Latest Posts by whorefornoodles - Page 3

october 17th ♡

– ceo!kuroo tetsurou x assistant!reader; timeskip au, slow burn, mutual pining

– summary: It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season.

part one

a/n: i saw the hq movie and remembered my roots. it's kuroo time. love that man. (w.c.: 6.4k)

It’s October 17th, your desk calendar tells you. 

Marked in a quick circle in bold red pen for emphasis. Not like you could forget it, what with the building buzz that seems to escalate with every hour and the excited greetings bubbling in the office. And certainly you couldn’t forget the date with your boss reminding you of it every single chance he could get.

It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season. There’s a tally sheet in your mind that holds eight marks— one for every time he’s mentioned the damn day— and it’s not even time for your second cup of coffee. 

The most wonderful time of the year, according to Kuroo. 

There’s a pep in his step as he juggles his briefcase and files between hands and skips towards his third meeting of the day. His phone is tucked between his ear and shoulder, swarmed in the air of chaos and yet, there’s a wide smile on his face. Toothy and eager, almost maniacal. An exhilarated man, the ringmaster of madness, preparing a show for thousands with only coffee and sheer enthusiasm running through his veins. 

The tiles beneath his feet practically turn golden as he passes by. 

He stops before your desk on his way out, phone dutifully tucked yet ignored as he meets your gaze with burning excitement. The chatter on the other end of the line is audible, and he really should be listening to it, but instead his focus is maintained on you. You raise a brow in question, fingers hovering over the keyboard to your computer and e-mail to the finance department woefully on hold as your boss stares at you. 

Tufts of his hair are pulled in various ways, the standard for a busy morning, and the sleeves of his white button down are rolled up to his elbows displaying the veins that no doubt pulse excitedly; But the most revealing part of him, the most captivating part in his day of havoc, are his eyes. 

Honey auburn that burns alight in sheer joy— the kind of happiness that he wants you to revel in, hopes to convey in the intensity of his gaze. Sticky honey brown that coats the inside of your stomach and fills you with warmth. A gleam that can make flowers bloom with just his simple gaze.  

Slowly, he points his finger towards your calendar that’s displayed clearly for the regular passerby. Fingertip presses the red circle on the paper, emphasizing the words scribbled inside of it detailing the events of the day. 

1st Day of Volleyball Season!

His smile splits his face into two. You add another tally to the sheet.  

Indulging him with a grin would be encouraging juvenile behavior, so it takes everything in you to bite back the tugging of your lips and instead roll your eyes. It doesn’t deter him. He all but clicks his heels together as he prances out the door, throwing his fist holding his briefcase in the air with a silent cheer, and answering whatever question was posed to him on the other end of his line.

It’s October 17th, Kuroo’s favorite day of the year. 

Yours, too. 

Although, you would never tell him that.

-

The starting game of MSBY vs. Tachibana Red Falcons is a match predicted to be vicious and brutal. Considering Japan’s top players had more than proved themselves to be powerhouses during the Nations League Tournament over the summer, the star power and media attention given to the players has given the entrance game to the season an anticipation that could not be tamed— not that anyone in the marketing department would want it to be. 

The players this year have been nothing short of top tier athleticism— a detail that so graciously fell into the JVA’s hands and became their capitalized advertisement. 

An unmatched season! A trial of power and speed! Japan’s best players go head-to-head in the best playoffs Japan has ever seen!

Kuroo practically played the lottery every morning with luck like this. 

The Ariake Arena fills up like a lightning flood, waves of bodies decorated with black and red filling seats with heightened excitement. It vibrates throughout the stadium, transcends beyond the high beams and open space. It fills and suffocates until all that can be seen, heard, and felt is pure, unadulterated energy. It’s a straight shot of adrenaline to the heart. It’s the taste of a sweet memory. 

The sound of excitement from guests and vendors steadily rises and Kuroo buzzes in place. His shoes tap incessantly on the wooden floor, fingers flutter with anticipation as he adjusts, then readjusts, the now wrinkled tie across his neck. His cheeks ache from the endless smile that pushes on them. 

Carefully moved chess pieces, endless phone calls, and retina-burning contracts with sponsors have finally gotten him here: To the sweet smell of cool conditioned air and freshly waxed floors, to the sounds of chants and joy, to the sight of his successfully pitched logo printed beneath Miya Atsumu’s smug face on the large banner tacked on the left side of the arena. The veneration on his face is one that finds itself familiar to veterans. Standing on the shining hardwood of the court, his hands finally find rest on his hips, his gaze stilling at the sight of his months-long work. 

Pride doesn’t really do much justice to the feelings inside of him— but damn if it isn’t a close enough guess. His hard work finally actualized, but it’s only just really beginning. This is where his fun begins, the shining light, the gentle reminder of how much he loves his job.

October 17th, the best day of the year.

“We need to see the players before warm-ups begin.” Kuroo says after a moment, not even needing to spare a glance backwards to see if you’ve heard him. Such is the consequence of having a good assistant, one that, even with all the eye rolls and dragging sighs, is always a step ahead of him.

“Coach Foster said that he could spare us ten minutes before he gives his locker room speech. Coach Sato said the same.” You tell your boss, stepping beside him as his eyes follow the movements of staff members dragging carts of volleyballs to their respective places. An approving look settles on his face, a delightful perusal.

There's a tablet held in your arms as you notate on a timetable, presumably a schedule with detailed notes that Kuroo has to be on in order for the evening to go well. Probably one you've put a lot of time and effort into. Knowing you, it’s probably color coded. A schedule that he would do well by both you and the company in abiding by.

He shoves his hand between the tablet and your fixed stare, wiggling his fingers obnoxiously in front of the work that holds your dutiful attention. "Stop paying attention to that and look around you. Smell the air! What is it you smell?"

The excitement held so passionately in his eyes bore into your unimpressed ones. "Stale popcorn and lemon cleaner, Kuroo-san."

"So negative, I think the long work days are finally getting to you."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Not mine. You love me too much to quit." He grins. He gestures his hand outward, panning it across the stadium to the sight of guests filling the seats. "It's the smell of anticipation! The promise of a worthwhile game! How can you not be excited?”

A ping resounds on your tablet that draws your gaze back down to the schedule. It’s a message from the volunteer coordinator. You write a note in the margin—volunteers in break room at 8:45, give thanks and gifts at 9.

"It’s hard to be excited when you keep yapping in my ear about what day it is." You mutter distractedly.

"You're telling me," Suddenly his fingers are poking into the skin of your cheeks, lifting the skin upward in a manufactured smile, "You look frightening." 

You swat his hands away, your own palms connecting with his in a vicious slap. "If we don't get started now you're going to be late in meeting the President of the JVA at his box seats." 

Kuroo waves his hand nonchalantly. "Ah, he'll wait for me. I am the reason we’ve got a turnout like this. It's the least he could do."

You roll your eyes, formality lost as you address your boss. "It's about the principle of it, Tetsu. He'll be upset."

"Have you forgotten what day it is? How can anyone be upset on this day?"

You stare at him in violent silence clearly exposing the extent of your disdain for him at this moment. It’s a futile endeavor. Your stare only fuels the fire of his need for provocation tenfold. His smile widens, teeth bearing a shit-eating grin. With little remorse, you tell him, "You're very annoying when you're happy."

