a montage of everything a soft pulse touches

tsukishima kei x reader . . . cw / tsukki has a back tattoo. fluff. not proofread and i am sleepy. i dreamt about this lmao. notes / when will i stop writing for this 6ft stickbug pls. (gn again im gonna eep)

tsukishima kei, years after high school, now in his mid-twenties. no longer the snot-nosed looking teenager that he once was, more taller, and softer and tender and so much more forgiving of himself— allowing his vulnerabilities to slip through quite easily with you.

then there's the tattoo, one he doesn't tell you about until now.

you only find out when the two of you are lounging at home one night, moonlight filtering through the curtains, bathing his skin in a dim-lit glow, low music humming in the background. he's lying facedown on the bed, his shirt discarded, and his glasses abandoned on the bedside table. he almost fooled you, making it seem like he’s sleeping, with slow breaths and closed eyes.

you see it clearly, the moon cycle inked onto his back.

“love,” you murmur, your voice laced with curiosity, careful as to confirm if he’s actually out like a light or not, “when were you planning to tell me about this?”

he stiffens almost instinctively, your fingers trace the faint outlines of his shoulder blades, trying to ease him. he turns his head slightly, one eye peeling open, the corner of his mouth curves in faint amusement, as if he didn’t anticipate getting caught in the first place. “wasn’t planning to.”

your hands explore the tattoo—the phases of the moon, spanning the breadth of his back and etched in crisp black ink. each phase feels like a pulse of one’s heartbeat you’ve come to learn and memorize, mirroring the cycles of your lives together: waxing, waning, full, and new.

“why the moon?” you ask softly, running a fingertip along the crescent. you’d never have guessed that the man you’ve come to love had anything as sentimental as this. feels like another layer of intimacy you’ve set foot on, a secret unearthed by the only person he’s planned to reveal it, almost as if this occurrence was already predetermined by him.

he trusts you so much it hurts, in a good way.

he hums, burying his face into the pillow, muffling his voice. “it’s for you.”

“for me?”

“yeah. don’t make me explain it—it’s embarrassing,” he grumbles, his ears tinged red. even more so when you chuckle whilst letting your hand caress his back.

but you can’t stop smiling, “no, no, kei. you can’t drop something like that and not explain.”

he groans into the pillow, but you don’t miss the way his fingers twitch against the sheets, betraying his nerves. after a beat, he rolls over onto his side, propping his head up with one hand, the other resting on his stomach, he looks at you and—your smile curls into a smirk, raising one eyebrow playfully—and then he urges you to join him.

so you do. cuddling into him as he sigh in faux resignation and gently planting a kiss to your temple. the old habits from his teenage years die hard.

“it’s... stupid,” he starts, hesitating.

you interrupt, your voice gentle but insistent. “i want to know.”

he exhales, trying to steel himself, his gaze fixating somewhere over your shoulder. “it’s the phases of the moon. you know, waxing, waning... all that.”

“i can see it, thanks,” you tease lightly, earning yourself a flat look.

“let me finish,” he mutters, his cheeks slightly pink. he fiddles with the hem of the blanket before continuing, quieter now. “it’s... because you remind me of the moon. you’re constant—always there—even if i’m too blind or stupid to notice it sometimes. and even when things feel... off, like everything’s dark, i know you’re still there, just waiting to come back.”

your chest tightens, his words sinking into you, pulls you in like gravity.

“you’re always changing, too,” he adds, his voice steady but soft. “growing, shifting... but still you. and i—” he pauses, swallowing thickly before meeting your gaze again, his expression open and raw in a way the ache never buries itself, only stretched into a shelter inside you that is love. “i just wanted something permanent. something for me. to remind me of you, even when you’re not... here.”

you blink rapidly, trying to keep your emotions in check, but your voice wavers when you respond. “...that’s not stupid at all.”

he scoffs lightly, looking away again, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips. “a little, still.”

