#less because he's a fuckin idiot and more because he lives up in all that snow..... for some reason

[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

[cumbunnywitch]

I've seen at least one, but posts saying not to blame the people who didn't vote for Harris because whatever are fully in the wrong and they always will be.

You chose moral high grounding and purity culture over the possibility that our protests would work. You chose "she leaned too right in her campaign" over "Trump and the people who want to puppeteer him are going to get a lot of people killed." You chose the democrats being idiots over the republicans want a racist rapist.

You didn't choose? No, you had a choice. You used yours. If you chose not to vote because you wanted to use your non-vote as a voice to show the democrats that they have to win your vote, you're still going to get your face eaten by the leopards. They aren't going to hear you anyway.

Protests work on the left side of our shit-ass two party system because they at least pretend to care.

Here's just, off the top of my head, the things you decided were less important than telling the democratic party "No you have to be good enough":

Student Loan Forgiveness or Relief

Healthcare

Trans Rights

LGBTQIA Safety

Abortion rights

Palestine/Gaza

Ukraine

Industry Regulation(notice all those recalls on food lately?)

Cost of Living

Police Reform

Taxes

There's no such thing as a single-issue voter, not anymore. The right is diametrically opposed to making any of the above better for anyone, whether or not they voted for that shitstain, unless you're very rich, and very white, and a very straight man.

Honestly, if you voted for Jill Stein, at least you fucking voted. Her numbers won her absolutely nothing but at least you voted.

But no. "Don't vote for Harris because she's not good enough! She's running a campaign to secure moderate republicans!" Yea no fucking shit. That's what they've been doing for the last forever. Yea, it still sucks. But most moderate liberals who actually vote still struggle with that list up there. There's literally a democrat trans woman who just got voted in who wants to support Israel's genocidal campaign of murdering every Palestinian.

And you know what? If she sees that line, she might actually stop and think and move a little bit over to my perspective. Every conservative sees that line and immediately thinks "Yea kill the fuckin' brown people!" because they don't consider them fucking people.

If you didn't vote because you saw people saying Harris wasn't leftist enough, not liberal enough, she was a former prosecutor or the democrats haven't done enough for you in the last 4 years, you fell for the Russian psyop. You fell for the propaganda.

Does it suck that Harris wanted to court the swing states and their moderately conservative voting base over to vote for the first woman president? Yea, it's been a shitty idea for decades and they've been doing it for as long as I've been voting. Obama was the center-ist centerist ever, and he still got healthcare reform passed. He also drone striked a lot of people and gave banks billions of dollars when the financial sector faceplanted after trying to balance on a pin for the longest time.

I was gonna add a read-more or chop this up better but no. You get to read the whole thing. If you didn't vote, or you voted for trump, I want you gone. Unfollow me, block me, because you clearly either don't care enough to prevent our slide into authoritarianism and a fixed court for the next 60 years, or you actively hate me.

[laswells-ashtray]

Your writings are so good that I’m entrusting you with this simple prompt: Dragon Hybrid Price and (Any Hybrid) Nikolai.

Do what you will dear wizard writer.

For the sheer sake of you never implied how silly I could get with this, I'm sillying it up:

Bear hybrid Nikolai [because it's too fucking good] and dragon hybrid Price standing about one day, the two sergeants and the lieutenant are training together while the older two men watch. They're on someone else's base, a hybrid-less base but they're making do with what the have.

John's leaning back against the wall, wings pressed up against the brick in a way that has to be uncomfortable or at least that's what everyone assumes. He's rubbing at the base of one of his horns as if trying to soothe a headache and he looks quite frankly exhausted when another Captain appraoches.

John decides that in comparison to this man, he looks like Marilyn fucking Monroe.

"Captain Givens, you look about as good as I feel." John is at least trying to keep a good relationship with the other team even if they have a habit of pissing off each of them.

"Too fuckin' right. Just got off the phone with the Missus and had to help her convince my little boy not to shove his Batman figure up his nose. It's exhausting." The man complains, running a hand over his face tiredly.

John makes a sympathetic noise but doesn't hide his amused look. "Oh, I'm all too familiar with that feeling." The other day he'd had to convince a group of rookies that Soap is indeed a liar and that oil paint is in fact not edible just because it has oil in the name.

"You have kids?"

"Yes." John should've been smarter than to think that Nikolai's silence was a good thing, he doesn't get a chance to correct the bear hybrid before the other Captain asks:

"How many?"

"Three." Nikolai tells him while watching the boys train in the distance.

For a brief moment, John wants to tug on one of his fluffy ears and tell him to quit it. On the other hand, fuck it, why not?

"Yeah, three over there are mine. Different mums but I was a bit of a tart back in the day." He's reliant on the fact the human knows nothing about hybrids, specifically dragon hybrids for it to work. It's no secret that dragon hybrids can live a lot longer than the average human if they're careful about it but to those types of hybrids, John is still a toddler, horns still in one piece with wings that are still vibrant and healthy.

He can see the amusement in Nik's big brown eyes, he likes it when John sinks down to his level of teasing humans. The only one exempt was Kate, they respected her too much and she wasn't an idiot, she'd never believe half of the stupid shit they've all told people throughout the years. Besides, Kate is family. She has five hybrids protecting her back and the average CIA agent is still more scared of her.

"Riley, MacTavish and Garrick? They're yours?" The human asks in disbelief. Simon was going to kill him for this later, Kyle and Johnny would inevitably laugh themselves hoarse.

"Aye. Didn't find out about Riley until he was a teenager and his Mum got in contact. Looks fuck all like me but he's certainly mine. Lad certainly wasn't a chipper wee thing but I managed to win him over, SAS was his choice, I just put him on the task force because I owed it to his Mum to keep an eye out." He's talking out of his arse now and he knows it but the captain seems to be hanging on his every word. Nikolai is making the conscious decision to look away from him but he can see the faint shaking of the bastard's shoulders, he's laughing.

"MacTavish was from an eventful night up in Glasgow one evening, we didn't know if he was mine or Nik's until we saw the little blighter's eyes."

Good on Nik for how quickly he sorts himself, turning around and nodding approvingly. "Ah, but young MacTavish has always favoured me. Would've been a good bear cub, very grizzly."

The captain looks over to the three men training with wide eyes, tilting his head as he stares at them all, surveying them before he looks back to John.

"And Garrick is yours too?"

Kyle had been ripping on him for being old earlier so maybe he plays it up just that little bit more.

He nods, looking over at Gaz with the most proud look he can muster, it's real but he can pretend it isn't just for the bit. "He was an angel when he was a tot, good sleeper and learned to talk quick. Was always a little grumpy that he didn't have horns too but he got over it eventually. Got him a blanket with a dragon on it when he was two and he didn't get rid of the thing until he was fifteen. Big Mumma's boy though, spitting image of his mother and more than proud of it."

It almost saddens him that the interaction ends when a sergeant whose name he can't remember calls over the captain about something but the sound of Nik's deep, gruff laughter is anything to soothe his short-lived annoyance.

Truthfully, he forgets about the entire interaction within a few hours until Soap barges into his temporary room on the base with a positively gleeful look.

"Price, I don't know what the fuck you did but Gaz is due to kick yer heed in."

"Excuse me?"

"Givens won't stop asking him about his dragon blankie."

Shit.

"And what's this about you and Nik playing who's the daddy when I was born?"

Shit.

[therealslimshakespeare]

Dear John || Don’t be Sore

Or alternate title: “You’ve got mail, you mopey sunnvavitch”

Warnings: 18+ sensuality, suggestive language in letters, reference to fellas “giving each other a hand” and angst.

Requested: yes! -taking Bucky to the pinup wall to give him pep talks/Bucky learning Julie Jean wears his coat

“Who’s yours from Buck?”

Crank’s voice interrupted Gale’s attempt to ingrain into his mind the sweetly feminine scent lingering on the letter. “Marge.” he mumbled blissfully into the crinkled paper.

“Maaaarge.” Bucky echoed drolly, past being shy over the rabid sort of pain he felt each time the mail came and -sorry Egan, no dice.

It was bad not getting any letters, yet he wasn’t alone in his plight this mail run. But Bucky was pretty sure he had those others beat for just how few he had *ever* gotten.

No holdup, no pesky censor, just a failure to set it up right for times like these. And funny enough, Bucky now missed the exercise of writing, brief as his attempt had been. He probably should’ve made a journal instead of pouring every hapless thought onto paper and sending it to a Cotton Candy goddess in Neverland, but he’d enjoyed it. Now though, now it might as well have been a journal, all that writing he did, the lovely recipient of those letters was now as silent as leather and pages.

And now in camp, letters from Marge made Buck’s face light up with adoration and hope that years of Bucky’s own devotion hadn't once sparked in those eyes or twitched upon those lips -unless in fond aggravation, cautionary amusement.

Marge.

Bucky had liked her better when he didn’t need all the love she took, back before Gale hadn’t dwindled down to Egan’s single reason to live.

Gale had Marge for that.

Buck didn’t have his ear pinned to the radio for a single warble of a famous voice, Buck didn’t have to pace a circle asking what kinda deluded looney he was to think she was actually seeding her broadcasts with hints to him that she remembered him still. Acorn. The monotony of this place made you doubt you knew your mother’s name, much less things like Julie Jean’s turn of phrase when asking after how he liked his drink, shaken or stirred?

It had been easier back when there had been broadcasts. Back before the damned radio got found. Busted, and Bucky seethed over it for more reasons than one, but he had a suspicion his bunk mates were sadder his tranquilizing weekly ritual of listening to her was no longer available.

They’d taken extreme measures as a result, hauling him by the collar to the pinup wall and making him recite a crass liturgy of devotion to her and renewal of promise that worked for a few weeks.

“Why’re you down Bucky?” Brady had nearly begged him when this tradition became monotonous in turn like everything else around here, “It’s not like she stopped talking to you, just the fuckin’ krouts took her away for a bit.”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s right, Major.” Demarco would pile on, “She still cares about you! Just because you can’t hear it don’t mean she’s not still saying it.”

The truth of it was he was still down. Whether it was the knock to the head or this place, his competitive spirit had turned sour, and as his own happiness plummeted, his ability to be glad of others’ began to crumble. And that felt disorienting all on its own, like he had some ugly and bitter little fella takin’ up residence where his heart once gloated and loved freely.