His head tilts backward in a laugh, lean and tall figure elongating with the motion as he, genuinely, finds himself amused. “And you're even meaner than usual when I am. C’mon, let’s pay the Jackals a visit.” Accompanying the turn of his body, he taps the tip of your nose with his slender finger and begins a trek towards the main entrance leading to the corridors of the arena.

“No.” Your quick retort is the popping of a balloon. He deflates, hands thrown upward in exasperation as he turns around to face you once more. You swear he stomps his feet. 

"God, what now?"

“Favoritism.”

He balks with a furrow on his brow, “Pardon?”

“Favoritism. It’s obvious to everyone in this building who you’re rooting for, so we need to minimize those details before someone catches wind and decides to tell the press that the games are rigged.”

“Now, that is an outrageous idea. No respectable reporter would use my words against me.” Kuroo smiles, annoyingly, confidently. To which your stare only digs further into him, the infamous memory of last year’s season playing quite clearly across your face in which his sarcastic comment about players salaries made headlines and resulted in a week of endless phone calls to your office.

“JVA DIRECTOR STATES DIV. ONE PLAYERS WILL NOT RECEIVE SPONSORSHIP BONUSES AFTER ASTOUNDING SEASON AS ‘WE DON’T PAY FOR MEDIOCRITY AND THESE PLAYERS SUCK, OBVIOUSLY’.”

It’s the conveyance of death in your eyes alone that really gets him going. Truly, there’s no one more impressive than you. 

“I said, respectable.” Kuroo emphasizes, hardly batting an eye as you walk past him. 

“C’mon. Coach Sato is waiting with the Falcons.”

“The favoritism allegation is ridiculous. Ask around the office, no one is able to tell that you’re my least favorite of them all.” He follows you into the hallway without prompting like the well-trained dog you’ve made him to be, “That’s how good I am.”

You turn back to look at him, “Oh, sure. So the names Bokuto and Hinata don’t mean anything to you?”

Biting back a smirk, he says, “I have no idea who you’re referring to.”

—

In the aftermath of a worthwhile game and an impressive start to the season, the stadium quickly finds itself abandoned. Scores of people taking to the street to celebrate their win or drink their sorrows away, their raucous din and lived delight exiting with them, leaving only a barren arena—save for the remaining staff who dutifully tidy the empty aisles and clean the floors. Yet, even with their humble presence, it’s quiet. Only the light echoing of shoes and brooms on the floor, the rolling of carts, the sounds of vacuums filling the space and providing life. 

And standing on the second floor of the arena, leaning his body against the railing overlooking the court, Kuroo finally gets a second to just look.

There are very few times in which Kuroo is quiet. Or rather, there are very few times where he gets the chance to be. 

It’s hard to walk the line between professional and man, not that he does a good job at it on a regular day. It's an all-consuming persona and his job demands the full devotion of mind, body, and spirit despite the relative nonurgency that comes with being a Marketing Director. And while he’s never been known for his outstanding polish as a young professional— particularly within the confines of his office— Kuroo has never not been one to commit. What is demanded of him is what he gives, and more. 

These days he’s finding it almost impossible to switch the hat of boss for the one of man. The lines between the two become even more blurred with each passing day that he spends another sleepless night in the office, attends another soul sucking meeting that could have truly just been an email, brown noses at people with titles and credentials that he cannot bear to remember for the sake of money. 

Humanity slowly depletes when met with the four walls of an office that never changes shades.  Moments like this are brief allowances. The empty stadium is conducive to the quick slip into a memory, the removal of the permanent hat for the other one. 

The game played not even an hour ago is replaced with that of what he remembers.  The once erratic beat of his heart before the blown whistle, the feel of burning muscles in his calves, and the sting of the ball on his skin; He can almost taste the salt of the disappointment of a lost match, and the sweetness of the joy the game gave him. If he tries, Kuroo can recall the last time that he was on a court just like the one before him and remember just how wonderful it once was.

The sweet memory of it all. A sliver of happiness that he keeps stowed away in the back of his mind, meant only to be pulled out in times of emergency. When life gets too loud and work becomes exactly what it is—work. It’s the needed reprieve, the gentle vice. But much like everything else these days, it lasts for only a lingering moment before it fades into the nothingness of everything else. 

There isn’t one particular thought that he can train on. He couldn’t even tell anyone what exactly it is that he thinks about, for it all blends together into the great variation of everything. A hectic whirlwind of things that fall over one another as they fight to take his attention. 

The game schedule for tomorrow, the invoices he needs to have approved, the mountain of unread emails relating to a media sponsorship that needs to be finalized by the end of the month, the leadership training that he needs to attend next week. Seeing Bokuto and Hinata before the game was a slip of the hat into the relative calm of youth that he remembers so fondly, he should probably try and hang out with them more. His social life is already pitiful. There’s also the fact that he has to go grocery shopping since he just ran out of instant noodles, unless he wants to have takeout again—but he’s already racked up quite the bill this month in takeout alone and he hasn’t been able to go to the gym enough to counteract those great decisions. He needs to return his sister’s phone call, something he keeps prolonging, not because he doesn’t care to know the details about his nephew’s birthday party next Sunday but rather because that will inevitably lead to the discussion about their father’s well-being and truthfully, that’s not a can of worms he’s willing to open just yet. And also—

“Hey.”

Kuroo’s head snaps towards the intrusion, towards the voice that cuts through the storm of flying thoughts and stills them in their rampage. 

You stand behind him, your blazer thrown over your purse and the sleeves of your dress shirt rolled up to your elbows. Your hair is no longer the neat style you had at the beginning of the event, but instead the reflection of a long work day. Your own work hat stowed somewhere deep in your purse, in favor of someone he’s rather fond of. 

“Hey.” He returns, surprised but pleased. He had figured at the end of the game you would have made haste with the exiting crowd. Your duties done for the day, the schedule you made him stick to like glue finished and completed. Any other person would have run for the doors and be home by now. 

But, here you are. Standing with a content smile on your face and a softening in your eyes as you meet his gaze. (Truthfully, he should know better. You’ve never been one to just leave without telling him, whether directly or through email, for home or for a date. Hell, you all but yell your plans in his face just to reduce the risk of confusion. But he assumes, still, that you’re smarter than him. That you know when to call it quits on a work day and head home. 

He conveniently forgets that, above all, you’re good at your job. You never listen, too stubborn and insistent on doing your duties even when he tells you to go home early; to not worry about the final details on a draft or a missed message; tells you that he can handle it. That’s never been you, because aside from being fantastic at being his assistant, you’ve been committed to your craft no matter what it is. You care too much about your job and the things it affects. 

Because that’s who you are. It’s who you’ve always been. It’s what he knows to be true and violent about you, and it's what he’s been able to see blossom since working with you. So, of course you’re here. Waiting for him, because that’s what you do. Commit to being there for him, through and through. 

Because you’re his assistant, of course. 

Just his assistant. That’s all.)

He stands straighter, manners not entirely drilled out of his subconscious, even if he was distracted. A beat passes, he looking at you and you looking at him, before he, finally, extends a hand— inviting you to join him. You do, settling next to him on the rail, and gazing over the object of his fixation. 

