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.
i don't do bad sauce passes
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Misplaced Lens Cap
occasionally subtle
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
One Nice Bug Per Day
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Monterey Bay Aquarium
cherry valley forever

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YOU ARE THE REASON
Jules of Nature
Peter Solarz

ellievsbear
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DEAR READER
trying on a metaphor
ojovivo

Kaledo Art

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seen from Canada
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seen from United States
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@riptobyssock
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.
Another batch of straw.page asks!
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"
earrings: lost
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.
© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. divider is made by me :3
Silly hedgehogs
Morning cuddles !
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.
"hey, that looks like you."
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.
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© tetskuro 2026. please do not repost or modify my writing.
microdose - SAKUSA K.
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.
˚✶ * 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.
microdose - AKAASHI K.
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.
girls girls girls!
Stumbled upon these in old files and well, the world needs to see them too.
microdose - USHIJIMA W.
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.”
microdose - KOZUME K.
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.
NaLu fans finally got the answer they've been waiting for. 🥹 During a recent fan Q&A, Fairy Tail creator Hiro Mashima was asked whether Nat
IT WAS RIGHT THERE FROM THE BEGINNING 🤦♀️✨
They're not your typical shonen couple
Picking up your drunk boyfriend from a party
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.
Missed Call — Tsukishima. Missed Call — Tsukishima. Missed Call — Tsukishima.
And several texts underneath.
You blinked, fully awake now.
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.