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[kaiinyourarea]

(I) Rumors in Reverb (Choso Kamo X Reader)

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Pairing: Bassist!Choso Kamo x Popular!Reader (Modern College AU) Synopsis: One cryptic song dedication blows up your campus world—whispers say it’s for you. The dedicator? The "loser" you’ve never noticed… until every crash and glance starts echoing louder than the rumors. Will he ever speak, or just let the reverb fade? Content Warnings: Toxic bandmate dynamics including misogyny and verbal bullying, public humiliation via social media, explicit sexual content (18+, future chapters), revenge plots, power imbalances, intense emotional confrontations, strong language, alcohol use, and morally ambiguous choices. All Characters are legal. First Chord | Backstage Whispers | Offbeat Encounter | Static | Out of Tune | Bass Drop | Harmony or Hazard | Dissonant | False Notes | Distortion | Severed Strings | Final Show (THNK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT)

You wake up to the shrill beep! beep! beep! of your alarm, the kind that pierces through the fog of sleep like a knife. It's one of those mornings where everything feels off, your head throbs faintly from staying up too late the night before, cramming for today's quiz you'd probably ace anyway.

The room is still dim, early light filtering through the curtains of your dorm, casting long shadows across the posters on your wall: a mix of bands or groups you like, motivational quotes, and that one abstract painting you picked up at a flea market because it made you feel alive.

You groan, rolling over to slap the alarm silent, but the damage is done.

You're already running late.

Glancing at the clock, your heart sinks. Class starts in fifteen minutes, and it's the only one on your schedule today. 

"Shit!" you mutter under your breath, throwing off the covers and scrambling to your feet.

No time for a proper outfit, jeans, a simple blouse that hugs your figure just enough to turn heads without trying, and your favorite sneakers. You grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and dash out the door, barely remembering to lock it behind you.

The campus is buzzing as always, a sea of students weaving between buildings under the crisp autumn air. Leaves crunch underfoot, and the distant hum of conversations blends with the occasional laugh or shout. You've always navigated this chaos with ease, your presence drawing eyes even when you're alone.

It's not something you chase; it just happens.

Your 'aura', as Yuki calls it, the way you carry yourself with quiet confidence, shining without needing a spotlight. Popular by default, they say. But today, you're too focused on the ticking seconds to notice the whispers or stares.

You're jogging down the main path, eyes glued to your watch, when it happens. A solid collision, shoulder to shoulder, sends you stumbling back a step. Your bag slips slightly, and irritation flares hot in your chest.

"Watch where you're going!" you snap, not even bothering to look up. The words come out sharper than intended, fueled by the growing ache in your head and the fear of being late.

You don't wait for a response, just readjust, check the time again, ten minutes now, and keep moving. Whoever it was mutters something low, but you're already gone, weaving through the crowd.

By the time you burst into the lecture hall, out of breath and flustered, the room is half-full. Students chatter in clusters, no sign of the professor.

You slide into your usual seat near the back, next to Yuki, who's scrolling through her phone with that easy grin of hers. She's your rock in this sea of superficial friendships, the only one who gets you without the drama.

"Where's the prof?" you ask, dropping your bag with a thud.

Yuki looks up, her eyes sparkling with amusement. 

"Absent. Just got the email. Only class of the day, too. Lucky us, right?"

"Fuck!" 

The word escapes louder than you mean, drawing a few glances. You rub your temples, the headache blooming into something fierce. 

"I rushed out of bed for this? My head hurts like a bitch. I'm going home to rest."

Yuki laughs, that bright, infectious sound that always lightens your mood a fraction. 

"Wait, don't go home yet! Sigh, you probably didn't notice your socials blowing up, too?"

You pause, frowning as you pull out your phone. It's on Do Not Disturb, as always during crunch times. 

"What do you mean? I'm on DND, Yuki. You know the annual ball's coming up and a lot of people are trying to get me to be their partner."

She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 

"What do you like in a guy?"

You blink, caught off guard. 

"Yuki, it's so early for that. Just… someone cute and talented, I guess. Anyone who can make me breathless. I like a challenge."

Her grin widens. 

"Guess who just got in line for your heart?"

"Who?"

Her grin widened even more, making her look possessed as she wiggled her eyebrows up and down while staring into your soul.

"The 'Choso' guy. The one who's always being pushed around by the losers he calls friends just because they're bandmates? That Choso."

You tilt your head, trying to place the name. 

"So?"

Yuki groans, playfully smacking your arm. 

"You're hopeless. This is why people mistake you as some arrogant bitch. You only focus on your grades—"

"Is that a bad thing? Yuki, why are you telling me this? I'm so sleepy, please."

You know she’s your friend, but right now you can’t focus. Your head is pounding like a drum after being yanked out of sleep way too early this morning, and every word she says feels like it’s bouncing off the walls of your skull. You’re desperate to sink back into the warmth of your blanket, to ignore the world and its demands, but here you are—trapped in a conversation, fighting the stubborn haze of sleep. You blink slowly, trying to form coherent thoughts, but all you want is silence, darkness, and a few more minutes to yourself.

She sighs, but there's no real frustration there. 

"It's been weeks now since the rumor Choso likes you has exploded. Are you deaf or something? How could you, of all people, not know?"

"I'm busy." You shrug, but curiosity flickers. "Where did that rumor come from? They're probably just making fun of him."

"No, there are receipts! During their last gig, he mentioned dedicating the song to someone unattainable, someone who hasn't looked at him no matter how hard he tried."

"So? That could be you—"

"Babe, you know damn well we're neighbors. I always see him," she laughs, shaking her head.

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips. 

"Okay? So let him be. My headache's really killing me. I don't want to worry about some trivial thing right now."

Yuki gives you a knowing look but doesn't push. 

"Fine, go rest. But check your socials later. It's wild."

You part ways outside the building, the campus air a bit warmer now as the morning sun climbs higher. Students mill about, some heading to cafes, others to the library. You wave off a couple of acquaintances who try to chat, your mind already on your bed. The walk back to your dorm feels longer than usual, each step amplifying the throb in your skull. Finally, you collapse onto your bed, kicking off your shoes and pulling the covers up.

But sleep doesn't come easy. Yuki's words linger, nagging at the edges of your thoughts.

With a sigh, you grab your phone and turn off DND. Notifications flood in, tags, comments, DMs. Your feed is a mess of schoolmates roasting this Choso guy in comments on your posts, tagging you in stories with screen recordings from what looks like a dimly lit gig. Curiosity wins, so you tap one.

The video starts shaky, the crowd cheering as stage lights flicker over a band setup. Drums thrum in the background, guitars wailing. Then the camera focuses on the lead singer, no, the bassist, you think. He's tall, with dark hair tied back in a messy bun, a few tattoos peeking from under his sleeves.

His voice is low, almost haunting as he speaks into the mic: "I wrote this for a schoolmate I can't have… someone who hasn't looked my way, no matter how hard I've tried."

The crowd erupts, some laughing, others whistling. Comments overlay the screen.

LMAO Choso spilling tea on (Yn)?

Dude's simping hard for the ice queen.

Roast him, he's with those losers Naoya and Toji.

You pause the video, staring at his face. Choso. Maybe you've forgotten the name, but not that face. You've seen him around, quiet, intense eyes that seem to hold secrets, always strumming a guitar in the quad or hanging back at parties.

People call him a loser because of his crew: Naoya, the infamous jerk with an ego bigger than his talent, and Toji, the 'brooding 'idgaf' type who smirks more than he talks. But Choso? He's decent-looking, more than that, actually. Handsome in a rugged way, with sharp features and a presence that draws you in despite the labels.

You've heard the whispers before:

"I'd crack him if he wasn't friends with Naoya. That jerk's so intolerable." 

"It's unfortunate he's one of the losers. He's fine and talented."

It always made you a little sad, because from what little you've observed, Choso seems… normal. Kind, even, in that quiet way.

'He likes me?'

The thought hits you, and you scoff in disbelief, setting the phone down.

'Maybe they're just wrong. He couldn't possibly like me, we haven't even interacted before. Have we?'

You rack your brain, but nothing comes up. Just passing glances, maybe.

The days blur after that, the rumor simmering in the background like static. The annual ball looms closer, posters plastered everywhere: glittering dresses, masks, the promise of a night to remember. And with it comes the onslaught. Guys approach you in the halls, at the cafe, even during study breaks. 

"Hey (Yn), got a partner for the ball yet?" 

"You'd look amazing with me, think about it." 

You smile politely, deflect with "I probably won't go," but it doesn't stop them. It's exhausting, but part of the territory. You've been popular long before any rumor, your shine coming from within, top grades, that effortless charm, the way you light up a room without trying.

One afternoon, you're dreading your shared class with Naoya. It's a large lecture on music theory, ironic given his band's rep. You slip in early, hoping to avoid the crowd, but as class ends, a group of guys corners you near the door. 

"Come on, (Yn), say yes to the ball with me." 

"No, me, I've got tickets to the afterparty."

You laugh lightly, shaking your head. 

"Guys, really, I probably won't go. Thanks, though." 

They linger a bit, but you edge away, heading for the exit. Peace, finally, until a voice cuts through.

"Well, well, look at that. Seems like everyone's suddenly vying for your attention. Not surprising. People do like to latch onto whatever's popular. Guess you have our band to thank for that. Just don't forget, they'll all scatter once the show's over."

You turn, meeting Naoya's smug gaze. He's leaning against a desk, arms crossed, that perpetual sneer on his face. His hair is slicked back, clothes expensive but worn with arrogance. You've never liked him, his misogynistic bullshit grates on you, the way he talks down to everyone like he's king.

Not to be mean, but you knew you've been popular before the rumor. Still, you bite it back. 

"Well, at least I'm getting asked out," you shoot back instead, voice cool.

He chuckles, stepping closer. 

"I told you, anyone's going to approach you just for the hype. Let's see how long that lasts."

Before you can retort, the door swings open. The 'Choso' walks in, looking a bit disheveled, like he rushed here. His eyes flick to you, then away, but Naoya spots him immediately.

"Oh. Speaking of the hype." Naoya pats Choso's shoulder a little forcefully, making him wince slightly. "Congrats. You made this princess the talk of the campus."

Choso's jaw tightens. 

"Stop."

You stand there, heart picking up pace, waiting for him to confirm or deny. Trying not to assume, but curiosity burns. 

"Hi… about the song—"

Choso's breath hitches visibly, his dark eyes widening like he wasn't expecting you to bring it up. For a split second, something vulnerable flashes across his face, hope? Nervousness? But before he can speak, Naoya grabs his arm, yanking him toward the door, bumping into you in the process.

"We're leaving. Rehearsals, remember?" Naoya calls back to you with a mocking grin. "Don't get too curious. You might start believing things that weren't even for you."

On the other side of the door, you hear faint voices fading.

Choso's low "I… would've answered." 

Naoya's sharp "Choso. Shut up."