It’s a content silence. The inhale of the aftermath, the exhale of the preparation. One you both know the extent of, have shared too many late nights for. There’s great relief in being able to revel in the fruits of one’s labor, but there’s something all the more satisfying in knowing someone else was basking in that reward too. In not being entirely alone, despite the job often making him feel.

This is your moment just as much as it is his, something he’s never been more convinced of. 

Much of the success belonging to him would be nothing if not for your firm foundation, the depth of your support for not only him, but the game. The wondrous, joyous game. 

 It’s only a moment or two of the stillness between you two before you gently disturb it. 

“Today went well.” You tell him. 

He gives an affirmative hum, a small smile befalling on his face. Folding his arms across his chest, he tilts his head from side to side in consideration. “You don’t think the banner was too big?”

“It’s no bigger than it usually is.” You shrug and he hums again. 

Another beat, then he says, “Did you notice the photo?”

“On the banner?” You ask. 

“Yeah.”

“I did.”

“Good.” He says, resolutely, looking over the arena once more as two staff members begin folding up the commentators chairs on the sidelines of the court, “You chose it.”

“I know.” You say. He smiles again, a happy and content one; and you would tease him about it— (about the fact that he’s smiling as though this were a great victory fought between the marketing department and the photography studio, one that he emerged victorious in fighting tooth and nail for your input instead of the reality of the situation. 

It was a cloudlink sent to his email on a Tuesday afternoon, filled with prints of various D1 players that he was asked to provide input on. A task that he, then, delegated to you by calling you into his office on your lunch break and having you play eenie-meenie-miny-moe with him. With a sandwich held firmly in your hand and Kuroo pecking at his snack bag of trail mix, you point to the smug face of Miya Atsumu.

“It’s because of the smile, right?” He had asked, his eyes squinting and head tilted to the side as though that would give him better understanding of the man’s face. “He’s a great player. He just has the look of a winner.”

“I don’t know. I just think he’s hot.” You tell him simply.

Kuroo chokes on a peanut. You laugh. He sends your choice over to the graphic design team.)

—but you let him have the small win. Four years of working together has taught you which of the battles to fight, and truthfully, there aren’t that many that you don’t give to him. Admitting sucha  thing, however, would be a violation of everything you hold dear to your job so you obviously omit that. 

Kuroo speaks once more, his voice soft as he continues to regard the court. “You did a good job today.”

There’s no tease in him, no wry smile or setup for a joke that you’re clearly walking into. For all intents and purposes, Kuroo Testurou stands before you as a man with more than his guard down. He stands honestly, made soft and tender by the trials of a hard work day and the victory of his labor. 

The kind of man you know him to be, that you hold such deep admiration for. 

“Thank you, Tetsu.” For fear of disrupting the quiet that surrounds the arena or fear of shattering the genuineness of the moment, you respond in kind. Equally gentle when you tell him earnestly, honestly, “So did you, but that’s not new.”

You feel it before you can even see or hear it. The turning of the tide, the impending slant of his smile; The red alert alarm that you have built into your head for Tetsurou’s moments of snarkiness blaring loudly. 

The taunt is on its way and you begin a rebuttal before he even opens his mouth. Kuroo’s face contorts into an exaggerated look of disbelief.

“We were having—”

“I cannot believe it—” 

“—a nice moment!”

“—Is that a compliment I hear?”

Rolling your eyes, you turn your head away from him. “If you’re going to act like that—”

“No, no! Can’t take it back. You said it already.” 

“Nope. I formally recant my statement—”

“Ooh, big word—”

“—I forswear what I said—”

“—Forswear?! How do you even know what that means?”

“—You did an adequate job. Actually, you did exactly what was expected of you. Nothing more.”

“C’mon, give me some credit. You weren’t expecting me to land that invite for that GQ party next month. And how did I do that? Remind me one more time?” Kuroo leans his head towards you, tapping his ear repeatedly. 

“By doing your job.” You insist and he throws his head to the side in hurt.

“By being the best at my job.”

“They invited you because you were badgering them in the box seats. What did you bribe them with?”

He levels a steady smirk at you, “Sounds like someone doesn’t want to go.”

You gasp, eyes narrowing, “You wouldn’t.”

“Admit it, then.” He grins.

“Admit what! That I kept you on schedule for the day so that you could actually do your job and get us the invites? Then I will admit that I did my job excellently.” You poke your finger into his chest repeatedly and he laughs.

He agrees with a small nod of his head, smiling widely, knowingly. “You did.” 

“I did.” You affirm. “And with enough time to factor in potty breaks. Plural.”

Kuroo laughs again, incredulously, “Potty. Who even says that anymore?”

“Me. Your lovely, amazing assistant that you are definitely taking to the GQ party.”

Kuroo’s gaze fixes on yours, held firmly as the grin lingering so resolutely on his face reaches up to his eyes. The conversation peters out into another gentle silence, ambers meeting yours in a steady embrace, and voicing what remains to be said. Held tightly by the reciprocity of your own gaze.

It happens, then. The quiet kindling that has become so familiar between he and you. The settling of a warmth between the space that has been occurring more frequently; Found only in times like this. When laughter dissipates and ease takes over. When it becomes glaringly obvious that you enjoy your boss’s company a little more than you probably should, and that he doesn’t necessarily mind you all that much. There isn’t much to say about it even though your tongue feels heavy in your mouth and fiction dictates that this is the moment where someone should say something.

But what is there to say at this moment to the man who signs your paychecks? Who eggs you on in ways that no one would even bother to do? What could you express other than profound admiration and deep annoyances over his character? What could you tell him that he doesn’t already know? 

(Maybe the truth that is buried deep within you. One that you haven’t admitted to yourself because honestly, you aren’t even sure you believe it yourself.

There’s bound to be affections shared between two people who work in such close proximity as you two. Regard, appreciation, fondness— but not that. No, it couldn’t be that. That would be ridiculous.

Because he’s your boss, of course. 

Just your boss. That’s all.) 

“You should go home,” Tetsurou is the first to break the stare. Fortunately, too, lest you become too absorbed in your thoughts and do something stupid like risking getting lost in the eyes of amber. He turns his attention to his hands on the railing, his thumb tapping repeatedly on the metal. “Get some rest. You deserve it, keeping me in line and all.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours. 

“Are you heading home soon?” You ask.

He shrugs, before looking to the court once more. “In a minute.  I’m going to stay for a little longer. Not ready to go home yet.”

You hum, “Then I’ll stay with you.”

There’s a beat of silence, one that, when you glance towards him you expect to see filled with amusement. Maybe a tease on his tongue once more about how hard you work, about how miserable you’ll be in the morning for staying up past your bedtime. Instead, you see only the calm stillness of his face, eyes fixed resolutely on the empty court before him. 

He leans forward onto the railing, bracing his elbows against its fixture, watching the scene below him as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. Four janitors taking a break from their waxing of the floor to play a quick, and sloppy, game of volleyball. Soft laughter echoes throughout the room, broken apart by low mutterings of commentary on their plays that sends the four older men into even further laughter. 

Then, “Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I went pro.”

To learn of other people in the course of a years-long friendship is natural, rightfully expected— and while there is much of Kuroo that you do know and can recite off the top of your head, the willful admittance of intimate details, especially in quiet times like this, is always surprising. Especially when coupled with the contemplative silence that follows his words, the genuine wonder, the longing written on his face as the rose thoughts of a first love bloom in the cracks of a fallen smile. 

