NOTE. for the resident tsukishima lover @marisolls !
“You sure you’re not drunk?”
Is like asking Tsukishima if the sky is blue.
“Tipsy.”
“Tipsy,” you repeat, snorting. “If you say so.”
“I am,” he tells you again. He doesn’t remember how many times he’s said it—
Because it’s true. He was tipsy. Not an incapable drunk. He knew his limits, and he was well aware that he’s always been lightweight, so it’s only responsible for him to just be a little drunk.
He feels your hand on his forehead, then on his cheek, probably to check his temperature. Maybe to check if he was actually still conscious and breathing. Tsukishima likes it, so he leans into your touch, murmuring something under his breath that even he did not understand.
“Hm?”
“I’m home.”
“You are,” you nod. “Did you have fun?”
He nods as well. “Been a while.”
In the in-betweens of his consciousness, Tsukishima vaguely remembers you taking off his shoes, and now you’re helping him with his tie. The one that miraculously hasn’t been made into a headband—or worse, strangled him throughout his night escapade with old friends.
He reaches up, hands fumbling with yours in an attempt to help. He wants to help.
He wants to make life easier for you with his help.
“Kei,” you scold him. “Let me do it, please?”
And—
And it’s not fair. So he says that, too.
“It’s not fair,” he huffs, relenting.
“What’s not fair?”
“That you’re taking care of me.”
He hears you laugh, and he slumps back against the couch, huffing again.
“It’s not funny,” he murmurs. “I’m serious here.”
“Well, what do you want me to do? Leave you in the izakaya while I’m peacefully sleeping without my husband beside me?”
The thought isn’t too unpleasant for Tsukishima. He’d rather have you here—at home, well-rested—instead of waiting for him
“...Maybe.”
You sigh, though there’s no particular annoyance in your next words, Tsukishima hopes.
“That’s stupid.”
And now that he’s thinking about it, yeah. Maybe that was stupid.
What kind of wife wouldn’t worry for her husband’s well-being while he was out? You’re definitely not that kind.
His glasses slide slightly down his nose, and you’re quick to fix them without asking. He feels your fingers brush his cheek once again in the process.
Tsukishima paused.
“…Hey,” he says.
“Yes?”
“You’re touching my face.”
You hum. “I am.”
He swallows. “Okay.”
You stood straighter and turned to the kitchen, probably for water—you always think ahead like that—and Tsukishima’s eyes followed you automatically. He reaches out without thinking and lightly catches the sleeve of your cardigan.
“…stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say easily.
His grip tightens just a little. “Promise?”
He knows how he probably looks right now. His cheeks are faintly flushed and his eyes are heavy-lidded but longing. Because it’s you—and Tsukishima is ok with looking like this because it’s only for you.
“I promise.”
“Okay,” he murmurs, relieved, and lets go. “I just wanted to check.”
When you returned, you sat beside him and held the glass to his lips. “Drink.”
He obeys, because apparently drunk him is very cooperative. When he’s done, he sighs and leans sideways, his shoulder bumping into yours. He doesn’t move away—simply doesn’t want to. Instead, he adjusts until his head rests against your shoulder, then adjusts again so this time his head rests somewhat uncomfortably on your neck.
He feels you still, then relaxes, one arm coming up to steady him. “You’re very cuddly tonight,” you noted.
He made a negating sound, pressing closer to you. “That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“I’m only like this with you,” he says, like this is an important distinction that must be clarified immediately. “Everyone else is… a bother.”
You laughed. “I’m honored.”
…
“…did you know,” he starts, words careful despite the slur creeping in (he’s in a losing battle against sleep, but he remembers he still has to brush his teeth), “that I think about you a lot?”
“I would hope so. We’re married.”
“Yes, but—” He frowns, clearly struggling to articulate whatever he wanted to say.
His hand lifts, fingers flexing like he’s trying to grab the right words out of the air. “Like… little things. During the day. I’ll see something stupid—like a cat that looks judgmental—and I’ll think, you would laugh at that. Or when I’m annoyed, I think about how you make tea. You do that thing with the spoon.”