He knew it had something to do with it all when winter’s first trying chills made Buck shiver in his bunk, teeth chattering so near to John’s head he didn’t even think before he took what he himself wanted most. He had climbed in and held him, stiff and bewildered and a little begrudging as he was, Buck was dear and warm and would die for John, that much he knew. And John loved him.

“You’d make a great dame.” he told his poor friend one night like an idiot, drunk off of months of not being kicked out of his bunk. Maybe Acorn had been right in one of her last letters, one she sent in reply to the candid photographs of base that Bucky had developed and sent to her: she’d said he had a type. Tracing Gale’s cherub lips in a room full of snoring men in the dead of night…maybe he did.

“Can I help?” Buck had offered instead of kicking him out right then and there: because Buck was good and Buck was observant, and what Buck had allowed that night settled something in John just enough that the next time he was taken to the Spank Bank Wall, The Hall of Hopes and Dreams -he could muster up some good humor, enough to soothe Brady’s concern in turn.

“Thinkin’ of makin’ a crystal radio.” his little Kriegi Marconi had dared next week, and John was kept occupied again for the next weeks rounding up the supplies to make it happen, an amusing pantomime of his childhood games of playing a bootlegger

No one even knew if it would work. And in the meantime it was a horrible suspense not knowing what the hell was going on “out there” all while having to hide the evidence of their collection in here. And then in the middle of it all, once more-

“Who’s yours from?”

“Marge.”

“Maaaarge.” Bucky predictably parroted, Crank and Benny got letters this time too, and that was good for them.

Buck’s face while perusing his letter however, was not the typical luminous glow of an ardent young cherub in love, and that had the odd effect of worrying Bucky. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s, she’s bein-“ he trailed off, flipping the letter back and forth and scrutinizing it intensely, “I think she’s hinting somethin’. Where’s that envelope? Hell Benny, don’t put the plate on it!”

“Sorry major.”

Buck took the worn envelope and shook it, prying the seams apart until like an old dream replayed, a little square and shiny card floated to the ground. John kept himself seated, not even ready to dare hope that had anything to do with him, much as he was shaken by the similarity to Julie Jean’s first correspondence and attached photographic gift, tucked in an envelope seam. The way Buck had shaken it just so and how it had fluttered to the ground and how Buck’s thumb had looked pressed against Lana’s black and white nipples.

“John Egan, you’ve got mail.” Buck bellowed with something like triumph in his voice, face lit up like a firework stand ablaze, “Get over here, you mopey sonuvabitch.”

The chair he was sat in clattered backwards into some poor fucker as Egan dove up and towards Buck’s bunk, drawn to the waved little photograph in his hand. Buck was a merciful man and handed it over without a game of tug. Bucky deeply wished the room wasn’t full of curious friends but then again, looking into this flat, shiny, black and white, shrunken little world -it took him miles and miles away. Away to a front yard in some small town where it looked chilly but festive, with candy cane decor lining the sidewalk up to a plain brick house and two girls in the yard, mid blurry laugh, clinging to each other like they’d fall over and tweak their ankles in the leaves if they let go.

Marge and Julie.

“How ‘bout that.” Gale’s voice was warm and soft and Bucky didn't have an answer for him, he ground out a rough cough that was intended to be an agreement before it got snarled in the lump in his throat.

Julie was wearing his coat. Even as the sight got a little blurry with smarting eyes and a rush of warmth to his chilled face, Bucky could see the patchwork leather swallowing her little frame.

She’d told him in a letter once she’d barely made it to 5”1. He told her that made him over a foot taller. She said she’d happily climb him. He said he’d happily carry her around impaled on his pole.

She was wearing his jacket.

She was drowning in the fleece and she was laughing and she was holding Marge and there were candy canes and Christmas had been celebrated as it should and it was all quiet and peaceful back home.

“She’s good.” He managed to croak. And he didn’t mean her pose or her tits or her savvy ability to come out on top and cheer them all up, he meant she was a good person.

“Marge says she sought her out.��� Gale explained, letter consulted once more to get his story straight, “Another War Bond tour, showed up at the factory. Made a beeline for Marge. Apparently she’d looked her up and stipulated the stop in her contract. She stayed for dinner -guess that’s when they took the photo.”

“How ‘bout that.” John managed to repeat happily.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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[lowkeyrobin]

Mcyt bbut a Karen makes their S/O cry? :0

It's the readers first ever encounter with one in the wild and at first Y/N just,,, tries to ignore the woman/leave but the Karen does the usual of not letting em leave and then Y/N gets overwhelmed and starts crying?-

BAHAHHAAB I LOVE FUCKING WRITINF ABOUT KARENS I CANNOT LMFAOOOOOO ; thank you for the request lol ; I got a random strike of writers block halfway through and its very obvious I'm sorry

MCYT ; wild karen encounter

includes ; tommyinnit, ranboo, badlinu, nihachu, quackity, & foolish gamers

warnings ; language, iterations of homophobia/transphobia & fatphobia, Karen activity, reader is described as nonbinary

masterlist

TOMMYINNIT

you two went different ways while clothes shopping and you were looking at more fem/masc (whichever doesn't conform with your sex) clothing

you felt someone glaring daggers at you so you glanced up and saw some random ass woman staring at you, accompanied by her 13ish year old son

she started making remarks about how you shouldn't be looking at those clothes and it's not "modest" for a little young man/woman like you

like mf you're nonbinary huh

you try to ignore her, meanwhile her son looks SO uncomfortable and wants to very obviously leave

she starts recording you out of no where to call you slurs and the sons just like "mom stop" and of course she doesn't

you end up crying and trying to hide it while you defend yourself but you get quickly overstimulated and flustered

the yelling caught Tommy's attention so he quickly walks over like "woah, woah, woah, what's going on?"

and she starts SCREAMING at poor Tommy about you

he looks at you literally wiping your tears while she's STILL recording it and he just peacefully flames her ass

"it doesn't matter what the hell they wear, clothes don't have gender and I could care less about what my partner buys and wears and how they express themselves. go post that to Facebook and look like a fuckin' idiot."

he pulls you away to the changing rooms so you can talk in private and eventually try on the clothes you were looking for

while he was going that he got a hold of a nearby security officer and told them about the situation since you'd both been illegally recorded on the premises of the store

he didn't wanna press charges for you or anything but at least wanted the woman escorted out to look more like a dumbass, considering the security guard had to call the police because what she did was a crime

couple days later you found the video and bodycam footage of the woman being detained and arrested for resisting arrest and recording someone without consent on private property, which is marked as a felony where you live

live laugh love Tommy bc everyone in the video description was hyping him up and saying how bad they felt for you and even the son 🫶

RANBOO

dude you can't even go grocery shopping without people bitching about you guys

you were just trying to pick out some chips and this lady walks past with a scoff

ran quickly turns around like, "Sorry, can we help you?"

she quickly starts yelling about how you gay people are all going to hell and shit

ranboo quickly spits back but you get overstimulated and really take it to heart and you tear up a bit

the lady notices and points it out

she then follows you around the store, yelling at you and shit while they're on the phone dialing the non emergency police line because wtf is wrong w this lady???

before you're questioned and after she's detained, you guys stand alone and try to calm yourself down because you were just getting really stressed about it because wtf do you even do in that situation

gives you a big hug and reassures you that it's okay to cry

he's generally just proud of you in general for being able to hold yourself together for the most part

FREDDIE BADLINU

you two were going out for a little movie date, and dressed in tuxedos to watch Saw X

some dumbass dude was making snarky comments to his wife about you two considering you were holding hands while ordering snacks

Freddie turns around, having heard the guy talking about you thinking he dropped something "can I help you?" He asks in the nicest tone possible

the man and his wife both start making nasty comments about "this generation going to hell" and how you're brainwashing Freddie or something???

you almost immediately start crying because you're trying to ignore it and talk to the girl behind the counter filling your popcorn bucket who doesn't know what to do

she quickly pushes the security button under the counter because she can see your distress and how Freddie was just like stunned as he looked between the couple and you cause like wth

once they're escorted out you're the first in the theater so you guys sit there and talk it all out because you got really overwhelmed

he gives you a hug and reassures you that you did nothing wrong and you're gonna enjoy the movie

the dude had a warrant out for his arrest for not paying child support anyways L

NIKI NIHACHU

you two were out on a walk in a park holding hands and shit and passed this little family down by the creek

the mom just goes full fucking demon mode and starts recording you guys and shouting at you

niki quickly retaliated with a "leave us alone!" before walking off

you were visibly pretty shaken but she reassures you everything is okay and she probably wasn't even recording

she ends up finding the video a few days later

thankfully all the comments were supporting you two and flaming the lady's ass lmao

QUACKITY

you guys were out doing stuff (getting shit at home depot for quackitys new house and peojects) and some Karen was judging your abilities to handy-man basically

"actually, my partner is the best handyman I know! so shut the fuck up"

the Karen immediately goes to the front to get a manager or some shit

meanwhile yall quickly checkout and leave

while leaving you see her getting detained for resisting an officer with violence and threatening an officer 🥰

that becomes a story you tell at every single "family reunion" (meetup with friends)

he still boasts about yelling at someone like that

FOOLISH GAMERS

you guys were out getting snacks for a movie night with friends that were staying over

some Karen made a comment how you needed to go on a diet or some shit since you were the one carrying the basket full of unhealthy snacks

foolish quickly whips around and flames her ass

you just kinda stand there like "wtf"

foolish slings an arm around your shoulders and leads you away since she wouldn't stop blabbering and was threatening to call the cops for some reason

back in the car he reassures you that you do not need to go on a diet and you don't need to listen to the lady whatsoever

movie night was 10/10 you watched Barbie & roasted Saltburn bc that movie wasn't good like at all

[34saveme34]

me when I read a fanfic and it isn't the not being able to keep one tense going through the fic that puts me off for a second but the idea that 3 doesn't know he has feelings for 4

I honestly think he knows he likes 4 since about

hm. I'll say when he was exiled

I think he had time to think

yknow, despite all that happened before, you'd think that he would hold more against 4 but he doessnnn'tttttttttt

and I knoooow the meme life cicle but I think he was still very casual about it despite that

I think he realised then and overtime like thought it went away

and then 4 appeared again and thought he was fine, he was good

but then he gets to figure out he's basically 4's soulmate and it least now a lot of things start to make sense but not others and he's all over it again

for 4 it's IGBP 100% but only after a while

like he's throught he shock

maybe after all the annoyance with his living situation and he finally lives in his fuckin- don't remember the name of it but he settles down in the back to relax and his mind drifts back, thinks about 3 a little too much, the words he said still burning on his mind and it makes him so giddy and then it hits him like oh- oh huh, guess a lot of things make sense now. better repress!