In the softening of his eyes and the deep sigh that he releases, you realize that there’s a Kuroo Tetsurou that you don’t know. 

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, you reach out to find him. You ask, softly. “Why did you stop playing?”

His eyes remain trained on the court, as though the answer were laid upon the hardwood floors. “It was time. I loved the game but, I don’t know. Just didn’t make sense for me to keep it going. There were other things I needed to do, and playing professionally would have taken up too much time.” 

You can almost see it, then. A younger Tetsurou, even more chaotic and rowdy than you know him to be, with hopes and dreams that exist somewhere in the great web of could have been’s, cast to the side because of the “other things”. You don’t pry, not when he’s already being so forthcoming as it is, but you make a note. Store it away in the folder lodged deep in your mind dedicated to the man.

“Would you be happier if you did?” You ask, albeit hesitantly. Not entirely sure what you would do with the answer.

He rolls his broad shoulders gently, like a tide rolling in under itself, swayed under its own pressure and maybe that should mean something. “Well, it’s not like I’m unhappy. I’ve got a good life, good job, good people. I’ve got it all.” 

He spares a quick glance to you. So quick you wouldn’t have caught it had he not already been the centerpoint of your fixed stare, but truthfully, when is he not? When is he not the center of your gaze, your life, your world? Everything in your routine seems to start and end with Kuroo Tetsurou.

“But I can’t deny how much I miss the game.”

—you don’t mind all that much. Especially not when he’s like this. Open, sensitive, and wanting to talk. When he actually takes the time to chew his thoughts out and speak them into existence rather than continue his sordid and pointed teases.

You lean forward onto the railing. “Do you think you would have made it far?” 

He adjusts his figure next to yours. His crooked elbow touches yours, but he makes no move to remove it. “Well… I hate to brag, but…” 

You scoff. “You do.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to say.” He shrugs his shoulders wryly. “In another life, I’m still playing.” 

It sounds sadder than he intends it to be, but it’s the truth. And you get it; have your own could-have’s stored deep in the recesses of your mind, your own forgotten dreams about who you wanted to be that haunt and plague in the twilight of hard nights where sleep is elusive and quarter-life crises spring forth in the darkness—but it’s not all bad.

“Well, in this other life, if you’re playing and I just so happened to know you,” You tell him, “I would be your biggest fan.”

He huffs at that. Looking at you with a tilt of his head and a handsome smile on his face. “Oh yeah? And if you didn’t?”

“I’d be Miya Atsumu’s biggest fan.” You say simply.

“You already are.”

“Yeah, but I know you have jealousy issues so I just don’t say anything about it.”

Tetsurou nods his head. Amused. “Well I’m glad to know you, then.”

It happens here, again. 

The quiet kindling, the lingering warmth. With hopes and dreams laid out before you, and the brief allowance into the depths of his intimate details he holds tightly under the weight of himself, do you find the familiarity of the man again. The one you know, the one who laughed so hard at your banana costume that milk came out of his nose. The one who canceled all of his meetings for the day when you broke your pinky finger in the office and who stayed with you in the hospital until a cast was put on. 

The one who smiles at you so gently, as if you are someone important. The one you can’t help but smile right back at. Kuroo Tetsurou, your boss, a friend.

Movement in the corner of your eye draws your attention to the court. The janitors that were once playing amongst each other slowly begin to stray from the court, picking up their brooms and exiting towards the sidelines. Looking at Tetsurou, you find that he’s still looking at you.

“They’re not closing the stadium for another hour. And it looks like the janitors have had their fun.” You say, “Wanna play a quick game?”

His brows raise to his hairline, “You know how to play?”

“We had to choose a sport to play for gym class back in high school and it was either tennis or volleyball. So I guess you can say I know a thing or two.”

“Ah, a professional.”

“Mhm. I’m here to give you a run for your money.”

Tetsurou pushes himself off the railing, standing to his full height as he accepts the offer. Towering over you at his 6’5 height, he begins rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, cuffing the white material until it reaches the crook of his elbow. A quick glance to the revealed skin is only a firm reminder of what you had pointedly forgotten. Long slender fingers attached to a thick and veiny forearm, sculpted through years of volleyball practice and continued exercise.

If he wanted to, he definitely could have made it professionally. You almost choke on your spit.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Tetsurou gives you a smile that rivals the smugness of Miya Atsumu in that stupid banner and you know for a fact that in that other life, you would’ve been Kuroo Tetsurou’s biggest fan whether you knew him or not— and not because he was a good player. 

—

“You need to lock your elbows.”

“They’re locked!”

“No they’re not. Look at this,” Tetsurou steps underneath the net, approaching you in long strides before tapping his fingers against the elbows of your interlocked hands. He watches with little impression as your arms swing easily with his force, “Noodles. How are you supposed to receive with this?”

“I’m trying but it’s not comfortable!”

“So you’d rather suck?”

“Kinky.” You say with a waggle of your brows and he rolls his eyes.

“Stop it. Here, you need to—” Without a second thought, he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your torso and fixing your hands. wrapping your right hand over your left and running the length of his warm touch down your forearms. Innocuous and gentle, but stiffening as you breathe in the musky scent of his cologne and the faded scent of his aftershave, and feel the hard planes of his chest press against your back. 

“Straighten your elbows,” He mutters, voice heavy beside your ear.  “And keep them locked. Helps you to have a steady receive for any kind of ball. If your form is perfect then you can always pass the ball using this part, here.” His right index finger touches the surface of your forearm, running between the length of your elbow and wrist to accentuate his point. 

It isn’t a matter of fireworks when he touches you, the exploding kind that has butterflies and goosebumps erupting over the expanse of your skin. It isn’t as though your eyes have suddenly been peeled open and the realization has struck you hard across the face like every romance story that preaches about the magic of the first touch, the electricity of meeting hands across the table, the sudden realization of knowing.

No, this is entirely different. A comforting touch, not uncommon, but intimate and while it doesn’t have you reeling in revolutionary realization, nor does it have you fanning yourself from the flames of sudden desire, his touch does, eerily, have you sinking in further. There’s no fluttering and flustering with the confusion of flooding feelings, but rather, it has you looking at his hands with a slight furrow. 

Wondering, when his hands suddenly got so soft, yet so firm. Wondering, in what part of the intertwining of his life with yours did his touch suddenly not only become okay, but felt as though it belonged? 

Were this any other man, you would have a harassment claim sent to HR before he could even get near you. But it’s Tetsurou; And when his slender fingers wrap gently around your wrist, turning them upward slightly, you don’t go rigid in his embrace, but instead fall into it. Settle into his grasp, entrust yourself in his hands. 

Because how could you not?

“Like this?” You ask, quietly. No need to exert volume considering he’s right next to you. In search of approval in how you’ve adjusted your hands, you turn your head to the side to look at him, only to realize how close he is to you. Eyes able to see the steady pulse of the clench in his jaw as he focuses on your form, the sharp angle of his jaw, the closely shaven hairs of his stubble.

“Yeah, just like that. Good.” He answers, before removing his hands and bracing them against your shoulders, straightening your posture for the receives that you are no longer focused on getting.

