punk-spic3y

[punk-spic3y]

street racer! sukuna flying you out

You’ve never flown this far for a man before. Not for a boyfriend. Not for family. And Sukuna’s neither of those things—not exactly. Not officially.

But when your phone lit up at 2:03 a.m. with his name and a text that read: Tickets in your email. I want you there, you didn’t even hesitate.

You stared at the screen for maybe thirty seconds, heart pounding like a drum in your throat, rereading the words until they didn’t look like real language anymore.

The airport is a blur of escalators, overpriced coffee, and stiff plastic seats. Your fingers wrap tight around the phone in your lap the entire time, like it might vanish if you let go. You keep checking the itinerary like the tickets will disappear, like he might change his mind.

The flight is quiet. Too quiet. You keep looking out the window even though the clouds all start to look the same after a while. You scroll through old texts—most of them short, chaotic, voice notes, a few shirtless selfies he never even commented on after sending. There’s one photo of you he took when you weren’t looking, sun hitting your skin just right.

You wonder if he looks at it too.

The room he booked was ridiculous—plush king bed, balcony overlooking the city, bathroom big enough to echo in. The towels are folded like little swans, and there’s a basket of fruit on the coffee table that you know he didn’t pick, but somehow it still feels like a love language.

You glance at the bed, then toward the empty side of the room. He’s not here.

Your heart dips before you catch yourself. You’re not here for him like that. Not officially. Not yet.

Still, your name is on the reservation. You wonder if he had to spell it out loud—if he got annoyed when they asked for your ID, or if he said it proud like it meant something. You picture him at the front desk, arms crossed, scowling while the poor receptionist stammers through the check-in. The thought makes your stomach flutter.

By the time you make it to the track, the sun is brutal and the crowd feels like it’s vibrating. Everything is loud: the engines revving like wild animals, bass-heavy music pulsing through the speakers, vendors yelling about merch and drinks and souvenir flags. And there it is—his banner. Sukuna’s face smirking down from the overhead display, tattoos sharp beneath the collar of his fireproof suit. He looks like he was born for this, like chaos bends around him.

You try to shrink into your hoodie. You feel like you shouldn’t be here—like you’re intruding on a moment that belongs to him. You’re just a girl in the crowd, aren’t you? A fly-in. Temporary.

But then— “Thought I told you to be in the VIP tent.”

You turn, heart skipping—and there he is.

Hair tied back, suit half unzipped and slung around his waist, black tank clinging to his chest like it was painted on. His tattoos coil around his biceps, disappearing beneath fabric in smooth lines that look almost sacred. He’s squinting against the sunlight, sunglasses dangling from one hand, and he’s looking at you like he’s been scanning the crowd for hours just to find you.

“Hey,” you breathe, surprised by how relieved you feel at the sight of him.

He looks you up and down, then sighs, “Didn’t I tell you to wait where it’s shady?”

You shrug, trying not to smile. “Didn’t want to be in the way.”

He steps closer, tugging on the sleeve of your jacket with two fingers. “You wearing sunscreen?”

“…No?”

He shakes his head, muttering something about stubborn girls under his breath, and pulls a small travel tube from his back pocket like he knew you'd be reckless. He doesn’t even say anything—just squeezes some into his palm and gently smooths it across your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, your forehead. His fingers are rough but careful, his brow furrowed in concentration like he’s tuning a car, not touching a girl.

You blink up at him, stunned silent.

“There,” he murmurs. “Can’t have you going back sunburned.”

“You always take care of your pit crew like this?”

He snorts. “You think I flew you out here just to keep you hidden?”

You roll your eyes at his sass. “Didn’t fly me first class either.”

“You liked that window seat or not?”

You try not to laugh, but he sees the way your mouth pulls into a smile, the way your eyes soften. He always sees it.

You always do this—pretend it’s casual, pretend he doesn’t mean more than he should. Pretend the butterflies are just nerves, pretend you’re just friends with benefits with frequent flyer miles. But the way he’s looking at you now… the way he touches you like you matter? It makes pretending feel stupid.

He steps in until your toes nearly touch. “Come with me.”

You blink. “Where?”

“To the pit. I want you there when I line up.”

Your brows lift. “Are you sure?”

He leans in, voice low. “I don’t want to look over and not see you.”

Your chest twists. “You’re gonna make me think you actually like me.”

“Maybe I fuckin’ do,” he says easily—like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true.

You’re still short-circuiting when he laces his fingers with yours and starts pulling you through the crowd. His hand is warm, a little calloused, his grip loose but certain. It’s not just for show. He doesn’t let go, not once. Not when security waves you through. Not when pit crew nod in passing, glancing at you like you’re familiar. Like you belong.

It’s chaos around you, heat and noise and movement, but he stays close—always checking if you’re still beside him. His thumb rubs across the back of your hand once, slow and thoughtless. You wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.

When you reach the pit, his car glints under the sun like a weapon. Matte black, red striping, the number 20 on the hood. Same number tattooed on his hands. You’re not even into cars, but you have to admit—this one looks mean. Fast. Like it has a heart that beats the same as his.

He lets go of your hand to shrug on his fireproof jacket and zip it up. A crew member hands him his helmet. You catch him sneaking a glance at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

“You nervous?” you ask, voice soft.

He’s quiet for a second, then glances at the track, then at you. “Nah. Not about the race.”

That shouldn’t hit the way it does, but it does.

You cross your arms, chewing the inside of your cheek while he tugs on his gloves. You don’t know what to say. You’re not even sure what you are to him.

But before the crew can herd him toward the lineup, Sukuna turns to you again.

“You stay right here, yeah?” His voice is low, almost drowned out by the rising engines. “Don’t disappear on me.”

“I won’t,” you say quietly.

He steps in close again, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes locked on yours.

Then—just when you think he might lean in to whisper something—

He kisses your forehead.