I mean just- just think about it

neither of these idiots are brave enough to say anything like that, they're both scared of being vulnerable but 3 is more so. BUT 4 is way way more scared of rejection than 3 is. I mean they're basically the same amount of scared but from different perspectives. Like they see themselves this way is why I'm phrasing it this way, 4 is scared to be vulnerable like that too but he specifically thinks about the idea of 3 forever rejecting him and losing him all over this.

3 is also heavy scared of rejection but he's more scared of the idea that if he doesn't keep up his tough persona and tells 4 how he feels he'll be made fun of forever and no one will take him seriously ever again, not even as little as they already do, at least in his eyes.

then again I do absolutely think wotfi23 was a step forward from this

with 4 not trying to snoop around so hard to find out what 3 thinks, and 3 having less of a high wall up around 4, especially since 3 was drawing them not only in that specific art style but also with like.... the expressions are so specific. I do think 4 brings 3 a lot of joy, something that should be explored more

because got theough.... yknow what fuck it I'm overanalyizing that drawing, lemme put it here first

so like this piece of shit drawing <3

one thing first and this is gonna sound insane first but 4 takes up more place

and also has a more complex albeit not by that much pose

also his pose exudes energy, also with the face he makes as well

I think this is how 3 truly sees 4, like a bundle of sunshine who is full of unneeded energy

another interesting thing you might notice is 3's corner of his mouth

that little line by his beard.... he's cringing a little bit, almost like he's trying to mask enjoying 4's company. And in general, his eyes too and once again back to his posture and how he takes up less space than 4 it feels like he's holding back. Once again back to him being kind of intimacy. And when he tries to reach out it hurts him, he cringes and he's like fuming and crazy about it

WHILE he views 4 as being more open, more fun than him, more jolly than he'll ever be

it's crazy how jealously he is in love still despite everything

and we didn't quite see development from this

he loves him so much and still envies what he has with his whole soul

maybe one day the love will overtake the jealousy, especially with how 4 is like, slowly and slowly being more open (and a lil gay) about caring about 3

unless it's a one step forward one step backward type of thing

like imagine first episode of the year and we witness them step backward from a better and more truthful relationship they could have

because honestly, it isn't only about love. It's about communication issues, greatest example of that being Trash Friends of course (oh trash friends, how I miss watching you for the first time)

and it would be genuinely so genius if they, with 4's development about dropping more hints about just how much he thinks about 3

like being vulnerable

and if it was used against him OOOOOOH it would the BIGGEST step backward

if 3 let jealousy win while 4 is trying to be vulnerable with him

imagine the fall out. imagine 3 breaking, being like maybe 4 was right, maybe I really only think of myself

while 4 fully closing off, hurt

their relationship is SO conflict prone. which is why it's so fun to talk about, like why I've been rambling here for a long while now oops

I was reading a fanfic before I almost forgot 💀 anyways I do believe in 4 realising his feelings for 3 later than 3 does for 4, I think that's probably the more popular opinion in the fandom

might make a poll aboutt ittttt :3

[quodekash]

yeah so im gonna make my silly little commentary posts for we are sometimes but not all the time

he stared at his friend's water and started smiling like a fucking idiot 💀

h2o just makes him giddy like that 🥰

also I genuinely fucking adore Pham and Fang's dynamic, they care about each other so much (I might cry)

I JSUT FUCKING LOVE HIM SO MUCH CAN YOU BLAME ME

im sorry, i cant get over the fact that q fuCKING SANG SOUND’S SONG FROM MSP IN THE THIRD FUCKING EPISODE OF THE SHOW

HES JUST SO SMOL I FUCKING ADORE HIM SO MUCH DUDE

here to pick up his twink

HES JUST SO SMOL THO LIKE CAN YOU BLAME ME???

I JUST WANNA RUFFLE HIS HAIR AND PINCH HIS CHEEKS HES SO FUCKING ADORABLE

i think i just really love satang cos during msp every time sound was on screen i lost my shit and now every time toey is on screen i lose my shit

btw i fully had to rewatch that entire scene, i was entirely focusing on satang’s little adorable fuckin face that i forgot to read and process the dialogue lmao

his expression is like “did you bring me here to do your chores, or are you gonna be honest and just say you want to makeout"

the real answer is just that he wants to spend time with him btu doesnt know how to do that normally 💀

(and also that he wants to make out with him)

WHY IS EVERYONE SO FUCKING SMOL TODAY

HES TINY

HES THIS BIG 🤏

OML IT HAPPENED FOR LESS THAN HALF A SECOND BUT I PAUSED IT AT THE EXACT PERFECT MOMENT

I genuinely adore accidental kiss tropes in bls, its just so unrealistic its fucking amazing

[insert image of phum's friends walking in here (I had to delete some of my screenshots because I can only do 30 and I dont want to do more than one post for this)]

AND THEN HIS FRIENDS WALK IN, CLASSIC

it's so awkward and I am LIVING for it

people in bls always walk in at the WORST possible moments and its AMAZING

THIS WHOLE SITUATION IS SO RIDICULOUSLY FUNNY TO ME

phuwin’s character trying to cook is so me

and also my sister, one time she was making spaghetti bolognese for us for dinner and she put way too much salt, and then to attempt to solve the problem, she put water into the pan to "evaporate the salt" 💀

the best part is I didnt even realise why that wouldnt work until my brother started laughing

anyway, back to the ep

WHAT DRUGS ARE IN THIS EPISODE TO MAKE EVERY SINGLE FUCKING CHARACTER SO BABYGIRL

THEYRE ALL SO SMOL AND ADORABLE AND BBG WHAT IS GOING ON

HES SO TINY

Youre fucking KIDDING

IM SO SUDDENLY INVESTED IN THIS MAIN COUPLE

THAT WAS SUCH A SUDDEN SWITCH BRO

literally last week I was like "yeah okay I like it" and then suddenly im on the verge of tears when they make physical contact???

[insert image of pun eating]

PUN !

MY LITTLE GUY

I ADORE THEMMMMM

oh fuck yes I love this friendship already and it just started

AND CHAIN'S GETTING JEALOUSSSSS FUCK YEAH

they look like tired dads fr

is phuwin just fuckin short or is pond like 3 metres tall cos holy shit

LOOK AT HIM

SMOL BITCHES

EVERYONE'S FUCKING TINY TODAY

woah he really just went for it there

HOLY FUCK HE SAID YES

TAN IS LOSING IT HES SO HAPPY I LOVE HIM SO MUCH

great frame

[insert that entire scene with the jump onto him and the holding hands and the FUCKING CHEEK KISS]

HES MY LITTLE FUCKING GUY

HES SO NEURODIVERGENT AND I ADORE HIM

KICKING AND SCREAMING MY FEET RN

he's jealoussssssss

I love pun so much, I truly would die for him

Welcome back to another episode of Toey Thinks Peem And Phum Are Dating (And He’s Right)

Im gonna be completely honest, if pond looked at me like that, id probably do whatever he tells me to without a second thought

thats all im saying

LOOK AT THAT LITTLE FACE

HES SINGING THE FUCKING ABAAB SONG

IM CRYING DUDE THIS IS AMAZING

ARE THEY JUST GONNA SING SONGS FROM OTHER BLS FOR THE QHOLE SERIES? IM FUCKIN DOWN FOR THAT DUDE

this song is so out of winny’s range tho 💀

so fucking SMOL

also chains hand just always naturally rests on pun’s shoulder

literally all the time

what im saying here is I think they should kiss

HE DIDNT JUST GRAB HIS WRIST HERE HE GRABBED HIS HAND ERIJKGBNREJB HOLY SHIT

Cool! 👍

im glad they finally got there

FUCK YES NEXT EPISODE WE'RE GETTING THE SCENE FROM THE PILOT THAT MADE ME LOSE MY SHIT

PUNCHAIN FOREHEAD KISS AND QTOEY CHEEK KISS BITCHES

okay now I just have one final question before I take my leave: what the FUCK was the song playing in the background of the qtoey scene near the end of the episode

it was just electric guitar and I KNOW recognise it but I cant figure out what fucking song it was (literally I finished the episode at like 1:30 but didnt go to sleep til 3 because I was trying to find the song)

so please, if ANYONE recognises it and knows what it is, tell me as soon as you can cos Im fucking dying

update: a moot is pretty sure the song played over other qtoey scenes earlier in the show (the same way msp did with noelm) so now im fuckin PSYCHED for the new song that’s gonna come out eventually

[threepandas]

YANDERE!All For One.

A horrifying concept! Thanks, we (love) hate it!

He is ALREADY dangerous enough. Unhinged enough. Having his complete and undivided attention? His INTEREST? His fucked up, Machiavellian, sociopathic lil squirrel brain, COMPLETELY focused on the task of hunting you for sport?

Ha ha... *deep inhale* *starts screaming, never stops*

The man was already a living horror movie monster. Making him a yandere makes him WORSE~☆. Which is GREAT. For us, specifically. The readers. Not for the victim. THEY are fuuuuuuucked. Possibly in the literal sense, but unlikely.

Mind games and power plays are more fun.

The pointless struggle. Possession of something. The resemblance to Self. Because HE is perfect. Other people? Abhorrent. They're Rats. Vermin. Less, even, then that. They are nothing but occasionally interesting Quirks with meat attached to them. Sometimes useful servants and peons, born to be ruled.

But respective PARTNERS?

Gods NO. Don't be disgusting.

He is PERFECT. Powerful. He pulled himself up from the ruins of the early Quirk riots, the first days of those ugly wars, and became something MORE. Ascended. A Dark Lord, meant to rule, BORN to rule, over this new age of Man. It all makes perfect sense to him. He has plans within plans. Stretching out for centuries.

He just needs to get his brother BACK.

End this little rebellion.

It's a set back. Just a set back. And he's being PERFECTLY reasonable about his brothers Quirk. Utterly sane. He's ALWAYS been level headed and rational about family... is what he tells himself.