You're left standing there, dumbfounded, as the hallway empties. Then, Toji appears from around the corner, jogging lightly to catch up with the two. He's built like a wall, scars on his face adding to that intimidating aura, but he's Naoya's cousin, or something like that, from the rumors.

He glances at you, smirks a little… or was that a scoff? Hard to tell with him. Then he's gone, joining the others.

You exhale slowly, shaking your head.

They're weird. Did you just get a taste of why people call them losers?

The whole encounter leaves a strange buzz in your chest, annoyance mixed with intrigue. Choso's face lingers in your mind, that hitch in his breath, the way he looked at you like you were the only one in the room.

The afternoon sun dips lower as you head back to your dorm, the campus alive with pre-ball excitement. Groups huddle planning outfits, laughter ringing out. You spot Yuki waving from a bench, coffee in hand.

"Hey! Survive the hordes?" she teases.

"Barely." You sit, stealing a sip of her drink. "Ran into Naoya and Choso. It was… awkward."

Her eyes light up. "Spill!"

You recount it, detail by detail, the snide comments, the interrupted question, Toji's cryptic smirk. Yuki listens, nodding, her expression shifting from amusement to sympathy.

"Naoya's such an ass. But Choso… girl, he sounds smitten. That breath hitch? Classic."

"Maybe." You lean back, watching leaves swirl in the wind. "But why hang with those guys? Naoya's ego is toxic, and Toji's just… intense."

"Band loyalty, I guess. Their gigs are fire, though. Choso's bass lines? Chef's kiss." She mimics playing an instrument, making you chuckle.

The conversation drifts to lighter things, your confusion's gone, replaced by a quiet energy. You talk about classes, that new cafe off-campus, Yuki's latest crush. Little college moments that ground you amid the chaos. As evening falls, lights flicker on across the quad, students heading to dinners or study sessions.

Back in your room, you finally unwind. Homework done, you scroll socials again, not for rumors, but habit. More tags pop up: edits of Choso's gig clip with your face photoshopped in, memes roasting his "loser" crew. It stings a bit. He's talented, from what you've seen. Pretty decent, actually. Handsome, too, in his own bassist way.

You set the phone aside, staring at the ceiling. In the end, you still have no clue.

Maybe you'll just ignore him and let him tell you himself? He already announced it at the gig, after all… if it was really you, he'd say it for sure, wouldn't he?

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

I've started another series again while I still have ongoing ones, hehe. I don't even know yet how many parts this would have. Follow and interact so next parts come faster?

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[kaiinyourarea]

(I) Daddy's Blind Spike (Miya Atsumu X Reader)

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Pairing: Ex-FuBu!Atsumu Miya x Reader [Secret Pregnancy AU] Synopsis: Six months along, hiding the bump under hoodies and deadlines—You’ve built this solo: Work grind, secret gender reveal, ghosting the pro-setter whose heated whispers turned into an accidental forever. No strings? yeah, until a invitation slip-up drags your ex-fuck buddy straight into the party. He’s smirking, clueless, stealing bites and dropping "congrats" like he owns the court. Dodge the truth, keep raising this kid alone… or risk the spike that could shatter everything? Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

The fluorescent glow of your laptop screen blurred your sight as you hunched over the desk in your cramped apartment living room, fingers flying across the keyboard to cram the last stubborn spreadsheet into submission. Papers scattered like crazy around you, receipts for pastel balloons, vendor quotes for the custom cake, a scribbled checklist of gender reveal ideas that had kept you up for nights on end.

Your back ached from the awkward angle, but you pushed through, exhaling a frustrated puff of air that ruffled the loose strands of hair escaping your messy bun. The clock on the wall ticked past 2 a.m., a relentless reminder that tomorrow, was it tomorrow already?, was another grind at the office.

Your phone buzzed sharply on the desk, jolting you upright. The caller ID flashed your boss's name, and you groaned inwardly before swiping to answer. "Hello?"

"(Yn), sorry for the late hour, but we need you in an online briefing ASAP. The client's pushing for updates on the current project. Ten minutes?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling the familiar swell of exhaustion mixed with the subtle, insistent pressure low in your abdomen. One hand drifted instinctively to rub gentle circles over your stomach, the fabric of your oversized hoodie stretching taut. The baby shifted, as if sensing your turmoil, a tiny flutter that both grounded and overwhelmed you. 

"Yeah, no problem. I'll log in."

Hanging up, you leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling for a beat. Work didn't care about swollen feet or midnight cravings or the intimate little party you'd been pouring your heart into planning. This gender reveal wasn't just a celebration; it was a milestone, a quiet declaration to the world, and to yourself, that you were ready to embrace this unexpected chapter. You'd waited months to even confirm the pregnancy was viable, doctor's visits blending into a blur of ultrasounds and blood tests.

At 23, fresh out of college scrambles and only a year into a job that finally paid enough to breathe, the positive test last December had hit like a spike to the court.

Keep it? The question had looped in your mind for weeks, fear clashing with a spark of something fiercer. But now, at six months, the decision felt etched in stone. This was your world growing inside you, and you'd build it strong, one paycheck, one late night at a time.

The apartment door creaked open softly, Hitoka Yachi, your cousin and unwavering lifeline, slipping in with a tray of convenience store onigiri and preggo-friendly drinks. Her blonde hair was tied back in a frazzled ponytail, eyes red-rimmed from pulling an all-nighter by your side. She'd been there through every meltdown, every frantic online order for baby-safe decorations, insisting on helping despite her own graphic design gigs.

"Hitoka-chan, please help me send out invitations to these names on the list," you tiredly tell her, sliding the printed sheet across the desk, your voice cracking with fatigue.

"Sure, but you gotta sleep after work right away. I’ll take care of the rest."

"Thank you so much. You don’t know how thankful I am for you—"

"H-hey, what is family for? Don’t worry and just rest, okay?" Hitoka interrupted gently, her shy smile cutting through the dim light.

She set the tray down and scanned the paper, nodding without hesitation. 

"I've got the digital ones queued up in my email drafts. Colors match the theme, soft blues and pinks, right?"

You managed a weak grin, the briefing link already pinging on your screen. As you adjusted your webcam, smoothing down your hoodie to hide the subtle curve that only showed if you stood just so, memories flickered unbidden. Months of caution, of hiding symptoms under baggy clothes and excuses.

And him, the father, alive and thriving in his own whirlwind world. You could reach out, demand support.

But no.

The thought twisted like a knot in your chest. Those nights as fuck buddies had been electric, no strings, just heat and release after long days. He didn't know about the life they'd accidentally created. And you intended to keep it that way.

The meeting dragged on, voices overlapping in a symphony of corporate jargon. You nodded along, typing notes, your face a mask of professionalism captured in the tiny camera feed. But your mind wandered to whispered words in the dark, his breath hot against your skin.

‘Doing so good, baby.’

‘Let me stay inside so I can knock you up and stay with you forever, yeah?’

‘Feel good? Me, too, baby.’

Heat flooded your cheeks at the recall, a mix of anger and something achingly nostalgic. He'd said it in the throes, probably just dirty talk, a kink sparked by the moment. His career was exploding, pro volleyball, spotlights, endless travel. Who'd trade that for diapers and 3 a.m. feeds?

Not him. Not the cocky setter who'd probably ghost you once he knows about this unplanned pregnancy.

A soft wave from across the room snapped you back. Hitoka sat cross-legged on the couch, her own laptop balanced on her knees, mouthing words carefully to avoid disrupting your call. 

"You sure this is the final list?" She pointed at the paper, her expression worried, brows furrowed like she was double-checking a design proof.

You gave her a quick thumbs up, mouthing back, "Yes, all set."

The list was meticulous, old Karasuno teammates, a handful of trusted friends from other schools, no one who’d spill secrets. You'd finalized it days ago, between work deadlines.

"Okay, the printed invitations I’d just give out at the volleyball reunion soon. Okay?" Hitoka half-whispered, careful of your mic that was currently muted anyway.

You flashed another thumbs up, refocusing on the screen as your boss wrapped up. The call ended with a chorus of goodbyes, and you slumped forward, forehead resting on your arms. Hitoka was already typing away, the soft click of keys a soothing rhythm.

"Go crash on the bed," she said, not looking up. "I'll finish these and crash too. Party's in two weeks, we've got time."

You hauled yourself up, one hand supporting your lower back, the other cradling your belly as you waddled to the bedroom. The reunion loomed first, a casual barbecue catch-up before the big MSBY Jackals versus Schweiden Adlers match. A break from the grind, a chance to hand out those printed invites in person. He wouldn't be there, you told yourself. Schedules too packed, practices endless. Safe.

Sleep came , dreams tangled with volleyball courts and tiny kicks.

___

The reunion buzzed with energy under a clear afternoon sky, the park's barbecue pits smoking lazily as old friends gathered on checkered blankets and folding chairs. Laughter echoed, Tanaka's booming voice recounting high school antics, Daichi mediating with his steady calm, Sugawara passing around drinks with that gentle smile. Hitoka fluttered about like a busy bee, distributing printed invitations with excited whispers about the "surprise party." You mingled, plate balanced precariously, the subtle weight of your belly hidden under a flowy sundress that billowed just right.

"You are glowing. How far along are you?" Shimizu asked, one of the future godmothers you have chosen in advance, sidling up to you with a knowing smile. She'd been one of the first you confided in, her quiet strength a balm during those early panic days.

"I’ve actually lost track. I just know I’m 6 months in," you laughed. You internally slapped yourself for only being able to estimate or remember how far along you are based on the possible date the baby was conceived.

"You sure? You don’t even look pregnant," her boyfriend, Tanaka, commented.

"Right? Maybe it’s because she hid it for so long the baby went along," Hitoka chuckled.

You joined the nervous laughter, scanning the group. Karasuno peeps mostly, a few cross-school friends. No one pressed about the father anymore—not after Kiyoko's glare had shut down Kageyama's innocent query months back. They were all respectful about it. Grateful didn't cover it; these people were your net, catching you when everything else felt like freefall.

You were surely happy to be able to spend time with old schoolmates and friends but being here made you feel anxious somehow. Maybe it’s the hormones?

"It’s unfortunate Hinata and the others couldn’t come," Sugawara chimed in.

"Well, pretty sure they’re all resting up or in preparation for the big game," Daichi answered.

"They might just be late," Hitoka said.

"Like (Yn)’s period back then, huh?" Tsukishima snickered. You narrowed your eyes and flipped him off, Yamaguchi immediately calling out his name to refrain him from teasing more.

"Hmm, more barbecue for us," you said, shifting your weight to ease the ache in your hips. One hand rested there naturally, the other reaching for a skewer Yamaguchi was handing out—juicy meat glistening with sauce, the aroma making your mouth water. You'd barely grasped it, fingers closing around the stick, when a large hand yanked it away. Annoyance flared hot and instant; the baby kicked sharply, as if echoing your feelings. You whipped around, ready to snap.