“it’s perfect,” you counter, sliding closer to press your forehead against his. “and you’re lucky you explained it, or i might’ve cried.”

“you’re already crying,” he points out, brushing a thumb against your cheek, his voice teasing but tender.

“my bad.”

he laughs quietly, you stare at the moon with warmth.

his thumb lingers on your cheek, tracing gentle circles, “you’re ridiculous,” you say, though your voice carries no malice—just a kind of awe tinged in disbelief. “keeping this to yourself for so long…”

he shrugs one shoulder, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

“you have an entire tattoo on your back—dedicated to me—and you thought it wasn’t worth mentioning?”

he opens his mouth to respond but falters, and for a second, you see the remnants of his old high school self, the boy who avoids vulnerability like it was a volleyball hurtling toward him. but he doesn’t retreat now, he lets you see him in full view.

“it’s not that i didn’t want to tell you,” he admits. “it’s just… i didn’t know how. or when. and i guess…” he trails off, his brows knitting together like he’s trying to piece together the right words. “i guess i wanted it to be... ours, you know? just ours. something no one else gets to know about.”

you cup his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, and he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut.

“kei,” you murmur, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “you’re incredible, you know that?”

his eyes flutter open, half-lidded gaze as he blinks to your lips, “you’re being dramatic.”

“no, i’m being honest,” pressing a kiss to his forehead as you continue, “you’re incredible, and this—” your hand moves to trace the outline of his tattoo again, arms stretched to reach his back, fingers light and reverent. “this means the world to me.”

you hear the slight hitch of his breath. the way his arms tighten around you says more than words ever could. “i’m glad you like it,” he murmurs eventually, breathless.

“i love it. just like i love you.”

“good,” he says, his voice teasing but soft. “because i don’t plan on getting rid of it.”

“good,” you echo, settling back against him, your head resting on his chest. you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, it’s telling you what you already know, but always search for a reminder: you’re home with him.

the two of you stay like that for a while, until kei speaks again,

“i guess this means you’re stuck with me now,” he says, his tone light but tinged with something deeper. he chuckles to himself, “i love you, too.” and he’s glad these words are already carved to his skin. his own museum he’s carved just for you.

anyways, haikyuu oc art that mutual sol has shaken me into. my darling etsuko :)

he wouldn’t call himself an artist, but he does have the skill. i think he keeps a sketchpad hidden somewhere within his shelf, pages filled with you; doodles, sketches, sketches your favorite things like a book or trinket or flowers

tsukki likes to make fun of you for your bedrotting habit. and then does the exact same (he likes it more when you’re beside him and bedrotting the entire afternoon)

makes you breakfast whenever you’re grumpy in the morning

he doesn’t seem too interested in your random queries (like the ever so loving and cute glob that you are) early on your relationship, but after a while he’ll go along with whatever that brain of yours tries to conjure something stupid

literally finds you cute in everything you do. proof? he pinches your cheek a lot—even when you’re not doing anything in particular

secretly LOVES to be the little spoon!!! + naps are so heavenly when you’re beside him. on the rare nights you sleep over at his place, he ends up getting the best rest; your arms wrapped around him even when he’s turned away, holding him close until morning

skincare is a must. doesn’t have to be a ten-step kinda thing, just quietly massaging each other’s faces and letting the face mask sit until he can sneak a picture or two, is more than enough

stays on call with you until you fall asleep, then stays up for another hour in case you wake up—this is especially important for him because he can’t handle you suffering with your sleeping problems (or when he knows you have a lot on your mind)

made at least seven different and carefully curated playlists dedicated to you

also gets emotional when you specifically take a lyric from a song that describes your feelings for him—the softest smile would appear on his face. kisses you on the forehead to simply show his appreciation

gives you so many tender and soft touches when you’re both alone, does it unconsciously too ><

craving doesn’t exactly describe it. it’s like he’s learned how to crave it in a way that’s unconsciously done. in a way he’s known since forever on how to interlock fingers and shove your hands both in his pocket. in a way that—he might have even lied to you about hating pda in the first place.

you can’t forget that scrunched up face he made seeing your peers doing… revolting things, as he phrased it, but when you followed his line of sight, you’re only met with the most timid looking couples gigging to each other, face so close as if they’ve just shared a sweet secret under their breath.

