Alive since 1998 | A side blog for some of the most iconic characters I know | Fairy Tail / Haikyuu / BNHA / Demon Slayer / Bungo Stray Dogs | main blog: @jjtherosereblogs
Anime Hot Take That Will Probably Make People Mad:
Fairy Tail is actually a good anime with strong themes and character development (with very valid criticisms like EVERY OTHER ANIME), y'all are just assholes.
Makarov a braver dude then me cuz if I met a bunch of kids consisting of an anthropomorphic fireball, an alcoholic in the making, batman if he was an autistic ginger middle schooler, an albino demon child and her somhow weirder siblings, an apprentice icemage who's always either angry or naked for some reason, and levy mcgarden my first thought would not be "yea I think I'll keep all of them in close proximity to each other inside my very flammable Guildhall"
suna never had the heart to accept his feelings, now you’re drifting further apart.
c&w: suna rintarō x f!reader — angst
the silence in the room didn’t feel like peace; it felt like the breath before a plunge, heavy and humid with the things neither of you were brave enough to name.
he was slouched at the edge of your bed, the familiar curve of his spine cutting a sharp silhouette against the dim light of your desk lamp. suna always looked like he was vibrating on a different frequency—detached, observant, a predator disguised as a bored teenager. but tonight, the stillness was jagged. it was the kind of quiet that precedes a landslide.
“atsumu talks too much,” he said, his voice a low, clinical rasp that made the hair on your arms stand up. he didn’t look at you. he was staring at his own hands, his long fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans.
“he was just being a friend, rin,” you replied softly, twisting the hem of your oversized hoodie—his hoodie, though you’d worn it so often the scent of his detergent had long since blended with yours. “i’m your friend, too. i just… i wanted you to know i’m happy for you. if there’s someone you’re falling for, you don’t have to hide it from me. i can help. i can support you.”
you meant it to be a bridge. you meant it to be the ultimate sacrifice—offering to hold the hand of the man you loved while he chased someone else. instead, it was the spark that hit the kerosene.
suna’s head snapped up. his eyes, usually hooded and lazy, were wide and burning with a terrifying, sickly intensity. there was no boredom there now. there was only a raw, bleeding frustration that looked suspiciously like grief.
“support me?” he let out a sharp, ugly laugh that felt like a slap. “you want to support me? you think this is some high school drama where you give me advice on how to win someone over? you’re so incredibly naive that it’s actually exhausting.”
the shift in his tone was so abrupt your breath hitched. “i was just trying to be nice—”
“that’s the problem.” he spat, standing up so quickly the bed frame groaned. he paced the small distance of your room like a caged animal, his shadows stretching long and distorted across the walls. “you’re always so ‘nice.’ you’re so predictably, suffocatingly kind. do you have any idea how grating that is? to have you hovering around, smiling, acting like you understand everything when you don’t understand a single goddamn thing?”
you recoiled as if he’d physically struck you. “rin, what are you talking about? i’ve stayed by you for years. i’ve been the one you call—”
“and that’s the mistake,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a lethal, flat hiss. he stepped into your personal space, looming over you until the air felt thin. “i let you get too close. i let you think you were some essential part of my life. but looking at you right now? seeing you stand there with that pathetic, concerned look on your face? it’s infuriating. you’re becoming a nuisance. you’re a distraction i never asked for and a burden i’m tired of carrying.”
the words were like needles, precise and meant to draw blood. you felt the sting in your throat, the familiar burn of tears you refused to let fall. “if i’m such a burden, why are you here? why do you come over every night? why do you let me wear your clothes?”
suna’s expression flickered. for a second, the mask of cruelty slipped, and you saw something devastating underneath—a desperate, starving sort of longing. he reached out, his hand hovering near your face, his thumb grazing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that felt like a betrayal.
“because you’re so fucking beautiful, it’s painful.” he whispered, the compliment sounding more like a curse. his eyes traced your features with a hunger that made your stomach flip. “because when the sun hits your hair, i lose my train of thought. because you have this way of looking at me that makes me feel like i’m the only person in the world, and i hate it. i hate that i notice the way you breathe when you’re falling asleep. i hate that i know exactly how you take your coffee. it’s a sickness.”
he pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned, his face contorting into a sneer of self-loathing.
“but don’t flatter yourself,” he snapped, the venom returning. “don’t mistake my words for love. all it is, is annoyance. you’ve worked your way under my skin like a parasite, and now i can’t even think straight. you’re so busy playing the ‘best friend’ that you don’t even see how much you’re ruining me. you’re a shallow, mediocre girl who happens to have a face i can’t stop looking at, and i’m disgusted by how much time i’ve wasted on you.”
the room went cold. the ‘crush’ atsumu had mentioned—the one suna was so terrified of, the one that was ruining his composure—it wasn’t some stranger. it was the person he was currently trying to tear to pieces. he was so terrified of the depth of his own devotion that he was choosing to burn the garden down rather than let anything grow.
“get out, rintarō.” you whispered. your voice was small, cracked.
“gladly,” suna said, his eyes hard as flint. “i should have done this months ago. you’re not special. you’re just a habit i need to break. stop wearing my things. stop looking for me in the halls. i’m done pretending this friendship is worth the effort.”
he turned on his heel and walked out, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed in the hollow of your chest.
you didn’t move for a long time. you simply stood in the center of your room, the silence now a physical weight pressing against your lungs. eventually, the adrenaline faded, leaving only a cold, numbing ache. you sank to the floor, pulling the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, burying your face in the fabric that still smelled like him—like cedarwood and the sharp tang of mint.
you cried until your eyes were swollen and your throat was raw. you cried for the friendship that had been a lie, and for the love that was apparently a weapon.
hours later, as the moon began to dip below the horizon, you went to wipe your face with a tissue inside the pocket of your hoodie. something sharp caught against your skin.
you reached into the seam of the hoodie pocket, your fingers brushing against something small and cold. you pulled it out.
it was a small, onyx stud—suna’s earring. the one he always wore in his left ear. it must have fallen out while he was lounging on your bed earlier, or he left it, or perhaps it had snagged on the fabric during his frantic pacing. it sat in the palm of your hand, glittering mockingly in the moonlight.
it was a piece of him. an anchor to a man who had just told you that you were a parasite.
the realization hit you then, sharper than his words. he had been so close. he had been right there, wearing this hoodie, breathing your air, hating you for how much he needed you. he was drowning in his own obsession, and he had decided to take you down with him.
you clutched the earring so hard the post pierced your skin, a tiny drop of red blooming against the earring.
the hoodie wasn’t yours. the feelings weren’t safe. and as you looked at the closed door, you realized the person who had walked out wasn’t the suna you knew, but the version of him that would rather destroy you than admit he was already yours.
the earring felt heavy, a cold promise of a debt that would never be settled.
๋࣭ ⭑⚝
the walk home was a blur of static and freezing air that did nothing to cool the fever behind suna’s eyes.
every step away from your door felt like a limb being stretched to the point of snapping, a physical resistance that made his muscles ache. he had reached his front door, walked up the stairs, and retreated into the darkness of his own bedroom before the silence finally caught up to him. it wasn’t the peaceful quiet he usually thrived in; it was a vacuum, sucking the oxygen out of his lungs until he was left gasping in the center of the room.
he didn’t turn on the light. he didn’t want to see his own reflection—didn’t want to see the face of the man who had just systematically dismantled the only thing in his life that felt like home.
he collapsed onto his bed, his back hitting the mattress with a dull thud, staring up at the ceiling where the shadows danced like the ghosts of the things he’d said. naive. nuisance. burden.
the words tasted like copper in his mouth. they were lies, every single one of them, crafted with the surgical precision of a coward. he had seen the way your expression had fractured—the way your light had dimmed until you were just a hollowed-out version of yourself standing in that hoodie, his hoodie.
he rolled onto his side, curling into himself as a jagged, dry sob hitched in his chest. he wasn’t a man who cried, but the pressure behind his ribs was becoming unbearable. it was an agonizing, slow-motion realization: he had tried to protect the friendship by murdering it.
the irony was a blade twisting in his gut. he had been so terrified of a future where you eventually grew tired of him, or where a confession might make things awkward, that he had chosen to preemptively burn the bridge while you were still standing on it. he had looked at your face—that breathtaking, radiant face that haunted his dreams—and he had told you it was mediocre. he had told you that your kindness, the very thing that kept him tethered to his own humanity, was a parasite.