“The thing with the spoon?” You tilt your head, intrigued.
“You tap it twice,” he replies, nodding, very serious. “On the rim. Every time. Even when you don’t need to.”
“…I never noticed that.”
“I notice.”
He shifts on the couch, suddenly restless, hands fidgeting in your embrace. “I’m not good at saying things,” he continues, voice quieter now. “I know that. I think I sound stupid when I try. Or obvious. Or like I’m saying something everyone already knows.”
“Kei…”
“But I love you,” he blurts out, too fast, too—too not very tipsy of him. “Like—really love you. Not in the normal way. In the way where my chest feels weird when you’re tired, and I want to fix it, but I don’t know how. In the way where I want to come home faster just because I know you’re here.”
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“And sometimes I worry,” he admits. “That I don’t say it enough. That you’ll think I don’t feel it as much as I do.”
So this is what it felt like to hold your feelings on your sleeves and hope the other person wouldn’t turn you away because you’re too much or too little.
“Kei, I know.”
He pulls back and looks at you, startled. “You do?”
You nod. “You show it in your own way. A hundred little ways.”
His eyes sting, just a little. He blinks rapidly, scoffing weakly. Since when did he have the time to have tears glossing over his eyes?
“Wow. I’m—” He laughs once, breathy and embarrassed. “I’m way more emotional than I thought.”
“It’s kind of cute,” you tell him.
He huffs. How good you are with the words is just so… so right for him.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret’s safe.”
He hides his face on your shoulder. His voice comes muffled now. “You’re really patient with me.”
“Someone has to be.”
He knows that. That someone has to be, or else he’d maybe grow old and gray alone, with the world hating him or something.
little tsukishima braindump
cw: suggestive in some parts
author note: slightly different style than normal but ykw fuck it
⟡ tsukishima pretends he's not obsessed with you, but it's hard to do that — he has everything about you memorized. the shampoo you use. the scent of your perfume. the brand of chocolate you like the most. your coffee/tea/drink order. everything about you is logged as important and so, he can't pretend.
⟡ he loves when you say his name. his name sounds so sweet coming from your lips, all sharp edges and lilted syllables. he bothers you enough to hear it again, holding things far above his head so you fight to reach. "kei," you protest, stretching your hands up to reach whatever it is his stole, "hand it back." he takes one look at your eyes, sweet, always so sweet, and secretly wonders how his name would sound in context that involved you in a slightly different position.
⟡ he kisses like he has something to prove. you challenge him on something stupid, and he's pressing you against the wall, his lips tracing a path down your neck and hands tracing patterns into the skin of your lower back. he likes you panting, breathless, confused enough to drop whatever it was your argument was. if you somehow manage to find it in the middle of all of that, he presses into you yet again, hands digging into your hips and lifting one of your legs to hook around his hips. if he's flushed to you, his cutie, he reckons he'll win whatever the debate was. after all — are you really thinking with his hips against yours, his mouth on yours and his hands sliding up your shirt? didn't think so.
⟡ his hands tell you far more about what he feels about you than his words ever do, his slender fingers hooked around your waist, your wrist, your fingers. touching you gives him clarity — he can feel your warmth beneath his fingers, and he knows you're all his. it's comforting.
⟡ he's obsessed with your skin. first time he ever kissed you, the feel of it him like a drug. so soft, so silky, he spends way too much time touching it. you could just be wearing shorts and his hands settle on your thighs, his fingers drawing patterns that somehow reach increasingly higher. you ask him what he's doing, feeling the heat course through your veins watching his hands. he'll be entirely nonchalant in his response, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips when he gently thumbs at the waistband of your shorts.
⟡ he's excellent at undoing tricky garments. bra? dismantled in two seconds. some complicated clothing with zippers or a close fit? he can peel it off in moments. he says it's his eye for detail, but it's just his desire to feel you close.
