#tymps the sick in the head song | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kentolove · 2 years

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Tymps

kinda badboy!tsukishima kei x reader

summary: He is strawberries and oranges and cigarettes. A man you will never understand, a man who is forever yours.

2.8k words

So why did I kiss him so hard late last Friday night? And keep on letting him change all my plans?

— Fiona Apple, “Tymps (The Sick in the Head Song)”

The first time you meet Tsukishima Kei, he’s carrying a large speaker in his hands. He struggles to ludge the piece of equipment into his small apartment door, and you can’t help but raise an eyebrow.

“Are you going to be making a lot of noise?” Are the first words you say to him.

He supposes it’s justified, since he’s your new neighbor that moved in two weeks prior. You hadn’t interacted with him at all, and the idea of a new, crazy-loud neighbor didn’t make you all that happy.

“Depends.” Is what he chooses to respond with, and you roll your eyes.

“On?”

“The genre of music I chose to listen to that night.”

He sounds pretentious. He is pretentious, and it looks like he knows it as well.

“I have a kitten next door. Don’t make too much noise or I’ll call the landlord.”

You realize that you’re being a bit harsher than you need to be, considering that he just moved in and has no knowledge of your animal adoption habits. You can’t find it in yourself to care.

“You have a cat?” You nod your head and he seems to ignore your snarkiness, “what’s its name?”

“Kitty.”

He stares at you for a minute.

“Cute name,” he almost scoffs, the sound a lot raspier than his normal tone.

“I don’t need your sarcasm,” you deadpan, and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not being sarcastic at all, sweetheart,” he smirks. “I’ll try to be quiet,” he begins to walk back into his apartment, the loudspeaker still struggling against the door frame. “For Kitty’s sake, not yours,” he adds, tilting his head and giving you a smile.

It’s practically an insult, but you let it fly over your head.

The next time you meet Tsukishima, he is sat on your apartment rooftop, smoking a cigarette.

“Smoking is bad for you,” you unnecessarily comment as you walk past him.

He turns around and is met with your back. He lets out a raspy scoff.

“Why would you care about what’s good or bad for me?” He stands up from his previous position, following you to the edge of the rooftop. He stands beside you and watches as you eye the horizon in front of you.

The night sky is mesmerizing. In the dim night sky, you can hardly see the smog that usually clouds the Tokyo night sky. Your apartment is the farthest thing from beautiful and pristine, but the balcony night sky makes up from the shabbiness of it all.

“I don’t care,” you turn to him, “it was just a simple comment.”

“Hm.”

He moves down to sit beside you. You can smell the tobacco emanating from him, along with the sweet scent of vanilla. You hate that he’s able to captivate you with his scent alone.

“What are you doing out here so late?” He breaks the silence with that husky tone of his.

“I like the moonlight,” you begin, “it’s calming.”

He nods his head as if he understands.

“I like to smoke,” his voice is almost a whisper, “it’s calming.”

A laugh escapes you. It’s not very loud—a hushed giggle—but Tsukishima finds himself smiling at the sight of it. Your eyes crinkle when you laugh. Small wrinkles form at the sides of your mouth and your shoulders move up. It’s cute, he thinks. All your little habits are endearing.

“Why are you smoking from up here?” You suddenly ask, head turning to look at him. You find his eyes already on you, looking at you with strong eyes that you can’t decipher.

“My roommate hates it when I smoke in there.”

“Maybe you should quit,” you stare at him some more. You notice the frown lines that seem to be permanently marked on his face. The marks somehow make him all the more alluring. “For him.”

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out with the concrete beside him. His hand moves to rest on top of yours.

“Sure.” You don’t move your hand away. His palm engulfs yours, and you feel his warmth radiate onto you. “For him.”

“Why are your clothes bloody?” Among the times that you have spoken to Tsukishima, today is the first time that he has initiated conversation.

“Ah,” you begin, staring at the bloody bright pink shirt you were holding. It does look oddly incriminating and dangerous, considering that it’s 2 AM and you’re the only two in the laundry room. “My cat got into a fight with one of the strays. She lost and bled—I was treating her wounds.”

“You’re not taking her to the vet?” He gives you a look that questions your true competence as a cat owner. You hate it.

“It’s 2 AM.”

He nods, remembering that the woeful hours of the night are still young. No veterinary clinic would be open at this time, and he briefly glances at you and offers a small smile (it was less of a smile and more of his lips pursed together in a straight line, but you’ll take what you can get). It’s his way of apologizing for judging you.

You ignore his apology. The task of getting sticky cat blood off your favorite pajama shirt is a lot more important than the remorseful actions of your neighbor.

Ignoring Tsukishima is a lot harder than you thought it would ever be, considering the fact that he is boring holes into your skull. He watches your every move—from the way you throw the laundry into the washing machine, to the way you fidget and pick at your fingernails to avoid his stares. You don’t like feeling small, and Tsukishima most definitely does make you feel small.