“god, why? why did i—” he choked out, the sound muffled by his pillow.
he could still feel the phantom sensation of your skin against his thumb from those few seconds of weakness. you were so soft, so impossibly real, and he was a jagged edge that only knew how to cut. he closed his eyes, and all he could see was the way you looked at him before the screaming started—with that open, devastatingly honest support. you had offered him your heart on a silver platter, asking for nothing but the truth, and he had spat on it because he couldn’t handle the weight of how much he adored you.
he hated himself for it. not with a fleeting flicker of guilt, but with a profound, soul-deep loathing that made him want to claw the skin off his bones. he was obsessed with the way you laughed, the way you hummed when you were focused, the way you always knew exactly when he needed a break without him saying a word. you were his north star, and he had just smashed the compass.
the room felt too big. the air felt too thin.
he reached out instinctively to grab the edge of his hoodie, wanting to bury his face in the fabric that usually held your scent, only to realize his hands were empty. he was shivering, the cold seeping into his marrow, but it wasn’t the temperature of the room. it was the sudden, violent realization of what his life was going to look like tomorrow. and the day after.
he wouldn’t see you in the halls. he wouldn’t hear your voice calling his name. he had demanded that you stop looking for him, and knowing you—knowing how much his words must have gutted you—you would listen. you would disappear from his orbit, and he would be left drifting in this dark, cold space he had built for himself.
he rolled onto his back again, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. his chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a rusted spoon. he was a genius on the court, a master of reading people’s movements, yet he had been so blindingly stupid when it came to the one person who mattered.
he had tried to save himself from the pain of a potential rejection, but in doing so, he had guaranteed a lifetime of mourning.
the silence of his room screamed your name back at him, a relentless reminder of the catastrophe he had authored. he lay there, paralyzed by the weight of his own cruelty, wondering how someone could be so desperately in love and so catastrophically cruel all in the same breath.
he already misses his pretty girl.
keepsakes: found (preview)
four weeks, you and suna drift further apart. you were sitting near the equipment room enjoying your peace and quiet until a voice speaks up.
“he’s pathetic.”
n: first time writing angst, kinda nervous. no one torch me, please.
the problem with dating kiyoko is that she’s really good at doing accents. and she’s exceptionally well at slipping them into arguments. it’s hard to tell at first, when you’re standing in the kitchen, hands on your hips as your explaining your frustration to her across the room. the next sentence she gets out will have a twang to it, something slightly off from her typical tone.
and what makes it worse is that she’s especially sexy when she uses an accent. the way her words curve off at the end when she manages a british accent, or how her words sound so sultry when she’s able to pull out the italian accent. and suddenly mid-argument, you can feel yourself pull towards her. your feet moving quicker than your mind can.
and kiyoko swears it’s not on purpose. it would simply be disingenuous to your concerns to whip out something that would persuade you in anyway. until the argument isn’t going in ‘her’ direction, until you’ve made a good point and the argument is suddenly cut off, a kiss stopping your rampant mind.
tsukishima turns to see what you could possibly be referring to that bears a likeness to him in this aquarium. turns out, it's a fish with a big ass head.
"haha how funny," he remarks, rolling his eyes. when you told him that you wanted to go on a date to the aquarium, he was expecting a peaceful trip surrounded by water and sea creatures, not a day to be insulted.
"humphead wrasse," you read the sign next to the tank of the unassuming fish. "his name is wacky too. poor guy."
tsukishima scoffs light-heartedly.
"you know, i'd still love you if you were a fish. even if you got turned into a humphead wrasse of all things," you assure him. "i'd make sure that you'd have a big tank all to yourself, and it'd be filled with a bunch of plants, and you'd be getting fed the most premium fish food in existence."
"great," tsukishima replies. "glad to know i'll only be treated well if i were a fish." on the outside, his face is deadpan, but you know him well enough to sense his internal amusement.
"you love me," you tease, nudging his arm and intertwining your fingers with his.
"debatable." yet tsukishima squeezes your hand, and you smile.
the two of you continue to stroll through the rest of the galleries hand in hand, and tsukishima wonders what other odd fish you'll compare him to before the end of the day.
love when you’re around, i just can’t sleep without you here.
sakusa kiyoomi x f!reader
enemy!kiyoomi hates your guts, your behavior, your laugh, your pretty lips, your hypnotic voice, and your beautiful eyes.
if sakusa had his way, he would live inside a giant, vacuum-sealed tupperware container, preferably one stored in a dark pantry away from the teeming, sneezing masses. instead, he was stuck in a humid gymnasium that smelled like unwashed kneepads and the distinct, looming threat of your existence.
you were, by all scientific definitions, a biohazard.
it wasn’t that you were actually dirty—in fact, you smelled vaguely of expensive laundry detergent and some sort of citrusy shampoo that made his sinuses itch in a way he couldn’t quite hate—but you were chaotic. you were the type of person who ate chips with your bare hands and then reached for a volleyball. you were the type of person who hugged people without a written 3-to-5 business day notice.
“komori,” sakusa muttered, his voice muffled by the thick fabric of his mask as he watched you trip over a ball cart across the gym. “why is it here again? did someone leave the door open and it just… wandered in?”
komori, sakusa’s cousin and the only person with a high enough tolerance for his nonsense to be considered a best friend, didn’t even look up from his stretching. “it has a name, kiyoomi. and her name is y/n. she’s literally here to bring me the notes I left in her locker.”
“she’s shedding,” sakusa deadpanned, eyes narrowed at a stray strand of your hair that had the audacity to float through the air. “i can see the epithelial cells drifting off her. it’s like a blizzard of filth.”
“you’re such a hater,” komori laughed, finally standing up. “you’ve been staring at her for ten minutes. if you hate her so much, look at the wall. the wall is very uhh.. what do you call that? ..sterile. the wall won’t give you the cooties.”
sakusa didn’t look at the wall. he couldn’t. his eyes were magnetically locked onto the way you were currently doubled over, laughing at something a passing teammate of his had said. you were loud. you were messy. you were the exact opposite of everything his nervous system required to remain in a state of equilibrium.
naturally, he wanted to boil you in hot water and then maybe, perhaps, hold your hand for three seconds (with gloves on).
his unreasonable hatred for you had started three months ago when you had accidentally spilled a drop of iced coffee on his pristine white training shoes. sakusa had looked at the spot with the same expression a victorian orphan might have if they saw a ghost. you had tried to wipe it off with a napkin, which he had recoiled from like you were wielding a rusted saw.
since then, it was war. a war fought with sharp glares, scathing remarks about your lack of spatial awareness, and your relentless pursuit of making him ‘crack a damn smile for once in your life, kiyoomi.’
“hey, mask man!” you yelled from across the court, waving a hand wildly. “stop thinking about how to bleach the floor and come help komori with the boxes! don’t worry, i haven’t touched them with my ‘filthy’ hands in at least five minutes!”
sakusa’s brows knitted together under his curls. “don’t address me. the air quality in your immediate radius is sub-optimal.”
“the air quality is fine! i’m a breath of fresh air!” you chirped, skipping toward them.
sakusa took three very calculated steps backward. you were a localized hurricane of bad decisions. you reached komori and shoved a pile of notebooks into his chest, beaming. then, you turned that beam toward sakusa. it was bright. it was offensive. it felt like being stared at by a high-intensity surgical lamp.
“you’re looking particularly grumpy today,” you noted, tilting your head. “is it because the humidity is at forty-two percent? i know that’s your ‘i’m going to commit a crime’ threshold.”
“forty-four percent,” he corrected icily. “and your presence is a pollutant.”
“i love you too, sourpuss,” you grinned, intentionally leaning a little too close into his personal bubble.
sakusa felt his heart do a weird, frantic tap-dance against his ribs—purely out of fear for his immune system, he told himself. he watched you walk away, noting the way your hair swung like a pendulum. he hated that pendulum. he wanted to study it. he wanted to document its bounce rate.
“he’s doing it again,” komori whispered to iizuna who just sighs. “he’s complaining about the smog while inhaling it like it’s oxygen.”
the thing about sakusa was that he was a creature of habit, and you had somehow become his most annoying, most essential habit.
during away games, his routine was simple: sanitize the bus seat, put on noise-canceling headphones, and scan the bleachers until he found the specific shade of your hair. if you weren’t there, the entire match felt... wrong. the court felt too big, the air felt too still, and his spikes felt like they were lacking their usual lethal precision.
he told himself he looked for you so he could keep track of the enemy’s position. keep your friends close and your biological hazards closer.
at a mid-season tournament, the crowd was a mosh pit of screaming teenagers and sweaty athletes. sakusa was vibrating with the urge to crawl into a hole. he was scanning the stands, his eyes darting back and forth with a frantic energy that komori recognized immediately.
“she’s in the third row, left side, wearing that ridiculous neon yellow sweater,” komori said, not even looking up from his water bottle.
sakusa stiffened. “i wasn’t looking for her. i was looking for... the exit. in case of a fire.”
“right. the exit that happens to be wearing a neon sweater and waving a ‘GO ITACHIYAMA’ sign with your name misspelled on the back.”
sakusa looked. there you were. you had painted two small, messy black dots under your eyes with eyeliner to mimic his moles. it was the most disrespectful, hideous, endearing thing he had ever seen. you were screaming something—likely an insult directed at his personality—and when your eyes finally met his, you stuck your tongue out.
sakusa turned away immediately, his face heating up beneath his mask. he felt like he was losing a war he hadn’t even realized he was fighting. his chest felt tight, like he’d swallowed a gallon of disinfectant.
“she spelled it ‘sakusa kiyommy’,” he grumbled, his voice cracking slightly. “she’s illiterate. she’s a menace. i want her banned from the premises.”
“you want her to buy you a soda after the game,” komori countered.
“i want her to stay six feet away from me at all times,” sakusa lied.
the lie tasted like copper. in reality, he was already calculating how many wet wipes he would need to use on his hands after he inevitably let you drag him to a convenience store later. he was already thinking about the way you would laugh when he refused to share his straw, and how he would secretly buy two of whatever you were eyeing just so you wouldn’t have to ask.
he was a goner. he was a sinking ship in a sea of your making, and he didn’t even want a life jacket. he just wanted you to stop being so far away.
as the whistle blew for the start of the set, sakusa took his position. he felt your gaze on him from the stands—hot, messy, and loud. he took a deep breath of the gym air, the same air you were breathing, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel the need to hold his breath.
he just wanted to play. he wanted to win. and then, he wanted to go find his favorite catastrophe and tell her she looked stupid in neon yellow, just to see the way her eyes would light up when she challenged him to a fight.