“they’re cute.” you look back at him, see how his eyes soften through his glasses. a half smile forming. then blinks away as he mutters,

“no they’re not.”

‘but they are!”

you scoff at him. that night, he kisses you tenderly on the forehead before he walks out your door, ending your study session in the softness that he thrives in under quiet, private spaces. “you can have my notes, don’t stay up too long.”

“okay, mister ‘i hate pda but i’d spoil you with kisses in private’ tsukishima”

“do you want me to revoke your privileges?”

it’s even funnier thinking about it now. he was never the same after the third date, when he kissed your hand before holding them as you amble your way through the aquarium. or the fourth date, when he doesn’t seem bothered resting his chin over your shoulder while being sandwhiched in a crowded highway bus. or the four months in, a greeting is never a greeting unless its in the form of a hug. he could only sigh and offer his arms wide open, trying (and failing) to hide his gorgeous smile once he wraps his arms around you, all snuggly and oblivious to the peering gazes around you.

by the time he realizes, it’s already too late.

“kei?”

he freezes mid-bite of his shortcake, eyeing your own slice held up for him to take. he complies without a word and—to your satisfaction, munches it with a hum of approval. you can’t help but chuckle and think he’s cute. unbothered.

“you know i’m starting to trust your adventurous nature-” you halved your cake, bring the other to his lips, and if it wasn’t for the little grin you’re sporting right now—

he eyes the cake,

then to you,

you can see the little gears shifting in his big brain from the way he blinks and raise a brow. lips slightly parted.

“wait-”

looks like he’s finally snapped out of it.

you mutter a small ‘sorry’ as you watch through the window a couple smacking each other’s lips across the street, casually directing your fork towards yourself. it was fun while it lasted, you finally have more reasons to tease him later too—

“i want a bite.”

you sputter out, “huh?” tsukishima kei looks bashful, but also staring down at you as if you’ve personally offended him. either way, you’re a bit dumbfounded to even move, let alone register what he had just said.

he scoffs. then grabbed your arm, guiding the slice you’re holding back to his mouth.

he munches it much more slowly, ear’s pink, looking anywhere but you.

“you good?” you ask, holding back a chuckle.

“mmhm.” he nods. wordless, inviting you to never speak anything about it either.

and to his luck, you never did. just basked in the affections you both give and receive. after all, who cares about pda?

he walks you home, hand in his. he demands a kiss before you go, and you give him without thought.

060226 ⋆˚꩜｡𓂃 parfum d’étoiles, ichiko aoba.

initially, you refuse to admit it, though your fascination slips past the aisle of your thoughts and starts to form in the rhythmic way you tread your fingers through his golden hair, eventually conceding as you comment. “your hair is so soft.”

tsukishima kei hums, eyes shut as he lay on your chest, feeling his scalp being massaged gently as you untangle the tensions.

“you sleepy?”

“yeah. sorry.”

“don’t be, get some rest.” you say, eliciting a yawn from him.

“is it normal to feel sleepy around your partner?”

“i guess so, heard they can regulate your nervous system or something.”

“you stress me out sometimes.”

you raise a brow, pausing your ministrations, eager to tease and be teased. “okay, and?"

“you love to ragebait me.”

“so do you?”

you see the wrinkling of his brow first before the purse of his lips, almost as if he's pouting. "it's not my fault, you're too easy anyway. and who said you could stop?"

you hum this time, fingers stayed put. "stop what?"

with his eyes closed and a scoff, his expression twists even more into something close to hesitation, "i see you, wipe that grin off your face."

