honey after midnight

hq, mha maniac

[tipsywithintent]

-Masterlist-

"Tipsy on fiction, where every word slips like silk and stings like truth."

Haikyuu!

Suna Rintarou

What He Wouldn't Say

You, Again?

Sakusa Kiyoomi

You Never Call Me.

Miya Atsumu

Why Me?

Miya Osamu

to be updated...

Kita Shinsuke

to be updated...

My Hero Academia

Bakugou Katsuki

to be updated...

Todoroki Shouto

to be updated...

Amajiki Tamaki

to be updated...

Takami Keigo (Hawks)

to be updated...

[tipsywithintent]

ˋ°ꕥ Why Me? ꕥˋ°

°• Pairing: timeskip!Miya Atsumu × Reader

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You always knew Atsumu had a type.

You saw it back in high school - the way he’d get distracted by girls with long legs, dramatic lashes, and confident laughs that echoed through the hallway. He didn’t even hide it. If someone called him out, he’d grin and go, “What? I ain’t blind.”

You weren’t like them. Not then, not now.

Even now, years later, with you curled up on the corner of his couch in one of his oversized shirts, legs tucked under you, and hair still damp from your evening shower, the thought sometimes crept in.

You weren’t flashy. Or flirty. You didn’t walk into a room and make everyone turn their heads.

But somehow, you were the one Atsumu came home to. The one he texted when he landed in another city for a match. The one whose cold fingers he grumbled about but always held.

It didn’t make sense.

And tonight, for some reason, it hit harder than usual.

Maybe it was the girl he’d been interviewed with - a fellow athlete, bold and gorgeous, laughing too comfortably beside him. Maybe it was how well she matched the image of the girls you always thought he’d end up with.

Maybe it was just your own voice, whispering doubts you’d buried for too long.

Either way, when he came out of the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn and a water bottle tucked under his arm, ready to join you for a late-night movie, you couldn’t stop the words from slipping out.

“Atsumu?”

He glanced down, eyebrow lifted. “Hm?”

You hesitated, staring at the pattern on the couch.

“Why… me?”

He paused, slowly setting the bowl down on the coffee table.

“What?”

You looked up at him, small, nervous. “I mean, I know what kind of girls you used to like. Or still like. Probably. I’m not… that.”

He blinked at you. Not insulted. Just confused. “That?”

You motioned vaguely. “You know. Tall. Curvy. Confident. Girls who wear heels and red lipstick and know how to flirt without trying. You’ve always liked girls like that.”

Atsumu was quiet for a second.

Then, without a word, he sat beside you - not in the usual casual way, but closer. His hand found yours. Warm. Steady.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “I noticed girls like that. That’s different.”

You frowned. “Is it?”

He turned toward you, his expression more serious than usual. “Look, I ain’t gonna lie. I did have a type. Still probably get distracted sometimes - I’m a guy with eyes.”

You flinched.

“But,” he continued, squeezing your hand, “there’s a difference between who catches your eye and who you choose.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at him, trying not to crumble.

Atsumu leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against yours.

“I chose you,” he murmured. “I keep choosing you.”

You blinked quickly. “Why?”

He chuckled - not because it was funny, but because the question felt so absurd to him.

“Because you’re the only one who makes me feel like I can shut up for a second,” he said, soft and honest. “Because you look at me like I’m more than a loudmouth on a court. Because you keep me grounded. You don’t care about the attention or the fan crap. You care about me.”

Your chest tightened. He wasn’t done.

“And yeah, maybe you don’t walk in and turn heads,” he said, voice gentler now, “but you don’t need to. I turn mine for you.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to cry.

Atsumu caught that too. He leaned over and kissed your cheek. “I like the way you fit against me when we sleep. I like how you always eat the last french fry, even when you say you’re full. I like that you study the people you love and notice when they’re tired even if they don’t say anything.”

You laughed quietly. “That’s very specific.”

“So are my feelings for you.”

You let yourself lean against him then, all of your weight tucked into his side, forehead buried in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just… felt small tonight.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll just remind you again tomorrow.”

[tipsywithintent]

*ೃ You, Again? *ೃ

*ੈ Pairing: timeskip!Suna Rintarou x reader

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Kuroo had been handling pro volleyball logistics long enough to know when something was going to be a pain.

