WAIT I KNOW WE ALL LOVE GIRL DAD SUNA…… But Imagine Suna With A Little Boy 😞😞😞 Little Suna

cool kids

summary: Kunimi x Reader. "reader's the one simping hard for kunimi and kunimi's just like "😑😑😑" but secretly likes them too" as requested by an anon!

word count: 2k

cw: uhhh two swear words

a/n: tysm for the request!! hope i did your boy justice

You just think Kunimi is nice to look at.

His hair is straight and natural and never greasy or obviously gelled; it looks soft and shiny. He probably rinses with cold water. You like how dreamy his eyes are— they’re deepset and often narrowed into a lazy smirk, but they have a faraway quality to them that makes the gray-brown shade reminiscent of the misty moors you’ve read about in books and seen in movies. You like the lean muscle on his thin frame, the way you can feel how deceptively strong he is whenever he decides that you’re his makeshift pillow at school.

“Is this comfortable?” He asks, slumping over you, forcing you to wilt over your desk beneath him.

“Not at all,” you answer honestly. “Your elbows are pointy, ow ow ow—” you wriggle until it no longer feels like he’s pressing directly on a pressure point— “but by all means, keep crushing me.”

“Hmm, thanks,” he hums into your back. “Class was so boring today.”

“The teacher is still in the classroom, Kunimi,” you say, voice muffled as he tries his best to become dead weight. “He can hear you, because we’re still in the classroom, missing lunch.”

“Nah,” he says, but graciously gets off, standing next to your desk while you gather your things, then holds out a hand to help you up. You take it, and it’s more the feeling of his skin on yours that makes you wobble on your feet than anything else. Your heart beats fast in your chest as you follow him, although he’s already let go.

“Where are we going?” You say into his ear, over his shoulder. He gives no indication that he heard you, so you do it again, speeding up your pace so you’re walking in stride with him.

“Gotta get a spot on the rooftop before everyone else shows up,” he says offhandedly, dodging a group of people standing still in the hallway. Obnoxious, you know he’s probably thinking.

“Ooh, the rooftop?” You tease. “Planning a confession?” There’s a saying about how all the best jokes have a grain of truth in them. In this case, you’re joking with a silo of hope.

“Too corny,” he wrinkles his face up, casting a disgusted glare towards the students who walk by in pairs, joined hands swinging between them. “PDA is gross, you know.”

You grab his hand again, his lack of protest reassuring you.

“You’re just jealous because you’re single.”

“Not for too long, I hope,” he says, eyes sliding to your face. You blink and drop his hand.

“What? Who? What?”

Your questions go unanswered, his volleyball seniors choosing that moment to swarm him. You wait on the edges of the group, mind spinning as you consider who your friend— your crush— would be interested in. You’re pretty sure that the only person he spends more time with than you is Yūtarō, and from the way Kunimi speaks about his teammate, you know it’s not him. You hope that it’s you, considering that you’ve been flirting overtly with him since the festival last summer, since you’d developed feelings for him. He’s never rejected you directly, after all, only made general comments on the futility of love and romance and relationships. You blow out a breath.

“Hi, sorry,” a face you recognize as a girl in another first-year class bows her way through the group of volley-boys. She’s biting her lip, clearly nervous, clearly clutching a letter behind her back. She has the locker next to Kunimi’s, you recall. A sick feeling rises in your stomach while all the others make a path for her straight to Oikawa. She makes a turn just before she reaches the third-year. “Um, hi, Kunimi, do you, ah, have a moment?”

You can’t look. You pay attention instead to the third years, watching Iwaizumi clamp a hand over Oikawa’s mouth before he can coo over his junior’s first confession. While they struggle, you bite your lip hard, shoving your hands in your pockets, feeling suddenly too hot and too cold all over. You’re probably allergic to watching people you like get confessed to or something, and now you have a fever.

Unwillingly, your gaze slides back to Kunimi, who, for once, looks wide-eyed and surprised. The girl appears to have finished her part, and he looks frozen as his eyes dart to the other people around, then back to her, then away again. Finally, he lands on Oikawa, who appears to have escaped his friend’s grip and has a disturbingly wide smile on his face.

“...Fine,” Kunimi says, and you watch him walk behind her to the stairs.

“Ah, so cute,” Oikawa says, leaning on the wall and sticking his nose up, an air of great wisdom and experience surrounding him. “Young love is in bloom today!”

You don’t want to wait for Kunimi to get back, so you adjust your bag and start to walk away, blinking rapidly.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you hear behind you, and then Iwaizumi is running up behind you, grabbing your shoulder. “Are you okay?” He sounds hesitant, and a little like he’s choking as he speaks.

“Yeah, of course I am,” your own voice sounds far off and too quiet for your words to be true. “Thank you for asking, Iwaizumi-san, don’t worry about me.”

“You’re crying,” he notes, and your eyes widen in alarm as your hands fly up to pat your cheeks, checking for wetness. “Well, not quite crying, but when Oikawa said that, your face, it kinda,” he gestures to his own. You look at him quizzically, unsure what he’s trying to mime. “...Crumpled?”

“Oh,” you say. “Yeah.” Both of you seem at a loss for words, then, but he walks with you all the way to the lunch stand and then he follows you to the back of the gym, where you sit with your knees curled up to your chest.

“Sorry you wasted your lunch period with me,” you mumble after twenty minutes of picking at your food.