There he stood, towering at least 6 feet, maybe an inch more, his blond hair tousled from the wind, that infuriating smirk curling his lips. Broad shoulders filled out a casual MSBY tee, muscles shifting as he bit into your stolen barbecue without a care.

Oh! maybe the baby kicked because daddy was here?

"Tsu— Miya…" you muttered, forcing normalcy into your voice, one eyebrow arching high. Your heart stuttered, a mix of shock and wariness. He wasn't supposed to be here.

He chewed slowly, eyes locked on yours with that playful glint, then handed the skewer back, half-eaten.

"Ugh. I’ll get another."

"Hah? Come on, we’ve shared a lot of times before." His voice was low, teasing, Kansai accent thick as ever.

Yeah, shared food, drinks, saliva, body fluids—

You swallowed hard.

"I lost my appetite."

"Months of ignoring me and you’ve become so mean. What did I do wrong? Come on, just one bite."

Before you could bolt, his arm slung around your shoulders, pulling you close with casual strength. His scent—clean sweat, faint cologne—hit like a spike. Instinctively, your hands wrapped protectively around your stomach, shielding the curve.

Hesitantly, you leaned in and took a bite from the skewer he held up, sauce smearing your cheek in the process.

"You're messy," he chuckled after his accent haunted you once again, leaning closer and inspecting where the sauces had landed before wiping it off with his thumb, licking it off without breaking eye contact.

Another kick in your stomach.

Damn it.

"(Yn), I need help for a sec," Shimizu called from behind, appearing like a guardian angel. She grabbed your arm, dragging you away with a firm tug that left Atsumu's arm slipping off.

"Thank you. I thought they weren’t coming?!"

"Well, Yachi mentioned they were just possibly late. Was he bothering you?"

"No, just… being annoying. The usual." You forced a laugh, but your hands trembled slightly.

"Don’t worry, the team won’t tell you’re pregnant. I’ve made sure."

You smiled gratefully, the weight lifting a fraction. Karasuno's loyalty was ironclad, secrets guarded like block formations. Even mixed with pros now, only a select few knew—the ones you'd invited to the reveal. And only Hitoka and Kiyoko knew the father, courtesy of that mortifying night a year ago: them stumbling upon you and Atsumu in a heated makeout in the bar parking lot, hands everywhere, breaths ragged.

The rest of the afternoon blurred in slices of normalcy. You chatted with Yamaguchi about his freelance gigs, helped Daichi portion sides, laughed at Tanaka's over-the-top toasts. Hitoka distributed invites discreetly, her energy infectious. Atsumu lingered on the edges, joking with the guys, spiking a volleyball in impromptu games that drew cheers. He stole glances your way, but you avoided, focusing on the food, the friends, the fragile peace.

"You sure you don't want me to drive you home?" Atsumu offered.

"No, I can drive myself. Stay here and enjoy."

By evening, you left first and drove home alone, windows down to let the cooling air whip away the day's tension. Fatigue settled deep, cravings hitting hard, pickles and ice cream, of all things. At the convenience store, you loaded up, phone buzzing in your pocket as you paid.

Home at last, you kicked off your shoes, collapsing onto the couch with your haul. The message notification glowed: from him. 'DADDY', saved in your contacts from those wild nights, unreplied texts stacking above the most recent one.

I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable earlier.

Huh. Is this the same as his past messages, trying to get you to reply again?

You were about to ignore it once again when the message was followed.

Didn’t mean to disrespect you. Thanks for inviting me to the party, btw. Congrats.

What the fuck was he talking about?

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

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Endeavor's Wife Fights Back (Enji Todoroki X Reader)

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Pairing: Enji Todoroki (Endeavor) x Reader, [Revised Canon AU, Reader as Enji's wife who fights back] Synopsis: (Yn) Himura, wielder of an ice quirk, enters an arranged marriage with Endeavor to salvage her family's fading legacy. Initially drawn to the promise of partnership, she faces the harsh reality of Enji's obsession with surpassing All Might, which transforms him into a domineering force, exerting relentless pressure on their children—Touya, Fuyumi, Natsuo, and Shoto. Early on, (Yn) grapples with fear, enduring his heavy-handed outbursts, but her resolve hardens. Dare to witness a wife who redefines power against all odds. Content Warnings: Depictions of domestic abuse (physical and emotional), heavy-handed strikes, bruising confrontations, emotional trauma, fear, grief, child neglect, family dysfunction, mild violence, blood (scar infliction), arranged marriage, initial power imbalances, basically canon Endeavor abuse.

In the secluded heights of the Himura estate, where winters stretched eternal and the wind whispered secrets through frost-laced pines, (Yn) Himura spent her youth cloaked in the chill of legacy. Her family, bearers of ancient ice quirks, had once commanded respect in quirk society, their abilities shaping blizzards and fortresses of frost. But economic downfall—bad deals, rival clans rising—left them teetering on ruin. (Yn)'s quirk, a refined frost manipulation that let her weave ice into delicate lattices or snap-freeze the air around her, became their last bargaining chip. Whispers in the halls spoke of salvation through marriage, a union that could restore their fortunes.

At twenty, the offer arrived like a storm front. Enji Todoroki, the flame-wielding hero Endeavor, hungered for a quirk marriage to birth a child merging fire and ice, a prodigy to outshine All Might. Her parents seized it.

"This is our path forward," her mother urged, eyes pleading over tea in the dim parlor.

(Yn) felt the weight, the cold dread of being sold, yet the alternative—fleeing into poverty or watching her siblings suffer—chained her.

The first meeting unfolded in a modest café, the steam from teacups rising like barriers between them. Enji dominated the space, his muscular frame barely fitting the chair, his turquoise eyes assessing her with a intensity that made her skin prickle despite her natural chill. He spoke of ambition, of forging a legacy that would outshine the sun, his words carrying a gruff sincerity that almost masked the calculation beneath.

"We'll build something great together," he promised, and in her naivety, she saw a savior—a man whose fire could melt the isolation of her life.

The early years in Enji's urban estate felt like emerging from hibernation. The mansion was a fortress of modern lines and vast spaces, far from the Himura's decaying isolation. Mornings dawned with the aroma of strong coffee he prepared, handing her a mug with a nod while she cooled fresh fruits into crystalline treats on the kitchen counter.

"Always making everything frosty," he'd grumble, but there was a softness in his eyes as he sipped, the steam mingling with her visible breaths. She'd laugh lightly, the sound foreign yet welcome in the quiet home.

Afternoons brought freedom she hadn't known—strolling city streets, her quirk drawing curious glances as she absentmindedly iced over puddles into makeshift mirrors for children to admire. Evenings softened the edges; they'd share meals at the long table, his stories of heroic takedowns laced with a passion that ignited something in her. Later, on the balcony overlooking the twinkling city, she'd lean against him, his arm a heavy anchor around her waist, the contrast of heat and cold creating a steam that felt almost intimate. It wasn't the fiery love of tales, but it was stability, and (Yn) clung to it, whispering to herself that this was enough.

Touya burst into their lives like a tiny comet, his cries loud enough to rival a villain's roar, blue flames flickering wildly and leaving scorch marks on his crib. Enji cradled him with surprising gentleness, though (Yn) caught the flicker of worry in his eyes when doctors noted Touya's body wasn't quite built for such fiery power. She brushed it off, spending starry nights rocking him through fevers, her ice-cool touch calming his heat as she sang soft songs about snowbound heroes, his little fingers wrapping tight around hers like she was his lifeline.

Fuyumi came next, her ice quirk a sweet mirror of (Yn)'s, turning playtime into a winter wonderland. The house rang with her giggles as she shaped frosty bunnies and snowballs that melted into puddles under the sun. When Natsuo arrived, another ice-wielder, he clapped his chubby hands at the backyard chaos, Touya's sparks chasing Fuyumi's snowflakes, the mix bursting into harmless steam clouds that had them all laughing.

(Yn) was the heart of it all, setting up sunny picnics under the big oak, where Enji would show up, all serious-like, only to get roped into roasting marshmallows with his flames just right, his gruff chuckle breaking free as the kids tackled him with sticky fingers. Bedtimes turned magical, her voice spinning tales of heroes who danced with fire and ice, while Enji lingered in the doorway, arms crossed but eyes softer than usual. It was messy loud and perfect, a family finding its rhythm, quirks and all.

Shoto's birth changed everything.

His dual eyes, one turquoise, one gray, stared up with the promise of perfection. Enji's face transformed, alight with triumph.

"Our heir," he breathed, holding the infant close. (Yn) smiled through her weariness, but a deep unease stirred, like frost creeping over warm ground. The man she'd seen as her protector was revealing his true flames, and they burned toward ambition alone.

Subtle at first, the shift eroded their foundation like thawing permafrost. Enji's obsession with All Might grew, his second-place status a festering wound. He'd return from patrols tense, slamming doors, his voice sharp over dinner as the children shared their day.

"Focus on strength," he'd snap at Touya's tales of school games, his eyes drifting to Shoto even then.

(Yn) would squeeze his hand under the table, her cool touch a silent plea, but he'd withdraw, muttering about legacies.

Touya felt the neglect keenly, pushing his quirk harder in the yard, blue flames scorching flowers as he sought approval.

"Look, Dad!" he'd yell, but Enji's responses grew curt, his attention now laser-focused on Shoto..

(Yn) compensated, turning afternoons into family escapades—building ice forts in the park, Touya's fire melting tunnels for hide-and-seek, Fuyumi and Natsuo's laughter a soundtrack to her forced smiles. But worry etched lines on her face; she bandaged Touya's self-inflicted burns in secret, her heart aching at his desperate eyes.

One twilight evening, as (Yn) helped Shoto stack blocks into a frosty tower, Enji stormed in, scooping the toddler up.

"Time to train." Her stomach dropped, fear fluttering like snow in a gale.

"He's too young, Enji… let's just play tonight." His flames flickered dangerously.

"Play is for the weak." She reached out, voice quivering.

"Please, he's our son, not a tool."

He shoved her aside, his palm heavy against her chest, sending her stumbling back with a gasp. The impact jarred her, pain blooming, but it was the betrayal that stole her breath—the way he didn't pause, carrying Shoto away as if she were invisible.

Tears burned her eyes as she sank to the floor, rubbing the budding bruise. Fear overwhelmed her, a tidal wave of doubt: This wasn't protection; this was control.

"He's not my savior," she realized, the thought sharp as ice shards.

The incidents mounted, each chipping at her resolve. Mornings that once held quiet companionship now started with Enji's barked commands, leaving her to soothe the children's confusion over breakfast—pancakes shaped into heroes with frosted details, her smiles masking the tremor in her hands.

One night, Touya's cries drew her to his room; he'd burned himself again, pushing for power. As she applied ice salves, whispering comforts, Enji burst in.

"What foolishness is this?" Touya flinched.

"I want to be like you…"

Enji's face contorted.

"You're not." The cruelty hung heavy, and (Yn) rose, heart pounding.

"Don't speak to him that way!"

