#fluff angst anything

[hopelessfandomfreak]

agatha all along has awoken me from my writing slumber. send me some agatha x rio prompts, I don’t write smut but I’m up for basically anything else that piques my interest

[prlssprfctn]

Damian wakes up, startled. He doesn't remember what he saw in his dreams, and he is not sure what caused him to feel so anxious, but he knows what to do. The routine is easy and comforting; he just needs to find his brother Jason. So, he goes.

His bare feet against the cold floor is soundless, making no sound, and he keeps rubbing his eyes until he sees one of the doors open. It must be Jason. He always keeps the door of his room open, just in case.

There is a dim light in the room, a small lamp on the desk, where the stakes of paper are stored, and Jason is here, as tall and huge as always, tapping on his feet in an attempt to concentrate, while twirling a pen between his fingers. He is either reading or working on something else: writes down memories, afraid of them slipping away due to the Lazarus Pit hammering in his temples all the time.

Damian yawns and steps closer, tapping on his back.

'Akhi Jason,' he calls hoarsely. The body freezes, almost surprised — he is not supposed to; Jason hears him from the corridor, even if he is the most soundless kid in the whole world. 'I want to sleep.'

He never says he sees nightmares or that he is scared — just that. It always works.

Expect, this time it doesn't.

'What did you say?' Brother asks, his voice sounding so unusually stiff.

'Jason,' he repeats, more irritated this time. 'I said, I want to—'

When Jason turns around, Damian instinctively staggers back, his eyes widening.

The man in front of him is not Jason.

And for a second, Damian is panicking, until-

Until he doesn't remind himself that he is not home anymore. He is in the Wayne Manor, with his father.

With his father that looks exactly like his brother, only older, without scars, marring his face, and without a white streak that makes him look like a bird.

'Damian,' his father calls, slightly shaken. 'How do you know Jason?'

He swallows down. He is not supposed to tell about his brother. They instructed him not to.

But father has a familiar desperation in his eyes, the same one Jason had, when he was pacing around the room, muttering something incoherent, the cut out from newsletters photos of Bruce Wayne with Tim Drake in his hands, and-

And Damian shrugs.

'He is my brother,' he says, almost too innocently; because if he is going to be clueless about it, then what others will have to tell him? 'He stayed with a grandfather. It is a shame.'

Almost as if he doesn't understand what all of this implies.

'I was sleepy,' he adds. 'And got confused. My apologises, father. I shall return to my bedroom.'

Bruce stares, stares, and stares. And then, rubs his face with his hands, exhausted.

'I'll tuck you in. Let's go,' and a second later, with his voice sounding so familiarly small, just like how Jason's sounded when he first acknowledged him as his brother, he adds: 'Can you tell me more about your brother, Damian?'

And Damian tells him, of course.

He is not surprised to see the result of his work the next week.

[technically-human]

St. Hilarion's ghost story

[himulrai]

Orion Swap AU (Catalyse That Vertex) Part 6! (Fic | First | Previous | Next)

I AM SO SORRY ABOUT HOW THE PRIMES TURNED OUT I COULDNT FIGURE OUT HOW TO DRAW THEM??

[lucabyte]

"So what's the weirdest possible first (second) impression Loop could make on the party in postcanon?" "Yeah, that, probably."

+ Bonus

theyre just standing there in direct party order while this happens. normal tuesday.

[foreveia]

director’s cut ⤨ tsukishima kei

⨭ genre; college!au, childhood best friends to lovers, fluff, minor angst like its there if u squint

⨭ pairing; tsukishima kei x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 17.3k

⨭ description; when you convince your best friend into being the male lead of your film project, you don't expect for it to make you question your whole relationship.

⨭ warnings; profanity, alcohol, smoking

⨭ a/n; this has been in the works for quite a while now and it is defff the longest fic ive ever written (not saying will ever write yet bc who knows), but i think i like it. i am a sucker for best friends to lovers, ESPECIALLY childhood best friends to lovers, so i hope u guys like it :)

song i listened to writing this: 'being your friend' by katherine li

one. 

The universe has a top-tier sadism kink, and its living proof is Tsukishima Kei. 

You know this to be a fact because 1) aside from his bachelor of science in anthropology, he’s pursuing a PhD in sarcasm and uses his learnings primarily to eviscerate your self-esteem, 2) The Umbrella Academy doesn’t come out with another season for another few months so your life choices have become the pinnacle of his entertainment, and 3) despite being your Bestie™ of twelve years, he still makes you beg for his benevolence, even if he does have the annoying habit of showing up when you need him most.

It’s deeply unfortunate that he’s all you’ve got, universe be damned. 

“Name your price. Cake? Head? Money? C’mon, just tell me what you want!”

Tsukishima peers at you over his laptop with disdain, the blue glow of his pirated PDF of The Communist Manifesto reflected in his glasses as he squints at you. His lips are pursed in annoyance, face scrunched up as he seemingly contemplates whether to put himself out of his misery or squash you to little smithereens. “What I want is for you to go away.”

True love, honestly. The golden standard for kindness and affection. A picturesque image of camaraderie. Lo and behold, everyone, your best friend.

“Oh my god, Kei, please,” you whine, hands clasped together as you look up at him through batted lashes. He doesn’t even flinch, looking completely unimpressed—how pretentious of him. “I’ll literally pay you whatever you want.”

The blond rolls his eyes, looking back down at his laptop screen as he briskly retorts, “I’m not a prostitute, idiot. You can’t pay me to star in your stupid movie.”

He ignores the several judgmental stares that turn in your direction at his response. You, on the other hand, are praying the library’s studious occupants don’t assume you’re a pimp preying on broke college students. 

In all honesty, you probably should’ve chosen a less populated spot than the library’s first floor seats in front of Crow’s Coffee, especially if you actually had any intentions to get work done. But with just a few months left until the end of second semester, you have way too many dining dollars left and not enough places to spend them; in this capitalist world, you refuse to let more money simply be pocketed by the greedy hands of the school. It’s how you managed to tempt Tsukishima out of the comfort of his apartment in the first place—with promises of free coffee and shortcake, courtesy of your four-star meal plan. 

“Technically, that’s a pornstar,” Yamaguchi supplies unhelpfully from his spot buried amongst stacks of math and science textbooks. He’s the only one of you who’s effectively completing his assignments because he won’t pass his classes unless he’s in constant fight-or-flight mode (you thank every deity you can think of that you weren’t born to be a STEM girlie). “You know you’ve got the time to, Tsukki.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to,” he shrugs. You promptly deliver a swift kick to his shins. “Ow—well, now I really don’t want to.”

“Be honest, do you hate me?” you sniff dramatically, letting your head hit the table with a soft thud; Yamaguchi pats your head tantalizingly, as if you’re a fuckin’ child, and you want to scream at them both.

“Yes,” Tsukishima snorts, not even bothering to glance up. “It’s your own fault for being a film major.”

You shoot him a glare, but no threats come to mind because he’s sadly right.

Being a film major is basically being in a perpetual state of begging: begging your friends to star in your work, begging your professors for an extension because your lead decided to quit the night before shooting, and begging your parents for forgiveness because they didn’t send you to college to become a “professional movie watcher.” 

Sure, you get to watch artsy film-bro movies for homework, but you also spend half your time pulling all-nighters to finish scripts and survive solely off a diet of Shin Ramyun and its complimentary mushroom flakes. Tsukishima likes to tell you how you reek of constant desperation; you concur because no one has a real penchant for the arts these days. In a world where everyone dreams of being the next Spielberg, nothing is truly original, and you’re just barely holding on with the kind of boundless optimism that can only be fueled by sheer willpower. 

So here you are, offering bribes of cake, coffee, and cold hard cash, trying to convince your best friend—who has the emotional range of a teaspoon and the patience of a sleep-deprived toddler—to star in your magnum opus so you can pass the semester. You’d ask Yamaguchi, but he’s got civil engineering exams and an actual promising future to worry about. Meanwhile, your future, desperation and all, hinges on whether Tsukishima will stop being a pain in the ass for ten minutes and agree to be your leading man.

Luckily, because you’ve been #pairbonded for twelve years, you know exactly what buttons to push. You let out a sorrowful sigh, before loudly declaring, “Fine. I’ll just ask Shoyo then.”

That does it. Tsukishima’s jaw twitches, his fingers pausing over the keyboard; you know him too well because the mere thought of the red-head starring in your movie is enough to make Tsukishima reconsider his stance. You never did understand their beef, but Yamaguchi tells you that they’re just inverse idiots, which seems pretty likely considering they’re actually both easily provoked and highly competitive. He looks up from his laptop, irritation flashing in his eyes. “Absolutely not,” he says flatly, closing the lid of his computer with a decisive click.

Yamaguchi snickers, clearly sensing victory in the air. You, on the other hand, suppress your triumphant smile and put on your best wounded-puppy look. “But he’s so eager to help,” you say, your voice dripping with faux innocence. “He’ll do anything for me.”

There’s a moment of silence as Tsukishima contemplates this. His fingers drum lightly on the table, a sign that he’s weighing his options. And then finally, he lets out a long, suffering exhale, head rolled back in exasperation. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I swear to God, if this film ruins my life, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“You already hold me personally responsible for most things,” you chirp, practically beaming with delight. “But thank you, Kei! You’re the best.”

Yamaguchi looks up from his mountain of textbooks with a bemused smile. “That was a quick turnaround. You’re like a married couple.”

“Only in spirit, ‘Dashi,” you purr, blowing him a playful kiss. The freckled boy pretends to catch your kiss and presses it to his cheek in a dramatic gesture; no wonder he’s your favorite. He really is such a sweetie.

“Stop encouraging her,” Tsukishima groans, pushing himself up from the table. “And stop saying things like that. People might believe you.”

“Wow, not you denying our love,” you scoff, sticking your tongue out at him. “I want a divorce.”

The blond ignores your threat. “I need air. Bye, Tadashi.”

He gives you an unimpressed but telling look, so you roll your eyes and promptly start packing up your things, shoving notebooks and pens into your bag haphazardly. The last things you do are run over to give your beloved ‘Dashi a light squeeze goodbye, swipe your laptop and Owala into your arms (because you are a broke college student who cannot afford to get a new laptop and your New Years’ Resolution is to be more hydrated), and skip to catch up with your friend, already halfway out the door. The evening air is a refreshing change from the stuffy library you’ve been in for hours; you’re sure if you had any free hands right now you’d bend over and grab a handful of grass, just for the sake of it. 

‘Tis is the life of a film major, you guess. You’re bitchless with a capital ‘B’ and spend the other half of your time with your equally bitchless friends. And all they do is abuse your dining dollars and mock your miseries in life, so honestly, it’s a good thing you’re in school to write and produce rom coms. You can live vicariously through them, at least.

But whatever. Pathetic love life aside, right now, Kei has agreed, and you’re already one step closer to a successful final project. 

two. 

The walk home with Tsukishima is as comfortable as ever, the silence between you two punctuated by the soft crunch of gravel under your shoes and the distant hum of campus life winding down for the night. He doesn’t pull his headphones on, but he also doesn’t start up a conversation; being alone with him is simply being able to exist. 

He’s walked you home everyday since the beginning of middle school, when his mom found out he hadn’t waited that day and you had walked home alone in the dark. From your bedroom window in the house next door, directly mirroring his, you had overhead her lecturing both him and Akiteru about the importance of manners—and to Kei’s credit, he’s dutifully picked you up after your classes and chores ever since, even if he grumbles the whole way home. For some reason, this habit carried over when you, him, and Tadashi committed to the same university, even if it meant standing outside a frat house at two in the morning because you got too fucked up to walk home on your own. You puked out half your stomach on his sweatpants, and he’d made you do his laundry for a month as punishment, but he still waits patiently at the café by frat row every time you get coerced to go out by your roommates. 

As you reach your dorm building, Tsukishima steps aside, holding the door open for you; you roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. “Such a gentleman, Kei. What would I do without you?”

He smirks, letting the door swing closed behind him as you head towards the elevator. “Probably get kidnapped or something. You’re too trusting.”

“The only person I’d let kidnap me,” you say dreamily, pressing the button for your floor with a dramatic swoop. “is Oikawa.”

You’re only half joking because Oikawa Tooru, the president of Sigma Epsilon Iota (SEI), is in fact extremely pretty and volunteered to be in your film last semester. You later found out that it was because he’s an astronomy major and thus felt compelled to star in your movie (which, yes, was titled Stars); he convinced you to spend many extra weeks in After Effects making sure the sky imagery looked ‘as perfect as him.’ He’d actually been a really good sport about learning his lines and cues, but you’re pretty sure neither you nor your 2014 Macbook Air would survive that experience again. 

“Right, fall for the guy who does keg stands at every party,” he drawls, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Smart.”

You huff and stick your tongue out at him, earning yourself a half-shrug and an amused snort. The elevator ride is brief, and soon you’re at your door, fumbling with your keys; as always, Tsukishima stops and stands to the side, waiting for you to invite him in, because again, manners. You turn to him with a playful grin. “You know, you don’t have to stand there like a sentinel every time. You can come in.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?”

You laugh, pushing the door open and gesturing dramatically. “Oh, please, come in. Make yourself at home.”

Not that you had to tell him that. He slouched past you and kicked off his shoes as soon as you gave him the cue. He’s honestly just as relaxed here as in his own studio, already stretching and making himself comfortable on the couch with your favorite decorative pillow tucked under his head. 

You two have settled into a pretty comfortable routine. It’s a Friday night, so chances are that he’ll yank out his phone, scroll through his email. You’ll put something on the TV and he’ll critique it through mouthfuls of popcorn, only to have it ruin his appetite for whatever you end up ordering for dinner; later, if he’s tired enough, he’ll give up on the thirty minute drive home and collapse next to you in your Twin XL. It’s a mess of limbs and limited space, but you two manage—you always have. Your suitemates, Yukie and Kaori, have already texted that they’re bringing home Chinese takeout for four, so you decide against your usual snacks because your twig of a best friend needs actual sustenance.

Swinging by your room to drop off your bag and laptop, you take a pit stop in the kitchen on the way back to pluck two bottles of soju from the fridge. You toss him one; he catches it neatly and observes the flavor with scrutiny. 

“You hate strawberry,” he points out. “Why are you drinking this?”

You shrug, walking over to plop down on the couch by him. “Because it’s your favorite.”

His head is right up against your thigh because he’s too tall to fit on your shitty university furniture, even with his legs half-dangling off the armrest. You click through Netflix, nursing your drink with a slight pout until you make the executive decision to put on The Bachelor.

“Trying to prove you can love both me and Oikawa at the same time?” Tsukishima comments, watching the screen as he pops open the cap of his bottle. He’s referring to Ben telling both Lauren and JoJo he loved them in season 20; you lowkey love the series and he highkey loves the drama. There’s just something about people finding their supposed soulmates after knowing each other for like a month that really makes life entertaining.

“Don’t ever compare me to Ben,” you frown, because you think he was a massive asshole for doing that to JoJo and then not even picking her in the end. These bitches really be throwing each other under the bus. “You’re so mean to me.”

“You just bribed me with strawberry soju.”

“It’s not bribery if it’s out of love. Plus, I can tolerate it for one night,” you roll your eyes, taking a sip of the drink. “So, you wanna know what the film’s about or not?”

He looks at you over the rim of his bottle, eyebrow raised. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” you grin, patting his head affectionately. “Okay, so, the film. It’s a romantic short about the progression of a college relationship. Like, from the first meeting to the final stages of being together. It’s dreamy, very aesthetic—y’know, all those soft hues and hazy shots. A smoking scene thrown in there somewhere.”

“Sounds like every other indie film ever made.”

“Shut up. This one’s different,” you insist, lightly tugging on a strand of his hair. “It’s got a great cast—Yachi’s playing the female lead.”

He nods, seemingly interested. “Yachi, huh? What’s my role, then?”

“The male lead, obviously,” you say, not even bothering to look away from the screen. The opening credits have just finished and you’re instantly sucked into the magical world of Malta; God, what you would do to be there right now instead of in your overpriced residence complex.

“Oh, great. Falling in love. My specialty,” he deadpans, taking another swig of his drink. “What do I have to do?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Learn the lines, cues, whatever. Yachi said she’s free tomorrow, so maybe we can get coffee with her in the afternoon and run through the working script?”

Tsukishima groans. “We already have to get started?”

“Yeah, there’s a lot to do,” you retort, giving him a gentle punch on the shoulder. He frowns up at you disapprovingly, and you mockingly frown back. “Get over it. You’re my main star.”

He shakes his head as you both watch the girls line up in knight costumes to compete in the episode’s extra-time competition. Modern television is truly unreal. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you love me.”

You flick your eyes from the TV to him, gauging his reaction. He’s rolling his eyes, of course, but the small smile and faint blush creeping up his cheeks tells you everything you need to know.

three. 

The prior night, your suitemates eventually came home with the promised takeout; Kaori even brought home boba orders courtesy of her friend Bokuto closing shift at the campus Broba Tea, so it’s safe to say you have the best roommates ever. 

Turnabout is fair play, so you and Tsukishima agreed to clean up—therefore, even after your suitemates retreated to their rooms, you two lingered behind in the living room, sorting away recyclables and compost into their respective places and watching your favorites get eliminated. Friday nights like this are nice: just you and your best friend, making three-pointers with empty soju bottles into the blue plastic bin. Even after you finished the season’s finale, you put on some nature documentary (courtesy of his Disney+ subscription, which he exclusively uses for National Geographic like a fuckin’ weirdo) and argued about which ugly fish looked more like each other the whole hour and forty minutes. You must’ve crashed no earlier than one A.M., but the specifics are hazy: you don’t actually remember falling asleep.

So the miserable blaring from your phone right now is truly, in short, cruel. Apparently, you forgot to turn off your alarm for your usual Friday 11 A.M. lecture last night, because you’re currently being rudely awoken at a completely unnecessary time on a Saturday morning. Groaning, you slap around the bed until your fingers find your phone, silencing the alarm. As you roll over, you find yourself face-to-face with Tsukishima, who’s occupying the other half of your twin XL bed, looking every bit as disgruntled as you feel. His hair is a mess, and there’s a faint crease on his cheek from your pillowcase; his arm is slung loosely over your waist as he grumbles and tries to hide his face from the light. He must’ve carried you to your bed after you dozed off on the couch.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters. His voice is hoarse with sleep. “Why do you set alarms on days you don’t have class?”

“I forgot to turn it off,” you mumble back, burying your face in your pillow. “Sorry for waking you up.”

He sighs, rolling over onto his side and squinting at you as he makes out the hazy figure of your silhouette through his shitty impaired vision. “Move over. Your greedy ass is hogging all the space.”

Ah yes. Truly, a dreamboat. You roll your eyes, but scooch closer to the wall nonetheless; his grip tightens slightly around the curve of your back as you make space, and you can’t help but smile into your pillowcase. Despite his grumpy demeanor, there’s a warmth to his presence that you’ve grown to appreciate over time. 

“Better?” you ask, your voice muffled by your cotton pillow.

“A little,” he grumbles. He shifts closer, his body warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your pajamas.

You lay there in comfortable silence for a few moments, listening to the quiet sounds of the morning outside and the soft rhythm of his breathing. Your head kinda hurts; you haven’t woken up this early on a Saturday in forever. Maybe in another life, you’re born as one of those matcha latte girls who get up at 6A.M. for a run and have their lives sorted out by noon, but in this one, you love procrastinating and Netflix far too much to have yourself in order like that. Truly, you run off caffeine and spite and Google Calendar reminders—and as if on cue, your phone buzzes with a reminder about the meeting with Yachi. 

Tsukishima, recognizing the sound of the notification, leans over and hands you the device to read, giving you a minute before he asks, his voice soft to match the stillness of the room, “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

“Crow’s with Yachi at one,” you murmur back. Normally, you’d be giddy to meet with your beloved angel of a friend (you would literally give Yachi your whole life), but truthfully, you don’t really want to get out of bed. Kei’s fingers, lightly tracing patterns on your back as he processes the information, feel so comforting and warm. You’re tempted to cancel and spend the day here, in bed, with him, but you know just as well as he does that you can’t.

“Right,” Tsukishima sighs. “Guess we should get up soon, then.”

“Mmm, in a bit,” you reply, savoring the warmth of the moment. “Just a few more minutes.”

He doesn’t argue, instead allowing the silence to stretch on comfortably. But eventually, it does slow. “We should get going, or we’ll end up being late,” he says, though he makes no move to get up.

You groan in response, but you know he’s right. 

“Fine,” you mumble, reluctantly sitting up. The room is still dim, the curtains drawn, and you glance over at Tsukishima, who’s also making an effort to get up; he grabs his glasses, neatly folded on your nightstand, and puts them on, blinking back into consciousness. He looks far too composed for someone who’s just gotten up, but of course he would be.

What a lovely, familiar sight. You hope this, these Saturday mornings with him, never end.

***

The campus is slowly waking up, students milling about, heading to the library or the better of the two dining halls, the one that serves freshly-made waffles on Saturdays. The other one only serves the world’s runniest scrambled eggs that’s held together with the most plasticky cheese, so even if it’s a ten minute walk further, it’s worth it.

You secure a table near the window; the dining hall overlooks the square and you like watching the way people narrowly dodge the campus seal. It’s a superstition that you won’t graduate if you step on it—and especially now, in the second semester when everyone gets pretty desperate, you gotta respect the grind. Tsukishima has already gone to order at the counter with your dining card, so you’re left alone to ponder about your impending project; you go over the working script in your head, running the lines and dialogue over and over. 

Your thoughts are interrupted when he returns with a tray loaded with waffles, two matching cups of coffee, and an extra serving of fruit for you—because he claims you need to eat healthier. You think he should eat more, period, but whatever.

“Wow, I’m impressed. Fruit? Did you find it hard to carry all this food without your arms falling off?” you tease, as he takes his seat across from you.

He rolls his eyes, picking up his fork. “Someone has to make sure you get at least one vitamin today.”

You stick your tongue out at him and dig into your waffles because you never wake up early enough on a Saturday to actually have them often. 

“When we finish eating, I need to go back and get my laptop,” you announce over a mouthful of waffle, ignoring the disgusted look Tsukishima gives you. “And then we’ll head to the library.”

“I am begging you to chew with your mouth shut,” he groans, throwing a well-aimed napkin at your face. You catch it with a dramatic flourish and quickly dab at your mouth, before you ball it and toss the napkin back at him; he ducks violently, almost knocking over his cup of coffee. You fight the urge to laugh at him and instead stab your fork into a piece of cantaloupe. 

“You need to eat,” you declare, promptly sticking the fruit in his direction. 

His eyebrows arch slightly as he glares at the fork held out toward him, but after a beat of silence, he leans forward and bites off the melon with a grumble. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” you beam, popping a grape into your own mouth. “So, Crow’s at one. We can read for like, an hour? And then you’re free to go home and do whatever you do.”