Not your cheek. Not your lips.

Your forehead.

It’s simple, but it knocks the air out of you.

He pulls back just a little. “Be good.”

You nod, a little dumb. A little dizzy.

And when he turns to walk toward the car, you already know—whether he wins or not, whether this thing between you ever has a name—you’ll remember this moment forever.

[punk-spic3y]

suna rintarou x f!reader — 18+, period sex, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), unprotected p in v, blood, and they were roommates

roommate!suna who never fails to notice when you’re upset. who’s all snark and flirting until the moment that the downturn of your mouth seems genuine.

who hates the dickhead you’ve been sleeping with.

who hates him even more when you try to wipe away the fresh sheen of tears that coats your cheeks when you quietly slip in the door just past midnight.

who doesn’t even have it in him to make a teasing remark about your late night booty call not even letting you sleep over, not when you collapse on the couch beside him in a heap of sniffles. not when he recognizes the sweatshirt you’re wearing as his.

and when suna asks what’s wrong, you find that you’re too tired, too annoyed, too flustered to make up any excuse other than telling him what really happened—you got your period, and he thought it was gross. gross enough to make it abundantly clear he didn’t want you spending the night in his bed, either.

and because it’s suna and the boundaries of conversation between the two of you are nonexistent on a good day anyway, you dig your hole even deeper as you pathetically lament into a throw pillow, “i’ve been so horny all week and my vibrator broke and i kind of feel like i’m losing my mind so now i’m going to have to go use the shower head so i don’t make a gross mess—“

maybe it’s just because you’re exhausted.

maybe it’s because you know the guy you’ve been hooking up with hates suna just as much as suna hates him.

maybe it’s because the ache between your thighs has reached a maddening fever pitch.

“—i have a better idea.”

maybe it’s because you’ve been fumbling beneath a suffocating blanket of sexual tension with suna for years.

whatever it is, when suna interrupts you, your mouth snaps shut, and you tilt your head with interest.

he huffs out a quiet laugh at the way you perk up, thumb wiping away a stray tear from your cheek. “you’ve just got to trust me.”

trusting him, as it turns out, looks like you sitting on top of a towel on the couch with your legs spread, suna kneeling on the floor in front of you. and you don’t even have time to feel yourself burn with embarrassment over the mess he’s looking at, not when suna outright groans as he sinks a long finger into your soaked folds.

“stop covering your face,” suna murmurs, his gaze boring a hole into your own when he starts pumping two fingers in and out of your wet hole, every thrust met by the filthy squelch of blood and arousal.

you let your hands drop back down to your sides, head falling against the back of the sofa as he curls his fingers inside of you and strokes your swollen clit with his thumb.

“and don’t ever let anyone tell you this is gross,” he breathes out, free hand caressing your inner thigh as your blood coats his fingers.

“isn’t it, though?” you exhale, hips twitching as pleasure ricochets through your nerves, the coil in your gut winding tighter as you feel the towel beneath your ass grow wetter by the minute.

suna breathes out through his nose, an amused exhale, and presses a kiss to your inner thigh, just shy of the smear of blood that’s dripped all over it. “do you know how hard i am right now?”

you inhale sharply at the implication, and suna grins, pumping your soaked, filthy cunt even faster.

“if anything, you’ll think i’m the gross one for what else i wanna do,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin.

something bright and hot slides down your spine, and you swallow hard. “show me.”

if suna’s fingers in your blood-soaked pussy had you squirming, his tongue has you on the verge of sobbing, desperate tears clinging to the corners of your eyes as his name tumbles from your throat in gasping, hiccuping breaths.

fingers buried in his dark hair, suna moans as he eats you out, one hand clearly palming his dick through his shorts as he laves at your wet slit, sucks on your throbbing clit, and thrusts his tongue into your tight hole.

you think you’re begging for something, anything. you don’t even know what at this point. suna sounds just as wrecked as you feel, your blood smeared all over his lips and chin as he fucks you relentlessly with his tongue like he’s trying to devour your pleasure whole.

your orgasm tears through you, shoving a scream of pleasure past your lips while suna thrusts two fingers back inside of you and laps at your clit until you’re shaking and whimpering from the overstimulation.

—but it’s not enough, somehow.

not when you see the sticky, red mess all over his face and hands.

not when you watch him lick one of his fingers clean.

not when you see the wet spot of precum that stains the front of his shorts, his erection still straining against the material.

suna seems genuinely surprised when you rise from the couch and push him to the floor, eyebrows shooting up as you pull down his shorts and boxers and let his flushed cock spring free.

you stare down at him for a moment, the unspoken words written clearly across your face—but will you think i’m gross for what else i want to do?

suna smiles, hands sliding over your thighs as you straddle him, and he mouths, show me.

it’s filthy—the way you slide your soaked folds up and down the length of his cock. the blood and arousal that soaks his dick as you tease him until he’s gasping.

until he’s groaning your name and panting as you ease his thick cock into your aching pussy, his hips twitching with each wet, sticky inch.

you ride suna until you come all over his cock, until the feeling of your tight cunt contracting desperately on his length is what finally sends him over the edge, stuffing you deep as he fucks his cum up into you with sloppy, jerking thrusts.

you’re both a mess when it’s over, blood and cum sliding down his dick and dripping from between your thighs, the carpet somehow spared from it all as you reach behind you for the towel.

“shower?” he asks, the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

you raise a brow, “now you think i’m gross?”

“no,” suna smirks. “i was just hoping you’d show me how you were planning on using our showerhead.”

