I've had this tumblr up & running for Levi x Sasha crackship when I was in highschool. I'm now 27 with responsibilities and I turned this tumblr into my diary.
But now I'm also drawing a bunch of fan arts ✨ so I want to welcome you to my messy page!
🍧🎀I will be posting about🎐💕
🌈My life updates (you can ignore them I just don't want to forget things)🌷
🪻Attack on Titan (The Deadly Trio, Levi Ackerman, Zeke Yaeger, Reiner Braun, Erwin Smith)🐚
YOU NEED TO GIVE THE TSUKISHIMA KEI SPEC HUSBAND TO ME THIS YEAR, THIS MOnTH
THIS WEEK
because im starting to have crushes on WEIRD people and IM E X H A U S T E D.
i m challenging you ruler of the world or higher power or whatevA... IM gunna GYET a random man just to spite YOUUUUU whatEVER im gonna marry him and divorce him IM GONNA DO IT TOMORROW...
tsuki kuro makes so much sense to me thats da dynamic ive been looking for.. tsundere tsuki and senpai kuroo who is more playful and open about his emotions.
i can imagine if they got together tsukki might have some avoidant attachment style and he would distance himself by getting easily irritated and kuroo just chills because he knows he loves this man, including all his traumas, but he needs tsukki to put in the work and stop being crazy and picking fights just to feel something.
i saw this on tiktok, and kuroo would be the secure guy who can deal with tsuki's lashing out with firmness and gentleness that comes from being READY to provide and he'll be like. "ill be here once you are ready to talk." and then would just "ignore" tsuki's passive agressiveness because "i love you, but i don't want to feed your ego."
and when tsuki sees that this man is LOCKED IN for him and HE needs to lock in too he goes (in his tsundere way) "fine then." :/
YOU CANT JUST SAY YOU HAVE A TSUKKI FIC THEN LEAVE US STARVING PLEASEEEE
tsukishima loves torturing you
enemies to lovers trope - tsukki x reader
Ი𐑼 pre note. LMFAO i was cooking nonnie!!!! cookin!! this many words takes time lol i hope you like reading as much i liked writing it
warnings. explicit nsfw. minors DNI
content. 5.6k words || rough sex || college au || touch starved!tsukki || overstim || early orgasms || missionary and prone bone || light choking || fem!recieving oral || tsukki is a munch || late communication || sweet!loser has had enough trope || rly good arguments || good girl isn't a saint || mean guy is a loser || enemies to lovers trope || lying and red flag behavior || goofy yams appearance
He fucks his hand to the thought of you for four nights leading up to his game. It isn't the first time he's done it, but the consistency is heavily fueled by recent events. The stuttering, the stumbling, the adorable uncertainty about him, the three consecutive times you check him out after he gives you little more than a handful of words.
You like him. That's a pornographic concept for somebody starved of affection. So, no, he doesn't last longer than a couple minutes.
Seeing you in class again doesn't add or subtract anything from the fantasy-- and that's the weird part. You must have been perfect that day. Maybe it was the little streak of pen on your face, the mark of himself visible on you.
You carry an obvious awareness of what he did to you for the remainder of the week. He's back to being staunchly ignored. He's a menace with that clickity-clackity pen but you're prepared with earbuds. His teasing grants zero reaction beyond some tension in your shoulder blades. You pack your things quicker than he can rise, flying out the door before he can get the satisfaction of watching, for any longer.
That's the beauty of it, though. You don't ask him to apologize.
It's why when he catches you, in the stands, Thursday evening, he sucks his teeth and doesn't acknowledge you right away.
He has the entire game to think about why you might have shown up.
His uniform fits him better than the usual baggy attire he sports to your 8 a.m. It's actually the first thing you notice; his broad shoulders and the way his back fills out the number on his jersey. He moves with ease; quickly, though- with explosive athleticism you wouldn't have been able to imagine him with on your own. In class, he seemed part-snail how little he moved, how slow his swagger was between the desks even when he was late.
Though you stare at him hard, you lose sight of him often because you're never looking at his number. It's 17, you learn, after nearly twenty minutes of studying how his body moves.
Eye-candy aside, the game lasts much longer than you're prepared for. They go to full sets, and everybody clearly knows the rules better than you do. You aren't sitting in a group, you're stuck on the end of the bleachers, holding yourself, and flinching every time the crowd erupts. The thought to leave crosses your mind many times.
And yet, you are steadfast at your post. You don't take the opportunity for one sole reason.
He needs to pay.
You wondered why the invite felt so exclusive for a while. It felt unnatural for that boy to invite anyone anywhere-- let alone just a classmate he liked to tease. You soon found that his kindness, indeed, was too good to be true. Your hopes had been raised and sufficiently smashed back down in a million pieces. You discovered the streak of ink across your face when you stopped by the restroom after your third class.
It took every bone in your body to keep yourself from screaming when you realized you walked around campus like that all morning- and it was his fault.
After sitting on it for a day, muted rage eventually stirred up a sick, unshakable, feeling of responsibility. You had allowed yourself believe he might have been a nice, maybe misunderstood, guy all along- and there you were, suffering for it.
You still are, seated, over it and over him, while everybody else raises to their feet to clap for their Sendai Frogs' victory.
There you remain until the crowd has dwindled to a few stragglers. Some workers with brooms and trash bags pass you, sparing unsure looks. You tap your fingers, legs crossed, chin up. You know that he saw you. You're not going to come groveling to him, beyond entertaining the offer to come here.
It takes far too long. You're tired, it's way past your bedtime, and you cancelled some plans for this, so a storm was ready for when he comes dawdling up the metal stairs.
Tsukishima has his hands in his pockets, a towel draped over his shoulder, and slides on instead of athletic shoes. He's still flushed, but not out of breath. You hate how hot he is-- and hesitate when you notice he's got different glasses on. You look at him. He looks back at you. You squint at him. He squints back at you.
A big, tired sigh-groan makes you tighten.
"Iiii thought you were mad at me-?" He jeers, leaning back on the railing with a nonchalant sniff. He crosses his feet and finds more interest in sliding his shoe on and off than your stiff, unrelenting stare.
"What would I be mad at you for?"
He blinks and tilts his head back at the speed, the efficiency, and clear animosity in your query.
