same boyish smirk he used on the court.

“And? You knew that from the start.”

You swallowed hard.

“I thought I could handle it,” you confessed. “But it’s eating me alive. I can’t sleep. I can’t look at myself in the mirror.”

His eyes darkened.

“So what? You’re just gonna walk away?”
“Just like that?”

You nodded slowly, afraid, but firm.

“I have to.”

And that’s when his voice changed. Cold. Calculated.

“Don’t forget whose contract you're under.”
“Don’t forget I can take you down with a single press statement.”

You stared at him. The air in the room turned thick. Suffocating.

“You wouldn’t—”

“You don’t know what I’d do. You really think they’ll believe the woman who slept her way into my inner circle? They’ll eat you alive.”

Tears stung your eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

“Because you’re mine,” he said. “You don’t get to walk away from this unless I say so.”

He stood, took your face in his hands.

“You knew the rules, pretty girl,” he murmured. “You knew I was never gonna come home to you. But you let me in anyway.”

And when he kissed you, you let him.

Not because you wanted to.

But because you felt owned.

After that night, you stopped trying to end it.

You went numb.

You smiled in press conferences, clapped during interviews, and handed him water during practice like nothing had happened.

But every time his hand brushed yours,
you remembered how dirty you felt.
How your love had been reduced to a secret.
A threat.

You watched his wife post photos on social media—laughing, glowing, holding their child in matching outfits—and you sat alone in your kitchen, eating nothing, drinking wine, replaying his voice saying,

“You don’t get to leave.”

You stopped wearing bright colors.

Stopped painting your nails. Stopped meeting your friends.
Because the other woman doesn’t get to have a life.

She waits.
She hides.
She folds herself smaller and smaller until she fits inside the silence between someone else’s happiness.

You weren’t living—you were surviving. Moving through days like a ghost, haunted by a love that was never yours to begin with.

You read every comment under his family’s posts.
“Perfect couple!”
“Power duo!”
“Lucky wife, lucky man.”

And you would break down in the shower—biting your hand to muffle the sobs because your neighbors were starting to notice.

You kept a folder in your phone. Screenshots of his texts.

“You’re the only one who understands me.”
“I can’t breathe without you.”
“I’ll fix this. Just… not now.”

You’d read them when the guilt threatened to tear your ribs open. As if those empty words could patch the holes.

One night, he called. You hesitated before answering. You were curled up in bed, mascara streaked, trying to convince yourself to block him.

“Hey,” he said, like everything was normal.
“Are you still there?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Mhm.”

A pause. Then his voice softened—just enough to slice through you.

“Good.”

Because it didn’t matter how broken you were.
As long as you were still his.

Still reachable.

Still there.

That night, you woke up from a dream where he kissed you in public.

And it hurt more than any nightmare.

Because you knew it would never happen.

There’s a unique kind of pain in waiting for someone who never chooses you.

And you—God—you waited.

You told yourself this was temporary. That he just needed time. That he loved you in ways he couldn’t show. That it wasn’t your fault.

“He needs me.”
“He can’t leave his family right now.”
“It’s not just sex. I mean something to him.”

But you were lying.

And slowly, the lies started to taste like blood in your mouth.

You saw him at a charity event with his wife—her hand tucked into his elbow like she belonged there. She smiled up at him with the kind of trust you used to dream about. And he smiled back, like he hadn’t kissed you in the hallway of his hotel room just hours before.

Your legs nearly gave out.

You went home that night and stared into the mirror for so long you forgot who you were looking at. You didn’t see a woman anymore. You saw a ghost. A shell of someone who used to laugh, dream, and believe she was worthy of love.

You started keeping wine in your drawer at work.

You stopped responding to your mother’s messages.

You flinched when his name popped up on your screen.

“You okay, baby?”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the message for hours. He never followed up.

Because he never had to.

You were addicted. Not to him—but to the feeling of being wanted, even if it was only behind closed doors.

You wanted to believe you mattered.

But deep down, you knew.

You were just a convenience. A placeholder. A hidden ache in his otherwise polished life.

And now, the ache was yours to carry.

Alone.

You were gone long before they found your body.

The first thing that disappeared was your laugh. Then your appetite. Then your voice during meetings.

Then… you.

You stopped showing up to practice. On Monday, no one noticed. Tuesday, someone muttered a joke: “Guess she finally got sick of Atsumu’s attitude.”

By Wednesday, worry began to ripple through the team.

By Thursday, silence turned heavy.

And by Friday morning, the captain demanded someone check on you. Just in case.

They didn't know the real reason you stopped coming in.

They didn’t see the messages. The threats.

“You think I won't say you came onto me first?”
“I’ll ruin you. You’re nothing without this job.”
“Don’t be stupid. You knew what this was.”

He was scared. You were a liability now. And that made him dangerous.

And you?

You were tired.

You lit a candle that night—your favorite scent, the one that reminded you of soft rain and second chances. But the room still felt like a cage.

The rope had been hidden in your closet for a week.

You chose the scarf instead.

The blue one. The one Atsumu said looked “pretty, but desperate.” You laughed it off back then. But now it seemed fitting.

You moved the chair quietly.

No music. No sound.

You didn’t cry this time.

Not when you tied the knot. Not when you stood on the chair. Not even when your fingers trembled so badly you had to redo the loop twice.

There was only stillness. And the letter on the floor.

You looked around one last time—not because you wanted to stay, but to remember.

The framed photo of you and the team.
The leftover instant noodles.
The dent in the wall from when you threw your phone at it after he said “you’re just a phase.”

You whispered:

“I’m sorry.”

Then you stepped off the chair.

The scarf pulled tight.

Your body twisted. Your toes grazed the floor—but not enough.

And finally, finally, everything went dark.

They found you the next morning.
She was cold. Gone.

There was no blood. No noise. Just a body and a letter, folded in two.

Someone screamed.

Another dropped to their knees.

And Atsumu?

He was in the gym. Laughing at something on his phone. Until someone came in, pale-faced, clutching the crumpled letter.

They didn’t need to say it.

He already knew.

THE LETTER

I’m sorry.

I don’t know how to say it in a way that can ever make it okay,

but I am. Truly.

I never meant for any of this to happen.

I never meant to hurt anyone—

especially not you.

You’re kind.

You’re gentle.

You didn’t deserve this.

Neither did your children.

I was selfish.

I let myself believe he loved me.

Maybe he did, in some quiet, hidden way—

but he always went home to you.

That should’ve told me everything.

But I stayed.

I stayed because I wanted to be loved.

Even if it wasn’t mine to have.

And now I can’t look in the mirror.

I can’t sleep at night.

I see your smile in my dreams,

and your kids’ laughter,

and I feel like a monster.

He said I’d ruin him if I told the truth.

But the truth is—

he ruined me by making me live a lie.

I don’t expect you to forgive me.

I wouldn’t either.

But please know I never hated you.

I envied you.

You had the life I prayed for in the dark.

If you ever think of me,

don’t call me names.

Don’t teach your children to hate me.

Just tell them I was someone who made a terrible mistake—

and couldn’t find a way out.

I’m sorry.

Please don’t hate yourself.

It was never your fault.

Goodbye.

That day, practice was canceled.

Your name was never announced publicly.

Atsumu didn’t show up for a week.

When he returned, no one looked him in the eye.

Not because they knew the truth—but because they could feel it.

There was blood on his hands.

And he couldn’t wash it off.

Atsumu had never heard silence like this before.

Not in the locker room. Not on the court. Not even in his own mind.

It was the kind of silence that follows a scream no one heard.

It started slowly.

Fans noticed your absence first.

“Where’s the manager?”
“She used to be in every game day post.”
“Hope she’s okay, she hasn’t posted anything in weeks…”

But when your name vanished from the staff credits, and the team’s social media suddenly went dark, the speculations began.

Reddit threads. TikToks. Anonymous tips.

People guessed you were sick. That maybe you were fired. That maybe—just maybe—something worse happened.

And then the whispers turned to roars.

By the second week, #WhereIsShe was trending on Twitter.

That’s when the team’s PR team knew they couldn’t keep it quiet anymore.

A short, sterile statement was released.

“It is with great sadness that we confirm the passing of one of our staff members.
We ask for privacy during this time. We are mourning alongside her loved ones.”

They didn’t mention your name.

They didn’t say how you died.

They didn’t say what they knew.

They never said it was suicide.
And they sure as hell didn’t say it was because of him.

But the fans… some of them knew.

Screenshots surfaced—Atsumu liking your old photos. A blurry image of the two of you too close behind a gym door. Cryptic tweets that you had posted and deleted weeks before it happened:

“Secrets rot everything.”
“Being someone’s second choice is worse than being no one at all.”
“I hope I was more than just a mistake.”

And still, he said nothing.

Because what could he say?

That he used you?
That he gaslit you?
That he made you beg for affection in private only to treat you like a stranger in public?

There was no press conference for that kind of grief.

He tried to return to the court.