But he's NOT. He's Yandere AF.

His parents? He doesn't care AT ALL about. They nominally were supposed to control HIM. Uninterested, thanks. But? His weaker little brother? We SAW how he reacted. So I propose? You gotta be RELATED to him. And THEN the Bad Touch Instinct flips on.

Do you ACTUALLY have to share blood with him? No. But it would seriously help your survival chances. But the more you LOOK like him? The closer your Quirk to his? The more you are "him but weaker somehow"? The more INTERESTED he is.

The sort of Yandere he is? Is almost entirely dependent on HOW he learns of your existence. Cause? There is no way in HELL he had sex. At least not with ANOTHER PERSON. He has thousands of Quirks, thank you very much, any need he has? He can settle HIMSELF. Don't touch him.

Keep your filthy, filthy, disgusting paws to yourself.

So if someone SOMEHOW managed to get PREGNANT with his child? :) Well, now. :) he Certainly does have some Very Violent QUESTIONS. For EVERYONE involved. Starting with: How did you get his DNA? And did you touch him?

And once THEY are brutally dismembered corpses? You know, AFTER the child is born. Yandere time! They will want for nothing and KNOW nothing but him. Vault baby 2.0!

But?

Let us say? That the "mother" isn't an idiot. She KNOWS that she Oop's'd a baby with a Fuckin Psycho. Time to RUN. Let's EVEN give that kiddo Self Insert Powers! Cause WHOOPS? "Mummy... mummy I think I stole a quirk." (At least that random toddler seems WAY happier?) Oh SHIT! That's, KINDA DISTINCT.

Uuuuuuuuh *frantic maternal mental math* my babyyyyy.... has.... a....

SUPPRESSION Quirk! Yep, JUST like great *garbled cough* Aiko! Runs in the family, real rare. Looks like a two touch. Once to "suppress" and again to "UN-suppress" RIGHT, honey? *confused child nodding* yep! See! That's EXACTLY what it is. Nothing to see here.

Now PUT IT ON THE FUCKING FORMS.

And? That probably WORKS. For a while. Cause Mother moved them to the DEAD CENTER OF NOWHERE. Where her Quirk won't get her panic pregnant by any SUPERVILLIANS at a fucking Super Strength Thrown down (gdi, what even IS her life?!). But? Really only takes ONE(1) person, don't it?

One person to notice... waaaait a minute.

I've felt this before.

When AfO gave me my Quirk. *Looks at person in front of them*

And? Male? Female? Non-binary? Doesn't matter. He'd be INSTANTLY so, so horror movie creepy.

Suddenly EVERYONE AROUND YOU knows who you are. Is very polite. Your hotel is immaculate. Your food gourmet. People watching without watching. But are you imagining it? You haven't changed anything from yesterday. Why all of a sudden?

He gets the test results.

You Are His.

Suddenly the watchers are GONE. There is only ONE(1) watcher. Tall, broad, pale. An immaculate suit no matter how out of place. Red eyes. A placid face that might as well be carved from stone, for all the genuine human expression it shows. Never there when you turn your head.

Across the street. Atop buildings. In the shadows of alleys.

You can't tell if you're paranoid or your eyes just aren't quick enough. Was there someone just outside the window? Was that REALLY a shadow you saw, cast from the otherside of the door? You live in a safe neighborhood... don't you?

You can't tell if it's your reflection you're seeing or NOT.

Your gut says it isn't. (Says RUN.)

One by one, he'd pick off those around you. What information do they have? Who amongst his loyal can he replace them with? Isolate, isolate. Slowly, ever so slowly. Like a spider weaving a web.

Shhhhhh, shhhhh. Can't let you startle. Have you NOTICE. You'll fight. Hurt yourself pointlessly struggling. Things aren't ready yet. We must continue to play pretend. Go about our little lies. Enjoying the "freedom" he allows. All while he observes. Learns. Refines his plans accordingly.

People can adapt to damn near anything. As long as it doesn't hurt them. Sometimes even when it hurts them. A watcher? That... that never DOES anything? Maybe it's just some Quirk you unknowingly picked up. It's a crowded place, the city. It could happen.

Would explain why it went from lots of them to just one! You got control of it. Yeah. Yeah that makes more sense. (We rationalize away SO MUCH, in this age of Quirks.)

Which makes the fear so, SO much more real. So much SHARPER. When you jerk awake. In your bed. In your room, in your apartment. Where you SHOULD be alone. To a powerful hand, clamped like steel across your lower face. A familiar hole humming against your lips, dead center of a strangers palm.

That's your Quirk.

Why does-?! Eyes flick up as you struggle to breathe. Red, red eyes. White hair. Your face but older, watching you struggle, coldly handsome and deeply masculine. There's only one person he COULD be. All For One. You panic. Have to escape, but you can't get leverage. Scrambling pointlessly at the hand effortlessly pinning you to your bed. Crushing you too it.

Your fingers catch at his suit, his expensive watch, but despite your frantic efforts nothing draws blood. No amount of bucking so much as rocks him. He waits you out. Watching you panic yourself nearly unconscious. Not enough air. Can't breathe. Can't BREATHE!

Coughing, confused, and struggling to suck in air, you finally go limp.

He breaks into a grin. It is the stuff of nightmares. Croons down at you, like praising a pet, that you did good. Calls you by NAME. Oh god, he knows who you ARE. You don't have a lot of Quirks, never wanted to be like him. But you're SCARED. Your hands shake as they come back up.

As though you're going to try and pull his hand away, again.

Palms against skin. You... you try to RIP as many Quirks out of him as you can. Hopefully it hurts. M-Maybe it'll stun him?

He jerks. The grip on your face turns brutal, crushing, then relaxes back to suffocating. For a brief, terrible moment, you were certain you were about to LOSE your lower jaw. He shudders above you. Eyes sliding close he seems to revel in the sensation he just experienced.

Lifting a hand, he runs it through his hair, down his face, his neck. Lightly. Slowly. A shudder. As though he can't keep his hands off himself after that. Please God, let that not be what you think it is, starting to press against you through your covers.

His eyes, when he opens them, BURN.

A hand braced next to your head. The choking scent of his cologne, spiced and musky, burning at your nose. It mixes, like the calling card of something DANGEROUS, with his sharp aftershave. He leans down with the sort of ease that speaks of incredible muscle control. The movement utterly fluid.

A hungry grin, getting closer and closer. Then nothing but mad, crimson eyes filling your view. Your view of him blurs. Tears. All your long muttered plans for anger and sass abandoning you, now that the moment has come. You... you don't feel terribly brave. You feel cornered.

His hand move from clamped over your mouth to holding your face still.

He enjoys the view. Watching you cry for him. Muses in a low voice, just for you, that he wonders... will you try and fight next? His brother did. And you have far more Quirks then he possessed. Should he rip them out one by one? Or all at once? He could give you MORE. Share some of the interesting ones.

But, ah, you'd have to EARN that. Now wouldn't you?

You truely are his child. Covetous and greedy, just like him. Tell him... did it feel GOOD? Did you HUNGER? Want his power for yourself? His greedy little thing~♡

Is he a platonic Yandere? Does he want to screw you through the decadent king sized mattress? Yes. Somehow both. Somehow neither. Honestly? You can pick! He is EXACTLY that level of Weird about it. Just like with his brother.

He wants to croon and cage. Tie them up and discuss the newest research papers. Cuddle like equals yet have them at his feet. He wants to fuck himself. But only his PAST, WEAKER self, whom he can dominate. And while it's PREFERABLE they be into that? He doesn't give a shit if they aren't. Obviously... outside of a quirk? This is not possible.

(God knows he's probably TRYING.)

So the next best thing? Someone who LOOKS very, very similar! He would be OBSESSED. And the harder it was to get them? The more CONTROL he had? The closer they were to being LIKE him? The deeper his Obsession.

This has been my Yandere AfO Talk. If ya'll write anything, for the LOVE OF GOD, LINK ME.

[forgwater]

Off the Deep End and into the Abyss

Idea: Since it’s mermay, I thought I’d write something for our favorite shady sea creatures from NRC! It would seem that when the octatrio make an appearance in their merfolk form it’s usually tied in with pirates or the little mermaid and I want to try something a little bit different and write them as the mafia merfolk they were always meant to be! Hopefully I manage to translate my idea properly!

This is more or less the prologue. This piece sets the scene.

I might make this a proper AU and add the other dorms too. So, feel free to inquire!

Summary: You take a job with one of the local gangs to transport some goods for them. The madol they were offering for the finished job was an offer too good to refuse. What makes this even better is that you’ve done this before! worked with these people before, rowed your boat this rout before. It was gonna be so easy! It was supposed to be easy! It was supposed to be uneventful! Now you’re in deeper trouble than you were before… Let’s just hope you can escape in one piece… Oh, and! Good luck.~ you’ll need it.

Reader is gender neutral

WARNINGS: swearing, mafia stuff, yandere tendencies. Feel free to tell me if I missed anything

..........

.......

.....

....

...

“Load that crate up!”

Whoosh

“Is the coast clear?”

“Don’t just stand there! Move! Damnit!”

Splash!

“Careful! You idiot!”

Creak…creak….CREAK!

“These damn boats are too fuckin’ loud!”

“…you’re too loud…”

“Care to repeat that?!”

“Easy!”

Sigh

If there’s one reason you’re gonna get caught is because of these bastards and their ‘whisper’ shouting!

swish…swish…

It’s quiet.

swish...

The boat is gently moving though the water as you settle to remind yourself why you put up with all of that.

‘One more job and I’m done.’ you reason with yourself ‘Just this one and it’s over!’ The madol are piling up right in front of your eyes! You can almost taste the sweetness of victory! You’ll be living the good life for a while after this job!

It’s all gonna be so worth-

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!

H-huh…?...

“WHAT IS THAT?!”

“IT CAN’T BE! NO!”

“IT-IT’S THE SEA DEVILS!”

No… this is not possible! You checked! There were no merfolk sightings! What-

SLAM!

....CRreaaaAK...!

“…No…” gulping down your anxiety, you turn.

Only to come face to face with a mismatched gaze. Bemused and thoroughly entertained at the hell being unleashed all around the both of you. Your breath stills at the sight of the creature’s teeth. So dangerously sharp they’d have too easy a time tearing into your flesh.