Inviting players to the Japan All-Star Match? Easy.

Calling Bokuto? Done. He screamed “HELL YES” before Kuroo even finished the sentence.

Miya Atsumu? Smug and dramatic, but excited.

Ushijima? He just said “Okay.” Classic.

But then there was one name left on the clipboard. One final checkmark. One last player to personally call.

Suna Rintarou.

Not because Suna was difficult.

No. Suna was laid-back, dependable, talented as hell.

He was also dating Kuroo’s baby sister.

And had been for almost two years.

The thought alone gave Kuroo a headache.

He scrolled to the contact on his phone, hit call, and braced for it.

“Yo,” came the bored drawl on the other end.

“It’s Kuroo,” he said.

A pause. “Tetsurou. Always a pleasure.”

“Don’t be a punk,” Kuroo muttered. “I’m calling about the All-Star match.”

“Cool. I’m in.”

“I didn’t even say the date yet.”

“Still in.”

Kuroo pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s next month. Exhibition game, televised, full crowd. We’re pulling players from all over the league.”

“Cool,” Suna said again, utterly unfazed.

Of course he was.

There was a beat of silence.

And Kuroo knew he could’ve ended the call right there. But he couldn’t help himself.

“…She told me you stayed at her place last week.”

Another pause.

Suna didn’t even pretend to be confused. “Yeah.”

“She also said you cooked.”

“I can handle breakfast.”

“You made pancakes, Rintarou.”

“I make good pancakes,” he said simply.

Kuroo could hear the smirk in his voice and had to resist the urge to slam his phone onto the nearest surface.

“She also sent me a picture,” Kuroo added coolly, “of you wearing my university hoodie.”

“I thought it was hers,” Suna said dryly.

“It’s oversized.”

“So’s my patience,” Suna muttered.

Kuroo snapped.

“Listen. You might be her boyfriend, but you’ll always be the guy I saw in high school who showed up with eye bags and a bad attitude.”

“And you’ll always be the guy who spiked with his hair,” Suna said evenly.

They stared each other down through the phone like grown men with unfinished high school beef.

Then, after a long pause, Suna spoke again - quiet this time.

“She’s happy, Kuroo.”

The words settled heavy. Final.

Kuroo didn’t respond right away. He looked down at the checkmark beside Suna’s name.

Then he sighed.

“…She better be.”

“She is,” Suna said again, no sarcasm, no bite. “I’ll be at the match.”

Kuroo hung up, tossing his phone on the couch and raking a hand through his hair.

A few minutes later, a message came through.

[Suna 🦊]

📸: a blurry photo of your smile, forehead pressed to Suna’s shoulder

Caption: For your peace of mind.

Kuroo stared at the image.

He didn’t respond.

But he did mark the final name with a bold checkmark and muttered under his breath -

“Don’t screw this up, Rintarou.”

[tipsywithintent]

˚ ✦ What He Wouldn’t Say ˚ ✦

✧ Pairing: 2nd year Suna Rintarou × 1st year Reader

✧ Genre: Slow-burn, fluff, introspective, slice of life

✧ Word count: 1644

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Suna Rintarou liked watching things unfold.

Not in a nosy way - more like a passive curiosity. Drama, tension, and the dumb things people said when they thought no one was listening. He noticed it all. Stayed quiet. Let it wash over him while he leaned back, half-listening to the world with one earbud in and a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

He didn’t get involved. Didn’t need to.

But you weren’t background noise.

You were louder than the others. Not in volume, but in presence. Clear, quick, never flustered. The kind of girl who called out missed reps without hesitation, who moved like she was always two steps ahead. High-ranking in class, clipboard always in hand, sleeves rolled up, and attention razor-sharp.

You didn’t flirt. Didn’t linger. You told Osamu to stop throwing sweaty towels around. Told Atsumu to hydrate. You weren’t trying to impress anyone - you were there to get things done.

And you made it known you didn’t do relationships.

"Distractions," you said once. No bitterness. Just a fact.

Suna got it.

But he still kept looking.

—

At first, it was simple. The sound of your pen during drills. The way you bit the inside of your cheek when reading notes. That small crease between your brows when the team’s stats didn’t line up.

