I Made A Quiz To Determine Which Emotionally Tortured And Angelically Talented Art Pop Girl You Are!

just my (blood) type | todoroki x reader

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 5,300 words

summary: The real Halloween treat was how sinfully handsome Todoroki Shouto looked in his vampire costume. But that wouldn’t be enough to save him from the petty wrath of one drunk lobster. (In which you suffer deeply, wingwoman a friend, and pick a fight with the hottest boy at UA.)

tags: romance, sfw, halloween, idiot behavior

warnings: aged-up characters, underage drinking, drunk kissing (the characters knowingly and purposefully keep it to kissing only, and everyone is happy about it, but reader is def tipsy.)

notes: Happy (early) Halloween!! I’m not quite where I had hoped to be with this fic but I will be out most of the weekend and wanted to get this up in time. I hope you guys stay safe and have a super fun day!!

You hadn’t been serious when you’d said it.

At least, not at first—not until you saw how much it could mean to your best friend, how much it could alleviate her insecurities.

It had started as a joke, meant to encourage Eiko to stop being a self-deprecating idiot, and start working up the guts to ask her crush out. The UA third years were throwing a halloween party in the Class A dorms, and it would be the perfect opportunity for Eiko to make her move. You had been working on her for the better part of an hour, wheedling, trying every single angle—until you came to the final, extremely regrettable comment that set everything into motion.

“It’s Sero Hanta,” Eiko wailed, from where she was currently sprawled atop your covers with a pile of snacks and her homework, taking up your entire bed. “He’d never be into me.”

You rolled over from your spot on the floor to glare balefully up at her. “Sero Hanta is a confirmed straight boy. There is absolutely no reason why he wouldn’t be into you like one hundred percent of all other men on this earth.”

If three years at UA had taught you anything, it was that every flavor of man—business student, general course, support course, or hero track—was always interested in Eiko. She was a tiny thing, with shiny dark hair, pert features, and a sweet-tempered charm. Even Bakugou Katsuki wasn’t immune, remembering his manners enough to mutter a “sorry” when he bumped her in the halls—instead of declaring her an extra and demanding she retreat before him like the tides before Moses, which seemed to be his standard for handling everyone else.

Eiko had had a bevvy of admirers since your first day of classes, and their ranks had only grown larger over time. There was no way Sero wouldn’t be into her. She was too pretty, too interesting, and too sweet.

But she was also inexplicably far too shy for her own good.

And far too whipped for one gangly, tape-themed future hero to see they were of the same league.

“There’s going to be a million girls at the party, there’s no reason why I should stand out to him,” Eiko said, running a hand through her dark tresses, before throwing it down on your pillow in apparent exasperation.

You rolled your eyes. There was no reasoning with her when she was like this. You would just have to play along.

You patted your chin as if in thought. “Hmm. If that’s the case, then we’ll just have to make you stand out.”

Eiko blinked, like she hadn’t considered this. “How? I’m just…me.”

God if she wasn’t your best friend you could have strangled her for how oblivious she was.

You’d have liked her less, you supposed, if she was actually as up her own butt as she rightfully should be, but this was bordering on idiotic. She was already going to be the hottest girl at that party, in the tiny black dress and cute little cat ears she’d shown you earlier today.

She’d stand out by just existing.

“I don’t know,” you said, picking your phone up off the floor and absently scrolling. “We’ll spend extra time on your makeup. We can put fun chalk and glitter in your hair. We can hire you a phalanx of men to bear you around like a queen. I’ll even stand next to you dressed as a frigging lobster if I have to—then you’ll look insanely good by comparison.”

You expected a snort to issue from her direction—and it did.

But not before there was a slightly too-long pause, like she had briefly considered the idea.

“….You’re serious,” you said, sitting up. “You want me to?”

Eiko looked horrified. “No, I don’t want you to! You have to be cute, too! What if there is some boy you end up wanting to get to know?”

You’d met the majority of third-year boys, and they generally did not want to get to know you, so her point was immaterial. Even Todoroki Shouto, who was reputed among your classmates for his princely manners, seemed openly mystified by your very existence.

In your opinion you’d done nothing wrong, the few times you’d interacted with him—on school-cleaning rotation, in joint-class assignments, at third-year movie nights—but he seemed perplexed by you nevertheless.