“I didn’t want to leave you alone to wallow,” he says, mouth full of melon bun. “It’s bad for you.”

“Is that your professional medical opinion?” Your voice is watery, but you can feel the corners of your mouth lifting.

“For sure,” he tells you. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I guess,” you sigh, and look down. “I just really, really like him.”

“I get that,” Iwaizumi has a reputation for being loud and kind of rough, but his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Thank you for staying with me, Iwaizumi-san,” you say, standing.

“No problem,” he smiles sympathetically at you. If Kunimi were here, he’d call it pity. You’d rather call it kindness.

The bell rings, and Iwaizumi bounds off around the corner.

“Sorry,” you hear him apologize to someone before his footsteps echo away. When you turn the corner yourself, you see— shiny hair, dark eyes, and a tall, narrow frame. One plus one plus one equals heartbreak.

“Y/N!” He says in greeting, then tilts his head upwards, seemingly searching for something to say.

You pause in front of him. “So?”

“So what?” He looks confused.

“The confession,” you say.

“Oh,” he says, straightening a little. “It was whatever. Look, I just wanted to tell you, uh…”

“Yes?” You say. You’re late for class. You’re not sure why you’re still standing here, face hot, waiting to hear whatever he has to say.

“Wait for me?” He asks, and you blink. You weren’t expecting that, of all things.

“Why?”

“I don’t,” he tucks his chin into his jacket collar, dark eyes resting on you warily, and despite yourself, you smile a little. “I don’t want to rush things, and I’m not— I don’t wanna mess up something I know’ll be good, okay? So just wait a little longer for me.”

“What about the, uh,” you swallow. “The girl who you were talking to earlier? I’m not waiting if you’re not.”

“Her?” He makes a grossed-out noise. “I rejected her. Why would I want anyone but you?”

The ‘12-’13 Seijoh VBC ten-year reunion is nothing short of chaotic.

You’re there because you joined (in the form of management) shortly after Iwaizumi sat with you during that fateful lunch period, and everyone else is there because playing volleyball with Oikawa apparently results in some kind of gravitational effect that keeps one circling him loosely forever. You, Kindaichi, and Kunimi huddle in a sort of commiserating bunch, even though the three of you have more than kept in touch over the years; where Oikawa is an Argentinian celebrity and Iwaizumi is well compensated for his career in athletic training, the former first years are barely out of undergrad, still working and suffering beneath the weight of recent student loans.

It’s Hanamaki who opens up the conversation, complaining about his recent bout of failed interviews, while Watari pats him on the back and Yahaba lists off places he could begin networking.

“What have you been doing?” You address Matsukawa, who is slumped on his elbows on the table, a slight smile on his features as he watches Hanamaki talk, formally.

“Me? Oh, I’m a mortician, or working towards it, anyway.”

“Of course you ask Mattsun first,” laughs Kindaichi. “You still think he’s ‘tall, dark, and handsome?’”

“No,” you groan, while the others at the table perk up considerably. “Don’t bring that up, please, I’m begging.”

“You had a crush on Mattsun?” Smirks Hanamaki, laying an arm across his shoulders.

“Not really!” You protest, waving your hands in front of you. “He was only the best looking of the third years, anyway.”

Oikawa makes a wounded noise, and Mattsun sticks his tongue out at him. Next to you, Kunimi lifts his glass and takes a long sip.

“Only the third years?” Asks Yahaba, raising his brows. Kindaichi grins. In your peripheral vision, you can see Kunimi drawing a line across his neck and mouthing shut the fuck up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“Everyone knows that Y/N only had eyes for Kunimi, really,” Turnip-Head says anyway, and every head at the table swings toward your seatmate, who drops his hand and shuts his jaw with a click. "You were obvious!" He says in response to your embarrassed expression. He's not wrong, but you're still covering your eyes with your hands, peeking through the gaps.

“Do you have eyes? Why haven’t you changed your haircut?” Kunimi says, his voice bored. “Don’t you get tired of being called names because of it?”

Undeterred, Kindaichi takes another swig of beer and continues, nudging Kunimi hard, which only has the effect of pushing him into your side as he tries to escape his friend.

“He used to get jealous, after Y/N called Matsukawa-san hot, anyway,” Kindaichi adds. “He’d try harder in practice and everything.” There’s a chorus of oooohs around the table. Kunimi groans and drops his head onto your shoulder. You pat him reassuringly. His hair is soft.

“Kunimi has a crush,” Shido grins.

“It was a decade ago,” you feel the need to defend him.

“Yeah,” Kunimi says, sitting upright. There’s a scowl on his face, but his ears are subtly red.

“You should’ve said yes to dating back then,” Hanamaki butts in. “Then you wouldn’t be single now.”

“What do you mean I’m single now?” Kunimi arches an eyebrow. “That’s news to me.”

“Why didn’t you bring them, then?” Mattsun points at him. “That’s bad etiquette, you know.”

“Yeah, Akira,” you murmur affectionately, tucking his hair behind his ear. “You have bad etiquette.”

There’s a moment of silence as your former classmates look at you, then at Kunimi, then back at you. Then at both of you, holding hands under the table.

“You’re dating?” Yells Yahaba, standing up and swaying a little. General clamor ensues as you laugh and Kunimi brings your hands up to rest on the table, his eyes narrowly focused on Matsukawa, who seems happily oblivious as he knocks back more of his drink and attempts to rouse Makki into a thumb-wrestling match.