⤷summary: totally innocent things you do that makes them lose their minds a little
⤷content: fluff, light crack, suggestive undertones??, established relationship
⤷characters: miya osamu, sakusa kiyoomi, ushijima wakatoshi, miya atsumu, kita shinsuke, and tsukishima kei
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ OSAMU MIYA
it’s the sauce again.
you’re perched on the counter in one of his shirts, eating fried chicken with your fingers, and you don’t even notice him watching.
“you’re starin’,” you say, voice muffled with food.
“am not.” he’s absolutely lying.
he’s supposed to be mixing batter, but instead he’s thinking about the way you just licked your thumb clean—slow, absentminded. he grips the whisk tighter.
you tilt your head at him, all innocent eyes and a sauce-stained cheek. “you okay there, chef?”
osamu blinks, turns around, mutters something like “yeah, fine” while trying to look anywhere but you.
he’s not fine. not even close.
you swing your legs and hum as if you haven’t just ruined his entire morning. he swears the next time you sit on his counter like that, he’s confiscating all sauces within a ten-meter radius.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ SAKUSA KIYOOMI
he’s folding laundry when you come in, hair down and messy from sleep.
then you grab a scrunchie, push your hair back, and tie it up.
he swears time slows down. the wrist twist. the tug. the reveal of your neck. he blinks once, twice, and looks away like he just saw something illegal.
“what?” you ask, oblivious.
“nothing.” he’s staring at the wall now. very intently.
you shrug, go back to scrolling your phone, and he’s left pretending that he isn’t imagining pressing his lips right where your pulse beats.
later, you catch him watching you again in the mirror. “you sure it’s nothing?”
he exhales sharply. “you should... wear your hair down less.”
you laugh, because you know exactly what he means.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI
you stretch beside him, arms raised above your head, shirt lifting just enough to show the soft curve of your stomach.
he’s reading, or at least he was. now his book is halfway forgotten.
“tired?” he asks, voice steady, but his eyes have gone a little unfocused.
“just stiff.”
he hums like he didn’t just witness a divine act. you drop your arms, sigh contentedly, and he swallows. he has a thought—something about how delicate you look and how badly he wants to trace the shape of you—but he keeps it to himself.
later, when you fall asleep next to him, curled and warm, he closes the book, presses a kiss to your forehead, and whispers something you don’t quite catch.
it sounds like mine.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ ATSUMU MIYA
you sass him again—hands on hips, that tiny pout, that look.
“i told you it’s your turn to do the dishes,” you say.
“i’m the breadwinner ‘round here,” he argues dramatically, “shouldn’t have to wash dishes when i’m providin’ for us.”
you stare him down. he cracks first. he always cracks first.
five minutes later, he’s elbow-deep in soap suds, muttering under his breath. you lean against the counter, smug.
“what was that?” you ask sweetly.
“nothin’, sweetheart.”
you hum, start humming a tune as you dry the plates.
he glances up. there it is again—that stupid warmth in his chest that feels like home. he grins, shakes his head.
“ya drive me crazy, ya know that?”
you smirk. “that’s the point.”
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ KITA SHINSUKE
you’re curled up on the couch, oversized sweater sleeves covering your hands, a steaming cup of tea resting in your lap.
he stops in the doorway for a good ten seconds before he moves again.
“you okay?” you ask, smiling softly.
he nods. “you just look… peaceful.”
it’s a small thing, but it hits him every time—the way you exist so gently. the way you make his quiet evenings feel warmer.
he sits beside you, careful, and you shift enough to lean your cheek on his shoulder. he freezes for a moment, then exhales.
“that’s nice,” you mumble, eyes half-closed.
he hums. “yeah. it is.”
he’ll never admit it out loud, but he thinks you might be the most dangerous thing to ever happen to his heart.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ TSUKISHIMA KEI
you’re talking—about something random, probably a meme or a classmate—and your hands are moving all over the place. waving, gesturing, tapping your knuckles on the table when you pause to think.
he’s not listening. not really.