[punk-spic3y]

Tumblr is good for creative types because the tag system lets you be truly deranged about how much you like it without feeling as Exposed as a Comment Section

[punk-spic3y]

matsukawa issei x f!reader x semi eita — 18+, band au, fooling around in a hot tub, dry humping, handjob, fingering, (continued from)

“what do you think of the new song?”

matsukawa’s voice is low and smooth, and you have to lean in just a bit to hear him over the steady gurgling of the hot tub jets. his dark waves are damp from the rising steam, and the golden glow of the string lights that dot semi’s backyard reflects in his eyes as he looks at you. 

before you can fumble for an answer, semi leans his chin on your shoulder and smirks, “oh, she’s a big fan.”

you elbow him underwater, which doesn’t do you much good, considering you’re sitting in his lap. 

mattsun catches the movement, watching the two of you with open curiosity. “are you dating?” he asks curiously. 

a huff of amusement leaves semi’s lips, because he’s your best friend. and the two of you have fooled around plenty. you’ll probably sleep in his bed tonight, after all.

but semi wants you to fuck matsukawa.

he likes when he’s hanging out with seijoh and texts you some covert picture of matsukawa leaning against a wall wearing sunglasses and all black from head to toe, a cigarette hanging between his lips. and all you can reply back with is a string of unintelligible letters.

semi likes when he’s fucking you, when he asks if you touched yourself looking at the picture that he sent you, when he tells you that you’re definitely matsukawa’s type and feels you gasp and clench down on him.

“no,” semi tells him plainly, nose brushing against your cheek. “but the answer to your next question would still be yes, even if we were.”

the corner of matsukawa’s mouth twitches, and he meets your gaze. because it’s your answer he needs. “would it?”

you smile at him then. “depends on what your next question was.”

matsukawa laughs.

you’re thankful the party’s long-since died down when you find yourself in matsukawa’s lap, his mouth on yours. semi’s pressed up against your back, fingers stroking your sensitive, pebbled nipples through your swimsuit top.

you gasp against mattsun’s lips when semi pinches down, hot water splashing out over the side of the hot tub as you arch your back at the sharp sensation. matsukawa hushes you with his mouth, tongue sliding along the seam of your lips to deepen the kiss. your whine reverberates in his throat when semi undoes the knot from your top and exposes your bare, wet tits to the cool night air, fingers quick to take the place of the dripping material. 

arousal and need pulse between your thighs as you feel the outline of matsukawa’s dick pressed up against you, already growing dizzy at the promise of its length.

semi’s hand comes up to caress your jaw, his mouth ghosting matsukawa’s as he leans in to kiss you. 

“she likes it like this,” semi tells him, his hands wrapping around your waist and guiding you back and forth in the cradle of mattsun’s lap.

part of you wants to make a joke about dry humping.

about how like is a mild way to put it. about how you and semi have come in your pants more times than you can count like this on the couch. when a lazy makeout session turns into needy grinding and taking off your clothes comes secondary to the sensation of your soaking wet underwear sliding against your puffy folds while you rock over the outline of his cock—

about how there’s absolutely nothing dry about this at all right now.

but you don’t get a chance to, not when every last word dies in your throat as matsukawa splays a large palm flat against the dip of your lower back and pulls you in just as he rocks his hips upward.

“oh,” you moan, pleasure dancing white-hot over your nerves as you feel every last inch of matsukawa’s dick while he drags your cunt along the length of it.

“i like this, too,” matsukawa tells you, thumb stroking your chin as his other hand slips down into your bathing suit bottoms, long fingers cupping your ass and giving it a firm squeeze. “but i have a better idea.”

water sloshes as he turns you around, hooking your legs around the outside of his thighs so you’re spread open wide and facing semi. 

semi wastes no time in leaning in, mouth closing over your tits before he begins to suck. his tongue is hot as it laves over your sensitive nipple, and you keen, fingers tangling in his hair. he moans when you tug on it, sucking harder, free hand grasping the erection tented heavily at the front of his swim shorts. matsukawa’s dick is thick and hard where it rests between your ass cheeks.

long digits slide over your hip and tug aside your swimsuit bottoms, just enough for a middle finger to sink into your tight hole knuckle-deep. matsukawa groans when he feels how wet you are, slick and dripping with sticky arousal even in the hot tub, cunt fluttering around his touch and not to subtly begging for more as you buck your hips into it.

a sound of amusement rumbles in his throat, and his lips brush against the shell of your ear. “how about this then?”

your fingers wrap around semi’s cock, and his forehead falls against yours as he pants into your mouth. matsukawa’s other hand strokes your sensitive nipples, thumb rolling around each of the peaked buds like he's stroking a pick over the strings of his guitar.

semi takes your bottom lip between his teeth as matsukawa’s tongue presses hotly into the tender spot behind your earlobe, as he adds a second finger and stuffs both into your aching hole to the last knuckle. 

“yes,” you tell him, voice breaking on a whine. 

a third finger slides in, this one belonging to semi, their hands joining as one while they pump in and out of your cunt. and there's something wholly filthy about this that leaves you drunk on the feeling, that has drool pooling in the back of your mouth and a heady, untamed feeling unravelling in your gut.

(that has you on the verge of begging for more.)

(and isn't that funny, how greedy you can be, even with the long, dexterous fingers of two handsome guitarists stuffed inside of you at once.)

“so pretty like this, baby,” semi murmurs against your mouth, rutting his cock into your tight fist. “so fucking pretty.”

matsukawa hums in agreement, nose brushing against your cheek. “he’s right.”

something in your chest dips and swoops, licking its way down each notch of your spine before settling hot and sticky in your belly. 

you’re wholly bucking into semi and mattsun’s thrusts now as they fuck their fingers into you, ass dragging repeatedly over mattsun’s cock while you continue to pump semi’s with just as much fervor. 

and when your orgasm hits you, it’s enough to punch the air out of your lungs, pleasure cresting over your limbs in dripping, hot waves between murmurs of “that’s it” and “so goddamn pretty” and “good girl" while you moan and shake and choke out a sob.

semi follows right after, sinking somewhere between your lap and mattsun’s once his spent dick goes limp.

and for all that you’re prepared to indulge yourself in the mouth-watering urge to suck matsukawa’s cock, he doesn’t seem the least bit sorry to have come from rutting against the globes of your ass.