“He’s rubbed off on you,” Kindaichi tells you later, as you exit the restaurant. Kunimi drapes his jacket over you and rests his chin on your shoulder, putting his hands in your pants pockets.

“I hope so,” you smile softly. “Almost ten years together will do that to a person.”

On the way home, Akira asks you, almost sardonic (but you know he’s being genuine), "Was the wait worth it?"

You beam and kiss him, pulling him close by his shirt collar.

"Of course it was."

tagging: @crystal-lilac , @kohi-zeri

Tension 3 | Matsukawa Issei X Reader (Haikyuu)

Warning: 18+ Alcohol Use, Drug Use, Unprotected Sex, Spanking

Hi, this is a long time coming! Sorry it took so long, something happened to me today that spurred me on to finish this so I can supply you all with (hopefully) a lil bit of serotonin ♡︎ thanks to @thisisthehardestthing and @rat-suki for helping me through this one!

part one || part two

You can finally breathe when you break out of the library doors, wiping at your eyes furiously as you hurry down the stairs and rush down the path towards your dorm. Only, you can’t go back there.

Your roommate is there. Having sex.

“Fuck,” you stifle a sob, head off the path towards the giant oak students study under when the weather is nice, shoes crunching on the grass.

Luckily for you, it’s a Saturday and the weather’s warm, so only a couple of people are lazing beneath it. You head to the other side of the tree— the trunk wide enough to obscure you from view of the library— drop your bag and sit down, resting back against it and pulling your knees into your chest.

Your tears slow, but wiping at them reminds you why you’re so upset, and sets you off again.

God, you’re stupid. Imagine falling for it twice. Twice! It shouldn’t matter that he’s tall, stupidly handsome, intelligent. Shouldn’t matter that his touch set your skin on fire, his words made you feel alive, valued, pretty.

Pretty.

You’ll never be able to have a man call you that, will you? It’ll be forever associated with Matsukawa Issei.

“I’m— don’t get mad,” you startle when his voice rings out gently, tense up when he approaches, hands up in surrender.

Your eyes narrow, your voice a hiss: “go away—”

“I’m just gonna sit here, and if you wanna listen to me, you can, alright? And when I’m done, I’ll go, and I won’t bother you again.” His voice is gentle, steps tentative as he gets within a couple of feet of you, drops to sit, crosses his legs.

Your brain is screaming at you to leave, but for some stupid fucking reason, your traitorous heart won’t give you the power to move.

“I… I wasn’t really with her in the library last week.” He says, voice hushed.

You roll your eyes, a blade of grass longer than the others, far more interesting to look at than him. Liar.

“I wasn’t, I—” he huffs, frustrated. You glare at him when he attempts to stand. “I’m gonna come closer… This is,” he’s struggling to find the words, and you get sick satisfaction from his fumbling.

But what if he knows you will? What if it’s just another act?

“Just say what you wanna say and go.” You whisper, shuffling away from him when he leans against the tree next to you, your fingers threading through the grass beside you.

“Hear me out, just— I didn’t wanna tell you.” He says, getting a little fidgety. “You’re too good, ya know? Too innocent and sweet. Pure.”

That makes you look at him— a glare, really— but you see him, crestfallen, hand digging deep into the pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a baggy.

Drugs.

Your heart almost stops.

He’s a dealer.

“They’re not adderall, but they might as well be.” He whispers, rolling the little bag between his fingers. When you look up at his face, he’s looking at you. “I was selling, we got caught. We improvised.” He glances around, before shoving them back into his jeans. “I’m not messing with anyone else, I swear.”

There’s a moment in which you just stare at the pocket of his jeans, envisioning the baggy, overthinking every conversation you’ve had with him, every thought you’ve had of him. You feel cheated, lied to; you’re just a naive little honour student with no idea of the great, big, mean world beyond college life. No idea how close to the surface the dirty underbelly really is.

Even when it’s sitting right next to you.

“Just dealing drugs, cool,” you mumble, finally tearing your eyes away from his jeans, tugging the blade of grass from the ground, dropping it amidst the others.

Then it’s quiet. Of course, there’s pride there: he’s not with anyone else, it’s you he wants; but there’s also the deceit. The slither of anxiety that whispers in your ear, that coils around your stomach and tightens until you’re physically ill; scared of what might come from falling for a man like this.

“Like I said, I didn’t want to tell you—”

“It’s fine. You said what you wanted to say, now you can go.” Still, you can’t look at him, can’t afford to get lost in his gaze again; you busy yourself with tugging at more grass, but the air’s heavy.

A sigh, and you see him run a hand through his curls out of your peripherals. “Can I at least give you my number? You can call me when you’ve thought about it.”

“Thought about what?” You mumble.

He’s exasperated. “Oh, come on, you know what I mean.”

“I really don’t,” you bite back quickly.

“About you and me—”

“Ugh, whatever,” you sigh, digging through your bag for your phone, pulling up the keypad and handing it to him. “Hurry up, I need to study.” You’re trying to sound annoyed and standoffish, but mostly you come off tired.

He takes the phone, and your brain screams at you. This isn’t what you should be doing; you should be cutting ties with him, running away, getting as far from him and his influence as humanely possible.

“Thanks,” he says quietly when he’s done, holding it back out for you to take. “I’m gonna…”

“Bye,” you cut him off, snatching it back. He sighs, hesitates. You can sense he doesn’t want to go, that he probably wants to talk more, but you ignore him, eyes glued where your fingers toy with the blades of grass until he sighs and stands.