He turned, his hand lashing out in a heavy backhand that caught her jaw, heat searing her skin as she hit the wall.

Stars burst in her vision; fear clamped her throat, her body trembling as memories of helplessness flooded back. She didn't retaliate, just gathered Touya close, tears silent as she led him away. In the mirror later, staring at the reddened mark, the realization that Enji's not her savior deepened.

Touya's vanishing act was the breaking storm. After a vicious argument where Enji dismissed his pleas, the boy fled, leaving only charred remnants on the peak.

(Yn) searched through pouring rain, her frost illuminating paths as sobs tore from her throat, fear and guilt intertwining. Enji blamed her once again.

Kneeling in the mud, alone, she vowed through chattering teeth, "I'll find you…."

In the wake of loss, (Yn) became the family's silent rock. She orchestrated their days with quiet determination— mornings braiding Fuyumi's hair while listening to her school worries, afternoons crafting ice sculptures in the yard that Natsuo knocked over with gleeful tackles. Shoto's training echoes haunted her, his weary eyes meeting hers during stolen breaks where she'd sneak him sweets, her cool fingers easing his exhaustion as they dreamed of normalcy.

Her quirk honed in secrecy: Frost blasts in the garden at dusk, barriers tested against imagined blows. A major clash erupted over Shoto's endless sessions. Enji dragged him in and (Yn) blocked the door.

"No more tonight."

His heavy punch swung; she dodged, countering with a punch encased in ice that cracked against his ribs. He grunted, grabbing her wrist, twisting until she cried out, fear spiking. But she kicked low, frost exploding on his knee, forcing release. They grappled—his flames melting her ice vines, her agility dodging his bulk. In a surge, she summoned a razor-sharp ice dagger, slashing across his cheek and creating a reaction with his flames in a desperate arc. Blood welled, freezing partially, the wound deep enough to scar. He touched it, shock mixing with pain.

"You… scarred me."

Tears streamed down her face, but she didn't waver.

"Good. Remember it."

The children witnessed glimpses, huddling close after, her hugs fierce. "Mommy's strong," Natsuo whispered.

Her hunt for Touya persisted—nights in shadowed streets, frost unlocking secrets, leads accumulating like snowfall.

(Yn)'s pulse thundered as she finally found her eldest son. Touya—alive, twisted—froze upon seeing her. "Mom?"

"I never gave up," she choked, embracing him tightly.

Home brought confrontation. Enji blocked the entrance, flames surging. "You abandoned us."

Touya's fire ignited.

"You abandoned me first!"

Words escalated to blows—Enji's shove sending Touya sprawling. (Yn)'s fear ignited into fury.

"Not my son!" She leaped, palm splayed open and meeting Enji's face with a loud smack. A payback.

He roared, sweeping flames that singed her, fear clawing, but Touya's aid—blue fire bolstering her frost—turned the tide. She pinned Enji with ice restraints, knee on his back.

Defeated, he gasped, "You've remade me."

Wiping tears, she released him, the family gathering in wary unity.

Mending threaded days: Breakfasts with Touya's hesitant stories over frosted fruits, yard sessions blending quirks safely, laughter returning.

Time forged them anew. (Yn) trained publicly, her ice a symphony of power—barriers unyielding, blasts precise. Enji sparred with caution, fights evolving to mutual respect, his touches post-clash lingering with unspoken affection.

Mornings hummed with routine: Kids collaborating on chores, Touya guiding Shoto in harmonious quirk use, Fuyumi's experiments yielding iced treats that drew family applause.

Years later, as the children matured into heroes, echoes of past scars lingered. At a family gathering—Shoto now a pro, side-eyeing the scar on Enji's cheek during a toast—Fuyumi quipped, "Dad, remember when Mom gave you that beauty mark? Suits your grumpy face."

The siblings piled on with teasing jabs, staunchly on (Yn)'s side, their light meanness a shield against old wounds. Enji grumbled, side-eyeing (Yn) with a mix of exasperation and fondness, "You turned them against me."

She laughed, leaning into him, "You deserved it… I turned us into a family." The room erupted in chuckles, the past's shadows lightened by their renewed bond.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

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Fuse Out (Katsuki Bakugou X Reader)

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Pairing: Pro Hero!Katsuki Bakugo x Reader Synopsis: Your hormones are a mess, and Katsuki’s smug hero talk is lighting a fuse you didn’t know you had. One spark too many in your cozy apartment, and you’re ready to shut him up—hard. With your quirk in play, you flip the script, turning his fire into a different kind of heat. Who’s got the upper hand now? Content Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, characters are adults

Problem of the Day: You’re ovulating, and Katsuki Bakugo won’t shut his damn mouth.

You’re in your apartment, pancakes sizzling on the stove, the air thick with his caramel-smoke scent that’s driving you up the wall. Your nerves are shot, every sense cranked to eleven, and you’re ready to snap. You chose a normal life, not heroics, even after your quirk, Nullify, showed up late, but right now, his ego’s pushing you to the edge. Katsuki’s sprawled on the couch, 5’8" of raw muscle, black tank clinging to his sculpted chest, sweatpants low on his hips, bragging about his latest hero gig.

"Smashed that punk in one blast, babe. Boom, done! I’m fuckin’ untouchable," he says, smirking, a small explosion popping in his palm, sharp and loud in the quiet room.

Your spatula scrapes the pan, pancake flopping messily. His voice, his scent, his everything is too much. "Katsuki, can you not blow shit up for five seconds?" you snap, turning, hands on hips, apron tight over your tank and shorts.

He stands, stalking over, crimson eyes flashing with that cocky glint he’s had since forever. "What, babe? Scared? I’m in control. Unlike your shitty cookin’," he says, grin sharp, daring you to bite back.

You step closer, chest brushing his, heat rolling off him like a furnace. "I’m not scared, I’m pissed. You think I need your hero ass saving me? I chose this life, Katsuki, not your hero bullshit."

He grabs your wrist, calloused palm rough but careful, his touch sending a jolt through you. "You’re lucky I’m here to—"

You cut him off, Nullify surging through your grip, a cool pulse that kills his quirk’s spark. He tries to blast, palm flexing, but it’s just a pathetic fizzle. His eyes widen, shock cracking his usual swagger.

"The hell?"

Your lips curl, ovulation fueling your fire, his scent—sandalwood, singed sugar—making your thighs clench.

"Shut it, Katsuki."

You shove him against the kitchen counter, his back hitting with a thud, your hand tight on his wrist, his pulse pounding under your fingers. You press closer, hips pinning his, feeling him hard through his sweatpants, a rush of heat flooding your core. Your breath’s heavy, skin flushed, every touch like a live wire.

"Tch, you’re beggin’ for trouble," he growls, voice rough, but there’s a shake in it, his crimson eyes darkening, pupils blown wide. He’s rattled, but the want in his gaze is undeniable. You keep Nullify active, locking his quirk down, and lean in, lips grazing his jaw, drawing a low, rumbling groan. His free hand grips your waist, fingers digging in, the pressure sparking heat low in your belly.

"You think you’re all that, huh?" you murmur, voice low, teasing, as you tug his tank up, nails raking his abs, hard and scarred from years of fights.

He hisses, a sharp "Fuck, babe," his voice raw, cracking like he’s losing control. You yank your tank off, tossing it to the floor with a soft thud, your skin prickling in the warm air. His eyes devour you, hungry, burning, and he moves fast, hands yanking your shorts down, the fabric rustling as you kick them away, bare thighs brushing his, the contact electric.

You tug his sweatpants down, freeing him—hard, flushed, pulsing in your hand. You stroke slow, deliberate, his groan deep, vibrating against your neck as he bites lightly, a hot sting that pulls a moan from you, high and needy.

"Fuckin’ brat," he mutters, hands roaming, one sliding up your ribs, calluses rough against your skin, the other dipping lower, fingers teasing with slow, precise strokes that make you gasp, hips jerking involuntarily. Your body’s throbbing, ovulation amplifying every sensation, your moans louder, raw.

"Katsuki," you pant, guiding his hand, the pleasure overwhelming, your core aching. He smirks, smug but shaky, his control slipping.

"So damn loud," he says, voice strained, as you align your bodies, the stretch and heat pulling a shared moan—yours desperate, his guttural.

You rock against him, nails digging into his shoulders, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

"Too much for ya?" he grunts, voice breaking, a flicker of that rare vulnerability when he’s pushed to his limit.

You clench around him, Nullify keeping his quirk silent, forcing him to feel every second without his usual power. Your hand presses his chest, his heartbeat wild under your palm, and you nip his ear, whispering, "Not so tough now, huh?"

He growls, thrusting harder, the friction searing, your thighs trembling as you match him, the kitchen alive with gasps, moans, the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. His hands grip your hips, bruising but careful, guiding you, his breath hitching with every movement, his usual swagger crumbling into raw need.

Your climax hits like a tidal wave, white-hot, your cry sharp and echoing as you tighten around him, head tipped back, body shaking. He follows, a rough, hoarse shout of your name, his thrusts stuttering as he collapses against you, sweat-soaked, trembling, his weight heavy but grounding. You pant together, tangled, the counter cold against your back, his breath hot against your neck, the air thick with the scent of you both.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

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Stuck In The Heat (Suguru Geto X Reader)

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🩷 18+ —tread with care!

Lying back on the cold, unyielding hotel bathroom counter, legs spread wide in front of Suguru Geto, your gynecologist best friend, wasn’t on this year's bingo card.

But with your tampon string yanked out—without the damn tampon—panic set in. You’d only put the thing in as a precaution for the Osaka trip, figuring your period might sneak up during travel.

Big mistake.

Dry and lodged deep, it’s now a problem you can’t ignore—not when Suguru, with his stupidly calm expertise, is right here. The hotel room, your base for the annual BFFs getaway with Suguru, Satoru, and Shoko, is quiet for now. The other two are still hours out, probably bickering over GPS directions.

It’s just you, Suguru, and this mortifying situation.

"Alright, (Yn), deep breaths," Suguru says, his voice smooth as velvet, snapping on gloves from his ever-present medical kit. His long hair is tied back, a few dark strands framing his face, making him look unfairly hot for someone about to play rogue tampon rescue.

"You’re lucky I’m here. A dry tampon can be a pain to get out."

You groan, hands covering your face, skirt bunched around your waist, underwear long gone on the tiled floor. "This is the worst! Just… fix it, please, Suguru."

He chuckles, low and teasing, positioning himself between your thighs.

"You’re pretty."

You peek through your fingers, cheeks burning. "W-what? You say that to all your patients, don’t you?"

"Nah, that’d get me fired," he says, smirking, his gloved fingers grazing your inner thigh. "I’m saying you’re pretty. And that's coming from someone who's desensitized to this."

"You’re making this so awkward!" you whine, squirming on the counter.

"No, I’m making it easier," he counters, voice dropping to a reassuring hum. "Trust me, (Yn). Relax for me, yeah?"

You nod, biting your lip.

