I thought about this the other day and it’s taken me ages to finally put it into words, but I’ve been thinking of a tattoo artist!bf Tsukishima and he’s the cutest everrr
(tsukki is maybe 30/31 ? In this fic and the reader is 25? idk somewhere there)
You’re much prettier than you think you are.
You walked into his workshop with a small smile on your face, always intimidated by the dark mood of the tattoo parlour.
“Hi,” you whisper, smiling up at him for the first time that day. You’re holding a brown bag in your hands, expertly shielding the inside from the eyes of your lover.
“Hey.” He wastes no time and quickly places a kiss on your forehead. “What’s in there?”
“Ah! It’s your lunch.”
“My lunch.” A tone of skepticism is found in his voice, head tilted at the idea of you spending unnecessary time on his lunch. (A chocolate bar, a cigarette, and maybe some coffee would have sufficed.)
“It’s a sandwich with some chocolate milk and a few caramel candies cause I know how much you love those,” you rant as you begin to empty the bag, placing each food item onto his black tattooing bed.
“You didn’t have to do all this, kid.” He’s looking down at your sandwich—you’ve cut it to form a little bear, and Tsukishima cringes a bit.
“I wanted to.”
You prop yourself onto the tattooing chair, watching as your Kei walks closer and closer towards you.
“What did I tell you about unnecessary things?” He leans down to bite your earlobe, his tattooed hand on your waist, rough fingertips grazing the exposed skin.
“It’s not unnecessary if I want to do it,” you groan when he bites down harder, pushing him away from you. You giggle, “Leave my ear alone!”
A harmless roll to his eyes, “you taste great.”
Tsukishima Kei is many things.
He’s strong, he has a confident aura that surrounds his every move, and he loves you. He watches wordlessly as you trace his arms, fingers running over the dark, inked skin.
“Would you ever tattoo me if I asked you to?”
The question is one you’ve never asked, for you have never shown much interest in having your own tattoos. You’ve told him that you much prefer his ink—you love filling out the shapes and designs with paint, something that’s become a daily routine for you both.
“Depends on what it is.”
His fingers soon find a home on your cheeks, squeezing the flesh with slight force.
“What about your name?” You voice is muffled and unintelligible, but your Kei laughs at your slight misfortune.
“Don’t be fuckin’ stupid.”
“Why not?” You whine and bring him closer to you. His face contorts in slight bewilderment—the sudden affection shocking him—and he pushes you a way slightly. “You have my name on your forearm.”
“That’s because I’m me and you’re you, kid.”
“So?”
“So, you’re not getting my name tattooed.”
His firm voice is enough to shut you up, but you’re not exactly to back down just yet.
“You’re a hypocrite.”
“And you’re too stubborn.”
This time, he shuts you up with a kiss to your lips. It’s soft, passionate, and captures the essence of who Tsukishima is. He takes you in and breathes you out.