“Okay, see ya.” He says quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets and walking away.

You briefly make eye-contact when he glances back, but you tear your eyes away from him to stare down at your phone, face feeling hot.

Caught gazing after him like a lovesick puppy.

What a shitty afternoon.

-

“It’s Tuesday,” your roommate laughs, eyes almost bugging when she sees you pull a bottle of tequila from a brown paper bag. “It’s a school night!”

“I don’t have any classes tomorrow,” you uncap it, bring it to your nose for a sniff and recoil at the fumes, unable to mask your disgust at the smell. “Are you coming with me, or not? You don’t have any classes until tomorrow afternoon.”

You need this. You need to let loose, to drink until you black out like you’ve seen your roommate do so many times. You wanna be that girl: the carefree one that dances on tables and makes out with strangers on the dancefloor; that has men ogling her and buying her drinks and drooling all over her. The life of the party.

The cool girl.

Mostly, you need to forget about Matsukawa.

“I… fuck,” she sighs, seeing the hope in your eyes. It’s not long before she’s flashing you her trademark grin. “I can’t let you hit the clubs alone, now, can I?”

A smile grows on your face, “you can, but it probably wouldn’t be all that fun.”

“You just wanna raid my closet.” She raises her brows, slamming her textbook shut and standing up, rounding her chair and pushing it into her desk.

Your face falls, “oh, no—”

“Oh, yes!” She cheers, taking the bottle from you and pushing you onto your bed. “You think I wanna go out out with you dressed like that?”

Honour student. You hear him taunt, see the curve of his grin in your mind’s eye, feel his breath hot and heady against your ear.

She chooses you something ridiculous—cream snake print and tight and entirely too short, with too high heels—but you go along with it, sipping tequila and blasting remixes of old school favourites as she perfects your wings and glosses your pout.

You finally tell her about Mattsun: about his fingers and the party, about his mouth and his strong arms in the library. About his wandering eyes and lips and cock. But as you try and come clean about the drugs, your tongue gets heavy, and you find yourself whining about Rina instead.

-

9pm comes and that bottle is gone.

You’re both drunk, but you manage to skip the club’s queue, giggling and stumbling straight to the dancefloor, hooking up with a group of girls your roommate knew from high school.

Minutes blend into hours and a moment of clarity—if you can call it that—has you alone in the bathroom, taking a raunchy selfie in the full-length mirror and collapsing onto the sofa in the hallway.

As you scrutinise the photo, you realise don’t look like you, not really, and it’s not the alcohol. It’s the hair, the lips, the eyes; the amount of thigh—too much, too much—showing, your provocative pose, the curve of your breasts in the dress.

Honour student, who?

“Come… find me,” you mumble to yourself with a sly smile on your face, scrolling through your contacts until you find it: Matsukawa Issei. You have a giggle at the fact that he’s saved his full name—that’s such a strange thing to do, isn’t it?—but without further ado, you press that little blue arrow, and with a whoosh, the picture’s sent.

You don’t even have time to stand up before your phone is buzzing in your hand. “Hello?” You laugh, bringing the device to your ear.

“Where are you?” He asks, bass pumping through the speaker of your phone. Oh? He’s out too? On a school night?

“Where are you, Mattsun?” Your voice slurs. “Because it doesn’t sound like you’re alone right now.”

“I’m—it doesn’t matter, I’m out, I’m… working. Where are you?”

“Oh,” you purr, leaning back into the sofa’s cushions. “I’m out, too. Not working, obviously.” Then you’re laughing, because he sounds… mad? Agitated?

Are you finally winning the game? Is this all it takes to win a round with big ol’ Mattsun?

“Fuck, are you wasted?” His voice is tight; your smile grows, laughter slows.

“Are you judging me?” A couple move past you, entangled in each other, beelining it for the disabled bathroom.

“Just—I’ll come get you, where are you?” His voice is easier to hear then, the background quieter. The couple tumble into the bathroom and lock the door behind them.

“I… don’t know what it’s called,” you admit, distracted.

“Check—” he’s getting more agitated, and it only makes you giggle. “There should be signage up around the place, what’s it say?”

“Uh,” there are posters on the wall opposite you, but you can’t read them from where you’re sitting. You push away from the sofa and stumble towards the wall, hand out against it for stability. “Oh, uh…” you trace your finger along the club’s logo in the top corner of the promo poster. “The Limelight.”

“I’ll be there soon.” He promises. “Don’t move,” then he’s gone, replaced by a lonely dial tone.

Suddenly, you’re sobering up. The thought of actually seeing him again? Terrifying. What have you done?

“There you are!” A woman—one of your roommate’s friends—grabs you by the arm. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” She stresses as you watch her fuss. What’s her name? The room is spinning. “There’s a group of guys down there buying drinks—like, top shelf shit. C’mon,” she links her arm with yours and drags you back down to the bar, the music getting louder with each step it takes for you to descend the stairs; all thoughts and worries drowned out by the bass constricting your throat.

She wasn’t kidding. There’s four of them, all in suits, all far older than any of you, and all handsier than they should be.

Two vodka martinis later has one of the guys dragging you to the dancefloor, his hands holding you against him as you sway drunkenly to the music, head spinning, eyes closed to save your corneas from the flashing green strobes attempting to blind you.