“are you even paying attention?” you ask.
“no,” he says truthfully.
you roll your eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but you’re smiling.
he watches you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and it’s unfair, honestly, how you can make him feel this unsteady without trying.
when you reach out to poke his cheek, he catches your wrist—not hard, just enough to make you blink up at him.
“you talk too much,” he says, but his voice is softer than usual.
you grin. “and yet, you never tell me to stop.”
he doesn’t reply. just lets go of your hand and goes back to his phone—even though he’s not reading a single word on the screen.
but when you do? god, it makes everything around you go still.
his real laugh.
not the huffs. not the sarcastic snorts. not the amused breath through his nose.
the real one. the one that escapes before he can stop it. bright and careless and beautiful.
and this time, it bubbles out of him fast, catching on the end of his sentence like he didn’t mean to let it out. he covers his mouth too late, shoulders jolting slightly as he leans forward, eyes crinkling in a way that makes your heart do something stupid.
you’ve been around him long enough to know when he’s holding back and when he isn’t. and this? this is pure. unfiltered.
a sound you want to keep hearing for the rest of your life.
he’s still laughing when you say it, soft and stunned and entirely honest:
“you have a really pretty laugh.”
his breath catches mid-laugh.
and then it hits full force. the weight of your words, the sincerity behind them. and just like that, the laugh dissolves into something quieter, more flustered. his cheeks tint pink almost instantly.
“shut up,” he says, voice cracking halfway through the word, eyes darting everywhere but at you.
you grin. “i’m serious.”
he covers his mouth with his sleeve like it might somehow hide the way the blush is blooming across his face, delicate and pink and unavoidable.
“it’s not... i don’t... why would you say that out loud?!”
“because it’s true?” you shrug, teasing, but still a little breathless. “it’s… i dunno. it suits you. 's cute.”
he side-eyes you, expression caught between offended and embarrassed and that quiet, cracking amusement you’re addicted to. “what does that even mean?”
“i mean…” you trail off, eyes on him now. his lashes, the curve of his smile, the flush spreading across his cheeks like blooming petals.
“i mean, you’re always so... guarded... or something. like, you're very serious. or stoic." you say, grappling with the right words. "and then you laugh like that and it’s just... soft? and bright. and it makes people want to hear it again. it puts me in a better mood!”
he blinks. then quickly looks away.
“…i hate you.”
you laugh. “no you don’t.”
“i might.”
you watch him try to hide the way he’s still smiling. the way the pink deepens near his ears. you want to press your thumb against his cheek just to feel the warmth there.
he exhales, shaking his head. “you’re so annoying.”
you lean in a little. “so are you. but at least you’re charming when you laugh!”
his eyes flick toward you. something unreadable behind them. and then, finally, a soft reply:
“…you’re the only one who’s ever said that.”
you blink. your chest aches.
then you say, “well, i’m right.”
and when he looks at you again, that blush still lingering like cherry blossoms in the spring, he doesn’t deny it.
he’s got a fetish for your love
fluff, uhh kissing, one curse word i think, marking, one suggestive line at the end
tsukishima kei, for one, is a massive pole of stoicism, bitterness, and sarcasm towards people he absolutely wants to piss off.
so why is it that he can’t help but turn needy once you’re in his peripheral vision?
you were just existing, walking into the gym while drinking some soda. but to tsukishima? you might as well broadcast your footsteps with how fast his head turned when he heard the sound of your shoes.
to tsukishima kei, you’re perfect. you’re so perfect that it makes his eye twitch in annoyance. he wants to get on your nerves, really, he does. thing is, all his sense of self-respect ran out of the window as soon as you appeared in his life.
nobody could believe their eyes when they saw tsukishima jog—yes, jog not walk, jog—towards you, his eyes wide with what normal people call ‘love’.
tsukishima kei who wrapped his arms around you, burying his face on the crook of your neck, breathing you in like a man that almost suffocated.