A strong cold touch followed by cutting, claw-like nails digging into your arm stops you from moving away. You wince and the merman... laughs. His grin parts and-

“Awwwww~ you really thought you could get away?~” he coos and leers “You know, it’s kinda rude to show up unannounced on someone else’s turf.”

Wait-! he’s-... he’s leaning too much on that side-

“Let G-“

Crreeeaaaaaak!

“So stay and make up for it!”

SPLASH!

Water fills your senses and you kick and thrash but he’s not letting go. You try to free yourself, to swim away... and somehow, finally you break the surface.

Gasping for air and desperately clawing at whatever you can you try to speak again: “I-“ cough “I SAID-“

“Oya~ What is going on here?”

The agonized screeches of your fellow humans die out as your breath leaves you once more when you face the mirrored image of the first merman.

‘No.. no no nonononono no no no NO!’ This can’t be happening! You’re imagining things! The canal was clear! There are no merfolk here! You checked damnit! The others checked! This… this just- When- when did they arrive?!

“Hehehe~ look at them Jade! They’re trembling! Don’t they look like a cute little shrimp?! Hahaha!”

“Fufufu~ Floyd! You’re being quite rude to our new friend. Can’t you see they’re experiencing trauma? They’re probably in… shock.”

“Now who’s the rude one?”

Kick!

“Owww! Jaaade! You said Shrimpy here was in shock!”

“Fufufu, my mistake.”

In response to your protest, ‘Floyd’ tightens his hold on you as ‘Jade’ fixes you with his sharp eyes and begins to speak: “Don’t loosen your hold on them, dear brother.~ We have to escort our lovely companion onto dry land once more. Azul’s waiting.”

‘Azul’…?...

What- what are they planning?! Why would they keep you alive? Why bring you on land? This… is not good…. This is probably worse than if they tried to drown you!

You begin your erratic movements again. Hopefully you can hit a sensitive spot. Hopefully-!

You can’t let them drag you whenever they please!

If you could just-

“I thought we went over this!” Floyd hisses, annoyed tone carrying through the cold night. “Jaaaade...! Can’t we just knock them out for a few minutes?!”

“I don’t think Azul would be too pleased with that.”

“Awwwww! C’mon!”

“We are supposed to bring them back conscious.”

“Where are you taking me?!” your voice comes out frantic “What do you want from me?!” Jade stares at you for a second before giving you a sly smile.

“Ah, but what fun would it be if you knew?~ That’ll just ruin the surprise.” So, he’s not gonna give anything away, huh….

“Yeah! Just be patient, shrimpy!” This is not good. This is not good at all!

.......

....You might as well let them take you back to land… maybe you can shake them then.

They’re merfolk. If they want to get on dry land they’ll have to crawl. ‘I can outrun them’ you steel yourself.

… But there’s someone waiting… can you dodge them too?

You go with the flow and allow your captors to carry you over without much resistance. You have to conserve your energy.

The mermen keep sharing glances. Are they onto you?

You gulp. The bite of the icy water is catching up to you.

Has the water always felt this cold…?

No. You can’t let that distract you… you have to get away the moment you touch the ground.

As the three of you get closer and closer to the water’s edge, a silhouette begins to make itself clear.

“…You’ve been quiet for a while…” Jade’s remark is followed by his claws lightly pressing themselves into your arm, the sensation demands your attention… but it also demands you face the merman first.

“…Just thinking…”

“About what?’ Oh… he doesn’t miss a beat, does he.

“…This and that.” you try to deflect.

“That’s boring.” Floyd joins the conversation. “Tell us what you’re actually thinking.”

Like hell you’re gonna do that!

“Who’s that on the bank?” you question.

“...Oh! That’s Azul! You gotta meet him!”

“They don’t really have a choice in that matter, Floyd.”

This is the guy they mentioned before! You have to learn more. It could come in handy.

“…Is he your boss?”

….

The mermen share a look.

“Not exactly.” Jade answers first. “We work with and for him.”

“He’s got fun ideas.” You can feel the shrug in Floyd’s voice.

Well… this... is an interesting arrangement…

“Ah! We’re almost there.” Jade calls to Floyd, who suddenly comes to a halt.

What are they doing now....?....

Jade brings out two vials, the glass glistens in the moonlight and the liquid moves back and forth. The merman uncorks one and helps the other drink before repeating the action for himself.

What… what did they just drink?

“Hold on tight, shrimpy! We’re getting you back on land.”

And with that you are once again being all but dragged towards the waiting shadow.

You’re getting closer…

And closer…

Closer!

The moment Floyd’s grip lessens you bolt!

The thud of your shoes echoes though the dark night and your clothes cling to you. But you don’t stop running.

Your heartbeat’s loud in your ears and the adrenaline is running high. Maybe you can do it!

You can escape!

You can-

“Having fun?~” Floyd’s voice feels like a punch in the gut. All air leaves your lungs but you don’t dare stop, nor look at him.

HOW DID HE-?!

WHEN-?!

“If you stop running, I promise I won’t break too many bones!” HE’S MAD!

HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE THAT?!?!

Maneuvering away from Floyd’s hands you end up bumping into something- someone else.

Jade.

“This has been quite the impromptu run… although not unexpected.” He gives you an all too polite smile.

Oh… maybe you shouldn’t have run…

The two mermen… now human looking, catch you with practiced ease.

They’ve done this before.

“Now, shrimpy, it’s time you faced your punishment.” Floyd… he sounds too cheery for this line of work. He stands on your right side.

“It is time to face your crimes.” Jade’s chillingly calm voice rings from your left.

The silhouette you’ve seen before steps in front of you. He sighs and then he begins speaking:

“Well then! Now that that-“ he gestures vaguely “stunt is done, I believe we should be formally acquainted.” He points to the mermen flanking your sides and continues “These are Floyd and Jade Leech. My business associates. They also happen to be twins, if you didn’t figure that out before.”

The twins let out their greetings and then the white haired man resumes talking.

“My name is Azul Ashengrotto. I run the Octavinelle Mafia and you have been smuggling goods on my territory. How do you plan to pay for-“

“I didn’t know! I got all the info I could! This is considered neutral ground! And water!” you protest.

“Ah… I see your mistake.” Azul smiles and brings a hand to his chin.

“Do you-“

“I just so happen to have acquired this territory this very morning. Legally as well.”

…what…

…legally?...

Your face drops, together with all your hopes. But the man continues undeterred.

“Since I am quite gracious and us here at Octavinelle practice benevolence, I have come up with an idea that will benefit us both.”

So… was… this was planned… wasn’t it?

“I have drafted a contract for you to sign. Nothing big. You’ll be working for me until you pay all the money you have made by dealing on this very route. Ah!-“ he stops you before you can even begin “since you are the only one alive all the charges get transferred to you. I eagerly await your cooperation. You’ll be coming tomorrow to sign all the legal paperwork. Jade and Floyd will fetch you and bring you to the Mostro Lounge, I’m sure you’ve heard of it. You’ll start working immediately after.” Azul leaves no room for you to argue.

He then turns to leave, the twins following after releasing you.

“And don’t think about running away and skipping town." the man clears his throat.

"We’ll find you again no matter where you try to go or hide. You belong to Octavinelle now.”

.....

Good luck getting out of this.~

[blodgmonster]

Part THREE of my A Court of Silver Flames reread commentary that absolutely no one asked for.

--Is there a ship name for Mor/Emerie? Even though it's based entirely on Emerie saying she forgot how beautiful Mor is and blushing? Because I ship it.

-- Gwyn having them written into Merril's book about the Valkyries. So SWEET!! "Our stories are worth telling." Damn straight.

-- Nesta facing her fear with the fire. That's my girl.

-- the House showed her its heart!!!

-- kinda fuckin rude of Rhys to give the dagger Nesta Made to Eris. Even if she doesn't want it, it should be Nesta's to give away.

-- I need Nesta, Aelin, and Bryce to form a dance troupe.

-- Eris tells Nesta that what happened between him and Mor after she was savaged didn't go down the way Mor says. He's implied this a few times. I need to know!!! What happened!? Her gift is truth, why would she lie about that?

-- Nesta, teach me how to dance! I need to seduce a man into a marriage proposal in three dances or less.

-- Nesta saying "fuck you" to Elain is priceless

-- Nesta and Azriel's relationship is low key but adorable!

-- Take the gods damned symphonia, Nesta!! Jesus Christ, stop getting in your own fucking way! You two idiots love each other!

-- Nesta and Cassian making love instead of just fucking is...wonderful. It's about damn time. "And warm and safe and home at last in Cassian's arms, Nesta slept." YESSSSSSSS. (Also my work crush walked into the break room when I was right in the middle of this sex scene. I was screaming internally.)

-- the girls are having SUCH a good time in the House and the House is having a good time and they're making bracelets and they're a found family and I love them.

-- VALKYRIES!!!! CUT THAT RIBBON, YOU WONDERFUL FEMALES!!!!

-- "She would not be mastered by anything again. She was the master of herself...And this person she was becoming, emerging day by day...She might even like her." NESTAAAAAAAA

-- I forgot she MADE the House oh my God.

-- "The mood hadn't been helped by a rare red star blasting across the sky one day." SUP, AELIN!!! LOVE YOU MOST

-- "I am your MATE, for fuck's sake!" Oh, Cassian.

-- "Well, I didn't have a choice in being shackled to you, either." CASSIAN, YOU FUCKING IDIOT OH MY GOD.

-- "some things are more important than fear." Gwyn, I love you.

--And I love that Mor agreed to be their Uber. Have a falling out while dealing with the fact that you're mated? Call Mor's Mating Mishap Uber to get you the fuck away from that male.

-- I said it before and I'll say it again. The bargin to die together is so FUCKING STUPID. And inconsiderate to your loved ones. The Inner Court, your sisters, your possible son would be devastated by one death and you bargained to make it a DOUBLE funeral for them. How nice. If Nyx loses a dad, oh no, guess what, he's an ORPHAN. Also, Rhys is waaaaay older than Feyre and would die before her naturally, so this bargin drastically shortens Feyre's lifespan. 'Oh, she doesn't want to live without him.' That's fucking life, isn't it? The people we love the most die on us, and our world falls apart, and then guess what? We keep fucking going.

