tsukishima is a petty bitch. he wasn’t born male or female, he was born a fucking drama queen. and he’s your boyfriend too? yeah, good luck solider.
you took the last slice of his stupid strawberry shortcake. you weren’t thinking, you told yourself. you didn’t even think about it! it was a moment of temptation, a unbearable craving late at night while drafting an unreasonably long essay that you procrastinated. but kei ain’t having any of it. you ate his sweet treat, so here the two of you are, kei on the other side of the small living room space, glaring down at his book with crossed lanky legs and a mess of blonde locks. you just finished the dishes and your approaching him for the millionth time, in an attempt for redemption for your crimes. “kei, baby—
he grimaces at the nickname. he likes the endearment but as of now he knows the tricks up your sleeves. “don’t pull that out now.” he grumbles back, clicking his tongue in annoyance and flipping the next page of his book with his long fingers. you groan in annoyance, getting on your knees, next to the couch and intertwining your hands together in mock prayer. “oh come on kei! please? i did not have evil intentions! i was fucking hungry and suffering!” you cried out with furrowed brows, as if you were pleading your innocence in goddamn court. he looks down with disdain, rolling his eyes and placing a hand on your forehead in an attempt to shove you fully away, almost making you fall on your ass in the process. but you simply laugh and push his rather large veiny hand away. you let out an exaggerated sigh, scooting across the carpet and generously placing your head on his lap. you smile up at him, soft and tender, nuzzling close and reaching for his hand before he pulls away, flipping you off but with a quick and reluctant sigh grabs it in his hand and mingles his hand into yours.
“sooo do you forgive me?” you drawl out, low and conspiratorially, looking up at him with big eyes and a hopeful smile.
“no.” he remarks, adjusting his glasses sliding down his nose. but he’s what you call a, “liar, liar, pants on fire.” he lets go of your shared intertwined hands, his hands now finding their way to your hair. gently grazing through and playing with the fine strands tenderly.
you smirk, all knowing and satisfied with your success of a plan. but it doesn’t last long, because he interrupts that celebration with a flick to your forehead.
“so when are we going to the cafe, huh? your paying.” he mutters, putting down his book and arching a brow.
he always pays, liar.