“you smell so fucking good, y/n..” he mumbles against your skin, voice hoarse and needy.
you just laugh, hugging him back which makes him melt in your hold. “c’mon kei, you still have practice.”
tsukishima kei who let out a needy, whiny huff as he lifts his head up closer to your ear. “would you let me kiss you more later?” he whispers, and since no one could see anything except for his back, he nibbles on your earlobe. “that’s the least you could do for looking this enticing.”
“you say that everyday.” you groan.
“but i’m right,” he counters, finally standing straight. he ignores the gasps of his teammates as he leans closer and kisses your forehead.
tsukishima kei who reluctantly walks back to his very intrigued yet astonished teammates and glares at them so they wouldn’t ask any questions.
tsukishima kei who, once practice ended, practically floated over to you. he already snatched your bag away, his free hand wrapping around your waist as he guides you out of the gym.
tsukishima kei who can’t stop himself from stopping your walk home just for him to drag you to a shady alleyway to trail kisses down your throat, his breathing heavy as he complains about you being way too addicting for him to keep his hands off you.
“how— how exactly am i supposed to keep my hands off you if you’re like this?” he murmurs as he gently sucks on your collarbone where no one would see.
“like what?” you ask, your hands fisting his uniform for support.
“you look tempting,” he replies, licking the skin he marked.
“school air got me. i barely even have anything on my face.”
tsukishima kei who pulls back with a sly smirk while licking his lips, “even better.”
tsukishima kei who stops only after your legs are weak from his kisses, he picks you up while carrying his and your bags, and starts carrying you home.
tsukishima kei who keeps leaning down to peck your pretty face every five minutes because he couldn’t help it. how could he even hold that back if he has such a perfect lover?
tsukishima kei who doesn’t walk away from your house until he’s sure you’re safe and sound.
tsukishima kei who folds with just a little bit of your attention. you look at him? he gives you a small, almost unnoticeable lovesick smile. you glare at him? his knees turn into jelly. you breathe near him? he’s a second away from asking you to suffocate him.
tsukishima kei who loves it when you get annoyed and you manhandle him by pulling him down by his tie or the collar of his shirt. he smirks slyly, eyes lovesick as he lets you tug him down, your eyes narrowed.
tsukishima kei who’s face turns pink because you’re glaring at him. he keeps taunting you just to see you pissed off, loving how attractive you look.
tsukishima kei who’s eyes can’t help but drift to your lips while you scold him for being snarky, so he does the only justifiable thing to soothe your pretty little angered brain. he smashes his lips on yours, making you gasp.
tsukishima kei who takes that gasp as his chance to slip his tongue in your mouth, his hands coming up to cup your face and slightly tilt it to the side.
tsukishima kei who grins when you both pull back panting, his thumb caressing your bottom lip. “guess that’s one way to shut your pretty mouth up, huh?”
tsukishima kei who can’t help but get hard whenever you look at him too long or when you narrow your pretty eyes at him. he’s pathetic since he has a fetish for your love.
a/n: might be bad, ngl. it’s been awhile since i wrote anything like this.. like, a few days lol
Contrary to popular belief, Tsukishima Kei is not a nonchalant, ignorant boyfriend who hardly cares about you.
If anything, he is the complete and total opposite.
You first noticed it when he started to hang around you too much, ignoring poor Tadashi while he complained about the newest teacher, instead opting to watch you throw your head back and laugh with your friends. It’s sudden and loud, two things that Tsukishima hates, but he’s never heard anything so sincere, so carefree, so…full of life.
The sound strikes him right through, and all of a sudden, he knew that cupid’s arrow (or yours) hit him square in the heart. And he finds himself not caring one bit.
But that was the first time, and you didn’t even notice him ogling at you like a pubescent boy. However, you really start to notice when you first start to date. Naturally, it takes him a while to warm up to you. You are still mutual classmates at the end of the day, but you both eventually get to the point your parents hardly blink when you both arrive home together.
It’s by the fourth month he’s sharing his toy dinosaur collection, raving about the key differences between the Tirranasarus Rex and some other dinosaur name you could hardly pronounce.
