#drinking

[atompalace-official]

….well, she’s got the spirit!

[73suggestions]

Vintage 1970s Advert White Horse Scotch Whisky

[incognitopolls]

Did you get drunk this New Year's Eve?

Extremely drunk

Drunk

Somewhat drunk

Just a little tipsy

I drank alcohol but not enough to feel an effect

I didn't drink any alcohol

Other

Voting ended onJan 8

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[she-weeb]

[fishwithsoy]

⧽ fuck the partyㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

── frat!kuna can and will leave the party for you

f!reader, fluff, established relationship, frat!kuna, drinking, frat party

wc : 564

red cups are thrown everywhere, pingpong balls stray across the room, jagged glass is shunted to the margins, people vomit in all corners, wisps emit from people’s lips, and loud blasting music that your bone, muscle, vein, and organ absorb.

it’s getting smothering.

your boyfriend is nowhere to be found. he’s disappeared since earlier, and you’ve been left alone before everything started getting wild.

you’re not blaming him, though—he’s the president, which means frat priorities.

standing at the side, you hold your own red cup. the rim glistened with saliva and alcohol. you’re enjoying it a little, honestly. though you can’t say you’re relishing it too much—you’re not really in the mood. 

hysterics surround you—well, maybe that isn’t quite appropriate to call them, but it’s deemed normal at a frat party.

overwhelmed by your senses, you needed a break; hence, going to a serene place. you walk lumberly—casually impinging on others that are in a drunken state.

unaware of where your feet have dragged you—your hazy vision preventing anything else from coming into focus, leaving only the stairs.

a gravelly voice ensues, “goddamnit, i’ve been searching everywhere for you.” you don't look back.

slurring, you speak—voice all raspy. “kuna… you’re hereeee!” your tone, replete with ecstaticness. you’re seated on the stairs, in the middle of the stairs, particularly. your eyes reflecting off what’s before you—twinkling, lustrous stars.

“tch, what happened to you?” he may sound vexed, albeit his ‘concerned’ look belies him.

you respond sluggishly, trying to stand up. “mm… had a cooooouuuuple of drinks.” he trails behind you.

and as you are about to tumble down the stairs—sukuna manages to grab you by your clothes, and you swear you heard the sound of your clothes ripping. your heart genuinely almost fell out of your ass.

he heaves you toward him, your back pressing against his chest. “fuck, baby. how much did you drink?” sukuna questions, his lips brush against your ears, the deep voice sends a shock throughout your whole body.

“six…? or maaaaaybe seven. six seven!” the empty hall saturates your laughter.  

his voice gravely, “you’re going home with me.” he seizes you by your clothing neckline and forges down the stairs. “but the party!” you whine.

“fuck the party, i said you’re going home with me. ‘m not prioritizing the party before you. ya hear me?”

aaaand you’re blacked out.

the moment you rouse, you feel it hurtling to your head—hell, the hangover starts now. your mouth dry, your vision still hazy, and the feeling of the need to vomit in your chest. fuuuuck.

sukuna infiltrates the room, carrying a tray, a smug look drawn on his face. “how’s the hangover, baby?” oh, here we go.

he speaks, “you were pretty damn wasted yesterday. who summoned you?” his annoyingly handsome face has a smirk plastered on it. 

as he ensconced the tray on the nightstand beside you, the random strike of nausea hit you again. “i’m never drinking again, kuna.” your lips feel the heat of your palm; standing up, you run toward the bathroom. 

he peeks in the bathroom, and once he sees you vomiting, he instantly comes in to hold your hair for you. the sensation of your chest tightening as your throat burns from the acid and alcohol you consumed the night before isn’t pleasant. at. all.

“i made you tea and breakfast. come on, baby.”

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[yesterdaysprint]

The Austin American, Texas, June 20, 1934

[followmybadreligion]

thinking about getting a little too drunk w husband!simon…

he’s already a super possessive guy, but your drunken antics are only making it ten times worse.

sure, coming to the bar was his idea. it was only fair, after such a long week at work, that he got to have a nice dinner on the town and a few beers shortly after. even better that he got to do it with his pretty fucking wife, you know?

yeah, he watched you slip into the tightest, smallest dress you had, curl your hair into pretty little coils, and push and pull at everything else out of place. he saw the too tall black pumps you choose— the one’s he got you for your anniversary that make your legs look model-length long. he even saw the way your black lace bralette played peek-a-boo along your dress’s neckline.

all of it only made him more excited.

getting to show you off on the town? his sweet, sexy little woman all done-up and pretty, hanging off his arm like his little trophy? god, he was practically hard before you two could reach the front door.

the second that liquor hit your system, though, was the second all hell broke loose.

at this point in the night, you’re long past the idea of sitting pretty, eating your food, and posing for pictures. now, you’re feeling good. a little tipsy, or maybe even drunk. all the shyness or docile little feelings from the beginning of the night are gone.

now, you wanna dance. you wanna throw your arms up and sway with the other bar-goers, and why shouldn’t you be able to?

you didn’t mind the way your dress rode up your thighs, giving the wrong people an eyeful of your goods. you hadn’t noticed the men who’d run their hands over you, every so often passing by with their crotch just a little too close to your ass. all you were focused on was the music, how good you felt, and when your next shot was coming.

if only you had paid attention to the damn near menacing stare simon had you under. something that rivaled a madman’s with its intensity.

he’d held back for the first few songs, letting the angel on his shoulder telling him to ease up guide him. sure, he still stood around like an unamused body guard, sending glares to the gawking men and buying your drinks whenever you asked. maybe occasionally he’d get a cute picture or video of you too. that was just what came with the simon o’riley type though.

it wasn’t until you got to the flirty territory, grinding your ass into him with the music or kissing him with a little too much tongue, that he decided to pull the plug.

and god, did you always give him attitude for it.

“i’m not ready to leave, simon,” you’d whine, eyes glossed over and face screwed up in that cute little way you only do when you’re aggravated.

“i want another drink,” but you’re slurring and stumbling already.

“just keep kissing on me, baby,” you protest as he grabs your discarded shoes and purse and starts leading you towards the exit.

he’s sweet with you at first, given how drunk and cute you truly are. sure, you may have triggered his possessiveness early, but you’re batting your eyelashes up at him and clinging onto him for dear life. how could he not talk to you softly? how could he not kiss you back as he tugged your dress back down?

“it’s alright, lovie. let’s get home and i’ll take such good care of you.”

you start trying to fight him though and you’ll see how thin his patience truly is.

doing things out of spite? pulling his hands away from you while he’s trying to guide you down the street? arguing with him through your half-coherent sentences? cursing him under your breath just loud enough that he can hear it?

you’re getting yourself in trouble and you’re too drunk to know it.

he was prepared to let your little outbursts slide. wouldn’t hold it against you and still keep his plans straight for the night.

after all you’d done, he was still gonna get you home, slip off those stockings and undo those zippers. dedicate the rest of the night to making you feel all good like how you’d begging him too.

but you just can’t keep that pretty little mouth shut, can you?

“don’t make it worse for yourself.” he’d warn, grabbing your face from its resting place against his passenger-side window, “you’ve already fucked up enough as is, yeah?”

his voice is gruff and his jaw is set, but his eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

you’ll be making it up to him all night long, and he’s gonna be anything but nice now ;)