"dunno what you're talking about, darling."

you like to think he's refusing to admit to the fact that he likes being teased by you—no, you're certain. you know him just as much.

long and sluggish arms snuggle your figure, he kicks off the blanket from his waist to reveal the expanse of his broad chest and exposing his calf down, only wearing boxers while the rain pours with intermittent strength. he mumbles against your chest, lips kissing the midline of your torso where the sternum protrudes, you feel his body sharing warmth, engulfing you whole.

then, he mutters, "please."

"please, what?"

he lifts his head to look at you, glasses left aside on your nightstand. his eyes are mellowed out so much you can't take his annoying expression seriously, holding your stare for a short minute, before succumbing to his fate, a subject to your whims. "please massage my hair like that."

"wasn't so hard now, was it?"

he can only dignify with a low groan. sighing when you finally continue to stroke his hair. "thank you."

"don't mention it."

you know you could stay like this forever, even when your blanket is strewn on the floor, or his weight on top of you, or how he becomes softer against the steady pulse of the rain. you wouldn't trade it for the world.

070825 TSUKISHIMA KEI where his heart is in your hand.

an attempt at sentimentality would normally come as a surprise for anyone who’s met tsukishima kei. 

luckily enough, you know him in a way most people don’t. 

you know him by what his name brings: a song played on repeat, endless streams of laughter in each trial & error at baking, something too sweet and too messy, secrets shared under the moon’s graces, a fight that left a three month bruise where your heart nearly drops to the sea bed, where if he tried to search it out of shame, breathlessly chasing, your body would never soften again from his touch. 

you know him by how memory paints him tender, an earthly scent wafting from an unexpected rain in the middle of summer. you know him by his wordless funk; hand on your shoulder when nothing needs saying and gladly eats the shitty stuff on your fridge together with you. a really quiet ‘i’m sorry’ pressed between hugs and fingers tracing the years you’ve spent together as you memorise the shape of his broad back. and when you meet his gaze across the sidewalk a week after, you wonder if his smiles always seemed to look like that— so inexplicably bare. forthright. easy. 

you find out, one spring later, that it only ever comes easy because it’s you. 

the courtyard smells a lot like beginnings and endings. 

brushing against shoulders and blazers, you melt into laughter that rise and fall with the tide of goodbyes. you catch his eye, standing all tall and composed, but framed like the softness as if the world had tilted just right for warmth to cradle him. his jacket hangs just slightly open, the fabric looser now. no longer needed to be worn. you huff a chuckle at how formal he still looks, despite everything.

you pretend to shy away from him, hoping to look for someone else. but he’s walking towards you. naturally. inevitably. and like all things, you can’t help but stare in awe.

without a word, he reaches for his jacket uniform. plucking out with careful hands on his second button. he lifts your own hand and gently spread your palm, pressing it gently until he lets you curl your fingers around it. feel the weight of everything he has offered.

“don’t lose it, okay?” 

it’s stupidly small, but heavy and warm from being next to his heart all day. “you know i won’t.” and when you look up, you think he already knows. like this has been a long time coming. 

you finally understand—at what he is, what he always will be— that this is where you know him best: 

an attempt at sentimentality, a surprise to everyone.

but never, ever to you. 

© MARISOLLS 2025 thank you for reading!

content. fluff for comfort. not edited. prompted by anon ask: when did tsukishima realize he’s in love with you?

notes. self-promoting this playlist for the extra feels! ily, this is for you my dear.

“when did you realize you were in love with me?”

oh. tsukishima kei exhales softly. he sets his phone down. looks at you as if you’ve said something stupid (or painfully obvious. though the question sounds too genuine for him to simply leave you hanging, thus concluding that you are in fact, stupid.)

he blinks away after a few heartbeats before he responds with a deadpan remark.

“how random of you.”

“thanks, now answer me.”

he gives you a hum. debating. or more like he’s actually thinking— when did he? 