You’ve trusted Suguru since high school, through late-night study sessions, bad breakups, and Satoru’s chaotic pranks. But this? This is a whole new level.

His gloved fingers part your folds gently, and you tense as he slides one in, slow and deliberate. The intrusion is clinical but intimate, the dryness making you wince. You stifle a moan, the sensation catching you off guard, and scan his face for any hint of judgment. He’s calm, professional, his dark eyes focused but warm, like he’s done this a thousand times.

"Breathe," he murmurs, "you’re doing fine."

You try, but your breath hitches as he probes deeper, his finger curling to locate the stuck tampon. The stretch is subtle but enough to make your toes curl.

"Found it," he says, voice steady. With a gentle tug, he pulls the tampon free, holding it up briefly before tossing it aside. "All good."

You exhale, relief washing over you, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and gratitude.

"Oh my god, thank you, Suguru."

You start to slide off the counter, but his hands—gloves off now—grab the undersides of your thighs, firm and commanding, pinning you back in that spread-eagle pose. Your skirt rides up higher, and your heart skips as his bare fingers slide back between your legs, brushing your clit with a teasing flick.

"We’re not done yet."

"W-what? Suguru, shit, wait—ah!" Your protest dissolves into a sharp moan as he sinks two fingers inside you, the sudden stretch making your hips buck. Your eyes widen in disbelief, shock and excitement warring as you grab his built arms for anchor, nails digging into his biceps.

The earlier stifled moans? Gone.

You can’t hold them back now, not when his fingers are pumping slow and deep, curling against your walls with obscene precision. The slick sounds fill the bathroom, your arousal coating his fingers as he works you.

"Just… looking around for remnants," he says, voice dripping with mock innocence, but his eyes are dark, predatory.

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles, and you whimper, your body betraying you as you clench around him.

"Fuck, (Yn), you’re so responsive. Been holding out on me?"

"S-Suguru, you asshole!" you gasp, half-laughing, half-moaning, as he presses deeper, his fingers dragging deliciously against your sensitive spots. "This isn’t—nghh—professional!"

"Professional?" He leans closer, breath hot against your ear. "I’m off the clock, sweetheart. Just taking care of my best friend."

His thumb presses harder on your clit, and you arch off the counter, a broken moan spilling out as your thighs tremble.

"You’re—oh god—crossing a line," you manage, but your grip on his arms tightens, urging him on despite yourself.

"Good," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. "I like this side of you. So responsive. You want me to stop?"

"Don’t you fucking dare," you hiss, and he laughs, soft and wicked, as his fingers pick up the pace, curling just right to make your vision blur. The friendship line isn’t just broken—it’s obliterated, and you’re too far gone to care.

A loud knock on the hotel room door cuts through the haze.

"Yo, Suguru! (Yn)! Open up already!" Satoru’s voice is unmistakable, obnoxious as ever.

Shoko’s laugh follows, sharp and teasing. "You guys better not be napping!"

You jolt, panic spiking, and try to slide off the counter, but Suguru’s hands tighten on your thighs, keeping you firmly in place.

"Let them knock," he whispers, his fingers relentless, circling your clit faster. "Cum for me first."

"Suguru, they’re—fuck—right there!" you whimper, but your body’s already betraying you, hips grinding against his hand as the pressure builds. The knocking continues, louder now, but Suguru doesn’t falter, his eyes locked on yours, daring you to let go.

"Come on, sweetheart," he coaxes, voice a low growl. "Give it to me."

"Don't stop! So good! A-ah!"

The tension snaps, and you come undone with a choked cry, clenching hard around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. Your nails dig into his arms, and he keeps working you through it, slow and steady, until you’re a trembling mess.

The knocking stops, replaced by Satoru’s impatient, "Hellooo? You alive in there?"

Suguru finally lets you go, stepping back with a smug grin as you scramble off the counter, legs wobbly, yanking your skirt down and grabbing your underwear.

"Wash up so you don't get an infection."

You shoot him a glare, still panting, as you stumble to the sink to splash water on your face. He strolls to the door, cool as ever, his fingers still glistening with your slick—no attempt to wash them.

He opens the door, leaning casually against the frame. "Hey," he says, like nothing happened.

"You took so long! Where’s (Yn)?" Shoko asks, peering past him, her cigarette dangling between her fingers.

"In the bathroom," Suguru replies smoothly, not even glancing back. "She’ll probably be out in a few."

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

Help! I'm wet.

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(IV) Daddy's Blind Spike (Miya Atsumu X Reader)

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Pairing: Ex-FuBu!Atsumu Miya x Reader [Secret Pregnancy AU] Synopsis: Six months along, hiding the bump under hoodies and deadlines—You’ve built this solo: Work grind, secret gender reveal, ghosting the pro-setter whose heated whispers turned into an accidental forever. No strings? yeah, until an invitation slip-up drags your ex-fuck buddy straight into the party. He’s smirking, clueless, stealing bites and dropping "congrats" like he owns the court. Dodge the truth, keep raising this kid alone… or risk the spike that could shatter everything? 🩷18+— tread with care

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

The tears wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t even slow, spilling hot and relentless down your cheeks as you stared at Atsumu kneeling there, his large frame folded small beside the bed, eyes wide and pleading in a way you’d never seen—not in losses, not in fights, just raw, unfiltered need. 

"Please… tell me." 

The earnestness in his voice cracked something open inside you, a dam you’d built month by month, ultrasound by ultrasound, alone in the dark with your hand on your belly whispering 'it’s okay, we’ve got this.'

Should you tell him?

The question looped, frantic, as sobs wracked you harder, turning into hiccups that shook your whole body. Then—sharp, insistent kicks from within, harder than any before, like your daughter was protesting the chaos or maybe demanding her say. Pain flared low, not cramping but urgent, and you clutched your stomach with both hands, gasping. 

"Ah—"

Atsumu shot up like lightning, panic replacing his tears in an instant, sniffles cutting off as he cradled you against his chest, one arm wrapping secure around your shoulders, the other hand gently but frantically palpating your belly. 

"Where does it hurt? I… I’ll call the doctor—nurse!—" His voice rose, urgent, already half-turning toward the door.

"No—" You grabbed his sleeve tight, fingers twisting in the fabric, not wanting his back to you, not while the pain twisted and the world spun. The grip slid down to his hand, guiding it firmly to the spot where the kicks pounded fiercest, right under your ribs.

He froze, eyes locking on yours—awed, expectant, breath held.

The movement rippled again under his palm, strong and unmistakable. You placed your hands over his, pressing to secure them there, a silent yes to his question, tears still streaming but softer now.

His eyes widened, searching your face for confirmation, for any doubt. Then he pulled you flush against his chest, lips pressing firm to the crown of your head, breath shuddering out. And for the first time since high school—since that crushing loss where he’d punched a locker until his knuckles bled—Atsumu Miya broke down. Not over a game, not over glory. Shoulders shaking, quiet sobs muffled in your hair, because he’d won something infinitely bigger.

"You should’ve told me," he murmured, voice thick, pulling back just enough to cup your face, thumbs wiping tears that weren’t his. "I made it hard for 'ya, didn’t I?"

"I’m doing this for the kid." The words came out choked, defensive even now.

He broke from the hug fully then, dropping to kiss your stomach reverently, lips lingering on the stretched skin over the hospital gown. 

"Hey, little ace… Daddy’s sorry he was late." 

You bit your lip hard to stifle fresh sobs—this was what you’d wanted, right? Him knowing, him here. But why did it feel hollow still, like a serve that looked perfect but clipped the net?

But while you dreaded the hollow ache gnawing at your insides, Atsumu’s thoughts spilled out unchecked, raw and racing.

He could still feel the pastel envelope in his palm, the one Hitoka had pressed into his hand during the reunion with that nervous little smile.

"What’s this, a birthday invite?" he’d teased, brow cocked, genuinely baffled—he barely knew Karasuno folks these days, except the one who’d jumped ship to MSBY with him.

"N-no," Hitoka had stammered, cheeks pink. "It’s something (Yn)’s been planning for months. Read it when you’re alone, okay? It’s been forever since you two… talked. Maybe you can sort it out then."

An event. Your event. Birthday? Promotion?

His pulse had kicked—finally, a breadcrumb after months of texts swallowed by the void. ‘She couldn’t ditch me that easy’, he’d thought, lips curling into that smug little smirk once Hitoka was out of earshot.

‘Guess I’m still under her skin.’

He wasn’t wrong about the skin part.

He was the reason your body had changed, the reason your nights were nausea and your days were spreadsheets and swollen ankles.

He just had the wrong why.

The second he cracked the invite open in the quiet of his car—baby rattles, pastel balloons, ‘Gender Reveal’ in curling script—his stomach plummeted straight through the floor mats.

A gender reveal?

The smirk died. The reunion fantasies—you running into his arms, whispering you missed him—evaporated like sweat on a cold gym floor. You hadn’t invited him to reconnect. You’d invited him to watch you celebrate a life you’d built without him. With someone else. Some guy who’d swooped in, knocked you up, and left Atsumu as the punchline ex-fuck-buddy.

Every hopeful text he’d fired off into the abyss replayed in his head—unread, unanswered.

‘Of course she moved on. Of course she forgot me.’

Until the party.

No ring. No boyfriend hovering. No daddy mentioned once.

His ego ballooned like a poorly tied volleyball—maybe the new guy’s a deadbeat.

‘Maybe I still got a shot. Step up, be the better man, show her what she’s missing.’

He’d floated through the games, the cake, the confetti, daydreaming himself as the proud dad-to-be beside you, the one everyone would remember. He’d vowed not to look desperate, but the want clawed at him anyway.

You shut him out. He respected it—barely.

Then the accident. Osamu’s notification. The hospital dash.

He hadn’t known you’d whispered his name before blacking out. He only knew that you and your kid were in danger. He needed to see if you were both okay in person.

Which led to him finally having the guts to ask your cousin why your ‘partner’ was nowhere to be found— to which Hitoka answered "I… she doesn’t have one."

The guilty expression on her face, also found on Kiyoko’s and Osamu’s left him no choice but to ask another question. If they weren’t going to tell him where the father was, then—

"Did she get with anybody after me?"

A "no" from Hitoka and he’s eternally stunned, a hand running down his motionless face, mourning the months he spent somewhere else that’s not with you.

Now, in the sterile hush of your hospital room, the truth had cracked him wide open. Tears still wet on his cheeks, voice hoarse from begging not too long ago, he couldn’t stop the words tumbling out.

"D’ya think she’ll have my hair? Or—your eyes, definitely your eyes, they’re way prettier—and your nose, ‘cause it’s cute—at this point I just want a mini-you—"

"Miya."

He kept going, frantic.

"Mini-you with my smirk, maybe—"

"Miya!"

The room went still. The sparkle in his eyes snuffed out like a candle in wind.

‘She hates me. Regrets telling me. Still doesn’t want me.’

The thought hit harder than any loss he’d experienced.