But every time he stood on it, he saw you.

Standing at the sidelines with your clipboard. Grinning when he made a clean serve. Holding back a smile when he winked at you behind his water bottle.

Now he just sees empty space.

And in the locker room, someone had taped a photo of you on the inside of your old locker.

No one knew who put it there.

But no one dared take it down.

He started drinking more. Staying later. Talking less.

The fans noticed.

The team noticed.

But no one said your name.

Even when he had nightmares where you appeared—your feet dangling, that scarf tightening around your throat, your eyes wide with a question that could never be answered—he still couldn’t say your name.

Because saying it meant facing what he did.

Weeks passed.

Months.

Atsumu stood on the balcony of his expensive condo one night, phone in hand, staring at an old photo of you he’d saved secretly. The one where you were laughing at something he said. Candid. Pure.

Real.

He typed:

“I’m sorry.”

Then deleted it.

Because where would he send it?
What inbox would receive an apology from a man like him?

You were gone.
And he was still here.

Living.
Winning.
Rotting.

And still—
your name was never mentioned.

But every time someone asked him,
“Do you ever think about her?”

He’d lie.

Because the truth was unbearable.

The truth was:
He thought about you every single day.

And it never stopped hurting.

hey my loves! i was out of the city for a bit, i stayed with my friend and her aunt, met some new people, partied (with dogs, yes), drank a little, lived a lot. it was amazing. so here’s an atsumu angst i wrote on the ride home, because of course i did. HEHDHAHDHASH

[biggianteggplant]

“You Always Get What You Want, Don’t You?”

Akaashi Keiji x Bratty! Reader

You’d already made him spend a criminal amount of yen.

Like, the how-much-you’d-rather-not-check-your-bank-app kind of spending.

And yet there you were—again—facing down another gachapon machine like it owed you your life.

“Keijiiii,” you sang, grabbing his arm and swaying your hips a little too sweetly. “It’s this one.” The celestial bunny collection. I need the purple one.”

Akaashi exhaled through his nose slowly, as if trying not to visibly spiral.

“You already got five,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Five. That’s ¥200 each. That’s—”

“Math makes me sad,” you interrupted, fluttering your lashes. “But you make me happy.”

He deadpanned you. You smiled cutely.

“Pleaseee?” you leaned against him, your hand sneaking into his hoodie pocket. “I’ll make it worth it…”

“You said that last time” he muttered, eyes narrowing.

“And wasn’t it worth it?” you whispered against his neck.

His jaw clenched.

You pouted, exaggerated and bratty. “You don’t love me anymore. Got it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what? Tell the truth?”

He turned to the machine like it betrayed him personally. Pulled out coins. Mutters under his breath.

“One time. One.”

You watched gleefully as he twisted the handle. *Clack.* Capsule rolls out.

Green bunny.

“Oh no,” you gasped dramatically. “Guess you gotta try again…”

He looked at you. Dead in the eyes.

“You’re evil.”

“And yet,” you beamed, “you’re still in love with me.”

He inserted more coins. This time it was blue. Then white. Then pink.

By the fourth attempt, he looked exhausted. Wallet lighter. Patience thinner.

You, on the other hand, were practically sparkling.

“Just one more,” he grunted.

*Clack.*

You opened it. Purple bunny. Your bunny.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAA—!!!” you screeched, jumping into his arms.

“ Y/N—!”

You hugged him so tight he almost stumbled.

“YOU DID IT! I LOVE YOU! MY FAVORITE MAN EVER!!”

“People are staring,” he murmured, flustered as hell.

“I don’t care! You’re my hero!”

You rained kisses on his face, little pecks that made his ears turn redder each time. He tried to keep his cool, but your lips were brushing his cheek, his jaw, his ear—

“I’m embarrassing you,” you whispered, nipping his earlobe. “Aren’t I?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “But you’re also hot.”

You held his hand tightly as you walked home, swinging it between you while he kept his head down, cheeks flushed and lips tight. Like he wasn’t so obviously thinking about how you were going to repay him.

In his room, you sat cross-legged on his bed, dangling your new bunny on your finger.

He sat across from you, tossing his hoodie off and letting out the softest sigh. “That was the last time, okay?”

You crawled over slowly. “Mmm… okay.”

“Seriously. I have to budget. And you’re spoiled enough.”

You crawled into his lap, thighs straddling his hips.

He swallowed.

“You mad at me?” you asked sweetly, arms looping around his neck.

“Not mad,” he murmured. “Just… aware.”

“Of what?”

He raised a brow. “That I can’t say no to you.”

You kissed him. Soft at first. Then not.

“You’re right,” you whispered against his lips. “You can’t.”

He let out a low groan when you started rolling your hips against him, slow and deliberate.

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he whispered, his voice deeper now, his hands finally gripping your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he couldn’t hold back anymore.

You grinned against his mouth. “Wanna see what I got you with your gacha luck?”

He arched a brow.

You leaned into his ear.

Breath hot. Voice low.

“You get to ruin your spoiled little bunny tonight.”

Akaashi’s restraint snapped like a capsule popping open.

[biggianteggplant]

HOW HQ BOYS ORGASM

Shoyo Hinata

• Sweating like he just ran a full match

• Flustered mess, cheeks flushed bright red

• Breathless, pants a little ragged

• Comes but somehow still painfully hard afterward

• Soft, shaky "A-ah... Y/N, hgnggh" between gasps

Kei Tsukishima

• Dry, sarcastic whines that melt into genuine gasps

• Tries to play it cool but gets breathless and sweaty

• Slow build-up, then sudden release with soft, surprised “Hngh…”

• Stubbornly tries to hide how much he actually enjoys it

Kageyama Tobio

• Starts off stiff and serious, trying to keep control

• Breath quickens, but he’s tense, like he’s not used to feeling this vulnerable

• Occasionally mutters annoyed things like, “Hmph, this is... embarrassing…” but his grip tightens anyway

• Gets flushed, face heating up but still avoids eye contact, like he’s trying to act unimpressed

• When he finally comes, it’s sudden and intense—muscles twitching, body stiff but shaking

• Breathless, he pants quietly, barely able to say anything but a soft, “Y/N… f-fuck…”

• Afterward, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, muttering something like, “D-don’t tell anyone…”

Kuroo Tetsuro

• Low, teasing growls with that trademark sly grin

• Heavy breathing, fingers gripping tight

• Comes hard, voice thick with satisfaction—“Fuck, Y/N…”

• Pulls you close afterward, smirking, “You’re mine, got it?”

Kenma Kozume

• Quiet, soft whimpers, almost like he’s surprised by how good it feels

• Slightly flushed, breath shallow and uneven

• Comes quietly but deeply, face relaxing with a small, content sigh

• Mumbles a shy, “Y/N… that was… nice,” barely meeting your eyes

• Afterwards, leans into you for a warm, lazy cuddle

Bokuto Koutaro

• Loud, breathless moans that fill the room, totally unapologetic

• Whiny little gasps and cries, like he can’t get enough of you

• His face flushes deep red as he nuzzles right into your chest, seeking comfort

• “Y/N! A-ahhh, I’m gonna—fuck—please, don’t stop!” he begs, voice breaking

• Comes with full-body trembles and loud, messy moans, totally lost in the moment

Akaashi Keiji

• Tries really hard to keep quiet, biting his lip and tensing up

• Lets out tiny yelps and soft “mm” and “aah” sounds, barely above a whisper

• Face flushed but composed, eyes half-lidded and focused on you

• Comes with a gentle shudder, breath hitching softly—“Y/N… ahh…”

Ushijima Wakatoshi

• Deep, guttural grunts that rumble low and steady

• Body tense but moving with raw power

• A few soft, almost whiny sounds slip out—“Hnh… Y/N… don’t stop…”

• Comes with a strong, shuddering release, muscles clenching tight

• Breath heavy, face flushed but serious, eyes locked on you

Shirabu Kenjiro

• Gritting his teeth, trying not to moan

• Sharp breaths, annoyed little whines

• “A-ah, Y/N… shit…”

• Comes with tense, jerky movements, barely stifled whimper

• Face flushed, grumbling, but pulls you close anyway

Goshiki Tsutomu

• Covered in sweat, chest rising fast

• You move his bangs aside, and he shivers, voice barely a whisper—“Ah… Y/N…”

• Tries to act cool and collected but his whole body is trembling

• Comes with shaky, breathless gasps, face flushed bright red

• Soft, almost embarrassed moans slip out despite himself

Tendo Satori

• Deep, teasing grunts rolling out like a low purr

• Playful smirk even as he’s about to lose control

• “Hngh… not yet, Y/N…” teasing, but body betrays him

• Comes with slow, deliberate moans, voice thick and teasing

• Pulls you close with a wicked grin, breath heavy and satisfied

Iwaizumi Hajime

• Breath steady at first, trying to stay collected

• Whines start slipping out—soft, needy little sounds

• “Ah… Y/N, c’mon… don’t stop…” voice shaky but trying to hide it

• Comes with tight, trembling movements and quiet gasps

• Afterwards, flushes but pulls you close, still whiny and clingy

Kyotani Kentaro

• Deep, guttural grunts, rough and fierce

• Breathing heavy, body tense and wild

• Low growls mixed with sharp pants—“Hngh… Y/N…”

• Comes hard, muscles twitching, voice raw and urgent

• Pulls you close with a rough grip, still grunting softly afterward

Oikawa Tooru

• Breath hitching, voice shaky and high-pitched

• Soft, desperate whines—“Hnn… Y/N… aahh…”

• Moans get louder and more breathless—“Hnggh… don’t stop… ahh…”

• Comes with trembling, hips bucking softly, utterly undone

• Collapses into you, face flushed and completely satisfied

Atsumu Miya

• Starts off cocky, smirking and teasing—“You’re not gonna make me this easy, huh?”