Things no one else seemed to notice.

But Suna did.

You weren’t soft around the edges. You were sharp and efficient and maddeningly composed. Unbothered by teasing. Unshaken by compliments. When Atsumu made a pass at you (half-joking, always dramatic), you shut it down with a look so flat it made the whole team wince.

Suna liked that. Quietly. From a distance.

And that should’ve been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

—

It started on a Thursday.

The sky was washed-out blue. Warm wind. Lunch break. Suna had his usual spot on the back stairs of the gym, legs stretched, shadows dancing lazily across his knees.

He wasn’t waiting for you.

But then he saw you - down in the courtyard under the sakura tree, bento in your lap, sitting beside Osamu. You laughed at something he said. Light, offhand. Unburdened.

Your chopsticks nudged a piece of karaage into his box like it was a habit.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

But it stuck.

Suna blinked slowly, jaw flexing. His onigiri tasted bland.

You never shared lunch with him.

He didn’t even know you laughed like that.

—

Practice went on as usual. Tosses, drills, sweat. But everything felt a bit… louder. More off-tempo.

You didn’t act different. Still focused. Still precise. Still barking reminders while keeping the med kit stocked and the towels clean.

But when you passed him a towel, your fingers brushed his by accident.

He moved away a second too fast.

You paused. Not long. But long enough.

—

Later, while the rest of the team headed out to refill bottles or sneak a break, Suna sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

You finished sorting cones into the storage bin. Quiet. Intentional. Then walked over and stood in front of him, arms folded loosely.

“You’re sulking,” you said.

He looked up, unimpressed. “Not sulking.”

“Mhm.”

He didn’t say anything else. Neither did you. But you stayed, eyes on him, waiting like you expected something.

“You like Osamu?” he asked finally.

You blinked. “What?”

“You were sharing food.”

Your brow arched. “He gave me extra karaage. I gave him back two pieces. That’s not flirting.”

He leaned back. “Still.”

You tilted your head, gaze narrowing just slightly. “Would it matter if it wasn’t?”

Silence.

Suna didn’t move. Barely blinked. His voice was flat, but a beat too late to be casual.

“No. Not really.”

Then he smirked, lazy again. “Just wouldn’t have brought you melonpan if I knew you were that easy.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, half-annoyed, half-surprised. There was a flush under your skin you didn’t try to hide.

But neither of you said more.

Suna didn’t explain what he meant. Didn’t tell you that he thought about you more than he should. That he’d overheard you saying you didn’t want to get distracted and still found himself wishing you’d make an exception.

—

The next day at lunch, you headed out to the courtyard with your bento in hand, eyes half-focused on your notes.

And there he was.

Suna, already sitting on the low wall beneath the sakura tree. His usual slouch. Phone in one hand. The other resting beside something wrapped in bakery paper.

You slowed.

He didn’t look up.

You considered your options, then quietly sat beside him.

Still no words.

But the melonpan was warm. Fresh. Resting there between you like it belonged. Not handed to you. Not offered. Just there.

Waiting.

You glanced at him.

He scrolled, unmoved.

But when your hand reached for it—when your fingers brushed the edge of the wrapper—he finally glanced over, just once.

You didn’t thank him. He didn’t need you to.

You ate beside him in silence.

And when Osamu passed by with his own lunch and a raised brow, you didn’t explain.

You stayed.

—

Practice felt the same after that.

Mostly.

You still called out plays. Still rolled up sleeves to tape fingers. Still ducked your head when you were scribbling notes mid-drill.

But Suna looked a little longer. Stood a little closer.

Didn’t speak more - but something shifted in the way he lingered behind after practice, waiting until you were done locking up the equipment cabinet before walking out with you.

Not a pattern. Not yet.

But it wasn’t nothing.

And he noticed.

—

One evening, after the rest of the team had left and the sun was striping the gym floor gold, he caught you in the hallway.

You were adjusting your backpack, flipping through your schedule.

“Why do you do all this?” he asked suddenly.

You glanced up.

“What do you mean?”

“This.” He nodded toward the gym. “The work. The stress. You could just focus on school.”

You studied him for a second, then shrugged. “Because it matters.”

“To whom?”

