Writethatmpreg
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Summary
In which the childhood friend of Stanley Snyder and Xeno Wingfield settled for a simpler life than she was made for, and they decide they won't allow her to waste potential.
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Ported from Tumblr per request, this started as a one-shot but was turned into a short series that delves into the lives of Stanley, Xeno, and the reader pre- and post-petrification.
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“Careful there, cadet! Your head in the stars again?” He teased with a grin, a breath of cold air escaping his mouth.
Senku blinked, snapping out of the trance he was in. He adjusted his decorated bag covered in space-themed pins and a few Doraemon ones around as well and looked away, lips pressed into a thin line. “No. Just tired.”
Byakuya raised an eyebrow. Tired? Senku was many things—blunt, curious, a bit maniacal on occasion—but tired? Especially after a day at preschool? That was a bit... unusual.
Or: Senku comes back from school pissed off at his teacher for getting mad at him over a book and doubts himself for a moment. Byakuya makes sure to put a stop on that of all things.
Series
- Part 1 of The Ishigami Household
Bookmarked by Writethatmpreg
16 Jun 2026
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Summary
On a scale of one to ten, how much does it take you to attain everything you want? Probably a zero, or it breaks the scale altogether.
Homaresaki [Name] learns early that winning is one of the few languages adults will listen to. You don’t want things halfway and you’re not interested in learning how. You’re better than most people, worse at being normal, and keep running into volleyball players who mistake proximity for intimacy. So that’s why Oikawa Tōru lodging himself into your world makes you wanna claw your eyes out—the rest do too. He’s just the first.
Or more precisely: you’re an egomaniac who can’t stop destroying yourself, and there’s a quadrillion of other guys who think they’re special enough they can toughen it up enough to endure you.
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Summary
Anri does not know much about soccer–leave that to Ego and his speeches packed with more metaphors than prepositions–but these things she recognizes: the look of a starved animal carved into their eyes, the desperation etched into the sound of their voices, the way they gather anything and everything and lay it down as kindling before the dying embers of a half-forgotten dream.
These things, Anri thinks, she might know better than anyone.