Your first meeting had been in the dorm basements, where he’d stood, looking handsome but utterly lost, like some tragic prince from an ancient ballad. He was gazing helplessly between a basket of laundry, a bottle of detergent, and the washing machines, and you couldn’t stifle the laugh that burst its way out of you.

You’d made your way over, gathered just enough information from him to determine that his laundry had always been done by hired house staff, and then proceeded to talk him through the process of doing his own in your least judgmental tones. You also took care to also detail what he was going to do when it came time to use the dryers, laughing when he acted as though they were going to wake up and bite him.

You made light conversation with him while he worked through the process, and then you’d dumped in your own laundry and bade him farewell. You’d thought the entire interaction had been normal enough, as you hadn’t talked for that long or discussed anything super serious.

You guessed you must have stepped wrong somewhere, however, as ever since then, Todoroki had watched you with that same little wrinkle on his brows, like he was just as confused by your existence as he was the washing machines downstairs. You tried your best to act normal whenever you ran into him after that, but nothing seemed to disabuse him of his prejudices.

Whatever.

Keep reading

this is how i imagine each of them sleeps

WAIT I KNOW WE ALL LOVE GIRL DAD SUNA…… but imagine suna with a little boy 😞😞😞 little suna that shares everything with his dad….. from the same eyes to personality 😞😞 you come home from work one day and the two are just sprawled on the couch watching recordings of volleyball games with the same deadpan expression while suki runs around in her little tutu and tiara offering them tea LOL 😞😞 THEY HAVE THE SAME POUTY EXPRESSION WHEN THEY FIGHT FOR CUDDLES FROM YOU !!!

please suna with a little boy who looks and acts exactly like him. who was probably the quietest baby ever and is probably the opposite of his sister. who people often see napping on your shoulder during late night, post-game interviews. who, like his father, you'll come home to find watching paw patrol while wearing a spare tutu and sipping apple juice out of a teacup bcs he can't say no to his big sister's shenanigans.

and if suki is a daddy's girl, then this one is a mama's boy for sure. the one who crawls into your bed and squishes himself between the both of you in the middle of the night, stepping on rin's face in the process. who rin has definitely given the side eye for taking up all the cuddle time while suki is at school (and gets the side eye right back)

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.

✨Throwback✨

Redraw of my first art of 2022

I really missed drawing jjk, especially geto. I always meant to add gojo but I never got around to do it.. art took so long back then. These were done in half the time it took me to draw only geto and it’s much more my style, I’m super happy with the shading here. I realized that I used to put much more effort into little details and easter eggs than I do now and I want to work on that in the future. So here’s to another year of finding my art style and improving 🫶🏼

With a single word from Netanyahu, the crossing was closed. With a single word, two million people were starved and buried! We are just numbers in the archives of this dark world. How long will this injustice continue? Our lives in Gaza are like those of prisoners. No food, no water, no electricity, no medical treatment. No basic necessities of life.

GIVE ME FIXING EACH OTHER’S CLOTHES WITH KUROO RIGHT NOW 😨‼️ love u hehe <3 if u don’t want kuroo please do whoever u would like most :)

ofc ofc anything for u my love <33 - "fixing each other's clothes" w kuroo **suggestive!!

if you were to tell this story to anyone else, you'd say he's not normally like this. that kuroo is always professional and kind and that he would never dare to act like this—never. but that's not true, never would be true, because the way his breath fades into your own and the way he bites at your lips in the dark corners of this work event is entirely too familiar to you.

there's a distant call of his name, but he's too busy slipping the strap of your dress down your shoulder to ever notice, laughter pricking at ever kiss he presses to the skin there.

"kuroo," you whisper, and you can feel him smile against you, "kuroo."

he looks up at you now, the first button of his shirt is undone, his hair a bit messier than it was a moment before, and just a little bit of lipstick smeared across his mouth.

"we need to head back," you say, and he rolls his eyes, leaning back down to press another kiss to your collarbone, but you tug back on his collar, pulling him up until his eyes meet yours. "and fix you."

"that's a very long process, babe," he says, laughing when you swat at his chest and start buttoning his shirt back up. "you're no fun, you know that?"

"i'm plenty fun when your boss isn't looking for you."

he sighs, lolling his head back as your fingers trail over his collar and set it back into place.

"my boss can suck my di-"

"ah, nope, not here. you can't get fired today."