"D’ya want to rest or—" he started, voice gentle, wiping his own eyes with the back of his hand.

"Let’s talk."

And so you did.

He climbed carefully onto the bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight, hands never leaving yours as you unpacked it all—timelines from that birthday night, the positive test alone in your bathroom, the fear of his career imploding, the solo appointments, the cravings, the nights you cried over baby clothes too small for the ache in your chest. His thumbs traced your knuckles the whole time, eyes never straying.

"What made 'ya hide this for so long?" he asked finally, voice low. "I know you were worried about my career but I’m managing it. I should’ve been there with you right from the start."

"Like you’d be happy to switch to diapers due to a hookup?" You laughed bitterly, but it cracked.

He sighed, running a frustrated hand over his face, blonde strands sticking up wild. 

"I don’t recall putting the game over 'ya. Look, I… 'ya really think you were just a hookup?"

"That’s all we ever were, 'Tsumu."

"Because it was the only way I thought I could keep 'ya," he admitted, eyes dropping to your joined hands. "Knew that if it got serious, you’d run away and want me to focus on the career. But you don’t understand. You were always the priority."

Memories flooded then—him never skipping practice but cutting sets short when you texted 'need you', letting you crash at his place post-game even without the sex, just to hold you while you slept. Driving you to practices, leaving you in his warmed car with snacks and his jacket so you could "be near" without the chaos. You thought it was convenience, stress relief. Maybe not entirely wrong… but in this light? He silenced distractions on court like a pro, but never you. You were the exception.

"Since years ago, (Yn)," he continued, voice softer. "You were the only one I wanted to hear cheerin’ during games, even if it was for other teams. I was so stupid, huh?"

Oh.

Now it’s your turn to be shocked.

"You should’ve just told me."

"Could say the same." He leaned in, forehead to yours. "But I’m here now. Daddy’s here now." He shifted down to murmur to your belly, then captured your lips in a kiss—passionate, deep, months of pent-up everything pouring out.

Later, when the others crept back in—Osamu peeking first, Hitoka and Kiyoko trailing—the room had shifted. Atsumu paced like a new coach, checking IV levels, fluffing pillows, demanding extra blankets. You lay peaceful, the storm inside calmed to a gentle ripple.

"I’m a dad now," Atsumu beamed at Osamu, who rolled his eyes but clapped his shoulder with a grin, nodding your way.

Hitoka’s eyes gleamed. "Finally, I won’t see her secretly looking at family videos at night and crying anymore."

Kiyoko smiled softly at that. Osamu walked closer to you.

"Tsumu’s not so bright. He doesn’t know how far along 'ya are so he couldn’t put things together. He laughed after the gender reveal and said 'ya didn’t have a boyfriend. Was happy—said he’d pursue 'ya even if the baby wasn’t his."

Atsumu lunged playfully at Osamu. "I thought it was someone from Karasuno! Even suspected ‘Samu—thought you’d mistaken him for me—"

You and Osamu stared weirdly.

"You think I’d snatch her?" Osamu deadpanned. "I’d never heard so many things from 'ya in years except for volleyball and (Yn). Idiot."

"She’s perfect. That’s why I wanted to keep her all to myself—"

"And knock me up so you could stay with me forever, right?" you teased, finishing his thought. The room groaned in mock disgust.

"I almost didn’t get to," he shot back, grinning. "'Ya should be banned from secrets and runnin’ away."

Discharge came two days later, doctor’s orders strict: bed rest, monitoring, no stress. Atsumu insisted you stay at his place—"so I can watch 'ya, and Hitoka can rest." You waddled through his door, the familiar scent of his cologne and clean laundry wrapping around you like an old hug.

The apartment hadn’t changed much—volleyball trophies gleaming on shelves, couch indented from late-night film sessions, kitchen stocked with your old favorites.

"Tsumu, I’ll kill you if I see a trace of another girl here," you said, half-mining, half-testing as you poked around.

"Only girl trace you’d find would be Ma’s," he laughed, hands up. "I’m too busy for everyone else except 'ya."

"Who are you and what did you do to Atsumu?"

"Ask yourself that."

That night, he drew a bath—salts for swelling, warm water just right. You sank in with a sigh, but he stripped too, sliding behind you. 

"Lemme clean 'ya up proper." 

His hands were gentle, soaping your back, massaging shoulders knotted from hospital stiffness. You glanced down—couldn’t help it—his hard-on pressing against your lower back, obvious even in the steam.

"Shit, you're pretty," he murmured, lips at your ear.

"‘Tsumu…"

"Ignore that. Natural reaction when you’re around." But his voice was rough, hands lingering.

He carried you out bridal-style, towel-drying with care, laying you on fresh sheets. You reconnected slowly—talks turning to touches, peace settling over the mess. Friends were shocked he was the dad, more at his follow-up interview confirming "my girl and our daughter." He balanced it all—practices cut short, games with your ultrasound pic in his locker.

But spending every day with him meant seeing him constantly—shirtless mornings brewing coffee, post-shower towels low on hips, flashbacks to nights you’d tried to forget. You were heavily pregnant, heavily horny, cravings shifting from pickles to him.

Hormones kept on winning over reason.

You’d try—hand on his inner thigh during movie nights, scooting back into him on the bed—but he’d just kiss your forehead, hold your hand like you were fragile glass.

"Baby, 'ya good?" he asked one afternoon, catching you staring at nothing while slicing mangoes he’d hand-picked from the market. Shirtless again—why was that default?—muscles flexing as he leaned over.

"Yeah."

"Need anything?"

'You, idiot.' But you narrowed your eyes, went back to eating.

He scooped you up post-bite, carrying to the bed, starting a foot massage that climbed slow—ankles, calves, thighs.

"What are you doing?"

"Pleasurin' 'ya. You’re rollin' your eyes at me. What'd I do?"

"Nothing," you grumbled, but twitched when his thumbs hit inner thighs, a whimper escaping.

"Did it hurt?" He leaned close, concerned—perfect opening. You yanked him down, teeth clashing in a hungry kiss, months of want exploding. Moans spilled immediate; this was the first real one since the hospital, him only giving you pecks since.

Hormones raged—you hadn’t been touched in almost nine months.

He pulled back, mouth shiny, smirking at your heaving breaths, hand splayed protective over your belly. 

"Ah. You’re needy. Didn’t I say 'ya could say anythin' to me?"

"You kept rejecting my advances, asshole."

"Didn’t want 'ya thinkin' I’m only here for sex." 

Touching, but—

"Wet already?" His hand slipped under your sundress, fingers gliding through slick heat, parting you slow, teasing the entrance with feather-light circles that had you arching instantly. The air thickened, charged, your skin prickling under his gaze—proud, hungry, fixed on your swollen form like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Your breath hitched sharp, hips grinding up instinctively into his touch, chasing more. He chuckled low, breath hot against your neck as he nipped there, one finger finally sliding in—slow, deliberate, curling just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. 

"Missed this, missed ya clenchin’ around me." 

Another finger joined, stretching you gently, scissoring with care around your belly’s curve, his free hand splayed wide over it, feeling every flutter from within. 

"Sorry for every month I wasn’t here," he whispered, voice husky but mellow, pumping slower now, thumb rolling your clit in lazy, maddening circles. "Sorry I left ya cravin’ alone… gonna make it up, every night if ya let me." 

The words vibrated against your skin, his pace building—curl, thrust, circle—until your thighs trembled, walls fluttering, a low whine building in your throat.

You were now being reminded of the reason why you stayed in that old setup with him, and also why you got knocked up by him.

God, you missed him.

"’Tsumu, don’t stop.”

"I know, baby.”

You came with a gasp, body bowing as pleasure crashed over in waves, his name a broken moan on your lips. He didn’t stop, fingers working you through it, drawing out every aftershock until you were boneless, panting. 

"Good girl… but we’re not done. Still good, baby?" 

You nodded, emotional tears building slowly.

He shifted, shedding clothes with hurried grace, settling between your legs—careful, always careful of the bump. His tip nudged your entrance, slick and hot, eyes locked on yours. 

"Tell me if it’s too much."

You nodded frantic, pulling him closer. He entered slow—inch by inch, stretching you full after so long, the burn sweet and overwhelming. 

"Shiiit… been too long, baby—feels like home." 

"Ah... 'Tsumu, harder."

"Can't, baby. Sorry, gotta make sure little princess in there's undisturbed."

Thrusts started shallow, building deep but gentle, your belly a soft barrier between you, his hand cradling it as he rocked. Skin slapped soft, breaths mingling, your nails digging into his shoulders as another climax built—faster this time, coiling tight. Instead of going faster and deeper like he knew you wanted, it was replaced with gentler thrusts with mind-fucking grinds at every contact.

He groaned your name, pace faltering as you clenched, pulling him over with you in a shared shudder, spilling warm inside.

"I love ‘ya so much. You’ve no idea…”

After, tangled and spent, bodies slick with sweat, he kissed your forehead, then your belly, then your lips—soft, lingering. 

"Daddy’s not missin’ another kick... or crave. And when our girl’s here? We’ll be the best damn team. But ya? You're my MVP—always were." Cocky grin, but eyes soft, hand tracing lazy hearts on your skin. "Love ya both so much."

He’d spiked blind all this time, chasing something he couldn’t name until it led him straight back to you.

You’d done your own running—protecting him, protecting the tiny ace you thought he’d never want. Turns out, he’d been reaching for you all along.

END.

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Forbidden Flame (Izuku Midoriya X Reader)

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Pairing: Izuku Midoriya (Deku) x f!Reader (Colleagues dynamics) Synopsis: In the high-octane pro hero scene, Izuku Midoriya’s all focus and freckled charm... until you, a sassy, quirkless gear tech and Dynamight’s cousin, decide to mess with his do-gooder vibe. What starts as teasing the shy hero spirals into steamy, secret hookups that’d make Katsuki’s explosions look tame. Sneaking around under your hothead cousin’s nose, you and Deku push limits, blending banter with fiery passion that threatens to blow up their hero world. Content Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, All Characters are adults, Katsuki is your nosy cousin.

In the pro hero landscape of Japan, where quirks defined destinies and heroes like Dynamight and Deku stood as pillars against chaos, Katsuki Bakugo had always been the explosive force in your life. As his cousin, (Yn), you'd grown up in the shadow of his brash ambition, sharing family barbecues where he'd bark orders at you like a drill sergeant, all while secretly slipping you extra cash for school supplies or threatening anyone who looked at you wrong.

At 25, Katsuki was still that same hot-headed bastard, his spikes of blond hair defiant as ever, red eyes glaring through every patrol. But age had sharpened him... made him a top-ranked hero who led with calculated blasts rather than blind rage. He worried about you in his own twisted way, especially since you were quirkless but damn clever, working as a gear technician in a support lab.

"Stay out of trouble, idiot," he'd grunt during family visits, ruffling your hair too hard. "You're mischievous as hell, and I ain't bailing you out every time."