“How’s recovery going?” You ask. It’s a feeble attempt to get his eyes off you and his mind somewhere else.

“Recovery,” he says—nice and slow—as if he’s talking to a child.

“You said you’d quit smoking cigs when we were on the rooftop.”

“Ah,” he pauses, thinking, “It’s going good. Haven’t smoked since.”

You know he’s lying, since the smell of tobacco is practically bouncing off him. You smelt it the moment you walked through the door, as if he smoked an entire pack in ten minutes.

“Is lying a hobby of yours?” You try to joke, and you realize that it’s the first time you’ve ever humored him. There are a lot of first times with Tsukishima Kei.

“Do I owe you honesty?” He tilts his head at you, “we’ve only had two conversations with each other.”

Three conversations, you yearn to correct, but you keep your mouth shut. Now is not the time to be a know-it-all and to show Tsukishima that you are potentially fascinated by him.

“I think you owe everyone honesty?” The phrase comes out a lot weaker than you intended it to, and you begin to grow a small hate for Tsukishima’s inspecting eyes.

“That’s subjective,” he responds, reaching into his pocket to grab his pack of cigarettes. You cringe.

“Pretty much everything is subjective,” you walk over to him, grabbing the cigarette from his lips before he could light it. “Can’t you read? It’s a no-smoking zone here.” You use the stick to point at the large warning sign.

“There are no smoke detectors in here,” he grabs your wrist, using your hand to direct the cigarette back into his mouth.

You’re nervous. Your index and middle finger practically rest on his lips, and his eyes hold a look that you’ve never quite seen before. It almost resembles the gaze he gave you that night at the rooftop.

“Wanna light it for me?” He pulls out a bright orange lighter, using the hand that isn’t holding your wrist to wiggle the lighter in front of your eyes.

“What if we get caught?” Your actions betray your words; you’re grabbing the lighter from his hands and lighting his cigarette for him.

“Then I’d be in trouble. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You suppose he’s right. But your conscience still eats you alive.

With your hand still resting on his lips, Tsukishima inhales. His eyes are boring into you as he does so, as if he’s sending you an invitation. An invitation to what? You wouldn’t know. But with those eyes, you would say yes no matter the request.

Before he makes his big exhale, he moves away from you. To not blow the smoke in your face, you assume. You watch as the cloud of white fog leaves his lips, and you feel his skin on you again. It lingers on your fingertips, as if the rough pads of your fingers still lay on his plush lips.

You then feel his fingertips on your skin, those rough, calloused hands, grabbing your cheeks and pulling you close to him. Your face lays gently in his hands, cheeks squished in the pads of his fingers.

“You’re cute,” he says, smiling softly at you. You make no attempt to move out of his grasp, you watch and watch as he smiles at you.

“I should get going,” he suddenly interrupts, as he moves to stand beside you.

“Yeah,” you breathlessly respond.

Before you can do anything, you feel his palm on yours. It’s the same electrifying feeling from that starry night, but intensified. This time, your hands are interlocked. His thumb runs over your skin, memorizing you and caressing you.

You like it. You might like him.

Tsukishima Kei has a way with words. You learn this the fourth time you meet him, in the middle of a busy coffee shop.

“Hi.”

He sits directly in front of you, his arms crossed on the table and his eyebrows raised. He’s been there for almost 5 minutes now, and you refuse to acknowledge him. Tsukishima, his surprising loudmouth, and the pungent smell of cigarettes will not distract you from work.

“This is my third time saying hi, [Name]. Say hi back.”

You have no choice but to respond. Tsukishima glares at you with an eye so sharp, you almost cower away.

“Hi, Tsukishima,” you say, dropping your pen on top of your notebook. “Any reason why you decided to sit across from me when there’s, like, seven free tables in this café?”

He chooses not to speak, but to let his actions do all the talking for him.

“Actions” comes in the form of a pack of opened cigarettes pushed towards your side of the table. He uses his head to gesture towards the small box, a challenge, “open it.”

“It’s empty,” you stupidly remark, unable to process exactly what he’s asking of you.

He has to stop himself from smiling at your face, curiosity and confusion embedding themselves into your facial expressions. (You’re just so fucking cute.)

“That’s the point, doll,” he smiles at you, reaching into his pocket to grab two items: a lollipop and a toothpick. “I’m quitting.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I want you instead.”

You nearly choke on air, eyes doubling in size and jaw dropping to the floor.

“What on earth are you talking about?” You manage to squeak out, in the midst of your disbelief.

His eyes only bleed of honesty, the teasing and snarky glint that resides in his iris no longer there. “I meant what I said. I like you. And you don’t like my cigarettes, so I’m trading them out for you.”