If Kuroo Tetsurou turned his head to you, there would be nothing stopping his nose from bumping into yours. You must be silent, too caught up in the overwhelming nature of it all because he’s suddenly stiffening from his position over you. Then, at a speed you’ve never seen him move before, he’s rescinding his body entirely from you. And it should sting. The speed at which your boss acted as though you physically burned him, his body essentially repulsed from touching you. 

He’s putting great space between you two as he ducks back under the net to his side of the court, yelling over his shoulder, “T-that should fix it. Try, uh, try now. Try serving.”

“I thought I was receiving?” You ask his retreating figure and he stills, considering for a moment, before waving his hand in the air— obviously embarrassed and confused at the fact that he’s just jeopardized everything and made his assistant uncomfortable. 

“Whatever, just give it back to me.” He says, frustratedly.

And you allow yourself, just for a brief moment, to store another could-have in the sanctity of your fantasies. One where he isn’t your boss, and you aren’t his assistant, and you are able to admit to the true and honest parts of yourself—

“Nice return! See? Better already.”

—you rather liked the way he touched you.  

a/n: HEEEEELP i love him your honor. sorry for always ghosting. i wish i could say i wont, but i know i will. lol

Stop for a while. do not cross . My name is Amna from Gaza. We lost everything, home, dreams, and everything that gives life. My children are living in bad conditions. I ask you to help me for the sake of my children, for the sake of humanity. Those who cannot donate can share the post and link

@occupationsurfer @northgazaupdates @nabulsi @elierlick @evelyn-art-05 @soon-palestine @fairuzfan @bibyebae @riding-with-the-wild-hunt

gofundme.com

Donate to Welive in Gaza My family is experiencing war, organized by Amna Merwan

I am Amna Marwan, 32 years old, I live in Gaza, married and a mother of… Amna Merwan needs your support for Welive in Gaza My family i

What I Like | Osamu Miya

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

✪ Osamu smut 18+ minors PLEASE dni

CW: manipulation a teensy bit , thigh riding (ゝз╹), one friendly clit slap (we're so back), unspoken pining , its kind of tender ok

When your fwb cancels on you, your best friend Osamu kindly offers to help you out with your problem. And in a crazy turn events, you agree.

an: I promised this fic a year ago 💔. That's not to say it took a year to write but that it's just been collecting dust in my docs. I love this one, it's my favorite flavor of friends to lovers and I might have to do a part 2! If you enjoy it, I would love to hear what you think xoxo

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“I’ll do it.” Osamu offered to you nonchalantly. 

You nearly spit out your drink. This was Osamu, your best friend since you both started college, the one who had introduced you to his brother in the first place.

 Atsumu was the guy you hooked up with semi regularly, who ruffled your hair and called you pipsqueak and acted like he hadn’t just rearranged your guts only minutes before. It was unserious in every sense of the word. 

Your friendship with Osamu? Serious. And important to you. Maybe you had stroked out. Maybe he had.

“What are you saying ‘Samu?”

He shrugged like the two of you were discussing the weather, “You seem upset Atsumu flaked and I'm offering to help you take care of it.” 

“Stop saying it like we’re talking about my dog. You’re talking about fucking me!”

Osamu’s calm expression broke into a cheshire grin, “It's a generous offer, you know. You should be grateful.”

“How are you so blase about this?”

“Y/n, you have been telling me how horny you are for the last twenty minutes, you can’t tell me this is phasing you.”

“But still-”

His laugh cut through your strangled words, “Such a big baby.”

Your ears heated up as he said it. He always called you that starting back to your freshman year when he found out you were an only child. He had mumbled that it made a lot of sense, and you had promptly swatted his arm. Just like then, it riled you up now. He knew it would. 

You pushed out of your seat to stand, “Alright. We’re going to my room.”

Osamu’s expression flashed with surprise, but it was gone as soon as it came. Wordlessly, he followed you into your room and closed the door.

The two of you stared at each other for a good minute. 

He tsked, “Y/n, don’t make this awkward.”

“I’m not. Just take off your clothes.” You directed as you pulled your shirt over your head. He moved to do the same.

“You’re making this clinical.” As he pulled his shirt off you saw the wry smile playing at his lips. 

You started unbuttoning your pants, “I’m not. Order is good, rules are good.”

“Any more rules before we start?” His hands were making quick work of his belt. 

Did you really need rules with Osamu? Obviously he’d never do anything to hurt you. But still. There was another potential issue. “No kissing. It's too intimate.”

He looked like he wanted to argue the point but he held his tongue. That lasted for only a second though. “I’m literally going to be inside you.”

“Potatoe potato.”

“The big baby that you are.”

You couldn’t waver on this, “Them’s the rules.”

He nodded with understanding and moved to take his boxers off. At the same time, you stepped out of your panties and unclasped your bra, letting it fall to the floor. 

When you looked up, of course Osamu was staring at you. And of course you couldn’t take your eyes off of him. He was perfectly sculpted all the way down to his V line. And he was big. It was a little weird to compare him to Atsumu, a little weird that you were going to have had sex with both twins in general. But he seemed bigger than what you were used to.

“You’re gorgeous.” Osamu’s eyes were unabashedly trailing up and down your body. You wanted to brush him off, and tell him he was being stupid. But your cheeks were flushed and you found yourself at a loss for words. 

He has said to not make this awkward. But how could you not? He was your best friend, so attractive that you had to pretend he wasn’t to function normally. And he was looking at you like that. 

Your mouth was open and you willed words to come out. He beat you to it.

“You have condoms? And lube?” Of course you did.

He took a seat on the edge of your bed as you dug through your drawers and fished the bottle of lube out. A condom following shortly after. 

“Here.” You handed him both. You wanted to finally touch him. Your palm landed on his chest and trailed down to hold him there. 

Osamu caught your wrist and mumbled, “Not yet. C’mere.” He beckoned you to climb into his lap and ushered you on top of him-hovering above his thighs-, the heat of his hands searing on your hips. Opening up the bottle, he poured a little out onto his thigh.

Your brows pinched, “What are you-”

“Ride my thigh.” His eyes bored right into yours.

“‘Samu, please I just want you to-”

One of his hands ran up the inside of your thigh before carding his fingers through your folds. You almost jolted at the feel of his cold fingertips. With featherlight pressure, he teased your clit, “Can you please just let me take care of you?”

He started to draw circles and you nodded dumbly as you sank down further, pussy bare against his thigh. Sliding his palms down to your ass, he guided you forward and then back and then forward again. When his mouth found your neck, an uncontrolled sound left your lips. 

You could hear him laugh but you didn’t seem to care as you rutted against him. The slick of the lube had you gliding along his thigh, the friction just right against your clit. 

All the while Osamu was littering your neck with red purple marks, one hand abandoning your hip in favor of rolling your nipples between his thumb and index. He pinched and watched you suck in a breath. Really, he wanted to hear you. He pinched again. 

You whined as you rode him, “‘Samu, please.” 

Smirking he pulled your nipple into his mouth, sucking and circling with his tongue. Osamu’s mouth paired with the delicious friction between your legs had you soaking his thigh. 

“You’re so pretty like this.” He whispered at your ear.

Your hips stuttered at the praise. As good as you were feeling, you felt you could never get close enough to his thigh, even as you ground against it. Your hands found purchase on his shoulders and you moved faster, harder. Not enough. “Osamu, please. I need more.”

He nipped at your neck before pulling back to watch you, “What do you want, Y/n?”