𝓼.𝓴.
on a random thursday, the sky had decided to throw a temper tantrum. it was as if the clouds had collectively decided to dump the entire contents of the pacific ocean onto the pavement in one go. for sakusa, this was the apocalypse. it was sky-diluted filth, city grime made liquid, a slurry of wet pavement and damp public transit odors.
naturally, you were standing in the middle of it without an umbrella, trying to catch raindrops on your tongue like a particularly enthusiastic golden retriever.
“you’re going to get pneumonia,” sakusa’s voice cut through the heavy rhythm of the downpour. he was standing under the school’s concrete overhang, his umbrella—a sturdy, black, industrial-strength shield—held firmly over his head. “and then you’ll sneeze on everything i own. it’s a biological hit job.”
you wiped a wet strand of hair from your face, grinning at him. your school blazer was already soaked through, sticking to your shoulders in a way that made his stomach do a weird, uncomfortable somersault. “it’s just water, kiyo! it’s refreshing! plus, i missed the bus because i was busy finding your lost knee sleeve in the locker room. you’re welcome, by the way.”
sakusa froze. his left knee sleeve—the one he’d spent a good few minutes sanitizing—had gone missing after practice. he’d assumed it had been abducted by aliens or, worse, dropped into a trash can. the fact that you’d stayed behind to find it for him sent a localized earthquake through his chest.
“i didn’t ask you to do that,” he snapped, though his grip on the umbrella handle tightened. “you’ve contaminated it now. i’ll have to wash it twice.”
“i used a plastic bag to pick it up, you absolute drama queen! i know your rules!” you laughed, trotting toward him.
as you stepped under the overhang, the smell of wet pavement and that damn citrus shampoo hit him. you were shivering. your lips were pale, and your teeth were chattering like a wind-up toy. sakusa looked at you and felt a wave of irritation so intense it could only be described as buried, panicked affection.
“get under here,” he commanded, his voice dropping an octave.
“what?”
“the umbrella. get under it. now.”
you blinked, eyes wide. “but kiyo... the ‘radius.’ the ‘filth.’ the ‘epithelial cells.’ won’t i pollute your air supply?”
“i’m wearing a mask,” he grumbled, though his ears were turning a suspicious shade of pink. “and if you catch a cold, komori will make me visit you, and then i’ll have to enter your house, which i assume is a breeding ground for black mold and dust mites. this is a preventative measure.”
you stepped closer, tentatively entering the small, dry sanctuary of his umbrella. the space was cramped. sakusa had to adjust his stance, bringing his arm over your shoulder to keep the rain off your back. for someone who treated human contact like a death sentence, he was currently inches away from your damp, shivering form.
“wow,” you whispered, looking up at the black fabric above you. “it’s like a tiny, sterile cave.”
“don’t talk. you’re exhaling carbon dioxide too close to my face.”
“you love my carbon dioxide,” you teased, though your voice was softer than usual.
the walk to the train station was a slow, rhythmic torture. every time your shoulder brushed against his arm, sakusa felt a physical jolt, like he’d touched a live wire. he was hyper-aware of everything: the way you were trying to make yourself smaller so you wouldn’t touch him, the way your breath hitched when the wind blew, and the fact that his heart was currently attempting to exit his ribcage via his throat.
he was desperate. he was absolutely, miserably desperate to reach out and pull you against his side. he wanted to wrap his coat around you. he wanted to take you home and put you in a sterile, heated room and feed you soup until your cheeks puff up again.
“you’re shaking,” he noted, his voice uncharacteristically thick.
“i’m fine! i’m just... vibrating.”
sakusa stopped walking. the rain was drumming against the umbrella with a deafening roar, creating a private world for just the two of you. he looked down at you, his eyes dark and intense. slowly, with the kind of deliberation one might use to defuse a bomb, he shifted the umbrella to his left hand and used his right to reach into his bag.
he pulled out a small, vacuum-sealed hand towel—freshly laundered and smelling of nothing but clean air.
without a word, he reached out and draped it over your head. he didn’t pull away. instead, his hand lingered, his fingers gently tucking a wet lock of hair behind your ear through the fabric of the towel.
“you’re a nuisance,” he whispered, his gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes. “the most inconvenient, messy, loud-mouthed nuisance i have ever had the misfortune of meeting.”
you didn’t fire back a joke. you couldn’t. the intensity in his eyes was enough to melt the polar ice caps. “and?” you prompted, your heart hammering against your chest.
“and i find that the gym is too quiet when you aren’t there making a fool of yourself,” he admitted, the words sounding like they were being dragged out of him. “i find that i... dislike the silence.”
you reached up, your cold hand brushing against his wrist. sakusa didn’t flinch. he didn’t pull back. he just watched you with a look that was so raw, so utterly devoted in its frustration, that you felt your knees go weak.
“kiyo,” you breathed, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “are you saying you missed me at the away game on tuesday?”
“i’m saying the air quality was marginally better today because you were in the room,” he lied, his voice trembling just the slightest bit. “now move. we’re going to miss the express train, and if i have to stand on a platform with you for another ten minutes, i’m going to lose my mind.”
he started walking again, faster this time, but he didn’t pull his arm back. he kept the umbrella centered over you, letting the rain soak his own left shoulder just to ensure you stayed dry.
you followed him, clutching the sterile towel to your head like it was a holy relic. you knew he was complaining. you knew he was probably thinking about how many germs were currently transferring from your sleeve to his blazer.
but you also knew that he had just let you into his ‘tupperware container’ world, and he wasn’t looking for the exit anymore.
𝓼.𝓴.
the locker room smelled like industrial-grade bleach and sakusa’s simmering existential crisis. practice had ended twenty minutes ago, and while the rest of the team had scrambled out to catch the late-night bus, sakusa was still there, meticulously wiping down his locker for the third time.
his hands were steady, but his brain was a chaotic browser window with fifty tabs open, and every single one of them was a high-definition video of you.
you were currently sitting on the bench behind him, swinging your legs and eating a protein bar with a reckless disregard for crumbs. he could hear the faint crinkle of the wrapper. he could hear the rhythmic thump of your sneakers against the metal. it was the most irritating, beautiful percussion he had ever been forced to endure.
“kiyoomi,” you said, your voice bouncing off the tiled walls. “if you scrub that metal any harder, you’re going to phase through the atoms and end up in another dimension. and i don’t think they have hand sanitizer in the fifth dimension.”
“the fifth dimension is likely a vacuum,” he replied without turning around. “it would be significantly more hygienic than this room. why are you still here? komori left ten minutes ago.”
“i was waiting for my favorite hater,” you chirped. you stood up, the crumbs on your lap fluttering to the floor like tiny, edible confetti. sakusa winced at the sight, but he didn’t move away when you stepped into his personal space.
you were close. too close. the air between you was thick with the scent of his sterile soap and your chaotic vitality. he finally turned, the spray bottle still in his hand, and found himself staring directly into your eyes. you weren’t teasing him now. your expression was soft, curious, and devastatingly sincere.
“you’ve been looking at me all week,” you whispered, tilting your head. “and not the ‘i’m-judging-your-entire-bloodline’ look. the other one.”
sakusa’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. “i don’t have another look.”
“you do. it’s the one where you look like you’ve swallowed a lightbulb and you’re trying to pretend your mouth isn’t glowing.” you reached out, your fingers hovering just an inch from his masked cheek. “kiyo, are you going to keep pretending you hate my guts, or are we going to acknowledge that you’ve sanitized my desk every morning for the last month?”
the silence that followed was so heavy it felt like it had its own gravity. sakusa felt the mask over his face become a suffocating barrier. he was desperate—so profoundly, painfully desperate to close the gap that his vision actually blurred. his logic was screaming pathogens!, but his soul was screaming please.
“your desk was a disgrace,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “it was a petri dish. i was doing the school a public service.”
“you hate public service,” you countered, stepping even closer. your shoes were touching the tips of his sneakers. “you hate everyone. except maybe komori. and yet, you let me use your special, imported-from-germany hand cream yesterday. the one you don’t even let the coach touch.”
sakusa dropped the spray bottle. it hit the floor with a plastic thud, rolling away unheeded. his hands, reached out and gripped your waist with a sudden, jarring intensity. it wasn’t a gentle hold; it was the grip of a man who was drowning and had finally found a piece of driftwood.
“you’re a disaster,” he breathed, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. the contact was electric. “you’re loud, and you’re messy, and you never close your bag properly, and you’re going to ruin my life. i’m going to be sick for the rest of my natural existence because of you.”
“is that a confession, kiyoomi?” you teased, though your breath was hitching in your throat.
“it’s a medical diagnosis,” he growled.
then, with a trembling hand, he reached up and hooked a finger ontop of his mask. he pulled it down, baring his face—his sharp jawline, his pink lips, and his pale, beautiful skin—to the open, unfiltered air of the locker room. he looked like a god coming out of hiding.
he didn’t wait for you to say anything. he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours with a hunger that was almost terrifying.
it was a sweet, desperate, clumsy kiss, that smelled like mint and adrenaline. sakusa was kissing you like you were the cure to a disease he hadn’t known he had, his tongue dances with yours as he tastes you like a man who hasn’t had a drop of water in decades. his hands moved from your waist to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands he’d spent months pretending to ignore.
he was ruined. he was absolutely, biologically compromised, and he had never felt more alive.
when he finally pulled back just an inch, his eyes were blown wide, his face flushed a deep, frantic red. he looked like he’d just run a marathon through a field of pollen.