"yeah, yeah, whatever," he replies, and then leans down to you for the last time, pulling the strap back up your shoulder (but carefully trailing kisses in its wake anyway).

send me prompts from this list for a drabble !

YALL BASED ON THIS VIDEO HERE IM SCREAMING-

-

It’s been hours since you’ve smiled at Rintaro.

Not since this morning when you left. He was home today, all day, left to watch your three year old, and be home to see your nine year old. You’d kissed the side of his nose, reminded him of some chores, and everything was fine for you to go out and do your own set of errands.

But to come home to a trash bag sitting outside of the door and not in the barrel that got emptied today?

Oh. Screw smiling.

There may have been a small argument that broke out once you told him, about how he assumed you’d take the trash out since you were leaving the house- of which you snapped that it’s not your responsibility to automatically take out the trash when you leave.

Your son, Akito, was only left to watch the chaos, setting up the console he and his father were about to play on.

“I forgot, okay!” He snaps, rolling his eyes. “I’ll take it out later, it’s fine!”

“It’s not fine!” You yell back. “The trash was already taken! It’s worthless at this point to do it!”

He looks like he’s about to say something back, but you see him bite his tongue. “Good choice,” you snarl. Leaving him and Akito, you make your way upstairs and into your bedroom where you get changed into something that doesn’t emit outside-world feeling. You take a quick shower, wash your face, and when you step out still angry, you’re quick to make a new game plan.

Once you’re done with your small dose of self care, you stomp into the kitchen for something to eat, hoping that it’ll help curb any further anger coming from you both.

Crackers and cheese, some little slices of fruit which you intend to pair with they jelly you got on your last visit to the city.

You grab the jar and with a deep, frustrated exhale, you grip the cover and try to twist.

When it doesn’t budge, you feel your eye twitch.

You try again, to no avail. You grab the nearest towel in an attempt to get a better grip. No dice.

You sigh, tossing the rag to the side before stalking your way into the living room, grimace etched on your face.

“Can you open this?” You ask, and just as Rintaro pauses the game and tosses his controller aside to reach for the jar, you slip right past him and pass it to Akito, who takes it in his hands to pop open the lid.

With a small grunt he manages to open the lid, passing you the jar with a small smile, “here, ma.”

“Thank you, handsome man,” you hum, blowing him a kiss and blowing a raspberry at Rintaro when you make your way back to the kitchen. There’s a pause of silence, a question you don’t quite catch from your son, and suddenly, you hear your husband jump up from the couch. You smirk. It doesn’t take long before feet quickly pound their way into the kitchen, and a disgruntled Rintaro stands, pouting, in the doorway.

“What. Was that about?”

You shrug softly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” he says, brows furrowed in frustration. “You’re seriously going to use my own creation against me?”

“Your creation?” You scoff in disbelief. “First off, I don’t remember you carrying our two children around for nine damn months. Second of all, our children are not creations. They’re children.”

“Point one,” he begins, quickly walking over to you. “You were hot as fuck carrying around our spawn. Secondly? Last time I checked, our baby machines only worked when together.”

“Feral!” You snap, giving him a grossed out look before turning towards the snacks you’d been making. “Get the hell out of my kitchen, I don’t want you here- HEY!”

Before you can think, Rintaro reaches past you and grabs the jar of jam, quickly raising his arm above his head to get it out of your reach. You would’ve tickled him for it, but the jam was from a small business three cities over. And the fuckhead knew that, and you hate him for it.

“You’re such a pain!” You growl, making a jump for it. You barely come close. Your fingers wrap around his shoulder in an attempt to yank his arm down, but he tightens it up completely to make it immobile. You’re rendered completely helpless to your husbands cruelty.

“Akito!” You call your son in hopes for assistance, snarling up at your husband. Instantly, socked feet slip along the floor, and at the sight of his figure in the doorframe, Rintaro bears his teeth.

“Don’t help your mother, she has to learn a lesson!” He snaps.

You growl back, “don’t listen to your father, you and your sister’s snacks depend on it!” Akito’s green, confused eyes flick back and forth between you both, and if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d think about how absolutely hilarious this is.

Rintaro, in all his 185 cm glory, holding a damned jar of jam above his head, so much so a sliver of his side pokes out from his shirt, and you, crossing your arms childishly after making extreme reaches for the jar.