“You couldn’t have told me this before?”

He smirks, the familiar turn on his lips that you’re accustomed to, “doesn’t really make a difference. You think of me just as much as I do you.”

You open your mouth to shut him down, but the words fall short. He’s right. You’ve spent numerous nights thinking of him. Of his hands on yours, your lips on his, and his hands on your cheek. Tsukishima Kei is both the angel and the demon that lives in your dreams.

“But,” you begin, “you can’t quit so easily?”

“I know,” he grabs the lollipop and toothpick off the table, bringing them slightly closer to your face. “I’ll just suck on one of these whenever I feel like smoking. Or chew on the toothpick.”

You laugh, “where’d you learn that one from?”

“Google‘s a genius.”

You smile, even bigger than before, and Tsukishima’s heart nearly bursts.

Tsukishima’s too damn attached.

He’s grown used to you, your scent, your skin on his, your laugh. The way you scold him for the smallest things, and the way you keep him going.

Yamaguchi likes to remind him that you’re not together. He’s not officially yours, so his very boyfriend-esque actions could be misinterpreted. He likes to keep you close, hold your hand when you walk together, and he stares at you with this look whenever you speak. It’s all too domestic and familiar and you’re not sure what to do.

And his actions worsen as the days go by.

“Where’s Kitty?” He asks, walking into your small apartment. You gave him a key long ago, stating that it would be much more convenient considering the amount of time he spends in your apartment.

“With me!” He hears your voice, moving towards the direction of your bedroom.

There’s evidence of him in your house. An extra pair of slippers, an extra green toothbrush in your bathroom, and a small bowl on your coffee table where you keep his lollipops. It’s an arrangement of all different types of sweets, from banana flavored treats to the sweet taste of strawberry candy.

(“Who the fuck likes banana candy, anyways?” He scoffs, watching as you pour the newly bought bag of candy into a glass bowl.

“I do,” you answer quietly, a defeated look on your face. “That’s why I bought it.”

His eyes widen, hand quickly moving to grab the banana sweet. He pops it into his mouth, eyes cringing, and he begrudgingly speaks, “tastes great, baby.”)

He finds you on the floor, rolling around and laughing at your small kitten. He doesn’t quite see your face, but he can only imagine the beautiful grin on your face.

Kneeling down beside you, he puts a firm hand on your back. “Hey, Angel.”

“Hey! I thought you were out with your friends?”

“I was. But I missed you so I ditched.”

He moves over to lay on the ground, eye-level with you. You’re smiling at him, moving closer to his body, ready to lay on his chest and ask about his day.

But you jolt up before he can pull you close.

“Did you smoke?”

His head turns to the side, “what?”

“You smell like cigarettes. It’s gross.” You’re mad at him, Tsukishima knows that, but he can’t help but coo at how adorable you look. Your eyebrows are furrowed and your scowl is so damn deep and he is in love.

“Ah,” he laughs softly, “it wasn’t me. Kyōtani smoked like a pack while we were out.”

“How am I supposed to know you’re not lying?”

He rolls his eyes. You’re so damn stubborn and you never listen.

“I told you that all I want is you.” He pulls you into him, holding you close on his lap. You’re eye-to-eye, and you see the honesty in them. Tsukishima does not lie. Not to you.

“I started eating these fucking lollipops knowing damn well that they’ll rot my teeth. I did that all because I like you and want you to like me back.”

He grabs you by the collar of your sweater (that’s really his) and brings your forehead to his. His look is intense and runs shivers down your spine.

“So don’t act stupid. I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about that, anyways.”

You believe him. You do. He’s never given you a reason to doubt him, always putting you first and letting you know what’s on his mind.

But you’re nothing if not an instigator, and you like to torment him.

“Prove it.”

He inhales at your words, closing his eyes softly. “You’re playing with fire, doll.”

“I don’t care.”

Another roll of his eyes, and his lips are on yours. He tastes of oranges, a thrilling taste that lures you further into him. You’re shy, despite your prior confidence, for Tsukishima Kei kisses you with a flame so hot it shakes you to your core. You burn and melt into him, accepting the taste of him—the sweet and sour mixture that is him.

“Fuck,” he’s the first to pull away, his head on your chest. He’s heaving, searching for air, and so are you. You’re shaken by his lips, his ability to make you succumb to him, that you almost forget how to breathe.

“You taste so good,” he speaks, voice hoarse and far.

“S-so do you,” you’re quiet, shy as you lift his head off your chest. Your hand lays gingerly on his chin, watching as he looks at you with all the stars in the sky.

“Kiss me again?” You ask, softly and slowly.

He kisses your nose, then the side of your jaw, leaving small traces of him wherever he goes.

“Anything for you.”

Your lover tastes of oranges, the sweetest taste on your tongue.