His lips are on your shoulder, your neck; a hand pulls your head against his chest and he’s talking to you, but you can’t hear him, his lips at your ear, your cheek, your mouth—

Then your world shifts; you’re pulled sideways, back forced against something hard, and when you begrudgingly open your eyes, Suit Man has his hands up in surrender, giving you one last once-ever, before shaking his head and getting lost in the sea of people.

“I thought I told you not to move, honour student.” He practically growls in your ear. That, you hear.

“Mattsun,” you smile, lifting your arms to wrap them around his neck, pulling his head closer to yours, wriggling your ass against him excitedly. Like a puppy, glad her master’s home.

“Issei,” he corrects you, big hands on your hips, holding you against him, fingers almost bruising; not that you care.

A giggle bubbles from your lips and you turn in his embrace, look up at him through your lashes. “Issei.”

Then he’s kissing you and you’re meeting his advances hungrily, pressing against him, pulling him closer, thirsty for him, needy and desperate.

“Why were you dancing with him?” He asks, holding your face in his hands, forehead pressed against yours. You’re surprised you can hear him, breathless from his kiss.

“Who?” You ask dumbly, head full of Issei, body practically vibrating against him. You go in for another kiss and he chuckles, his minty breath fanning your face, hands holding you still.

“You’re real pretty tonight.” He says, mouth going to your ear.

Pretty. Ah, yes, the word that has you falling to pieces in his hands. Even in your altered state, the word has your knees almost buckling, has you pussy fluttering.

“Am I?” You breathe back, lids lolling shut.

“And really drunk,” he points out with a laugh.

You pout, “well you’re… really… tall.”

“Why’d you drink so much?” He asks, thick brows rising. You’re about to answer when you realise he’s swaying you. Then you’re pressed against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, your own hands sliding down his back to rest on his ass.

The question echoes in your brain despite the music thumping, despite the bodies writhing around you, despite the alcohol burning in your veins.

Why’d you drink so much?

Because he’s wrong for you. He’s bad news. He’s a liar. He’s a dealer. The little baggie—

The little baggie.

Nimble hands find the curve of his ass, squeeze his rump. Nothing. You pull away from his embrace and push up on your toes to press your lips to his, tongue running along his lower lip. He accepts you with a groan, pulling you closer, huge hands fondling your ass, fingertips pressing at flesh as your tiny dress rides up.

As your nimble fingers slide into his front pocket.

As they wrap around the little baggie and gently tug it out.

As they lift the front of your dress and tuck it into your underwear.

You pull away, breathless. “Water,” you beg, and he’s got your hand in his, dragging you up to the bar. He orders a water, and a conversation starts with the man behind the bar; they know each other.

You take the opportunity to slip away, woozy brain begging that the two in the disabled bathroom are done with their business so you can… get a proper look at the baggie tucked in the front of your panties.

You’re too good. Too pure. Or whatever he’d said by the tree. You’d show him.

You make it back up the stairs and down the carpeted hall, thankful for the lack of suffocating bass, of writhing bodies. The door’s unlocked, and when you push it open, you find the large bathroom unoccupied and slide in, letting the door close behind you.

The wall to your right is entirely mirrored, the floor covered in glossy, marbled tiles that feel a little more expensive than the ones in the ladies room. Despite the single toilet, there’s a countertop with two sinks—deep and porcelain white—two gold taps and a long mirror, opposite the mirrored wall, allowing you to see the front and back of your outfit with the tilt of your head.

Fancy.

You resist the urge to splash your face, but you cup your hands under the running water and take a drink, the water soothing your dry throat. Then you stumble over to the toilet and drop the lid, taking the baggie from your underwear and plonking your ass on the seat, shaking the bag in the bright, warm light.

Six pills. Would he really miss one?

Shaky fingers open the bag, pull a pill out and look at it. You glance up at your reflection in the mirror; you don’t look like you, so why should you act like you?

That single thought is all you need.

The pill’s on your tongue, and you’re swallowing it dry, anxiety gnawing at your stomach, pride smacking it down. Who cares? It's not like one little pill is going to ruin you! You’ll still be you! Still be his pretty, little honour student, only you’ll be more fun, right?

Everyone likes a fun girl.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and wonder if he’s mad at you. Does he think less of you because you’re drowning your sorrows in booze and avoiding your feelings? Is he upset that he had to leave work to cater to you, despite you not actually asking him to?

Minutes drag, and you wonder if you should go and find him. You lift the little bag up to the light and picture yourself sliding them back into his pocket, like a little spy, or a ninja—

“You know, you’re supposed to pay for those.” Matsukawa says lowly, bottle of water in his hand. He pushes the door closed behind him, locks it with a definite click.

He looks mad, but still composed. Takes one step, two, three—

You drop forward off the toilet to your hands and knees, stopping him in his tracks. Then you’re pushing up to sitting, little bag dangling between your fingers, “can I pay with my mouth?”

He scoffs, but even drunk, you don’t miss the flare of his nostrils, the way his eyes drink in your submissive form. “Get up,” he hisses, snatching the bag, pocketing it, and reaching for your arm to pull you up.

“It’s now or never, pretty boy,” you purr, hands on his belt, eyes pleading with him to let you have your way. He hesitates, clicks his tongue. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? That day in the library? That’s why you followed me to the tree and told me your dirty little secret.”

His brow furrows. “Not like this, fuck,” and your name, your real name leaves his lips in a curse, and you know you’ve got him.