“Study.”

“So boring,” you sigh. “Don’t you have any friends, Kei?”

He scoffs, sawing off another meticulous square of waffle. “I have you. That’s enough socializing for a lifetime.”

“Lucky me, I guess,” you roll your eyes. 

He smirks in response, taking a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, lucky you.”

four. 

After breakfast, you head back to your dorm to grab your things. Tsukishima scrolls through his phone, making an occasional snide comment about whatever nonsense he comes across on Twitter. You pack your bag with your notebook, laptop, and a few pens—desperation fuels organization, and you can’t afford to leave anything behind.

The walk to the library is filled with light-hearted banter, and soon enough, you spot Yachi waving at you from a corner table. She’s already got her laptop out, a notebook filled with neat handwriting open next to her, and you skip up to the table. 

“Hi baby girl,” you coo lovingly as you give your friend a hug. Tsukishima gives Yachi a polite nod before sliding into the seat across from her, leaving you to fill the middle one. “Thanks for meeting us before your shift.”

“Of course! I’m really excited about this project,” Yachi beams, her cheeks slightly pink from your affectionate greeting. “I’ve been reading over the script and it’s just so lovely. I can’t wait to get started.”

And this, everyone, is why you adore Yachi Hitoka with your whole heart. You would actually dropkick your best friend off the face of the earth for her, and that is not an exaggeration.

Tsukishima sighs, reaching into your bag to pull out your laptop; he settles it on the desk and pries it open for you. “Let’s get started.”

His impatience makes you roll your eyes, but nonetheless, you click to the latest draft of the script and slide it over for your Blondes™ to see. “Here’s what I’ve got so far,” you say, pointing at the section still titled SCENE 1 DARFGT :P from when you wrote the first six pages over the course of an all-nighter. “The first scene sets the tone for our whole film, and I’m thinking of having it outside the library, so get used to this café.”

“As if we don’t already spend half our time here,” Tsukishima deadpans, but he leans closer to the screen anyway. You watch the way both of them take in the script, their gazes fixed on the document as they read through the lines. 

He looks visibly relieved as he scrolls through the very short document; it’s a mess of director and action notes because you have a very specific vision in your head that you want to execute. “It doesn’t have much dialogue because I want it to be focused on the little details that show your initial connection,” you say as they near the end of the script. “Y’know, body language. The way you look at each other. Your expressions.”

Momentarily, you pause to read their reactions; you’re minorly concerned because acting is actually the hardest part of the job, even if memorizing dialogue does suck. Thankfully, Yachi’s eyes visibly light up, and she chirps cheerily, “I love that! It feels very natural and genuine; I think that’s beautiful.”

Her reassurance makes you kick your feet like Sofia the First because she says it in a way that feels completely real. 

Tsukishima, on the other hand, does not acknowledge this statement: he’s too busy raising his stupid eyebrow and smirking as he reads scene four. He drags his finger over the screen, where the line reads Interior - Dorm Room - Night. “Okay, first of all, very original,” he snorts. “But second, you volunteered my place without asking me? How very presumptuous of you.”

“Well, I have roommates,” you say, really emphasizing that last word because you want him to feel as stupid as he looks smirking like that (he looks very annoyingly pretty with his cat-like simper). You know he doesn’t actually care about the usage of his studio: he just loves seizing the opportunity to mock you.

Your internal irritation clearly goes ignored by him, because he just grins as he continues to blissfully dissect your script. “And ‘they kiss passionately’? Really going for the heartstrings, aren’t you?”

“It’s called intimacy, Kei. It’s a crucial part of developing the relationship on screen.”

Yachi, ever the peacekeeper, nods eagerly. “I think it’s really sweet. It’s important to show the depth of their connection. The close-ups will make it feel very personal.”

“Sure, whatever you say,” Tsukishima says, raising an eyebrow, his expression still amused. He gestures to the next few pages—blank sans the text DJEJSJSJDJ PAIN, because again, you spend a lot of time writing during deranged all-nighters. “But what’s with the cut to black right after? Did you run out of ideas?”

You bite your lip. “I haven’t finished the ending yet. I want to see how you two portray the characters and their chemistry before I decide how it concludes. It’s not just about the script; it’s about the emotions you both bring to the roles.”

“You mean you’re winging it.”

“Creatively winging it, yes,” you roll your eyes. “It’s a work in progress, and I trust you two to help bring it to life.” 

Tsukishima rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, I’ll give you that. But if I have to make out with Yachi and you cut it short, I’m going to hold it against you.”

Yachi blushes, but she’s smiling too. “I’m sure it’ll be great. We can practice and make sure it looks natural.”

“Thanks, guys,” you beam at them both, grateful for their willingness to dive into your project. 

As antsy as you were, the film’s got a lot going for it—Yachi is a sweet, earnest cutie pie and Tsukishima is… well, him, so their contrast will hopefully make for compelling cinema. And the word compelling is honestly enough—those three syllables are truly music to a film major’s ears.

***

By the time you finish at Crow’s, the sun has already dipped below the horizon, casting a dusky glow over the campus. Tsukishima predictably gets ready to walk you home; he shoves his hand in his jacket’s pocket and tries to look nonchalant, so obviously you tell him he looks stupid, to which he promptly flips you off. Rude. Some people just don’t know how to appreciate honesty.

Yachi’s already headed off to her shift at the café, so you two are left alone, navigating past other tables to the library doors. The evening air is cool, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the crowded café; you walk in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds being the rustling leaves and the distant chatter of other students.

He walks you to your gate, and you’re honestly about to just head inside, but you pause in your tracks because he deserves to hear it twice. 

“Kei,” you say softly, breaking the silence. “Thanks again. It really means a lot to me.”

He looks at you, his expression unreadable. “I know. That’s why I’m doing it.”

You blink up at him, momentarily thrown off by his directness. Tsukishima isn’t the type to say things he doesn’t mean—he’s never been one for flattery or unnecessary kindness. And yet, there’s something about the way he says it, the quiet certainty in his voice, that makes your heart do something stupid in your chest.

Tsukishima Kei cares about you. No matter how much he pretends otherwise, you know he’ll be there for you when you need it most. If twelve years have taught you anything, it’s that he’ll do it reluctantly, begrudgingly, but he’ll be there for you. 

He always has.

five. 

The first day of filming is, somehow, going smoothly.

You’re not sure if you should be suspicious of this. Typically, film shoots involve at least three things going horribly wrong within the first twenty minutes. A mic cutting out. A location suddenly getting overrun with people. A key actor arriving late because they forgot their costume at home.

But today? Today, things are working. The morning light is perfect, the sound equipment is cooperating, and most importantly, Tsukishima and Yachi are actually… really good together.

Which is a huge relief, because you were honestly half-convinced you’d have to wrangle the emotional chemistry out of Tsukishima with sheer force. But watching them run through the first scene on the bench outside the library, you realize you don’t have to do much at all.

He’s relaxed, leaning back with an elbow draped over the back of the bench, his eyes sharp and calculating as Yachi speaks; she’s perfect for the blushing, hesitant-but-artistic old soul character you want to portray and he takes to his role just as quickly. There’s something natural about the way they interact—the slight hesitations, the way he looks at her before speaking, the subtle smirk that plays at his lips when she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear.

It’s not forced. It’s not awkward. It’s just real.

You bite your lip, watching through the camera screen as Yachi delivers her next line, her voice soft, a little unsure. Tsukishima’s response is barely above a murmur, but it carries, even in the open air. The way he’s looking at her—that’s what makes it work. It’s the kind of gaze that makes people believe in love stories. 

Holy shit. This might actually be good.

“Cut!” you call, your voice a little breathless as you lower the camera. Yachi blinks up at you, a little startled, before breaking into a smile.

“Was that okay?” she asks, a hint of uncertainty in her tone.

“More than okay,” you say, grinning as you step over to them. “You guys are killing it.”

Yachi lets out a relieved laugh, cheeks pink. “Oh, thank god. I was worried I looked weird.”

“Nope. You look like the perfect indie film love interest.” You pat her on the shoulder before glancing at Tsukishima, who raises an eyebrow at you.

“What?” he drawls.

“You’re actually trying.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, because I’m not going to embarrass myself on camera.”

“Right,” you deadpan, smirking. “Nothing to do with the fact that you two have, like, the easiest natural chemistry I’ve ever seen.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes, but you catch the way his jaw ticks slightly before he stands up, stretching. “Are we done here? Or are you going to keep talking?”

Impatient idiot. You snort and go to collect your camera and sound system, and together, you all head off to film scene two.

***

The second scene of the day takes place in the small, naturally-lit art studio on campus. It’s not often used, especially not on the weekends, now that the university’s built the big fancy modern art building in the north campus, but it’s perfect for this scene. You wanted something intimate, somewhere that made the world feel smaller, quieter, to parallel the deep intimacy of a relationship (wow, look at you talking like a true film bro). A space where the characters could be alone, even if they weren’t saying much.

Tsukishima sits at the table, his hands idly flipping through a sketchbook that’s just a prop, though you think it suits him weirdly well. Yachi’s holding a paintbrush, standing near the window, looking at a half-finished canvas, the soft glow from outside catching the strands of her blonde hair just right.

“Alright,” you say, stepping back behind the camera. “Tsukishima, this scene is mostly you watching her. Yachi, I want you to look like you’re lost in thought. You’re thinking about something big, but you’re not sure if you want to say it.”

Yachi nods, exhaling as she settles into place. Tsukishima just leans on his elbow, glancing at her through his glasses, waiting.

You call action. And for a moment, the room changes. It’s not just a studio anymore. It’s a quiet, suspended moment in time.

Tsukishima watches Yachi, and you can’t look away. The way his gaze lingers, not quite analyzing, not quite soft, but something in between. The way Yachi’s fingers trace the edge of the painting, distracted, unaware of the way he’s looking at her. The way they look so perfectly together, like halves of a whole, like something that’s meant to be.

It’s... breathtaking.

You swallow, suddenly feeling warm.

They’re good. Too good.

“Cut,” you say softly, your own voice sounding a little distant.

Tsukishima looks up at you immediately, brows slightly furrowed, like he’s searching for something in your expression. Yachi, however, simply exhales a breath of relief, breaking into a small laugh. “That felt really real,” she says, beaming.

“It was really real,” you admit, trying to shake the weird feeling creeping up your spine.

Wow, honestly. They must be some of the best actors you’ve ever met. If you didn’t know better, you would think they were actually in love.

six. 

The blinking cursor on your laptop is mocking you. 

It’s a tiny, relentless metronome ticking away the seconds, reminding you of your failure to move forward. You glare at the half-finished sentence on the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing your brain to conjure anything—literally anything—that makes sense.

You had an ending in mind—of course you did. The perfect, soft, cinematic conclusion to your film. A final shot drenched in golden light, delicate and lingering, like a whisper against a bruise. The kind of scene that settles into the chest like an old song or a half-remembered dream, stirring something deep and unshakable. The culmination of all those quiet, electric moments between your leads, woven together into something fragile and honest.

Except every single draft you’ve attempted so far? Complete garbage.

You groan and throw yourself back against your chair, rubbing your hands over your face in frustration. Why does this feel impossible? You should’ve known writing the ending would be the hardest part. You’re always better at beginnings—openings are easy. Openings are full of possibilities. But endings?

Endings mean making a choice.

And right now, you have no fucking idea what choice to make.

As if on cue, summoned by your misery, your door swings open without warning, and Yukie strides in like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she practically does—she and Kaori have an open invitation to barge in at any time, and they use that privilege liberally.

“Please tell me you’re taking a break from that thing,” she says, nodding toward your laptop as she flops onto your bed. “You’ve been staring at it like it’s personally offended you.”

“It has personally offended me,” you mutter back, head caught between your hands, visibly in distress. “I’ve rewritten it like five times, and it still feels wrong.”

Yukie hums, but her attention drifts toward your open script document, skimming the words with the sharp, practiced gaze of someone who enjoys knowing things before you tell her. A beat later, her eyebrows shoot up.

“I still can’t believe you’re letting Yachi and Tsukishima film together,” she says, lips curving in a smirk.

You glance at her, confused. “Uh, yeah? They’re the leads? Kind of an important part of the whole thing?”

She rolls onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, expression downright mischievous. “No, I mean… you don’t think it’s a little risky?”

You blink. “Risky how? Like existentially?”

Yukie snorts. “No, dumbass. I mean, don’t you think it’s easy for co-stars to catch feelings for each other? Like hello? Zendaya and Tom Holland broke the Spiderman-MJ curse cause of it.”

“Oh c’mon,” you scoff immediately. “Kei and Yachi? Please. He’s the human equivalent of a hazard sign, and she’s literally an angel.”

“And opposites attract,” Yukie sing-songs, wiggling her eyebrows like she’s just cracked some grand conspiracy.

“Not like that. It’s literally just acting.”

Yukie tilts her head, looking entirely too entertained by your dismissiveness. “You say that, but it’s not uncommon. You spend enough time pretending to love someone, and eventually, it stops feeling like pretending.”

You open your mouth to retort—but for some reason, your brain short-circuits. The words are there. They’re on the tip of your tongue. But they won’t come out. Because now you’re thinking about it.

Tsukishima and Yachi. Together.

It’s ridiculous, obviously. Tsukishima is sarcastic and emotionally constipated, and Yachi is sweet and nervous and actually respects people’s feelings. They make sense on screen, sure—chemistry is chemistry, and that’s what acting is for. But in real life? You can’t even picture it. Matter-of-fact, you shouldn’t even be picturing it.

And yet, something uneasy churns in your stomach, and you shift in your seat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in your own skin. No, this is stupid. You’re overthinking. Yukie’s just stirring up unnecessary drama because that’s what she does when she’s bored.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice forcibly even. “They’re just acting. Besides, you really think Tsukishima of all people would catch feelings for someone just because of a film?”

“Mmm.” Yukie hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “You say that, but you’re weirdly defensive about it.”

“I’m not defensive,” you snap, too fast, too sharp. A mistake.

Yukie’s smirk deepens, and you hate her for it. She swings her legs off the bed, stretching like a cat. “When you’re done pretending you’re not in denial, dinner’s ready,” she chirps, sauntering toward the door.

You roll your eyes. Classic Yukie. Your roommates are simultaneously your greatest strength and your worst influence; they know you inside and out, and unfortunately, that means they never let you run from your own feelings. They’ve been convinced for years that you’re in love with your best friend, which is laughable. Delusional, even.

And yet.

The thought lingers longer than it should, trailing after you like a shadow as you trudge to set for the first day of filming.

You tell yourself it’s just curiosity when you glance Tsukishima’s way. Just morbid fascination when you catch the way his gaze lingers on Yachi between takes. Just professional interest when you watch how his sharp, unimpressed scowl softens—barely, just a fraction—when she nervously stumbles over a line, and he mutters a quiet correction, his voice steadier than you expect.

It’s just good acting, you reason. Nothing more.

Because Tsukishima is your best friend. And that’s all he’s ever been, all he’s ever going to be. You tell yourself that, over and over and over again, trying to make it feel like the truth. But for some reason, despite all your effort, it doesn’t, and it bothers you in a way that it wouldn’t bother friends that are purely just platonic.

seven.

“You look like shit.”

You rub your eyes, very conscious of the fact that you’re sporting dark eye bags and a goofy-ass fit. Your hoodie is three sizes too big, your sweatpants have a suspicious stain on them from an unknown source, and your hair looks… actually, you don’t even want to talk about it because it really is that bad. You blink up at Tsukishima, who has somehow managed to find you after your afternoon lecture, looking disgustingly well-rested and put-together as always.

“Thanks,” you deadpan, shouldering your bag. “Great to see you too, Kei.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes but doesn’t move out of your way. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you with that keen, observational gaze of his. “Seriously. Are you okay?”

You pause, thrown off by his genuine concern—normally, he’d just mock you and move on, but there’s a sharpness to his tone today, like he actually cares. Maybe it’s because you’ve barely been outside in the last few days, much less seen him and Yamaguchi. Now that you’ve made it through over half of the film’s scenes, you’ve already started editing it together (arguably the worst part of being a self-produced film student: the excessive time spent with Adobe Creative Cloud). You hesitate, then sigh. “Just tired. I’ve been working nonstop, and I still haven’t figured out the ending.”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh, crossing his arms. “Why do you always do this to yourself?”

“I thrive under pressure.”

“You thrive off caffeine and bad decisions.”

“Same thing,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Look, I’ll figure it out. Eventually.”

Tsukishima doesn’t look convinced, but instead of pressing further, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his car keys, holding them up with a lazy shake. “C’mon.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“You clearly need a break. Let’s go.”

You frown at him, confused. “Go where?”

“Does it matter?” he counters, raising an eyebrow. “I swear to god, if you go back to your dorm and stare at your screen for another five hours, you’re gonna lose whatever brain cells you have left.”

You open your mouth to argue, but you know he’s right. Your brain is fried, your eyes are starting to blur from staring at a screen all night, and you could really use some air. So, with a dramatic groan, you give in. “Fine. But if you take me somewhere boring, I’m jumping out of the car.”

“Noted,” he says dryly, shoving his keys back in his pocket before turning on his heel. “Now move it.”

***

The drive is familiar, comfortable. You don’t even ask where he’s taking you because, honestly, he’s right: it doesn’t matter. Being in his car like this feels natural, like muscle memory.

You remember when he first got his license, the first of you three to do so. Akiteru had gifted him a car to use once he did, an old but functional, clean and simple one, much like him. At the time, it had felt like the biggest deal—suddenly, Tsukishima had a ticket to freedom, and by extension, so did you and Yamaguchi.

You can still picture those early drives vividly: the three of you packed into the car, Yamaguchi in the passenger seat nervously checking the map while you sprawled in the back, shouting ridiculous directions just to mess with Tsukishima. He always acted like he hated it, threatening to pull over and leave you on the curb, but he never actually did. 

There were the late-night drives to nowhere, just because none of you wanted to go home yet. The ice cream runs in the middle of winter, sitting in the parking lot with the heater cranked up as you argued over movie rankings. The way Tsukishima always kept one hand on the wheel, the other fidgeting with the volume knob, adjusting it up or down depending on whether he was feeling indulgent or annoyed by whatever you were blasting through the speakers.

You remember one time, when a storm had rolled in suddenly and you got caught out in the rain on the way back from a late study session; he’d picked you up after you spam-called him seven times. Tsukishima pulled up to the curb in front of your house, the wipers barely keeping up with the downpour, but for some reason, instead of rushing out of the storm into your apartment, you’d just sat there for a while, listening to the steady rhythm of the rain against the car roof. He hadn’t told you to get out, hadn’t asked why you were lingering. He just turned up the music, leaned back, and let you stay.

The cityscape blurs past the windows as the car hums beneath you, the low rumble of the engine mixing with the sound of the playlist Tsukishima has quietly playing in the background. You recognize the song instantly—it’s from one of your old shared playlists, one you made together back in your first year of high school.

You glance at him, but he keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily against the gearshift. His sweater is vintage, made of a gorgeous dark green wool that you had been ecstatic to find when you first took him to your favorite thrift store back home; it looks good contrasted with his blond hair and fair skin. His usual stoic expression is softer in the evening glow, illuminated by the street lamps lining the road. 

God. Have his eyes always been able to capture the city lights like that? 

***

Tsukishima drives for what feels like forever, but when he finally pulls over, it’s basically where you started: an empty parking lot, outside of your favorite convenience store because they’re open late and always stock freshly-made to-go onigiri. It’s owned by a sweet old woman, so double points; you two have been coming here since the start of your freshman year. 

He throws the car in park and gives you a look. “You coming?”

You sigh dramatically but unbuckle your seatbelt, stepping out into the cool night air. The store’s neon sign hums quietly, casting a soft glow over the pavement.

As soon as you step inside, the familiar scent of warm rice and miso greets you, and you immediately relax. Tsukishima heads straight for the onigiri section, while you linger near the drinks, debating between a matcha latte and a cappuccino.

“You’re getting the matcha,” Tsukishima calls over his shoulder, barely even looking up.

You roll your eyes but grab it anyway, because yeah, he’s right. You join him at the counter, where he’s already placed two onigiri on the register—one salmon, one tuna mayo.

“You know my order,” you say, amused.

He shrugs, handing over his card to pay before you can argue. “You never change it.”

The words are casual, offhanded, but something about them settles deep in your chest. You look at him, at the way he’s effortlessly familiar with your habits, your preferences, your life.

And for some reason, that makes your stomach twist.

eight. 

You tear into your onigiri, letting the familiar taste of salmon and warm rice settle on your tongue. The quiet hum of the city surrounds you both as you sit on the hood of Tsukishima’s car, drinks resting beside you. The neon glow of the convenience store sign flickers in the periphery, casting long, gentle shadows over the pavement; the night is cool but not biting, the breeze rustling the stray napkins you’d forgotten beside you.

The conversation flows lazily, touching on everything and nothing at once—complaints about professors, Yamaguchi’s latest doomed tutoring attempts with Hinata, Tsukishima’s upcoming project on primate evolution that he absolutely does not care about. It’s easy, the way it always is, but there’s a weight pressing against your ribs, something you can’t quite name.

Then it slows. After a beat, you sigh, staring out at the dim glow of the streetlights. “I think I might change the ending.”

Tsukishima shifts beside you, glancing at you briefly before turning back toward the night sky. You don’t even have to specify: he knows what you’re talking about. “Yeah?”

“I wanted a happy one,” you admit, your fingers picking at a loose thread on your hoodie. “But I don’t know if it fits. Every version I write feels fake. Too neat. Too… easy.”

He’s quiet for a moment, taking a slow sip of his drink before shrugging. “Then don’t force it. If it’s not working, make it ambiguous.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” he argues, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “People like things that feel real. If you’re struggling this much, maybe that’s your answer.”

You chew on his words, considering. Maybe he’s right. Maybe an open-ended conclusion is the answer—letting things linger, unresolved but full of possibility. But something about that unsettles you, like leaving something unfinished, like waiting for something that never comes.

And then, it clicks: how to leave it ambiguous without being unfinished. 

You exhale, pressing your phone’s power button and watching the screen light up, a blank notes app staring back at you. Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you start typing, the inspiration finally clicking into place. You can already see the scene in your mind—the way the light will filter in, the subtle expressions, the carefully chosen silence between words.

Tsukishima watches you with mild amusement, his lips quirking up just slightly. “Are you seriously writing right now?”

“Shut up,” you mumble, furiously typing. “You said something smart for once, and now I have to take advantage of it.”

He snorts. “You wouldn’t survive without me.”

You roll your eyes, but deep down, you know he’s right. The thought lingers, unspoken. How many times has he done this? Pulled you out of your own head before you spiraled, pushed you to do better, reminded you—without ever really saying it—that you aren’t alone?