(if he could give himself three hours into deep cleaning his room, he’d find a crumpled paper of a back-and-forth note tossed during a class in middle school. one that you initiated with your stupid penmanship he can’t seem to read. he remembers giving you a scoff after you confessed on the note, he remembers catching the glimpse of hurt wanting to trickle down your eyes but performed to shine instead with a smile. you walked home together with yamaguchi as if nothing happened. 

yet somehow tears stained the paper that night, with a penmanship much cleaner than yours. and then he buried them in between pages of a book he hasn’t seen in years.) 

he feels a weight on his shoulder, the scent of your shampoo guides him back into tenderness and nostalgia. he slightly adjusts himself, bringing comfort as you both reminisce.

(“tsukki. what’s taking you so long?” 

yamaguchi stands close beside him. and he smells like sweet osmanthus the way your grandma really likes. he looks through the cooler and mulls over whether he should treat you lychee or yakult because you’re too indecisive on the phone, voice gravel with sleep. “should i get both?” 

“they’d probably drink them at the same time.” 

“i don’t think thats a bad thing.”

yamaguchi chuckles. 

tsukishima takes both, and brings them to the counter when his friend says, “aren’t you spoiling them.” 

he grimaces, astounded, “i just don’t want them complaining nonstop if i got the wrong one.” 

when he visits your home, your grandma always ruin yamaguchi’s hair by ruffling it a little too much, gushes about how much of a lovely boy he is. and him, cheeks hurt from squeezing and nagging him to eat more. honestly, he should’ve just lend yamaguchi to you. he’s got more homework piled up than any other nights he’s had, got more things to worry about than the random sickness you’ve caught out of nowhere.

he walks up to your room, grows a habit of knocking two times to let you know that it’s him. when you don’t answer, he rolls his eyes and tries turning the knob open.

there’s a hill of clothes in the corner of your room, a date on the calendar circled in bold marker indicating your 16th birthday. and you, curled up on your bed and coughing like a sick victorian child, looking miserable and spent.

“i can’t believe you’re still managing to stay alive.”

“please get out of my room.” you sound awful, he thinks. maybe he should’ve chosen something healthier to offer to you.  

“i wish i could.” he crouches in order to look at you. even though your eyes are closed. “but guess who insisted on spending my remaining pocket money because someone’s dying from—“ he sputters a laugh, “sickness or craving?” 

you mumble something through your comforter, though he knows its nothing more than a muffled groan. he laughs harder and softer this time, and sets down the plastic bag on your nightstand. tiny particles floating within the ray of dusk from your window, poured into your room. he wonders if its the cool air or the proximity, but he can smell something sweet, sweeter than osmanthus, sweeter than your grandma who constantly nags. 

“you bought the lychee?” 

“and yakult.” 

you turn your head away, “…thanks.” 

“hm? what did you say?” he leans in, smug laced in his tone. “i think i deserve more than just a ‘thanks.’”

“if you don’t want to catch these sick germs of mine, you better leave.” 

he doesn’t. quite the opposite, he stays for a bit until the blood orange from your window drowns in blue. his chin propped against your sheets as you sleep away without knowledge of his presence. 

“tsukki, granny baked us a— oh.” 

tsukishima doesn’t bother recalling the details after, but he doesn’t seem to let go of the urge to buy you a pack of lychee after learning that it’s one of your ‘faves.

on the day you turned seventeen, he gifts you a pack of it. but he knows you’re sweeter than anything in the world.)

maybe he never realized he’s in love until you actually found someone. maybe it’s when he slowly softened over the years of your friendship. maybe he always knew ever since you were thirteen and that he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you again. couldn’t bear hurting you ever. the creased paper a perpetual reminder that seared enough in every moment spent with you. maybe it’s when he caught himself searching for flowers to supposedly ‘comfort’ you after your date stood you up. 