“C’mon, Issei,” you’re begging like a brat, “I’ve only done it a couple’a times, but I swear I’ll do well.” He groans then, hands going to your hair as your fingers loosen his belt, undo his pants and tug them down. You rub your cheek against his cock as it strains in his briefs, and a fleeting thought of ‘fuck, it’s big,’ crosses your mind before you’re nuzzling your nose against it, inhaling his scent and mouthing at him over his Calvins. “’s big, Issei,” you nearly moan, thighs clenching at the thought of this inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans, hands on your face, tilting your head so your eyes meet his. “You sure? You feeling okay?”

You just laugh, twist your head to nip at a finger playfully —which you miss on purpose— then you’re pulling his crisp white underwear down his thighs, marvelling at the cock that springs free and nearly slaps you in the face.

It really is big; by far the biggest you’ve ever seen, something you thought only really appeared in pornos, not real life. He says something about stopping, but you’re too invested, pussy tingling in anticipation, begging and pleading to be filled to the brim by this piece of meat.

It dwarfs your hands when you wrap them around his girth, pumping up and down languidly just to get a feel of him. Strangely enough, he smells clean. There’s a hint of sweat, but you get the feeling he’s not long showered, or he freshened up before coming to get you.

If you weren’t so drunk, maybe you’d be wondering if he was he with someone else? Would you be pulling back from him? Glaring up and him and asking if that was why he washed up? Instead of wrapping your lips around his spongey head and snaking your tongue out along the underside of his cock?

He’s way too big—a thought you numbly recognise is reoccurring—and you take him in too far, crouching down on your knees to get a better angle, so he can slide right down to the opening of your throat. You ignore the gag reflex trying to kick in, instead humming at the welcome gush of saliva into your mouth, the throb in your cunt, staring up at him with tented brows and watering eyes as the extra lubrication helps you up your speed.

“How do you feel?” He asks, voice gravelly, lidded eyes locked on you as you tangle your fingers in the hem of his shirt for balance. His finger strikes like a match down your cheek, lighting you on fire as you hollow out around him and pop off.

“Jealous,” you admit, reaching back down for his cock, feeling it hot and heavy in your hands as you sink down, butt on your heels.

“Jealous?”

“M-my pussy,” you mumble, unable to look at him. Shy. So damn shy. Why are all these butterflies floating around inside you? In your brain, in your stomach, deep in your cunt and tickling the surface.

He tilts your head up, makes you look at him. “I didn’t quite hear that.”

“My pussy,” you say louder, pouting. “Is jealous of my mouth!”

Then you’re being pulled up with a grunt that’s not your own, world almost spinning as you’re picked up off the floor and walked over to the sinks, placed on your ass between them on the cool stone. “I didn’t wanna fuck you here,” he says in your ear, large hands pushing your dress up, looping into the string of your thong at each hip, and pulling them down. “But you’re just too much for me.”

“Issei…” you mewl, wrapping your heavy arms around his neck, nuzzling into his face, kissing at his hairline.

“But you know that, don’t you? You know I can’t help myself around you; can’t help following you around like a lost fucking puppy.” Fingers swipe at your cunt and you moan wantonly, lifting a heel onto the counter to give him better access to you. “Shit,” he hisses, dipping two fingers inside you to pick up your essence, swirling it around your clit.

“Issei, pl—ah,” you cry, holding him tighter, surprised by how close you are to falling apart in his hands, despite him just rubbing your clit. “I’m—Issei, ’m gonna—”

“Cum? You wanna cum?” His voice is tight, naked cock rutting against your thigh slowly as you moan and keen into his neck, holding onto him for dear life, unable to let go.

You want to say yes, you want to beg him to let you cum, to tell him how good he’s making you feel, but all you manage are incoherent slurs and mumbles and moans. He’s too good with his fingers, smells too nice, is too broad and strong, and you can feel his muscles tensing beneath your wandering hands, hear his heaving breaths and feel them as they beat down against your skin.

Before you know it, you’re biting down on his shoulder and holding him impossibly closer, hips bowing off the counter as your orgasm shoots through your body, tears in your eyes.

“God, you’re fucking—” he grits out, trying get some space between the two of you, despite your iron hold on him. But you don’t wanna let go; you feel weird, jittery, too hot, but not warm enough. “Baby, here, I’m— c-can I put it in? Lemme put it in,” he breathes, managing to knock his forehead to yours. “Can I?”

You’ve never heard him sound so needy.

“Mmm, hurry,” you moan, wriggling your hips closer to his, desperate for friction.

“Fuck, c’mere—” he kisses you, hard. You’re kissing him back, feet hooking behind him as he slides himself along your weeping cunt, huge hands gripping your ass and pulling you closer.

You’re about to whine at him to hurry up when you feel the head of him prod at you, feel him start to push in. And he really has to push.

“You’re tight,” he grunts, breath hot and strained at your ear.

“No, you’re just huge,” you moan, wincing a little but leaning into the stretch, yearning for more. “C’mon, Issei, I can take it,” you almost purr, fingernails digging into the back of his neck, pulling him away from you so you can meet his lips in a searing kiss.

Each inch he sinks in feels like it’s supposed to be the last; you’ve never felt so full in your life. It’s dizzying, intoxicating, addictive. Your head falls back and he’s kissing your neck, tiny jerks of his hips pulling out a little, before pushing in some more.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he whispers against the column of your throat, core clenching at his praise, earning a hiss and a nip in response. “Relax,”

“I’m trying, but your cock’s s’ big,” you pout, dizzy as you pull your head back up to meet his eyes, nose brushing his. “I thought about this alot,” you find yourself admitting, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, before looking down at where the two of you are joined. “I’m glad I’m a little buzzed, I don’t think I could’a taken this sober.”