“i’m going to need to gargle with saltwater for an hour after this,” he rasped, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.
“shut up and do it again,” you laughed, pulling him back down by his collar.
sakusa, the man who feared everything he couldn’t see under a microscope, didn’t hesitate. he dove back in, deciding right then and there that if he was going to catch anything from you, he wanted to catch it all.
you were the only mess he ever wanted to clean up.
n: no, i’m not stereotyping him as just a germaphobe, it just fits right for the story this time :3
˚✶ * skinny dipping
or you convince atsumu go skinny dipping with you
atsumu m. x fem!reader
m.list / wc: 1.4k
“it’s still ridiculously hot for the sun having already set,” you lay out on a beach towel, the lake’s sandy beaches barren besides you and atsumu, who’s splayed out next to you, “you should’ve told me we were coming to the lake, i would’ve brought a swimsuit.”
“well the whole idea was we could look up at the stars, y’know stargazing?” he raises an eyebrow, one hand reaching over to grab yours.
just as your fingers intertwine, you sit up, a mischievous smile grazing your lips. looking down at him, you run your thumb along his knuckles, trying to give him the sweetest look you can possibly make. “well, what if we went skinny dipping?” the question comes out quiet, like a little worried someone may hear the two of you.
his eyes widen at the question, heart nearly stopping. taking in a deep breath, he nods slowly. in truth, atsumu would never be reluctant with the two of you together. however, as osamu reminds him every summer, only one of them knows how to swim. no one’s ever quite caught on to why atsumu has ignored beach invitations or opted to stay on solid ground. and looking up at you now, body illuminated in the moon’s glow, he can feel his heart racing.
“so that’s a yes?”
“uh, have we thought about the possibility of someone visiting the lake?” atsumu sits up with you, free hand rubbing the back of his neck, sweat sticking to his skin.
biting your lip, you give him the look that always seems to drive him crazy. the way your smile curves up as you look at him through half-lidded eyes. “that’s supposed to be the fun of it miya,” you let go of his hand, instead using it to play the hem of your shirt, “just say the word.”
looking out at the lake and then back at you, he can feel his inner turmoil bubble to the surface. “fine… but we can’t go far, don’t want some creep stealing your clothes,” atsumu pulls off his shirt first, the sleeveless top resting against the sand.
“always the protector,” you quickly pull you shirt off, followed by your pair of shorts, hands resting on your hips as atsumu stares up at you, breathless, “turn around mister.”
turning his back to you, he can feel his cheeks warm up from the way you always seem to command the space around you. waiting patiently, he hears the water splash, your voice calling him in soon thereafter. as he turns around, he can spot you in the water, reflections of the moon spreading over the surface.
“your turn,” atsumu does a twirling motion with his finger until you turn around in the water, shoulder blades glistening.
stripping himself, he steps one foot into the water. the frigid temperature sends goosebumps his legs. “it’s really cold in here,” he tries to give another excuse, taking in a deep breath.
“it’ll get warmer the longer you’re in, i promise,” you wait until you hear his other foot plunge into the lake, followed by small splashes as he takes a few more steps. turning your head, you see him half way under the water, his torso still sticking out the top. hair on his lower abdomen still peeking out of the water.
“see, this isn’t so bad,” you fully turn around, deep enough that the water is still splashing up around your collarbones, “you know, you can come a little deeper, i don’t bite.”
“i beg to differ,” atsumu raises his eyebrows, tongue running along his molars. taking a few more steps into the water, the mixture of temperature and fear sending his stomach to stiffen.
reaching your hands out, he grabs a hold of them, bringing one up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to it. “see, this isn’t so bad, right?” the sand shifts under the two of you, slowly sinking you further into the water until he’s still standing on his toes.
“well, we should probably get a little closer to shore, ya know, in case someone comes?” he tries to seem relaxed as he pulls you with him a few feet towards the shore, your legs grappled around his.
“atsumu, hun, what is going on? you’re not usually this nervous about doing adventurous things,” you let go of one of his hands, bringing it up to his face. the cool water running down his cheek and dripping off his chin. “you can talk to me about anything.”
taking in a deep breath, he looks away and then back at you. your lips are turned into a frown, eyes glossy from the full moon. his free hand latches onto your waist, massaging slightly as he finally grabs the courage to admit his lifelong fear. “y/n.. i can’t swim. i want to make you happy and this would probably be more fun if you had someone who.. could swim,” atsumu bites his lip, looking back up to the sky.
“that’s it? i thought you wanted to break up with me or something… atsumu, hey look at me,” you hand shifts from his cheek to his chin, lightly pulling his face until he’s looking back at you, “if something doesn’t make you thrilled, we don’t have to do it, you just say the word.”
“i know, i know. it’s just my ‘samu made some joke again about there being only one miya who can swim and it-“
“atsumu. there are many reasons why i am here with you and not him. and you not knowing how to swim is certainly not going to be the thing that changes that. you are undoubtedly one of the people i care for most in this world, and i wouldn’t want to skinny dip with anyone else for the first time,” you purse your lips, head tilting slightly as he stares back at you.
“first time? but you seemed so confident just jumping in,” he raises an eyebrow, almost feeling lost as he stares into your eyes.
“because i am with you, atsumu miya. do you want to try something?” you take in a deep breath through your nose, smiling softly.
smiling back at you, it slowly shifts into something more mischievous. “so you want to experiment? because it is very empty on this beach,” he shrugs his shoulders, one hand wrapping around your leg, inching towards your butt.
shaking your head, you roll your eyes at his assumption, unable to shake your giddy smile. “no, i mean let me help you feel comfortable in the water. it’s something i learned when i was younger and maybe it’ll help you,” you unhook your legs from his, standing on the sandy floor.
his excitement dies down as he pushes back his hair, his arms flexing slightly as he does so. “you’re not going to mama bird it and throw me out to sea, are you?” atsumu questions, hands resting on his hips, “because i am more than willing to pick you up and throw you in the water.”
“you wouldn’t dare… plus that would ruin the extravagant plans that may occur later in the evening. no, no, just lay on your back and i’ll help support you.”
sighing, he gives in to your request, laying on his back on the water. the waves rock him slowly as your hands rest under his back, your hands gently rubbing back and forth as his arms stretch out to his sides. occasionally his chest and midriff gently pop up to the surface, eyes peeking down as they do so. “i feel like i’m going to sink.”
“just trust me, okay, i won’t let you sink,” you keep your hands under his back, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead, his body seeming to relax at your touch.
his breathing switches from rapid and worried to steady and gentle. his eyes stay closed, no longer clamped shut but instead relaxed. letting you keep him afloat, he stays there for a few minutes, only opening his eyes when he can feel your hand make its way to his neck, massaging the skin lightly. “thank you,” atsumu makes his way to his feet, instantly pulling you towards him for a kiss.
his lips vigorously hit yours, like you’ve done or said something that made you irresistible to him. his hands cusp your cheeks, only pulling you deeper against him. the two of you stay like this, intertwined, grasping onto each other as you slowly make your way into deeper water. you want to congratulate him on making it so far out but between his tongue roaming your mouth and his hand groping your ass, you’re not inclined to ruin the moment.
i just need you to lay your head, in the little thing that beats for you in my chest.
akaashi keiji x f!reader
“fake” dating with keiji, or at least that’s what you think.
it had been seven hundred and thirty days since you had scrubbed that man out of your life like a stubborn grease stain on a favorite white tee. two years. in that time, you had learned how to brew the perfect cup of coffee, mastered the art of parallel parking without crying, and developed a soul-crushing, heart-palpitating crush on akaashi.
and yet, here was the stain, back for a second coat.
your ex was less of a human being at this point and more of a persistent pop-up ad for a product you never wanted to buy again. he was currently cornering you near the gym entrance, his face twisted into that specific brand of ‘reformed’ puppy-dog eyes that made you want to launch yourself into the nearest sun.
“i’ve changed, i really have,” he pleaded, his voice hitting a nasal frequency that could probably shatter glass or, at the very least, your patience. he reached for your hand, and you recoiled so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “just one dinner. for old times’ sake? i’m sure you still have that sweater i liked.”
“i burned that sweater in a ceremonial bonfire two winters ago,” you lied—mostly because it sounded more dramatic than telling him you donated it to a thrift store. “and i’m busy. for the rest of my life. forever.”