"the song sounds great, by the way," you eventually say while you're catching your breath. "both of you together is like a dream."

semi snorts.

mattsun raises his eyebrows. "oh?"

you drag a hand over your face, somehow embarassed even now while matsukawa's gently massaging your slick, oversensitive folds with one finger and semi's kissing your shoulder.

"singing together."

"uh huh," semi replies.

"just singing?" mattsun asks, teeth grazing the shell of your ear.

[punk-spic3y]

happy pride🧡🤍💖

[punk-spic3y]

obsessed with his goatee era

[punk-spic3y]

#12 Bokuto Koutarou🫸🏻🏐

all credits to the original artist @GMamka on X

[punk-spic3y]

Mattsun acts like he hates the way you seem to shed all of your belongings the second you walk through the front door, but the consistent, rhythmic sounds of your arrival comfort him in a way he keeps tucked close to his chest, warm and familiar.

There's a light scratching sound at the door--you missing the keyhole twice--like you do every day when you come home, followed by the final successful click of the lock being turned. The whooshing sound of the door being flung open and bumping against the rubber mounted on the wall comes next--it had taken a mere three days of living with you for Mattsun to invest in a fancy doorstop for this exact reason--there are still marks on the wall from the ever enthusiastic way you enter the house.

You call out to him, sing-songy and warm when you shout, "Issei, I'm home!" His answering greeting is punctuated by the clink of your keys as they're unceremoniously dropped into the glass bowl in the genkan. A few beats later he hears your shoes thud against the tile, surely not placed with any concern for neatness. Next is your always overpacked bag thumping against the wall as it's shrugged from your shoulder and tossed onto the hook next to his jacket.

The following part should be the most annoying of the whole routine, but the soft swish of clothing as you pull off your sweater, the flutter of fabric as you toss it blindly in the direction of the couch (you always miss), is music to his ears. There's the muted sound of you hopping on one foot, trying to maintain your balance while you pull your socks off before they get balled up and launched down the hallway in the general direction of your bedroom, hitting the wall with a dull thud.

You finally round the corner to enter the kitchen, one earring clutched awkwardly in your fingers while you pull the back off the other one. The soft tink of them hitting the counter is barely audible over the bubbling of the pot he's stirring on the stove. Your earring are joined immediately by your watch and the silver bracelet he got you for your last wedding anniversary, both making sounds slightly louder than the last.

You hum happily at the sight of him, moving to wrap your arms around his waist while he stirs, but he knows you're not quite done. Hands resting loosely on his stomach, you bury your face in the back of his t-shirt with a contented sigh and begin to pull the rings from your fingers. There's the twinkling sound of one, two, three of them hitting the counter to his right--only one remains on, saved for it's special resting place in the hand carved wooden jewelry box at your bedside. Its gem catches in the light of the kitchen, sparkling softly from the ring finger on your left hand.

"Don't forget to pick up your socks later," the smile on his face is obvious his tone, "and your sweater." You give him a squeeze, "This many years and you still feel like I need a reminder?" Peeking around his shoulder, your smile is radiant, and he shrugs, playfully raising his eyebrows, "Today could be the day you forget."

He sets down the wooden spoon and turns so you're face to face, wrapping his arms around you and shuffling you both across the small kitchen until you're leaning against the opposite counter. Taking your face in both hands, he squishes your cheeks, releasing them with a quiet laugh when you make an adorably grumbly sound of protest. You taste the grin on his lips when he presses them to yours, soft and tender.

You are his favorite kind of music.

[punk-spic3y]

headcanons: what cars they would drive — haikyuu boys.

a/n: each car has a link with a pinterest image :) i hope you enjoy

𖦹 karasuno .ᐟ.ᐟ

sawamura daichi: jeep grand cherokee sugawara koshi: kia optima tanaka ryunosuke: honda cr-v nishinoya yu: chevrolet spark kageyama tobio: audi s e-tron gt hinata shoyo: toyota camry tsukishima kei: mazda6 yamaguchi tadashi: toyota camry shimizu kiyoko: tanaka drives her everywhere <3 prefers not to drive yachi hitoka: no license 

𖦹 aoba josai .ᐟ.ᐟ

oikawa toru: aston martin db12 iwaizumi hajime: jeep wrangler matsukawa issei: nissan sentra hanamaki takahiro: matsukawa's car / public transportation kyotani kentaro: hyundai ioniq 6

𖦹 shiratorizawa .ᐟ.ᐟ

ushijima wakatoshi: ford f150 semi eita: subaru impreza tendou satori: mazda mx-5 miata

𖦹 nekoma .ᐟ.ᐟ

kuroo tetsuro: chevrolet camaro kenma kozume: chevrolet camaro yaku morisuke: 124 spider fiat yamamoto taketora: honda civic – modded haiba lev: no license

𖦹 fukurodani .ᐟ.ᐟ

bokuto kotaro: ford bronco akaashi keiji: mazda3

𖦹 inarizaki .ᐟ.ᐟ

kita shinsuke: nissan frontier miya atsumu: ford mustang shelby gt500 miya osamu: ford explorer suna rintaro: lexus is 350 f sport

𖦹 itachiyama .ᐟ.ᐟ

sakusa kiyoomi: genesis g70

𖦹 johzenji .ᐟ.ᐟ

terushima yuji: toyota fj cruiser

taglist (open. ask to be added <3): @tangerinelovr @oligbia @megapteraurelia@iwantfoodpleasebuymefood @dira333 @kcandyliciouss

© deardaichi | everything here is written with care — please don’t repost, copy, or alter my work without permission.