• But the moans start creeping in, soft and whiny—“Ahh… Y/N, fuck…”

• Tries to fight it, voice rough but shaky—“No way, I’m not… hngh…”

• Comes with breathless gasps and shaky hips, totally undone

• Afterward, pants heavily and grins—“Okay, maybe you’re better than I thought.”

Osamu Miya

• Forehead glistening with sweat, breath slow and warm

• Sweet whispers between heavy breaths—“You’re incredible, Y/N…”

• Soft moans, voice low and full of affection—“Ahh… just like that…”

• Comes with gentle shudders, hands tracing your skin tenderly

• Pulls you close afterward, forehead resting against yours, eyes full of warmth

Suna Rintaro

• Slow, deliberate smirks as he pulls back just to tease

• Low, cocky chuckles—“Not so easy to break, huh?”

• Moans soft but dripping with confidence—“Hngh… you feel good, Y/N…”

• Comes with controlled, steady movements, never losing that smug look

• Afterward, he pulls you close, voice teasing—“Bet you didn’t see that coming.”

Sakusa Kiyoomi

• Tense, quiet breaths at first, trying to stay calm

• Small, soft moans slipping out despite his best efforts

• “Ah… Y/N…” barely a whisper, voice tight

• Comes with a subtle shudder, face flushed but expression still composed

• Afterward, clears throat awkwardly and pulls you close, cheeks faintly pink

[biggianteggplant]

HAIKYUU BOYS WHO CRY WHEN OVERSTIMULATED

Oikawa Tooru

•Actual whiny sobs between moans

•“Y/N—please—I can’t—ahhhn!”

•Tears sliding down his flushed cheeks

•Still so dramatic about it, but you know he loves it

Atsumu Miya

•Thought he could take it, definitely couldn’t

•Voice breaks mid-moan—“Shit—Y/N I’m—ah—'m gonna cry f'real—”

•Tries to cover his eyes while sobbing and trembling

•Still rock-hard through it all

Tendou Satori

•Laughing through the overstim at first

•Slowly shifts to breathy, shaky cries

•“F-fuck—no more, no more—hahh—but also don’t stop…”

•Red eyes, messy moans, twitchy fingers clutching you

Kenma Kozume

•Tries to stay quiet but ends up sobbing softly

•“Y-Y/N… it’s too much… ahhn…”

•Body trembling, tears soaking into the pillow

•Buries his face in your chest or neck, begging through hiccupped moans

Yamaguchi Tadashi

•The most sensitive of them all

•Tears spill instantly after the second round

•“I-I can’t… nghh—ahh!”

•Whole body twitching, fingers gripping tight, sobbing but still wanting more

Kageyama Tobio

•So confused by his own reaction

•“W-why… why m’ I crying…?” between choked moans

•Blushes like crazy, voice breaking with every thrust

•Actually sobs when you whisper praise in his ear

Suna Rintaro

•Tries to keep it cool

•Ends up with a shaky bottom lip and glassy eyes

•“Fuck… fuck, Y/N—this is…” voice fades into a groan

•One single tear slips, and he denies it ever happened

Akaashi Keiji

•Bites his lip, trying so hard not to make noise

•Face buried in your neck, trembling hands gripping your waist

•“Y-Y/N… it’s—ah—t-too much…” voice breaking, breath hitching

•Tears wetting your skin as he hides his face

•Moans slipping out in tiny gasps—“mm—hahh… m’ sorry…”

•Still rolling his hips, even as he sobs softly against you

Bokuto Koutaro

•Loud, broken moans—“AHH—Y/N—hnnngh I’m—m’ gonna cry!”

•Face nuzzled into your chest, sobbing while still moving his hips

•Voice goes high and shaky—“T-too good—c-can’t… can’t stop!”

•Gripping you like he’ll fall apart without you

•Tears running down his cheeks, lips quivering, whole body shaking

Kuroo Tetsurou

•Started with smug smirks, ends with choked sobs

•“F-fuck… Y/N… I c-can’t—nghh…”

•Tries to hold it together, but his voice cracks mid-moan

•Tears rolling as his hips stutter, hair messy, cheeks flushed

•Clutching you so tight—“s’too good… don’t stop—please…”

•Whimpering, trying to hide his face in your neck but completely falling apart

Tsukishima Kei

•“D-don’t look at me…” he mumbles, face flushed, avoiding your eyes

•Hic! “Hngh-hic!—a-ah…” his voice breaks as he trembles underneath you

•Tries to keep his cool, but he's falling apart—tears streaking down his cheeks

•Fists gripping the sheets, thighs twitching—“s’too much… m-make it stop…”

•Keeps rutting up against you, chasing the feeling even through the sobs

•Each moan ends in a tiny hiccup, lip quivering, breath stuttering

Kita Shinsuke

•He thought he could stay composed… but then you started moving like that

•“A-ah… Y/N…” he gasps, brows furrowed, sniffling

•Tries to hide his face behind his forearms, but his shaky breathing gives him away

•“I-I’m sorry… I c-can’t hold it—” he whimpers, lips trembling

•You keep going and he just breaks—tiny hiccups and stuttered cries slipping out

•Body tense, trying to stay still while you ride him through the overstim

•“P-please… j-just a little slower…” even though he doesn’t really want you to stop 😵‍💫

Osamu Miya

•“Hnghh… sh-shit, Y/N…” he whines, sweaty forehead resting against your chest

•Eyes glossy, voice breaking as he chokes out, “I c-can’t… I’m gonna—hnngh…”

•Tears slipping down his cheeks as he tries to keep up with your pace

•Hands gripping your waist tight like he's afraid you'll disappear

•Sniffling softly, burying his face against you—“s-so good… f-feels too good…”

•Tries to talk sweet through the whimpers—“you’re unreal… makin’ me lose my damn mind…”

Ushijima Wakatoshi

• Tries so hard to keep quiet and composed

• Breathing sharpens, muscles tense—but his eyes start to water when it’s too much

• You whisper something soft—“You’re doing so good, baby”—and he breaks

• “A-ah… Y/N… I-I don’t…” voice shaky, trying to understand his body

• Tears stream slowly down his cheeks while his jaw clenches

• Absolutely blushing hard, trying to turn his head away to hide it

• Still thrusting softly even through the tears, unable to stop his body’s reaction

• Collapses against you afterward, breathless, whispering a tiny: “Sorry… I didn’t mean to cry…”

[biggianteggplant]

CHOCO LOVE

Yes, Horny chocolate

HINATA SHOYO

You gave him the chocolate as a joke.

“Just something sweet!” you said, smiling. “Try it after practice, okay?”

He beamed. “Thank you, YN! That was really thoughtful!”

Cue: 3 hours later.

He's curled up on your living room floor. Hoodie pulled over his head. Face red as a tomato. Knees to his chest. Breathing weirdly.

You peer over the couch. “Sho? Are you okay?”

“…Mhm.”

“You sure?”

“…Y-Yeah.”

Pause.

“You’re literally sweating through your shirt.”

“I’m hot.” “No kidding.”

You walk over and kneel next to him. “Did you overwork yourself again? You always go too hard—”

“I didn’t do anything!” he blurts, then clamps his hand over his mouth. “…Wait. Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

“…Shoyo. What’s going on?”

He lets out a groan and flops onto his back, hoodie covering his entire face now. “I can’t tell you. It’s—embarrassing.”

“…Are you dying.”

“…Maybe emotionally.”

You pull the hoodie up just a little. His eyes are wide. Glazed. Face crimson. “Did something happen after you ate the chocolate?”

He blinks. Then sits bolt upright. “WHAT WAS IN THAT CHOCOLATE, Y/N?!”

“Wha—you ate it??”

“Y-Yeah you gave it to me!!” “I didn’t think you’d eat the whole thing!! It was labeled like... love booster or something weird—”

“WHY WOULD YOU GIVE ME A LOVE BOOSTER?!”

You’re both screaming now. He immediately covers his mouth again. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to yell again.”

Silence.

“…S-So you’re feeling… stuff?”