"Jesus."
He clears his throat at your frown, unable to bounce anything off of you, and a little cornered despite the gigantic gymnasium that houses you both. Instead of answering your question, he tries to steer you away from the very reason you tolerated this night.
"Did you like the game?"
Your words are lightning fast. Zippy and hard. His linger, slow, lacking in apology and soaked in sarcasm.
"Why would you do something like that?"
"Hmm-mm-mm... Whyyy would I do something like that...?"
"Yes. Tell me why."
"Tch... Tch... Tch... I don't know? Maybe- ohhh, yeah-! Because it was funny? Christ."
"That kind of thing is funny to you?"
"Hm. What kind of thing are we talking about?"
"Hurting other people is funny to you?"
"Mmmnever said that."
"You hurt me. Many times. Because you thought it was funny."
"I'm so sorry that you feel that way."
The oh-so-done-with-this attitude he has is, truly, bad enough. But the tiny smile he wears through your back-and-forth, like he can't be bothered to even view your anger as real, is worse. You uncross your legs. Your hands grip the edge of the metal bench so tight your knuckles lighten.
"It was just a joke," He swats off your sincerity, all your emotion, like a pesky gnat.
You stand up and snap, really snap at him. You shout, "You made me look like an idiot!"
"Lighten up!" He laughs, exhausted, a hand slipping through his salty, wet locks. Hours after a tough game, days after late-night fantasizing, months of repressing a crush, and years of building destructive emotional habits wracked up to come out in a tired, too-casual confession.
"Damn, (Y/n)-! I was fucking flirting with you!"
A breath of air fills your lungs. You notice it, how breathing makes you pause, and you realize that you're standing pretty close to him. Like you would, or even could, fight him. He finds a similar pause and swallows the lump in his throat. The immediate weight of regret weighs his head down. He would've rather taken the punch than admit that, in hindsight.
He slides a hand down his jaw and sighs. Then, you watch him wipe his face with his towel and readjust against the railing.
It's clearly your turn to speak.
"I didn't... uh," You wipe your sweaty palms on your pant legs- heartbeat feeling a little weak in your chest. "Yeah, I didn't gather that. From, y'know. The way you are."
He doesn't look at you, but snorts, and chortles, at your particular phrasing. His laugh is terribly cute. You can really see how tired he is when you choose to lean on the railing next to him, instead.
"Thank you. Really, thank you for that, Aristotle."
"Fuck you," You chuckle, tired too.
He glances down to you with raised brows. There's almost a smile.
"Oh, yeah?"
It's no effort, really. He doesn't try to make you blush, but it happens anyway.
You don't take the bait because you're better than that.
"They're about to close," Tsukishima sighs.
He motions to the more anxious-looking workers, idling at the exits for the two of you to be done with your lovers' quarrel. You jump, wincing at how inconsiderate such a thing was.
You walk with him, a little behind, because you don't know your way around. You give the employees enough apology nods along the way to make up for his refusal to do the same. He leads you to an offshoot section, near the locker rooms, and close to an exit. You're at ease because you think this might be where you parked your car.
"We can keep talking, if you wanna-," He glances around your face, pausing, so he can savor the reaction for the rest of his offer, "Go back to my place."
You're nothing if not polite.
"Um..."
A little breath fills you up, and you look away as you consider the suggestion. He watches with a smirk as color tinges your features, and your hands don't know where to go. Such a pretty girl, with no idea what to do with yourself. He wants to be your dirty little mistake badly. He wants it to be weird next week.
"Actually-,"
He cuts your thinking, your almost-no maybe-yes off, with a very unconvincing recollection. He jerks his thumb to the locker rooms and says, "I need to shower first. Before we go."
"-Wait for me."
It's not a question because he already knows that you will. Before he abandons you to wait again, alone in the hallway, he leaves you with a quick peck to the temple and a cheeky, "Come join me if you get bored."
Your skin tingles in the aftermath of his kiss. You touch where he held your chin, then where his lips were, and stand still in shock. You look back, but he's already out of sight.
He calls out, a bit echo-y off the locker room tiles, "Or don't! It's whatever."
Of course you don't.
But, when he said 'his place' you thought he wouldn't be in student housing. Not that you could judge; that's what you were used to. He was living in a slightly better accommodations, but still has a bunkmate. It's much like your own dorm room, but a little off, uncanny, and he can tell you aren't digging the threat of an extra person.
"He's working tonight," He throws a nod to the bottom bed.
You lean against a desk, dizzy, and unsure if saying yes was the smart move.
You don't know what to call him. He feels familiar, but just short of comforting, in this foreign room. The scale of its -his- newness weighs on you, multiplied by the fact that you had been in new places all evening. You had been so angry about how he treated you for so long because you cared- but now that's resolved, kind of, so what is there left to address?
He isn't going to guide you. You grasp, desperately, at nothing.
"You..." You feel his pressure right away and know you won't be articulate, "Said... that- you were- um... flirting. This whole time."
His duffel bag thumps onto the floor, across the room.
"Yeah."
A missed beat. You meet his eyes, briefly, but shrink at the thought of his offer at the gym. As he nears you, your heart squeezes in anticipation, "Wh-y-?"
"Because you're cute, sweetheart," A chill whisper ghosts past your cheek. Bordering on condescending. He puts two hands on either side of you.
Bad news. Bad news. Bad news. He's a walking red flag, you remind yourself. You've never met anyone so downright mean in all your years-- but, did his actions signify that he was totally irredeemable?
You couldn't get behind that type of black and white thinking, as you spare a wide-eyed glance at his hungry face. He is deceivingly pretty.
He leans down to keep you pinned into the desk- you hope, but aren't sure, that it belongs to him. You shiver at his words, brace against his hold, and shy away from that sharp gaze. He's so impatient.
It begs the question- one that keeps racing through your mind- Could this be the only way he shows affection?
You have a feeling that if you pull away, he'll never reach for you again. That, if you don't look at him right, it's going to be over.
So, out of curiosity, and in your best attempt to be kind, you relax. Your muscles stop fighting his grip. You press into his front and meet his hard-working expression with a softer, easier one. You trust your gut one last time and pray he doesn't make you regret it.
You whisper back, "You think I'm cute?"