(four januarys ago, you’ve stained his shirt with gruesome tears after being sore from all the standing and waiting and hoping on valentines. he didn’t have to ask you what happened. you’ve been tearing his ears off the night before that you’re finally meeting your long distance, four months in, and a ‘loving’ partner. you passed out on the couch after crying your arse off, and he…he had chocolates ready, just sitting patiently on the top of his fridge. he searched for flowers online as he tucked you in. so when you wake up, you won’t have to wonder on completely nonsensical things like being a second choice. 

he should’ve told you right off the bat that this ‘person’ of yours was an asshole.

nineteen years in and he has to admit. he’s not really any better. he can still feel the texture of a paper crumpled beneath his palm. can still taste something salty and guilt that won’t stop flooding the night of your silly confession. 

hesitant, he tries to brush your hair aside, kiss your forehead as you snore away the bitterness of nineteen.)

“i think it was when i kissed you out of a dare.” you pull him out of it, tapping his palm two times as you muse. 

“uh, no.” he says it almost immediately, “that’s too far off.” 

“really?” 

(you were both twenty. drunk off campus. you taste of sauce-dipped salmon slice and reek of drunk, long stewed fervour. someone dared you to kiss him. you didn’t even hesitate. just grabbed his cheeks and pressed a sloppy one to his mouth, laughing. everyone laughed while something throbs against his throat. and when he drives you back to your studio, he can’t even—stay mad at you. though he was at first, tried holding on until he realizes how stupid you look. he’s not one to be lenient, but with you, he’d take the extra mile to be patient. because it’s you. always been you.

he scoffs softly, you started crying out of guilt.

“i’m so sorry,” you let out a wince, “i’ll never get drunk around you again.”  

he raises one brow, tilts his head and lean a little to your face, still warm and red “just around me?” 

you nod. one of your dreams consist of kissing him since— well, since you know. but not like this. mouth filled with all the wrongs you can’t speak of. you twist your fingers around the loose thread of your worn sweater, blink away any stray tears left to fall. it never feels good to pine. 

it feels like you can’t tame it with language, stuck being a wordless funk forever.) 

“so that means, you already knew before that?”

“something like that.” 

you end up nuzzling against his chest, yawning in between your words. “you sure like to keep a lot of secrets from me.” 

“not a lot.” he combs your hair through his fingers. rain starts to fall outside. he engulfs you in his arms for a long while until a yawn escapes his own. “just one.” 

(that same night, tsukishima kissed your forehead, looking at you as if he meant it. “this is payback.” 

“oh.”

he gifts you another. throws away the pride before the fall. “kiss me again when you’re not drunk, okay?”)

“so that’s why you asked me to kiss you again.”

“—when you’re not drunk.”

humming, you intertwine your fingers with his. a touch that feels too reminiscent of your childhood together. staring at your hand until it bleeds when he closes the curtain of his eyes, your preference for sweet scented cologne— where will his life take him if he had sent back his response to your confession?

probably not here. where he tucks you in for a nap instead of properly answering the question. its obvious isn’t it? yamaguchi knows, its honestly surprising he kept his mouth shut this long, yachi considered it, but ultimately couldn’t, knowing tsukishima could have done the same.

everything has led to this moment, a love not impulsive nor juvenile. not too early nor too late. he buries the letter to promise himself to do better in the future, knowing that he knows nothing about love— but tries to learn it because he feels it’s true. and real. and something like it could be told forever.

he steps into twenty three knowing everything there is to know. not all, but what he considers important ; where his happiness comes, where his love will take him, where your hands have finally fit between his.

BURY ME IN THE RUSE

pairing. tsukishima kei x reader. part of the snowflake collab w @dira333 ♥︎ content. fake dating trope gone wrong right. kei is very soft bc i said so. 1k wc. thank you sm for proofreading @stellar-headquarters ily

tsukishima can never really tell the depth in which your secrets are entombed. confused if you’re even trying, if you knew how to bury something well and alive. a secret that has a pulse and breathes loudly to prove its existence. 