He stares at the ceiling. His ears turn red. “…My heart’s been racing for an hour, I tried doing sit-ups to calm down, but then I started thinking about you and it made it worse, and then I looked at your hoodie on the couch and I just—”

“Wait, you thought about me—”

“CAN I SLEEP IN THE BATHTUB?”

“…What.”

“I just need to cool down. Please. Just. Don’t look at me for like five hours.”

He scrambles up, dragging your throw pillow with him, practically sprinting to the bathroom.

You’re left in the living room, blinking.

You didn’t even know someone could get horny and shy at the same time.

KAGEYAMA TOBIO

You handed it to him before training. Just a little wrapped-up chocolate bar. “For good luck,” you said with a smile. He took it with that awkward nod of his. “…Thanks.”

He didn’t think anything of it.

Until 40 minutes into practice—he messes up a serve.

Which. Never. Happens.

Atsumu smirks. “Yo, Tobio. You okay?”

Kageyama scowls. “I’m fine.” But he isn’t.

Because his body feels… off. Warm. Hyperaware. Like every inch of his skin is tuned to high sensitivity. And his thoughts? Not focused on volleyball.

Focused on you.

Later, he finds you alone near the back hall, refilling your water bottle.

His footsteps echo as he walks up, and you turn.

“Hey—oh. Tobio. What’s up?”

He stops a few feet from you. Frozen.

You tilt your head. “Everything okay?”

He says nothing.

Just stares. Hard. Eyes dark. Tense. Flicking from your face… to your mouth… to your neck… back up again.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?”

“…No reason.”

“…You sure? You’re kinda—sweating. A lot.”

He jerks his eyes away. “…It’s hot.”

You frown. “You’ve been acting weird since earlier.”

Silence.

Then quietly—his voice low:

“…That chocolate you gave me.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

“…What was in it?”

You straighten. “Wait. Did you eat all of it??”

His jaw clenches. “You told me to.”

“Oh my god—Tobio, I didn’t think you'd—” You cut yourself off.

He’s still staring at you. His eyes are scanning you like he’s trying to figure something out.

Then, barely audible:

“…I’m distracted.” You freeze.

“What?”

“I can’t stop thinking about—” He cuts himself off. His fists are clenched. His ears are red.

“…I keep messing up in practice,” he says, voice tight. “Because I keep thinking about you. And that chocolate. And the fact that I don’t know if this is your fault or mine.”

You stare at him.

He stares back, like he’s one breath away from either kissing you or short-circuiting.

“…Is it bad?” you whisper.

He swallows hard. Then—leans closer.

“I don’t know yet.” His eyes are burning. “I might need another piece to find out.”

TSUKISHIMA KEI

You gave him the chocolate half as a joke, half as a “you need sugar because you’re a grump” gift. He rolled his eyes.

“Are you bribing me now?” You grinned. “Maybe.”

He took it with that classic bored Tsukki expression. Tore off the wrapper. Ate it. Didn’t even blink.

“Thanks,” he said flatly. “Wasn’t bad.”

Two hours later…

He’s shirtless in your apartment kitchen.

Standing near the fridge. Glass of water in one hand. The other shoved into his pocket like he’s trying to physically hold himself together.

“…This is annoying,” he mutters.

You blink at him. “What is?”

“This feeling.”

You freeze.

“…Tsukki, are you okay?”

He exhales sharply. Pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His cheeks are pink. His voice is strained.

“My skin feels hot. My brain is loud. And for some reason, I can’t stop looking at you.”

You stare.

“Tsukishima, did you—wait—did you eat all the chocolate?!”

He glares. “Why the hell did it taste like cinnamon and lust.”

“…WHAT.”

He steps forward. Not fast. But on purpose.

“You thought you could mess with me, huh?” His voice is low now. Dangerous. Curious.

You laugh nervously. “W-wait, it was just a joke gift—Tsukki—”

He cuts you off with intense eye contact. Head tilts slightly. Then—he smirks. The rare kind. The one that sends shivers down your spine.

“…Why don’t we see if it worked?”

You blink. “Wh—”

And then he leans in. REAL close. His breath brushing your jaw. His mouth just a hair from your ear.

“…Don’t worry. I’ll grade your performance later.”

You short-circuit.

KUROO TETSURO

When you gave him the chocolate earlier, it was just playful.

“It’s fancy,” you said. “Imported. Thought you’d like it.”

He raised an eyebrow, unwrapped it with one hand, and popped a piece into his mouth.

Then he licked his thumb slowly—eyes locked on you.

“…Damn, YN. Trying to seduce me?”

You blinked. “What?! No! It’s literally just chocolate.”

He chuckled. That low, rich, sin-in-a-suit kind of laugh.

“Well,” he said, licking his lip. “Too late.”

Fast forward to later that night.

You come home exhausted. Your bag hits the couch. Your hair’s a mess. You're ready to collapse.

You call out: “Tetsu? I’m home!”

No answer.

You find him in the bedroom, hoodie on, hood up, sleeves rolled up, head tilted back against the headboard. He’s breathing hard. Eyes half-lidded. Hair damp at the nape of his neck.

“…Tetsu?” you whisper, walking closer.

He opens his eyes. Panic. Tries to sit up.

“Don’t—don’t come close.”

You frown. “Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine,” he rasps. “Just. Uh. Tired.”

You blink. “You’re flushed. And sweating. Did you eat something weird? Are you—”

He won’t meet your eyes. He knows what he did.

But he doesn’t want to bother you. You’re tired. He told himself he could wait it out.

You sit beside him on the bed and slowly rest your hand on his thigh.

“…Tetsu, baby. Are you okay?”

And he YELPS.

Like. Chokes on air.

Eyes wide. Whole body flinching. Knees jerking together like a cartoon character.

“…YN.”

“Yes?”

“Please. Don’t touch me right now. If you do, I’m going to make the worst decision of my life.”

You blink. “Like what?”

He exhales shakily. Hoodie hood still over his head like he’s hiding from God.

“…Like asking you to ruin me right now when you literally just got home from work.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“…So you did like the chocolate.”

He groans.

“Woman. You spiked it with sex. Of course I did.”

KENMA KOZUME

You sent him the chocolate during his stream. Just a casual “I saw this and thought of you” moment.

He reads your message aloud between matches.

“Thanks, YN. Love you.”

Chat spams: “OOOHHH 😏” “KENMA CONFIRMED WHIPPED” “WE SHIP” “HE SAID LOVE U???”

He doesn’t react. Just munches on the chocolate quietly. For a while.

Then something… shifts.

He gets quiet. Like, even more than usual.

His hoodie is pulled up. He's slouching harder. He keeps tugging his hoodie strings. Pulling the fabric up over his mouth. Flushed cheeks. Hair sticking to his forehead.

The camera catches him swallowing hard. Fidgeting.

Then—suddenly—

Stream ends.

No warning. No “brb.” Just poof.

Your phone vibrates 30 seconds later.

🐱 Kenma: “my whole body is buzzing. why?”

You: “What? Did something happen?”

🐱 Kenma: “…wait.” 🐱 Kenma: “aphrodisiac??” 🐱 Kenma: “YN.” 🐱 Kenma: “is this your way of saying you want me?”

You’re typing a reply when— Ping.

Image received.

You open it.

Kenma. Shirtless. Lying back on his bed. Hair tousled, cheeks red, lips parted. Hoodie still half-on. Collarbones visible. “Fix this.” written across his palm in messy Sharpie.

Your brain bluescreens.

He texts again:

🐱 “i’m not mad. just desperate.” 🐱 “so. what’s your plan?” 🐱 “irl DLC? or do i keep suffering on main.”

BOKUTO KOUTARO

Earlier that day, he beamed when you handed him the chocolate. “CHOCOLATE?! FROM YOU?! THANKS, Y/N!!!” He ate it with zero hesitation. Even licked the wrapper.

You: “Don’t eat the foil—”

Too late.

Fast forward three hours.

He’s fresh out of practice, hair damp from a shower, towel around his neck, face flushed — not from training. He’s lying on the couch in gray sweatpants, breathing uneven, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him.

“Why do I feel like I ran a marathon after training…?”

His body’s hot. His thighs are tense. His fingers are twitching.

He scrolls through his phone. Missed call from Y/N.

He sits up instantly. Then groans. The ache between his legs is painfully obvious now.

You knock on his apartment door, holding some takeout. “Bo? You okay? You sounded kinda off earlier.”

The moment he opens the door, you're hit with warmth — like the air shifted. He looks… messed up. Sweaty. Hair sticking to his forehead. Face flushed. Pupils blown.

“Y/N…” he breathes out. “Hey…”

You frown. “Did you get sick or something?”

He backs up a little, clearly trying to keep his distance — but his sweatpants are doing zero hiding. “I… don’t know. I feel weird. Like… warm? All over?”

You squint at him, and it clicks.

“…You ate the chocolate, didn’t you?”

“Yeah?? It was good!! Wait—why are you looking at me like that?” Then he pauses. Blinks.