You thrived on that edge, though, loving how you could push buttons and stir chaos without quirks, your wit as sharp as any explosion.

Izuku Midoriya, or Deku, entered the picture during a joint agency briefing at Ground Zero. At 25, he was the Symbol of Peace's successor, his body a sculpted testament to One For All's power, freckles dotting a face that still held that wide-eyed innocence amid the scars. He analyzed everything obsessively, notebook always at the ready, muttering strategies that saved lives.

His intellect intrigued you.

You spotted him across the room, looking all earnest and flustered while presenting quirk countermeasures, and something clicked. He seemed so innocent... so easy to mess with. Katsuki had always ragged on him, calling him "nerd" or "Deku" with a mix of annoyance and reluctant respect, but you saw potential for fun. After the meeting, you sauntered over, pretending to need his input on a prototype glove.

"Hey, hero boy," you teased, leaning in close enough to make his cheeks flush that adorable pink. "Think you could test this for me? Or are you too busy saving the world?"

He stammered, green eyes widening, but nodded eagerly, launching into a detailed explanation of how it could integrate with his Shoot Style. You laughed, enjoying how he lit up, and from there, it snowballed.

What started as playful teasing evolved quickly. You'd drop by his agency with "gear consultations," but really, it was to fluster him... watch him trip over words when you complimented his muscles or brushed against him "accidentally." Katsuki noticed your absences but shrugged it off at first, figuring you were buried in work.

"Don't fuck around too much, (Yn)," he'd warn over dinner one night, eyes narrowing. "That nerd's got enough on his plate without your trouble."

But you couldn't resist.

Izuku was sweet, attentive, remembering your favorite coffee order or geeking out over your tech designs like they were masterpieces.

One evening, after a mock spar where you 'helped' him calibrate a suit, you pushed the envelope, pinning him against the wall in the empty training room.

"You're too pure for your own good, Izuku," you murmured, lips hovering near his. He froze, then surged forward, kissing you with a hunger that surprised you both.

From there, secrecy became the game... stolen makeouts in alleys after patrols, late-night texts that turned flirty, your mischief drawing out his bolder side. He worshipped you in private, hands exploring with reverent strength, whispering how you made his world brighter amid the hero grind.

Mornings at his apartment meant him brewing tea while you sketched upgrades, him peeking over your shoulder with that analytical gleam.

"This alloy could reduce quirk backlash by 15%... amazing, (Yn)!" Afternoons involved quick lunches at hole-in-the-wall spots, where he'd dissect villain tactics over ramen, and you'd poke fun at his muttering habit.

Evenings blurred into domestic bliss: him reviewing footage on the couch, your head in his lap as you read. But passion always simmered... your teasing sparking heated nights where innocence gave way to intensity.

And so weeks after the meeting, here (Yn) laid with Deku over her, his muscular frame pressing her into the mattress of her modest bedroom, the city lights filtering through half-drawn curtains as rain pattered outside. It was a rare off-day, patrols canceled due to a storm, and he'd shown up with takeout, but food was forgotten the moment the door closed.

"You're trouble, you know that?" Izuku growled playfully, his voice husky as he nipped at your collarbone, hands already shoving your shirt up and over your head. You grinned, arching into him, fingers tangling in his messy green curls.

"And you love it... come on, hero, show me what that strength can do."

He obliged, mouth crashing down on yours in a bruising kiss, tongues tangling crude and desperate, his calloused palms roaming your bare skin, squeezing your breasts roughly until you moaned into his lips.

He stripped you fast, pants yanked down with your underwear in one go, his own hero suit discarded in a heap... god, he was built, cock already hard and throbbing against your thigh, pre-cum smearing as he ground against you.

"(Yn)... you're so wet already?" he muttered, fingers dipping between your legs, sliding through your slick folds, circling your clit with that precise touch he'd learned made you writhe.

You bucked, nails digging into his shoulders, "Don't tease, Izuku... fuck me already."

He chuckled low, positioning himself, the thick head of his dick nudging your entrance before slamming in deep, stretching you full in one thrust. You cried out, legs wrapping around his waist as he set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward, balls slapping against your ass with each crude plunge.

The bed creaked under his inhuman power, controlled just enough not to break it, his grunts mixing with your whimpers as he pounded into you, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

"You feel so good... tight around me," he rasped, leaning down to suck a mark on your neck, teeth grazing as you clenched around him.

Sweat slicked your bodies, the room filled with the wet smack of skin on skin, your juices coating him as he drove deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

"Harder... yes, like that, fuck!" you gasped, heels digging into his back, urging him on. He obliged, pace turning frantic, his free hand slipping between you to rub your clit in rough circles, pushing you over the edge. You came hard, walls pulsing around his dick, soaking the sheets as you screamed his name.

He wasn't far behind, thrusts erratic, "Gonna cum inside you... can I fill you up?" he groaned, and with a final deep shove, he did, hot spurts painting your insides as he collapsed over you, both panting, bodies tangled in the afterglow.

But the door burst open mid-recovery, Katsuki storming in with a key he'd "borrowed" from family spare sets, face twisted in annoyance.

"Oi, (Yn)! You ditched lunch again? Aunt's pissed, and I ain't— what the fuck?!"

His eyes bulged at the sight: you and Izuku naked, still connected, sheets barely covering the mess. Izuku yelped, pulling out hastily and yanking a blanket over you both, face flaming red.

"K-Kacchan! This isn't... wait!"

Katsuki's palms sparked, explosions popping like fireworks, his roar shaking the walls.

"You shitty nerd! Screwing my cousin? I'll kill you!" But beneath the rage, there was that flicker... worry for Deku, knowing your mischievous ass had probably corrupted the "innocent" guy. You laughed despite the chaos, sitting up with the sheet clutched to your chest.

"Katsuki, chill... it was my idea. Started messing with him, and well..."

Izuku stammered defenses, "I-I care about her, Kacchan! It's not just—"

The argument erupted, Katsuki pacing, yelling about betrayal and "that damn Deku tainting family," but you could see the humor in his eyes... mad at Izuku for "letting" you lead him astray, worried you'd break the nerd's heart with your troublemaking ways.

"You're a menace, (Yn)! And you, nerd... if she fucks you over, don't come crying!" He punched the wall, leaving a scorch mark, but didn't blast them to bits.

Hours later, over forced coffee in the kitchen—Izuku in sweats, you in his oversized shirt, Katsuki glaring daggers—the tension eased. Izuku explained earnestly, "We've been together for weeks... she's amazing, Kacchan. Makes the hero life bearable."

Katsuki huffed, crossing arms. "Fine... but if you hurt her, or she wrecks you, I'm blowing shit up. And lock your damn door next time!"

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A Dance of Fire and Defiance (Katsuki Bakugo X Reader)

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Pairing: Duke!Katsuki Bakugo x Diamond!Reader (Bridgerton-inspired AU, No Quirks, Royalty/Regency Setting) Synopsis: At Aldera’s Masquerade Ball, Lady (Yn), last season’s defiant Diamond, clashes with Duke Katsuki Bakugo of Dynamight in a fiery waltz. Their masked encounter sparks tension, forgotten until a forbidden art soirée at Lord Kirishima’s Red Riot estate. Surrounded by scandalous paintings, a desperate kiss ignites forbidden passion, threatening ruin. Content Warnings: Explicit sexual content, virginity loss, forbidden romance, potential scandal, mature themes, mild language, suggestive art (nude paintings), alcohol mention, societal pressure.

Reblogs, likes, and comments fuel my soul—tell me if you want more of this scandalous AU!

In the opulent halls of the Grand Palace of Aldera, where chandeliers dripped like frozen waterfalls of crystal and the air hummed with the whispers of silk gowns and polished boots, the annual Masquerade Ball unfolded like a living tapestry. It was the pinnacle of the social season, a night where masks concealed identities and fortunes were forged in fleeting dances. The kingdom's elite mingled under the guise of anonymity, their faces hidden behind feathers, jewels, and intricate veneers of gold leaf. For Lady (Yn), the Diamond of the previous season, it was yet another tiresome obligation in a world that prized her beauty like a rare gem but dismissed her spirit as an inconvenient flaw.

(Yn) had earned her title not just for her striking features— eyes that sparkled with an untamed intelligence, hair that cascaded like midnight silk, and a figure that turned heads without effort—but for the enigma she presented. Whispers followed her through every ballroom: the maiden who had rejected suitors with the sharpness of a dueling blade, her tongue laced with wit that bordered on disdain.

"A man-hater," they called her in hushed tones, though she preferred "discerning." Why settle for the simpering lords who saw her as a trophy when she craved something real, something that ignited rather than smothered?

Her parents, the Earl and Countess of Musutafu, despaired of her ever finding a match, but (Yn) reveled in her independence. She spent her days in quiet rebellion: sneaking into the palace libraries to devour forbidden texts on philosophy and art, riding astride through the misty forests surrounding her estate, and confiding in her closest friend, Lady Mina Ashido, about dreams that extended far beyond the confines of marriage. Mina, with her vibrant pink curls and infectious laugh, was the only one who truly understood (Yn)'s aversion to the parade of eligible bachelors.

"They're all bark and no bite," Mina would tease during their afternoon teas, fanning herself dramatically. "But you, my dear, deserve a storm."

Tonight, however, escape was impossible. The masquerade demanded her presence, and so (Yn) donned a mask of shimmering emerald feathers that framed her eyes like a verdant crown, her gown a deep sapphire that hugged her form before flaring into layers of tulle. As she descended the grand staircase, the room seemed to pause, a collective breath held in admiration. But (Yn)'s gaze swept the crowd with practiced indifference, noting the peacocks in their finery, the wallflowers clutching fans like shields.

"Another night of dodging dullards," she muttered to Mina, who giggled beside her in a rosy mask adorned with horns.

Across the ballroom, Duke Katsuki Bakugo of the Duchy of Dynamight brooded like a storm cloud amid the festivities. His parents, the formidable Duke and Duchess Mitsuki and Masaru Bakugo, had dragged him here under duress. Dynamight was a land of volcanic peaks and fierce forges, where explosions of innovation, alchemical fireworks and engineered blasts for mining, defined its prosperity, much like Katsuki's own explosive temperament.

With ash-blond hair that spiked defiantly even under the constraints of formal styling, crimson eyes that burned with unyielding ambition, and a build honed from years of rigorous training in swordplay and strategy, he was a force of nature. Katsuki despised weakness, loathed small talk, and pursued victory in all things with explosive determination. Yet, beneath that brash exterior lay a loyalty fiercer than any flame, a protectiveness that extended to those he deemed worthy — though few ever earned it.

His mornings were spent overseeing Dynamight's forges, barking orders at smiths who quaked under his glare, while afternoons involved sparring sessions that left opponents bruised but respectful. Evenings? Solitary strategy games by the fire, plotting alliances that would secure his duchy's future.