“Touch me, please. Like before.”

With a nod, he brought his fingers against you, “How does this feel, baby?”

Like he commanded it, your heart thundered and your clit pulsed at what he said. You swallowed hard, “So good, ‘Samu.”

He gave your clit a pinch and impishly smiled when you yelped, before kissing your neck in apology and circling one finger gently to soothe the sting, “Do you like it like this? Or like this?”

Instead of gentle, now he deepened the pressure on your clit and sped up with precision. In his lap you jolted, the tension in your body stacking. 

“Tell me, baby.”

You took a breath, “The second one.” He continued and licked up the column of your neck and you knew you were a goner. “I’m gonna cum, I-”

All at once, his fingers were gone from your throbbing core. Oh this was sick.

“Osamu what the hell?”

Both of his hands slid up your stomach to grope your tits, his thumbs rolling your nipples simultaneously, making you shiver, “I’ll let you come but. . .”

“But what?” 

Skimming his hand back down your body, his eyes flickered to your puffy cunt before he moved and cupped it gently. His hand was unmoving, but you could feel yourself throbbing in his palm. 

When he looked up his eyes met yours and though he had called you a big baby your entire friendship, he’d never seen you this needy in your life. Osamu’s face leaned closer to yours, “You have to kiss me.”

100% he had expected you to hesitate, definitely you were going to argue the point. Nothing could have prepared him for the way your small hands grabbed his face and you pulled him closer still, the way you kissed him like you might die. 

He moved his fingers back to where you needed most and he touched you the exact way you liked. As he sped up, you moaned into his mouth and Osamu’s tongue brushed against your bottom lip before you greeted it with your own. 

The dam inside you was so close to spilling over. Osamu’s fingers were unrelenting on your clit, tight little circles that never stopped. Hungrily, his tongue stroked against yours and you felt your body seize up, stars bursting behind your eyes. You were lost to the high of your release and you had to break apart from your kiss to writhe against his shoulder. He didn’t stop, rubbing you all the way through your orgasm with consistent pressure, not stopping even as your pelvis jumped against hand.

All through your cries he continued, finally stopping when you bit down into the crook of his neck. 

You stayed silent in his arms, your body rising and falling against him like you had just run a marathon.

Subtly you lifted your chin to peer up at him and found him watching you. You rolled your eyes, “I think you broke a rule just then.”

He smiled before stealing a chaste kiss from you, “And I think you liked it.”

You couldn’t argue the point, your lips were still tingling. Really the whole thing would have your mind spinning for quite a while. If you thought about it-

“Aghh.” Your back arched when Osamu gave your cunt a light slap. He was grinning down at you.

“I said don’t make it awkward.”

“I’m not.” You frowned against your will.

Osamu huffed out a laugh as his hand trailed down the love bites he left on your neck, “Such a big baby.”

Against your will, you shivered against him, remembering the way he had spoke to you just minutes before. Of course he noticed, he noticed everything about you. He leaned down so his mouth was at the shell of your ear and his thumb was stroking back and forth as he cupped your cheek, almost like he was holding you there so you couldn’t escape. 

“You like it when I call you baby, huh?” He whispered to you.

Undoubtedly you did. More than you should. 

But you needed to keep things normal. The two of you were best friends and you had to stay that way.

Don’t make it awkward. 

You could do that. 

You smacked his hand away from your face, “You gonna fuck me or are you gonna keep talking?”

The corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk, “There she is.”

Before you could blink, he was tackling you down to the bed.

me: i got that dog in me 😤

said dog in me:

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.

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sending so much love to everyone who feels like they’re never chosen as the best friend, as the partner, as the favorite. sending love to all of you who have been treated and felt like second best. sending love to all of you who have felt rejected and unwanted. to all of you who have had to try really hard to fit in because you felt like you never will. 

you are so loved. you will be seen and heard by the right people. you can trust that you are valuable and not defined by other people’s perceptions of you. if someone doesn’t see your worth, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

im afraid to strap a girl because what if my dick game is atrocious. how do i recover from that emotionally. how

Polyamorous relationships were meant to be 3 bisexual men and one fujoshi or like 17 lesbians not one guy and his 6 girlfriends who can’t interact with eachother. Jesus said that it’s in the Bible

"are you like... into that?"

you tear your eyes away from the screen a few seconds after rintarou says it, too rapt by what's unfolding in the movie scene to look away too soon.

"what do you mean?" you ask, glancing over to the other end of the sofa where he's seated. he's slumped down in the corner of the sofa, nestled right into the valley between the cushions where he always sits—which has resulted in a permanent sort of vaguely rintarou-shaped indentation that you hide using throw pillows when company comes over.

he's watching you very intently from his side of the sofa, too intently almost. you'd thought you'd felt his eyes on you while you were watching the movie, but you aren't exactly sure how long he's been staring, and now it leaves you wondering what exactly he's up to.

rintarou nods towards the television on the other side of the room, you look back at the screen once more and see the male lead still at the centre of the scene. he'd just gotten into a fight—shirtless, glistening with perspiration, and a strangely erotic trickle of blood trailing down his philtrum. you swallow a little as you become engrossed in the movie again, forgetting momentarily that you were ever asked a question at all.

"so?"

your eyes snap back to rintarou—who's still focused only on you, but with a slightly more disapproving look this time.

"what?" you ask him, a bit huffily. you're still not even sure what he'd been asking you in the first place.

"you've been ogling that guy since he got the shit kicked out of him," rintarou says pointedly, lifting a hand and gesturing towards the television. "you into that or something?"

there's something kind of accusatory in his tone.

"wha—hu—no," you stumble over your words in your haste to defend yourself. "i've told you i'm not into hardcore stuff. and that would constitute like... doctorate level BDSM."

rintarou's lips purse slightly. "do you think that guy's hot?"

"i mean... yeah," you answer after contemplating it for a moment. "i didn't really think so before but he's kinda sexy in this scene."

"he just got the shit kicked out of him," the boy at the other end of the sofa responds flatly.

"so you've pointed out," you answer. you turn back to the screen, watching as the battered male lead winds a roll of bandages around his ribs, then drags his knuckles roughly across his lips to clear away some of the blood that clings to them. your tongue peeks out to moisten your own unconsciously. "don't you think there's something kind of hot about a guy with a bit of blood on him?"

"is this a trick question?"

you look back at rintarou again, and find him still fixated on you rather than the film. he's pouting a bit, and it kind of makes you want to laugh. instead, you push yourself up from your own little nest at the opposite end of the sofa, crawling down towards him.

"rintarou, are you jealous because i called the bloody guy sexy?" you ask him as you pause at his side, resting back on your haunches.

he nibbles on the inside of his cheek—a habit he's had as long as you've known him—and for the first time in possibly the entire 54 minutes this movie has been playing, he averts his eyes from you.

"...no."

you do laugh then, swinging one leg over his lap to perch yourself atop him.

"you're being silly," you say to him as you balance yourself with your hands on his shoulders. his own come slithering up to settle at your waist, and his grip is a little tighter than you expect. he's still sulking though, refusing to look at you.

there's a loud crash in the film playing on the screen behind you, but you don't turn to look at it—you doubt that would help the situation at hand very much.