Looks down.

Looks back up.

Eyes widen. His voice cracks.

“Y/N… did you make me horny chocolate?!”

Your silence is the answer.

He stumbles back and grabs the couch for support. “I THOUGHT I WAS DYING.”

You set the takeout down. “You're not dying, Bo. You're just–”

“I’M HARD FOR NO REASON.”

You try not to laugh.

Bo starts panicking. “DOES THIS MEAN YOU WANNA–? LIKE–DO THINGS?! IS THIS YOU SAYING YOU LOVE ME?!”

You step closer. His eyes go huge.

You whisper: “If I said yes, would you calm down?”

“NO,” he yells, immediately wrapping his arms around you like a koala. “I’D GET WORSE.”

KEIJI AKAASHI

You gave him the chocolate earlier that day, wrapped neatly with a ribbon. He accepted it with that gentle smile of his. “Thank you, YN. That’s very sweet of you.”

He popped one into his mouth like it was nothing.

1 hour later. Your phone buzzes.

Keiji Akaashi

I feel strange. Warm. Slightly flushed. Was there… something in that chocolate?

You:

😅 what do you mean?

Keiji Akaashi

We should talk. In private.

You show up to his apartment expecting maybe a flustered mess.

But no.

He answers the door in a black turtleneck and slacks, glasses on, hair slightly tousled like he’d run his hands through it too many times.

You: “You look… fine.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he murmurs, letting you in.

You sit across from him. He pours tea. His hands are steady. Too steady. But his ears are red.

Finally, he speaks.

“…I didn’t want to accuse you,” he says, tone smooth but eyes sharp, “but knowing you and your antics…”

He leans forward, just slightly. The look he gives you? Illegal.

“Be honest. You knew what that chocolate would do to me, didn’t you?”

You: “...Not really. I mean—”

“Because ever since I ate it, I’ve been thinking about you. In ways I shouldn’t during meetings. My body’s tense. My mind’s loud. And I can’t focus. At all.”

He says it like he’s scolding you — but his gaze drifts. Down your lips. Your neck.

“You owe me an apology,” he adds, voice a shade lower.

You blink. “An apology?”

He leans in again.

“…Or maybe something better.”

KITA SHINSUKE

It had been a long day.

Kita came in from the fields like he always does—shirt a little damp, hands calloused, face glowing with fresh air and quiet discipline. You handed him his usual lunch, neatly packed like always, but this time...

You added a small chocolate dessert.

"Thought you deserved a treat," you say sweetly.

He blinked at you, then gave a soft smile.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He eats it without a second thought. It melts on his tongue.

Hours later.

You find him standing by the kitchen sink, staring out the window. Silent. Tense. His hand is resting low on the counter like he's grounding himself.

You wrap your arms around his waist from behind.

“You okay, Shin?”

“…Something’s off,” he murmurs. “Feels like I drank too much sake. Body’s hot. But I haven’t had a drop.”
He swallows. “Can’t think straight. My hands are… restless.”

You kiss the back of his neck. He stiffens.

"Y/N…” His voice cracks just slightly.

You move to stand in front of him. He can’t meet your gaze. He’s flushed. Stiff in more ways than one.

You gently cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks.

“Shin,” you whisper, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You never ask for help… but I can feel what you need.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, eyes finally locking with yours.

“You’re doin’ dangerous things, sugar,” he says softly. His hands hover at your hips, trembling. “I’m tryin’ to be good.”

You smile, kiss him again, this time a little deeper. “You’ve been too good.”

And his restraint shatters, just a little.

His lips find your neck.
His fingers tighten at your waist.
And all that farm-boy discipline?
Gone.

MIYA ATSUMU

You gave him one. Single. Piece.

A sleek little chocolate truffle wrapped in gold foil.

“Ohhh fancy chocolate from YN~? Don’t mind if I do,” Atsumu cooed, grinning as he popped it into his mouth.
“Sweet just like ya,” he added with a wink.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up and eat it.”

He did. Smug. Smirking. Clueless.

An hour later.

Your phone starts buzzing.

🐯 atsumu.miya: “YN”
🐯 atsumu.miya: “I can’t stop thinkin’ about ya.”
🐯 atsumu.miya: “Like. Physically. CAN’T.”
🐯 atsumu.miya: “Was that chocolate spiked or are you just naturally evil???”

You laugh—until you hear your doorbell.

You open it to find Atsumu, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, his hair a total mess, face way too flushed for someone who just "happened to be in the area."

"You did somethin’ to me,” he says accusingly, stepping inside like he owns the place. “That chocolate messed me up.”

He slumps on your couch dramatically, pouting. His legs are spread. His hoodie’s halfway zipped. He looks like a chaotic thirst trap.

“I'm so warm. And twitchy. And HARD. And—don’t look at me like that!”

You smirk, sitting beside him. “I didn’t tell you to eat it all.”

He huffs. “Ya knew I would.”

Then he leans in—eyes dark, voice low.

“You did this to me, YN…”
A little whine slips out as his fingers wrap around your wrist.
“Might as well finish what ya started, right?”

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

You hand him the chocolate after practice.

He eyes it suspiciously. Sniffs it.

“What’s in this?” he asks, like you're offering poison.

“Just chocolate,” you say sweetly. You don’t flinch. That should’ve been his first warning.

He eats it.

He regrets it immediately.

An hour later…

Your phone rings.
Caller ID: Kiyoomi 🍃

“Y/N,” he says tightly. “I don’t feel right.”

You’re grinning already. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“My skin’s hot. My head’s fuzzy. My pants are… tight.”
There’s a pause. You can feel his glare through the phone.
“You better pray this wears off. If not… we’re going to have a long night.”

Click.

Another hour later.

There’s a knock at your door.

You open it—and there he is.
Black hoodie. Mask on. Gloves still on his hands like he’s clinging to the last shred of control.
But his hoodie’s halfway unzipped, exposing just enough of his collarbones to make your brain stop functioning.

“What are you wearing?” you ask, a little too amused.

He glares. “Don’t talk.”

You smile sweetly. “Kiyoomi… are you flustered?”

He storms past you. “I’m boiling. And you’re making it worse.”

You follow, barely hiding your giggle. “You didn’t have to come over, you know.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he mutters, yanking off his gloves. “My body feels like it’s craving you. You did something to me. Admit it.”

You lean close, fingers brushing his collarbone, watching him twitch under your touch.
“So what if I did?”

He exhales hard, barely keeping his hands off you.

“You’re evil,” he mutters.
Then adds, voice dropping lower—
“…but I like it.”

[biggianteggplant]

Just saw a pin on my fy in pinterest

Sadist x masochist

And instantly thaught of tsukishima

VERIFY ME, DADDY

It started with the group project. Or, as Tsukishima called it, “Academic Purgatory.”

You didn’t care. The moment the teacher paired you up with him, you took it as a spiritual sign from the gods that you were destined to ruin this man’s peace. “Looks like we’re stuck together, Pikachu,” you whispered across the desks. Tsukishima blinked at you once, slowly, like he was calculating whether homicide was worth detention.

“You’re the reason warning labels exist,” he said without looking up from his notebook.

You grinned. “And you’re the reason I have trust issues. Let’s be best friends.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The project was supposed to be simple: a two-person presentation on historical propaganda techniques. You turned it into emotional warfare by Day 2.

You: “Should we dress up like World War II posters?” Tsukishima: “You already look like you crawled out of a Cold War bunker.” You: “I just felt something. I think it was love.”

Yamaguchi, third-wheeling against his will, watched the two of you bicker in the library like it was a WWE verbal smackdown. You accused Tsukishima of having the emotional range of an IKEA manual. He told you your fashion sense was a hate crime.

By Week 1, people were placing bets. Someone made a spreadsheet. There were categories: “Who Will Snap First,” “Most Creative Insult,” “Accidental Flirting Count.”

“You’re like a walking CAPTCHA,” Tsukishima muttered as you both scrolled through old wartime posters. “Impossible to understand, painfully annoying, and no one wants to deal with you.”

“Then verify me, daddy,” you replied instantly.

He almost choked on his gum. “You need psychological help.”

“I did a BuzzFeed quiz once. It said I was emotionally stable.”

“That’s not even—” He paused, squinting. “Wait. That was the quiz I made.”

“Yeah,” you said. “You called me a tax write-off at the end.”

He stared. “Because you’re a literal burden.”

You clutched your chest dramatically. “You remembered!”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The day of the presentation arrived. You showed up in a full military coat you found at a thrift store labeled “Cursed Trench Jacket, 1943.” Tsukishima wore his normal clothes and a look of resigned despair.

Onstage, you passed the mic back and forth like it was a weapon. You said propaganda made people believe lies. Tsukishima said you were living proof.

“The war was built on misinformation,” you said. “For example, Tsukishima told me I was smart once. I still haven’t recovered from the deception.”

He took the mic without blinking. “The only battle Y/N ever won was against common sense. And that was a fluke.”