He scoffs, “next time, you will be taking this sober.”

You chuckle breathily, wince as he bottoms out with a deep sigh. “Next time?”

“Fuck yeah, next time.” He grins that grin that makes you weak in the knees, the one that makes you make bad decisions. “You comfortable?” His voice is quiet then, hushed, and you nod as he closes his eyes, lips meeting yours in something slow and sensual.

Then he’s rocking— out and in, out and in— and your eyes are watering behind closed lids, the euphoria of being fucked the way he’s fucking you overwhelming. Would he always be this tender?

“‘S so good,” he breathes, pulling away from your kiss, fingers bruising on your hips as his speed picks up, moans tearing from your throat at the friction of his pacing, at the fact that his cock seems to hit all of your sensitive places at the same time.

“Issei—”

“More?” He asks darkly, chest heaving. You can only whine and nod frantically, hands gripping at the collar of his shirt to keep you stable. “Use your words!”

“Deeper—” you manage to choke out, tears collecting on your lashes.

“Fuck,” then you’re lifted and flipped, chest hitting the countertop, his cock sliding back into your greedy cunt so fast you’re seeing stars. “See that?” He hisses, tugging at your hair so you can see yourself in the mirror, so you can see him plowing into you from behind. “That’s why I’m so fucking obsessed with you,” his eyes are narrowed, breathing unsteady, other hand full of your skimpy little dress. “I knew you’d fit me well, I fucking knew it.”

Then he’s really driving into you, tearing moans from your throat, sending tears down your face. He drops your hair and his fingers are on your clit, expertly massaging the bundle of nerves as he slams into you, cockhead ramming against your tender cervix, the sensation unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

“‘Ssei,” you’re slurring, fingers trying and failing to find something to grab onto, as he fucks you better than you’ve ever been fucked. You settle on pressing your hands against the mirror, looking up to catch a glimpse of him with his shirt in his mouth, muscled abs tensing as he stares down at what you can only guess is your pussy sucking on his cock.

“F-Feels s’ good,” he snarls, chesty moan slipping from his lips, hand letting go of your dress to slap it hard against your ass.

You yelp and tense up, teetering on the cusp of another orgasm, the sensation making him groan and repeat the motion, harder.

“Issei!”

“Cum for me,” he’s caging you in, leaning over you and breathing in your ear, sounding like he’s not gonna last long himself. You whimper out something incomprehensible, and he spanks you again, “I said: cum.”

And your body listens; toes curling in your heels, mouth hanging open as your whole body tenses, fingernails scraping along the mirror as you buzz with bliss, orgasm whiting out your vision, your eyes slamming shut.

“Jesus fucking chri—” he hisses, slamming into you a few more times before pulling out, hot cum shooting in ropes over your exposed back and ass, fingernails of the hand still holding your hip piercing into your flesh.

A jittery sigh leaves your lips and your body begins to feel a little heavy, drowsy. Which— even as inebriated as you are— you know should be wrong. The pill should be giving you a second wind, shouldn’t it? Should be masking the effects of the alcohol a little, should be… not making you feel like your bones are made of lead.

He cleans you up, dresses you, sits you back up on the countertop and puts the bottle of water in your hands, “drink this.” it’s not a question, it’s an order; then he kisses your cheek and steps away to wash his hands.

You take a couple of sips and lean back against the mirror, the glass cooling your back, head lolling against it, eyes drifting shut.

“Hey, hey,” he says, surprise in his voice, big hands— warm, so warm, and a little damp— on your face. You pry your eyes open and look at him, smile growing at the sight of how panicked he looks. “What’s wrong?” He frowns, wiping at what you’re sure is smudged mascara under your eyes.

His are brown, so dark they seem black.

“Your eyes are really pretty, Issei.” You whisper, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips. He smiles then, kissing you back, then holding the bottle up for you to take.

“Drink some more, okay?” He almost begs, brows tenting upwards.

“I can’t,” you whine. “‘s too much.” You pout, wrapping your arms around him instead, sliding your hips closer to do the same with your legs.

He puts the bottle down with a chuckle, indulges you in kisses. Down your neck, across your clavicle, back up your throat to nip at your chin playfully. “I’m taking you home,” his voice is deep, husky, makes you shiver.

“But you don’t know where I live,” you giggle as he licks and sucks at the sensitive spot below your ear.

“My place, pretty girl,” he whispers, lifting you off the countertop. “Can you stand?” Your legs are kinda shaky, but you make it work with a little help from his bicep, and one of his hands on your waist.

By the time you’re at the stairs, you’re walking better. He makes a joke about his cock turning you into a baby deer, and you laugh along, mind feeling a little mushy.

He dwarfs you in his jacket when you’re out of the club, the scent comforting, warmth so soothing your knees buckle a couple of times on the way to his car. But he’s there to help you, to chuckle about your weak knees. He helps you slide onto the tan leather of the passenger seat of his flashy black sedan, clips you in and closes your door, rounding the car to get into the driver's seat.

As he’s driving, you’re lulling in and out of sleep, brain still shocked as to why. “‘Sei,” you mumble, “why’m I so tired?”