Tsukishima's attention is stolen by the way you feel against him. Skin on skin. Cloth on skin. Cloth on cloth, fingers edged under his shirt collar. The weight, the warmth, of your tummy on his. His palms just keep you there, no longer rushed in his pulling, and his jaw twitches at how you search him so openly.
"Tsk."
His false disinterest might have discouraged you, had he not been sporting a generous erection that he kept firm between your bodies.
You repeat, eyes unwavering, noting his sudden flightiness, "You think I'm cute?"
It cracks his thin confidence. He looks down and away, wincing, at your parting thighs. You're soft- sooo soft.
He's breathing harder than you, holding you firmer, lost for fractions of a snotty response. You're distracting. He can't think beyond how good you feel.
Then, your fingers splay up into his fluffy blond hair. He takes a big, loud inhale through his nose at the sensation and sigh-laughs the breath back out. You bite your lip, captured, by how much he enjoys it, and dip forward to try and look him in the eye.
"Because..." You find his eyes for a fleeting moment, "I think you're a little more than cute."
"Hm-mmn."
He pushes his head into your grasp, seething, at your nails, and the way your thighs squeeze him. So, he was proving to be all talk and zero bite. You enjoy the way he holds you in his gaze, how he ruts against you like he's never had pussy before.
You grip the roots of his hair, and smile, a bit giddy with power, "Why'd you take me back to your place if we're just going to talk?"
He laughs. His eyes roll back to life with a sobered groan, "Ohh, yeah. Y'got me."
His tone freezes you. It weakens your grip. You're shocked by how quick he can shake off your touch. It doesn't happen without effort, but he can. And that makes you a little embarrassed that you believed, even for a second, that he was an amateur.
Because he knows how to touch you. His fingers pry from the desk to find your hips. He wedges strong thumbs into the crease of your thighs and rocks you forward, making you grip onto his shoulders with a startled sound. You have to wrap your legs around him. He takes a breath and envelops you in his arms. His lips meet the side of your neck.
"Mm-ch--, That's better, yeah?"
You sigh at the mark he surely has left and the fact that you fell for another one of his tricks. You're getting pushed off-balance, but held, hugged, closer, where he wants you.
"Or..." He slips the bra strap off of your shoulder and pulls the hem of your shirt down, "Did you like me more when you thought you were in charge?"
The muddy mix of pain and pleasure from his rough kisses confuses your opinion of him. You gasp at his teeth, squirm at his roaming hands.
"I don't know if I even like you."
He's quick to respond. Just like your argument back at the gym.
"We've got all night for you to figure it out."
Now that you're visibly his- he takes your chin between his fingers. You wear a pout he knows wouldn't be as adorable if it wasn't so unmistakably yours.
You lean in first and kiss him, like you're not conflicted. Sweet, gentle, and forgiving; how he knows you to be. You want him to return your patience and understanding.
It's not his style.
He hums against your mouth, deepening, prying open, what little you give him. When he rocks his hips against you, you knock over a cup of pencils in the process of finding a better leveraged place for your palm.
"Shit," His snicker brings you apart for a moment as he cranes to watch a few clatter onto the floor.
"You should pick that up before he gets back."
You scoff at him. So this isn't his desk. His smile would also indicate that he was waiting for something snarky in return.
"I thought you said we had all night."
He seethes, rubs your thighs, and replays the last minute in his head, "Did I?"
"You did."
A rare moment of sincerity raises his brows- a nod, and he remembers aloud, "That's right. I did."
His hands run up to the waistband of your pants and he starts toying with the button, the zipper- his tongue wets his bottom lip.
"I lied."
You don't inch away from his touch or interrupt how he starts to unclothe you. He's testing the waters and you want to show him you can be calm. You can get down.
"He does work tonight," He reaffirms, with a soft peck to your temple, "But he'll be back around midnight."
That was a huge cushion of time. You share a look of understanding first, then a greedier, faster kiss.
He hums at the feeling of your skin as he dives his hands down your clothes to massage at your hips. The way he moves your body for you screams that he's already been fucking you in his mind for a long time.
"Mm," You twist your head away from his bombardment of kisses, so he directs them down the curve of your neck, "We should hurry, then."
Tsukishima pulls his shirt off the second you're done telling him yes. You grin at the sight and join him, rushing a trail of messy kisses and scratches down his body. As he pulls his last pant leg free from his foot, he throws an arm to the ceiling.
The top bunk? You blink.
You crane to take a better look at his bed and strip a little slower. You eye his bulge, but stay thinking about the weight limit on these beds. The rules in your room dictated that the smallest roommate gets the top bunk. It was safer and easier that way.
You summit the thing regardless, grateful that you know the trick of how to get up on your own-- because he doesn't have the ladder attachment that comes with the bed.
"Is your roommate taller than you?"
The way he climbs up after you is practiced, and reminiscent of how well he moved during that game. You want to tell him, somehow, that you thought he was really sexy, how he played tonight-- but you shake the desire off. There's no way he would let you compliment him without tearing you down.
"No."
He doesn't ask why, but you see that he's shuffling through all the possibilities as to why you'd be thinking about his roomie.
"Then-," You shift, hand on the ceiling, and pluck a pillow from under your back, "Why did you take the top bunk?"
"Because I wanted the top bunk." He answers.
His simple phrasing gives you enough insight to how he generally is. A casual bully to not just you, but anyone that can tolerate him. His body takes up so much barely-there space above you. The air gets heavy, sweeter, but thicker- and you hold your breath.
"Don't look at me like that," A hand slips between your closed knees, ultra gentle, but daunting in its bigness.
You shudder and let him part your thighs.
"Like wh-at?"
"Liiiiike," He sinks into the prone, breath hot but his mouth hotter as he licks a stripe up your clothed cunt. His fingertips hook under your panties, "I'm gonna eat you alive."
His cruel sense of humor doesn't make you laugh, but it does turn you on.
"You're-ha-h, not funny-," You struggle and sigh, trembly, as he pushes them to the side instead of wasting time to pull them off.
He's patient and slow for a while. He listens. He adjusts, when you flinch- he learns your body and studies you, like a game.
Long fingers bring you forward into his mouth. You keep your hands on top of his, heart fluttering at the sensation of his knuckles and the strength of grip.