The words on your screen blur slightly. Maybe it’s just the neon lights. Maybe it’s something else.

Then, softer, almost offhand, he says, “You know, if it’s really bothering you this much, maybe it’s because you want it to mean something.”

Your fingers still over your screen. The words sit heavy in the air, pressing down on you with a weight you can’t quite place. You look up at him, but he’s already turned back toward the city, his expression unreadable.

nine.

You think that you need a distraction. A long walk, or a snack, maybe. Or better yet, what you actually really want: a frontal lobotomy. 

Instead, you have filming.

Which is, honestly, the opposite of helpful when your current goal is to shove all of your weird, unwelcome, inexplicable feelings into the deepest recesses of your mind. It’s awful, but now that you’ve started to see your best friend in a whole new light, it’s really all you can think about. Therefore, you cope as you always have: running from your problems. You’ve been distant the last few days. You’re responding less, cancelling on your weekly study sessions, sprinting out of your lectures before he can catch up to you. You’ve even been ghosting Yamaguchi out of proximity. 

But you can’t do that today. Because today, you’re shooting one of the final sequences—the rooftop scene. The one drenched in soft intimacy, lingering glances, and unsaid words thickening the air between them. The one where Tsukishima and Yachi have to act like they exist in their own world, where nothing and no one else matters.

You try not to think about it too hard.

The rooftop set is perfect. The city sprawls beneath them, lights flickering like stars, a mirror to the actual night sky above. Yachi’s already in position, sitting at the edge, her posture relaxed but poised. Tsukishima is beside her, long legs stretched out, hands lazily resting on his lap. The camera is set up, framing them beautifully against the endless stretch of buildings and sky.

You call action, and for a while, it’s fine.

Yachi takes a slow drag of the cigarette (a prop one—she refuses to even come close to tainting her lungs), the smoke curling up between them. Her voice is soft, contemplative, as she delivers her lines. Tsukishima exhales smoke into the night, his face not particularly expressive but not detached. He’s… engaged. Focused. Too focused. There’s something in the way he looks at her that makes your chest tight, even though you know, know, it’s just acting.

Still, the words he says don’t feel like lines. Not when his voice dips just slightly, not when his eyes linger on her face.

“Maybe,” he says, his tone quieter than rehearsals, “but some moments leave imprints on our souls. They’ll last forever in our hearts.”

The air shifts.

Yachi leans her head on his shoulder. The city hums below them. The scene is exactly as you envisioned it, the kind of moment that pulls people in, that makes an audience believe.

And yet, it feels like you can’t breathe.

The worst part is that it isn’t even that bad—no, you get through the scene just fine. No one else notices the way your stomach churns, or the way your hands tighten around the back of the director’s chair. No one notices that the words aren’t just dialogue in your head anymore, that they feel… wrong, out of place, too much.

It isn’t until Tsukishima reaches out, without prompting, without direction, and brushes a loose strand of hair out of Yachi’s face that you realize you actually feel sick.

It’s not scripted.

The camera catches it perfectly, a soft, natural movement. The kind of instinctive touch that makes a scene feel real. Your breath stutters in your chest. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he leans in slightly, pressing the briefest kiss to her forehead before pulling back, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Not in the script.

Not in the goddamn script.

“Cut,” you say, too quickly, your voice tighter than you mean it to be. You clear your throat, forcing a neutral expression onto your face when both of them glance toward you. “That was—good. Really natural.”

Yachi beams, a little shy but pleased. “It felt nice, actually. He made it really easy to stay in the moment.”

You swallow down whatever the hell it is that rises up in you at that.

Tsukishima doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, sharp and unreadable.

Your fingers curl into your palm. “I think we’re done for tonight,” you announce, forcing a yawn into your voice like exhaustion is the reason you need to leave so badly. “I’ve got a migraine coming on, and we still have to film the passion scene this weekend.”

Yachi nods easily, already stretching out her legs, but Tsukishima’s expression darkens slightly.

“You sure?” he asks, low enough that only you hear it.

You nod quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. Just need sleep.”

He stands, brushing invisible dust from his jeans, and you know what’s coming before he even says it. “I’ll walk you back.”

“No!” you panic, waving your hands wildly. “Kaori’s picking me up.”

It’s a lie, an obvious one, but you don’t care. You grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder before he can question it. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Then you leave, practically sprinting out, before he can say anything else. Before you have to deal with whatever the hell this is, whatever it means.

Because if you stop to think about it, even for a second, you’re pretty sure you’ll break.

ten. 

Midway through your most recent homework assignment (dissecting the art behind the glorious film Cars—the best Disney movie out there, fight with the wall), your phone vibrates against your nightstand. The screen flashes the text message that’s popped up, but you don’t even need to check to know who it is: it’s a notification that you already know you don’t want to see.

(11:12 PM) kei :P: are you avoiding me?

You stare at the text, thumb hovering over the keyboard, your mind spinning with an answer that won’t sound like a complete lie. The problem is, you are avoiding him. You’ve been practically stonewalling him, dashing away inconspicuously whenever you know he’ll be nearby, and it’s getting obvious. He knows it. There’s no use pretending otherwise, but the idea of confronting it—confronting him—makes something anxious curl in your gut.

You sigh, flopping onto your bed, one arm draped over your eyes as you try to gather your thoughts. Your fingers type out a response before you can overthink it.

(11:15 PM) y/n: no? y/n: i’m j busy lately u know that

The three dots appear, then disappear. Reappear, then disappear again. He’s debating his response, and for some reason, that is terrifying. Then it buzzes.

(11:21 PM) kei :P: right.

It’s short. Barely anything at all. But you know him, and you know exactly what that one-word response means. He doesn’t believe you. He’s letting it go for now, but he isn’t letting it go entirely. The thought unsettles you more than you want to admit.

Your room feels suffocating suddenly, like it’s pressing in on you. You glance around, searching for something—anything—to keep your mind occupied, but all you find are pieces of him.

Tsukishima had helped you move in, so he has a fundamental part in the whole place already, but when you look even closer, he’s really in the details. There’s the framed picture on your desk from your high school graduation, his hand resting lazily on your shoulder as Yamaguchi beams from besides you. There’s a hoodie draped over your desk chair, long since stolen from his closet during a late night out that never got returned. There’s a battered copy of Normal People by Sally Rooney tucked into your bookshelf, its pages creased and worn from the way he always mindlessly flipped through it when he came over. 

It never seemed evident until now, when you’re trying so hard not to think about him, to not let him occupy a space that he’s so clearly always kept filled, but now that you see it, it’s simple: Kei has been a part of your life for as long as you can possibly remember. He’s always been there, from the very moment your family moved into the house next door to him when you were seven. He’s in your daily routine. If you turned on your phone right now, it’d open to a picture of you three; if you were to open Spotify, you’ll find your blend at the very top of your pinned playlists. 

He’s everywhere. He’s everything. Tsukishima Kei is worn into your very bones, into every single cell, written into every little part of your being. 

Your fingers tighten around your phone, and for a moment, you consider texting him back. Saying something real. Something honest.

Your gaze flickers to your desk, to the script sitting on top of a stack of notebooks. The ending you rewrote stares back at you, the words bold and final.

Scene 6 Exterior - Rooftop - Sunset Yachi returns to the rooftop, now alone. She sits on the edge, looking out at the city. The sun sets, casting a warm glow over everything. She takes out a cigarette and lights it, inhaling deeply. Cut to: Tsukishima, walking through the city streets, the sunset reflecting in his eyes. He pauses, looking up at the rooftop where Yachi is sitting. The screen fades to black. Text on screen: “We’ll be there at the end of the world, together as the stars go out.”

The moment your professor read it, she called it striking. Said it felt honest. That the ache in the words felt real, like someone had lived it.

But you didn’t just write it. You felt it.

Because if the world were ending, if the stars were truly burning out—there’s no question where you’d be. Who you’d be with.

And yet, here you are, running.

You inhale sharply, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes.

With the weight of twelve years of friendship comes the obligation to not let it go to waste: you are terrified of what a confession could do. You can’t even imagine what a world without Kei looks like; you would honestly rather die than lose him. And well… admitting your feelings could very well mean losing him. 

Then again, you could very well lose him too if you keep ignoring him and running away. You just need to come up with some way to either 1) get over your feelings, or 2) explain to your best friend that you’ve suddenly started having inexplicable dreams about him and feeling the urge to kiss him. 

You mean, how hard could it really be?

eleven. 

Evidently, very difficult. 

You’re standing outside the door of Tsukishima’s flat for the first time in days, feeling like you might actually throw up. You have the horrible urge to cancel. Maybe you should turn around. Maybe you should fake food poisoning. Maybe you should suddenly develop an urgent need to flee the country.

But no. You can’t do that. This is your film, your project, your fucking grade on the line. You can’t just run away forever.

So you’re here. And you take a deep breath before you knock, because your heart is hammering like you just ran across campus, and it only picks up when the door swings open.

And then he’s there too—Tsukishima, standing in the doorway of his apartment, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie hanging loose on his frame. His glasses slide down his nose just slightly, and for a second, he just looks at you, eyes scanning your face, your posture, like he’s already found something off about you.

“You’re early,” he says, stepping aside to let you in.

You nod, stepping over the threshold, hyperaware of the way the air inside feels different—warm, his, thick with something you don’t have the words for.

“Wanted to set up before Yachi gets here.” Your voice is steady, detached, the way it should be.

It’s not a lie, not entirely, but it’s not the truth either. The truth is sitting in the space between you, glaring and heavy, pressing in like the weight of an oncoming storm.

He hums in response but doesn’t say anything else. Tsukishima doesn’t move, doesn’t drop his gaze. His arms are crossed, his posture lazy, but there’s something pointed about the way he’s looking at you—sharp, analyzing, like he’s cataloging every tell, every avoidance, every reason why you’re standing here instead of texting some excuse from the safety of your dorm.

You drop your bag near the couch and move to set up your camera, your hands moving automatically as you avoid his gaze. The apartment smells like him—coffee and citrus, faintly like that stupid expensive detergent he swears isn’t a luxury purchase but definitely is. The scent is so him, so familiar, that it makes your stomach flip.

And then he speaks.

“What’s going on with you?”

You freeze.

It’s not accusatory, not sharp, just… careful. Measured. Like he’s trying to get an answer without pushing too hard. Which, honestly, is worse than if he had just called you out directly.

You force yourself to keep your hands steady, adjusting the camera’s angle. “Nothing. Just busy.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Bullshit.”

Your stomach twists. The air in the room shifts, thickens.

He’s always been quick. Always been able to pick apart your bullshit before you even finish spinning it, before you can even convince yourself it’s real. And now, with those gold-flecked eyes trained on you, burning through every excuse you try to build between you… well, you’re drowning.

His voice is steady, but edged with something dangerous. “I don’t know what your problem is, but if you think I haven’t noticed, you’re dumber than I thought.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

For a second, you want to tell him. Everything. The thoughts, the jealousy, the confusion that’s been clawing at your throat for weeks. You hate that he knows you this well, that he can see through you so easily. You hate that he’s giving you that look, the one that says I’m waiting for the truth, waiting for you to finally be honest, and you hate, hate, that you don’t know what to say. 

But then, the door swings open. Yachi steps in, breathless and smiling. “Sorry I’m late!”

The moment shatters.

You exhale, stepping back, forcing a smile as you greet her, ignoring the way Tsukishima is still watching you. He goes still, expression unreadable. And then—just like that—his face smooths out, his posture relaxes, his hands sink into his hoodie pocket like nothing happened at all.

“Let’s get this over with,” he mutters.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Let’s start.”

If you want to make it through a whole scene of them making out for three minutes, you have to stop looking at your best friend. His amber eyes, under his layer of concern, confusion, and annoyance, are filled with hurt, and your stomach feels like it’s being ripped out, torn to fucking shreds, to see him like that. 

So you avert your gaze, stubbornly keeping your eyes on Yachi and your camera, and set up to film the scene.

***

The camera is steady. Your breathing, however, is not.

The apartment is dimly lit, the soft hum of music playing through the speaker, some indie song with melancholic chords that you once added to the shared playlist, long before this—before all of this—became something unbearable. It filters into the space like a ghost of a memory, like something familiar that you can’t quite place.

Yachi sits on the edge of Tsukishima’s bed, her hands folded neatly in her lap, waiting for direction, waiting for him. Tsukishima stands in front of her, tall and composed, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s testing the weight of the scene before stepping into it. His shoulders are loose, his stance easy, his face unreadable. Too unreadable.

Too casual.

Like he’s trying to make it look effortless.

Like he’s making it look effortless for you.

Your grip tightens around the camera. The frame is perfect—low lighting casting long shadows, the soft golden glow from the bedside lamp catching on strands of Yachi’s hair, the curve of Tsukishima’s jaw. It’s intimate. Close. Exactly what you wanted.

It should be fine. This should be fine.

The scene is simple.

Close-ups of hands, of fingers grazing over fabric. Of a breath caught in the space between them. Of a moment stretched too thin, heavy with something unsaid.

And then, they kiss.

Your stomach lurches.

It’s instinct—the way your body reacts, the way something tightens in your chest like a vice, the way your nails press into your palm where you grip the camera. You tell yourself to look at the screen, at the framing, at the way their silhouettes fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

But you’re not looking at the shot.

You’re looking at him.

The way his head tilts slightly, the angle just right. The way his hand ghosts over the small of Yachi’s back before settling, fingers barely pressing into fabric. The way he moves slow, deliberate, like every part of him has been designed for this moment, like he’s meant to be here, kissing her, making it look real.

Making it feel real.

Your fingers tighten around the camera, but you don’t move.

The shot is perfect.

Tsukishima is slow, careful. One hand cups Yachi’s jaw, his thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone, his other resting against her waist, anchoring her in place. He leans in, the motion seamless, practiced, lips pressing against hers with just enough pressure to make it believable.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

It’s nothing. It’s just a film. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care.

But you do.

The words sit at the back of your throat like acid, thick and burning, because this is what you wanted—this is what you asked for—and yet you can’t seem to convince yourself that you’re okay with it.

You should be focusing on the technicalities. On the way the lighting frames them, on the way the movement aligns with your vision, on the way Yachi’s fingers twitch against his hoodie like she’s nervous, like she’s fully immersed in the moment.

But all you can focus on is him.

The way his eyelashes flutter for half a second before he closes his eyes.

The slow exhale against Yachi’s lips.

The way his grip shifts against her waist—just slightly, just barely, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s steadying his breath, like he’s trying to remember it’s acting.

Something inside you twists, sharp and visceral, something so wrong it makes your stomach ache.

Your fingers are shaking.

And then, the worst part: Tsukishima tilts his head further, deepening the kiss.

Your breath catches.

It’s instinctive, automatic, the way your entire body tenses. You barely realize what you’re doing until the words leave your lips, unbidden, a little too fast, a little too urgent.

“Cut.”

The word slices through the air like a blade.

Tsukishima pulls back immediately, blinking, like something had momentarily snapped.

Yachi exhales, touching her lips, a little dazed, but then she laughs, easy and light. “That felt really natural.”

Natural.

The word rings in your ears, cold and foreign, something heavy and nauseating settling in your stomach.

Natural.

You feel like you’re going to throw up.

Tsukishima is still looking at you. Not at Yachi, but at you.

His expression isn’t unreadable anymore. It’s something else—something unread, something searching, something sharp enough to make your skin burn under the weight of it.

You swallow, forcing your voice into something neutral. “Yeah. That was good. Really… natural.”

Yachi grins, stretching her arms. “I have to run—I promised Hinata I’d help him study tonight.”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Go ahead.”

She gathers her things, slings her bag over her shoulder, completely unaware that the air in the room is thick with something else, something unspoken, something unraveling.

The door clicks shut.

You inhale.

You should leave too, right now. You should grab your bag, make up some excuse, and go.

But before you can even think about moving, a hand wraps around your wrist, and drags you back in.

twelve. 

The door clicks shut behind Yachi, but the weight in your chest doesn’t lift. If anything, it gets heavier, pressing against your ribs like an iron hand squeezing the air out of your lungs. You force yourself to breathe, force yourself to move, force yourself to not think about the way Tsukishima had looked at her, had touched her, had—

A hand wraps around your wrist.

You freeze.

Tsukishima tugs, firm but not rough, pulling you back before you can escape.

Your heart stutters.

“What the hell is going on with you?” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s something underneath it—frustration, confusion, anger.

You try to twist your arm away, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers tighten slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor you, to keep you here. You force yourself to look at him, to meet the sharp, burning gaze that’s demanding answers.

You swallow. “Nothing.”

His jaw clenches. “Try again.”

“Tsukishima—”

“No.” His voice cuts through the air, low and unyielding. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks. Avoiding me. Lying to me. Looking at me like I fucking killed your dog or something. Not even calling me Kei anymore. And then tonight—” He breaks off, exhaling sharply through his nose. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen. “What is your problem?”

The words sting, sharp and cutting, but the worst part is that he’s right. He’s right.

And you’re tired.

Tired of pretending it doesn’t bother you. Tired of biting your tongue. Tired of shoving down every ugly, twisting, unbearable feeling that claws at your throat.

So, suddenly, recklessly, you snap. “You! You’re my fucking problem!”

The words burst out of you like they’ve been waiting, desperate to escape, and suddenly, there’s no going back.

Tsukishima’s eyes widen—just slightly, just enough for you to see the flicker of shock before his expression hardens again.

“What?” His voice is sharp, almost mocking, like he’s daring you to say it again, to spell it out for him.

You rip your wrist from his grip, shoving him back a step. Your hands are shaking. Your heart is pounding.

“You don’t get it, do you?” The words come fast, breathless. “Do you even see what you look like? How easy this is for you?” Your voice wavers, thick with something too sharp to be just frustration. “How you can just— just kiss her like it’s nothing?”

His brow furrows. “It was a scene.”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

You shove him again, hands pressing against his chest, but he barely moves.

“I had to watch you,” you spit, voice cracking at the edges. “Watch you hold her like that. Watch you look at her like that. And I hated it, Tsukishima. I hated it.”

Something shifts in the air between you.

The anger is still there, but beneath it—something else. Something fragile and aching and real.

Tsukishima doesn’t speak. His lips part slightly, but no words come.

He’s staring at you, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes.

You inhale, shaking, your hands balled into fists. ���I don’t know when it happened, or how, or if I’m just an idiot who took too long to figure it out, but I—” Your breath stutters. Your throat feels tight. Fuck, you shouldn’t be saying this. You shouldn’t be saying this.

But you do.

Because it’s too late.

Because there’s no running now.

“I love you.”

The words drop between you like stones in water, sinking deep, sending ripples through everything.

Silence.

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, erratic and deafening.

Tsukishima stares at you. Gaping. Frozen.

Like the world just tilted on its very axis. Like the entire sky is tumbling down, like gravity is the sole thing keeping him on the ground. 

And then you panic.

“I—I didn’t mean—” Your voice shakes, your fingers twitch, you need to fix this, you need to take it back before you lose him, before you ruin everything—

But then he moves.

Fast.

His hands are on your face before you can breathe, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not careful. Not controlled. Not measured, the way he was with Yachi.

This is something else entirely.

This is desperate. This is frantic. This is a storm breaking after years of tension, of longing, of something building between you that neither of you had the courage to name.

His lips crash against yours, stealing the air from your lungs, pulling a sound from the back of your throat that’s more relief than surprise. He kisses you like he’s been holding himself back for too long, like the second he let himself move, he couldn’t stop.

Like he’s been waiting.

Like he’s always wanted this.

The heat of his body devours you, swallowing you whole, pulling you under like a riptide you don’t want to escape. His hands slide down, fingers spreading against your waist, gripping tight like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his grasp. He tugs you forward, flush against him, so close there’s no space left, no room for doubt, no hesitation—only him, only this, only the way he’s holding you like he never intends to let go.

His mouth moves against yours with intent, deliberate and thorough, a silent demand, a confession with no words, just the press of his lips and the desperate, aching pull of his hands. He’s tasting, memorizing, mapping out every gasp, every shiver, every fragile part of you that has ever been his without either of you realizing it.

You make a sound against his lips, something caught between a sigh and a plea, and that’s all it takes—his grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin like he’s learning you by touch, like he needs you closer, closer, closer.

You melt into him. You break into him.

There is no hesitation when your hands reach for him, twisting in the fabric of his hoodie, clutching it like a lifeline, because you are terrified he’ll stop, that this will disappear, that he’ll come to his senses and—

But he doesn’t.

Because when you part, just barely, just enough to let air slip between you, Tsukishima chases after you.

His lips find yours again, softer this time, reverent, like he needs to remind himself that you’re real. That this is real.

That you’re not running anymore.

His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, warm, fanning over your lips in slow exhales. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, just lets the silence stretch, heavy and fragile and trembling with meaning.

Then, his voice—low, hoarse, something wrecked and beautiful.

“Say it again.”

Your heart stutters, something sharp and sweet twisting in your chest.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, amber eyes burning, raw with something you’ve never seen before, something almost pleading.

Your fingers loosen against his hoodie, but you don’t let go. “What?”

His thumb brushes over your cheek, his jaw tight, his gaze steady, searching yours for something unspoken.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, quieter this time.

Your throat is dry. Your world has shrunk to the space between you, to the way his hands still hold you, to the weight of his gaze pressing into you like an answer he already knows but needs to hear anyway.

You swallow once, then again. Then, soft but steady, you let it slip. “I love you.”

The way he exhales, sharp and shaky, is enough to undo you completely.

And then he kisses you again.

Slower this time. Deep. Intentional. Like he’s taking his time, like he wants to make sure you understand.

This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t something he can write off as an impulse, something fleeting or meaningless or careless. This is him. This is him choosing you.

He kisses you like he’s learning you, like he’s memorizing the way your breath hitches when he moves a certain way, the way your hands tremble when they slide up to cup his jaw, the way you—God, the way you kiss him back like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Like you love him, and you’ve always loved him.

Like he loves you, and he’s always loved you.

And maybe it’s too much, too late, too terrifying, but when you pull apart, he still doesn’t let go.

His fingers linger against your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, swollen from his kiss.

His voice is rough when he finally speaks.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he snorts.

You laugh, breathless, and it comes out half-shaky, half-dazed. “Excuse me?”

He shakes his head, his lips curving slightly—soft, unbearably fond, annoyingly smug—but his eyes stay serious, stay warm.

“I love you too,” he says, just like that, like it’s simple. Like it’s easy.

And for once, it is.

thirteen. 

You wake up in a panic.

Your heart is a drum in your chest, erratic, wild, out of sync with the soft pre-dawn quiet of your dorm room. The weight of last night presses down on you all at once—the argument, the confession, the way Tsukishima kissed you like he’d been waiting, like he meant it, like he wasn’t going to let you take it back.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhale sharply through your nose. It doesn’t help. The air is too thick, your limbs too restless, your thoughts too loud.