“you’re not busy, you’re just scared of how much we still click,” he said, sounding like a budget self-help book.
it was exhausting. it was a marathon of annoyance, and you were running it in lead boots. you needed a shield. you needed a fortress. you needed a god.
or, failing that, you needed the vice-captain of the fukurodani volleyball team who was currently walking toward the equipment shed with a stride so graceful it felt like he was mocking the very concept of gravity.
akaashi was, in your humble and very biased opinion, the pinnacle of human evolution. he was a calm sea in a world of hurricanes. he was the quiet ‘click’ of a light switch in a dark room. he was also the man who had been the protagonist of every single one of your daydreams for the last six months.
he looked up, his sharp, intelligent eyes catching yours. there was a flicker of something there—a subtle tightening of his jaw, a momentary lapse in his perfect composure—whenever he saw you. you usually chalked it up to him being tired of your presence, but today, you were desperate.
your ex stepped closer, his shadow looming over you like a particularly unwelcome rain cloud. “come on, just give me five minutes to explain—”
“i have a boyfriend!” you blurted out, the lie tasted like copper and panic.
your ex paused, one eyebrow arching in a way that screamed ‘prove it.’ “oh yeah? since when? i haven’t seen anyone.”
your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. you scanned the horizon, and there he was. akaashi. beautiful, stoic, potentially-willing-to-help akaashi.
you needed to ask him. you needed him to play along just long enough to send this human equivalent of a damp sock packing. you just had to phrase it perfectly. a simple request for a fake relationship to act as a deterrent. easy.
except, as you started walking toward him, your brain decided to melt into a puddle of prehistoric sludge.
𝒶.𝓴.
the air in the gym hallway felt approximately ten times thicker than usual, like you were trying to sprint through a swimming pool filled with honey. your heart was performing a drum solo that could be heard from space. behind you, the ‘human equivalent of a mosquito’ was still hovering, his skepticism practically radiating off him in waves of unearned confidence.
akaashi was standing by the equipment shed, adjusting the strap of his sports bag with the kind of meticulous precision that usually made you want to write poetry about his fingers. he looked up as you approached, and for a split second, his entire posture shifted. his shoulders dropped, his gaze softened, and the typical stoic mask he wore for the world crumbled into something dangerously close to adoration.
it was now or never. you had to sell this.
“akaashi!” you chirped, your voice hitting a pitch you didn’t know you possessed.
he blinked, his dark eyes widening just a fraction. “y/n? is everything alright? you look a bit… distressed.”
you reached him, your lungs suddenly deciding that breathing was an optional hobby. you leaned in close—close enough to smell the faint scent of laundry detergent and cool mint that always clung to him like a second skin. it was a scent that usually made your knees feel like they were made of overcooked noodles.
“akaashi, could you be my fake boyfriend? my ex keeps bothering me,” you whispered, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a frantic, tangled rush.
except, in the chaotic theater of your mind, a very specific thing happened. as you said ‘fake,’ a heavy metal cart full of volleyballs rattled loudly across the gym floor behind you—bang—swallowing the most important syllable of your entire life.
to akaashi, the sentence he had spent the last six months dreaming about, praying for, and losing sleep over finally manifested in reality. he didn’t hear a request for a protective ruse. he heard a confession. he heard:
‘akaashi, could you be my boyfriend? my ex keeps bothering me.’
for a moment, time simply stopped. the universe ceased its expansion. akaashi’s brain, usually a high-functioning supercomputer capable of calculating the trajectory of a volleyball in milliseconds, completely short-circuited. blue screen of death. system reboot required.
his grip on his bag tightened until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. a boyfriend? your boyfriend? the concept hit him like a physical blow to the solar plexus. he had spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’d ever be brave enough to ask you for your phone number, and here you were, offering him the keys to the kingdom because some pathetic ghost from your past was trying to haunt you.
he didn’t care about the ex. he didn’t care about the context. he only cared about the ‘yes’ he was going to say.
“yes,” he said, the word leaving his lips before he could even process the breath required to speak it.
you blinked, a wave of relief washing over you. “really? you don’t mind? i know it’s a lot to ask on such short notice, but he just won’t—”
“i don’t mind,” akaashi interrupted, his voice dropping an octave into a register that was far too intimate for a ‘fake’ arrangement. he stepped toward you, closing the gap until you were forced to look up at him. his gaze was predatory in its devotion, a quiet fire burning behind his pupils.
he reached out, his hand hovering near your waist for a heartbeat before he settled it firmly against the small of your back. the heat of his palm seared through your shirt, sending a bolt of electricity straight to your toes.
“in fact,” he murmured, his eyes flicking over your shoulder to where your ex was standing, “i should have stepped in sooner. i apologize for being so unobservant of my own partner’s discomfort.”
‘partner?’ you thought, your brain lagging. ‘wow, he’s really committing to the bit. he’s like the meryl streep of fukurodani.’
your ex approached, looking confused and slightly intimidated by the sheer aura of competence radiating off the boy next to you. “wait, what? you’re… with him?”
akaashi observed him with the detached clinical interest a scientist might show a particularly dull specimen of mold. then, with a smoothness that felt like silk over a blade, he drew you closer until your side was pressed flush against his chest. you could feel the steady, thudding rhythm of his heart. it was fast. incredibly fast.
“we’ve been together for a while now,” akaashi lied with the straightest face you had ever seen in your life. he sounded so convincing that for a split second, you actually searched your memory for a first date you might have forgotten. “i’m surprised y/n hasn’t mentioned it, but then again, she tends to not tell anyone things to people that aren’t important.”
the jab at your ex was so subtle, so sharp, that you almost wanted to cheer.
“look, man,” your ex started, stepping forward. “i just wanted to talk to her—”
akaashi’s hand on your back shifted, his fingers splaying out possessively. he took a single step forward, shielding most of your body with his own. he wasn’t a loud person, but the sheer, concentrated intensity of his stare was enough to make the air turn cold.
“she’s expressed that she isn’t interested in talking,” akaashi said, his voice a low, dangerous hum. “as her boyfriend, it’s my responsibility to ensure her wishes are respected. if you continue to disregard them, i’ll have to consider this harassment. and i’m very protective of what belongs to me.”
the word belongs made your brain do a backflip. he was really going for the ‘obsessive protector’ trope, wasn’t he? you looked up at him, intending to give him a ‘thanks, you’re doing great’ look, but when your eyes met his, you froze.
akaashi wasn’t looking at your ex anymore. he was looking down at you, and the expression on his face was so tender, so desperately devoted, that it felt like you were intruding on something private. his thumb began to stroke the fabric of your shirt in a slow, rhythmic circle. it wasn’t the gesture of a fake boyfriend. it was the gesture of a man who had finally found the missing piece of his soul and intended to weld it to him forever.
“are you okay, darling?” he asked, the pet name rolling off his tongue like it had been living there for years.
your ex, realizing he was currently fighting a losing battle against a man who looked like he would gladly go to war over a misplaced hair on your head, took a stumble-step back. “whatever. i get it. fine.”
he turned and scurried away, finally disappearing through the gym doors.
you let out a huge breath of relief, your shoulders sagging. “oh my god, akaashi, thank you. you’re a lifesaver. i thought he’d never leave. you really nailed the ‘boyfriend’ thing. the ‘darling’ was a bit much, but hey, it worked!”
you started to pull away, expecting him to let go and return to his usual stoic self.
except, his hand didn’t move. if anything, his grip tightened.
akaashi looked down at you, a tiny, confused crease forming between his brows. “nailed it? y/n, why would i be acting?”
you paused, your heart stopping for the second time in five minutes. “wait, what?”
“i know the circumstances of the confession were a bit hurried because of him,” akaashi said, his voice regaining that terrifyingly soft, devoted edge as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. his fingers lingered against your skin, warm and steady. “but i promise to be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had. i’ve actually had a three-year plan for our eventual cohabitation drafted in my notebooks, though i suppose we can go through the dating phase first if you’d prefer.”
your jaw hit the floor. “akaashi… three-year plan? cohabitation?”
“well, yes,” he said, looking at you like you were the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the galaxy combined. “i’ve been waiting for you to ask me for six months, two weeks, and four days. i’m just glad we’re finally on the same page.”
he then leaned down and pressed a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead, his eyes closing in what looked like pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
you were still standing there, frozen, realizing that while you were playing checkers, akaashi had just claimed victory in a game of chess you didn’t even know you were playing.
𝒶.𝓴.
the air in the hallway was suddenly very thin, and you were pretty sure your brain had just experienced a total system crash. akaashi was still holding you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence usually reserved for ancient, priceless artifacts. he wasn’t just “playing” a role; he was looking at you like you were the answer to a question he’d been asking the universe since the dawn of time.
“akaashi,” you squeaked, your voice sounding like a flute being stepped on. “when i asked you to be my boyfriend... back there... i meant fake. like, a pretend boyfriend. to scare him off.”
the silence that followed was heavy, weighted with the sound of your own frantic pulse. akaashi’s hand stilled. his expression didn’t crumble—that would be too simple. instead, his eyes darkened, a swirling vortex of calculations and intense, simmering devotion. he didn’t pull away. if anything, he leaned closer, his shadow swallowing you whole.
“fake?” he repeated. the word sounded foreign on his tongue, like he was trying to pronounce a dead language. “y/n, i don’t think you understand. i don’t do anything ‘fake.’ especially not when it comes to you.”
he took a step forward, forcing you to back up against the cool brick wall of the gym. he didn’t trap you—he didn’t have to—his presence was a cage made of velvet and steel.
“i have spent every practice for the last six months tracking your location in the stands,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, melodic hum that vibrated in your very marrow. “i know which vending machine juice you buy when you’re stressed. i know that you bite your lip when you’re concentrating on your homework. i have memorized the exact frequency of your laugh.”
your heart was trying to escape your chest and hand itself over to him on a silver platter. “that’s... a lot of data, akaashi.”
“it’s not data,” he corrected softly, his face inches from yours. “it’s a map. and today, you finally invited me to follow it. do you really think i’d let a ‘fake’ label stop me now?”
just then, the ghost of your past—your ex—decided to make one final, catastrophic mistake. he appeared at the end of the hallway, having regained some semblance of his ego.