-- Nesta has made her first kill in the Blood Rite

-- "Emerie was alive. And nearby. And in danger. And this motherfucker wouldn't stop Nesta from saving her." FUUUUUUUUCK YES

-- every time the pov shifts from Nesta to Cassian on the continent I want to scream. I don't give a flying fuck about the rescue mission for Eris.

-- "You came for me."

"Of course. That's what sisters do." * SCREAMING. CRYING, THROWING UP * I love you, Emerie!

-- "I have been broken before...I survived it. And I will not be broken again -- not even by this mountain." FUCK YEAH, GWYN.

-- Gwyn's story and then Emerie telling her "You're not alone." And Emerie's shit father. And Nesta finally, finally telling them everything, letting them all the way into her heart. And they don't cringe away. They love her. I am fucking crying.

-- "'I'll face it with you,' Gwyn whispered over and over again. 'Promise me we'll face it together.'" I love you, Gwyn.

-- "There were no hateful voices in her head. Only the knowledge that her friends lay behind her, beyond the line she had drawn in the earth, and she would not cede that line. She would not fail her friends. She had no room for fear in her heart." I love you, Nesta

-- "my mate taught me well." FUCK YEAH

-- OH FUCK I FORGOT ABOUT THIS PART!!! Cassian showed up, mind controlled. FUCK

-- JESUS CHRIST, HE'S KILLING HIMSELF!! I FORGOT SO MUCH!

-- oh hell. The stupid birth. I have a genuine fear of giving birth so this fucking sucks. For a few reasons.

-- HOW is a C section BEYOND THE POWER OF MAGIC.

-- "so live, Nesta Archeron." Echoes of "live, Manon, live."

-- And thus, my beloved Nesta gets nerfed. WHY must the female protagonist sacrifice her power in order to save the day? Why can't she stay overpowered like Rhys? Like Feyre? It's clear in HOFAS that Nesta still has some power but come on! WHY, SJM, FUCKING WHY!!!!!! Her power is Death, couldn't she use that to tell death to back the fuck off of her sister? Save Feyre USING her power instead of SACRIFYING IT. Ugh. It makes me so mad.

-- you SHOULD bow, Rhys. And you should treat Nesta with the utmost respect, love, and gratitude for the rest of time. But as we see in HOFAS that's not the case, IS IT? This book (and HOFAS) kind of ruins him.

-- Nyx was a goddess. Weird thing to name a boy.

-- Cassian, I am going to need you to say "I love you" back in one of the future ACOTAR books. Do you hear me, SJM, he needs to SAY IT.

-- I'm glad Nesta got the House. And finally a painting of her.

-- I am so glad that Nesta got the peace and love and friends that she deserves. But it does make me wonder why the relationships seemed so off in their cameos during HOFAS. Rhys is being a domineering prick to Nesta, so much so that Ember (beloved) feels the need to step in and defend her and mother her. And Cassian, who clearly loves her and has challenged Rhys before when he was being a dick, just stood there and let it happen. What was that??

[charmixpower]

About the comics:

I'll be redoing the early comics as well because I didn't pay all that much attention to them the first time and I have a new style

The Comics are weird about being in character

Tecna is the most ooc of the Winx in the comics, followed by Stella as a close second, and Musa third

Tecna is made more like the rest of the Winx and is like the second most boy crazy, and the quickest to anger and annoyance

Stella is straight up fucking mean a surprising amount of times but it's always really funny

Musa has her snark filed off, and her insecure energy at Stella for being the opposite of her is completely absent

Flora and Aisha are the most in character, from what I've seen, and Bloom the second most

Flora and Aisha just act like their show counterparts

Bloom acts like what I've heard her 4kids counterpart is like with s5 Bloom levels of insecurity and unhinged behavior about her relationship with Sky

Sky is like a much worse version of his 4kids self and I hate him

Brandon is still Brandon

Riven has skipped his s1 era and has gone straight into s2. Which gives me good food of what s3 Riven should have been like, but is very ooc for s1

Helia has enough screen time to have a personality

Timmy is a more useless version of himself. I don't know how the comics managed that. He's completely worthless in like most situations, it drives me insane

The Trix have more screen time outside of being pure evil to show off their personalities

There is WAY more hetero bullshit in the comics

Tecna's attitude towards Timmy is the most straight "your not a real man" fucking nonsense and it's the only reason I don't hate Timmy. I'm too busy being offended on his behalf

Rivusa is.... amazing. It's so funny. Musa will shoot her shot at any opportunity she gets and Riven always sits there like 😐 while he internally has a huge fucking crush on her it's amazing. Neither of these idiots can communicate to save their lives

Flora gives Musa the WORST FUCKING ADVICE

Brella is normal but fights a little more often than s1-3 for drama

Florelia is SO fucking cute in the comics. They are on another fuckin vibe

Comics Skloom deserve each other (it's so awful and weird on both sides)

Driven is barely touched upon, I don't think it even exists really in the comics. They just skipped it, which is funny but disappointing

Icy/Darko is the most toxic relationship I've ever seen and they're kinda perfect for each other

The girlies feel a lot more like normal friends. Like seriously it feels a lot less rushed and after they become friends they are so silly!! They fuck with each other constantly

There is a very obvious real life thing that comes to mind the first time you see someone in the comics pour a love potion into an unsuspecting person's drink, but the comics are very clearly unaware of the implication and love potions are treated more like a dick move of a prank than how terrifying they'd be in real life. So I'm going to keep my thoughts about these actions strictly within the confines of the comic's logic. But yes, I am aware and do address my thoughts without intentionally not making the comparison, it's really fucking weird that not a single person of in the writers room didn't see the glaringly obvious analogy and they just keep using it as a plot line for some unholy reason

[dukeofriven]

In order to make Sara Ryder relatable, MEA goes out of its way to make sure she's an idiot. Doctor who travelled 600 Years to explore a whole a whole new galaxy: I'd love a specimen of the kett: dead is fine live would be best. Ryder: Duhhhh, why would you want that? Scientist: I wrote my thesis on soil do you want to read about all the fascinating elements of soil composition in the cluster? Ryder: Lol. Soil. Fuckin' stupid nerd. Doctor: I specialized in krogan reproductive organs and the distinctive nature of their aggression, virility, and the effects of a war crime on their reproduction. Ryder: Why the fuck would you study BALLS—you some kind of faggot? MEA does this presumably so that the COD bros who picked up the game for the shooty multiplayer feel at home, but it is, in a word, exhausting. It's MEA's stupid writing in a nutshell. The pathfinder team should mostly be scientists: a [xeno] botanist, zoologist, biologist, chemist, geologist, meteorologist, anthropologist, psychologist, astrophysicist, and that's just off of my head. All these people are crucial to do the initial work before passing it back to bigger initiative teams: all these people and their expertise are the frontline of a Pathfinder's works. But instead, the OG Pathfinder team is idiot jarheads, from uptight know-nothing Cora, to forgettable shooty-bros Kirkland and friends, to lunatic Liam who defaces corpses with an assault rifle because he can't handle his emotions like an adult and is a danger to the whole team. You replace some of them with... a mercenary, a mercenary, a soldier, and whatever Pissbee is supposed to be (I think just some kind of amateur gun nut roboticist? It's not clear.) You do this because, well, when the game was scrapped and started over with a tight deadline they panicked and just did Mass Effect 1-3 again, even though this makes no sense in context and just makes Alec Ryder, Enormous Idiot And Bad Dad, seem even less qualified to be a pathfinder than he does normally. And so, because 'dumb jarheads' is MEAs comfort zone, Ryder joined the Initiative because.. he dad made her, basically. Certainly she seems to think exploring strange new worlds is for dumb nerds, given her total contempt for science. And that would be a valid character choice if you were allowed to do anything else, but you're not. The wild thing about MEA ditching the Paragon/Renegade system is that it made the MC less distinctive, not more. Paragon Shepard, Renegade Shepard, and even neutral Shepard are all different people with different worldviews. One is very casual about genocide, one is not. That's... that makes a difference. But you can pick random dialogue options through all of MEA and get the same Sara Ryder every time.

[serve-cunt]

HIIII ZOE ITS MY IRRITATING ASS AGAIN (this is my main blog, I have tennis and f1 sideblogs but don't know how to make the ask come from there, I haven't been on tumblr in FOREVER..)

anyway my little curious gremlin ass has YET MORE QUESTIONS

ALSO I COMPLETELY FORGOT CHALLENGERS WAS COMING OUT, IM SO DAMN EXCITED FOR THAT FUCK YEAH, we LOVE zendaya she's gonna serve (pls laugh) cunt

okay so i think picking out my favourite players will be easier if I relate them back to f1 drivers, makes em seem more familiar, so if I do like a checklist of sorts of driver types, can you match them up to players you think fit the vibe?????

e.g. is there a former champion (lewis/fernando coded) who's looking for a comeback? is there a young talent who's had bad luck but is on the rise (lando) is there a calm, level headed one that everyone thinks will go far (oscar) is there a charming elegant one that social media is obsessed with (charles my babygirl). im assuming djokovic is the max verstappen adjacent, fairly young dude who's smoking everyone, yeah?

just like ugh I LOVE f1 so dearly and i think sporting parallels will help SO much

question: is it a big money sport like f1? Obviously anyone can pick up a racket and hit a ball, but is it very expensive and exclusive to make it into the big leagues? you mentioned smth in the fic about oscar adding up the whole cost of going pro, would that be a huge problem for poorer families?

are there any player pairings with vaguely homosexual vibes? again with the damn f1 parallels but adjacent to max/charles, carlos/lando, even lewis/nico if I dare mention brocedes, because I just absolutely live for speculation of silly little goofy athletes' relationships with each other

here's where I get REAL shallow but fuckin sue me, WHICH ARE THE PRETTY ONES I CAN SIMP OVER. i am bi so that doubles the market, but basically which are the ones that i can watch edits of and get all giggly and blush over, in your opinion and in the general tennis community's opinion.

whats andy murray's deal? Is he retired? Is he like the sebastian vettel of tennis?

how dramatic is it compared to f1? we all know that f1 is gossip girl on wheels... is tennis gossip girl running around a court or is it less drama-fueled?

not a question but I'm so excited to see which f1 drivers turn up to Wimbledon this year like, CROSSOVER EPISODE YEAAAA

is djokovic the max-esque guy where it's like "okay I don't mind you, you're cool, but god DAMNIT, stop being so good, let my other favourite little meow meows have a CHANCE for once"

how worldwide is it? are players mostly European/Aussie like f1 or is it more widespread?