You looked away, a little softer now. “To me.”

He watched you carefully.

“I like being useful,” you added, quieter. “Even if no one sees it.”

“I see it,” he said.

You didn’t speak.

But your fingers stopped fidgeting.

And for once, you didn’t walk away first.

—

Suna didn’t need to chase things. That wasn’t his style.

But for the first time, he thought… maybe he would. Maybe this was worth it.

Even if it started slow.

Even if it never quite finished.

[tipsywithintent]

⋆ ★ You Never Call Me.⋆ ★

✩ Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship

✩ Word count: 1170

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Living with your boyfriend came with some non-negotiables. With Kiyoomi, that list was… detailed.

No outside shoes past the entryway. Shower first if you’ve been in a crowd. And parties - well, those were a you thing. Not a him thing. Ever.

He never stopped you from going. Never guilted you or made you feel bad about enjoying yourself. But when things got wild, and you drank a little too much or needed a ride home, you knew better than to call him.

He hated crowds. Hated drunk strangers brushing up against him. Hated touching things that smelled like beer and regret.

So, you always called your best friend instead. It was easier - for both of you. At least, that’s what you thought.

Until one night, everything shifted.

⸻

Your phone died somewhere around midnight, just after you’d spilled half a cocktail on yourself and started getting dizzy from the lights. Your friend was late, and the sidewalk was cold beneath you as you sat curled near the curb, trying to hum a song that wouldn’t stick in your head.

When headlights pulled up, you didn’t expect to see his car. And when the driver’s door opened, and Sakusa stepped out in a hoodie and mask, you thought for a second you might be hallucinating.

“…Kiyoomi?”

His eyes narrowed as he looked down at you. “You didn’t call. You always call them."

“I - phone died…”

“I figured. So I called your friend. They didn’t know where you were. I tracked your location from the app you forgot you shared with me.” His voice was calm, almost too calm. “Get in the car.”

You stood - wobbled, really - and he took a half step forward, then stopped himself. His hands hovered, like he wanted to catch you but couldn’t quite bring himself to touch you yet.

Once you were seated, seatbelt buckled by your own slow hands, he started the engine. You could see how tightly he gripped the steering wheel.

⸻

At home, Sakusa didn’t say much. He helped you inside, let you lean on the hallway wall instead of him, and guided you toward the bathroom.

There was water waiting. Aspirin. A damp towel that he passed to you with the sleeve of his hoodie shielding his hand. Still no words.

When you stumbled into bed in one of his spare shirts, he gently laid a second blanket over you. His movements were careful - almost clinical - but there was something tender beneath the way he tucked it around your shoulders.

And then he sat on the edge of the bed, mask off, curls slightly messy from stress. “Sleep,” he said quietly. “We’ll talk later.”

⸻

You woke to a hangover and a full pitcher of water by your bedside. Sakusa was already in the kitchen, hair tied up, wiping down the counter even though it was already spotless.

You padded in on bare feet, clutching the sleeves of his oversized shirt. “…Hey.”

He glanced at you, then looked back down at the counter. “Morning. Feeling like death?”

“Little bit.”

“Aspirin’s still by the sink.”

You took it in silence, trying to read him. His shoulders were tense.

When you finally sat across from him, the quiet stretched thin between you.

And then, he said it.

“You always call them.”

Not angry. Not cold. Just… hurt.

You blinked. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t think I’d come get you.”

“I know you hate parties. The people, the smells. I didn’t want to drag you into that.”

“You’re my girlfriend,” he said, voice tight now. “You think I care more about being annoyed than knowing you’re safe?”

You shrank a little under the weight of it. “…No.”

“I sat here last night thinking about where you could be. Wondering if someone had taken advantage of how drunk you were. I don’t care if I hate parties, or touching people, or standing in line to get to you. I care about you.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, chest twisting.

He looked down at the table, like he regretted snapping. Then, in a quieter voice: “You didn’t even give me the chance.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t think it would matter.”

“It matters.”

He stood slowly, walked over to where you were sitting, and rested a hand on your head - tentative, soft, but real. His fingers brushed your hair, then your cheek.

“You can always call me,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “I’ll come. Every time.”

Your throat tightened. “Even if I smell like club air and regret?”