“hey! i thought about it, and there’s no way you two are actually—”
akaashi didn’t even turn his head. he didn’t need to. he simply shifted his weight, shielding you completely from the ex’s view, his hand sliding from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair with a possessive heat that made your knees turn to jelly.
“leave,” akaashi said. it wasn’t a shout. it was a command, cold and absolute, the kind of tone that could stop a heart mid-beat.
the ex turned pale, scrambled backward, and finally, mercifully, vanished for good.
the silence returned, but it was different now—charged with a frantic, sweet electricity. you looked up at akaashi, your breath hitching. he looked exhausted, like the sheer effort of containing his affection for you was starting to fray his composure.
“he’s gone,” you whispered, unsure of what else to say. “you can stop now.”
akaashi let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “i told you. i’m not stopping. i’ve been waiting for this for so long that my chest actually hurts when you’re not in my line of sight.”
he took your hand and guided it upward, pressing your palm flat against the center of his chest. beneath the thin fabric of his fukurodani jersey, his heart was thundering—wild, erratic, and completely undone. it was a rhythmic franticness that mirrored your own.
“i don’t care if you started this as a game to get rid of him,” he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a raw, terrifying honesty. “i’m making it real. all i need is for you to lay your head on the little thing that beats for you in my chest, and tell me you feel it too.”
you didn’t have a choice. your body moved on its own, guided by the gravitational pull of a man who was clearly, hopelessly, and beautifully devoted to you. you tucked your head under his chin, pressing your ear against his chest.
thump-thump. thump-thump.
it was the most honest sound you had ever heard. it sounded like a home you hadn’t realized you were looking for. you wrapped your arms around his waist, feeling the way his entire body shuddered in relief, his arms winding around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to merge your two souls into one.
“okay,” you breathed into his chest, the scent of mint and pure keiji filling your senses. “no faking. i think i’ve been down bad for you just as long, akaashi.”
he let out a soft, triumphant sound—half-laugh, half-sob—and buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a lingering, worshipful kiss there.
“good,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with a desperate, wholesome kind of hunger. “because i’ve already picked out the curtains for our apartment, and it would be very difficult to return them now.”
you couldn’t even find it in yourself to be surprised. you just squeezed him tighter, realizing that being ‘claimed’ by akaashi keiji was the best thing that had ever happened to you.
n: well, there goes my ideas. i’ve been getting a lot of asks asking me to uhh do them from the back..? people who follow me in insta have been watching me break down over those.
i won’t let you down, i’ll give you everything i got.
timeskip!ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader
husband!wakatoshi who’ll do absolutely anything just for your smile.
the floor of the ushijima household is polished to such a high shine that a person could probably perform surgery on it, but that isn’t what has ushijima currently vibrating at a frequency high enough to shatter glass.
no, it’s the fact that you, his wife—the literal center of his gravity, the person who makes his heart do backflips like an over-caffeinated gymnast—simply mentioned that you had a ‘minor craving’ for a specific brand of limited-edition strawberry shortcake.
ushijima launched himself from the sofa like a surface-to-air missile. if there were a leaderboard for ‘fastest human to put on shoes,’ he would be the undisputed world champion, holding a record that would remain unbroken for a millennium.
“i’ll return shortly,” he declared, his voice carrying the solemnity of a king going off to reclaim his stolen kingdom. he looked at you with an intensity that could melt lead. “don’t move. conserve your energy. i shall secure the cake.”
to anyone else, ushijima is a pillar of stoicism, a man of few words and immovable resolve. but to you? he‘s a giant, muscular puddle of golden retriever energy masquerading as an elite athlete. he isn’t merely ‘in love’ with you; he’s legally and spiritually bound to your existence. he treats your happiness like a top-priority national security issue.
𓏵
when he reached the grocery store, he hunted. his eyes scanned the aisles with the precision of a high-tech laser, terrifying three elderly ladies and a stock boy in the process. when he found the last box of the shortcake, he shielded it with his massive frame, looking around as if a rival volleyball team might swoop in and attempt a block.
he sprinted to the checkout line. he didn’t care that he was breathing like he’d just finished a five-set match against schweiden adlers’ rivals. he had the goods. he had the nectar of the gods. he had the one thing that would make your eyes crinkle at the corners in that specific way that makes his soul leave his body for a few seconds.
𓏵
he burst through the front door, slightly winded but triumphant. he looked like he’d just survived a trek across the sahara rather than a ten-minute trip to the convenience store.
“i have it,” he panted, presenting the box to you as if it were a holy relic.
you laughed, reaching out to take it, but he hesitated, pulling it back for a split second. “wait. let me plate it. the presentation must be adequate for you.”
you watched from the doorway as this absolute unit of a man—a man who could probably crush a coconut with his bare hands—carefully arranged the cake on your favorite ceramic plate. he spent three whole minutes ensuring the strawberry was perfectly centered. his brow was furrowed in deeper concentration than he ever used during a national tournament.
“wakatoshi, honey, it’s just cake,” you teased, leaning against the counter.
he froze, looking up at you with those wide, earnest eyes. “it’s not ‘just’ cake. it’s something you desired. therefore, it’s the most important object in this prefecture.”
he walked over to you, placing the plate on the table before folding his large hands into yours. he looked down at you, and the sheer volume of affection in his gaze was enough to make your knees feel like they were made of lukewarm pudding.
“i told you before we married,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, resonant tone that vibrates in your chest. “i’ll give you everything i got.”
and he meant it. if you asked for the moon, he wouldn’t ask why; he’d simply start calculating the trajectory needed to jump high enough to snag it for you.
𓏵
later that evening, as you were tucked under his arm on the sofa, he was staring at you again. he wasn’t watching the movie. he was just… observing. like you were a rare celestial event that only happened once every ten thousand years.
“is there something on my face?” you asked, tilting your head.
“no,” he replied instantly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that felt illegal for someone with his grip strength. “i’m simply recalibrating my appreciation for your presence. it appears i find you more captivating than i did at 4:00 PM. the rate of growth is exponential.”
you buried your face in his chest, feeling the steady, thumping drum of his heart. it was fast. it was always fast when you were this close. for all his strength and power, he was completely and utterly defenseless against you.
he leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around you as if he were trying to merge your atoms together.
“you’re my entire world,” he whispered into your hair, sounding breathless, like he still couldn’t believe his luck. “i’m quite literally your shadow. wherever you go, i’m already there, waiting to make sure the path is smooth for you.”
you looked up and saw the raw, unfiltered devotion in his eyes—a look that promised a lifetime of strawberry cakes, defended honor, and a love so heavy and solid it could hold up the entire sky if the clouds ever decided to fall.
you pulled him down by his collar, and as his lips met yours, he sighed into the kiss, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender. he was a titan, a champion, a force of nature—but in your arms, he was simply a man who had found his home and intended to guard it with every single fiber of his being.
𓏵
the kiss ended, but he didn’t pull away; he just rested his forehead against yours, breathing your air like it was the only oxygen supply left on the planet. his hands, large enough to palm a basketball with insulting ease, were cupping your face with the fragility one might use to hold a literal soap bubble.
“you liked the cake,” he stated, though it sounded more like he was recording a divine decree into the annals of history. “but the store-bought quality was... statistically average. i’ve determined that you deserve a higher tier of craftsmanship.”
you blinked, a small smile tugging at your lips. “toshi, you don’t have to—”
“i must,” he interrupted, his eyes igniting with a fire usually reserved for crushing oikawa’s spirit at the net. “if it can be improved for your sake, then it’s my duty to improve it. i shall construct a confection from the primal elements. flour. sugar. eggs.”
before you could even process the mental image of him in an apron, he was already in the kitchen. he marched. it was the stride of a man going to war with a bag of all-purpose flour.
𓏵
you leaned against the doorframe, watching the spectacle. ushijima did not ‘dabble’ in hobbies. he conquered them. he had three different tabs open on his tablet, each one a different scientific breakdown of the maillard reaction.
“wakatoshi, do you even know where the whisk is?”
he paused, a measuring cup held aloft like a chalice. “i’ve located the rotational blending tool, yes. it’s positioned behind the salad spinner. an inefficient storage choice, but i’ve rectified it.”
he began to measure the flour. he leveled it off with a ruler. a literal, plastic school ruler. if it was even a microgram off, he dumped it back and started over, his jaw set in a line so hard it could probably deflect bullets. he was sweating. actual beads of perspiration were rolling down his neck because the stakes of making you a snack were higher than the olympic finals.
“the recipe calls for ‘softened’ butter,” he muttered, staring at the golden stick on the counter with a look of profound betrayal. “it’s currently at 18°C. the optimal spreadability occurs at 21°C. i’ll wait.”
he stood there. he actually stood there, arms crossed, staring at a stick of butter for three minutes, willing it to warm up through the sheer power of his monumental ego and love for you.
𓏵
thirty minutes later, the kitchen looked like a snow globe had exploded. there was flour on the ceiling. there was a dusting of cocoa powder on his nose. he looked like a very handsome, very muscular baker who had just survived a landslide.
“are you okay in here?” you asked, stifling a giggle as he tried to crack an egg with one hand.
he succeeded, but the force was so calculated and intense that the yolk landed in the bowl with a sound like a wet slap. he looked at the bowl, then at you, his expression one of pure, unbridled desperation.