is the meme game good? i LIVE for online hilarity in sports, are there any iconic tennis moments/memes a la "it's near a fish" "smoooth operator" "bwoah" etc etc whatever

really gotta stop talking about f1 in terms of tennis but it's the only other sport I'm really into IM SORRY FORGIVE ME

which are the "sad wet cat" (dearly beloved) players? you mentioned one guy but there's gotta be more than one right??? I always get attached to athletes with those vibes

IM SO SORRY ABOUT THE CONSTANT QUESTIONING BUT YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON I TRUST TO GIVE ME CORRECT INFO RN BECAUSE YOU REALLY SEEM LIKE YOU KNOW YOUR SHIT

finally a HUGE FUCKING THANK YOU???? For putting up with my idiot ass mostly, and your fic is singlehandedly making me wander into the tennis world despite knowing literally nothing and you're helping my understanding SO much, youre about to drag me down this sport's rabbit hole just by existing. tennisblr seems like such a fun adorable place im SO excited to start watching stuff, you're a legend and ilysm <3333

you are literally NEvEr irritating you are the best thing to happen to my inbox every time, sorry i was so slow on this one!! I had a very hard time relating f1 drivers to tennis players lmaoooo so in the end i just skipped that part!! I'm so sorry!!! it's just so hard because the narrative of f1 drivers is so specific and intrinsically tied to TEAM and to their teammates, and to the tragedy of a good car and/or the wonder of a great car ... the betrayal of contract negotiation & silly season etc.... tennis just doesn't really have that!! all the narratives are more player v. self and player v. world, instead of driver v. driver and driver v. fate. if that makes sense??

so yeah. sorry 😭😭 it's also possible that I just don't have enough imagination and somebody can jump in to help with that .... anyway, moving right along to

"is tennis a big money sport"

GOD yes. tennis is soooooo expensive, it takes approx 1 billion dollars to pay for lessons, court time, coaching, travel, accommodation, gear, etc etc. :// You get paid if you win. let me say that again: you get paid if you WIN. there aren't salaries! early in your career, you are HEMORRHAGING money, esp if you have a coach. the travel is fricken expensive all by itself!! and if you're paying a coach as well you're either in debt or you're playing with house money if you catch my drift. (tennis players often come from wealth, much like f1 drivers — they can also be sponsored, sometimes by their country, but usually only if & while they're successful!!)

if you do well, you start to win, maybe you make money, more likely you're breaking even for a while (or even still losing). if you do REALLY well, then you're looking at more prize money and maybe sponsors, so then you can start making some real money out of this. but yeah it's CRAaaaaaazy how much money tennis players pay to play tennis lol!! it is 10000% a problem for getting underprivileged kids into tennis, there's a reason tennis is so white!

"are there any player pairings w vaguely homosexual vibes"

LOLLLL look i never turn down a chance to push the sincaraz agenda but also, carlos alcaraz does that for me!!!!

they're so cute damn

also getting into sinner/berrettini …

but honestly, besides that?? f1 is way better for pairings because we watch them interact with each other off track WAYY more. you barely see tennis players interact with each other! i have been emailing the respective tennis associations about this (jk but I should). MORE GOOFY VIDEOS WITH PLAYERS DOING STUPID GAMES (with each other, crucially)

"which are the hot ones"

ooohh this is suuuper subjective but i am soOOOoo into coco gauff, she's gorg, also iga sviatek in red, also daria kasatkina, also maria sakkari really does it for me, also katie boulter is so cute.

hot damn

on the atp side oBVI jannik, carlitos is so cute but he looks so young i feel like he's less hot and more adorable, caspar ruud looks like ryan gosling as you have pointed out, ben shelton is gorgeous (and cocky in a way that unfortunately does compel me, oops), arthur fils!! beautiful. tennis players are all hot, in my mind??? they're so …. well rounded …. 😏😏😏

"which are the "sad wet cat" players"

andrey rublev my beloved sad cat

muchova (not really a sad wet cat but tragically always broken in some way)

daniil medvedev but if the cat was cunty

"whats andy murray's deal?"

oh my GOD murray!! my love my husband my father my holy ghost!! a tragedy a triumph …. a player in the era of the Big Three (Djokovic, Federer, Nadal) and therefore destined to be remembered as "oh, and andy murray" … or "one of the big four" (the big four is not a thing unless you're talking about andy murray lmao) ... a great player, one of the greatest, a slugger, a workhorse, had one of the cleanest backhands of all time, and the classiest guy in tennis … see: andy murray shutting down sexist reporters on multiple occasions ....

He's not retired !! he's still going, here he is recently losing:

He's actually (possibly) playing at this upcoming Challenger Tour event! as are a number of interesting players. the reason that this is interesting is that Challenger level tournaments are a level below the ATP Tour, so you don't often have this many recognizable (to me, anyway) names playing at this level!

[side note: the movie Challengers — the name is a play on the Challengers tour. they're playing a Challengers match in the movie, but also "challenging" each other for zendaya … you get it]

Anyway this tournament should be interesting … andy murray is getting older but he's not ready to quit!! he's gone on the record saying there are things he's still trying to accomplish before he retires, and he's playing well in practices it's just not translating to matches yet. he's also said if his body tells him to retire he will, but uhh. he's got a literal metal hip so clearly he's not QUITE ready to listen to his body.....

"is he the seb of tennis" HMMMM this is an interesting question, I wouldn't really class him this way — seb is like a silly little sexy fruity goblin (if I'm reading his vibe correctly — I'm late to f1) and andy is a stoic public school kid with a goofy streak … if that makes sense …

"how dramatic is tennis compared to f1?"

ALSO INTERESTING I think that's sort of relative to how much you care about individual players, I think game-play is pretty dramatic at times but nobody's ever in danger of bursting into flame??? so in that sense not as dramatic as vroom vroom sport lmaoo but there is a bit of temper tantrum throwing, and then important wins (see: Alcaraz Wimbledon 2023) are SO dramatic in the best way…

gossip-wise I don't think it's as dramatic as f1!! there's deffo tennis gossip but I think, again, because there aren't teams, the drama is less wrapped up in "betrayal" narratives yknow??? like ferrari ditching sainz for lewis was dramatic in so many different ways, not LEAST because of the betrayal of carlos. I feel like tennis is less set up for that, bc it's every player for themselves

"is djokovic the max-esque guy where it's like "okay I don't mind you, you're cool, but god DAMNIT, stop being so good, let my other favourite little meow meows have a CHANCE for once"

YES EXACTLY i cut in your whole q because that's exactly right!! so so so apt imo .. howEVERRR it was less correct when federer and nadal were still around and at their best, because those three really did make up the Big Three, capital B capital T, and they had such a good dynamic going between the trio — it was less one-note when djokovic had a constant fight on his hands... now djokovic is older and slowing down so we're getting into a sunset period, which is interesting because he's still doing GREATTT (and I wish he would stop, give my meow meows a chance etc) but everyone sees the light at the end of the tunnel re: a djokovic retirement. whereas I think people are looking at the max ascendancy and saying "GULP" bc we all want our favorite boys to win at least one WDC (cough lando cough cough osc)

"how worldwide is it?"

fairrrrly? but yes europeans heavvvvily represented, americans as well to some extent, asia and australia to some extent — not so stark as f1, but def same bougie euro vibes lmao

"is the meme game good?"

again fairrrrrly but def not to the same extent!! less of a "here are the memes everyone knows" and more in the spirit of, like, if you're following a few players & the major tournaments, tennis tumblr/twitter is fun to be on … trying to think of a "classic" tennis meme and I can't which isn't a good sign lmaooo .. jannik puking in a bin and then going on the biggest win streak of his career is a pretty good meme in my mind though ...

CROSSOVER EP YAAHHHHHHHH I CANNOT WAIT WE BETTER GET SO MANY GOOD WIMBLEDON PHOTOS AJHFDLAKSJFHDKLASJFH

sorry again to be so slow !! this was fun to go through as soon as I stopped tearing my hair out trying to make player: driver comparisons but again, maybe I'm just not creative enough ..

xx ily :))))))

[ruinmegently]

pull me under — felix / wash

context: Wash ends up getting taken with the New Republic group. Some time has passed.

Wrote this for my partner and wanted to share. 🍯

--

He's a monster, right? Like, ain't nothin normal goin on up in that head'a his. Or, maybe a few things. Cause Felix can function — he can pretend to be a person and not a thing wearing a skin suit — but that doesn't mean it's easy, or that the rage that makes up more of his being than muscle or sinew is any simpler to control.

He's mad at everything. The whole fuckin world. Let it rot. It would've let him. Eye for an eye, after all.

But most especially he's mad at Agent fuckin Washington.

The guy's gonna ruin everything with his swimmy gross baby blues and disgusting smile. Felix could handle it, really, he's had his fair share of pretty faces to fuck around with.

But the niceness? The way Wash makes him feel seen?

Fuck off with that, man.

"Hey," Wash says, nudging Felix's shoulder with his own. They sit side by side on the edge of the dock, feet dangling above the underground lake. They could dive in. Sink into the pitch. Let the hungry unfamiliar fish pick them apart until they're nothing but bone, indistinguishable.

"Where are you?"

Felix shakes his head, glassy eyes focusing in. He squints at Wash.

"Right here, ya dumb fuck."

Those awful eyes watch him for a good long while. A hum builds in the other man's throat. Wash turns away with a half-smile. Stares down into the blips of bioluminescent tendrils swimming around in the lake.

"It's okay, you know. To wander off. Just come back and say 'hello' every now and then."

Their hands are so close. Rough and calloused, palms resting on the wooden dock. A pinky finger inches over and lays across Felix's own. Felix jolts his hand back like he's touched the hot burning eye of a stove. Wash doesn't say anything, doesn't move away. Just keeps looking into the depths of the lake, that idiot smile still warming one corner of his mouth.

Felix scowls down at his own hand, now lying palm-up in his lap. He wants to reach over and dig his nails into the squirming, squishy meat of Wash. Needs to see this guy bleeds the same kinda blood as everybody else. Just a worm. Just as insignificant as the people whose lives Felix has destroyed in the wake of his own madness.