He sighed and smiled - actually smiled, just a little. “I’ll disinfect everything later.”

And then, carefully, like it was nothing - and everything - he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

[earthtooz]

clingy, kinda soft bakugou <3 no pronouns are mentioned!

it's late.

in fact, at this hour of the night, bakugou katsuki would be in bed, peacefully resting his body to prepare for another day of pro-heroing.

or rather, that should be what he's doing. instead, he's dragging his sore, tired self out of bed to find wherever you could be that's not in his arms. he's dearly missed the warmth that came from the other side of the mattress, which you occupied.

footsteps softly trudging along the planks of your home, bakugou discovers you in the kitchen, sitting at the island with your laptop underneath a singular, dim light source that hung over your head. the bluelight glasses that accompanied your face illuminated the screen of the laptop, and in his delirium, the blond notices that you're typing away on some sort of document.

he huffs, hoping that it would capture your attention... but to no avail, and bakugou is absolutely flabbergasted. how could you ignore him?

what could be more important than your lover that just wanted your attention to come to bed?

he tries over and over again, and it's not until bakugou coughs that he finally captures your attention, unfortunately for his impatience.

"you scared me," you sighed, hand going over your heart, "what's up?"

"come to bed, doofus," he grumbles, walking over to where you sat and draping himself over your body freely. you ignore him as if there's no problem, pretending as if there isn't some muscular hero splayed across your back, placing most of his weight onto you.

you continue typing away, irking bakugou to no end, "i'm almost done. go back to sleep without me, i'll be there soon."

"it's 3am."

"and?"

"and you're not where you're supposed to be, which is sleeping beside me."

a laugh filters through bakugou's ears, and he looks at you with an inquisitive stare, "katsuki, you have work tomorrow. go rest."

"and you have to visit me tomorrow on your day off, and i refuse to talk to your tired-ass that should've listened to me."

that's a lie. bakugou would do anything for you, regardless of whatever state you're in, because even though it seems like he hates taking care of you, but he's always at your beck and call regardless of the teasing he endures from you.

"wow, you really do care about me," you muttered, pretending to act touched as bakugou rolls his eyes, moving his arms to wrap firmly around your waist.

"as if. i just can't sleep without ya there. 'tis all," he grumbles through his teeth, "i don't care about your health."

a smile adorns your face. it's so obvious he's lying, judging by the way he's pressing his face against your shoulder and holding you tightly against him.

you fuel the fire, "and you wonder why i'm not going to bed."

"y/n," he groans, borderline whining.

"bakugou," you mimic, not tearing your eyes from the laptop screen.

"you can't pull out the last name on me, you little shit!"

"i can do whatever i want, bakugou katsuki."

"if you don't get up and come to bed in peace, i am going to resort to violence."

"please don't blow up the house again-"

in an instant, you're being picked up effortlessly and bakugou is carrying you out of the kitchen, shutting your laptop lid and turning off the lights simultaneously, before bringing you to your shared bedroom.

he throws you on the bed in an undignified manner and climbs in not too long after, pushing you down by leaning most of his weight on your body. the ironic part is that he carefully plucks your glasses off your face, gently putting them on the nightstand before flopping back over you, arms wrapped securely around your middle

bakugou sighs contently, melting into your warmth completely when your hands have found their home in his ruffled hair. he shifts his leg to rest over your hips, making sure that you couldn't escape as he continues basking in his paradise.

you almost want to scold him but you know that bakugou does this for you because he knows it's what is best for you. when you forget to take care of yourself and succumb to the feeling of never having motivation, he'll always be there to pull you back.

he's corrected multiple of your deprecating habits; such as going to bed late by forcing you to sleep when he does since he can't sleep without you. on the contrary, you've softened his edges a little, showing the explosive blond what it's like to be able to rely on someone else for a change.

as much of a pain in the ass bakugou was, you wouldn't have it any other way.

"i lovb youu, shtupid," he whispers against your neck, muffled. "shay it back."

a small laugh echoes through the space, "i love you too, katsuki."

"good, now go to shleep, or i will be mad."

"goodnight."

"goodnight."

and as rough as bakugou katsuki could be, he always made you feel loved, even in the darkness of your bedroom with him laying half on top of you.