“Tired?” He says something else, but you’re closing your eyes again, wrapped in the warmth of him, the smell of him, the comfort of knowing he’s looking after you.

He’s there.

Then you’re gone.

-

You wake up feeling like crap.

No light bleeds into the room, and you have to wait for your eyes to adjust to be reminded you’re not at home. You’re in some modern, flashy apartment, blanketed in something thick and fluffy, unable to move because something—someone heavy and muscled is holding you down.

Spooning you.

Memories from last night come back in waves: the dancing, the drinking, fucking in the toilet, the pill—

You gasp and push his arm off your waist, sitting up best you can, trying to ignore the dizzy spell swallowing you whole.

“Hey, hey, shhh,” his voice is deep, sleepy, a little slurred.

“I— Issei, I took a drug,” spews from your mouth like word vomit, panic igniting your veins. “I took some kind of mind-altering drug, and I’m gonna—”

His little chuckle stops your panic, stokes your confusion. “You took a Xanny, you’re gonna be okay.”

A Xanax? That can’t be right? “A what?”

“A Xanax. It’s why you were so sleepy in the car.” He props his head up on an elbow to look at you, free hand resting lazily on your thigh. “You’re gonna be okay, just sleep a little.”

“But you sell adderall.” You almost gawk, confused beyond measure.

“I sell a lot of things. You pocketed my Xanny stash, not my Addy stash, babe” He sighs, that ever-knowing grin on his stupidly handsome face.

Babe.

“Speaking of which,” he sits up then, cocky air to his voice, hand still on your thigh. “Why’d you do that?”

Fuck, you don’t know.

Shame trickles down your spine, and your mouth starts to feel dry. “I— I was drunk.”

“Hmm, okay,” he nods, dramatically skeptical.

“I was,” you stress, face heating up.

“And you do remember we fucked in the disabled bathroom? Like, at the club?” He asks, cocky grin growing wider on his face.

The shame makes your stomach roll. “I— yes.”

“And you wanted that. I tried to tell you no, and everything.” He chides.

“I remember.” You pout.

“You remember?”

“Yes.”

There’s a moment of absolute quiet.

You’re overthinking again, too scared to ask him what you want to, too frightened of what he might say. Of being played again.

Of losing again.

“And how do you feel about those choices now?” He asks, that hand on your thigh squeezing at your flesh. “Hm, honour student?”

“I regret the drug thing, obviously,” you mumble.

“Good, good, we agree on that,” his voice lowers, hand travels up your stomach, under the large shirt he’s dressed you in, to rest over your belly. “And the sex?”

“God, Issei,” you roll you eyes.

“Because I really liked it, and I really like you, and I’d like to make that a regular occurrence.” He admits smoothly, inching closer to you.

Your whole body burns with... something. “What? Me getting angry drunk at you, and then texting you for a booty call in a bathroom?” You ask sarcastically, toying with the hem of the shirt you’re wearing.

“That, or you just watch a movie with me here, and we eat pizza and make love in my bed.” His other arm snakes behind your neck as he draws closer, hand beneath the shirt gripping your hip and pulling you against his naked torso.

“Issei…” you groan as his lips meet your neck, slow, lazy kisses trailing up to your ear. “I can’t— I’m not fuck-buddy material.”

“Fuck buddy?” He laughs incredulously then, head falling back as he pulls you into his arms, hugging you tightly. “God, you honestly think I’m playing with you, huh?” You don’t answer, so he pulls your face up to meet his. “Just give me a chance—“

“I gave you two already—”

“And I’ll prove to you that— see that shirt you’re wearing?” You glance down at it: his shirt. “Yeah, it’s made of boyfri—“

“Oh god, don’t finish that sentence,”

“—end material.” He finishes proudly, still laughing.

“Issei, come on; we’re so different.” You mumble, unable to stop the shy smile growing on your face, the warmth spreading across your chest, neck, and face.

“Yeah? I think we’re smart enough to make it work,” he kisses your hair. “If not, I’ll just tutor you on it; I’m top of my classes, you know?”

“Shut up!” You laugh, trying to push away from him.

But he pulls you back down and kisses you, and it feels good, feels right.

Feels like winning.

girls go to college to get a degree in a program that they were once excited for but have since had all the enjoyment sucked out of it and is no longer a baseline requirement in an increasingly competitive and demanding workforce

404+ Palestinians MURDERED in less than a day.

situationship sero who u go to a carnival with and he wins u a big ass plushie and thinks ur his girlfriend right then and there

I like to think he's horrendously love sick immediately. you light up and he's done for-- he's thinking about introducing you to his mom, bringing you on vacation, telling you that he loves you-

reblog and add ur opinion about:

cucumber/watermelon

bananas

pineapple on pizza

avocado

sparkling water

marmite/vegemite

NEW MATCH FOR @whorefornoodles

suna wants to message you. . .

netflix watch party? i'll doordash you concessions

neighbor bakugo, who swears he's going to fuck you because he's sick of being woken up by the buzz of your vibrator

"I want to see what kind of idiot's going to be born in this country with my own eyes"

OMG OMG OMG ok

fave hq: kuroo

least fave: the weird karasuno second year who likes lolita, i think his name is kinoshita?

fave other anime character: sero

cw: most likely inaccurate

it feels like you're very family oriented! whether that be blood or bond, your loved one's opinion matter dearly to you. within yourself is a deep sense of loyalty that you probably expect out of others as well