The class was crying. The teacher looked one second away from calling a priest.

But then, the final slide: “Modern Day Examples of Psychological Manipulation.” And there it was—your coup de grâce.

A slide of Tsukishima’s face, captioned: “This Man Told Me to 'Use My Brain'—I’ve Been Trying Ever Since.”

You turned and looked at him with big, stupid heart eyes. “He’s my Roman Empire.”

He stared at you like you were the end of all his peace.

Then he said, clear as a bell: “You’re my 13th Reason.”

And that was it. Half the class screamed. Yamaguchi whispered, “Why is this kind of romantic.” Someone in the back whispered, “Just kiss already or kill each other.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Later, when you were packing up, Tsukishima leaned over.

“You are, genuinely, the weirdest person I’ve ever met.”

You smiled up at him, borderline possessed. “And you’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever emotionally fucked.”

He blinked once. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Only when you insult me harder,” you whispered.

He paused. Then—with no warning—he leaned close and muttered in your ear:

“You peaked in elementary school.”

You almost fainted. “You’re invited to my wedding. You’re the groom.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “I’m filing a restraining order.”

Y/N: “Can I sign it too?”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Let the Roasting Olympics continue. Everyone else might be exhausted. But you? You’re in love.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Your group project got a perfect score. The teacher wrote “Impressively… unique delivery” on the grading sheet while blinking slowly, like she had witnessed a war crime.

You were thrilled. “This means we work well together, right?”

Tsukishima stared at you. “If by ‘work well’ you mean ‘cause public concern,’ then yes.”

You beamed. “I cherish you.”

He blinked. “I feel like I stepped on a Lego every time you speak.”

That night, you changed your phone wallpaper to his yearbook photo and told your friends you were in an emotionally combative situationship. They weren’t surprised.

Yamaguchi: “Is this healthy?” You: “No.” Yamaguchi: “Are you going to stop?” You: “Also no.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

One week later, you found yourself at a school field trip to the museum. You and Tsukishima, once again cursed partners, were supposed to complete a worksheet together. He held the paper like it had personally offended him.

“I’ll answer the questions,” he said. “You just… stand over there. Quietly. Preferably with a muzzle.”

“Oh, you care about me,” you cooed.

“I’d care more if you were legally banned from speaking.”

You stood next to a statue and sighed dramatically. “This sculpture gets me. It’s emotionally distant and emotionally cold—just like you.”

Tsukishima didn’t even look up. “That sculpture has more social value than you do.”

You clutched your heart. “Write that in a poem. Use that as your wedding vow.”

He finally looked up. “If I ever get married, it’s going to be to someone quiet. Someone with basic self-preservation instincts.”

You gasped. “So not me?”

“Especially not you.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “So like, enemies to lovers?”

“More like irritant to lifelong migraine.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Things escalated when you started texting him memes at 2am.

You: [sends photo of a pigeon wearing a top hat] You: “this is u when u lie about not caring abt me” Tsukishima: stop You: [sends audio recording of you saying “pls roast me tsukki i haven’t felt anything all day” in a British accent]

He started replying with things like: Tsukishima: “You’re like a black hole. Emotionally dense and draining to be near.” You: “i printed that and taped it to my mirror <3”

He was doomed.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

It all came to a head when you showed up at his volleyball game with a glitter sign that said: “TSUKISHIMA STEPPED ON MY HEART WITH HIS SIZE 13s 😍”

He walked past you and didn’t even stop. Just muttered: “You are clinically unwell.”

But when he scored a block point, he looked directly at you in the crowd.

And smirked.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

After the game, you waited by the gym doors, still holding your sign like it was your firstborn child.

“Was the sign too much?” you asked when he walked up.

“Yes.”

“Do you secretly love it?”

“No.”

Pause.

“Do you want to go out sometime?”

Tsukishima sighed, looked to the heavens, and muttered, “I already feel like I’m in hell when I’m around you. So sure. Let’s go.”

You squealed. “This is the worst day of your life, isn’t it?”

He nodded slowly. “It’s only downhill from here.”

You smiled like it was your wedding day. “Perfect.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Roasting Olympics, now a long-term commitment.

He calls you a gremlin.

You call him your emotional support insult dispenser.

Love is real. And it's exhausting.

[biggianteggplant]

riding Timeskip! national team yaku in the storage closet, reader was offered chocolates....you know what kind hehehehehe readers feels all hot and needy eheh YEEEEEEEEHAWWW🦅🐴🐎🏇🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠

Riding Timeskip! Yaku in the storage closet

It started like any other exhausting, overly fluorescent weekday. You were buried in reports, spreadsheets, and half-reheated coffee, while your boyfriend, Yaku Morisuke, was neck-deep in national team training. The texts had become shorter, the calls less frequent—life was just busy. But your best friends? They noticed everything.

“You need a night. No—scratch that—a weekend,” Yuna had said, side-eyeing you from her desk while popping a strawberry lollipop into her mouth.

“Or just twenty minutes and a solid wall,” Mimi added with a snort, plopping into the chair next to yours and wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

You groaned and dropped your head onto your arms. “Guys, seriously…”

“No, we are serious,” Yuna said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a small heart-shaped box. “We got you something.”

“…Chocolates?” you asked, lifting your head as Mimi handed them over with a smug look.

“Special ones,” Mimi said, her tone dripping with mischief. “The kind that makes you feel warm and needy. Just a little something to remind your body what it’s been missing.”

You laughed nervously, eyeing the glittery box like it was a loaded weapon. “You two are insane.”

“And you're overdue for a good time,” Yuna grinned.

You popped one into your mouth just to shut them up, not expecting the slow warmth that bloomed in your stomach hours later. At first, you thought it was just placebo—until your skin felt too hot for your clothes, your mind clouded, and every little thing started making your thighs press together.

So when the gym emptied out after a late meeting and you found yourself near the storage closet—your heart skipping the moment you spotted Yaku heading in your direction, towel slung over his shoulder, shirt clinging to his post-practice body—it didn’t take much.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice low, rough, just slightly hoarse from drills.

You tried to play it cool. “Hey… you done for the night?”

His eyes raked over you, pausing just a second too long. “Yeah. Why?”

You stepped closer, biting your lip, voice dipping into a breathy whisper. “Because I’m not.”

His brows raised. Your fingers brushed his. Then you tugged him into the closet.

The door clicked shut behind you, and before Yaku could even ask what was going on, you had him backed against the shelves, your palms flat on his chest.

“W–wait, what—” His voice cracked slightly, eyes wide as he looked down at you. “Y/N?”

You were already breathing heavy, eyes dark, lips parted like you couldn’t decide whether to kiss him or beg him. “I missed you,” you whispered. “Too much. It’s driving me crazy.”

Yaku blinked. “W–we’re in the storage closet—I’m literally still sweating—”

“I don’t care.”

His breath hitched when you pressed your body flush against his, your hands sliding up under his damp shirt to feel the heat radiating off his skin. “You smell like effort and volleyball and it’s doing something weird to me, Morisuke,” you muttered, voice rough and needy.

“Wh–” He choked on his own flustered cough as your lips barely brushed his. “Wh-What did you eat today?!”

You just giggled darkly and tangled your fingers into the back of his hair, tugging just hard enough to shut him up.

That’s when he lost his balance—figuratively. His mouth crashed against yours like you’d finally flipped a switch. It was clumsy at first, needy and breathless and urgent, your mouths moving fast like you were trying to make up for all the time you’d spent apart.

His hands found your hips instinctively, pulling you closer as your lips parted and your tongues met—slow and wet and messy in the best possible way. You gasped against his mouth when he deepened the kiss, finally catching on to the heat simmering beneath your skin.

“Damn it,” he mumbled between kisses. “You taste like chocolate… and trouble.”

You nipped at his bottom lip and tugged it gently. “Then maybe you should punish me.”

Yaku growled low in his throat, his fingers digging in harder at your waist. “You’re not walking out of here without sore legs.”

“Promise?”

He kissed you again—hard. The kind of kiss that pushed the air out of your lungs, made your knees weak, and turned your brain to static.

The storage closet was already steaming up—and no, it wasn’t the weather.

Your fingers were already tangled in his damp hair, tugging again—sharper this time—and Yaku whimpered, hips jolting against yours like it short-circuited something in him.

“Sh–shit, Y/N…” he gasped, his voice shaky, like he wasn’t used to you taking charge like this—and loving every second of it.

You kissed him again, slower now, deeper. Tongue sliding past his lips as you rocked your hips against him, dragging out a low, broken groan from his throat. He gripped your hips hard, anchoring himself like he was drowning in the way you moved against him.

You pulled his hair again, just enough to tilt his head back so you could trail hot kisses along his jaw, down his neck—biting lightly before sucking at a spot just below his ear. Yaku shuddered, breath stuttering, his fingers trembling slightly where they gripped you.

“Y/N… holy hell,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “You’re… you’re gonna kill me.”