“the consistency is... thicker than anticipated,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “i fear i have over-kneaded my emotions into the dough.”
you walked over, slipping your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek into his broad, flour-dusted back. he immediately melted, his rigid posture softening as he leaned back into your touch.
“it looks perfect, toshi. i’m sure it’ll taste like heaven because you made it.”
he turned in your arms, ignoring the mess, and looked down at you with a gaze so heavy with adoration it felt like a physical weight. “i would burn down the entire culinary world if it meant providing you with a single moment of genuine satisfaction. i’m not a baker, but for you, i’ll become a master of the hearth.”
he leaned down, kissing the tip of your nose, leaving a little smudge of white flour behind. he looked at it and actually smiled—that rare, earth-shattering ushijima smile that makes your heart do a triple-axel.
“you have flour on your face,” he whispered, his voice thick with a tenderness that made your soul ache. “i’ll clean it. but first, i must ensure this cake survives the oven. i will not let the heat defeat my promise to you.”
he turned back to the oven with the intensity of a commander watching a missile launch, guarding the glass door as if he were protecting a sacred flame. he was completely, hopelessly, and hilariously under your spell, and honestly? the cake was probably going to be as dense as a brick, but you knew you’d eat every single crumb because it tasted like a man who loved you more than he loved winning.
n: why do i keep getting asks with people telling me to peg them.. i mean, speak your truth but
need to dose you like a micro. baby, it’s alright though.
kozume kenma x f!reader
basically kenma malfunctioning every time he feels your presence.
for kenma, this is a strictly disciplined medical trial.
kenma was a man of logic, pixels, and very specific boundaries. he knew that too much of a good thing—like an unpatched exploit or a caffeine-induced heart palpitation—was a recipe for disaster. you were his ‘good thing,’ a human solar flare that had accidentally wandered into his orbit, and he had decided, with the cold precision of a grandmaster, that he would simply microdose you.
one hour. sixty minutes of sitting near you in the library while he grinded for materials and you highlight-penned your way through chemistry. that was the safe limit. any more and he feared his heart would actually vibrate out of his ribcage and scuttle across the floor like a runaway joy-con.
the clock on his switch ticked past 4:00 PM. his sixty minutes were up. he should have stood up, muttered a vague ‘see ya,’ and vanished into the safety of the nekoma hallways.
instead, he watched your hair bob as you nodded along to your music. you looked like the personification of a warm blanket straight out of the dryer.
“kenma?” you whispered, leaning closer. the scent of your shampoo—something dangerously sweet, like peaches or a direct attack on his central nervous system—hit him like a flashbang. “is this level hard? you’ve been staring at the loading screen for a while.”
“it’s a complex strategy,” he lied. his voice was a bit more breathy than he liked. he wasn’t staring at a loading screen; he was staring at his own reflection in the black glass, wondering if you could see the way his pupils had dilated to the size of dinner plates. “very… high-level.”
“oh. cool.” you beamed at him, and kenma felt his soul leave his body to go find a place to hide.
he didn’t leave. he stayed for the second hour. then the third. by the time the librarian started jingling her keys, kenma had achieved absolutely zero progress in his game, but he had successfully memorized the exact rhythm of your breathing. he was a goner. he was pathetic. he was a victorian child dying of consumption, and you were the only slice of bread in the entire county.
𓏵
“want to walk to the station?” you asked, stuffing your pens into your bag.
“sure. i guess. it’s on the way,” kenma said. (the station was in the opposite direction of his house. he was prepared to walk three miles in the wrong direction just to stand in your peripheral vision for twelve more minutes.)
as you walked, you were talking about something—a cat you saw, a grade you got, a dream about a giant marshmallow—and kenma was performing a feat of physical endurance that would have made kuroo weep with pride.
he had stopped blinking.
it wasn’t intentional. it was just that every time his eyelids closed, he missed a millisecond of your existence, and that felt like a wasted resource. his eyes were burning. they were screaming for moisture. they were redder than the nekoma jerseys. but you were laughing, and the way your nose crinkled was a visual masterpiece that deserved his undivided, unblinking attention.
“kenma? are you… okay? your eyes are really watery,” you said, stopping under a streetlamp.
“allergies,” he croaked. “the air is… strong today.”
“oh, poor thing!” you reached out, your thumb brushing a stray tear—caused by literal ocular dehydration—away from his cheek.
kenma’s internal server crashed. he didn’t just feel a spark; he felt like he’d been plugged directly into a high-voltage transformer. his knees felt like overcooked noodles. he wanted to melt into the pavement and become a permanent puddle at your feet.
“it’s fine,” he managed to say, his voice an octave higher than usual. “i don’t mind.”
𓏵
the walk ended, but his desperation didn’t.
the next day, he found himself hovering near your desk before practice. he was holding a strawberry milk he’d bought because he remembered you mentioning it three weeks, four days, and six hours ago.
“for me?” you asked, eyes widening.
“they were on sale. two-for-one. i didn’t want the second one,” he said, handing it over with a hand that was definitely not trembling (it was).
there was no sale. he had paid full price. he had actually fought a third-year for the last cold carton.
“you’re so sweet, kenma!” you cheered, taking a sip.
he watched the way you smiled and felt a sudden, violent urge to buy every strawberry milk factory in the tri-state area just to ensure you never had to go without. he was deep in the trenches. he was drowning in the deep end and he didn’t even want a life jacket; he just wanted you to hold his hand while he sank.
𓏵
by sunset, kenma was sitting on the gym floor, leaning against the wall while you sat beside him, showing him pictures on your phone. the ‘one hour’ rule had been dead and buried for weeks. he was now on a twenty-four-hour-a-day dosage, and it still wasn’t enough.
he leaned his head cautiously onto your shoulder. it was a bold move. a pro-gamer move.
you didn’t pull away. instead, you tilted your head to rest against his, your hair tickling his forehead.
“kenma?”
“mhm?”
“you’re really warm.”
“it’s the… body heat. from practice,” he mumbled, though he hadn’t touched a volleyball in two hours.
he closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to blink, to breathe, to simply exist in your space. he had tried to microdose your affection, to keep it safe and manageable, but he’d ended up overdosing in the best way possible.
he shifted his hand, his fingers twitching until they finally hooked around yours. your palm was soft, your grip firm, and for a second, the rest of the world felt like a glitchy, low-res background. you were the only thing in high definition.
“i think i’m going to stay here for a while,” he whispered into the crook of your neck.
you squeezed his hand, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single atom of space left between you. “stay as long as you want.”
kenma let out a shaky breath, his heart finally settling into a rhythm that said home. he was utterly, hopelessly, and spectacularly ruined for anyone else, and as he felt you press a tiny, fleeting kiss to the top of his dual-toned head, he decided that logic was overrated anyway.
the peace of the gym was shattered by the distinct, rhythmic squeak of a volleyball being squeezed by someone with zero respect for personal space.
“oh, look at that,” a voice drawled, dripping with a mock-scientific curiosity that made kenma want to crawl into his own hoodie and cease to exist. “the test subject seems to have developed a severe case of ‘glued-to-the-floor-itis.’ very rare. very terminal.”
kuroo was leaning against the equipment shed, his grin so wide it looked physically painful. he held a clipboard he definitely didn’t need, pretending to take notes.
“go away, kuroo,” kenma muttered, though he didn’t move his head from your shoulder. he actually gripped your hand tighter, his knuckles turning a faint shade of white.
“i’m just checking the data! last week, you told me—and i quote—‘y/n is a distraction that can be managed in small, controlled bursts,’” kuroo said, his voice rising in an obnoxious theatrical arc. “and yet, here you are. it’s been five hours. you haven’t touched a controller. you haven’t even looked at your phone. the withdrawal symptoms must be catastrophic.”
you giggled, the vibration of it sent a literal shockwave of warmth through kenma’s chest. “he’s being a good pillow, kuroo. leave him alone.”
“a pillow? this man?” kuroo stepped closer, peering down at kenma’s face with a predatory glint in his eyes. “this is the guy who avoids human contact like it’s a level 90 poison debuff? he looks like he’s trying to merge with your DNA, y/n. he’s not a pillow; he’s a parasitic organism.”
kenma finally looked up, his eyes narrowed into lethal golden slits. “i’m observing. for… research.”
“research?” kuroo cackled, dropping the clipboard to clutch his stomach. “kenma, your ‘research’ involves looking at her like she’s the last save point before a boss fight. you’re not microdosing anymore, buddy. you’ve gone full addict. you’re cooked. you’re deep-fried. you’re a goner.”
“i’m fine,” kenma hissed, his face turning a spectacular shade of pink that matched your strawberry milk.
“he’s blushing! oh, the humanity!” kuroo turned to the empty gym, gesturing wildly. “the stoic heart of nekoma has been compromised by a girl who likes lemon juice and highlighter pens! call the media! cancel the practice matches!”
you reached over and patted kenma’s cheek, your fingers lingering just a bit too long for ‘just friends’ territory. “i think he’s doing great, kuroo. aren’t you, kenma?”
kenma looked at you, and for a split second, the sarcasm died. the wit vanished. he looked at the way the gym lights caught the gold in your eyes and felt his lungs simply stop working. he didn’t care about kuroo’s teasing. he didn’t care about the ‘data.’ he didn’t even care that he was being perceived.
he leaned forward, his nose brushing against yours in a move so bold it probably should have come with a cinematic soundtrack.