You worry that you're not necessarily fresh- your morning shower was 7? hours ago. You are not shaved. It takes a minute, or ten of them, to relax.
"Mnn-hh," Open-mouthed, dripping with clear from the chin, he orders, "You a robot, or what? Pull my hair. Do something."
He's the most sour you've ever heard him get. You gasp at a bite to the plush of your trembly thigh.
"Ow-! You-h-Ah,"
He groans against your pussy, tongue swirling, messy, around your swollen clit since that's how you like it, apparently. Your expression of discomfort weighs on him, so he repeats slower.
"Gimme somethin' or I'll keep doin' it." Harsh. Muffled. But inarguably enthusiastic.
You've been vocal. He's just greedy and wants you to be his thoroughly broken-in good girl.
The problem is that you aren't. You're no wide-eyed virgin saint. And he's not the secretly-sweet ready-to-be-changed guy you want, either. He likes how mean he is. It's practiced. You're just each other's folly for now, and that has to be enough for the night.
Thankfully, any pretty boy willing to go that hard for you can get it.
You arch into him, hands slipping through his damp locks, a broken giggle on your tongue at the ridiculousness you've both tripped and fallen down into.
He likes biting you. You find this out the hard way. When you don't pull hard enough, or when you fuck his name up.
"Just-," He struggles to get his shins out of the bottom of the wood frame, because what you didn't get to see was half of his legs dangling from the bed. "Call me Tsukki." He's so long and lanky it's impossible to keep the grin off of your face, even more impressive that you manage not to laugh until he's back on top of you.
His glasses are foggy. You chortle at him.
"Tsukki, you- shoul-d-- hahaa-," You giggle at his deadpan expression, and fail to tease him because, again, he looks so silly.
When you're done, he slides them off of his face with one hand. He reaches above you, and tenderly places his glasses on one of the wooden bed posts.
You stare at them for seconds after he's done setting them aside. This might have added to how strong of an effect his new face gives you. Now, that was a volleyball player. He squints at you, amusement twitching up his lips, at how you flex against him. His bare, amber eyes are so severe and you can't seem to catch your breath.
"What?"
"N-othing," You wince at your voice crack.
He laughs at you and frees you both of the last of your clothes. Once again, it cannot be overstated how pretty his laugh is, even when it's at your expense.
He is all-too aware of why your thighs squeeze him harder, why your chest is rising and falling uneven, why your face is getting hotter. He's slow, and drunk on your slickness coating his cock, "Mm... Do I look... different?"
"Just a little bit better?" His teeth make an appearance this time as he slides his arms under the pillow, closer, looking down at you, "Ohh, c'mon, y'can't talk to me? Don't wanna laugh?"
"You're- ah, an asshole," You sigh, shaky, and needy at how he lines himself up with you.
His kisses are rough and ruttish on the side of your face now that there's nothing in the way. He shushes you, too, as if he hasn't dismissed you enough.
"Fu-ck," He's vocal as he buries himself into you, denying you space, denying you air, or humility, "Mmhh-ah,"
His hand takes the whole lower half of your face and twists it up, away, as he soaks up your gasping. He can feel that you're able to take him already, he can hear you love it-- inflating his ego, and of course, he can't let that go unspoken for.
"Feels good, yeah?" He taunts against your ear, cock jammed against your cervix.
He feels like the kind of hook-up you won't ever forget. So heavy as he weighs you down, grabbing you, holding you, needing you despite knowing next to nothing about you. His hands are sampling every inch of your sticky skin. He's rough and not so calculated anymore. You laugh, a breathless version of one, at least, and return what strength you could afford.
"You're- so- h-ah, cute," You admit between gasps, brows squeezed together, fingers buried in his fluffy blond hair.
He tries to roll his eyes, but it just doesn't work. His head is heavy in the crook of your shoulder, his sounds exaggerated because they're immediately in the shell of your ear.
Fullness- real, and slick, and burning hot, fills you: He utters broken and whiny phrases of how perfect you are, every time he bottoms out, and soon he's wrapping his arms around you again.
He never struck you as a hugger, not on the first night, and certainly not a clingy one at that.
"Mnh!" You squeak at his biting, nails digging lines down his broad back.
You think about how good he looked in his jersey again. It was practically foreplay. What was his number? Maybe you could look pictures up online.
"H-ah...Y-our g-ame--,"
Your words fail you again and you can feel his lips turn into that shitty smirk against yours.
You groan, frustrated, and lock your ankles around him. He's deeper, and it's wetter, it's louder. You think about who might live on the other side of the wall.
"Mn-nh!!" He pants, brow furrowed, at the gesture, "Careful...fuck, hah..."
Did 'careful' mean he was close? You don't have time to get proud about it because he's already pulling out and catching his breath, collecting his senses again.
"Turn around."
You breathe in tandem for a moment. At first, you don't move, because there is simply no room for traditional doggy. And, he looks like he belongs in a magazine, all twisted and muscled in the dim light with a bouncy, slick cock.
Then you remember there are variations.
You're stuffed with him already. You gasp and your pussy flexes hard around him as he reaches around to hold your neck.
"This okay?"
"Don't squeeze."
You hesitate before adding an ultra-soft, "Please."
He kisses the back of your head and readjusts his grip, substantially lighter.
Okay, maybe you do want him to squeeze. You don't test it, though - you don't know him. And you can't, because he's fucking all the words out of you again.
"Ah-h-!" You whine into his pillow- legs trembling- full body getting wrecked as he pushes his hips into yours.
You whine his nickname; easy consonants that spill pretty, quieted, against his bedsheets. The bed is not sturdy, you notice, as you egg him on with very little effort.
His lips are on your shoulder as he mutters, mostly to himself, "Yeah. Should've fucked you sooner."
You feel it running down your thighs, the sweat and juice all mixed together - it burns against the bites he left on you. There's one that probably won't heal for weeks, long after he's done with you.
He fucks you until you're a babbling, incoherent mess. He entertains you, too, teasing and picking apart your sounds.
"I know, ohh, I know," His groans and sighs fall over your skin, inspire a deeper arch in your spine, relax you and ease your fussing.