“So yeah, the Spinosaurus basically gets their name from the spine-like sail on its back, but I always thought it would better fit the Stegosaurus because of the spikes and everything, you know? But whatever– oh and then there’s this one…” And you’re just nodding along while he excitedly rambles, all information just seeping from one ear out the other. You still remember to ask him questions though, just to see that spark in his eye.
And you finally toss the “nonchalant” Tsukishima rumor out the window by the time you guys are a year in, where you’re sitting next to him on his bed, him laying right beside you eyes fixated on the way your lips move while gossiping about the latest news.
“AND KEI, YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED AFTER, she has the nerve to say ‘Oh, I didn’t think you’d be interested, so I just forgot to tell you’ like, how the hell do you forget to tell me about how you got with your bestfriend-since-middle-school’s ex?! I knew from the start that she was trouble but everyone said that she would be soooo nice and amazing, well NOW look.”
He chuckles a little bit, watching as you semi-seethe on the edge of the mattress.
“You always have a good read on people, I have no clue how you do it but it’s hilarious to watch when you end up right.”
“RIGHT?! LIKE COME ON ALREADY-” He smiles, yet again diving into one of your endless rambles.
Tsukishima doesn’t care, and in fact, he doesn’t want this moment to end.
All he wants is to be part of a world where your voice is never too far.
a.n : credits to @/aquazero for the dividers/banners (?)
also TYSMMM for all of the love on the atsumu miya fic it means so much to me so tytytyty for all the support <333
but anyways, i hope you all have a wonderful rest of your day <3
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.
kei tsukishima doesn’t believe in i love you’s, no.
throughout your relationship, you’ve heard him say it maybe once or twice, in the dead of night when he thinks you’re fast asleep. but every so often, he’ll do the littlest things to remind you.
kei doesn’t hold your bags for you when you walk home together after school. he says it makes you look incapable, like a little kid who needs a babysitter. feminism, he says. independence.
...but he does take your laptop and insist on putting it in his bag when you’re finished. “your bag isn’t built for laptops, it’ll break,” he says, zipping up his backpack after your study date. you would have believed him, if he wasn’t practically walking out with half your possessions in his bag.
kei rarely takes you out on dates. he says it’s an inconvenience. why go through all that trouble of picking a restaurant, getting dressed, and driving there all for a single meal? it’s a hassle and frankly, an impractical use of money.
instead, kei pulls up to your house and makes you a home cooked meal. your favorite dish, plated to perfection with a fresh stock of your favorite flowers in a vase at the centre of the table. he makes sure to set aside a portion in case you want seconds.
“you could’ve at least told me you were coming. i would’ve gotten dressed,” you said, pouting a little in your oversized shirt and hair undone.
“what for? the point of this is to not inconvenience you,” he says, not bothering to look up as he continues with his meal.
“…and i like you better like this, anyway,” he mutters.
because to a man like tsukishima kei, real love is a verb, somewhere between consideration and care. something synonymous to tranquility.
that’s why he loves taking care of you, and why he’s sat on the couch as you’re sitting on the floor with your legs criss-crossed on top of each other. your laptop is propped up on the coffee table in front of you as you type furiously, eager to finish your essay so you could spend more time with kei.
kei brushes your hair gently, slowly untangling the knots. he handles you with so much ease, so much tenderness, and when he finishes, he gives you a kiss on top of your head.
because he knows that you know that it’s more than just hair brushing—it’s quality time spent together in silence, as your respective individuals with your own respective thoughts.
but at the end of the day, after you’ve turned in your essay and the world is right again, you crawl into the couch with him and melt into one. and it always fascinates kei how two bodies could fit together so perfectly.
tsukishima kei loved quietly, subtly, privately. so much so that no one could even come close enough to you to ruin what you had. because the less people know, the less they can ruin.
that’s also why he holds you extra tight tonight, and why he’ll always prefer at-home dates: because he can love you freely without watching eyes.
