(timeskip era, fluff, awkward tsuki)
│ random wheel chose: tsukishima + tender devotion + awkward yearning
random wheel requested by 🍓anon
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tsukishima’s apartment is warm in that subtle, lived-in way he’ll never admit he maintains for you.
the heater hums low. the lamp on the side table casts a soft gold over the couch. there’s a folded blanket draped over the armrest — the one he pretends he keeps there for “guests,” even though you’re the only person who ever uses it.
he opens the door for you with a quiet, “hey,” stepping aside so you can slip in. he watches you take off your coat, watches you shake the cold from your fingers, watches you breathe in the warmth like you belong here.
he swallows, eyes flicking away before you notice.
you don’t comment on it.
you’re used to his small hesitations by now — the way he looks at you for a second too long, then immediately pretends he didn’t. the way he steps a little closer before remembering he’s supposed to be cool about you. the way he keeps the apartment warm because you get cold easily, but tells you it’s “just the building’s heating system.”
you pad into the living room, setting your bag down and curling onto the couch with that familiar ease that twists something in his chest.
“long day?” he asks, sitting beside you — not too close, not too far.
“you have no idea,” you laugh softly.
he does, though. he always does. you texted him earlier, a tired little “today sucks,” and he’d immediately put water on to boil, knowing you’d come over after your shift.
he hands you a mug of tea now, warm and steady in his palms. “here.”
you smile against the rim. “you’re good at this.”
“at what,” he mutters, pretending he doesn’t know.
“taking care of me.”
tsukishima stares straight ahead at the wall, ears going faintly pink. “i’m not.”
“you are.”
he doesn’t answer, but his shoulders relax a little. that’s his tell — you’ve learned to read him in the quiet.
you talk to him about your day. he listens quietly, arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers twitching now and then like he wants to brush your shoulder but thinks better of it.
awkward yearning. always there with him.
halfway through your story, your head tilts against his shoulder — a soft, tired little lean that feels more natural than breathing at this point.
tsukishima goes still. not frozen, not startled — just… holding still, like he doesn’t want to startle you away.
“kei?” you murmur.
“yeah.”
“you okay?”
he clears his throat. “you’re really close.”
“is that a problem?”
“no.” it comes out too fast. he tries again, quieter. “no. it’s fine.”
you hide a smile and shift even closer, your temple brushing his jaw. his breath stutters. he hopes you didn’t hear it. you did.
“you always get weird when i’m affectionate,” you tease lightly.
“i don’t get weird,” he mutters, staring very intently at absolutely nothing.
“you do.”
“i don’t.”
“kei.”
he finally glances down at you — brief, soft, like looking at the sun for a second too long.
“i just…” he swallows, searching for words that don’t come easily to him. “i don’t want to… screw it up.”
your chest warms. “you couldn’t.”
he looks away again, jaw clenched in that way he gets when he’s trying not to feel something too strongly. his hand shifts slightly behind you, fingers brushing your shoulder — hesitant at first, then steadier when you don’t pull away.
the room is quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the faint clink of your mug when you set it down.
“come here,” you say gently.
tsukishima doesn’t move, but he turns his head just enough for you to guide him in — one hand on his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
the kiss is soft. barely more than a breath. warm. careful. the kind of kiss that feels like a question he’s too scared to ask out loud.
he exhales shakily against your lips.
when you pull back, his eyes stay half-lidded, like he’s still processing the fact that it actually happened. that you actually want him. that he’s not imagining the warmth in your hands.
“you okay?” you whisper again.
he nods, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.
“yeah,” he says quietly. “just… didn’t think you’d want to.”
“kei,” you say, smiling softly as you lean your forehead to his, “i wouldn’t be here if i didn’t.”
he lets out a slow, steady breath — the kind that feels like something uncoiling inside him. his hand settles on your back, warm and certain.
“stay awhile?” he asks, voice barely above a murmur.
“i was planning to.”
your fingers slide gently along his jaw, and he closes his eyes for a moment like the touch is something he’s been waiting for without realizing it.
the heater hums. the room glows soft gold. his thumb brushes your hip without thinking.
and tsukishima, softer than he means to be, stays close. close enough to feel your breaths blend, close enough for the room to settle around the two of you like it’s been waiting for this the whole time.
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random wheel requested by 🍓anon
this one turned out so cute! the wheel blessed me ugh
I used to know what to say.
I used to have a list.
Of people to keep safe,
of things to bless,
of thanks to give.
It was easy once.
Back when I believed that kindness was armor.
Back when I thought faith was something you earned
by being small and good and always smiling.
Back when I thought if I kept my promises—
you would keep yours too.
But now… I don’t know what to ask for.
Because I asked you for him.
I asked you to bless this love.
I asked you to keep my heart steady.
I asked you to make me gentle, holy, beautiful in the kind of way someone stays for.
And he still left.
So now I sit here
with folded hands
and nothing to fold into.
Because I don’t want to ask for something I know you won’t give me.
And I don’t want to pretend I’m not angry.
Yes, I said it.
I’m angry.
At him.
At me.
At you.
I’m angry that I kept showing up with an open heart
and he kept showing up with empty hands.
I’m angry that I stayed good
and still got broken.
And maybe that’s not fair.
Maybe that’s not how it works.
But it’s how it feels.
Still… I don’t want to stop talking to you.
Even if I don’t have the words.
Even if all I can offer is the silence
between Our Father and Amen.
So if you’re still listening—
Please hold the parts of me I can’t hold right now.
Please see me, even when I don’t shine.
Please don’t leave, even when I don’t pray the right way.