"rin," you coax him, making your voice as sweet as possible.

he doesn't look at you, but he does seem to bite the inside of his cheek a little harder now.

you dip down close to him, your mouth hovering over his and your eyes level. "rin-ta-rou."

he finally looks at you, his lips parting in surprise at your sudden nearness. you're so close that your mouths brush slightly thanks to that subtle movement, and he leans into the warmth of your lips to kiss you properly after getting such a small taste of it.

rintarou pulls away after one long, deep kiss, slouching back into the sofa again—but this time pulling you down with him into his little him-shaped indentation—holding you tightly to his chest as he gets you both comfortable. you let him maneuver you however he wants to, placating him with your docility to make him feel better, and keeping any comment about his jealousy to yourself—at least for now.

the two of you eventually find a comfortable way to rest, entwined together on his end of the sofa but both with a clear view to the screen to resume your spectating of the movie.

"what's so hot about a guy with a nosebleed anyway? i used to get them all the time when i was a kid," rintarou mumbles bitterly after a few moments, and you feel the words reverberate through his chest as you rest with your head upon it.

you laugh lightly, and your boyfriend's arms tighten around your waist.

he pipes up again after a few moments more pass in the film.

"you don't want me to start fighting or anything, do you?" he asks you skeptically.

you've effectively lost track of the movie's plot now, but you don't really care that much.

"no, rintarou, i don't want you to start fighting," you reply, patting his chest reassuringly. "you'd get your ass kicked anyway."

"well, apparently you're into that," he mutters.

"will you be quiet and just watch the movie, nosebleed boy?"

(a week later, rintarou sends you a photo from practice—having gracefully taken one of motoya's receives to the face—with an angry red welt on his cheek, blood dripping from his nose, and an obnoxious smirk on his lips. unfortunately, you are kinda into that.)

Shout out to all the Black ppl that can no longer participate directly in the fandom they love because of the stresses of racism 👍🏾 you contain multitudes of value and I'm sorry that the color of your skin and the power of your voice makes people not want to acknowledge that.

THE ETHICS OF RELATIONSHIPS - 'THE PROF GETO SERIES'

INSTRUCTOR INFORMATION Professor Suguru Geto Level: Advanced (18+)

COURSE DESCRIPTION Professor Suguru Geto is a renown ethics professor, and you're a 4.0, straight A student whose GPA he's trying to ruin (or that's what you think). Instead of dropping the class, you're more intent on making him see your brilliance -- but you get more than you bargained for, when the two of you learn more about the other -- and what you owe to each other.

COURSE REQUIREMENTS

I. I NEED SOMEONE OLDER....................................10,376 POINTS

II. ILLICIT AFFAIRS......................................................16,821 POINTS

III. THE WRONG PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME......12,010 POINTS

IV. TBC

EXTRA CREDIT

I. SUDDENLY, I HAVE A VALENTINE.......................1,208 POINTS

shoko in her twink era

sending so much love to everyone who feels like they’re never chosen as the best friend, as the partner, as the favorite. sending love to all of you who have been treated and felt like second best. sending love to all of you who have felt rejected and unwanted. to all of you who have had to try really hard to fit in because you felt like you never will. 

you are so loved. you will be seen and heard by the right people. you can trust that you are valuable and not defined by other people’s perceptions of you. if someone doesn’t see your worth, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

i am once again asking how much money this state-funded school gets, there is NO reason for classes of 20 kids each to have a whole mansion for themselves like what! also brave to let the girls and boys live underthe same roof i feel like thats not very realistic, i think two big dorms for boys and girls would have sufficed but no there's like 6 mega mansions on the supercop campus now..... if bnha town used my taxes for these kids to live like this id joing shigaraki's little terrorist cell, too!!

also we never talk about being the older woman with a younger guy head over heels for you

idk what im doing

obsessed with this tweet

#24 on ur spotify wrapped describes how 2024 will go, how screwed r u

not joking I would kind of like to brutally murder whoever thought it was a good idea to take away clicking on a person’s name to see their reblog and make it borderline impossible to get to the original version of a post without spending ten minutes scrolling with ctrl f

hiii omg if there is a spot left, i’d love to do the kissing booth!! my ideal kiss would be slow, passionate, teasing, and fun! and my fandom is hq and id pair you with konoha!!

💋 whose pair of lips had the chance to capture yours...

Th-That's it? We're done?

MIYA OSAMU

🎠 dream carnival : anniversary and milestone event

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

"light yagami is a misogynist" I say into the mic.

the crowd boos. I begin to walk off in shame, when a voice speaks and commands silence from the room.

"she's right... surprising, for a woman", they say. i look for the owner of the voice. there in the 5th row stands light yagami.

“Miya-san!”

Osamu’s head swivels towards the sound, and he spots you right away even though you weren't the one who called for him.

You’re a few metres down the road, sitting on a bench in front of a bustling restaurant, slumped over onto the shoulder of your junior who seems to be doing everything he can to keep your head tipped up against his arm. Kimura, the name Osamu had once been introduced to him as at one of the events your company held, has blushy cheeks when the older man approaches—he seems flushed due both to being flustered and a little tipsy, and the knot of his tie is loosened at the base of his throat.

“Kimura-kun,” Osamu greets him with a dip of his head as he approaches, his eyes scanning your seemingly sleeping face. “She asleep?”

“No,” you slur in reply, but your eyes stay closed. Osamu’s not certain it’s the truth, and even less certain you realize he’s the one who said it.

“I-it’s all my fault,” Kimura squeaks, looking increasingly like he might burst into tears. “They were trying to make me drink more, but Senpai kept switching out our glasses when the other section leads weren’t looking.”

“Yeah, that sounds like somethin’ she’d do,” Osamu replies with a fond but exasperated sigh.

“I’m sorry for contacting you so late,” Kimura says, flinching as you slump away from him unexpectedly in your drunken stupor. Osamu is quicker to react than the younger man, stepping in and catching you in the crook of his elbow before you can go toppling off the bench onto the sidewalk. He keeps you steady.

“Don’t apologize, I appreciate ya callin’ me to come get her—and thanks fer lookin’ after her,” he says down to the younger man, who seems relieved now not to be responsible for keeping you upright. “Tell her to bring ya by the shop for a meal sometime as payback. She owes ya one.”

Kimura’s eyes widen and he shakes his head like he couldn’t possibly accept, but before he can decline the offer Osamu turns his attention back to you. With an arm wrapped around your waist, he gently pries you from your seat.

“Up ya go,” he mutters encouragingly as he eases you onto your feet.

Your eyes flutter slowly open, looking around blearily for a moment as you take in your surroundings.

“Samu?” you ask, his name slurred on your alcohol loosened tongue. You perk up noticeably in his arms once you realize just who’s holding you. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to take ya home, Cinderella,” he says with a light laugh as your fingers twist into the material of his sweatshirt against his chest. He looks to Kimura again, who’s also risen to his feet now. “We’ll be off, then.”

“Thank you, Miya-san!” Kimura bows deeply forward, a nearly perfect 45 degree angle at his waist.

He’s a sweet kid, Osamu can’t help but think, even if does follow you around like a puppy.

Osamu helps you down the sidewalk towards his waiting truck, then up into your seat on the passenger’s side. He makes quick work of buckling you into your seatbelt even as you squirm counterproductively, then he jogs swiftly around to his own side of the truck and climbs in behind the wheel.