You rolled your hips slower this time, dragging friction right where he needed it. “You’ve been gone too long,” you breathed into his skin. “I need this.”

His hands moved to your ass, gripping tighter as you ground against him again, harder this time—and that’s when it happened. That soft, airy whimper from the back of his throat, barely audible but devastatingly real.

You smirked. “There it is.”

Yaku’s cheeks were flushed, lips kiss-swollen, his eyes glassy and blown wide with want. “God, you’re evil,” he muttered.

You kissed him again, biting at his lip before whispering against it. “Then do something about it.”

His back hit the shelf again with a soft thud, a box toppling behind him unnoticed. Your lips were back on his before he could speak—messy, open-mouthed, teeth clashing slightly as your hips rolled against his, again and again, drawing out the prettiest little gasps from deep in his chest.

He finally broke the kiss with a strangled breath, his fingers slipping under your shirt like he couldn’t decide if he was going to grip or worship. “What’s… what’s gotten into you?” he rasped, dazed and breathless.

You tilted your head, lips curling into a wicked little smile as you brushed your nose against his. “Chocolates,” you whispered playfully, grinding down once more just to feel him twitch against you.

“Ch–chocolates? What the hell kind of—” His sentence was cut off by the way your hands tugged at his hair again, harder this time. His hips bucked, a quiet, broken moan slipping past his lips as his head dropped to your shoulder.

You exhaled shakily, your own body flushed with need. “The kind that makes me want to climb you like a tree in a storage closet.”

“Jesus Christ, Y/N—” he groaned, and you could feel his restraint unraveling by the second, his hands gripping at your waist like he was barely holding back.

“Been too long, Morisuke,” you breathed into his ear, nipping at the lobe. “You’ve been gone, and I’ve been aching.”

He cursed softly, his voice cracking as he tugged you even closer. “Say that again.”

You smirked against his neck. “I’ve been aching for you.”

He whimpered again—quiet, needy—and then kissed you like he was losing his mind, hands everywhere, breath hitching every time your body pressed down against his just right. You were both a mess—panting, grinding, kissing like you were starved—and still barely getting started.

You wrapped your arms around Yaku's waist, feeling his muscles flex beneath your touch as you began to sink down on him. His cock was buried deep inside you throbbing with each stroke.

"Oh god..” he moaned, his head thrown back against the wall.

Yaku's eyes were closed now, his face twisted in a mask of pleasure as he pumped into you with all the finesse of a wild animal. His grunts and moans filled the air, mingling with your own gasps and sighs.

You felt yourself being stretched to the limit by his massive cock, but you couldn't help but beg for more.

"Ah...ah...oh god..." Yaku trailed off into a series of incoherent moans, his cock pulsing like a jackhammer as he came undone...

"Oh god," he moaned, his hands grasping for your hips as if trying to hold back. "You're killing me."

You laughed, feeling a rush of power as you rode him harder and faster. Your boobs bounced wildly now, slapping against Yaku's chest with each downward stroke.

Yaku's face contorted in agony as he tried to keep up with your pace. His cock pulsed inside you threatening to blow its top at any moment.

"More," You breathed into his ear, feeling the heat of your bodies merge into one sweaty mess.

Yaku nodded frantically, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he struggled to speak

"I...can't...take it..." He trailed off into another series of moans and groans, his body trembling beneath yours.

You felt Yaku's cock start to twitch and spasm inside you. the pressure building up to a crescendo. His moans grew louder and more urgent, his body arching off the wall as he tried to get closer.

You leaned forward, breasts pressing against his chest as you rode him harder and faster, nipples rubbed against his skin, sending shivers down your spine.

Yaku's eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth opening wide as he let out a primal scream of pleasure. His cock erupted inside you, pumping hot cum deep into your pussy.

You felt yourself getting swept away by the tide of pleasure, your own orgasm building up like a storm on the horizon. You could feel it coursing through your veins like liquid fire...

"Ah..mmf-hah...shit..baby" Yaku trailed off into another series of moans and groans, his body trembling beneath you as you both came undone together...

"Ahh...ahh...OH FUCK!" The both of you screamed in unison, voices echoing off the walls as you came together in a frenzy of passion.

Yaku collapsed against you, his chest heaving with exhaustion as he tried to catch his breath. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as you both rode out the aftershocks of your climax.

"Darling," Yaku whispered into your ear after a moment, his voice husky with emotion. "We need to get home."

You nodded reluctantly, still trying to process what had just happened between you. slowly detangling yourselves from each other's embrace and made your way back home

[biggianteggplant]

Baby fever w jjk men pleaszeeee😘

Baby fever isn't real, it can't hurt you.

GOJO SATORU

It started with the way he looked at his students.

You watched from the sidelines as Gojo cracked some dumb joke that made Yuji laugh so hard his soda came out of his nose. Megumi tried to pretend he wasn't smiling, and Nobara rolled her eyes before tossing a chip at Gojo's head, calling him an idiot. Gojo, naturally, took it like a badge of honor.

“You guys are so mean to me,” he said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “And to think, I raised you all myself…”

“You absolutely did not,” Megumi said flatly. “You traumatized us.”

“That’s just parenting!” Gojo winked.

You smiled despite yourself. It was like watching a sitcom play out in real life. And somewhere deep in your chest, something pinged.

He’s so good with them. …Oh no.

You tried to ignore the thought, but it curled up and made a home in your brain. All the "what ifs" came flooding in.

What if you and Gojo had your own kids?

What would it be like to see a tiny version of him with your eyes and his ridiculous white hair running around the house? Would he let them eat dessert before dinner? (Definitely.) Would he show up to PTA meetings in sunglasses and flip-flops? (Also yes.)

You almost choked when you imagined him being a girl dad—the type to throw tea parties and argue with a six-year-old about whether Elsa or Rapunzel had better powers. And then, years later, pacing around the living room because his teenage daughter was going to her first school dance and the boy looked sketchy.

He’d be overdramatic, protective, sweet in the weirdest ways.

And you'd be right there beside him, laughing through it all.

You were still daydreaming about Gojo in a pink apron when your phone buzzed: a baby shower invitation from a mutual friend. You didn’t expect him to say yes when you asked if he wanted to come.

But he did.

And that was your mistake.

Because at the baby shower, Gojo was in his element.

He played peek-a-boo with a toddler who actually giggled (what kind of sorcery??), helped a kid stack foam blocks, and even let a baby slobber all over his sunglasses without flinching.

“My shades!” he cried, fake sobbing while the baby squealed with laughter. “I was betrayed by a chubby little angel!”

You were doomed.

After cake, the both of you sat on a picnic blanket, watching kids run around the yard while the sun dipped low. He flopped beside you, his hair a mess, and his shirt smeared with what you hoped was frosting.

“Okay,” he said, breathless. “That baby with the tiny ponytail? Definitely tried to fight me.”

You laughed. “You let her win.”

“I had to. Her mom looked like she could actually throw hands.”

You smiled, your heart feeling a little too full, and stared at him for a moment. At his flushed cheeks, the way he grinned without holding back, how gentle his hands looked even though you knew how powerful they were.

You didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“...You’d be a really good dad.”

Gojo blinked.

Then, slowly, his grin softened. He looked at you sideways, his voice quieter than usual. “Yeah?”

You nodded, suddenly shy.

He reached out, lacing your fingers with his, squeezing once. “I think about it, y’know,” he murmured. “What it’d be like… to have a family with you.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I think we’d be chaotic,” he continued. “Like, absolutely insane. But happy.”

“And when our daughter turns fifteen and wants to date?” you teased.

He groaned. “I’m building a secret ninja school underground and teaching her how to suplex boys.”

You laughed until your sides hurt.

But later, as the stars came out and Gojo gently brushed your hair behind your ear, his expression turned serious.

“If you ever want that life,” he said, “tell me. I’m all in. Slobber, sleep deprivation, tiny socks and all.”

You leaned in and kissed him, right then and there.

Maybe baby fever wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

NANAMI KENTO

Nanami never thought much about the future. Not the kind filled with white picket fences, toys scattered on the floor, or Sunday mornings with pancakes burning in the pan.

But then there was you.

And one afternoon in particular.

It was supposed to be a simple visit—just stopping by a friend’s birthday picnic at the park. Nothing fancy. A few kids, balloons, finger foods, and a golden retriever someone brought along that somehow decided you were its soulmate.

You crouched down, laughing as the dog leaned its entire weight into your chest, tongue flopping and tail wagging uncontrollably. Then a pair of small hands tugged at your sleeve, a little girl with pigtails asking you to help tie her shoe. Without hesitation, you balanced her sneaker on your knee and did it for her, chatting like you’d known her your whole life.

Nanami stood a little ways off, watching quietly with his hands in his pockets.

The image of you, surrounded by laughing children and a wagging dog, sunlight catching in your hair like something out of a dream— That image settled in his chest like something heavy and warm.

She’d be a good mother, he thought.

The idea came uninvited. And it didn’t leave.