“yeah,” he whispered, his voice steady for the first time all day. “never better.”
kuroo gagged loudly in the background, muttering something about ‘disgusting displays of affection’ and ‘needing an industrial-strength bucket,’ but kenma didn’t hear a word of it. he was too busy realizing that if this was what losing felt like, he never wanted to win another game in his life.
n: i swear one day, i might lose my motivation in writing and i’ll just rot.
The idea had started in a group chat that hadn’t been active in years.
One message from Hinata.
A dramatic voice note from Bokuto.
A poll that Kuroo immediately rigged.
And somehow, all of them had agreed to it.
A reunion kickback.
Drinks, card games, loud music, kegs lined up in someone’s rented backyard like they were still eighteen and invincible.
You stood by the doorway of your apartment watching Tsukishima adjust the cuff of his sleeve with his usual calm precision. Even now, dressed casually in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt, he looked composed—like he was heading to a lecture instead of a hangout with some chaotic volleyball players.
Usually, Tsukishima didn’t drink much. One beer. Maybe two if Bokuto physically placed it in his hand and refused to leave him alone. After that, he’d quietly switch to water and watch everyone else spiral into progressively worse decisions.
More often than not, his friends simply assumed he’d be the designated driver.
But not tonight.
You stepped forward, wrapping your arms around his tall frame. Your chin rested against his chest as you peered up at him, your cheek brushing the soft fabric of his shirt.
“Tsuki,” you began sweetly, “have more than one beer tonight.”
His golden eyes lowered to you over the rim of his glasses, already suspicious.
“You haven’t seen the guys in forever,” you continued. “You need a change of pace.”
He sighed softly and looked away toward the window like you had just suggested something deeply reckless. “You shouldn’t be promoting irresponsible drinking.”
“I’m not!” you laughed, tightening your arms around him. “You can drink responsibly and still have fun. Those two things can coexist, you know.”
He hummed skeptically.
“You tend to become even more of a sourpuss when you’re sober and everyone else isn’t,” you added, poking lightly at his side. “All I’m asking is that you get on their level. Not black out. Just… loosen up.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “I am not a sourpuss.”
You smiled innocently. “You absolutely are.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. After a moment, he adjusted his glasses with two fingers, gaze settling back on you.
“Alright. Fine.”
Your face lit up instantly.
“Really?”
“Yes,” he muttered.
You pulled away just enough to stand on your toes and press a soft kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your lips, and you felt the faintest shift in his posture—like he wanted to pull you back in but was pretending he didn’t.
“Have fun,” you said gently. “Text me if you need me.”
“I won’t,” he replied dryly.
You gave him a look.
“…I will,” he corrected.
His ride honked from outside, likely Kuroo being impatient for dramatic effect. Tsukishima slipped on his shoes and grabbed his phone, pausing at the door to glance back at you.
“You’re sure you don’t want to come?” he asked.
You shook your head. “This is a boys’ night. You don't need me supervision.”
His lips twitched faintly at that.
“Go,” you urged with a grin.
He stepped out into the night, the cool air brushing past him as he closed the door behind him. You watched from the window as he approached the car, tall and composed as ever.
You just hoped that tonight, for once, he’d let himself chill out.
A few hours later, the apartment had gone quiet.
The movie you’d put on was still playing in the background, some soft dialogue murmuring to an empty room while you lay curled up on the couch. Your phone rested forgotten on the wooden coffee table, screen dark, notifications piling up unnoticed.
Sleep had come easily.
Until your phone began vibrating violently against the table.
The sudden buzzing against the wood echoed through the room, loud and jarring. You startled awake, disoriented, your heart thudding as you pushed yourself up from the cushions.
It buzzed again.
You rubbed at your eyes and leaned forward, squinting at the bright screen as you picked it up.
Before you could read them, the phone started ringing again in your hand.
You answered immediately. “Tsuki?”
The sound that met you wasn’t his voice—it was chaos. Music blasted through the speaker, bass thudding so loudly it distorted the line. People shouted over one another in the background.
It was so loud it almost felt like you were standing in the middle of it.
“Tsuki?” you repeated, pressing the phone closer to your ear.
“Come.”
His voice cut through the noise, flat and clear despite the mayhem behind him.
You frowned slightly. “You’re ready?” you asked, already swinging your legs off the couch.
You stood, slipping your shoes on near the door as you balanced the phone between your shoulder and ear.
“Hurry uuupppp,” he dragged out, and for a split second you genuinely thought you’d misheard him. “I need to see you.”
You froze.
Was he… whining?
The music surged louder again and you heard what sounded like Kuroo shouting something about playing another game. And someone cheering in response.
“Are you drunk?” you asked cautiously.
There was a pause. Then a quiet, stubborn, “No.”
You could practically see the slight pout on his face.
“Tsukishima Kei,” you sighed, trying not to laugh. “Did you drink irresponsibly?”
“…maybe.”
You bit back a smile. So much for one or two.
“I’m on the way, baby,” you said, softening your tone. “Give me ten minutes.”
A small grunt came through the line—impatient, dissatisfied.
“Five.”
“Ten,” you corrected firmly.
Another grumble.
“Fine,” he muttered.
The line went dead before you could say anything else.
You stared at your phone for a second, half amused, half concerned. Tsukishima almost never called you more than once in a row, let alone several times.
And he definitely didn’t whine.
You grabbed your keys and walked out the door and to your car.
When you pulled up to the house, you didn’t need GPS to confirm you were in the right place.
Colorful lights flashed through the windows and spilled out onto the lawn, painting the street in neon blues and pinks. The bass from the music thudded so hard you could feel it in your chest before you even stepped out of the car.
Yep. That was definitely them.
You didn’t bother knocking—no one would’ve heard it anyway. The second you pushed the door open, noise swallowed you whole. Music blared, people shouted over it, and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and body heat.
No one turned to look at you. Everyone was too distracted—some arguing over a game of beer pong, others crowded around the kitchen island chanting something unintelligible.
You slipped inside and began weaving through the sea of tall, muscular volleyball players and their equally loud friends, scanning for a familiar head of blond hair.
“Y/N!”
You heard your name shouted behind you.
You barely had time to turn before Kuroo slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his side dramatically.
“You’re a little late!” he accused, grinning down at you like this was entirely your fault.
You laughed, steadying yourself against him. “I’m actually here to pick up Kei. Although…” you glanced around at the chaos with amusement, “this does seem fun.”
“Ahhh, Tsukishima!” Kuroo barked out, as if summoning him. “Yeah, he’s been asking for you all night. He’s over here.”
You blinked.
He’d been asking for you?
That wasn’t like him. Tsukishima was notoriously private. He rarely talked about you unless someone pried, and even then, his answers were short and guarded. He liked keeping your relationship separate from everything else—like it was something too precious to parade around.
“I’ve never seen him drink so much!” Kuroo laughed over the music, leaning down so you could hear him properly. “Safe to say he had a blast!”
You raised your brows. “That’s… mildly concerning.”
“Nah,” Kuroo waved it off with a grin. “He didn’t do anything embarrassing. Just got really into the games.”
“Sounds like him, he's always been competitive.”
Kuroo guided you through the crowd with surprising efficiency, cutting past clusters of laughing bodies until you reached the back of the house. The air grew warmer, stuffier, the music slightly muffled but still overwhelming.
And then you saw him.
Stretched out across a worn leather couch, long legs taking up far too much space, glasses slightly crooked on his nose.
Your blond-haired boy.
His usual upright posture was gone. He looked loose, heavy-limbed, like gravity had decided to claim him early tonight.
You stepped toward him instinctively, your hand lifting to ruffle his hair.
“Tsukishima!” Kuroo shouted loudly enough to slice through the music. “Your ride’s here!”
Tsukishima’s eyes shifted upward slowly.
It took him a second.
His lids were heavy, gaze unfocused at first as if he were trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Then recognition flickered in.
“Y/n,” he said, your name low and almost swallowed by the noise around you.
Your expression softened immediately.
Your hand slid from the top of his head down to cup his cheek gently. His skin was warm beneath your palm.
“You ready to go?” you asked softly, leaning down so he could hear you.
His brows knit together faintly.
“This is all your fault,” he grumbled.
Before you could respond, his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you forward. You stumbled slightly, caught off guard as he buried his face against your stomach, pressing into you like you were the only stable thing in the room.
Despite the crowd. Despite the music. Despite Kuroo snickering somewhere behind you.
Tsukishima Kei clung to you.
“I was told you had a good time,” you teased gently, fingers threading into his hair as you steadied yourself.
He huffed against you. “The room is spinning,”
You laughed, warmth spreading through your chest at how uncharacteristically needy he was being.
Behind you, Kuroo let out an exaggerated whistle. “Wow. I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Shut up, you" Tsukishima muttered into your stomach, grip tightening slightly.
You felt him exhale slowly, his shoulders relaxing the longer he held onto you. Like he’d been waiting for this.
“Okay,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his temple. “Let’s get you home.”
He didn’t move immediately.
Instead, he tilted his head just slightly, cheek still pressed against you, and mumbled something so quiet you almost missed it.
“…Missed you.”
Your teasing smile softened completely.
For someone who rarely said much at all, that was everything.
“Yeah?” you whispered.
His arms squeezed you once in answer.
And suddenly, you weren't in a rush to get him home.
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