[punk-spic3y]

hbd to this sweet ray of sunshine

[punk-spic3y]

the only place I want to go

established, fluffy bokuroo

3.8k

cw/tags: post timeskip, alcohol use -> kuroo gets white girl wasted on a thursday, sfw, hangovers, fluff, background kenhina, kuroo and kenma are biters and I stand by that

a/n: pspspsps some sweet fluffy bokuroo for u <3

crossposted to ao3

“No no! Don’t worry about it!” his voice is tinny through the speaker of the phone, “I see Shoyo all the time, and you hardly ever get to see Kenma! I’m sure they’ll be here again soon.” Kuroo hums, still hesitant despite Bokuto’s insistence, “Are you sure you won’t be upset if we go out without you?” Bokuto laughs on the other end of the line and Kuroo thinks he can almost feel the warmth of it against his cheek. “Tetsuuu, I’m not a little kid,” he can hear the smile in his voice and it’s like the sun shining on the first real day of spring, “go have fun!” 

Sure, Bokuto isn’t thrilled to be missing this get-together, but what kind of person would he be if he kept the rest of them from having a good time? To say both he and Kuroo are busy is an understatement. It’s the middle of the V League season, so not only is Bokuto’s practice and game schedule packed, but Kuroo’s been travelling every other week to meet clients and oversee brand deals. It’s Thursday, one of the last few days of the midseason break, and Bokuto’s been out in Hyogo all week with a few of his teammates doing promotional shoots and playing in an exhibition game; he’s supposed to be back late tonight. Today also happens to be the day Kenma and Hinata will be passing through on their way to spend the rest of the week in Tokyo. 

They had this whole thing planned, getting together, going out (to Kenma’s chagrin), and making the most of the rare 24 hours the four of them would all be in the same place. Bokuto wasn’t supposed to be one of the players featured in the promotional events this week, but something fell through so he had to fill a spot last minute. Kuroo misses him. Badly. It’s been weeks since they’ve been able to spend more than a few hours together. He just wants to hold his boyfriend, is that too much to ask?

Already running late, Kuroo shoves the rest of his work into his briefcase and leaves the office; he’ll worry about the paperwork tomorrow. He can’t help but pout a little on his drive home, and then, like the grown man he is, decides that there’s nothing to be done except have a good time despite the lack of his boyfriend’s presence. He pulls into the parking lot and checks the address of the place they’re meeting at, it’s only a fifteen minute drive from his apartment which gives him almost exactly…23 minutes until he’s supposed to be there.

So thirty seven minutes later, with his restrictive suit and tie removed, Kuroo opens the door of the restaurant in a well fitting pair of black jeans and a silky blue short sleeved button up. He didn’t even do his hair, just ran his hands through it a couple times and called it good. Judging by the flushed cheeks of the hostess when he speaks to her quietly, giving her Kenma’s name before he’s pointed to a private room towards the back of the izakaya, he’d say he looks just fine.

Kuroo hears Hinata’s energetic voice before he even slides the door open. He and Kenma have already got quite the spread of shareables in front of them, along with a nice bottle of sake. Hinata’s on his feet as soon as the door slides open, wrapping him in a hug stronger than he looks capable of giving. Kuroo returns the gesture easily as Kenma smiles up at them from his seat on the floor, cheeks already a little rosy. Kuroo gasps in mock offense, “Kenma you didn’t even wait for me,” he puts on an exaggerated pout, “so mean.” Kenma sticks his tongue out, “Well you are,” he checks his watch, “fifteen minutes late.” Kuroo slumps to the ground beside him, flopping onto his lap dramatically, “I had a long day at work, y’know,” he whines, “and Bo’s been gone aaaallll week.” 

They both laugh at his theatrics. “Kuroo-san, here!” A bite of something fried to perfection is held in front of his face by Hinata and he takes it without hesitation, chewing as he sits up, “Shoyo I think I’m cured.” Kenma pushes his shoulder lightly as he’s offered a bite as well. Kuroo’s happy they have each other. Knowing Kenma has Shoyo around makes it easier not to worry about him so much.

Kuroo does his best to not pathetically talk about his boyfriend the whole time, but the more alcohol that hits his system the harder it gets. “Oh Kenma! D’yknow what Bo did last week?” Kenma reluctantly urges him to go on while Hinata pours them all another glass of sake. Kuroo can’t help the giggle that escapes him, “He honest to god almost burnt down my apartment.” Hinata laughs loudly as he continues, “He wanted to make me breakfast, y’know how he gets, and boom--pancake batter on the ceiling and smoke pouring out of the kitchen. It’s actually a miracle it didn’t set the sprinklers off in the whole building.” Kenma’s sitting with both elbows on the low table, his chin resting on his hands and a look on his face that tells Kuroo he’s in for it. “So Kuro…” a pause for dramatic effect, “you’re telling me that you not only let Bo into the kitchen, but that you let him into it alone.” Kuroo cackles, “Hey I was still asleep, what was I supposed to do? Sleepwalk in there and stop him?” Kenma just laughs softly as he nods.   

Three hours and several bottles of sake later, Kuroo is stumbling down the sidewalk, both arms draped around Kenma’s neck while Hinata chatters away next to them. He’s drunk, but the whole stumbling thing is just a little bit of a dramatized version of his actual abilities at the moment. How is he supposed to make Kenma tolerate the weight of his long limbs draped over him if he doesn’t play it up a little bit?

Their next destination is Hinata’s favorite bar, just a five minute walk from the izakaya. Surprisingly, he and Kenma frequent this place when they’re in town together. As they walk in the door Kuroo immediately understands why. It’s got the typical layout, with a dance floor and a few tables on one end, but on the other side there’s a whole room full of arcade games. 