The army really makes a man outta ya, huh?

He doesn't rip Wash apart. He should, and he knows this bone-deep. But he doesn't.

"Ya ever wonder why we're here?" he says instead, the words pouring out cause he's too full and drowning and Wash has poked enough holes to ease the pressure but maybe Felix has gotten used to it — to bursting at the seams, spilling out so quick reckless violent there's even less of himself left than the people he ends up washing away.

Wash snorts. Shakes his head. Felix feels compelled to clarify. A certain heat rises on the nape of his neck. His words run away with themselves, he's just the guy stuck watching them leave.

"Like, what the fuck's the point, right? People like us? We should'a died a long fuckin time ago. I mean, we're damaged goods all pieced together, just waitin for the repo man to come collect. Meanwhile John Doe down the street keels over due to a heart attack and leaves behind his husband of fifteen years and like two-and-a-half daughters. That ain't fair. Life's not fuckin fair. So why us? Why are we here?"

Panting (because of the tirade, and not because of the tight coil in his chest only cinching tighter, nope, fuck you), Felix turns wild eyes onto the guy sitting placidly beside him like Fi ain't some monster in the closet.

"Two and a ... half?"

Wash blinks at Felix.

Felix blinks at Wash.

"... that's what you took away from that?"

"I mean, how can you have half a daughter? Even if she's really short, she's still one whole person."

"I fucking hate you."

Wash grins like he's in a long running contest with a star to see who's more luminous.

Felix bares his teeth, the mask of crazy slipping through. It's too much, okay? He can only take so much of himself. He blew Locus off again about the mission. Second time in as many months. Big guy's getting suspicious. Not that there's anything to be suspicious of, just. It isn't like Felix to not jump the gun.

And fuck, he ain't even riding another gun. Because of course it's some demisexual romantic piece of shit he's developed this garbage fucking crush—

Wash reaches over again. The dumb idiot pinky curls around Felix's (when did he drop his hand, put it back there between them?) and this time Felix just stares at it. At this point of contact between them. At the second try despite Felix's earlier rejection, reaction.

At the sound of that same gentle hum building in the back of Wash's throat.

"C'mon big bad, you know why."

Felix looks away. Stares so deeply into the water he imagines he can see pale sightless eyes roaming in the deep.

"Because if I'm stronger than you, and if I'm faster than you, then I can kill you." Yeah. Simple, easy. He's here because he's better. Because he's a survivor, a murder—

"What?" Wash says with a laugh. He shakes his head, smile at odds with the perplexed look Felix gives him. "No no no."

The Freelancer scoots closer. His pinky finger squeezes gently. He stares forward while Felix digs a crazed (needful, desperate) glare into the side of his head.

"You're strong, yeah. And you're fast. And that's what helped you survive when all the odds were against you, sure."

Wash takes a deep breathe.

"But that's not why you're here, Felix."

The guy turns, then. Gives Fi a once-over that crawls beneath his pores and digs up all his secrets. The ones that really matter.

"You're here cause you're not done. Sure, maybe John Doe down the street has a family, but that's not the only important thing, you know? You're just as important. The life you haven't lived yet, matters. The story you haven't told yet, it means something."

Wash shrugs, kicking his heels into the water. Droplets splash up. He watches them attentively, seemingly lost in thought.

"Just because you don't know why doesn't mean there isn't a reason."

Felix pops.

He pulls their gently joined hands apart only to fist through Wash's short blonde hair.

Drags him in for a vicious kiss. One that proves how unholy Felix is. He groans dirtily into Wash's mouth, parted on a surprised gasp, and before the wild animal inside Fi drives him into quite literally biting out Wash's pretty wiggling tongue, Felix—

Jerks back and shoves Washington into the lake.

They guy drops like a rock, only, y'know, with a yelp and a whole lotta flailing.

Wash breaches the surface quickly and yells, "Fucking asshole!" but he's giggling too, and Felix can't help the broad, toothy smile plastered on his lips, or the way he snarls when Wash splashes water up onto him.

He dives in soon after, fully clothed, and wraps himself so tight around the other man they sink, and sink, and sink. But that's okay. Cause Wash is there to kick strong legs and pull them right back up.

After they reach the surface, Felix is still gasping for breath when Wash kisses him like maybe that's why they're here.

[rangerdoubt]

i have yelled at length on discord about stepverse interactions and yet

cut for length and rambling good god but this is going out there because i refuse to be a chicken shit on my own blog

i never thought either miguel or miriam would particularly like any of the other steps. (wrong on miriam’s end--tbf she doesn’t like anyone to begin with, ever, but she truly isn’t that hard to win over, despite her best efforts. absolutely dead correct for miguel--although he is by far more stubborn and less avoidant than i had previously pictured him.) 

but they absolutely do not like each other. i thought maybe perhaps a grudging respect (which is miguel @ elmo weirdly enough) but no. they both think the other one is like--a massive loser lmao.

for one thing, mob boss vs hero hunter: miguel thinks miriam is short-sighted and violent (yes). miri think miguel is cowardly and dependent (also yes). vastly different methods of approach that put both of them off of the other: miguel resents how miriam uhhh just shamelessly rips things up. kicks the shit out of the least important person in the room and leaves. like what in the self-centred shit--? but miri thinks that miguel is just as bad as the people he’s coming after--replacing one with another does nothing. there’s no net improvement, no accountability, just power changing hands as it has for literally forever. how’s that for self-centred? 

both of them are pursuing their own little side plots that are just... running adjacent to the actual issue but by god will neither admit that those are side plots. what a waste of talent, they’ll complain to their respective partners, if they weren’t such a (miri: stuck up asshole/miguel: cruel idiot) i think i would be able to turn them around. 

(it’s worse too because miriam’s not. shy. or polite. when she doesn’t like someone. she’s a wetwork agent, an assassin--fighting is her job and she’s her own best tool. the faster she can get things clear the more effective she is. whereas miguel has shades of social anxiety and is relentlessly, strenuously polite, especially if he doesn’t like somebody. you get around in his world by making friends, and he’s not that good at making contacts to begin with. so he settles for being a powerful asset, and easy to work with--make it hard for people to dislike you, and maybe they’ll keep you around. miguel would have allowed himself to be won over if miriam would just condescend to civility but he makes her skin crawl, not knowing where she stands with him but knowing he’s hiding something.) 

also, miri is very willing to die in whatever form it takes. all of the walls she’s been keeping up between the three selves are collapsing. there is physically no way she can keep all of those plates in the air and get a good emotional ending: she has to drop at least two of the lives. tbh if she lost all three, it might be a relief. and this would not jive well with miguel at all--whose dearest wish is to feel like he belongs to his life. like, not even ask for a better one: he can learn to love the one he has. he wants to feel entirely at home in this body that he’s forged himself. to stop feeling like the world is just a globe on a desk, a ship in a bottle. as a fate step he feels like he’s trying to pull a plane out of a nosedive while accepting that this is just slowing the inevitable crash--trying to fall with a little style. in his eyes, miri’s trying to crash a car that would otherwise have driven straight--on its own even! 

and i think--at the core of it, they’d be soooo so so fuckin envious of each other. like that’s all it is. miguel sees miriam’s drive and independence and intensity of feeling and wonders what that would be like. he loves the crew, but imagine that. being able to go off on your own and trust that it would be fine. imagine believing in something unconstrained by practicality or reason--you’ll make it happen. imagine being swallowed up in someone else’s love or anger or what-have-you, able to be there in that moment instead of somewhere before or after. and then miri’s just. furious with this guy who acts like he can steer anyone around--but can’t he? she says has the strings, and she knows what to do and where to go. but does she? if miriam feels like she’s face down in the puddle of her own life, miguel might as well be walking on water. more than that, all of her kindness is wedged behind some--block or whatever: there’s no time or space for gentleness even if she wanted to, even for the people she loves. she watches miguel deftly fit himself into any team he wants and realizes that he never works alone because he never has to. 

if they were in the same universe, they’d be staring at the unholy mess the other one is making of the the life they dream of, asking each other and asking themselves:

why the fuck are you unhappy?

[the-firebird69]

Don't get me wrong Trump you're trying to go after the quandary we believe if it existed but there are several aspects of it that make you a lot less greedy than your father. And one of them is your nuclear weapons stash and cash we're not that big and not that effective and not well thought out that your troops are not ready and your AI is kind of a trickle yourself you're not really going at it that hard it's not a result of excess greed for things you don't know about and I don't believe you know about these things there's some sort of freaking people farmer you're planting your people on the ground thinking that you'd get stuff for free from just about every source. Come to find out that I'm saying I have stuff and you don't believe me ever like some sort of rodent is living next door it's what you've been looking for it's what you sat here for it's what you've been stuck to me for and now you're saying and you're doing things that reflect that you don't care about it for the most part you just this idiot who is siri and I say it because you're not going down and you're not looking you find some things out and you go off and you start dicking with each other you're ridiculous moron you say you hate us more than anything with the ultimate enemy and you saw my children and you are without any clue where they are I can't believe I can't believe it maybe you lost so bad you see yourself losing to the mac proper that you can't face it what are you laughing at you **** moron ohh and besides it could be my race it's one or the other and everybody knows it but you this this is just disgusting it brings it to another level answering that you're spent and your son is spent

and your son is spent

Zues Hera

and we are not spent hear it professed to hate you and or your race and see it. jsut dont believe it. and why too huge. but ok the process is simple and method. we did not get it now do...and so on but ok are daft and contiue and we adapt he says need it you dont and wont not soon enough. we care to say it how and easy stuff for them. oyou coe on down try your luck messing with your toilet paper and we see it we are a joke. a big huge fat motha fuckin joke...true too.

the joker and idie an idiot due to me and that is why true. i choose to

we dont want your path joker we dont. we take it all too now need to fight htem your a ushover adn young

bja

finie is see it and his could be there the ones who had helped or ordered me to be manifested. and i cringe cant help it nee dit nd see it they pu l l themin work on daimond plug t too buy timeand we use them they will come up and wow we are in shortly this rules...they are them possibly or dave he had it done and oh no not real no. had it done and via the macs order this blows why to pre empt and ok see it too. wow

the joker

we rule see him but he is thinking on it a bit. a little needs you in and so on now but theheat from macs will be felt and very hot like witnesses of nagasaki and hiroshima

Thor Freya

Olympus