You're not typically so easy, but he's kept you on your toes for more surprising twists than an premature orgasm. You're full of him, crying, whining, and clawing at his sheets that smelled just like him as you cum hard, way too early.
"Fuuck, yeah. Good girl," His eyes are wide with surprise behind you.
You can't see it. You could've maybe deduced it from his tone, but can't hear him through the milky high you're swimming in. "You okay?" Is a bit facetious, at first.
It's for the best.
This was lovely, but you can't help but get lost in the emptiness the refractory period leaves you with.
Salt burns your eyes. He's still a bully. You had been so vulnerable, and for what? He lies, at almost every opportunity, until he's caught. He's insensitive. You weren't looking for one night stands anymore, but he has to make you bring the list back out.
You feel a hand zip off your neck, and all of his weight shifting after he pulls out.
"Hey," Tsukishima cranes to look at you, wetting his pillow with overstimulated tears, and you sniffle, confused, at the panic written all over him, "Are you okay?"
"Mhm," You blink the sting away but remain still, heavy, and a little sad, but you can't remember why.
He lightly strokes some hair from your face, "Was it the choking? Was it too hard?"
"No..."
'No,' Ghosts past his lips, and he's trying to think of what else he could've done to upset you. His shoulders droop a bit when he's got a long list of qualifying actions.
Could it be that he's actually fretting over you? He sells it well, thoroughly disheveled, because his hair has dried oddly and it's obvious he can't see well. You learn that every second you choose to not speak slowly, incrementally, kills him.
He is ultra-weary by the time you have a blanket wrapped around you and a bottle of water in your hand.
You didn't want his compassion to end. You liked holding him in limbo. If this was his punishment for months of torment, it was -overall- a miniscule price to pay.
Sitting on the edge of his mattress, your feet automatically swing back and forth. You take in the volleyball posters on every wall as he gets dressed, fails to find his fallen glasses, and cleans up most of his roommate's pencils you spilled earlier. You have a quiet sip of cold water and smell a fistful of his blanket. You glance to an empty spot on the wooden bedframe.
"I like your room." You break your silence with a hoarse, tiny declaration.
Tsukishima stills. He has to be very intentional about not sounding like a dick, for once. He slowly drops the last pencil in and adjusts the cup to where he thinks it was, "Yeah?"
From this angle, you notice he's still fully hard and struggle not to look a second time.
"Tsukki?"
That tone you take on beckons him toward you. It's honied, and domestic, and makes his guilt feel a like a ton that he drags behind him. He only has himself to blame for getting so attached.
You reach for him and take his face in your palms. He looks up at you, searching as hard as he can with blurry vision.
"I'm okay. I promise."
Absentminded swinging stills at his touch.
"And...sorry you didn't get yours," You're not really sorry, but you desperately want to address his situation downstairs, and overstay your welcome, if you can.
His head rests heavy on your bare thighs with a pained grin.
"I mean," His grip slides up the outside of your thigh, eyes following, as he fights the desire to be truthful. He grimaces through it for you, "I came in the shower before this, so..."
"At the gym?"
"...Yeah."
The two of your share a chuckle; yours is amused, his is late and stilted. His head gets weightier as he nuzzles his face between your thighs, sucking slow kisses on top of the old bitemarks. You sip on your water, lids low, and part your legs for him.
Seething, his hands make quick work of your modesty cover as he starts to lap, apologetic, at you.
There's a loud ch-thunk of a door lock being opened, followed quick by it sliding open.
It shoots a shared flinch through both of you. He only has time to smooth your blanket back down and wipe his chin before his roommate comes in.
"Yo," He announces himself, then looks up, "Ohh, shit."
He puts your little scene together quick by the amount of skin showing and the position. You stiffen with chills and pull the fuzziness tighter. Your stomach sinks with disbelief that it's already midnight.
In one smooth motion, he covers his eyes, catches the door before it even has a chance to close, and turns back into the hallway.
You can both hear him check his phone with a quiet Fuck just outside the door. Tsukishima's phone buzzes in his pocket with a storm of late texts.
He sighs. His face finds your lap again as he thinks about what he wants to do.
"I can go-"
"What? No," He looks up only to cut you off hard, absent-minded, deep in thought.
He's got the plan mapped out in the next few seconds, but is slow to part from your legs, groaning, "You have to get dressed, though. He's a total virgin." He sucks his teeth and adds, "Obviously."
You shift, giddy with excitement, at the invitation to stay.
Ი𐑼 post note. honestly @polodetti major shout out i wouldn't have finished this if you hadn't requested. guys. i didn't know i was capable of doing full fics anymore. also? rarely do i find i have brainrot of one particular character. hope you enjoy the latest tsukki posting!!!
this made me go theough the ooposire opposite of seven stages kf grief , seven stages of .. panic... if you will..
im pausing halfways because its so intense the way he talks to me like SIR SIR SIR SIR SAFEWORD. pls you cant be this ambiguous and sexy at the same time PHEW...
i love it, idk how it ends yet because Im too nervous can you imagine? thsi is the first time im pausing a fic cus i get nervous... like...
i jsut reached an enlightment from reading a tsukki x kuroo doujin, the author thinks he's actually a softie in a childish way. i mean we already know he pretends not to gaf but he does, but its like in a more childish way than we may think.
and i can totally see that because he's a second child, he's the little brother and every person ive met whos a little sibling (me included) often shows childishness in the ways we think or process things.
ive been potraying him as this mature nonchalant guy who likes to be well-prepared, but he's not first-child type of mature if that makes sense... now my eyes are opened completely... it'd be so fun to tease him.
author also pointed out that he refers to himself as "boku" which i gettt bcs we have different ways to refer to ourselves in indonesian too and aaah he's so adorableeeee... even hinata says "ore/omae" and he's the one most potrayed as innocent/adorable.
i have to rewatch it to confirm again... but i do think tsukki uses boku/kimi
like sometimes i see him being this super cool, knows what to say, mean, tsukishima is a bully trope. but guysGUYS... i think he's actually more awkward than that. maybe not in a stuttering way but in a :/ or ._. way where he just doesnt know what to say... aaaaah
As a fanfic writer at this point Y/N to me is an entity. They are not me, they are not you, they exist endlessly as projections of our hopes and dreams in the collective consciousness like a God.