"Find a partner, Katsuki," his mother had snarled earlier that evening, her voice a whipcrack in their lavish carriage as they rattled over the cobblestones from Dynamight's borders. "You're twenty-three, heir to everything we've built, and acting like a damn recluse. Dance with at least three maidens tonight, or so help me, I'll announce your betrothal myself to the first simpering fool who bats her lashes."

His father had nodded solemnly, ever the peacemaker, murmuring, "It's for the duchy, son. Alliances mean stability." Katsuki knew the threat was real—Dynamight's volatile neighbors made such unions a necessity.

Grumbling obscenities under his breath, he had stormed into the ball, his mask a snarling dragon of black obsidian and red enamel, his attire a tailored black coat with crimson accents that screamed power.

"Tch, like I need some weakling hanging off my arm," he growled to himself, clenching his fists.

The orchestra struck up a waltz, and the floor swirled with couples. Katsuki scanned the room, his jaw set in irritation. He wasn't here to court; he was here to endure.

Spotting a cluster of giggling debutantes, he approached the least insufferable-looking one—a petite blonde in a pink mask—but she simpered so excessively, cooing, "Oh, my lord, your mask is so fierce!" that he abandoned the idea mid-stride with a scoff.

"Idiot."

The second, a brunette with a fox mask, prattled on about embroidery until his patience snapped.

"Do you ever shut up?" he snapped, retreating to the shadows before she could gasp in offense.

It was then that his eyes locked onto her—(Yn), though he didn't know her name. She stood apart, her posture regal yet defiant, fending off a persistent lord with a quip that sent him scurrying: "My lord, if flattery were a currency, you'd be bankrupt."

Something in her eyes, visible through the slits of her mask—sharp, unyielding, like polished onyx—stirred a rare curiosity in him. She wasn't simpering; she was challenging the very air around her. Gritting his teeth, Katsuki strode forward, his parents' ultimatum echoing in his mind.

"Dance with me," he demanded more than asked, extending a gloved hand, his voice rough like gravel underfoot.

(Yn) turned, her brows arching behind her mask. Who was this masked stranger with the voice like thunder and an aura that crackled with intensity? His presence was overwhelming, a heat that radiated even through the cool night air. Intrigued despite herself—his directness was a far cry from the flowery flattery she despised—she placed her hand in his.

"As you wish, my lord," she replied coolly, though her pulse quickened at the firmness of his grip. "Though I must warn you, I lead as often as I follow."

Katsuki's eyes narrowed behind his mask, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Try it, and see what happens."

He pulled her into the dance, his movements powerful yet controlled, like a predator toying with prey. (Yn) matched him step for step, her own grace a counterpoint to his intensity. As they spun, she couldn't resist probing.

"You dance like you're conquering the floor. Afraid of losing control?"

"Tch, control's all I have," he retorted, his hand tightening on her waist. "You talk like you've got something to prove. What, scared of a real challenge?"

She laughed lightly, a sound that surprised even her. "Scared? Hardly. I've turned down better offers than a masked brute's waltz."

"Brute? I'll show you brute," he growled, dipping her low enough that her hair brushed the floor, his crimson gaze boring into hers.

The dance ended too soon, the music fading as he released her with a curt nod.

"Not half bad," he grunted, vanishing into the crowd before she could retort. (Yn) touched her hand where his had been, a fleeting warmth lingering.

"Arrogant fool," she whispered, but a smile ghosted her lips.

Easy to forget, she told herself, dismissing the encounter as another fleeting ballroom moment. But as she retired to her chambers that night, the memory of those piercing eyes haunted her dreams, mingling with her daily routines—sketching wildflowers in the garden, debating literature with Mina over scones, and wondering if independence was truly as fulfilling as she claimed.

Days blurred into the rhythm of high society: morning calls where (Yn) endured her mother's lectures on propriety—"(Yn), dear, you must soften that tongue of yours; no man wants a wife who outwits him!"—afternoons sketching in the gardens where wildflowers defied the manicured lawns, evenings of quiet rebellion reading smuggled novels by candlelight.

Whispers of the masquerade lingered, but life marched on—until an invitation arrived, secreted in a bouquet from her eccentric acquaintance, Lord Eijiro Kirishima. Known for his rebellious streak, shark-toothed grin, and "manly" optimism, Kirishima hosted clandestine gatherings for the kingdom's artistic souls, defying the rigid norms of court life. "Come paint the night away, Lady (Yn)!" the note read, signed with his flourish.

The "art-related secret party" was held in a hidden wing of his family's estate in the hills of Red Riot, a labyrinth of candlelit rooms filled with easels, sculptures, and forbidden wines. No masks this time; faces were bare, identities risked for the thrill of creation. (Yn) attended out of curiosity, her man-hater walls cracking just enough to seek camaraderie among like-minded rebels. She wandered the rooms, admiring charcoal sketches of stormy seas and debating symbolism with a group of poets, her laughter rare but genuine.

"This piece captures the chaos of the soul," she said to one artist, gesturing at a swirling abstract. "But where's the resolution?"

Katsuki, meanwhile, had been dispatched by his parents to "check on that idiot Kirishima." The red-haired lord was a childhood friend, his unwavering loyalty a balm to Katsuki's temper. But Kirishima's parents were furious—rumors of the party had leaked, threatening scandal.

"Tell him to shut it down before he drags us all into ruin," Mitsuki had barked over breakfast, slamming her fist on the table.

Katsuki arrived grudgingly, navigating the estate's back entrances with the stealth of a shadow.

"Damn shitty hair, always causing trouble," he muttered, pushing through a door.

In a dimly lit gallery, he bumped into someone—literally. A soft gasp, a stumble, and there she was: (Yn), unmasked, her eyes widening in recognition. Those eyes—onyx fire, the same from the ball. Katsuki's crimson gaze narrowed, a jolt of electricity surging through him.

"You," he growled, the word hanging heavy. "The mouthy one from the masquerade."

"You," she echoed, her voice a whisper of surprise, though laced with amusement. "The brute who thinks dancing is a battlefield. What are you doing here, my lord? Come to conquer the canvases?"

The air crackled between them, unspoken memories of their dance igniting like dry tinder. "None of your business," he snapped, but his eyes lingered on her lips. "You gonna keep staring, or—"

She opened her mouth to retort when shouts erupted from the hall—Kirishima's parents had ambushed the party, their voices booming demands for order: "Eijiro! This folly ends now!"

Panic seized (Yn); scandal would ruin her fragile reputation. Without thinking, she grabbed Katsuki's arm, spotting a door behind him—a private alcove, perhaps.

"In here!" she hissed, shoving him inside and slamming the door shut behind them.

The space was cramped, shelves lined with canvases pressing in, their bodies forced flush against each other in the dim light filtering through cracks.

But as her eyes adjusted, (Yn) realized this wasn't just any room—it was a forbidden gallery, walls adorned with paintings of raw sensuality: nude figures entwined in ecstatic poses, limbs tangled in passion, explicit depictions of lovers in throes that made the air feel thicker. Katsuki's breath hitched, his face flushing beneath his usual scowl—flustered, though he'd die before admitting it.

"What the hell kind of place is this?" he muttered, averting his eyes from a particularly vivid scene of a couple lost in embrace.

(Yn), however, remained composed, her scholarly pursuits having exposed her to such art in hidden tomes.

"Erotic masterpieces," she replied calmly, though her heart raced. "From the old masters of U.A. Valley—studies in human form and desire. You've never seen the like?" She tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eye. "Or perhaps you're too... pure for such things?"

"Tch, pure? Don't flatter yourself," he shot back, but his voice was rougher, his body heat palpable in the confined space.

With those paintings surrounding them, the good-looking stranger's proximity, his sharp jaw, broad shoulders, the scent of smoke and spice, chipped at her composure. Would this be enough to break her walls? She didn't get the chance to think.

The door creaked open suddenly. A servant of Kirishima's peered in, lantern raised. In a flash of desperation, (Yn) surged forward, pressing her lips to Katsuki's in a feigned kiss to hide their faces. He stiffened, then instinctively wrapped an arm around her, deepening it as they stumbled, falling to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

The servant blinked, muttering, "Young ones these days... always sneaking off for a tryst," before closing the door with a chuckle.

They broke apart, breathing heavy, the kiss lingering like a spark. Katsuki's eyes darkened with something primal.

"What the fuck was that?" he demanded, but his hands didn't release her.

(Yn)'s cheeks burned, but she met his gaze. "Improvisation. Better a rumored kiss than a full scandal."

Outside, footsteps faded; the ambush over. But the tension remained, amplified by the erotic art. Katsuki's pride surged—he was no novice to command, and this woman challenged him like no other. Leaning in, he captured her lips again, this time for real, his kiss demanding, exploratory.

She responded, her hands fisting in his shirt. Clothes became barriers; buttons undone with trembling fingers, fabrics pooling at their feet. Katsuki's prideful moves were bold—he trailed kisses down her neck, his hands cupping her breasts with possessive grip.

"See? I know what I'm doing," he growled, thumb circling a nipple.

(Yn) laughed lightly, humbling him as she guided his hand lower, her touch gentle yet firm.

"Do you? Here, like this—gentler, or you'll scare it away." Her voice was breathy, virgin explorations unfolding in whispers.

He explored her body like uncharted territory, his tongue delving between her thighs with clumsy eagerness that evolved into rhythm, drawing moans.

"Not bad for a brute," she teased, her fingers in his hair.

He rose, positioning himself, pride swelling.

"I'll make you beg," he promised, entering her slowly—painful at first, a shared gasp as barriers broke.

But (Yn) humbled him again, her laugh soft amid the pleasure. "Careful, my lord—don't forget to pull your sword out in time," she said sarcastically, her walls clenching around him as thrusts built from tentative to fervent.

"Shut up," he groaned, but complied, pulling out just as release crashed, spilling on her thigh. They collapsed, sweat-slicked, the forbidden act a scandal waiting to erupt.

The next ball arrived like a thunderclap—the Queen's Grand Soiree, hosted by Queen Inko herself, a benevolent ruler with a keen eye for matches. (Yn) entered late, her gown a defiant crimson that matched the fire in her veins. Whispers followed: the former Diamond, still unmatched.

In the throne room, Queen Inko held court, her eyes alight with mischief. "Duke Bakugo," she announced warmly, "allow me to introduce the Diamond of this season—Lady Ochaco Uraraka, a vision of grace and fortune."

Katsuki stood rigid, his gaze flicking to the bubbly brunette approaching, her cheeks flushing as she curtsied. "Your Grace, it's an honor," Ochaco said sweetly.

But then the doors swung open, and (Yn) glided in. Their eyes met across the room—crimson locking with onyx, a spark reigniting. Katsuki's lips curved into a smirk, his attention drifting entirely from Ochaco, fixed on (Yn) with unmistakable intent. "Your Majesty," he said, voice low and deliberate, "I believe I've already found my dance partner for the evening."

As the room hushed in anticipation, his steps turned toward (Yn), leaving the question hanging: would duty bind him, or had desire already claimed victory?

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

Eijiro Version

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