“Ah, I see why you like this place, Kenma.” His voice is only a little slurred as he bites at Kenma’s shoulder, just to be annoying. Kenma groans and presses a palm to his face, pushing at him until he untangles himself from around his shoulders. “Kuroo-san, you have to drink with me!” Hinata is already dragging him to the bar. Two shots later he’s pressed against Kenma’s side at an arcade game, blurry vision ensuring that he’s got absolutely no chance against the shorter man--not that he’d probably be able to win sober either. Kuroo tries to push at Kenma with his hip, but somehow he’s standing his ground, still able to push a combination of buttons at just the right time in order to make sure Kuroo has absolutely no opportunity for getting even a little bit ahead. 

He has no choice but to call in reinforcements. “Shoyo, hheeeellpppp!” he whines, “Kenma’s beating me again.” Hinata, who’s standing behind them with a beer in his hand promptly sets the glass on the table and moves towards his partner. Kenma doesn’t turn around but there’s a wary look on his face and Kuroo watches him brace himself for whatever is about to happen. His preparation ends up being useless the second Hinata’s fingers touch his side. Kenma bends sharply to avoid the fingers prodding at his side, and he’s got just enough alcohol in his system that he’s actually giggling at his antics instead of really fighting it. Kuroo takes the chance to pull ahead, reaching over to press a random pattern of buttons on Kenma’s side for good measure just as he manages to get his teeth on Hinata’s forearm. All of them are laughing now as Hinata yelps at the feeling of Kenma biting him. When he’s finally free Kuroo puts both hands up to receive a solid high five from the redhead in celebration of his totally legit and honest win; which also happens to be his only win of the night. 

Kuroo can hold his liquor, he takes pride in his tolerance and the fact that he hasn’t been hungover since his freshman year of university. That being said, going shot for shot with Hinata Shoyo has absolutely put him to shame. Kuroo’s twice his size, and yet Hinata is still pretty steady on his feet. He, on the other hand, can’t walk in a straight line without leaning on at least one of the two shorter men, no exaggeration this time. 

Kenma gripes half-heartedly as they walk, “Shoyo you know other people can’t drink like you do.” Hinata takes the opportunity to smoosh his flushed cheek against Kenma’s, peppering smacking kisses there while Kenma tries half-heartedly to push him away. Hinata pulls away from his partner to poke at Kuroo’s midsection, “Okay but it was fun, huh?” Kuroo just giggles at him in response, tripping over his own foot and almost face planting on the concrete. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket, perking up as he stumbles over his own words, “Kyaannma c’mon elp’m out’ere--what’f ts’my Bo?” Kenma, who’s been sober for a good few hours now, sighs loudly before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. He squints as the screen flashes on, “‘Your Bo’ is asking if you’re home.” 

Kuroo gasps and grabs blindly at his phone, fingers fumbling around until he eventually finds the call button. Bokuto picks up on the second ring, and Kuroo honest to god feels tears well up in his eyes at the sound of his voice, “Kouuutarooo,” he pauses, voice going all soft, “w’na cm’home.” Kenma reaches up to pat his cheek softly, gently taking his phone from his hands. “Hi, Bo--yeah, he tried to keep up with Shoyo,” Kuroo hears a burst of loud laughter from the phone, “yeah we’ll bring him to your place.” Kenma hangs up and passes Kuroo’s phone back to him, “We’re gonna take you to Bo’s, okay?” Kuroo lets out an excited ‘woop!’ as they continue down the sidewalk.

They eventually make it to Hinata’s car where Kenma fusses with the radio from the driver’s seat while Hinata slides into the back to slump against Kuroo’s shoulder; both of them banished to the back seat so Kenma can drive without them causing trouble in the front. Either way, they spend the short drive performing a very exclusive, never before seen, karaoke show for him while he grumbles like he’s not enjoying it but they both know he is. After a short drive they pull into a spot in the parking lot of Bokuto’s apartment complex.

Kenma is in over his head, trying to mother the two drunk men who insist on singing off key and loud as they trudge up the stairs. Kuroo’s not sure how, but they manage to haul him up the all three flights with no broken bones. They reach the landing and Kenma grabs them both by the collar, voice exasperated, “It’s two in the morning on a weeknight,” Kuroo and Hinata drop their heads at his scolding, “be quiet.” Hinata pouts, providing a soft apology with his forehead against Kenma’s shoulder until he gets a placating kiss on the cheek from him. Kuroo simpers, arms around Hinata’s neck, “Kenma, where’s my kiss.” All he receives is a deadpan stare and a middle finger.

Bokuto must have heard them coming up the stairs despite Kenma’s attempts to keep their volume at a reasonable level because he opens the door before they even have the chance to knock. As sturdy as Bokuto is, it’s a miracle he’s still upright as Kuroo launches himself full speed into his arms as soon as he realizes where he is. His voice is muffled in Bokuto’s sweater, “M’so glad yer’ome Kouuutaroouuu.” Bokuto holds him firmly with hands at his waist, supporting most of Kuroo’s weight as the man drapes himself over any part of him he can reach. He presses a kiss to dark hair and Kuroo nuzzles further into his hoodie with a satisfied hum. 

Kenma raises an eyebrow, “Are you sure you want him?” Hinata is bouncing on the balls of his feet, tethered in place only by Kenma’s hand in his, “I know you just got back in, so I can take him home if you want.” Bokuto just smiles at him all toothy, “M’all good, thanks Kenma,” he puts a hand on Kuroo’s forehead right before he tries to bite his shoulder as if he sensed it coming, “sorry if he caused any trouble.” Kenma just scoffs and waves a hand dismissively before dragging Hinata down the hall only to be scooped up in his arms as they turn the corner, both of them laughing.