What the fuck did you do?

You sit up, shoving the blankets off you like they’re suffocating you. Your hair is a mess, the hoodie you slept in (not yours—his, fuck) twisted around you uncomfortably, but you don’t bother fixing it. The digital clock on your nightstand blinks 6:04 AM, and outside, the world is just beginning to wake.

You should be asleep.

You should be anything but this.

Blindly, you reach for your phone, thumb swiping over the screen to unlock it. The notifications hit you like a brick.

— 17 missed calls — 3 new voicemails — kei :P: pick up your phone — kei :P: are you serious right now — kei :P: we’re not doing this — kei :P: text me back

Your stomach lurches.

Your fingers twitch over the screen, hovering, hesitating, and then—fuck—you lock the phone and throw it onto your desk like it burned you.

You can’t deal with this right now.

Not now, not when you’re still caught in the aftermath of what happened, not when the ghost of his lips still lingers on your skin.

You need a distraction.

You push yourself up from the bed, dragging your feet to your desk, where your laptop sits untouched from the night before. The screen glows as it wakes, casting a pale blue light over your desk. You click open Premiere Pro, fingers moving on autopilot, pulling up the final cut of your film.

Something to ground you. Something to keep you from spiraling.

The editing timeline stretches before you, a mess of layered clips and audio tracks. The cursor blinks, waiting. You set it to the last scene you worked on—the rooftop scene, Yachi and Tsukishima against the night sky, the cigarette smoke curling between them like something ephemeral, fleeting.

You press play.

The footage unfolds in perfect clarity.

Yachi sits on the ledge, her fingers wrapped loosely around the cigarette, her expression thoughtful. Tsukishima is beside her, arms draped over his knees, his profile sharp against the neon haze of the city below.

She turns to him, voice soft, hesitant. “Do you think it’ll last?”

There’s a pause.

Then—his response. 

“As long as we exist, it will.”

You exhale sharply, the words hitting you harder than they should.

The scene plays through, Yachi taking a slow drag of the cigarette before exhaling toward the sky, the glow of the embers casting flickering light over her features. Tsukishima doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay forward, locked on something distant, something unseen.

Your fingers twitch over the keyboard, and without thinking, you hit the spacebar.

The scene rewinds.

You play it again.

“Do you think it’ll last?”

“As long as we exist, it will.”

A lump forms in your throat.

You rewind it again.

Again.

Again.

You don’t know why you keep watching it, why the words keep lodging themselves deeper and deeper into your chest.

Maybe because it doesn’t sound like acting. Maybe because you remember the way he said it, the way he delivered the line so effortlessly, so quietly, like it wasn’t a scripted moment but something real.

Maybe because it reminds you of last night.

The way he kissed you, the way his hands held you firm, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. The way he told you, Say it again, like he couldn’t believe it, like he needed to hear it over and over to make it real. The way he looked at you when you did. The way you let yourself believe, just for a second, that everything you wanted wasn’t impossible.

Your breath hitches, sudden and sharp, and then— you’re crying.

It’s not dramatic. There’s no sobbing, no wretched gasps for air.

Just silent tears, slipping down your cheeks, slow and unrelenting, as the weight of it all crashes into you.

Because you love him. Because you’ve always loved him. Because you can’t remember a time of your life where you didn’t, and because you can’t imagine a time where you don’t.

And you’re terrified.

You don’t know how long you sit there, shoulders curled in, fingers gripping the edge of your desk like you need to physically hold yourself together.

The sun creeps through the window, light spilling over your room in soft golds and oranges. Outside, the campus hums to life—doors opening, footsteps in the hallway, distant laughter.

You should move. You should do something.

Instead, you hit play one more time.

“Do you think it’ll last?”

“As long as we exist, it will.”

The tears keep falling, and you don’t know why you’re crying anymore: whether it’s because you believe it, or because you don’t.

fourteen.

Your hands are shaking as you pull up your contacts list.

It’s barely past 6:30 AM, the sky still tinged with the last remnants of dawn, but you can’t stay here. The weight of your realization—your love for Tsukishima—is suffocating, curling around your ribs like something clawed and desperate, something that refuses to let go.

You need to talk to someone, and there’s only one person who will actually pick up at this hour. So you press the call button and wait.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

Then, a groggy voice, scratchy with sleep but undeniably familiar.

“This better be good, or I swear—”

“I need you.”

A beat of silence.

Then, rustling sheets. A sigh. And finally.

“Where?”

***

The tiny café is quiet, still waking up alongside the rest of campus. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of vanilla and warm pastries. Sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden rectangles onto the worn wooden floors.

You sit in your usual booth, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea, though you haven’t taken a single sip.

You barely register the sound of the door swinging open before a familiar figure drops into the seat across from you, yawning into his hoodie sleeve.

“You look horrible.”

You huff out a weak laugh, your throat still tight from earlier. “Good morning to you too, ‘Dashi.”

Yamaguchi stretches his arms overhead before slumping against the seat, blinking at you with the exhaustion of a man who has spent way too many nights buried under physics equations. He eyes you carefully, then his gaze flicks to the untouched tea in your hands.

“You called me before seven in the morning,” he says, running a hand through his messy hair. “Which means either the apocalypse is happening, or you did something monumentally stupid.”

You drag a hand down your face. “Both.”

His lips quirk up slightly. “Alright. Start talking.”

You open your mouth, but—where do you even start?

The confession? The kiss? The fact that you spent half the night crying over your laptop, replaying Tsukishima’s voice like some deranged, lovesick film major cliché?

Your hands tighten around your cup. “It’s about Kei.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t even blink. “Figured.”

You exhale, shaky and uneven. “I—I don’t know what to do.”

He leans forward slightly, forearms resting against the table, his expression turning serious. “Okay. Take it from the top.”

So you do. You tell him everything.

About the jealousy—the awful, gut-wrenching feeling that took root in your chest the second you saw Tsukishima kiss Yachi, the way it spiraled into something uncontrollable, something you couldn’t suppress.

About the fight—the way Tsukishima saw right through you, called you out, made you snap. The way you finally admitted the truth you’d been running from for so long.

And then, the kiss. The way he grabbed you, the way he pulled you in, the way he kissed you like he was starving, like he’d been waiting for this just as long as you had. 

And the way, afterwards, you panicked.

The silence stretches when you finally stop talking. You can’t bring yourself to meet Yamaguchi’s eyes.

“I left,” you whisper, shame curling in your chest. “I—I freaked out and left. And now I don’t know what to do.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reaches for his coffee, takes a slow sip, and then sets it down with a soft thunk. Then—finally—he speaks.

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

Your head jerks up. “Excuse me?”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like you’ve personally caused him actual, physical pain. “This is literally the worst case of mutual pining I’ve ever seen.”

“Mutual—?”

“Yes,” Yamaguchi says, exasperated. “Are you seriously telling me you didn’t realize he’s been in love with you since we were, like, fifteen?”

You choke on air. “What?”

He gives you a flat look. “Oh, come on. You think he just puts up with people like that? Have you met Kei? He barely tolerates most human interaction, but you? You’re different.”

Your stomach sinks.

Yamaguchi leans back against the booth, studying you carefully. His voice is quieter when he says, “Now he’s waiting for you.”

And suddenly, it all comes rushing back.

Like that summer when you were fourteen, sprawled on the grass in his backyard, swatting mosquitoes away while he read some ridiculous philosophy book he’d scoffed at but couldn’t put down. You had called him pretentious, poked fun at his stupid little annotations, and then—just when he was about to snap back—he had looked at you. Really looked at you. And for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

Or the time in high school when he stayed up with you, sitting outside your house at two in the fucking morning, just because you had a nightmare and didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t say anything about it, didn’t mock you for it, didn’t act like it was a big deal. He just let you talk about stupid shit until you weren’t shaking anymore.

Then there was college. The night he drove across town just because you were too drunk to make it back to your dorm. The way he let you ramble about some stupid movie you had watched for class while he carried you—actually carried you—up the stairs because your legs had stopped working.

And then, of course, last night.

The way he kissed you like he had been holding himself back for years.

The way he whispered, Say it again, like he needed to hear it more than anything.

The way you had run.

Because maybe, deep down, you always knew.

Yamaguchi watches you, then exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You love him.”

It’s not a question.

It's a fact.

And you know that, of course. You’ve always known that. But hearing it out loud—having someone else say it, no doubt, no hesitation—it does something to you.

Your fingers tighten around your cup.

“I love him,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I love him, and I’m scared.”

Yamaguchi hums, tapping his fingers against the rim of his coffee cup. “Why?”

“Because if this goes wrong, I lose him,” you say, staring down at the caramel liquid in your cup.

He tilts his head. “And if it goes right?”

You swallow.

That’s the terrifying part.

If it goes right—if you actually let yourself believe in this, in him… then everything changes. You can never get it back. 

But then again, if you don’t, you’ll never move forward.

Yamaguchi leans forward, voice softer now. “Look, I get it. Kei is… a lot. He’s a pain in the ass. But you don’t have to be afraid of this. Not with him.”

You swallow hard. Your thumb hovers over his name on your phone. But you don’t call him.

Not yet.

Instead, you look at Yamaguchi, heart hammering, voice barely steady.

“What do I do?”

He smiles, small and knowing.

“Go to him.”

fifteen.

Your heart is pounding.

Your pulse is an erratic drumbeat in your ears, your breath uneven as you stand outside Tsukishima’s apartment at 7 AM like an absolute psychopath. The hallway is empty, most of the residents still asleep, because normal people do not show up at their best friend’s door at the crack of dawn after confessing their feelings, running away, and then ghosting them for a whole night.

But here you are.

You raise a fist to knock. Pause. Lower it.

Your mind runs through every possible thing that could go wrong. What if he’s still asleep? What if he’s awake, but he’s pissed? What if you just turn around and pretend this never happened and never speak to him again and maybe flee the country?

But no. No more running. You’re done with that.

You exhale sharply, grit your teeth, and knock.

There’s no response at first.

Then, a very loud, very irritated groan.

Footsteps. A thud as something (probably his knee) collides with something else (probably his desk), followed by a mumbled string of very colorful expletives.

And then, the door swings open.

Tsukishima is standing there, half-asleep and thoroughly unamused.

He’s not wearing his glasses, which is so much worse, because without them, he looks—soft. His blond hair is a complete mess, sticking up in every direction, and he’s wearing that stupid old hoodie that’s two sizes too big, the one you’ve definitely stolen at some point but returned because it stopped smelling like him. His sweatpants are loose around his hips, and his expression is pure murder as he squints at you.

“…The fuck?” His voice is rough from sleep. “It’s seven in the morning.”

You should probably say something. You should probably apologize. You should probably explain why you’ve lost your goddamn mind and decided to show up here like some dramatic main character in an early 2000s rom-com.

But instead, you go on your tiptoes, yank down him by his hoodie, and kiss him. 

It happens fast, and at first, he completely freezes.

Like full-body shutdown. His entire frame locks up, his hands hovering uncertainly, breath caught in his throat.

For one horrifying moment, you think you’ve made a mistake.

But then… then his hands find your waist. And suddenly, he’s kissing you back.

It’s slow at first, tentative, like he’s still processing this, still trying to believe it’s real. But then his fingers tighten against your skin, pulling you closer, and you can feel the exact moment he gives in.

The exact moment he stops thinking.

And God, you feel it everywhere.

The heat of him, the slow, deliberate press of his lips, the quiet, shaky exhale against your mouth before he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. He’s warm, solid, real, and for the first time in weeks, your head isn’t a tangled mess of doubt and fear.

For the first time, everything makes sense.

You pull away first, breathless, heart hammering.

His hands linger on your waist. He keeps his face close to yours, just centimeters away, and when he finally opens his eyes, they’re dark with something you’ve never seen before. Something raw. Something completely, utterly unguarded.

You swallow hard. “I—”

His thumb brushes over your hip, the smallest, barest movement.

You inhale sharply. “I’m sorry.”

Tsukishima doesn’t move. He just watches you, eyes sharp, unreadable. “For what?”

“For—” You hesitate. Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his hoodie. “For running. For taking so long to figure this out. For—”

He sighs, but there’s no real annoyance in it. His gaze softens—just slightly, just enough.

“You’re a dumbass,” he mutters.

You let out a breathless laugh. “I know.”

A pause. Then, he asks, “Do you wanna go for a walk?”

You blink up at him, caught off guard. “A walk?”

“Yeah.” Tsukishima shrugs, stepping back, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. 

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you gonna walk me back to my dorm? Because I literally just dragged myself here for nothing if that’s the case.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, dumbass. I just—” He exhales, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Just wanna walk somewhere.”

Your lips twitch. “…How romantic of you.”

He scoffs. “Shut up.”

But he doesn’t deny it.

The air is crisp, the early morning quiet—the kind of stillness that only exists before the rest of the world wakes up.

You walk side by side, the distance between you not much, but enough. For a while, neither of you speak.

“I meant it.”

You glance at him. “Huh?”

Tsukishima doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed ahead, his hands still tucked into his hoodie, his jaw set. But his voice—low, certain—doesn’t waver.

“I meant it,” he repeats. “When I told you to say it again.”

Your breath catches. He keeps walking, staring straight ahead like this isn’t some life-altering confession, like he’s just casually commenting on the weather. But his hands are tensed inside his hoodie pocket. His shoulders are tight.

You swallow. “Kei…”

“I don’t like a lot of people,” he says bluntly. “I barely tolerate most people. But you—”

He stops walking. You stop too.

Finally, he turns to you, and God—his eyes. They burn, golden in the morning light, open and completely unguarded.

“You make me feel like I belong in a movie.”

Your breath stutters.

He exhales, shaking his head, voice quieter now. “And I fucking hate movies.”

A laugh bubbles up your throat, sudden and unexpected, and you can’t stop smiling.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely making it a thing,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder. “My grumpy, six-foot-four, emotionally constipated best friend just confessed he’s been hopelessly in love with me for years.”

His ears go pink. “I didn’t say that.”

“You did.”

“Shut up.”

You grin. “Make me.”

A pause. Then, he does.

This time, the kiss is gentler. No urgency, no desperation—just warmth. Just him. And as his hands settle against your waist, as your fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie, as his lips move against yours with something quieter, steadier, you realize something very, very important.

For the first time in a long, long time—you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

With him.

But then, the moment stretches, and a thought occurs to you. An extremely essential thought.

You pull back slightly, blinking up at him. Tsukishima frowns. “What.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Then, after a beat, you blurt out, “So… does this mean we’re dating?”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable—half amusement, half exasperation. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his thumb brushes absently along your waist, his grip shifting slightly, like he’s still getting used to the fact that he’s touching you.

Then, flatly, he says, “I don’t know. Do you plan on kissing other people?”

“No?” You reply, your nose scrunching. 

“Then yeah.”

You stare. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You gape at him. “Kei, you are the most unromantic—”

But then something flickers across your mind, something bigger, heavier. A thought that makes your stomach tighten, your fingers twitch against his hoodie.

You inhale. “Hey,” you say, softer this time. “How long?”

He watches you. “How long what?”

You swallow hard. “How long have you loved me?”

A pause. A long pause.

Tsukishima doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. But there’s something in his expression that shifts—something softer, quieter. His fingers tighten just slightly at your waist. And then, voice low, steady, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, he sighs.

“I can’t remember when I didn’t.”

Your heart stops. Your breath catches, your fingers clench around his hoodie, and God—what are you supposed to say to that? Because there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just him. Just this. Just the reality of a love so deeply ingrained in the both of you that it has no beginning and no end.

You exhale—shaky, breathless. “You suck at romance, you know that?”

He rolls his eyes. “And yet, you’re still standing here.”

You laugh, bright and full, and before you can think about it, before you can overanalyze, you’re kissing him again.

It’s easier this time.

Because now, you’re sure. 

And maybe the universe really does have a thing for sadism, because somehow, against all logic, it made him your person. The same Tsukishima Kei who laughs at your mistakes and misfortunes, who calls you out for your delusions and idiocy, who makes fun of your collection of Smiskis and love of reality TV. But at the same time, this Tsukishima Kei would do anything for you, even if you have to beg and beg. This Tsukishima Kei has held you through the worst days of your life, has seen you at your lowest moments and stayed, has waited for you for years to see him the way he has always seen you.

And you think, feeling his hands tighten at your waist and his lips linger against yours like he’s memorising the feeling, that maybe, just maybe, the universe got this one right.

⨭ closing notes; i adore tsukishima kei so much. tbh i rly struggled w this work bc i had this concept fleshed out for so long and j cldnt execute it the way i wanted, but thank u to @kinaskorner for beta reading and for the reassurance <3 i hope u guys love this too!! if u made it to the end of this super long fic lol then thank u sm and i hope u have the loveliest day

[hemmingsleclerc]

Worth it┃sirius black

summary: where Sirius is completely in love with James's sister, but everytime he wants to ask her on a date somehow ends up doing something embarrassing

just sirius being a dumbass in love

･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ･˳ . ⋆

Sirius Black, known for his confident attitude and big ego, became a totally different person when it came to Y/n Potter, James' twin sister. From the moment he first saw her on the Hogwarts Express, he fell in love with her. Her bright eyes, her laughter that echoed through the halls, and her loyalty to her friends captivated Sirius in a way he couldn't explain.

However, every attempt Sirius made to impress her seemed to end in humiliation. Whether it was tripping over his own feet, accidentally dropping a potion in Potions class while he was trying to show off, or simply forgetting his words when she stared at him or smiled, Sirius managed to humiliate himself over and over again and the marauders found endless fun in his failed attempts.

One particularly incident occurred during a Gryffindor Quidditch match. Sirius had been practicing tirelessly, determined to catch Y/n's eye with his skills as a Seeker and impress her (again). As he zoomed across the pitch during the game against Slytherin, he spotted Y/n cheering enthusiastically in the stands. Heart pounding with nerves, Sirius dove towards the Snitch, only to misjudge his speed and crash into a ring, sending the Snitch away to the opposite end of the field. The entire stadium bursted into laughter, including Y/n, who clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her giggles.

"Nice one, Pad! Maybe next time you'll catch something other than the ground," James joked mercilessly after the match, laughing his head off, slapping Sirius on the back.

Sirius tried to laugh, but inside he felt enormous disappointment and shame. He had wanted with all his might to impress Y/n, to show her that he was more than just a prankster or a reckless troublemaker. But every time he tried, it seemed like he only managed to make a fool of himself.

Despite his repeated failures, Sirius refused to give up, she was worth it and he wasn't going to give up so easily. He found himself casting nervous glances at Y/n during meals in the Great Hall, trying to work up the courage to approach her. However, every time he decided to talk to her, his tongue would get stuck and his palms would sweat. Even simple greetings turned into awkward exchanges in which Sirius would end up stumbling over his words or making some ill-timed joke that fell flat.

One rainy afternoon, Sirius was sitting in his dorm with his friends. Peter and Remus were playing a game of wizard chess nearby while James lay on his bed playing with his snitch, occasionally casting sympathetic glances in Sirius' direction.

"You know, mate," Remus began tentatively, moving a knight on the board, "maybe you should just ask her out straightforwardly. None of this grand gesture stuff. Just be yourself."

Sirius sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I've tried, Moony. Every time I try to talk to her, I end up making a complete fool of myself. She probably thinks I'm an idiot by this point."

James chuckled "Nah, she doesn't think you're an idiot. Just a bit… charmingly clumsy as she told me."

Sirius rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but smile at his friends' attempts to cheer him up. Deep down, he knew they were right. Maybe he had been going about it all wrong. Perhaps what Y/n needed was not grand gestures or witty banter, but simply honesty.

The next day, Sirius was walking through the black lake, letting his feet walk without any direction, however he realized that he was precisely addressing Y/n who was reading a book in front of the lake. His heart raced as he made his way over, his friends watching with anticipation from a distance.

"Here goes nothing," Sirius muttered under his breath, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves.

As he approached Y/n, she looked up and smiled warmly at him. Sirius felt his legs weak.

''Hey Y/n''

''Hey sirius, what's up?''

''everythings fine, um I wanted to ask you something''

Sirius felt his throat dry and his mind went blank.

''Are you okey sirius? you seem a bit...pale'' Y/n asked doubtfully, standing up and getting closer to Sirius.

''No! I'm good don't worry!'' Sirius was actually planning on pretending to faint, or running away.

''Okey?..Well anyways I also wanted to ask you something''

Sirius was about to open his mouth to let the words out but Y/n interrupted him.

''I was wondering if you'd like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?" Y/n said smiling ear to ear

Time seemed to stand still for Sirius. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth hanging open. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Did she just ask him out before he could ask her?

Taken by surprise, Sirius took a step back, his heart racing even more. To his surprise, he tripped on a tree root and fell to the ground with a thud.

Laughter erupted in the distance, echoing through the garden. James, Remus and Peter had been responsible for these as they were almost crying of laughter, unable to contain their amusement at Sirius's latest fall.

Sirius lay on the ground for a moment, his face burning with shame. He stood up as quickly as he could, trying to maintain some semblance of composure and dignity.

Y/n rushed over to him, concern mixing with her laughter. "Oh my god!, are you okay?"

Sirius nodded, his cheeks still flushed. "Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just… just caught me by surprise, that's all."

Y/n chuckled softly, offering him a hand up. "Sorry about that. I couldn't resist."

Despite the embarrassment, Sirius couldn't help but grin. "No need to apologize. I… I'd love to go to Hogsmeade with you."

Y/n smiled wildly, relief evident in her eyes. "Great! It's a date then."

Sirius felt a wave of relief and excitement. He had managed to get through another embarrassing moment, but this time he had turned out better than he could have imagined.

As they separated, the rest of the marauders approached him, still laughing at him. James patted him on the back, shaking his head in amusement and hugging him by the side and Sirius couldn't help but do a little victory dance.

Despite all his fumbles and embarrassing moments, he knew one thing for certain: Y/n Potter was worth every stumble and every awkward pause.

[alcoholfreenayeon]

yow what abt twice mtls? confess first, fall in love, get jealous, fall out of love. great jeongyeon hc btw

Twice most to least likely: Get jealous

A/N: I feel some of these ended up sounding more yandere than jealous🙂‍↕️ but hopefully that’s just me😭hope you guys like it

Sana

She’s a huge flirt, she likes the way she can get people to be infatuated with her plus she likes to play hard to get.

Because of this she’s not used to people seeing her as a second choice so when she sees her partner having a good time with someone else when she’s available or even when she isn’t, it makes her feel strange.

It’s uncharted territory for her and she feels possessive immediately. After all what does the other person possess that Sana doesn’t. Why isn’t her partner yearning for her every moment instead of having a good time without her…

Nayeon

You’ll find Nayeon staring daggers at you with or without a polite smile. It’s really not a fun sight to witness because you just know you are in so much trouble later.