“do you think he’ll—“ he quickly shushes you, heart throbbing in fear as your trembling hands go numb from the cold. tsukishima holds them for you, presses his palms together and provides you something close to safety— like he’s giving you a promise, and he’s also giving you the call if you should accept it. 

but nothing is more relieving than him being here with you, pretending he’s yours just so your stalker could finally give up and leave you the fuck alone. “hey,” he whispers, eyes frantic and searching for your gaze. “look at me. i’m here.” 

you nod, focusing on the way the darkness of the alleyway paints him a little mellow and blue. your breathing steadies after several minutes, though it isn’t guaranteed if the stalker lost his way after trying to fuck up your peaceful life. it sets you off, and you’ve learned to be so good at hiding yourself, away from what could threaten anything you’ve worked hard on. but that made you allergic to asking for help, made you sick to your stomach knowing you could cry in front of someone as you begged for it. 

he wipes your tears, guides your arms into a hug as you bury yourself against his chest, “shh. it’s okay.” it has been a month since he agreed to be your boyfriend, one month of learning to slot your fingers between the spaces of his hand, one month of trying to stop him from kissing you on the forehead every after a date. one month of him carving a space of security for you that you don’t deserve. a month of him being the victim of your tender, bruised longing. 

because really, who are you trying to fool? 

“i think he’s gone.” he blinks at his wristwatch, checks the surroundings while he’s holding you. “come on, i’ll take you home.” 

you needed a bit more convincing, but you step out together with him, walking away as fast as you could without looking too far back. tsukishima’s arm serves as an anchor, looking like he’s ready to sprint just as you are. 

when you arrive at your apartment, you check through the window while tsukishima locks everything. grabs your taser and puts it somewhere he can easily access, just in case the stalker breaks in. he tells you he can stay in for the night—insists, actually—even as you kept shaking your head no, and ready to cry any second. 

“being stubborn right now isn’t gonna do you any good.” he says, voice harsh with worry, skin pale, and hair disheveled from running his hand through it over and over, his glasses hanging askew. he squeezes your shoulder in such a grounding way that it forces you to breathe deeply and sigh in defeat. 

you fix his glasses in place, “sorry...just- just for the night, then.”

“alright.” his hand rests on your cheek, planting a firm, gentle kiss on your forehead like a habit, making you forget that you’re not rightfully his, before deciding that you need a shower.

“oh, i’ll start a bath for you.” a smile plays on his lips, looking softer than he is. it feels like he knows something you don’t. 

you wait, sitting on your bed like an awkward sack of shit. surely there must be something wrong with you, the fact that you ooze with trouble, and the way that you can’t cut anything, even as you bleed from it. you had him roped into this mess, but he’s— god, he’s so good to you. he does these things that make you swing like a pendulum, never on the verge of falling off because he makes it seem as though he can catch you anytime. 

“it’s ready now-” he calls your name, confused. you look up at him with a blurry vision, melting completely as he approaches, sitting on his knees in front of you, with concern etched on his face. “what’s gotten you so sad again?”

“you’ve done a lot for me.” you sniff, making him chuckle as he calls you a crybaby. “i love you, you know?” 

it’s hot on your skin, burning along the truth laid bare. “this one month with you has been the worst and best time of my life. but i can’t. i can’t do this to you.” 

“bullshit.” he denies, wide-eyed and jaw slack. shaking his head slowly as though to emphasize, “you can do anything to me. i don’t care.” 

“tsukish-” 

“kei.”

firefly. one that makes light for himself, one that he shares with you. “please, just kei.”

you don’t know what comes first, your lips on his or the way he slides his arms around the tender of your waist. it’s not scalding, no, but the warmth trickles down to your spine, knocks you out breathlessly as he sets down his glasses in one swift motion. he kisses you like he means it, that he’s sorry for uncovering you before you got the chance to dig into the soil. that he knows you before you do. 

you pull yourself back and catch your breath. resting your hand against his chest, feel the way his heart stutters. he pants too, his hold on your thighs firm as he lays his head down on your lap. “do you know how much i wanted to do that for a long time?”

for the first time since ever, you laugh. “do tell.”