“Hey!” Kuroo is pressing back against the hand still on his forehead, biting at any exposed skin he can reach, “quit biting me!” Bokuto stumbles a bit and laughs as he shuts the front door with his foot, dragging Kuroo out of the genkan, still fending off sharp teeth. “Jus’ love you, Kou,” a wicked smile hides behind pouty lips as Kuroo looks up at him, “w’nna eat ya’up.” Bokuto’s eyes light up and he moves a callused hand to Kuroo’s jaw. With his chin held in the palm of his hand, Bokuto tightens his grip just a little as he leans over the dark haired man. Kuroo’s cheeks flush a deep red and Bokuto watches his pupils dilate at the movement of his fingers against his jaw. With a smirk on his lips, he uses his broad build to his advantage and walks Kuroo back until they hit the couch, pushing him firmly to sit on the worn cushions . 

Kuroo’s eyes are wide now and he’s breathing a little too hard to be considered normal as Bokuto speaks, “Ya wanna eat me up, huh?” The way his voice drops an octave, his tone dripping with suggestion, has Kuroo squirming in his hold as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. He looks up at Bokuto and nods frantically, reaching to wrap long fingers around the wrist of the hand against his jaw; not pulling away but anchoring him there. Bokuto’s gaze softens a little and he chuckles at Kuroo’s obvious enthusiasm, “Missed you.” He leans forward, using his grip on Kuroo’s jaw to pull his mouth against his own. A heavy sigh that borders on a whine is pulled from the dark haired man’s chest at the first touch of their lips together.

Bokuto easily takes control, lips gliding gently against his partner’s, his firm grip on Kuroo’s jaw relaxing a little as his thumb strokes his cheek. Kuroo tastes strongly of tequila and he pulls away a little to laugh softly, “You’re really drunk, huh? Feel like I’m gonna get tipsy just from kissing you.” Kuroo pouts up at him as he tugs at Bokuto’s shirt, trying to kiss him again, “No m’’not.” Bokuto allows himself to be pulled against him again with a smile, their teeth knocking together faintly. Kuroo sighs into the kiss, letting Bokuto part his lips with his tongue, still moving slow, like he’s mapping every part of his mouth. 

There’s a heat behind the kiss, but they both know it won’t lead to anything more--not tonight. Instead, it’s an “I missed you” spelled out by lips and teeth and tongues. Bokuto’s hand falls from Kuroo’s jaw as hands make their way into his hair, pulling down until he’s seated in Kuroo’s lap. The soft silk of his button up is smooth on Bokuto’s hands as he runs them across his lover’s waist, settling comfortably against him. For as drunk as he is, Kuroo is kissing him with surprising coordination, his thumb strokes at the short hairs at the nape of his neck and he follows Bokuto’s lead easily as their lips slide against each other.     

Pulling away, Kuroo puts just enough space between them to whisper, “M’glad you’re home,” against Bokuto’s lips. He smiles and it makes Bokuto feel all warm and melty inside. Kuroo’s usually the more put together of the two, always taking care of things--being a steady rock in the storm that is Bokuto; but tonight, he’s the one who gets to be taken care of for a change. Kuroo sighs deep into the kiss, “You tired?” Bokuto asks softly. 

The raven haired man suddenly looks crestfallen, lips downturned and eyes getting misty when he speaks, “M’sorry for keepin’ ya’up, Bo--I know you’ve had a long week and you jus’ got home…” Bokuto just smiles at him, interrupting his apology before he spirals too far, “I would have waited up all night for you, silly,” he wipes at the corner of Kuroo’s eye, “Let’s get ready for bed.�� Kuroo practically purrs against him, dropping his head to rest on Bokuto’s shoulder.

Bokuto stands from his lap with a flourish, extending a hand to Kuroo with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Light on his feet, he swoops in just as Kuroo stands with a wobble to scoop him into steady arms. Kuroo immediately cuddles into his broad chest, laughing and smiling as Bokuto carries him down the long hallway. He’s sat gently on the bathroom counter while Bokuto grabs a spare toothbrush from somewhere. They brush their teeth side by side and Bokuto helps him brush out his dark, unruly hair. 

With a few stumbles and a lot of giggling, they finally make it to the bed, stripped down to their boxers, teeth brushed and faces moisturized. Kuroo is pulled easily to Bokuto’s chest, wrapped in the sunkissed warmth of his skin with his head tucked beneath his chin, their bodies fitting together like they were made to be connected. A soft murmur into the dark, just little whispers of breath travelling over skin, “I love you, Tetsu.” Kuroo can’t help the warm hum of laughter that escapes his lips, “I love you too, Kou. M’glad you’re home.” He knows morning may not be kind to his alcohol-addled body, but he’s sure he’ll survive, if only to feel the warmth of Bokuto’s skin against his again.

Long fingers dance across the expanse of his back, gently skirting over his shoulders and down his spine until he can no longer resist the beckoning pull of sleep. 

He awakens with a pained groan. The curtains in Bokuto’s bedroom are shut tight but it feels like even the little peek of light coming in from the crack under the door has a vendetta against him. His head is pounding and his tongue feels like lead in his mouth. He scrubs his hands down his face, already reaching for the bottle of ibuprofen Bo left for him on the nightstand. Resisting the urge to check his phone, knowing the harsh light of the screen will probably make his head explode, he sits up as gently as possible. Reclining heavily on the headboard he gulps down the entire bottle of water and thinks that maybe if he sits here for a few more moments he’ll feel okay enough to venture out into the hallway where it seems as if the sun has taken up a personal residence.

He doesn’t get the chance to wonder for very long when the bedroom door opens just a sliver. Bokuto whispers into the small space, “Tetsu if you’re awake close your eyes, it’s really bright out here but I come bearing the gift of food.” Kuroo groans in response but closes his eyes as instructed. He hears the door click shut followed by the soft pads of socked feet crossing from the hardwood onto the bedroom rug. 

“C’n I open my eyes now?” he asks groggily. Bokuto is quick to reply, “No not yet, give me a second.” He feels him shift around on the bed smoothing the comforter around him. “Okay open!” He flinches at the volume of Bokuto’s exclamation which is quickly followed by a much quieter apology. When he opens his eyes the first thing he sees is the excited expression on Bokuto’s face; Kuroo can tell he’s trying really hard to be quiet and still to avoid worsening his headache. He just smiles at him, real soft and warm, “G’morning, Bo.”