Nayeon feels very possessive of you. She’s someone who needs a lot of reassurance so you being clingy with anyone other than her doesn’t bode well with her.

Though she ends up feeling a bit silly after some time thinking for being so possessive she can’t help it, she wants you for herself and only herself.

Mina

Mina is a big introvert and she likes to stay indoors alot and keep to herself. But she knows she can’t really force you to do the same.

Nevertheless, she secretly wishes you would be that way. She’d prefer if she could have you all to herself. If it’s only you and her, all day everyday,

She feels sometimes she’s not good enough and that might make you drawn to others and hence gets her guard up immediately when she sees you being close with someone she doesn’t know.

Momo

You were happily chatting with your friend while waiting for Momo. You had known her for a long time, you didn’t take much notice of it when while laughing at a joke, she put her hand on your arm.

Soon enough, her instincts began to scream for danger and upon looking around, she spotted Momo a few meters away, glaring at both of you. “Is that your girlfriend?”…..

The journey back home was quiet. You realized how that might have looked out of context and were fearing Momo saw it differently. She was quiet though. “Everything ok baby?”, you ask her.

“Yes. But you need to sleep early and rest well”, she replies. “Huh? Why do I need extra rest?”, you question. “Well the couch isn’t very comfortable to sleep on is it”, she answers, unbothered, as she looks into the rearview mirror and applies her lipstick.

Chaeyoung

Chaeyoung and you were surprised to run into your ex at the mall. It was a bit awkward for the three of you but luckily there was no violence.

She hated how you and your ex became awkward because for her that meant you both saw each other and intentionally or unintentionally reflected back on the time you both were together.

She hated when while leaving, you both shared an inside joke which she didn’t know. Chaeyoung knew it’s just how these things go but that didn’t make her blood boil any less.

Tzuyu

Tzuyu is observant, she doesn’t always speak out, never mind her speaking her mind.

So when she was looking at your Instagram and spotted old posts of you and your ex, it just made her quite upset.

But she also knew it was the past yet she also thought you could have deleted it. After all wasn’t the ex was no longer part of your life.

Dahyun

Dahyun was watching you talk with the party’s host. It was normal. The two of you seemed to be getting along well.

She was standing a few feet away, getting something to drink when she suddenly heard the host make a suggestive flirty comment towards you. You didn’t realize it and just laughed along,

Dahyun though, gritted her teeth, it’s annoying that you always are so oblivious to these things. She’s gonna scold you for that later, as for the host…well, it’s a good thing her nails felt sharp right now.

Jihyo

Jihyo knows her worth and she knows you know it too. So she’s never really worried about someone else stealing you away.

But after watching some dramas, she got a bit influenced by them and began to worry that she didn’t like you as much as she thought or wanted because why wouldn’t she ever feel jealous. It was normal for couples to feel jealous at some point right?

And when she asked you to try and flirt with a cashier because she wanted to test something, you definitely felt it was a test. It took a lot of convincing from her and a promise that you wouldn’t get in trouble. Reluctantly you did it but when the cashier actually ended up giving you her number. Jihyo took your hand and dragged you out of the store without even buying anything. You were in big trouble.

Jeongyeon

Jeongyeon never has any real reason to doubt you. She knows you both love each other very much.

Of course, it’s inevitable that at some point either of you would get approached by someone else. It won’t be your or her fault if that happens.

But that’s easier to think when it hasn’t happened. When a fellow idol told Jeongyeon that she was lucky to have you and she should be careful you could get stolen. Though Jeongyeon was polite, her glare she ended up shooting at them later would have scared them silly.

[arttsuka]

Caption here

[jinx-xxed]

Supreme Leader

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; The motivation for this one legit came out of nowhere but I can’t even complain 🫶 this is the best smut I’ve done to date I think

Part of Written in the Stars

Summary; You come back to find Snoke gone… and Kylo Ren has taken his place.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Commander Reader, aftermath of TLJ, angst to sad fluff, original characters, you get promoted!!!, Kylo’s mean, Kylo gets a lightsaber pulled on him, you have a saberstaff, throne room confrontation turns into throne room sex, fucking on the throne, tension, you’re still not Kylo’s biggest fan lol, helmet on, gloves on, calling Kylo by his proper title, orgasm denial, overstimulation, inappropriate use of the Force, very dominant Kylo, fingering, unprotected piv sex, riding Kylo, humiliation, degradation, praise, talking about feelings

Wc; 6.2k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

There’s a sharp ping that comes from the device imbedded into your metal arm cuffs, overriding the silence mode you have it set on and making you startle. You grumble to yourself, pausing your work to tap a few things on the screen and project a smaller screen above it. There it reads the message: all troops involved with mission-76653 cease operations and return to base immediately. There’s coordinates to the Steadfast attached and not the Supremacy, you note.

“Are you serious?” You snap to yourself. The members of Fleet 74 who came along with you on this expedition stop at your voice, looking back at you curiously. You sigh, lifting a hand and making a circular motion with a finger. “We’re heading back to base, I guess. Direct orders.”

Jaharah begins to protest. “Now? But we haven’t finished-“

“I know. I’m not happy about it either.” You say, a scowl settling nicely onto your features. You traveled all the way out to some planet in the Outer Rim to basically have to go right back. You turn, starting the journey to the speeders you’d left behind that’ll return you to your ship that’s even farther away. The others reluctantly follow. “I hope whatever bastard demanded this realizes we’re still two weeks out.”

Lyra’s hands wring together nervously. “Do you think something bad happened? Maybe the resistance-“

You scoff sharply. “The resistance couldn’t hope to do anything against Snoke’s ship, not as things stand now. This is something else.” Or you’d think so.

You won’t admit that you’re worried about what that ‘something else’ could be.

» ☆ «

The trip back to base was just as annoying as the trip out to the assigned planet was. Traveling in a cramped transport ship for two weeks isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world. But finally, there’s a familiar beeping of the sensors and the filter of hyperspace fades away to reveal the massive Star Destroyer that is the Steadfast sitting amongst the blankness of space.

The ship is brought into the hangar and you immediately get the feeling that something is off. A tension in the atmosphere, a shiver running up your arms beneath your uniform. Stormtroopers stand about in a more stiff manner than usual, and the lower workers of the Steadfast seem to have become as meek as mice. There’s also a tinge of leftover smoke in the air, like something blew up within the Star Destroyer. You glance back at your Fleet members as they exit their ships; they feel it too, but Jaharah shrugs, just as lost as you are.

“General,” comes a sudden voice. You snap back around to see a trooper standing before you. “Your presence is requested in the throne room immediately. And the Fleet’s.”

The throne room? What would Snoke want with you now? And what would he want with your Fleet?

You nod, following the Stormtrooper as he acts like some guide through the Steadfast. You’re sure you could find your way faster than he ever could, but you follow along to be nice. The walk there is long, of course, since the ship is so ungodly huge. The hall turns colder as the throne room doors come into view, and it’s like the tension you felt in the air before becomes about ten times heavier, threatening to weigh you down and prevent you from going forward. There’s Sith Troopers guarding the doors, and you see the members of Fleet 74 who stayed behind waiting there as well.

You look to Chief, your second in command. “What is this about?” You demand in a whisper.

“You’ll see.” She mutters. You don’t like that.

The Fleet gets in to a close formation with yourself at the head. The doors open and you’re led inside. You nearly freeze in your tracks with the sight you’re met with.

Snoke is no more. Instead, sitting in a newly made, imposing throne, is Kylo Ren.

He wears his full uniform, hood pulled over his helmet adorned with the red veins that stick the shattered pieces back together coursing through the black metal. His Knights fan out on either side of the throne, still as statues with their weapons held tightly in their hands. Kylo himself is clearly trying to be every bit as intimidating as Snoke was, with his boots firmly planted on the ground, gloved hands clutching the arm rests, back straight as a board.

You kneel before he even gets the chance to tell you to because somehow, initiating it yourself is less humiliating. You hear the Fleet follow suit behind you. The cold, reflective metal of the floor bites into your knee as you stare at it.

There’s an unnerving silence and you feel his eyes on you. Then, “welcome back, Commander.”

You perk at the title, your head shooting up. “Commander?”

“It seems we’ve both gotten promotions.” Kylo drawls. “Snoke is dead, killed by the Jedi girl in his own ship.”

Liar.

He knows that you know, and he also knows that you know it’s better to keep your mouth firmly shut. The discussion you’ll have later should be interesting.

“I’ve taken his place, and I believe it’s most logical to make you my Commander. Fleet 74 will remain as it is. I’m sure you can handle the extra duties, correct?” He asks.

You dip your head again. “Yes, of course. I’m honored, Com-“ you clear your throat, correcting yourself, “Supreme Leader.” It feels wrong.

He taps a finger against the arm rest. “Then you’re dismissed. You and I will talk later.”

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

You rise with the Fleet, leading them out of the throne room with tense muscles. As soon as the doors close behind you, a few of them clap you on the back, congratulating you on the new position. You can’t share in the celebration, unable to ignore the itch in the back of your mind that you can’t quite get rid of.

What the hell happened while you were gone?

» ☆ «

You’re called back to the throne room an hour later.

You know you don’t have a choice in the matter, the message was very clear in that sense. You either go willingly or you’re sure someone will come along to drag you there. So you put away the report you were filing on your forcefully failed mission and push yourself from your chair. You walk down familiar halls, you try to ignore the tremor in your hands by clenching them into fists.

The path to the throne room is void of life, as if it’s a radioactive zone that nobody wants to enter. The description isn’t far off; it feels like you enter into a cloud of smog that chokes you when you get near and it sends a shiver down your spine. The Dark is heavy, threatening, and thick in the area. It parts for you when you pass through, ever so willing to obey your commands even if it doesn’t belong to you, but you feel it pressing in on every side. You take a deep breath when you see the doors leading into the throne room finally appear around a corner, looming like a beast waiting to pounce.

You push them open without pause, steeling yourself and the nerves that buzz beneath your skin. Your face is set with hard lines, your brows slightly drawn over your eyes and your lips positioned with a small downturn. Cold air and the sharp tang of polished metal hits you when you step inside, the click of your heels against the ever-so shiny floor the only sound.

You quickly take note of the fact that the room is empty. There are no Guards, no Stormtroopers, no Knights. Only him.

There is only Kylo Ren, sitting on a false throne.

You feel his eyes behind that mask trained on you as soon as you enter, crawling along your form and taking in every bit of you. He looks as he did before, his body cloaked in black robes with his hood framing his helmet, hiding it from the light. The throne isn’t the same as Snoke’s, this one has had to be built from scratch like many things after the utter obliteration of the Supremacy. This new chair has clearly taken inspiration given its size, but the energy surrounding it has changed. It isn’t as Dark as people would believe it to be.

You stop a healthy distance away from the dais, your perfect reflection along the floor mirroring your movements. “You requested me, Supreme Leader?” The title feels wrong and foreign on your tongue when referring to him and you struggle to hide the mockery in your tone, though he hears it all the same. There’s a seed of unease that burrows itself in your gut, eager to bloom into something bigger as you stare at the man you’ve worked with for most of your life. All of this was unexpected, and that’s where your problem lies. Kylo did this, he got himself to this position—and you don’t understand it.

His gloved hands brace against the armrests as he stands. You watch him intensely, your body feeling like it’s pulled taut as a bowstring, ready for something that you don’t know about yet. Your breathing stutters in your chest, it quickens with your heartbeat. He walks down those steps, one after another with the grace and power of a leader that knows his strength. There’s a brush against the shields in your mind, a familiar Force signature that’s taunting you, playing a game that you’re not interested in. You recoil from the touch, quickly forcing it away from you and out of your head. It can’t be trusted.

He reaches the same level you’re on but when he tries to take another inch of the space between you, you find your lightsaber in front of you. It screams to life, red beams of plasma coming from either end. It lets out a steady hum through the handle clenched in your palm—a threat, a promise. Kylo pauses where he is and you glare at him over the weapon, the red bouncing off the silver on his helmet.

“What did you do?” You demand, words spat from between your teeth.

“Don’t be stupid.” He sneers, deep voice crackling through the vocoder.

He moves towards you again, unfazed by the deadly lightsaber you have pointed directly at him. His pace is unrelenting and you move yourself backwards, eager to keep the same distance. You bare your teeth, twisting to follow him as he circles you like a predator. “What happened to Snoke?”

There’s a minuscule shake of his head as he observes you. “I told you-“

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Kylo. What did you do?” You say again. You want a straight answer, you want to know what the fuck happened when you were gone. You want to know what happened to the man you were beginning to trust. You remember the hunger he’d had in his eyes when you’d first met him, the insatiable desire for power and to prove himself to whoever dared doubt him. You wonder how that young man would feel seeing himself now like this, standing at the top of the galaxy. And you wonder how much farther he’ll go, if this is where you make the stand for your life because you’re a threat.

“I did what I had to.” He says coldly with nothing but conviction. “You’ll understand.” He got himself behind you, now forcing you to walk in the opposite direction to stay away from him. There’s ripples in the Force, the darkness swirling around you both. You feel him at the shields you keep up, but he’s not trying like he should be to get in. He’s basically just sitting there, occasionally reaching forward to remind you that he’s waiting. It’s a silent plea to be let in, but you won’t listen.

“Snoke was a worthless coward. He was incapable of fighting his own battles. Why do you feel such remorse for him when he’s the one who’s caused you so much pain?” Kylo demands, so blatantly angry at the idea of you sympathizing with Snoke. You don’t. You never would. You’re glad to see that he’s gone, that you’ll never again have to experience dread when returning back to base. Snoke tortured you both but after knowing of him ever since you were a child, hearing him in your head, that seed of unease blooms into fear. What will happen now? What kind of leader could Kylo Ren possibly be?

You don’t have the chance to ponder it further. The backs of your legs hit the seat of the throne after having been forced up the dais by Kylo who now comes so close it causes you to fall unceremoniously into the chair. Your lightsaber is still active, poised at his throat even as he slams both hands on either armrest, caging you in. “I saved us,” he snarls, “and this is how you thank me?”

Even as Kylo’s presence threatens to rob you of breath, his darkness trying to choke you, you don’t cower. Your lightsaber reflects in your eyes in the same way it does his helmet, the heat from the plasma an uncomfortable presence between you. “How am I supposed to trust you?” You practically throw the words in his face, and you can see the way they make him recoil. It’s barely there, so very slight, but he draws back just a fraction of a centimeter and you hear the creak of his gloves as he grips the armrests tighter. It hurts him, it brings you satisfaction. You feel the flinch in the Force, betraying his true emotions to someone like you who’s more attuned than he realizes.

And then it’s gone. He brushes it aside and replaces that emotion with bristling anger. He reaches past your arm, past your lightsaber without a care, and he grips your chin. You want to thrash against him, want to fight against his hold; it would be so easy with the saber you have against his neck. But you can’t bring yourself to. You let him hold you there as he makes sure you’re looking at him, his fingers digging into your jaw.

“He was going to have me kill you.” Kylo says, tone quiet and blunt as he brings forth information he’d been holding inside of himself for so long, letting it consume him. “That’s why I sent you away.” Scenes flash in your mind, brought to you by Kylo so that you can see exactly what terrified him, to see what caused the sense of fear he had that day he gave you your mission.

Snoke would’ve had you both come to the throne room, and you would’ve thought nothing was amiss. But then he would reveal that he wished to further Kylo’s training after his recent failures, and that you were the key to making him stronger. That key was your own death. Snoke would admit as such, that he wants Kylo to kill you. You could feel it—the rage inside of you, the despair. Snoke had always favored Kylo over you because Kylo had a name behind him, he had a legacy. You were just a kid with a meaningless family that he picked up off a worthless planet that turned out to have more potential than anyone could’ve ever dreamed. You’d surpassed Kylo in more than enough trials to prove that and yet… it didn’t matter. You were to die to push someone else forward.

“You would’ve fought,” Kylo murmurs, briefly breaking you from the vision, “but you would’ve lost.”

You see what he means. You turned on Snoke, you lashed out with everything you had in you as the Praetorian Guards advanced. You killed all of them, your will to live greater than their own strength, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough against Snoke, who forced you to your knees even as he struggled to do so from your protesting. You could’ve been something, you could’ve been more, but you were just fodder for the machine. You at least looked Kylo in the eyes with your chin held high when he lifted the hilt of his lightsaber. The vision cut out directly after that, and you find yourself heaving for breath.

Your own lightsaber is gone, taken from your grip by Kylo while you watched your death play out. The anger that boils in your gut almost feels misplaced because that future never came to pass, and it never will. Because of what Kylo did. He sent you on a convenient mission to the Outer Rim, as far away from Snoke as possible. Then he took his chances back here, trying to figure out some way to save you, and then the perfect opportunity was laid at his feet.

He keeps his hold on you, forcing you to watch through his own eyes and learn of what he’d gone through. Rey had shown up. The young Jedi girl actually had the gall to deliver herself right to her enemy. She definitely has guts, you’d give her that. She tried and failed to get Kylo to turn away from the Dark Side, trying to make him see the Light. But it didn’t work when his thoughts remained on you and keeping you from Snoke’s grasp. He was too focused on the fact that if the future he saw came to fruition, he knew he’d lose himself entirely. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

So he used Rey in his schemes, used her as a distraction of sorts. He used her to finally kill Snoke, to free himself and you from his reign. He couldn’t believe it actually worked, that Snoke was truly lying on the floor severed in half. It was like a weight was lifted off his shoulders, a ghoul finally banished from the corners of his mind. It was peaceful, but only for a moment. Him and Rey fought the Guards, and then he tried to get back his grandfather’s lightsaber once more to no avail. The memories from then on are bright flashes, fuzzy images, and explosions—nothing you can make out.

You’re pulled from Kylo’s memories, your jaw slack and your heart racing. It feels unreal, something you can’t believe because you weren’t here to witness it. But if you had been here, you would’ve died. “Now you see, don’t you? I told you that you’d understand. Yet you still can’t bring yourself to trust me. It just disgusts you, doesn’t it?” He says lowly, jabbing at you. “How could you ever bear to trust someone like me?” Someone who saved your life, he wants to add with his mocking tone.

There’s a moments pause where you stare at each other, unsure of what to think or say. You wish you could see him, could see his eyes and his face. Your nervous hand reaches up, attempting to get the latch on his helmet to take it off, but he stops you abruptly. He grips your wrist firmly in a leather-clad hand. You try and fumble for words. “Kylo, I-“

“No. You’ll address me as Supreme Leader. You need to get used to that title.” He snaps, forcing you all the way back into the throne as he comes even closer, his boot sliding between your own and forcing your legs apart. Your breath hitches when he takes both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head so you can’t do anything stupid like trying to shove him off or drawing your lightsaber on him again.

The rise and fall of your chest quickens when cold air kisses the skin of your stomach, your layers shoved up by his free hand. The leather of his glove is rough as it skates along the newly exposed area on its way further down. His fingers catch on the waistband of your pants and they don’t hesitate to slip beneath the fabric. Your body feels like it’s been set on fire, your spine pressed so firmly against the back of the throne that there’s nowhere else for you to go, even as you try to scoot away from his burning touch.

You jolt when he grazes your clit, your teeth digging so sharply into your lip that you think you taste blood. He’s moves slow and with purpose, knowing exactly what he’s doing when a low groan rumbles from the back of your throat. You can tell by the way he’s so willing to taunt and tease, by the way his huge body covers your own and boxes you in, that this isn’t going to be good for you. The pad of his index finger traces slow, tortuous circles around your entrance while the heel of his palm makes occasional, light taps against your clit to keep you aware, to keep you anticipating.

“You love to say how much you hate me, and yet you’re always so eager for me.” Kylo spits, his voice guttural when it comes through his helmet, struggling to get past the vocoder as more than just lustful static. He can feel how wet you are, how easily the dark leather of his gloves slides between your folds. His finger finally plunges into your waiting cunt not a second later, a gasp rattling your body. It’s a welcome feeling, one that finally gives the throbbing of your walls something to focus on instead of just aching, empty space.

The thrusts of his finger are lazy, staying at the same easy pace even as you squirm. He’s more generous to your clit now at least, his palm staying firmly against it, providing the friction of rough leather and stitched seams with each in and out of your hole. You whine in pleasure when he finally adds a second finger, the thick digits filling you more completely. They go farther, sink deeper into your heat, finding and pressing against the spot you’re never able to get on your own. Your hands struggle against the hold he has on them, your attempts at freeing yourself as your body writhes having been unsuccessful. You know you’ll have bruises in the shapes of his fingers across your wrists from the strength of his grip.

Kylo enjoys seeing you like this, completely under his mercy and so, so very compliant. It’s rare when he gets what he wants from you—your submission—so he’s relishing in it now while it lasts. His enjoyment is obvious from the erection creating a tent in his pants. You have to avert your eyes from it, trying not to think of the way he’d use it, the way he’d ram into you again and again and fill you with his desire. You can feel your own mounting, a knot in your gut that grows bigger with his ministrations, threatening to come undone.

You’re almost there. You’re standing on the ledge, leaning over the side, ready to fall off into bliss. Just a few more thrusts of his fingers, a few more circles around your clit, and your orgasm will be washing through you. But it never comes despite the way he continues to fingerfuck you, despite the way you can feel it right there and so ready to burst. It’s like something’s blocking it on purpose, a dam built with the sole mission of denying your release. Your eyes snap open, finding Kylo. He huffs a laugh. “What, you think I’d let you cum that easily?” It pisses you off how much he’s liking this. “I’ve barely even started.”

You practically growl at him, lip drawing up to reveal your sharp teeth, but you know he just finds it amusing. Especially when you try to grind your hips down onto his fingers as if that’ll be enough to break the Force hold he has on your body. You can’t move much beyond that with the way he looms over the throne, his legs pinning yours and your hands still stuck above your head. An involuntary whimper rips from your throat when he moves his thumb to your clit, rubbing at it with more purpose and ferocity and a third finger managing to slip into your eager cunt. Your feet scrabble against the floor, trying to find some kind of purchase as the denial of an orgasm makes you dizzy. You try and swallow the drool pooling in your mouth, the breath of your panting fogging the metal panels on Kylo’s helmet from your proximity.

You give in to begging once tears prick your eyes. Your words are barely more than a whisper. “Please- please, Kylo, just-“

There’s a harsh thrust up into your cunt that has your words falling silent, instead replaced by a sharp, high pitched yelp. “What did I fucking tell you?” He demands, pressing even harder against that spot along your walls that has you seeing stars. You feel like you’re about to explode from the built up tension in your body. “What did I tell you to call me?”