It’s ridiculous, it’s childish, and it’s perfect for your marriage.

Akito gnaws his lip, “I mean… Ma is the boss, dad-“

“If you scram, I’ll double your allowance this week.”

“Bye mom!”

With the last bit of hope you have, you watch as he skates his way back into the living room, eye twitching in annoyance. “Kaiya wouldn’t betray me like that!”

“She’s three, mom!”

“She’d still help!”

Left to your own pity, you once again make a reach for the jar, only for him to reel his arm back a little bit more. “Give me a break, I have snacks to make,” you say, voice pitched in annoyance and defeat.

“Tell me you won’t go to our son for husband jobs.”

“Tell me you’ll take out the trash when I tell you to!”

“I thought you were throwing it out!”

“Why would you not check!”

“I didn’t think I had to!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll check on your waking daughter,” Akito calls annoyed from the living room, the only thing breaking up your argument.

With a deep, exhausted breath, Rintaro slowly lowers his arm, though still keeping a slight distance between you. “Cant we both say we’re wrong?”

“I’m never wrong,” you snip.

“I know, but for the sake of waking our three year old up, please just cave with me. Please, baby. I’m-“

He’s cut off by your quick lunge for the jar. He yanks it out of the way, and you’re left chasing it like a dog with a treat. You do, however, hear your husband laugh, but it’s not the laughter of victory from a few moments ago.

It’s laughter of adoration.

“I will leave you.”

“Gotta get the jar first.”

You, once again, for the nth time in a row, make a reach for it, but this time, Rintaro’s free arm quickly wraps around your waist to encase you in a hug, and he leans you back into the most ridiculous dip you’ve ever been apart of. You can’t begin to fight your own laughter that bubbles past your lips, fingers instinctively gripping his collar for stability.

Once your titters are finished ringing in the air, he straightens you both up, relaxing as you thunk your head against his chest. The jar gets put down on the counter, and he kisses the crown of your head sweetly as his arms tug you close.

“You’re annoying,” you purr.

He chuckles, “I know.” He closes his eyes and gently breathes in your scent, “and I’m sorry about the trash my love. Even if I thought you took it out, I really should’ve just. Checked.” Long fingers gently smooth up your neck to gently massage the nape, and he hums as you melt like putty against him.

“Now it’s gonna sit,” you pout. “In the trash outside. And it’s gonna smell. And we’re gonna be the house with smelly ass trash.”

“I know,” he repeats, trying not to laugh at your concerns. “I’ll take care of it princess- and worst case scenario, I’ll write letters apologizing to the neighbors for our rotten trash.”

You snort softly against his collarbone as you continue to nuzzle closer, “I’m sorry I went to Akito to open my jar,” you confess, angling your head up at him. He smirks and leans down to capture your lips in a kiss, his hands moving up to cup your cheeks lovingly.

“You wanna know a secret?” He asks against your lips.

You hum in intrigue.

“I’m pissed because I tightened them all when you were in the shower, so you’d have to talk to me.”

“SERIOUSLY?”

the most depressing part is that it's not even kamala's stance on genocide that is costing her the elections. i wish it were. it's people genuinely shifting for trump. but it's the pro-palestine movement that's going to get the blame for it.

STOP I JUST REALIZED I DIDNT PUT THE PHOTO OF MINE i got the mary sue one LMAO FHSJKSKA

bruh i am failing half my classes bc i haven’t turned in sm of my assignments

tagging: @nhixxx-s @23soong @smolmo and anyone else who wants to <3

Y’ALL OK IMMA START A TAG GAME

which y/n are u hehe

PLS I GOT PINING ROMANTIC I FEEL SO ATTACKED COS THIS IS ACCURATE AF I LITERALLY DIDN’T KNOW THESE PPL LIKED ME LMAO AGH SHAMEEEE

tags: @mendesxruel @holden-caulfield @faeinorbit @anchoeritic @lcvemalfcy @slutforsalvatore @fives-cup-of-coffee @hey-there-angels @fjorelaant @gxtitobxby @hellounicorn @samineisntmyname @hellohellook @railmeharrypotter @harrysweasleys @harrysnosebleed @potters-heart @gwlvr @sfdlm @justadreamyhufflepuff @mullthingsoverinthehotwater + anyone else i forgot im sorry im so hyped rn