Bokuto’s smile grows impossibly larger as he places a hand on Kuroo’s covered thigh and points to the tray next to him. There’s a plate piled high with…something, “Oh my god–” his voice conveys disbelief, “did you make me a fucking breakfast garbage plate?” Bokuto nods, puffing out his chest a bit and looking very proud of himself, “Sure did! I’m great, huh?” Kuroo laughs warmly even though it makes his head feel like it’s seconds away from no longer being attached to his body. 

“I love you so much,” he says on an exhale, wasting no time digging into the plate filled with all sorts of breakfast foods topped in a rich gravy. He pauses in the middle of chewing, “Wait–” he turns to Bokuto, “you made this? Bo last time you tried to make me breakfast you literally almost burned down my apartment.” The owl haired man grabs his shoulders, giving him a gentle shake, “I did make it! I made Atsumu give me Osamu’s number and he walked me through the whole thing.” Kuroo’s eyes widen before his mouth pulls into a smirk, “Huh. That’s some real commitment, you have a crush on me or somethin’?”

Bokuto snorts, offering him the cup of coffee he’d sat on the nightstand. Kuroo takes it gratefully, “Sit with me?” With a soft kiss to his forehead, Bokuto rounds the bed to shimmy in beside him, careful not to jostle the tray between them as he gets comfortable. Kuroo makes his way through his breakfast at a leisurely pace, already feeling much better than when he woke up--the ibuprofen kicking in combined with the hearty breakfast he just ate works wonders. 

Pushing the tray further down so he can cuddle into Bokuto’s side, he wraps an arm around his middle, tucking his head beneath his chin, “M’sorry we missed brunch because I’m hungover.” Bokuto looks down at him, pushing the mess of hair back from his forehead to place a soft kiss there, “Honestly I kind of like this breakfast in bed thing together a little more.” He takes Kuroo’s hand in his, “But, I think you still might owe me,” Kuroo raises his brow as Bokuto continues, “I took real good care of you, so I think in return I’ll keep you all to myself for the whoooolee weekend.” Kuroo sits up to meet his eye with a smile, “I think I like the sound of that.”

[punk-spic3y]

happy pride🧡🤍💖

[punk-spic3y]

this isn’t just a want…it’s a need

blue collar iwaizumi x stripper reader

[punk-spic3y]

And again

[punk-spic3y]

[punk-spic3y]

Mattsun acts like he hates the way you seem to shed all of your belongings the second you walk through the front door, but the consistent, rhythmic sounds of your arrival comfort him in a way he keeps tucked close to his chest, warm and familiar.

There's a light scratching sound at the door--you missing the keyhole twice--like you do every day when you come home, followed by the final successful click of the lock being turned. The whooshing sound of the door being flung open and bumping against the rubber mounted on the wall comes next--it had taken a mere three days of living with you for Mattsun to invest in a fancy doorstop for this exact reason--there are still marks on the wall from the ever enthusiastic way you enter the house.

You call out to him, sing-songy and warm when you shout, "Issei, I'm home!" His answering greeting is punctuated by the clink of your keys as they're unceremoniously dropped into the glass bowl in the genkan. A few beats later he hears your shoes thud against the tile, surely not placed with any concern for neatness. Next is your always overpacked bag thumping against the wall as it's shrugged from your shoulder and tossed onto the hook next to his jacket.

The following part should be the most annoying of the whole routine, but the soft swish of clothing as you pull off your sweater, the flutter of fabric as you toss it blindly in the direction of the couch (you always miss), is music to his ears. There's the muted sound of you hopping on one foot, trying to maintain your balance while you pull your socks off before they get balled up and launched down the hallway in the general direction of your bedroom, hitting the wall with a dull thud.

You finally round the corner to enter the kitchen, one earring clutched awkwardly in your fingers while you pull the back off the other one. The soft tink of them hitting the counter is barely audible over the bubbling of the pot he's stirring on the stove. Your earring are joined immediately by your watch and the silver bracelet he got you for your last wedding anniversary, both making sounds slightly louder than the last.

You hum happily at the sight of him, moving to wrap your arms around his waist while he stirs, but he knows you're not quite done. Hands resting loosely on his stomach, you bury your face in the back of his t-shirt with a contented sigh and begin to pull the rings from your fingers. There's the twinkling sound of one, two, three of them hitting the counter to his right--only one remains on, saved for it's special resting place in the hand carved wooden jewelry box at your bedside. Its gem catches in the light of the kitchen, sparkling softly from the ring finger on your left hand.

"Don't forget to pick up your socks later," the smile on his face is obvious his tone, "and your sweater." You give him a squeeze, "This many years and you still feel like I need a reminder?" Peeking around his shoulder, your smile is radiant, and he shrugs, playfully raising his eyebrows, "Today could be the day you forget."

He sets down the wooden spoon and turns so you're face to face, wrapping his arms around you and shuffling you both across the small kitchen until you're leaning against the opposite counter. Taking your face in both hands, he squishes your cheeks, releasing them with a quiet laugh when you make an adorably grumbly sound of protest. You taste the grin on his lips when he presses them to yours, soft and tender.

You are his favorite kind of music.

[punk-spic3y]

your monster boyfriend doesn’t entirely grasp the concept of menstruation. while he’s aware that it serves a reproductive purpose, he thinks it’s something akin to an exorcism—hence your moodiness, the pain that wracks your body, and the cloying scent of blood that wafts from between your legs. the next time you start your cycle, he’s determined to help; he can’t stand seeing you suffer. if he stuffs his long, prehensile tongue into your cunt and brushes against your cervix, he can coax the demon out, right? the way you shake and cry and writhe in his clawed grasp is proof that it’s working.