You glare at him, your eyes full of all the fury you can’t manage to get out with your voice. You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to bend to this man who’s held such a ridiculous amount of power over you for what feels like your entire life. Your teeth grind together in defiance, even as your face burns. He hums at that and seems almost happy that you’re going against him. He does love a good fight.

His fingers stall and begin to slowly slide out of you, ready to leave you completely empty and with a simmering need that won’t be taken care of. You jolt, eyes widening. It’s in that moment you find you don’t actually give a fuck about defying him, you just need him to stay in you. “Supreme Leader!” You practically shout, so sudden it even startles yourself. Your next words are quieter, more restrained. “Supreme Leader, please..”

You moan in relief when his fingers take back their positions deep inside your cunt, the sounds of your slick sloshing around filling the empty throne room. “Good,” Kylo says roughly, clearly struggling himself. Your obedience is music to his ears and it does nothing to soothe the ache of his cock still restrained by his pants. It just makes it worse. “Say it again.”

You hate him. You’re probably going to kill him. “Supreme Leader, please-“ you have to choke back your humiliation and death threats, “please let me cum.”

This time Kylo groans, the desperate sound crackling through his helmet. He thrusts his fingers one more time, swiping his thumb along your clit, before he lets you go. The release is instant. Something akin to a scream comes from you with your orgasm, the world around you feeling like it’s shattering. You can barely breathe, pure pleasure wracking your body and sending lightning through your limbs. The dam finally broke, and it feels so fucking good. The unbearable pressure is gone, bliss washing through you like a wave from the ocean as you cum around his hand. “See how nice I am?” Kylo says with heavy breath, barely able to contain himself. His eyes are locked on to where his hand disappears into your pants; he can feel your cum pooling on his glove. “How well I reward you when you’re good?”

It’s all you can do to nod dumbly, too blissed out with your ears still ringing to really comprehend what he’s saying. You don’t resist when your pants are pulled off, your underwear entirely soaked through and baring your sensitive, wet cunt to the cold air. You shiver. Your cloak is tossed aside, your top layers undone to reveal your upper body. You’re barely more than a rag doll when Kylo braces an arm against your back, using it to scoop you out of the throne so he can take your spot. His zipper is pulled down, his boxers lowered so his cock is finally freed, painfully erect and dribbling precum.

He sinks you down to the hilt without hesitation. All the air is punched from your lungs, your body tensing as his length fills you to capacity. Kylo’s appreciative groan is loud and throaty, his fingers digging bruises into your hips. You have to pause for a moment to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling so full it’s like you’re not allowed to breathe. Your lips are parted, your nails digging into the ribbed sleeves on his forearms for purchase. His body is warm and muscular beneath your hands.

You struggle to move, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm, your limbs weak and trembling. Kylo makes no effort to help you, his helmet instead tilted up towards you expectantly. “If you want it you’ll have to work for it, Commander.” He says with some twisted amusement. You briefly consider how easy it’d be to reach forward and wring his neck.

But you put that aside, swallowing your broken pride. You unfortunately want his cock more than that. The first thrust is bliss, pleasure filled shocks coursing through you like a live wire. You and Kylo moan in tandem, both of you finally getting some form of relief. Your movements are slow at first, trying desperately to get used to the feeling of his cock splitting you open. His hands travel up your sides, his left glove still soaked in your juices and leaving a trail along your skin. He finds your breasts, encompassing them with large, warm palms that have your head tilting back and your eyes closing. He pinches your stiffened nipples between his fingers, rolling them experimentally as you whine and arch into his touch. Your pace on his cock is steady now, finally having figured out a rhythm.

“Touch yourself.” Kylo orders suddenly, words sounding choked.

Your gaze snaps to him, brows furrowing slightly. “What?”

“Touch yourself.” He snaps again. “If you’re smart, you’ll listen to what I say.”

You glower, your face burning even hotter. He knows you don’t enjoy doing it, which is giving him all the more reason to make you. You hesitate, both not wanting to do as he demands and also not wanting to see whatever repercussions will come if you don’t. Your shaking fingers reach down and find your clit, the bud still sensitive and aching from Kylo’s earlier abuse. Your lip is between your teeth, trying to keep back your moans as you run circles over your clit. The stimulation quickly builds and you can feel that familiar knot forming in your gut again.

Kylo’s helmet tilts up and you can feel his eyes on you. You try not to meet them. “You look pretty like this, you know? Finally fucking listening to me.” He rumbles, giving your nipple a particularly hard pinch and making you writhe in his grip. “Say my name.”

You try to ignore him, ignore his stupid power trip and ego boost. But then he makes his move—one hand comes down to grip your wrist and the other is firm on your hip, completely stalling your movements and messing up your concentration. Your climax steadily begins to fade, a loud and frustrated groan coming from you. “This is stupid.” You snarl at him.

He doesn’t back down. “Say it.”

A harsh breath blows through your nose. You move your head so you can look past him, not wanting to admit that this is what he’s bringing you to. “Supreme Leader.” You mutter, your hips shifting to try and get friction with his cock still hard inside your cunt. He puts a stop to that quickly with a harsh squeeze.

Kylo lets go of your wrist to instead grab your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Again.”

“Supreme Leader.” You grit out.

“One more time.”

You grab his forearm, your nails digging deep enough and with such fury that they’ll leave marks. It’s the least you can do. “Supreme Leader.”

“Good girl.” He murmurs, thumb running along your lower lip. You want nothing more than to sink your teeth into it until you taste blood. “You’ve done so well.”

His following thrust up into you has you forgetting what insult you were going to say. Both of his hands rest on your hips now, keeping you steady as he fucks you mercilessly. You bend forward, gripping his shoulders as some kind of anchor, punctuated moans spilling endlessly from your mouth. His helmet is downturned, the forehead of it resting against your sternum as he watches his cock disappear inside of your cunt, slick smearing along the front of his pants. He uses his Force to swirl against your clit, creating a sort of buzzing sensation that quickly brings that knot back and sets your blood ablaze.

“A commander reduced to a fucking cocksleeve. So good for my dick, aren’t you?” He breathes, words made even more gravelly by his vocoder. “Fuck.” You can only nod along and whimper, your brain fucked into useless mush.

You grip him tighter when your second orgasm finally bursts, your walls spasming around his cock and making him curse even louder. Cum gushes from you, dripping along your folds and making a further mess of Kylo’s pants. You cry out when he keeps thrusting into you, everything throbbing and overly sensitive for his harsh pace. You can’t think straight, you can only dig your teeth into the padded armor of his shoulder as tears well and threaten to fall.

His cock twitches, his hips stuttering. He gets in a few more thrusts before he’s cumming at last, a slew of cusses mixed with grunts and groans falling from his mouth. You hum in pleasure when you feel his warm spend filling your cunt to the brim, effectively coating your walls white.

Neither of you can move for a couple of minutes after. You don’t know how long you sit there for, your body finally relaxing and your eyes closing. He doesn’t pull out, his cock softening inside you and making sure you stay plugged full of his cum. You’re tempted to fall asleep before Kylo’s hands are leaving your hips and instead coming up to undo the latches on his helmet. There’s a hiss of air as the mechanisms slide out of place and he’s able to take it off. His black hair falls around his face, sweat drenching the ends.

You struggle to lift yourself up, but you want to see him. Your hands shake from exhaustion when they reach forward, taking his cheeks in your palms. He looks so tired. His sigh tickles your skin, his eyes closing at your touch. He seems significantly more relaxed now, his body letting go of its tension and his Force signature becoming something calmer. You can feel the weight shift as he leans into your right hand. His arms circle around your back, somehow pulling you even closer.

He swallows before speaking. “I was… afraid.” He mutters. “Afraid without you here… and yet I had to do it. Otherwise I’d lose you.”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips gentle as they brush along your collarbone. “I was afraid that I would fail. That it would’ve all been for nothing.” He continues. He sounds so quiet, quieter than you’ve heard him in a while. You run your fingers through his hair. “I just… I’m glad I sent you away.”

“Me too.” You mumble, your eyes trained on the back wall as your mind runs. You’re finally coming to terms with the fact that your death had almost been set in stone at the hands of Snoke. Coming to terms with the fact that your lifelong teacher was going to have you executed by his star pupil, and the fact that Kylo decided to save you and possibly get himself killed instead. The fact he did everything he could to make sure you wouldn’t come back to a death sentence. You swallow thickly. “Thank you.”

He stills at those words. They’re the last thing he expected to hear from you and it makes him uneasy. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s okay. You know he can’t. Besides, it’s easy to gather what he wants to say from his Force in this moment of vulnerability. An apology is at the forefront; an apology for taking things out on you again. He doesn’t regret it, but he didn’t mean for it to happen. Then underneath that there’s longing that’s still lingering from when you were gone. He wanted nothing more than to see you, to know you were okay. He’s more than happy to have you in his arms now.

You pull yourself out of his thoughts, blowing out a tired sigh and resting your head on his shoulder. He wraps his cape around you to protect your mostly-naked form from the chill of the throne room, his warmth bleeding into you. You’re content to just sit there in his lap, and he seems content to let you. He relaxes back into the throne, cradling you against him with his soft breathing ruffling the hairs on the top of your head.

You’re together. You’re alive. That’s all you need in this moment.

[poppy-s-rampage]

Once a Hero.

-Prologue-

Danny Phantom fought with the knowledge that at any given time he could be stricken dead. With the knowledge that his own parents, the people who brought him into this world, could be the ones to take him out permanently. The Job was already half done after all.

But no matter what, no matter his adversaries, Danny held strong. Despite the constant threat of the GIW and his parents, despites his rogues’ shenanigans and Vlad’s scheming, despite the citizen’s ungratefulness, he held his ground. Always staying true to his beliefs.

Yes, he made mistakes ,terrible ones. Yes, he has done things he would forever be ashamed of. But he never let others take responsibility for his actions. The very proof being his existence as Phantom.

There is no denying it, Danny Phantom/Fenton is a hero.

An existence to whom every victory comes hand to hand with tragedy.

An existence favored by fate.