tsukishima talks a lotta shit for a guy that pops a boner when he sees your bra strap.
absolutely rock hard when you send a selfie of your fully clothed chest for a “fit check”
don’t ask him how hard he jerks off when you sent a pic of you giving a stray cat scratches and a sliver of your thigh is visible in frame, its literally just the outer edge of it peeking out from your shorts and all he texts is “cute cat” and not “i wanna fuck you so hard you cant leave bed”
who texts you late at night bc he can’t sleep and he doesn’t wanna admit that all your spelling errors and whining in text is enough for him to stuff one hand under his sweats and palm himself through his briefs because he can imagine how you sound when youre tired
you told him he has a nice voice one time and now he sends voice notes every few texts and especially when he’s just woken up for the day in hopes it riles you up as much as his morning wood is destroying his composure
you don’t seem to catch on to the way he’s barely coherent some movie nights when you’re braless and wearing one of his old t-shirts you stole aeons ago, you can’t seem to catch the way he keeps oggling your thighs that are covered by the oversized fabric - you have modest sleep shorts underneath but the big shirt draped over you hides it and just the insinuation that you COULD be just rocking panties (or nothing if he was really lucky) underneath it makes it so tsukki’s biting back shaky breaths as he busies himself with fucking into his fist in the bathroom once you’re asleep
it’s okay he just gets meaner as a defense, but his retorts are weak and his roasts make no sense when he’s horny because he’s one stray comment away from telling you that you’re being a brat and he needs to fix that
>> sleepy, platonic dry humping with best friend!tsukishima
inspired by this ask sent to @mattsundaes... ive been thinking ab this all day
tags: lazy morning dry humping, thigh riding, truly just 900 words of pure vile filth
part two
there's something wedged between your legs.
you don't want to open your eyes. you don't even want to be awake. but you can feel the sun hitting your eyelids, and you know you won't be able to fall back asleep.
you still don't know what's between your legs, though. you're not conscious enough to check or even care. it's warm and solid, and that feeling continues down your thigh, to your knee and calf. and it's moving slowly, rising and falling softly.
oh, it's him.
memories of him staying too late to finish your movie marathon and complaints that it's cold and dark outside come flooding back.
it's okay, then. it's just him. you've just got your leg thrown over his waist.
you shift your head, the sleep calling you back. if he's still asleep, you're allowed to still be asleep.
he shifts when you do, his shoulder nudging its way under your cheek and his arm slipping under and around your waist. he smells like safety, like home.
you drift off.
and then his hip moves, and you're ripped out of it.
a sigh falls past your lips, because he's pushing right up against that sweet spot that calls out to you. your heart jumps, and your hips roll forward without your permission. without thinking, because you're still half-asleep.
it feels good. really good.
you whimper, nuzzling your face further into his neck, because there's a part of you — more awake, more aware — that's embarrassed. that knows you shouldn't do this, not with a friend, and especially not when he doesn't know.
his hand flexes against your side.
he knows.
you still, your ears ringing and your face burning. you're terrified that he's going to say something, that he's going to call you a freak and push you off and inevitably make fun of you for it.
he presses his palm against your hip. you only realize that he's trying to hold you steady because, at the same time, he pushes his hip against you again.
"oh," you moan, low and immediately bitten back, even though it's far too late.
his other hand, unbearably hot, slides up the leg you have thrown over him, burning across your bare calf and up your thigh. he digs his fingertips into your skin — sears five perfect pressure points into your nerves — and drags you up and over his leg. drops you right on his thigh and kicks his knee up, forcing you down onto him.
when he drives his thigh up against your clit, you mewl loudly in his ear. "tsukki-"
he grunts, both hands gripping your waist and shoving you down on his thigh. he holds tight enough that your hip bones hurt, and you know there will be bruises later.
your hips roll down and across his thigh, and you lose your ability to speak, because he's decided that this is your place now.
every slide of your cunt along his thigh makes you choke, the breath hitting the side of his neck and your face burning against his throat. your thigh bumps against the front of his sweats, and he grunts, the sound rough and husky and surprised, because you're pushing against the bulge that's forming.
you wrap your hands around his neck, hiding in your new spot and trying to focus on helping him out, too. you shuffle, gasping when he drives his leg between your thighs, and slide a hand down to wrap around him.
he huffs out a rough breath, his hand flying to stop you.
you don't even get the chance to ask what's wrong.
he rolls you onto your back and shoves himself into that spot that's quickly becoming his. his body pries your thighs open, and you feel, for just a moment, the cool air that hits your shorts and exposes just how wet you are, soaked through the fabric.
you should be embarrassed.
but he doesn't let you. he's too busy burying his face in your neck and groaning when you open up to let him in. he hooks his hands under your knees, fingers calloused and palms burning the backs of your thighs. you're all but pressed in half, lying there clinging to him when he rolls down against you.
"nngh-" he grunts. "fuck." his voice is whispered, strained.
you're not even sure you can form a single word right now, all of your nerves focused on the slide of his bulge against your folds, wet and sticky and inevitably ruining his sweats.
your bed starts to creak, because he's shoving himself against you without care, clearly chasing his orgasm. you let him, love the realization that you're being used, because you're chasing something, too. he hardens more, leaving you gasping in his ear.
"so f'ckin' wet," he groans, voice vibrating across the shell of your ear and down your throat. "fuck, y/n."
you whine, clinging tight. the knot under your navel starts to twist, pulling tighter and tighter with every shove of his hips. "close-nggh-"
his hips stutter and still, and you feel his cock pulsing through his sweats, feel as that spot between your legs gets wetter and warmer. your breathing is ragged in his ear, and you whisper 'close-" again.
he grits his teeth so hard that you hear it, and then he starts rocking against you again. his cum must be seeping through his pants, because you feel warm, more and more and more, in time with the slam of your headboard against the wall.
he reaches between you, sliding his thumb hard against the mess of sticky fabric and cum, right over your clit.
your vision goes white, and his name falls past your lips, and your back arches so hard that it hurts.
you don't come down for a long time. by the time you do, he's asleep again, body slumped over yours and his heart racing against your chest.
pakiramdam, oh, kay gaan ‘pag nariyan ka
tila lahat ng pagod ay naglaho na
kahit sa anong bagyo, sa yakap mo ay sisilong
sa piling mo, ako’y sigurado
— oh, flamingo!
pairing. collegebf!tsukishima kei/fem!reader
✦ content! 2.3k wc, light angst in the beginning, academic burnout, soft! and clingy!kei i will die on this hill, shit-talk about valentines but proceeds to be romantic in the most disgusting pathetic yearning way, getting half-drenched in the rain, non-sexual intimacy (showering tgt), kissing and cuddling and healing altogether
✦ a late valentine fic written by yours truly, one of my favorite works ever, this holds a special place in my heart and to anyone who reads this, i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i wrote it. all hearts be filled with love!