Kimura waves from outside the restaurant as the truck pulls away.

“Seems like ya had fun tonight,” Osamu remarks as he drives in the direction of your home. You hadn't even wanted to attend this work gathering, but had been forced to by your director. Now look where it had gotten you.

You’re fiddling with the controls of the radio, stations crackling in and out as you switch rapidly through the channels. 

“Drank too much,” you complain, settling on a talk radio station (of all things) that seems to be midway through discussing prefectural bylaws.

“Don’t I know it,” Osamu quips in reply and you swat at him harmlessly over the centre console with a laugh.

You’re turned in your seat, your body facing in his direction, watching him as he keeps his eyes on the road. He can feel your gaze tracing over him, but doesn’t glance back.

“Hey,” you whisper, something conspiratorial in your tone. “Wanna know a secret?”

“Sure thing,” he plays along with your antics, fighting back a grin.

It’s silent for a moment—only the voices on the radio discussing trash collection to be heard. Osamu pulls up to a red light, and finally looks over to meet your gaze.

Your eyes are glassy and a bit unfocused, but they’re bright with affection.

“I have a crush on you,” you tell him with a giggle.

Osamu’s chest pangs.

The light turns green.

“Well,” he remarks, returning his gaze to the road ahead and proceeding through the intersection. “That’s good.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees your shoulders slump dejectedly. 

“I’m being rejected,” your next words are positively morose. You turn away from him and lean your body over to the side. He hears a loud thump as your forehead head hits window on your right.

“Hey!” Osamu chides you in concern, reaching out and grabbing the collar of your blouse to tug you up a little straighter. It’s not the most elegant motion by any means, but he’s fairly limited with his other hand on the wheel and his eyes still on the road.

“Owww,” you complain, rubbing your forehead weakly. You bat the hand he has clutching the collar of your shirt away. “You’re so mean.”

“How’m I mean?” Osamu guffaws beside you.

“I just confessed my love for you, and all you had to say is ‘that’s good’!” You turn your body in your seat to waggle an unsteady but judgemental finger at him. “A woman’s heart is a precious, fragile thing, y’know!”

“There’s nothin’ fragile about ya,” Osamu mutters under his breath, thinking about how much you had to drink that night as a prime example of this fact. “Yer tough as a brick wall.”

“Mean!” you jeer at him again, your mouth agape in the wake of his words.

Osamu flicks his turn indicator on before he pulls his truck over to the curb, putting it into park. You’ve stopped outside a convenience store, and when he turns to look at you, the fluorescents from inside the shop bathe you in a backlit halo where you sit in the passenger seat.

He grabs your hand. The one you still have lifted to point at him.

“D’ya see this?” he asks, holding your hand up in front of your face. The ring on your fourth finger catches in the glow of the convenience store lights.

Your eyes widen.

Osamu holds up his left hand where there’s a ring that matches your own.

“I said it’s good y’got a crush on me ‘cause we’re married, dummy.”

Your lips form a surprised little ‘o’ as your eyes flicker rapidly from the band on your finger to his own and back again. 

After a moment you grin, your eyes squeezing shut with how high your cheeks lift. “What a relief!”

Osamu is quick inside the store, just popping in to buy a vitamin drink for you and a pack of cigarettes for himself. He doesn’t smoke as much these days—you’d nag him incessantly if he did—but every so often he gets a craving, and tonight is one of those instances. 

The two of you sit side by side on the curb in front of the shop, the truck parked a little ways down the road. 

Osamu takes a drag of his cigarette, sighing in contentment with wispy plumes of smoke slipping from his lips. He peeks over at you from the corner of his eye. 

“Ya feelin’ better?” he asks.

You’ve got the little bottle of vitamin drink cradled in your hands, working your way through it slowly. You hate the taste of them, he knows that, but you’d regret it more tomorrow morning if you didn’t force it down tonight. You nod a bit, and seem to have sobered up in the time since Osamu arrived to take you home.

“This reminds me of when we first started datin’” Osamu laughs to himself. And he means it. Everything about it. Being out so late. The taste of the tobacco on his tongue. The way you keep creeping a little bit closer to him unconsciously, as though his space isn’t already yours to freely take. “I can’t believe ya forgot we’re married.”

You groan in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

He bites back a grin, trying not to revel too much in your misery.

“And I’m sorry I made you come pick me up,” you mumble after a moment, taking another sip from the little bottle in your hand and wincing against the bitterness. “I planned to just take a cab.”

“It was that little junior of yours who contacted me,” Osamu laughs, lifting the cigarette to his lips and holding it there while he rifles in his pocket for his phone. He holds the device out so you can see the conversation where your subordinate had commandeered your phone, remorsefully messaging Osamu asking him to come and collect you from the bar. He’d even used a funny little sticker of a bunny with tears in his eyes bowing apologetically—it bears a striking resemblance to Kimura himself. 

“That kid,” you sigh, shaking your head lightly as you rub your temple. Your eyes suddenly widen and your face snaps towards your husband. “Wh—“

“Tsumu’s there watchin’ ‘em,” Osamu laughs, reaching up and plopping a hand down atop your head. “Not that there’s much to watch since they’re in bed. He was still at the house when Kimura-kun messaged me.”

You lean into Osamu's touch as you think of your twins at home, tucked up in the little bed they share, and it makes your heart ache a little bit. You wonder if you’ll be able to creep in and give them a kiss goodnight when you get home without waking them. 

You go terribly quiet for a moment, and Osamu finishes his cigarette. He stamps it out on the curb beside him and then slips the extinguished stub back into the pack to throw into an ashtray later.

“Samu?” you call to him, your voice quiet.

He glances over at you, and sees the way you’ve wrapped your arms around your knees. The anxious posture worries him.

“I didn’t forget you, I promise,” you whisper. “It’s just… sometimes I think this is all too good to be true.”

Your husband watches as you admire the ring on your finger that reflects the streetlight overhead.

Osamu smiles to himself, scooting closer to you on the curb.

“I know,” he reassures you, wrapping an arm around your waist and tucking you into his side. Your head naturally falls to his shoulder. Familiar and instinctive. “I was just teasin’ ya.”

You smell like alcohol. He’s sure he smells like cigarettes. You're in rumpled business casual, and he's dressed in the sweats he planned to wear to sleep. He reaches over and takes your left hand in his own—your wedding rings overlapping. And for a moment, in spite of all the ways the two of you have changed over the years and all the ways that life is different now, everything is exactly how it’s always been.

He tilts his face and presses a lingering kiss to your temple.

‘I’ve got a crush on ya too, by the way.”

trying to become a wine couple with shouto and the two of you sit on the floor in the living room each with a healthily poured glass in hand while you try (and fail) to describe the tasting notes.

"it's very..." you run your tongue over your lips, as though catching the last drop that clings to them might be a breakthrough. "...dry."

shouto swallows another mouthful, his nose twitching a little at the taste—he doesn't seem to like it, but he's trying (mostly for your sake.) he considers your point, and then adds thoughtfully: "i think it's pretty wet actually."

i made a quiz to determine which emotionally tortured and angelically talented art pop girl you are! here it is :-) reblog with your moon sign and who you get

gojo gets so lost in your deep, slow kisses that he doesn’t even realise he’s stopped thrusting into you until you’re knocking at his chest and grumbling about how you were so close a second ago until he stopped