And fate is known to be a cruel mistress.

~~~

He should have known something was up. It was too good to be true. He should have trusted his instinct. But he ignored it, choosing hope instead of the very thing that kept him alive all these years. All it took was one mistake for everything to domino into a nuclear warhead that quite literally took his everything.

And now, there he is on all four in the middle of a crater of what once was Amity Park and its surroundings. His ears ringing only able to hear the sounds of his own screams.

The once menace, once protector of a city too soon departed wailed in agony. Clutching at his wounds with a strength that reopened his sloppily made stitches. His devastated wails, only interrupted by his sobbed breath and hiccups. His throat was ripped to shreds, tainted ectoplasm pooling into his mouth and lungs while some got projected out with each wail.

Rivers of tears cascaded down his face burning his already bloodshot eyes. His unstable form glitching from ghost to human to something in between.

His once healthy balanced core was now struggling to remain whole. Cracks appearing all over, life and death fighting to preserve their precious Halfa’s existence. Danny felt his body and core beginning to give out. His consciousness finally fading. His body slowly being engulfed into the cold familiar embrace of death.

He fell on his back. His wails dying to choked wet sobs and coughs. Through his tears, Danny could only vaguely see the smoke covered nightsky. Ash falling slowly around him like snowflakes.

He could feel the cold creeping up his limbs then gripping his chest. His already dying heart being embraced by a type of cold even his core couldn’t dream to reproduce. Phantom finally fell silent, his unseeing eyes staring at the starless sky above.

Danny in his last few coherent thoughts felt the pain of his core shattering and reforming itself. It felt like his entire being was set on fire before being melded back together. He felt familiar arms cradling him close to their unbeating heart. The familiar ticking of a clock luring him into a dreamless rest.

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Masterpost!

Chapter 1!

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Author notes:

My brain vomiting this at 3 am. I am sorry for any catastrophic grammar and english, that would be my brain short circuiting from lack of sleep. I intend to hopefully continue this story wherever it may go. You’re welcome to suggest anything or add yourself something to it.

[zwoftt]

8 hour finale better have good shitty angst, but it also better have dorym content that i can cry over (preferably happily).

[groceryreceiptss]

hii! could you do peeta melark x reader? just some domestic sunday morning cuddling :) thanks so much!

'cause it's gravity, keeping you with me

peeta mellark x reader | word count : 0.9k | requested

a/n : hii!! to be honest, i wasn't really sure on how to write this so i'm really sorry if this wasn't what you had in mind, but i tried my best, and i hope you'll enjoy reading it either way! :) thank you for the request < 33 (also yes, i know the picture i chose doesn’t quite match the theme of this fic but look at him!! and look at that golden light on his face!!!)

contains : baddd writing. fluff -> soft intimacy!! but a bit of angst too if you squint. you know, longings and a sense of vulnerability. feelings of hopelessness and despair in the past. let me know if there's more!

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the soft morning sun drifted its way to your face, resting its warm light against your closed eyes. you were just about to give yourself an excuse to sleep in a bit later before you subconsciously remembered that, today is a sunday. no business in waking up early then, you thought, as you pulled the blanket closer.

you shifted a bit and shuffled in closer to peeta’s body next to you. His breathing met at the same pace as yours and his heartbeat the same thrum as the one you had going.

peeta mellark. you knew it was silly to dwell on what could have and would have, but every day, each morning, as you woke up to his comforting presence next to you, you couldn’t help but wonder, what would your life have become, if he hadn’t been there to keep it going?

the war had destroyed everything, leaving trails of loss in its path, wider than the land itself. you didn’t know what you would have done, if you hadn’t seen him again. if he hadn’t come back to your life and reminded you that there were still reasons to live and try to heal for.

and every day you woke up feeling more grateful than the day before.

you didn’t know if an hour had passed, or had it been merely minutes later, when you felt peeta’s arms on your waist, pulling you back onto his chest, engulfing you in more of his warmth, his comfort. his head nested on the crook of your neck, his messy golden blonde hair on your cheek.

in response and out of habit, you brought your hands to his curls, smoothing them softly.

“y/n, sweetheart?” he muttered, and you could feel his lips on your shoulder, sending vibrations onto your skin and bone. it was crazy how he could still make your heart skipped a beat like it was the first time.

“hm?” you responded, still not ready to part with sleep too much to say anything else.

his lips lost touch with your skin and moved on to your ear, whispering, “turn around, look at me please.” 

and so you slowly did. with your eyes still refusing to open, you felt his fingers playing with your hair, pulling them off your forehead. 

“morning, sleepyhead.” he chuckled, and you could tell that he was playfully rolling his eyes. he kissed your temple slowly, and you let your eyes flutter open. 

rubbing your eyes in an effort to erase the sleep out of them, you mumbled, “how are you already awake? it’s sunday.”

“old habits die hard,” he’d answered before you felt his hands on your wrists, stroking them softly with his thumbs. 

you placed your arms around his chest, and as if on cue, he pulled you closer to him, earning him a soft sigh. “do you think it’s physically possible for us to get any closer?” he wondered aloud with a way too cute smile on his face.

still not entirely conscious, you muttered without thinking, “maybe once our bodies have withered into skeletons." oh, you caught yourself. “oh wait, that's dark.” 

he let out a light laugh at your scrunched up eyebrows. “i love you.” 

you looked up at him, into his deep beautiful blue eyes. his eyelashes are so long. “i love you too, peet.” 

and you did, you really did. you told him that everyday, but you never did think it was enough. it was so dramatic to actually utter it, but you truly didn’t think there was enough variety in the english dictionary to fully capture this. this thing that passed between you and him.

as if hearing your quiet thoughts, maybe your eyes had displayed a moment of fragility in them, he responded saying, “i know, love, i know.” 

the grip on your waist held on tighter, like it was scared if it faltered, then it would lose. you mirrored his gesture and snuggled your head further into his chest, the top of your head touching his chin. 

“you want to get some breakfast?” he mumbled into your tousled hair. 

you thought about it for a second, but then shook your head. you looked up at him, a wide smile etched onto your face. “no, i’m good here.” 

you didn’t want to leave this yet, this sacred place. one where you could feel his signs of life all around you, one where you could shut the entire world all around you and its bleak reality and made it only consist of you and him. peeta mellark. 

was it possible to fall further in love with the same person every time you heard his name in your head? was it possible to have the same name echoed through your head over and over like a promise?

you saw his lips formed into a bigger smile, his fingers played with the strands of your hair. 

maybe you knew, maybe you didn’t, but all he could think about  at this very moment was how he had gotten so lucky. to have you here beside him, letting him love you and and letting him show it to you. he looked at your face, with that big smile on it, eyes still bleary from sleep. you were so beautiful, my god. 

he nodded, agreed. he didn’t want to leave too. if he could stay here forever, he would. it would be like having lived a lifetime itself, he thought. “yeah, me too." he said softly as he planted a kiss on your forehead. 

[foreveia]

c(alc)ulus ⤨ tsukishima kei

⨭ genre; hard 2 explain but there's a happy ending so u shld read (jk its a college!au, frat boy!au)

⨭ pairing; tsukishima kei x f!reader

⨭ word count; 9.7k

⨭ descriptions; you're the last person kei wants anything to do with, but not even he can deny it: he, and the entire frat, needs you.

⨭ warnings; frat boy levels of alcoholism, explicit language

⨭ a/n; i love math but love blondes more. i also love rly long fanfics with plot and pretty language and feelings, so hope y'all enjoy this super long mess of a frat!universe haikyuu with college-core drinking habits, calculus talk, and a whole lot of simping for kei <3

song i listened to writing this: 'risk' by gracie abrams

one.

Kageyama is failing calculus.

This statement wouldn’t necessarily be a big deal—after all, he had barely passed most of his classes his whole life, getting into college solely with his athletic skills and having zero intentions to stay in academia in the future. He’s in university primarily just to have something to fall back on, and he has made it exceptionally obvious that he does the bare minimum to get his degree by sleeping through his lectures and procrastinating his homework to the night it’s due. He doesn’t, and has never, cared much about school, and has somehow made it through life anyway, so really, in most circumstances, Kageyama failing a class wouldn’t be a big deal at all. 

However, in this circumstance, Kageyama is also a brother of Kappa Alpha Rho, and therefore his grades reflect not just him but the brotherhood, meaning him failing a class has fully become Tsukishima’s problem, making this, in fact, a very, very big deal. He thinks he’s screwed.

And it’s completely your fault.

Tsukishima glares at the email notification sitting at the top of the screen, clenching his jaw so hard that he feels his back molars ache. 

ASU Policy Update: New Funding Requirements for Student Organizations

He’s already read it twice, but he clicks on it again anyway, as if the words would magically change now that it’s his third try. His fingers drum against the desk, anxious and annoyed all at once.

Effective immediately, all university-funded student organizations must maintain a collective GPA of C+ (2.3) or higher to remain eligible for financial support from ASU. Organizations failing to meet this requirement will be placed on academic probation for a select amount of time, after which, if under the minimum, will be denied funding for the academic year. 

He exhales sharply through his nose and shuts his laptop a little harder than necessary. His knee bounces under the desk as he stares at the wall, running the numbers through his head. A D- average to a C+? That’s not a small jump. That’s a fucking leap.

And it’s because of you. But then again, of course it is.

Tsukishima doesn’t even know you personally, but he knows of you. Everyone at Furudate University knows of you. It’s honestly impossible not to.

Your name gets thrown around like a fucking urban legend: the math department’s golden girl, every professors’ favorite. The kind of student whose name gets printed in bold on the Dean’s List every semester, top of the class in every single way, looking down at everyone else from your haughty position up there.

You’re the poster child for academic excellence, and this is exactly the kind of sanctimonious, holier-than-thou rule someone like you would pass.

He can practically see you in his head, sitting in some committee meeting, smug as you argue for “higher academic standards,” completely unaware of the absolute nightmare you’ve just created. 

He rubs his temple. He doesn’t have time for this. If Kappa Alpha Rho loses funding, they lose access to the house stipend, the event budget, the formal venue deposit—

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, already clicking through the chapter’s internal roster. He zeroes in on the worst grades. Not surprisingly (albeit disappointing nonetheless), Kageyama’s name jumps out immediately.

He has a 37 in Multivariable Calculus.

Tsukishima closes his eyes and counts to five. It doesn’t help. His laptop screen just glares back at him, the double-digits in bright red. He’s dragging the entire GPA down, significantly so. 

So if Kageyama fails, they’re all fucked. 

Tsukishima opens the frat group chat.

(11:42 AM) tsukishima: who here actually passed multi calc

It takes all of five whole seconds before the chat explodes.

hinata: LOL NOT ME yamaguchi: barely but yea? noya: i didn’t even know multi was real lmao

Tsukishima pinches the bridge of his nose. They’re useless. They’re all fucking useless.

(11:43 AM) yamaguchi: wait is this about the gpa thing? are we actually losing funding? tsukishima: we will if kageyama fails calc hinata: bro just make him pass it then tsukishima: do you think i control his brain (11:44 AM) tanaka: wait hold on. are you saying if we fail we’re actually broke?? yamaguchi: tsukki wouldn’t joke about this lol hinata: WHAT DO U MEAN BROKE. LIKE. BROKE BROKE?? noya: LIKE WE GOTTA PAY FOR KEGS OUTTA POCKET BROKE???

Tsukishima watches the messages roll in, each response growing increasingly more unhinged. He feels his blood pressure rising, ticking up with every single one.

(11:45 AM) tanaka: WE CAN’T LOSE FUNDING FORMAL IS IN 3 MONTHS hinata: NOOOO NOT FORMAL noya: NOOOOOOOOOO NOT FORMAL tanaka: WHO THE FUCK IS GONNA PAY FOR FORMAL

Tsukishima sighs, dragging a hand down his face. This is exactly what he didn’t want. The second these idiots realized the frat’s funding was actually on the line, everything was going to implode. Where’s the rest of the exec board right now? He misses them.

(11:46 AM) yamaguchi: okay but seriously what’s the plan tsukishima: kageyama needs to pass calc obviously tanaka: okay but like. how

Good fucking question.

Tsukishima leans back in his chair, thinking. Kageyama isn’t stupid—not in the traditional sense, anyway. He just doesn’t give a shit. If he had a decent tutor, someone to force the information into his thick skull, he might actually stand a chance.

(11:47 AM) tsukishima: does anyone know a decent tutor (11:48 AM) yamaguchi: y/n

Tsukishima physically recoils.

(11:48 AM) tsukishima: like… vpaa y/n??? yamaguchi: yeah?? she’s the best tutor in the math department hinata: wait isn’t she the one that profs never shut up about lol tanaka: bro we’d be paying for a 5-star tutor with beer money noya: u think she’d go for it tho?? hinata: tsukishima just bat your pretty little eyelashes and get her to help us 🤩 tsukishima: i will block you

There is no way in hell he is asking you for help. Absolutely not. Because if there’s anyone on this entire campus that would not hesitate to let Kappa Alpha Rho crash and burn, it’s you.

But then, Daichi—super convenient timing for the president to come in right now—sends the real kicker.

(11:49 AM) daichi: Text Y/N. Now.

Tsukishima grinds his teeth. His fingers hover over the keyboard. For a very, very long moment, he just stares blankly at the screen, until finally, he types.

(11:50 AM) tsukishima: someone send me her number.

And Tsukishima thinks, for not the last time, that he’s absolutely screwed.

two.

For someone who’s actively ruining his life, you’re surprisingly… okay.

At least, you were over text. You responded within minutes, and—without sarcasm, without question, without any needed negotiation—agreed to a tutoring session the next day. 

Tsukishima thinks he should be wary of this. Surely you have some ulterior motive, something that’s meant to prove to him (and yourself) just how much smarter you are than everyone else. 

Ah, yes. That’s probably it. You’re going to use the dumb frathlete to make yourself feel good.

After some contemplation, Tsukishima decides that he should be there. As idiotic and annoying as Kageyama can be, he’s still his brother, and Tsukishima isn’t about to let some pretentious academic just mock and insult him; Kageyama is shitty with words, so the least Tsukishima can do is be there to snap back for him. 

Tsukishima is almost certain that you’re doing this solely to stroke your ego. After all, why else would someone like you agree?

That being said, twenty four hours later, sitting across from you at a library table, he’s forced to admit—begrudgingly—that you’re actually not… terrible.

Tsukishima watches you carefully, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the moment you slip up—some trace of superiority, some indication that you think this is beneath you. But to his surprise, you don’t smirk, you don’t sigh in frustration, you don’t roll your eyes every time Kageyama gets something wrong.

You’re just… patient. Shockingly, infuriatingly patient.

“Okay,” you say, tapping the corner of Kageyama’s notebook with your pen. “Walk me through your thought process. How did you get to this step?”

Kageyama stares at his paper, scowling. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you got this part right,” you say, circling something in the equation. “So let’s build from here.”

Kageyama frowns deeper, pressing his pencil so hard that the lead tears a little hole—Tsukishima expects you to finally snap, to lecture him for not paying attention, but instead, you just tilt your head and try again.

“I think you’re having trouble with double integrals, so let’s break those down first, okay?” you say, not at all unkindly, before flipping open your notes and locating the respective chapter in the textbook. Tsukishima notices, with mild surprise, that you don’t even have to check the table of contents—you go straight to the right page.

And then, even stranger: your own notes are written beside the original text. Your annotations are precise but casual, breaking down the wordy explanations into clear, digestible pieces; your diagrams take up the margins, and where there’s extra blank space, you’ve doodled functions, arrows, sometimes little stick figures interacting with equations.

Tsukishima shouldn’t care. He doesn’t.

But something about it—about how thoroughly you understand this shit—sticks with him.

And as you start explaining, Tsukishima quickly comes to understand why they call you the best in the department. 

Your voice is even, steady, and you don’t just read from the textbook—you reframe the concepts completely, breaking them down into comparisons, real-world applications, diagrams that actually make sense. It’s the kind of familiarity that takes years of experience and countless hours of practice, and you obviously have gotten to an incredible degree of expertise. And most importantly, when Kageyama hits a block or stumbles over the formulas, you don’t get irritated.

You just adjust.

Again. And again. And again.

Until finally, something clicks.

Tsukishima watches, arms crossed, as you do something no professor, no TA, and certainly no frat brother has managed before: you make Kageyama think. You make him care. Kageyama straightens slightly in his seat, gripping his pencil a little tighter; he scribbles something down, then nods to himself, like he actually understands. 

Tsukishima leans back, exhaling through his nose. 

He hates to admit it, but Yamaguchi was right: you really do know your shit. 

three.

An hour passes like this. Slowly, but gradually, Kageyama works through his problem set, stopping every so often to ask questions. You answer every single one without hesitation, without even having to double check, with the complete confidence of someone who simply knows that they’re right. 

Then, completely unprompted, you ask, “So, do you play volleyball?”

Kageyama pauses mid-writing. The question catches him off-guard—catches both of them off-guard, actually.

Tsukishima gives you a sharp look, but you just smile, amused.

“You retained information best when I used sports analogies to explain,” you continue, tapping the end of your pen against the table. “And when I used a volleyball as an example for triple integral applications, you corrected me on the radius in like, two seconds.”

Kageyama blinks. Then, looking somewhat sheepish, he mumbles, “Wow, that’s crazy. I’m on the university team.”

“That’s cool,” you say simply, clicking your pen. You doodle absentmindedly on an extra sheet of paper, this time drawing a little volleyball in the corner. “Our executive VP is on the team too. Sakusa.”

Kageyama hums an affirmation. “Yeah, we’re both starters.”

“As a sophomore? That’s really impressive,” you say. Tsukishima thinks that you’re pretty impressive too, considering you’re a sophomore just like them, but you don’t seem to be even thinking about that. “Why are you taking calculus, then? What’s your major?”

“Physics and kinesiology.”

“I didn’t peg you as a STEM guy,” you muse, still sketching in the margins. You’ve now switched to drawing a little banana.

Tsukishima, despite himself, huffs a quiet laugh.

Kageyama flushes slightly. “I, um, want to go pro after college,” he admits, ears bright crimson as he speaks. “So kinesiology felt right for an athlete. And for physics, well, I’m a setter, so I want to, um… I want to be able to calculate the velocity of the balls I send with more accuracy.”

It’s a ridiculous reason. Maybe even a stupid one. Definitely the stupidest reason Tsukishima’s ever heard for taking an incredibly intense and complex major like physics.

But you don’t laugh.

You just nod, smiling to yourself. “Thanks for letting me help you with your process, then.”

There’s a moment of silence, before Tsukishima bluntly remarks, “You’re weird.” 

It comes off slightly ruder than intended, and you pause, your pen coming to a halt on the paper. He adds, quieter than before, “I mean, you notice things like that?”

Your nose and forehead scrunch up in slight confusion, expression so befuddled as if he were simply asking you if the sky was blue. 

“Well, yeah.” You say this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone is different, with different interests and learning styles, and things get easier to understand when you break things down on their terms as opposed to yours. So of course I’ll pick up on things like that. I try to be observant of all the people around me.”

When your eyes meet his, he instinctively is on edge. Your tone is still light, but there’s something pragmatic about your eyes that makes him feel apprehensive, like he’s standing at the edge of a 50-foot fall and you’re watching to see if he’ll take the jump. It’s like you’re taking all of him in, like you’re taking everyone in. Like you see things other people don’t. 

If Tsukishima is being honest with himself, this perceptiveness is something he lacks. He willingly disregards much of the people and the things around him; it's a defense mechanism he has perfected over the years. It’s easier to stay detached. It’s easier to keep to himself; it’s easier to be indifferent. 

To be blunt, your astuteness unnerves him, and it’s a sensation he’s not used to grappling with. There’s a raw honesty in your gaze that feels almost invasive, peeling back the layers of his carefully constructed facade. You two had just met, but for a brief moment, he wonders if you can somehow see through him because despite your cheerful and carefree attitude, you are looking to understand people in a way he never has.

He quickly looks away, breaking the intense eye contact. “I guess that’s one way to look at it,” he mutters.

You don’t reply because your attention has already shifted back to Kageyama, with you leaning over his notebook and exclaiming, “See, you got this!” 

Kageyama has solved the several problems you gave him, his work still amateur but complete. You scan his notebook, pointing out the few areas where he could simplify his work, but the overwhelming beam on your face is nothing short of proud, and it incites a completely new determination in Kageyama. Despite his usual stoicism, your encouragement has visibly boosted his confidence and Tsukishima watches as the boy smiles and nods along when you flip the textbook to a new chapter, declaring loudly, “Okay! Let’s move onto vectors!” 

As you continue to explain, Tsukishima watches the two of you with a slight mixture of exasperation and something else he can’t quite put a name to. You are honest and true and it’s wholly unfamiliar, tiring in a way where he is overwhelmed. He’s not quite sure how to describe how he feels right now, sitting here with you together: maybe it’s a touch of admiration for you, maybe it’s just relief that someone else is dealing with Kageyama’s math woes for a change, but either way, at the end of it all, he finds himself settling back into his chair, a small, almost imperceptible amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. 

Minutes turn into hours, and before you know it, the sun is dipping lower and lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the library floors. By the time the library's closing announcement echoes through the halls, you have made it through half the vector fields unit and Kageyama has filled several pages of his notebook with neatly written solutions. 

“Well, let’s finish up. I think we’ve made some good progress today,” you decide, stretching your arms above your head. You begin to gather your things—if you’re not all out soon, the librarians will come and yell at you for sure.

“Thank you so much, Y/N,” Kageyama says earnestly, closing his notebook. “I think I’m starting to get it.”

“You are. Just keep practicing those problems, okay? You’ll pass this week’s quiz for sure if you keep at it,” you say cheerily. “Just text if you ever need any help. I’m always around.”

Your enthusiasm seems genuine, like you really do want to help Kageyama succeed. Tsukishima’s not sure what to do with this information.

He should be suspicious. Should assume there’s something in it for you—some academic accolade, some resumé boost, some smug satisfaction in proving you’re better than everyone else. But you don’t gloat. You don’t even act like this is a favor Kageyama—or, by extension, the frat—owes you for the rest of time. 

You just offer your help like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal to give this much of your time, your energy, your effort.

It’s strange. It makes him uncomfortable.

“You’re always around?” he says, unable to stop himself. His voice comes out dry, skeptical. “Sounds like you have way too much time on your hands.”

You blink, then laugh, genuine and light.

“Not really,” you say, slipping your notes into your bag. “I’m just good at making time for things that matter.”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and for some reason, that sentence sticks in his brain.

Good at making time for things that matter.

Before he can think too hard about what that implies, Kageyama—completely unaware of the odd shift in atmosphere—stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll text you,” he says. “Uh. If I get stuck.”

“Good,” you say, satisfied. “See you both next time.”

And with that, you’re gone, stepping out of the library doors, the evening sun catching in your hair before you disappear down the hall.

There’s a brief silence.

“…She’s nice,” Kageyama says, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

Tsukishima sighs, shaking his head. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound weird about it.”

Kageyama scowls but says nothing, already distracted by whatever thought process is rattling around in his thick skull.

Tsukishima, however, lingers.

He doesn’t want to admit that today went better than expected. That you weren’t condescending, that you didn’t treat Kageyama like a lost cause, that you were actually kind of impressive to watch. That there’s something about the way you carry yourself—the way you see people, notice things, care about things—that makes his stomach twist in a way he doesn’t like.

He exhales sharply. Nope. Not going there.

Instead, he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and starts toward the exit, brushing off whatever this feeling is. After all, this is just the first session.

There’s still plenty of time for you to prove him right.

four.

After the fifth tutoring session, Tsukishima notices two things.

First: since you’ve started helping Kageyama, his calculus average has jumped dramatically from a 37 to a 60. Considering he has to catch up on the whole semester, this much progress in such a short amount of time is insane, and Tsukishima—who has spent years watching Kageyama be a stubborn idiot—is actually kinda baffled by it.

Second: it’s not that you look down on him, or Kageyama, specifically. You just look down on Greek life as a whole.

It takes him a while to realize it. At first, he assumes it’s personal—that you have some vendetta against Kappa Alpha Rho, some deep-seated superiority complex. But then, over the next few weeks, he starts paying closer attention.

You don’t sneer at Kageyama’s jersey. You don’t mock him for struggling, don’t look at him like he’s a dumb jock barely worth your time.

But when Tanaka and Noya come to pick Kageyama up after a session, still wearing their frat hoodies from some brotherhood event, Tsukishima catches the way your eyes flick to their letters. The way your lips press together, just slightly.

When Kageyama makes an offhanded comment about formal, you barely react—just a small exhale through your nose, something unimpressed.

And then there’s today.

You’re explaining another concept—Tsukishima isn’t really listening; Kageyama is nodding along, so he figures he doesn’t need to pay attention—when Hinata, of all people, shows up at the library. He bursts through the doors like a chaotic, overexcited golden retriever, completely disregarding the quiet study environment as he waves both arms above his head.

“Kageyama!”

Kageyama physically tenses. Tsukishima watches, vaguely amused, as he slowly turns to the orange-haired idiot now bounding toward them.

Hinata slaps a recruitment t-shirt onto the table. “You left it at the house, dumbass! Daichi said to bring it to you.”

Kageyama looks vaguely murderous. “Shut up.”

Tsukishima smirks. And then, he glances at you.

And there it is again: that brief flicker of something. That same exhale through your nose.

You don’t say anything, don’t react much at all—but Tsukishima sees it.

You hate frats.

And now, he wants to know why.

Luckily for him, it actually doesn’t take much to find out. 

It comes up casually, in the way most revealing things do—offhanded, unguarded, something you don’t realize you’re giving away. 

Kageyama is the one who brings it up. Not intentionally, obviously—he's never been intentionally insightful a day in his life—but between scribbling down an answer on his problem set, he suddenly asks, “Why’d you make that rule, anyway?”

You glance up, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“The GPA thing,” he clarifies. “You’re the VPAA, right? So it was your idea.”

Tsukishima watches as you blink, your grip tightening just slightly around your pen.

Then, after a moment, you exhale, setting it down. “It wasn’t just me,” you say. “It was a committee decision.”

“But you agree with it,” Tsukishima says, leveling you with a look.

Your lips press together. There it is again—that tiny flicker of something. Then, you sigh. 

“It’s just frustrating seeing people waste their potential,” you say finally, voice careful, deliberate. “I mean, don’t you want to succeed?”

Ah. So that’s what it is: you think that all fraternity boys are idiots who only care about partying and drinking games. You think they don’t care about their futures. That they’re lazy, entitled, wasting the opportunities they have.

Tsukishima exhales slowly through his nose, tipping his chair back just slightly. He should be annoyed. He should be pissed off.

But instead, he just smirks.

“You think we’re all just dumb party boys, don’t you?”

Your eyes flick to his. You don’t answer, which, really, is answer enough.

So obviously, he challenges you.

“Come to the house,” he says. “See for yourself.”

Your expression shifts into something guarded, something skeptical and unimpressed. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you clearly don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Tsukishima says simply.

Kageyama, ever helpful, chimes in: “Hinata’s even worse at math than me.”

Tsukishima watches you pause, purse your lips, obviously considering. It’s a long pause, you staring down at the desk for a full minute, until finally, you sigh. “Fine.”

Oh, you’re in for a disaster.

five.

Walking into the Kappa Alpha Rho house for the first time, you’re not sure what you were expecting.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t… this.

The first thing you’re hit with when you enter the house is, simply put, noise. 

The music is loud—too loud for a weeknight, you think absently, because there’s no way none of these guys have morning classes tomorrow. Someone in the kitchen is yelling indistinctly over the sound of clinking glass, and from somewhere deeper inside the house, there’s a resounding crash, followed by an enthusiastic, “It’s fine, it’s fine, don’t worry about it!”

Tsukishima watches as you visibly tense, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. You’re standing near the entrance like you’re considering leaving, like maybe you’d rather walk straight back out the door than step even a foot further into this chaos. You wouldn’t be the first: he’s seen people walking into the house for the first time and immediately regretting every life choice that led them here. The frat is loud, messy, chaotic in a way that isn’t easy to handle if you’re not used to it. And you—pristine, calculated, Type-A to your very core—are definitely not used to it.

He watches you closely, waiting for you to scoff any second now, to turn around and walk out.

But then, you hear it. 

“Integrate or drink, loser!”

As an applied and theoretical math double major, the sentence instantly piques your curiosity, and you can’t, in your conscience, just walk out after hearing that. So you square your shoulders, and saunter in.

And when you see it, you stop in your tracks.

The scene before you is, frankly, absurd. Kageyama is standing at the end of a beer pong table, furrowing his brows like he’s solving a differential equation rather than playing a drinking game, and Hinata, vibrating with excitement, looks one misplaced shot away from combusting. Around them, the rest of the guys are watching with varying degrees of amusement: Tanaka and Nishinoya are grinning like they already know something Kageyama doesn’t, Yamaguchi is stifling laughter behind his hand, and Tsukishima—leaning against the wall, arms crossed—is watching you.

You glance at the table. The setup is questionable, at best. The cups are unevenly spaced, some tilted at an angle that defies both gravity and common sense. The whiteboard behind them has the remnants of what was probably meant to be a scoring system, though it's mostly illegible thanks to a combination of bad handwriting and smeared marker. And then, of course, there’s the absolute nonsense of what just came out of someone’s mouth.