➽──────────────❥
days before valentines, you thought you wouldn’t be able to survive the week. several tender spots bruised you; deadlines, workloads, wallet devoid of any help in your daily necessities, and the drive to maintain to your impossibly high standards in academics. you’ve lost sleep, but not for burning the midnight oil, no— you just had to waste your time doomscrolling and avoiding reality entirely. which really only produced mediocre results as anticipated.
you wonder how tsukishima kei does it, all while being able to stand atop of everyone else; your number one boyfriend of the century. it’s admirable, but almost makes you feel like you can’t stand on the same podium with him, shrinking yourself to his shadow as if to seek refuge.
and with all the pressure pushing you past your limit, you fail to realize just how callous you’ve gotten, until he starts to mirror you.
the night before valentines, you give him a call.
“what’s wrong? you’ve been in a dry spell with me since this morning.” you notice his messages are just barely a sentence, his tone lack the usual warmth he brings, you think maybe he’s just tired — but then you already asked him a couple of times and denied it. your phone goes silent as you plunge yourself to your mattress, your clothes and bag and even your desk all left unattended, your letter unfinished with the pen still uncapped.
a beat lingered, stretched with a quiet tension in your gut, he says, “nothing.”
“what are you up to?”
“just finished my workout, i’m fine.”
you check the time, close to a late evening. you rub your eyes from the weary, trying and failing to understand how far gravity can pull you in this moment, how long will you wire it gently until you’re poised to snap. you’re tired, you should be sleeping by now, he should be sleeping by now.
maybe it’s best to disengage, it doesn’t seem like he’s willing to have this conversation anyway, “okay then, i’m gonna head to bed-”
“i don’t know—” abrupt, you feel the hesitation pressing around his throat, the breath of someone who’s been holding in for too long, “you just keep disappearing right after you text me.”
”…what?”
“just tell me you’re busy.”
“i- i am busy, kei. you know that.” fuck. you don’t mean to raise your voice. you’ve been crawling your way out of this hellhole for days, sure you’re not big into valentines, the grandness of gifts overflowing is all a sickening part of capitalism— but god, you just want to be wrapped in his arms so badly already. “i still text you though?”
“i usually ask first. you don’t even send photos anymore.” his voice cuts through the line, snappy. “and you just keep leaving me on read before you could reply an hour after, don’t you ever think that’s rude?”
“don’t you ever think that i never blamed you when you do that?!”
“hey.”
“you didn’t even ask me if i was okay this morning.”
“i didn’t know if we were good.”
“how the hell can we be good now?”
“i’m not— i’m not trying to pick a fight with you.”
your head spins and splits, a sharp inhale sears your chest without meaning to. guilt and regret mixed in your mouth, a hint of something bitter coated on the tongue.
you swallow nonetheless. expelling your thoughts through a soft, slow exhale from your nose. a murmur comes like a ghost to soothe. “sure, kei.”
“i’m not asking you to be available all the time. just. give me a heads up if you can’t update.” you hear him shift through the phone, every word brings a pause, voice heavy with hurt, “i really miss you, i keep…waiting for you to tell me about your day, even though the first thing on your mind when you get home is rest.” he heaves a sigh, you can imagine him shaking his head, purse his lips instead of frowning, graze the free edge of his nails between fingertips. “and i’m sorry if—”
“no.” you know what he’s sorry for, “don’t apologize for asking. it’s not too much.”
you tell him you’ll do better. ask him if he could remind you tomorrow so you can share your week with him. you know this doesn’t suffice, but you’re doing the best that you can. and he tells you just as much.
“i want to let you know that i’m proud of you, you deserve the rest,” he says your name like it could whisk away the bruise, a very calm, comforting balm draping your skin. “sweet dreams, i’ll see you soon.”
if you dream long enough about it, he could be here with you, sleeping soundly. his voice is as quiet as the soft, pitter patter of rain outside. you hope to be with him very soon, indeed.
➽──────────────❥
how can you love someone without being selfless? or better yet, how can you love someone without being selfish?
tsukishima kei is no poet, but he thinks that selfishness and selflessness are just two sides of the same coin, minted from the desperate need to matter. and if he isn’t a poet, he’s definitely a thief, for he takes away the fairness in flipping that coin, he can’t allow blind faith to determine its landing; today, he chooses selfishness, and he dares fate to try and pry his knuckles open.
he justifies it—he spent six long and tired days without seeing you, much less have you in a space where time could feel irrelevant. no, he’s not really into valentines either, but if it meant he’d have the chance to soak himself in your very presence today without feeling cringe of himself to come up with an excuse, then he’ll take it without a scoff.
even if the universe plans on thrusting the blame on him, even if fate makes it a point to make this special day his problem.
he’s not sure if he’s awaken by your notification (which is personalized so that he’s free to ignore everyone else) or the drizzling rain, or maybe the way his feet’s grown numbly cold because he’s still using a blanket too small for his size, he kicks it aside and tries to reach for his glasses, the chill of the room pooling around his ankles, reminding him of your absence.
he immediately replies to your good morning and— suddenly your chat bubble pops up, you sent a picture of yourself without makeup, and he doesn’t miss the puffiness around your eyes. did you cry on call?
you look beautiful.
thank you kei, i’ll be heading out soon. just have to get this PE done and over
GOD i hate curl ups
warm up first okay? i’ll go to the gym while i wait for you
o-kei
i love you.
i love you too, kei <3
he knows you and the molded lines on your face, he thinks this one text of yours could look like your warm smile he’s aching to see.
he gets up right as you locked your door and head to your university.