“i love you.” he closed his eyes for a moment, heaving a sigh with the rise and fall of his back. “everyone knew except you. even though i was your boyfriend.”

the orange glow of the light makes his blonde locks shine even warmer, you comb it a few times as you hum, “you are my boyfriend now, no?” 

he looks up, the high swell of his cheeks tint a shade of pink as a smile brings the moon to confess, “yes, about time.”

the click of the lock had barely finished echoing through the quiet entryway before tsukishima kei’s hand was suddenly light. one moment he was gripping a paper bag heavy with honey garlic chicken wings—the next, he was staring at his own empty palm. 

the culprit: the love of his life, you. 

limbs paralyzed, hands still suspended in the air, he watches you retreating back as you scurry towards the kitchen, with a cackle so loud it bounces off the walls and reverberates his bones with untamed happiness. you’re just so hungry already, that you literally forgot to even greet your husband a kiss or coo him first before stealing the main event. 

he sighs, smirk forming around the corner of his lips. “i see,” he says, "i wasn't aware i’d walked into a nature documentary. is the hunter going to share, or should i just go back outside and forage for myself?”

“you can fend for yourself!” you holler, and he can’t help but chuckle at that. 

he steps out of his shoes, lining them up without haste while he listens to the frantic rustle of paper and the unmistakable clack of chopsticks being snapped apart in the other room. 

when he finally saunters into the kitchen, he leans against the counter, adjusting his glasses so the light caught the lenses, masking his eyes. you were already mid-bite, looking entirely too pleased with your heist.

"really impressive," he drawls, his eyes fixed not on the food but on you, looking so unbothered and snug in your nightgown. gazing from head to toe as he rests his head on his hand, exhaling through his nose while his shoulders fully relax. 

he reaches out, his long fingers plucking a stray grain of rice from the corner of your mouth— causing you to pause and finally, finally give him the attention he’s been craving ever since he got home. craving you more than the food itself. 

“if you're going to act like a scavenger, at least try to be a neat one," he murmurs, his tone dropping the tease for something a little more tired, and much more fond. "if you eat them all, i’m making you do the dishes for a week."

the silence that follows his threat is thick with the scent of honey and garlic, punctuated only by the sound of you chewing—a little slower now, eyes wide as you finally process the man leaning over you. 

he doesn’t shy his hand away immediately, his thumb lingers on your lower lip. and he feels warm all over. 

“…you’re late," you mumble around a piece of chicken, though the fire in your voice has died down into a guilty sort of sweetness. you nudge a container toward him with your elbow, a peace offering.

"i’m late because i was standing in line for the specific wings you texted me about three times today," he counters, finally pulling out the chair beside you. he doesn't sit properly; he slumps, his long legs tangling with yours under the small kitchen table. raising a brow, he asks, "and this is the thanks i get? grand larceny?"

he picks up a pair of chopsticks himself, but he doesn't go for the chicken. instead, he’s mesmerized by the way your hair is slightly mussed from a day spent indoors, the way the light from the overhead lamp reflects in your eyes. your smile doing more for his fatigue than any caffeine could. though granted he hates caffeine, anyway. 

“what you lookin’ at, hm?” you wave a wing in front of his face. “and stop looking at me like that.”

“like what?”

you shrug, suddenly aware of how you look. “like you’re going to eat me instead of the food.”

“i’m considering my options.” his voice dropping to a low, melodic hum. he leans in, close enough that you can smell the crisp night air still clinging to his jacket, and takes a bite—not of the wing you're holding out, but of a different one still in the box, his eyes never leaving yours.

“oh my god.” 

“got you.” 

he chews slowly, a genuine, albeit small, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "you win this round. but if i find a single drop of sauce on the sofa, i’m retiring from takeout duty permanently."

he’s lying, of course. he’d bring home the entire restaurant if it meant coming back to this every night.