He imagined the two of you in a little home. A place away from curses and sleepless nights. A quiet kitchen where you hummed while making breakfast and a small child waddled around in socks too big for their feet.

Would your child have your laugh? Your kindness? Your eyes that saw the good in everything, even in him?

He didn’t even realize he was smiling.

“You’re staring,” your voice broke through as you approached him, holding a paper plate stacked with strawberries and cake. “Thinking about work?”

Nanami shook his head slowly. “No. Not work.”

You raised a brow, amused. “Then what?”

He hesitated. Honesty always came easy with you—surprisingly easy. So he didn’t lie.

“About how good you are with them,” he said. “The kids. The dog. People. Everything.”

You flushed, surprised at the softness in his voice.

“Just lucky, I guess,” you shrugged, offering him a bite of strawberry.

Nanami took it. Chewed. Swallowed. Then, with a voice gentler than you were used to hearing from him, he asked:

“Do you ever think about…having a family?”

You blinked.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

“Yeah,” you said, voice quiet. “Sometimes. With the right person.”

He nodded, gaze steady on yours. “I’d like it. If it were with you.”

It was simple. Sincere. So very Nanami.

And in that quiet moment, with the sounds of children playing and birds overhead and the wind teasing your hair, the two of you stood still—like the world had paused for just long enough to show you what love, real love, could look like.

He reached for your hand and held it like a vow.

HIROMI HIGURUMA

Hiromi isn’t sure when it starts. Maybe it’s when he sees you rocking your baby cousin to sleep—humming a little song under your breath while gently brushing crumbs from her shirt.

Maybe it’s when you put on her tiny socks and giggle because “She has potato feet, Hiromi, look!” and his heart does something painfully soft in his chest.

Or maybe it’s when you make animal pancakes for her breakfast—one shaped like a bunny, one like a cat—and sneak one onto his plate too, saying, “You’re the judge. Who gets cuter breakfast?”

It’s silly. It’s small. But something about all of it makes his heart ache in the best way.

He’s never known this kind of peace.

The little girl curls up beside you on the couch, clinging to your sleeve. She refuses to nap without you. You don’t complain—you just smile and tuck a blanket over her tiny body, whispering, “You’re safe, sweetheart.”

Hiromi sits on the armrest, quiet, just watching.

You glance up at him with that warm little smile, your voice barely a whisper.

“She reminds me of me, a little.”

He tilts his head. “How so?”

“She wants to be near people who make her feel safe. Not loud, not too much. Just… present.”

Hiromi’s chest tightens. He knows that feeling well. And now he’s the one feeling it—watching you.

After a moment, you whisper, “Do you want to hold her?”

He looks startled. “Me?”

“Yeah. She likes you,” you say, scooting over just a little. “And you’re good at being calm.”

He hesitates. But then she stirs, a soft little hand reaching blindly in her sleep—landing right on his sleeve. She doesn’t wake, just grips his arm gently.

Hiromi freezes. Then smiles. Very faintly. Like a secret blooming in his chest.

You nudge your shoulder into his. “You’d be a really good dad, you know.”

He turns to you slowly, something unreadable in his eyes.

“Would I?”

You nod. “Yeah. You’re steady. Thoughtful. Patient. And you care… quietly. That’s a gift.”

He looks down at the tiny hand still holding his sleeve. Then back at you.

“Would you…” He swallows. “Would you want that? One day?”

You blink, surprised by how soft his voice suddenly sounds.

“With me?” he adds, just above a whisper.

You reach for his hand—gently interlacing your fingers with his.

“I already see it when I look at you,” you say. “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But someday? Yeah. I’d love that.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just squeezes your hand a little tighter, leans his head against yours.

And for the first time in a long time, Hiromi Higuruma lets himself believe in something good.

CHOSO KAMO

You had the whole evening planned. Table reserved. Outfit picked. Lip gloss on.

And then… the text.

“Emergency. Can you please babysit Ava tonight? I’ll owe you forever.” – Your cousin

You sighed. Looked at your phone. Then at the clock. Then at the pretty dress you were halfway into.

When Choso arrived, hands in his pockets and wearing that rare, dark-button-up he only pulled out for actual events, you met him at the door with an apologetic smile… and a three-year-old clinging to your leg.

“…Hi,” you said, sheepish. “Change of plans.”

Choso blinked at you. Then blinked down at the child blinking up at him.

“This is Ava.”

She waved a tiny hand.

He waved back, slow. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, stepping aside. “You can totally go if you want. I got roped into babysitting last-minute, and she was already on her way over before I could say no.”

Choso didn’t move. Just looked at you. Then at Ava again.

“…Do you have macaroni and cheese?” he asked.

You blinked. “What?”

“For her,” he said. “We can make some.”

You stared.

Then laughed.

“Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

And that was how your date night turned into dino nugget dinner, crayon drawings on the floor, and Disney movie marathons with a sleepy toddler curled up in your lap and Choso somehow managing to braid her hair during the third rewatch of Frozen.

You caught him watching you at some point—when you were feeding Ava tiny spoonfuls of ice cream and wiping her mouth with a napkin shaped like a bunny. His eyes were soft. Fond.

Like he was thinking a lot, but keeping it quiet.

Later, after she’d finally dozed off in the blanket fort the three of you had made, you sank beside him on the couch with a sigh.

“I’m sorry about tonight.”

Choso shook his head. “Don’t be.”

“It’s not what we planned.”

He looked at you with that quiet, unwavering gaze that always made you feel safe.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “Actually… I liked this.”

You blinked. “Really?”

He nodded slowly.

“It made me think.”

“About what?”

He hesitated. Then:

“About what it’d be like. With you. A family.”

Your heart fluttered.

“She really liked you,” you said, teasing, brushing a crayon smudge off his cheek. “You even got her to sit still for a braid. That’s a rare skill.”

Choso gave a tiny smile. “You’re good with kids.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You too.”

He looked at you for a long moment.

“…If we ever had one,” he said quietly, “I think they’d be happy. I think we’d… make something good.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, smile blooming.

“We already are.”

And somewhere inside that blanket fort, a little girl snored softly—safe, warm, and tucked between two people who were maybe realizing that love didn’t always have to come with candles and dresses.

Sometimes, it was dinosaur nuggets and baby giggles.

And that was enough.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“They’re not gonna like me,” Sukuna says flatly, eyeing the trio of kids peeking from behind the couch cushions like he’s the villain in a bedtime story.

You laugh, patting his arm before heading toward the door.

“They’ll warm up,” you say. “Just be nice. Gentle.”

“I am gentle.”

A pause.

“...Sometimes.”

You shoot him a knowing look. “I’ll only be gone a few hours. You’ve got this, big scary king of curses.”

He grumbles something under his breath, but doesn’t stop you as you leave.

And then it’s just him. And three kids. And silence.

They stare. He stares back.

One of them—Tomi, the brave one—whispers: “Are those real tattoos?”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow.

Another one, Yui, tugs her brother's sleeve. “I think he eats people.”

Sukuna sighs.

“This is going to suck,” he mutters.

The first half hour is exactly what he expected: Kids dodging his gaze. Cowering when he talks. One almost cries when he picks up a dropped toy.

He doesn’t know how to fix it. He’s not used to being… approachable.

So he just does what he’s seen you do: sits on the floor. Quiet. Lets them come to him.

It takes a while, but eventually, a ball rolls his way. He picks it up. Rolls it back.

Tomi returns. Then Yui. Then the littlest one, Sora.

They play like that for a while—no talking, just rolling, tossing, catching.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Sora giggles.

By the time you get home, Sukuna’s sitting on the floor with Yui on his back like he’s a jungle gym and Tomi’s trying to tie a ribbon around his wrist “to make him less scary.”

He spots you at the door. Freezes. Clears his throat and immediately drops the smile.

“Hmph. Took you long enough.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “You all look… cozy.”

“I was babysitting. It’s not that deep.”

Yui tugs his sleeve. “But you were fun!”

“I wasn’t,” he replies quickly.

You laugh, kneeling beside him.

The kids eventually get picked up, waving goodbye with extra-long hugs for Sukuna that he pretends to dislike but secretly leans into.

After they leave, you nudge his side.

“You were amazing, y’know.”

He shrugs. Doesn’t meet your eyes. “I scared them.”

“At first,” you say. “But they saw who you are.”

Sukuna goes quiet.

Then, softly—so softly you almost miss it:

“…Would you ever want that?”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“Kids. Your own. With… someone like me.”

The question hits your chest like warmth, slow and spreading.

You take his hand. Gently squeeze.

“I would,” you say. “If it was you.”

He doesn’t speak.

Just pulls you into his arms, buries his face in your neck, and murmurs:

“…They really tied a ribbon on me.”

You grin.

“And you let them.”

HELLO MY LOVES AAAAA

I’M CURRENTLY CLEARING OUT MY DRAFTS BEFORE I POST THE GOOD STUFF 😏😏😏