➽──────────────❥
an hour and a half later, in the haze of fluorescent lights and squeaky sneakers on school gym floors, you’re drenched in sweat and the physical manifestation of the week’s weight, your core strained. you had to manipulate some trials and write down a number fitting enough for your professor to not suspect. plus, you feel dirty, you might need a shower after this.
you kind of hoped for the sun to appear, but the sky cries louder, fields of murky gray greet you as you finally exit from the campus. you smell the petrichor through the air, february expanding itself as time slows. you fish out your phone while holding your umbrella, hoping to meet your solitude and tell him you’re here—
look up, idiot
“huh?”
across the street, there he stands in one of the awnings, tall and looking half-unbothered but mostly keeping his stare fixed at you. he’s a terrible eyesore even from afar— too calm and well composed and everything you’ve been missing—and when you check before crossing and duck under the awning to join him, he catches your wrist first before sliding it down to your hand. your heart stutters at the sight of him, you say, out of breath. “hi.”
“you look like you’re about to collapse." he suppresses a chuckle, voice low but enough to hear him while the crowd of students disperse. his free hand rummages through his small duffel bag as he hands you his water bottle.
he brushes your hair behind your ear, some passerby spared him a glance before turning to their friend, whispering. and you have to admit that maybe he’s been admiring for however long he was standing here from faces you don’t want to acknowledge. it makes you a little bit insane, and jealous.
he interlaces his fingers with yours, watches you finish drinking before you tuck it in his bag yourself. a smirk hovers your lips, “is that a way to greet your girlfriend?”
“i’m not here to be polite,” he says, thumb rubbing the back of your knuckles in such a conscious way, fair skin and soft to touch, you feel your palms start to sweat, “i’m here to take you home, and i’m staying.”
he doesn’t let go of your hand the entire time. your shoes are soon drenched from the amassing puddles, and you find yourself laughing at him as he mumbles a steady stream of curses—stupid rain and fuck valentines and god, i hate traffic. he directs sharp glares at passing cars with enough venom that you’re almost ready to find him a brick to throw.
the tension of last night’s call still hums in the back of your mind, but it softens every time you look at him. on the subway, the city blurs outside the window, and you feel his shoulders finally drop their guard the moment you lean your head against him. waiting for the next stop, you look up at him. beneath the reflection on his thick-lensed glasses, he wears a face of exhaustion he hides so well.
you remain quiet with the revelation, despite how he stands in the high podium, his tired bones match yours perfectly. you like to think, at this moment, that you’re not shrinking into his shadow anymore — you’re just two people leaning on each other, and that neither of you has to fall.
and when you’re finally fumbling with your keys, the heat of his palm found on your lower back grounds you, invites you once the door clicks shut. the silence of your apartment feels more of a sanctuary than a void.
you drop both your bags, “i’m gonna shower, the gym floors were disgusting.”
he sheds his damp jacket, removes his glasses and let it rest on your table, and without any judgement he glances at the way your shoulders droop, “go. i’m coming with you.”
oh.
you’re…a little dumbfounded, and maybe it shows on your face because kei blinks in realization and his ears go red and he clarifies, “only if you want to—”
”i do.” you shy away your gaze, “i want to.”
“are you sure?”
”yeah.” you’ve always wanted to. to understand what’s it like to be inexplicably close, what it means to be taken care of, how your hands will learn every place he can’t reach.
at this point, you’re just finding reasons to be close to him, and if he realizes this, you hope he doesn’t mind.
the bathroom fills with steam, you sigh in relief at the warm droplets meeting your skin, the sound of water hitting the tiles bounces through the walls in a muffled rhythm, less harsh than the cool unrelenting rain. he follows suit, and you have to quell your racing heart at the sight of him. here, you feel vulnerable—so intimately bare. here, possibly, nothing else matters.
he takes the soap from your hand, large palms slick with foam. “turn around baby,” he whispers, like the air feels fragile— fingers careful around the slope of your shoulder, travels down to the curve of your spine, circle motions around your stomach and a delicate slide to your chest.
“wash my hair too?” you ask, looking at the floor than at him.
you hear him hum behind you, “okay, let me finish lathering you first.”
there is something profoundly selfish about the way he handles you, intent in his gentleness, like he knows already how rough you are with yourself. knows a lot about you, actually. but it feels more selfless than anything, he scrubs away your tender spots off of you until you feel lighter, without question, without hesitation.
he uses your favorite shampoo, gives your head a massage you never knew you needed.
you feel like crying.
when it’s your turn, your hands tremble, you trace all the familiar, sharp lines of his back, feeling the way he bows his head to let you reach. he’s so tall he has to hunch under the spray, and a chuckle escapes you before you could stop. he side glances, a soft smile playing his lips, pale yellow lashes fluttering around droplets that look like jewels. he gives you a look, a tease, bangs sticking to his forehead.
you say, “stop that.” (don’t, though.)
“stop what?”
you both hold each other’s gazes like a mini staring contest, his cheeks blooming. he gives up eventually with a sigh, shaking his head, and bare his neck to you—wants you to keep going.
you continue to wash him in silence, humming a tune that echoes. he seems so firm as a whole, but under your touch, he is anything but. you find it remarkable how unguarded he is with you, how soft he is with you— makes you love him a whole lot more.
“i love you.” you do.
he turns around at that, breaching the small space by pressing his lips against yours as if he could translate the words in your mouth. one hand cradles your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone with a reverence that makes your knees unbearably weak, while the other hooks you by the waist, pulling you flush against the lean, warm length of him.
between the infinitesimal gap he mutters, “i love you too.” he stays there for a moment, forehead on to yours. “we’re good now, right?”
“yeah?”
“good.” he nods, as if to confirm it.
later, when you’re wrapped up in oversized towels, he suggests getting takeout while you find clothes that would fit him. hand out your electric blanket so he feels warmer. you end up wearing his old and worn out highschool jersey for…nostalgic reasons. and he pretends it doesn’t affect him but pulls you in with him on the bed a little rougher than he should, making you melt with him as he asks if you could recount your week.
he ignores the dampness of your hair and plants a kiss to your scalp, plants another and let it grow into thousands— when you’re done finally sharing your part, he takes you in selfishly, capturing your lips with a sort of wholeness, and a lifetime to spare.