You shift your gaze to the ping-pong ball in Hinata’s hand, then to Kageyama, who still looks personally insulted by whatever just happened. You blink once, then twice.

“What,” you say flatly, “am I looking at?”

“The future,” Nishinoya says dramatically, throwing an arm around Tanaka. “The greatest intellectual drinking game of our generation.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sugawara mutters. You didn’t even notice him and the other two, presumably, seniors, sitting lazily on a couch against the wall and supposedly monitoring. 

“It’s simple,” Hinata says, barely containing his enthusiasm. “You make a shot, the other guy has to solve a math problem right, or they drink.”

Silence. You stare at him.

Kageyama’s expression darkens. “It’s stupid.”

“You’re just mad because I got the last one right,” Hinata shoots back.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did! The integral of sine is cosine, dumbass!”

“The answer was negative cosine—”

“Same thing!”

“It is literally not.”

“You know what,” you interrupt, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Forget I asked.”

At this, Tsukishima makes a quiet noise—something between a laugh and a scoff—but you don’t look at him. You’re too busy assessing the catastrophe in front of you.

Because, to be honest, this is ridiculous. A complete mess of a game, poorly thought out and even more poorly executed. But…

You bite the inside of your cheek.

The concept isn’t terrible.

It’s just wrong. And you, for better or worse, cannot let a flawed system stand.

Tsukishima watches as something in your expression shifts. You set your bag down with purpose, stepping closer to the table, eyes narrowing as you take in the setup. Then, voice completely serious, you say, “You’re playing it wrong.”

The entire room pauses.

Tanaka, who has a ping-pong ball balanced on the tip of his finger, squints. “Huh?”

“You’re playing it wrong,” you repeat, arms crossing as you survey the table like it’s a crime scene.

Hinata frowns. “No, we’re not.”

“Yes,” you say, “you are.”

Tsukishima raises a brow, intrigued. You’re not mad at them for playing. You’re not disgusted by their antics. You’re just… offended by the execution.

“The whole premise doesn’t work,” you continue, gesturing vaguely at the cups. “You can’t just shout out an integral and expect them to solve it in two seconds. You need rules. A system.”

Tanaka exchanges a glance with Nishinoya. “Bro,” he says, in awe. “We don’t have a system?”

“We do have a system,” Kageyama huffs.

You promptly ignore him, already reaching for a marker. “Okay. If we’re going to do this right, it should work like this.”

And just like that, you take over.

In what seems like an instant, the frat house—which is usually ruled by sheer chaos and barely functioning groupthink—is now operating under your direction. You’ve got the whiteboard in a chokehold, a marker uncapped and poised between your fingers as you outline a system so airtight, so horrifyingly efficient, that even Tsukishima has to admit it’s impressive.

Suddenly, the game makes sense. Instead of random, impossible integrals, each shot now corresponds to a category—concepts from the last five chapters, ranked by difficulty.

And as if just to add to the disbelief, everyone is listening.

Kageyama, glaring at the rules with an unreal intensity, is following along, his brows furrowed like he’s mentally poking holes in your system but failing to find any. Tanaka and Noya are nodding like you’ve just changed their lives. Ennoshita, who had previously been lurking near the drinks table, is watching you rewrite the game’s structure with increasing fascination.

Even Sugawara nods sagely. “She makes a good point,” he says solemnly. “The game did lack structure.”

“Thank you,” you reply, as if this is a serious academic debate and not an impromptu beer pong overhaul.

Tsukishima can’t even be mad about it. Not when you’ve very quickly become the most interesting thing in the house.

And especially not when he watches you, against all fucking odds, join in. As if you were some god tier frat boy in a past life, you sink a cup with infuriating ease on your very first throw, the ball arcing perfectly without any slightest bounce back. You don’t even blink. 

As if on cue, the whole house erupts.

Tanaka and Noya nearly combust on the spot, clutching each other in sheer exhilaration, while Kageyama’s jaw drops so fast you think it might actually unhinge. Even the seniors look mildly impressed. 

And Hinata… well, Hinata looks very afraid. 

“You—” he starts, pointing at you like he’s about to accuse you of something heinous.

But you don’t let him. You simply cross your arms, unimpressed, and say, voice smooth as ever, “Basic derivative. Give me an answer, or drink.”

There’s a split second of silence.

Then, absolute carnage.

Hinata scrambles for the marker like his life depends on it. “Uh—uh—five x to the—no, wait—”

You tilt your head. “Is that your final answer?”

“Shit, no—”

“You took too long,” you say, entirely unsympathetic. “Drink.”

Hinata lets out a strangled noise of distress as Tanaka and Noya dissolve into laughter. Even Daichi, who up until now has been observing like a wise elder, shakes his head in amusement as Hinata accepts his fate, downing his drink in defeat.

Tsukishima watches the entire thing unfold, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable.

Huh.

He’d expected you to bail before even stepping past the threshold. Expected you to scoff, maybe say something scathing about how frat boys had the collective IQ of a teaspoon, and leave without looking back.

And yet, here you are, rewriting the rules of a drinking game with the kind of ruthless efficiency that would put actual math professors to shame. Even worse: you’re winning.

By the time you sink your third consecutive shot, the rest of the guys have gone from mildly entertained to genuinely invested. Even Kageyama, who Tsukishima assumed would be sick of math by now, is begrudgingly playing along, answering derivatives and integrals like his pride is at stake.

Tanaka and Noya have fully accepted you as one of their own, chanting your name every time you land a shot. Hinata, despite his earlier humiliation, is practically buzzing, clearly determined to redeem himself. Even Yamaguchi, who usually prefers watching Tsukishima verbally eviscerate people from the sidelines, has been sucked into the chaos, trying (and failing) to solve an integral before Kageyama can.

It’s a disaster. A ridiculous, mathematically-inclined disaster.

And you—poised, serious, utterly deadpan as you call out equations like you’re running a boot camp—are the reason for it.

Tsukishima doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Yamaguchi elbows him.

“You’re enjoying this,” Yamaguchi says, low enough that only Tsukishima can hear.

Tsukishima scoffs. “Please.”

But Yamaguchi just gives him a knowing look, then pointedly nods toward you.

Toward the way you command attention without even trying. The way you challenge their game without hesitation. The way your focus sharpens when you're confronted with something that, even in the realm of absurdity, still needs to be corrected.

Tsukishima exhales slowly, shaking his head.

Of course you’d walk into a frat house for the first time and immediately take over. 

Of course you’d turn a drunken joke into an actual intellectual challenge. 

Of course you’d be—

“Tsukishima.”

He blinks.

You’re looking at him now, one brow arched, an extra ping-pong ball in your hand. The room quiets just a fraction, the weight of attention shifting ever so slightly. “You haven’t played yet,” you say simply. Your gaze is intense, and it makes his stomach twist, his chest strangely warm. 

Tsukishima stares at you for a long moment.

Then, very slowly, he pushes off the wall. Rolls up his sleeves.

“Alright, genius girl.” He steps up to the table, arms loose, completely at ease. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The room erupts once again.

And for the first time that night, you grin.

six.

After two months of knowing you, Tsukishima notices something else.

Your bag always contains not just the calculus textbook but several others as well. Every time he sees you on campus, you’re sprinting from place to place, dashing between study halls and libraries and the ASU building. Whenever Kageyama does need help, you’re true to your word and always there, but Tsukishima observes the way you rub at your temples when you think no one is looking, the way you blink a little too long, like you’re stealing micro-moments of rest in the middle of a conversation. The way your hands tremble slightly when you reach for your coffee, as if you’ve been running on caffeine and sheer willpower alone.

So one day, after Kageyama has already run off to his volleyball practice and it’s just the two of you in the frat house’s study room, Tsukishima finally asks the question he’s been wondering for weeks.

“Why do you do this?”

You still, your hands stopping midway as you pack up your belongings. You pause, looking up at him. “What do you mean? Tutoring?”

“Well yeah, tutoring, but also everything else—ASU, TA-ing… all of that. Why?”

You hum as you think over his question, a thoughtful look gracing your features. For a minute, it’s just silent in the room.

“I mean, do I need some grand reason to do it?” You decide after a moment of consideration, shrugging. “There’s a few reasons, I guess. But the biggest one is just that I genuinely like helping people. Like, being there for them and getting to see things click for them. That’s super rewarding in itself.”

“And the other reasons?” He watches you intently.

Clutching your laptop to your chest, you sigh, biting your bottom lip tentatively. It’s the first time he’s really seen you look vulnerable, now that he thinks about it. You’re always so calculated.

“Well– I guess it’s actually only one other reason. It’s also just… the only thing I’m really good for– sorry, at. But whatever, that’s kind of just–” you’re stumbling through your words before you cut yourself off mid-sentence, shaking your head. “At the end of the day, the only reason that matters is that I like seeing other people succeed.”

He nods slowly, sensing your discomfort and deciding not to push any further. “Yeah, okay.”

A small, wistful smile grows on your lips. “In the end, I’ll still be here. The time will pass anyway. I might as well spend it helping people find the happiness I find in math, you know?” 

“So you’re tutoring him again tomorrow?” 

You nod. “Mhm, from noon until two. I would go longer, but I think he has practice, so I���ll probably just do some work. I have a few policy briefs to go over.”

“Were you not busy enough today?” He drawls, gesturing to the sagging bag on your back. 

You laugh with pink cheeks, almost as if embarrassed at the question; you slightly scratch the back of your head. “Um, well, I don’t know. I had a really early class and then I had TA stuff, and then two tutoring sessions, and then a committee meeting and then this. So a pretty packed schedule, I guess,” you admit. Tsukishima gives you a look, and you quickly wave your hands. “I’m good though! I like all of it, so it’s not like it’s bad. It’s a lot, but not the worst, so it’s okay.”

Tsukishima watches you closely, taking in your words and the lilt in your voice. He can see the fatigue etched on your face, the prominent dark circles ringing under your eyes, but there's also a light in your eyes that speaks volumes about your genuine passion for what you do. It’s the same look that sparks up when you watch Kageyama succeed at a problem, the one that makes your eyes look like they’re dancing with fire and sets that weird fuzzy feeling in his stomach going again. It's both admirable and concerning, and he can't help but feel a strange mix of respect and worry.

“You really care about this, don’t you?” he says softly, almost more to himself than to you.

“Yeah, I do,” you reply. Your voice is purely sincere, completely direct. “Even if I’m super busy and stressed out and tired, it’s all worth it because I get to be a part of someone’s life becoming even just a little bit better.”

He’s quiet for a moment, processing everything you’ve said.

He used to hate you. He deemed you pretentious for the GPA rule, assuming you were just another overachiever with a superiority complex, or someone who enjoyed making things harder for people like him and Kageyama. Even beyond you personally, he’d always mocked people like you for flaunting their overtly virtuous and self-righteous personas, always seeming to crave attention and recognition for their altruism. 

But now, for the first time, their actions don’t seem self-serving: it’s a sacrifice, a genuine and earnest effort to make a difference that has nothing to do with personal gain. You don’t push people to do better because you think you’re above them. You do it because you believe they can be better. Because you care. Because, despite everything, you genuinely want to see people succeed. You dedicate all of yourself to others, to strangers unaware of your existence, simply because it’s the right thing to do. Simply because you can. 

You’re standing there, shoulders weighed down by the sheer number of responsibilities you carry, yet still speaking with unwavering certainty. You don’t expect anything back—in fact, you barely even take credit for the work that you do. You are just kind for the sake of being kind; even when you’re exhausted, even when you have nothing left to give, you keep going. You work yourself to the bone for the sake of everyone else, and no one seems to notice—not your professors, not the students you tutor, not the countless committees that rely on you.

Except now, Tsukishima does.

And because he doesn’t know what else to do with this realization, he sighs and just says, “You should eat before you go.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“The house is making dinner.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re here anyway. Might as well eat something before you collapse.”

You huff a quiet laugh, but there’s something warm in your expression, something soft. “I’m not going to collapse.”

Tsukishima raises a brow. “Yeah, well. You look like you might.”

You roll your eyes, but to his surprise, you actually consider it. Then, after a pause, you sigh. “Okay, fine.”

And when you follow him toward the kitchen, Tsukishima tells himself it’s nothing. That he doesn’t care. That he’s just making sure you don’t keel over in the middle of a lecture hall somewhere.

But later, when you’re laughing at something Yamaguchi says, plate balanced in your hands, that strange, unfamiliar warmth creeps up his spine again.

And he thinks, not for the first time, that he might be screwed.

seven.

Since the first day you had dinner with them a few weeks ago, you’ve come to spend more and more time at the KAR house. 

And well, you admittedly didn’t see it coming, but you like the Kappa Alpha Rho boys.

They’re loud. They’re class clowns. They spend many, many weeknights drinking and blasting 2000’s pop at maximum volume, so much so that you can hear the telltale tunes of old Miley Cyrus and Britney Spears from halfway down Frat Row. They are, in many ways, exactly what you expected.

They’re also… really sweet. 

They’re all extremely determined to help each other to succeed. They care about each other so deeply; they’ve opened their arms to you, too, without question or complaint. They’ve looked after you in a way that you’ve never been cared for before. They gifted you a frat hoodie—your initials stitched beside the KAR letters. You have a designated mug in their kitchen cabinet. They don’t even ask if you’re staying to slide a plate in front of you at dinner. Tsukishima watches you closely whenever you pick at your food, and you pretend not to notice when he scoops an extra helping onto your plate.

They’re driven too, in their own way: as if inspired by Kageyama’s improvement, they’ve all begun to care about school, even if their study methods always seem to include some variant of rage cage or beer pong. You’ve seen how passionate they’ve grown about it, celebrating each small academic win as if it were a final exam. The whole fraternity has been clawing their way out of academic ruin, grinding through assignments, struggling through tests, pulling their GPAs up one painstaking decimal point at a time, going from one of the organizations with the lowest GPAs to being so close to the C+ minimum.

They’re so close. So close.

But technically, the frat still falls under that 2.3 minimum.

You realise this, sitting at your desk in the ASU building, because the deadline for organizations on academic probation to get their GPA up is inching closer and closer. The deadline that you set. From the policy that you put into place.

You stare at your desktop screen, at the open PDF of the passed policy, unblinking. The text is sharp and unforgiving. Academic probation lasts one semester. Organizations must raise their cumulative GPA to at least 2.3 by the end of that period or risk losing university funding. No exceptions.

You remember writing that clause, steady in your resolve at the time. It was supposed to be fair. Cut-and-dry. The goal was to push organizations to take academics seriously—to ensure that no fraternity or club skated by on empty promises and minimal effort. But now, the words feel different. They feel wrong.

You click open the academic records, searching for Kageyama’s name. His grades appear on the screen in neat rows: a scatter of past failures, single digits that make your chest ache, then a stark and steady climb. He’s sitting at a B-average now, a remarkable turnaround considering where he started. 

But as you do the math quickly (a habit at this point), calculating projected GPAs based on their current grades and the remaining assignments for the semester, you realise the bitter, indisputable results: no matter how hard they push, it won’t be enough. KAR’s overall GPA still won’t meet the minimum.

The weight of that realization settles deep in your stomach.

Your policy is flawed. 

For the first time since writing it, you see its error clear as day: it measures results, but not effort. It punishes past failure while ignoring present growth. It demands perfection in a system that, by design, allows only for progress in small, slow steps.

Something about that feels deeply, fundamentally unfair.

You think about the very principles that allowed you to sit here in the student union building, to have earned the title of Vice President of Academic Affairs. Because you’re not a natural genius, either: you’ve put in countless hours of hard work and effort into your studies, pulled countless sleepless nights and worked through countless practice problems just to get things right. Your policy was meant to encourage others to do the same. 

To reward hard work, and drive. 

And you’ve witnessed it for yourself, out of a group of rowdy, rambunctious frat boys.

You inhale sharply and sit up, rolling your chair forward. The cursor blinks in the empty document in front of you, a quiet invitation.

Slowly, carefully, you begin to type.

eight.

The night before the deadline, the Kappa Alpha Rho house is unusually quiet.

It’s strange. Even with music thumping from the speakers, even with bodies packed into the living room and voices rising in conversation, the usual energy—the chaotic, unrelenting, borderline obnoxious joy—is gone.

The party isn’t really a party. It’s a wake.

They all know what’s coming. Without funding, they’ll barely be able to keep things running. They’ll have to gut their budget, cut out every major event, every tournament, every social they used to host. They’ll lose their momentum, their presence on campus. They aren’t naive; they know what happens to a fraternity that can’t sustain itself.

So they drink. They celebrate what they were while they still can.

Tsukishima stands near the kitchen, beer in hand, watching the scene with a quiet irritation that hasn’t left him in days. It’s not just the situation—it’s you.

Because you’re not here.

And you haven’t been, not for days. No texts, no calls, no sudden appearances at dinner. No slipping into the house with your laptop and a resigned sigh, no sarcastic quips over Tsukishima’s shoulder while he studies. He knew you’d take this hard—he’s watched the way you’ve thrown yourself into their academic comeback, has seen the way your eyes light up when someone passes a test or raises their grade.

But he never thought you’d disappear.

The realisation sits heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. It bothers him more than he wants to admit.

“Have you heard from her?” Yamaguchi asks, appearing at his side with a drink in hand.

Tsukishima exhales sharply through his nose. “No.”

Yamaguchi frowns, but doesn’t say anything else.

The thought festers in Tsukishima’s mind as the night stretches on. He should be angry at you. A part of him is angry at you. But mostly, it just doesn’t make sense: no possible explanation he comes up with does. You’re not someone who runs from responsibility; if anything, you take too much of it on yourself. But if you’re not here, if you can’t even look at them, then maybe you really do feel guilty. Maybe you really do think you failed them.

The idea makes something twist in his gut, makes the irritation curdle into something else.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that feeling.

So he stands there, arms crossed, listening to the frat he’s come to love mourn itself in real time.

And then the front door opens.

The music isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound—the soft creak, the shuffle of movement as someone steps inside. Tsukishima looks up, and the irritation he’s been holding onto vanishes in an instant.

Because it’s you.

You look exhausted. Shadows hang under your eyes, and your hair is slightly disheveled, like you’ve spent too many hours hunched over a desk. But still, you’re here.

And in your hand is a folder.

You walk straight toward him, weaving through the crowd, your expression unreadable. His breath catches in his throat before he realizes he’s holding it.

You stop in front of him, holding out the folder.

“Here,” you say simply.

Tsukishima doesn’t move. He just stares at you, at the folder stamped with the massive, obnoxious university logo, at the way your hand doesn’t waver. Hesitantly, he reaches out and takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he pulls it open.

His eyes scan the page.

ADDENDUM TO THE ACADEMIC PROBATION POLICY

His heart stutters.

It takes a moment for the words to register. The fraternity’s cumulative GPA is still below the requirement. But this—this thing you’ve spent the last few days working on, the thing you’ve evidently been breaking yourself over—it changes everything.

Organizations that show substantial improvement will still qualify for funding. As long as they continue to raise their GPA, they won’t be penalized.

He blinks. Once. Twice. The words blur slightly as he rereads them, brain struggling to keep up.

And then he looks up at you.

“You did this,” he says, voice lower than he intended.

You smile, small and tired but real. “You deserve it.”

Tsukishima feels like the air has been knocked from his lungs. 

For a moment, he can’t speak. He can’t move. He just stares at you, at the quiet certainty in your expression, at the exhaustion lining your face, at the way you’re standing here, in his house, telling him that they deserve this. He’s digesting the fact that you cared enough about them, that you respected their effort so much that you admitted your system’s faults to the entire university, published and notarized with physical proof.

Then, without thinking, without planning, without hesitation—he grabs your wrist.

The folder nearly slips from his grasp as he pulls you toward the center of the room, toward the rest of the fraternity. Someone notices first—Hinata, probably, judging by the sudden yell of surprise. Heads turn. Conversations still.

“What’s going on?” Kageyama asks, brow furrowed.

Tsukishima doesn’t answer. He just holds up the folder.

And then he watches it happen. The shift. The confusion, the realization, the moment the words sink in.

Kageyama’s eyes go wide. Yamaguchi’s jaw drops. Someone swears. Someone else shouts. And then, chaos simply erupts.

Because the next thing Tsukishima knows, they’re celebrating.

It’s different from before. This isn’t a goodbye party anymore. It’s loud, and wild, and joyful. There’s yelling and laughter and Hinata practically tackles you in excitement before you’re pulled into a flurry of hugs and cheers. Someone turns the music up. Someone else pops open a bottle of champagne that they were definitely not supposed to be saving for this occasion.

Tsukishima doesn’t join in.

Instead, he watches you.

Watches the way you’re laughing, exhausted but triumphant, surrounded by the people who care about you more than you realize. Watches the way they pull you into the celebration like you’ve always been one of them.

Watches the way you belong.

And for once, he doesn’t fight the way his chest tightens at the sight.

nine.

The party winds down eventually—not the joy, just the noise.

Most of the fraternity has either passed out in their rooms or sprawled out in various corners of the house, too tired (or too drunk) to make it any further. The music is still playing, but softer now, reduced to a faint hum that drifts through the open windows. Even the air feels different—lighter, easier, like the very house itself is breathing again.

Tsukishima finds you on the back porch, sitting on the steps, nursing a half-finished White Claw. He hesitates for only a second before stepping outside, letting the screen door creak shut behind him.

You glance up at him but don’t say anything as he sits down beside you. There’s no need to. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It lingers, settled, like something well-worn and familiar, like you’ve known him forever.

It’s Tsukishima who breaks it first.

“Why?”

You tilt your head. “Why what?”

He huffs, staring down at his beer. “Why’d you do it?”

You blink at him, then let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Because I was wrong.”

Tsukishima looks at you then, sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable. You don’t waver under the weight of it, and he remembers the way you look when you simply know something, that quiet certainty, that unshakable conviction. It sends a warmth through his chest, the same warmth he’s been trying to ignore for weeks now, the same warmth he always seems to feel when he’s with you.

“They deserved to have their efforts rewarded,” you continue, voice steady. “I wrote that policy thinking I was setting a fair standard, but all it did was punish people for starting at a disadvantage. They—” you gesture vaguely toward the house, where distant laughter still filters through the walls—“worked their asses off. I watched them do it. I wasn’t about to let that mean nothing.”

Tsukishima doesn’t respond right away, but he doesn’t need to. The way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers drum once against the step before curling into his palm—he gets it. He knew before you even said it.

“You didn’t have to kill yourself over it, though.”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t.”

He levels you with a look.

You sigh, glancing away. “Okay. Maybe it wasn’t easy.”

That’s an understatement, and you both know it. You don’t admit just how much effort it took, how much red tape you had to cut through, how many meetings you had to schedule, reschedule, and push through just to get the addendum approved in time. You don’t tell him about the sleepless nights, about the pages of drafted revisions, about the quiet, gnawing fear that it wouldn’t be enough. You don’t tell him how you single handedly powered through academic records for every single organisation on campus, just to make sure this change gets written into law. 

You don’t have to.

Tsukishima already knows.

He clicks his tongue but doesn’t push the subject further. Instead, he shifts, stretching his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. “Tanaka and Noya are already losing their minds over events now that the funding’s secure.”

You snort. “I can only imagine.”

“They’re talking about a full house party lineup, a tournament series, and some kind of insane spring break trip.” He exhales sharply, something that vaguely sounds like a laugh. “It’s exhausting just listening to them.”

You smile softly. “Sounds about right.”

He hums in agreement. Then, almost offhandedly, he adds, “They mentioned formal, too.”

You nod, swirling your drink absentmindedly. “Makes sense.”

A beat of silence.

Then.

“…Can I take you to formal?”

You freeze.

It’s not like you haven’t been asked out before, but it’s different coming from Tsukishima. Maybe it’s the way he says it—not cocky, not casual, not even teasing. Just direct. A little uncertain. A little careful.

You don’t mean to hesitate, but you do. Just for a moment.

It’s a moment too long.

Tsukishima sighs, looking away. “Forget it.”

And that’s when you see it—so brief, so subtle, but there. The way his shoulders tense, the way his lips press into a thin line, the way his fingers twitch like he’s bracing for something. Like he expected you to say no. Like he’s already trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care.

Before you even think about it, you reach for his hand. Your fingers lace through his, warm and solid, and you squeeze lightly, grounding him.

“Yes,” you say. “I want you to take me.”

Tsukishima goes still. He stares first at your joined hands, like he can’t quite process the fact that you’re holding his. Then, slowly, his gaze flickers back up to yours.

His voice is quieter when he asks, “…Not out of pity?”

“Have I ever done anything out of pity?”

He considers that for half a second before huffing out something that’s almost a laugh. “…No.”

“Exactly.”

You don’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t pull away. Instead, you shift slightly, moving just a little closer, lifting your interlocked fingers as you lean into his side. It’s easy, natural, like something inevitable.

For a moment, Tsukishima doesn’t react.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, he squeezes your hand back.

The porch is quiet, the sounds of the house fading into the background. Somewhere inside, Tanaka and Noya are still arguing about something, Kageyama is grumbling, someone bursts into laughter—but out here, it’s just you and Tsukishima, sitting in the soft glow of the porch light, hands entwined.

Neither of you says anything else. You don’t need to.

And in that moment, Tsukishima is certain that he’s screwed. But right now, with you curled up next to him, knowing you deeply the way you seemed to know him the first time you met him, remembering everything that has brought you two here, to this moment, he is equally certain about this: he will be there. He’ll keep noticing things about you that you think no one bothers to see, and he’ll be the support that you always offer to others but never ask for. He’ll let you—make you, if he has to—rest; he’ll take care of you the way you do for everyone else. 

And above all, he’ll be the person to prove to you that you are incredible. Not just for being good at tutoring, not just for being good at math, not just for being good at school, but that he’s in awe of you and who you are. 

He’ll love you how you should be loved. 

He swears it.

⨭ closing notes; very very attached to this one bc i started it in 2019. yes, 2019. she's gone through an insane amt of rewriting and cuts, but i am super proud of this final draft and i rly rly love it. this is also 1/3 of my asu trilogy so look out for that!!! as always #comment #like #reblog i literally see them all and it keeps me going :') thank u all sm if u made it to the end!

[gfdazai]

Kissing his tears away. ♡

no cws rlly, Atsushi is having a flashback and is in a state of confusion for the first half of it. established relationship. It implies his episodes to be a repeated thing towards the end. Hurt/comfort? Wc 500ish, not edited/proofchecked. GN reader! {No pronouns or terms (other than precious) being used towards reader.}

Atsushi, who's crying after having an episode of flashbacks. He's stuck in his dorm, curled up in a closet as he mutters and pleads for whoever to stop.

You, precious, you. You stepping into his dorm, the door falling shut alarming him of your presence — taking your shoes off by the door, wanting to be polite, after all.

Atsushi doesn't want to come out of the closet, scared of what's waiting outside of it for him. He's shaking — his breathing quiet, but panicked.

He's wants to plead for forgiveness, scared of whatever punishment he's getting from the head of the orphanage, but is frozen when he hears footsteps approaching.

He puts his hands over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut, silently praying for forgiveness, when he hears a short, soft voice.

"Atsushi?"

He pauses, not sure of what to do. What if this was all a trick? He's probably imagining you, and the director will find him any moment...

He doesn't fight when you gently tug him up, or out of the closet, just apologizing and standing there, unsure of what to do. ...Should he say he's fine, when he's clearly not?... He's never been caught in this bad of an episode. He's supposed to be bright and sunny Atsushi Nakajima.

"Atsushi..." You say softly, "Can I touch you?" His eyes slowly and hesitantly open, eyes fluttering to your face — the image being slightly distorted by his tearful eyes.

His hands slowly unclench his hair, the stinging finally settling into his scalp — he hopes he didn't cause himself to bleed. Again. He nods a little, swallowing — not trusting his voice.

You smile, and God. You look so trustworthy, so... So different from the director. Of course you're not the director — how could he ever think so?... The director is gone, Atsushi is out of the orphanage. He's not there anymore... He shouldn't be having these thoughts — these memories.

You gently tug him onto the couch, your hand lovingly combing out the tangles in his messy hair. He lets you. He stiffens a little at first, but when you intertwine your fingers with his? His breathing grows a little softer.

"Would you be comfortable sharing what triggered you?" You ask, voice not pressuring him at all, but he still feels guilty for not answering automatically. He swallows, his gaze falling to the floor as he shakes his head.

"It's okay, Atsushi." You murmur, and he feels your soft, slightly warm lips pressing against the coolness of his tears. When did he start crying?... He sniffles pathetically at that.

"I'm sorry..." He mutters, hiding his face in his hands. "I'm sorry." He repeats. He doesn't know how to react, but he doesn't stop you again.

"It's okay. I'm not mad." You mumble softly, and he folds, turning and clinging to you. He hides his face in your neck and just... Cries. He cries like a broken boy — like a broken child.

You kiss his tears, kissing away the salty, memories of the past. You kiss away his scars, his scares — his past.

Please don't steal my work, nor feed it to any sort of AI. Thank you! ♡

[i-am-a-fan]

“It wasn’t much, but it was a start.”