synopsis ➸ ushijima has never been good at self-restraint—especially not when it comes to you. but after one too many warnings from family and friends, he tries to take it easy on you. it doesn’t take long for him to realize he’s absolutely terrible at it.
From the very first time Ushijima Wakatoshi saw you in high school, he was completely consumed by an overwhelming desire. You had a body built for sin - every lush curve and tantalizing swell crafted to turn men into drooling, subservient wrecks. Ushijima had never felt such an intense, primal craving to possess someone so thoroughly before.
He didn't bother trying to pursue you through conventional dating or courtship. The second he got you alone after volleyball practice, Ushijima wasted no time in pinning your smaller frame against the locker room wall and ravaging your mouth with hungry kisses. You melted instantly into his powerful embrace, whimpering as his calloused hands eagerly mapped every inch of your softness.
From that moment on, Ushijima was utterly addicted to having you. An insatiable hunger possessed him to constantly bend you over, hike up your skirt, and take you from behind in every public nook and cranny he could find on campus. His friends lost count of how many times they caught him rutting into you like a wild animal, his powerful hips jackhammering mercilessly as your cries of ecstasy echoed through the hallways.
"Damn 'Toshi, you're really putting that body to work!" They would joke breathlessly. "Just wait until after you put a ring on it - you'll never want to leave that!"
Ushijima merely grunted at their defeated prophecies, thoroughly convinced his sheer force of will would allow him to control his ravenous cravings once you were officially his bride. How laughably wrong he was...
Your wedding night in Bali lasted all of five seconds before Ushijima had you naked and screaming, impaled on his thick length as he took you like a lust-starved animal against the resort balcony doors. The entire honeymoon suite still reeks of your mingled scents and the obscene squelches of his cock ruining your soaked pussy for all other men. By the time you checked out a week later, the staff had to completely strip and discard the stained bedsheets you'd been ruthlessly bred upon day and night.
Two years later, and Ushijima's hunger to dominate and claim his wife's body has only grown more rapacious. He delights in keeping you perpetually stuffed full of his potent seed - bending you over at any opportunity to slake his thirst inside your abused holes. You've long since given up any notion of dignity or shame, instead reveling in your role as his cock-warmer cumdump, spread open and overflowing with his virile leavings every hour of the day.
Ushijima adored having you as his devoted, stay-at-home wife to ravage at his whim. From the moment he returned from practice or a game, you were expected to be awaiting him fully nude and presented, ready to be claimed like the obedient little bride you were. He loved seeing you in that submissive display - limbs splayed wantonly, glistening folds already dewy with arousal just from the thought of taking his thick cock again.
There was no need for clothes or modesty when Ushijima was home. Your flawless form was meant to be admired, worshipped, and thoroughly decorated with his possessive marks. He took immense satisfaction in ensuring your silky walls were never empty, always stuffed to overflowing with his potent seed. Ushijima would thoroughly breed you in every room of the house, delighting in your whimpers and tremors as he hilted himself balls-deep and flooded your quivering womb.
Despite his rough, animalistic claiming of your body, there was no denying the depth of Ushijima's love and adoration for you. In those moments after reaching his climax, he would gently gather you against his chest, raining tender kisses over your disheveled hair and face as he stroked your curves adoringly. You were his precious, beautiful wife - the only person who could inspire such paradoxical tenderness and ferocious passion within him.
However, something shifted after one particularly enthusiastic lovemaking session left you unable to walk for nearly a full day. Ushijima had carried your trembling, spent form to the bedroom and spent hours meticulously bathing you, replacing the sheets, and ensuring you were settled comfortably. Yet the sight of your listless, overstimulated state shook him deeply.
His teammates and even parents had begun remarking with more frequency about the dark circles under your eyes and how utterly depleted you seemed. "Give the poor woman a break, son," his father had chuckled, though there was a glint of concern. "Before you run her into the ground completely."
Ushijima knew they were right. As much as he treasured being able to take his wife whenever and however his formidable lust demanded, he was perhaps taking that privilege too far. You deserved to be cherished and rested, not treated as a glorified fleshlight to be used until you were an unresponsive, overstuffed mess.
So for the first time since your honeymoon, Ushijima made the difficult decision to give you a temporary reprieve from his implacable carnal urges.
At first, he'd felt confident he could control himself. How hard could it be to keep his hands off of you for a little while and allow you to recover? Ushijima was a man renowned for his incredible physical stamina and willpower on the volleyball court. Surely denying himself the intoxicating softness of your body would be simple in comparison.
He was dead wrong.
The first morning after instituting the hands-off policy, Ushijima awoke with you blissfully draped across his powerful frame in the usual naked tangle of limbs. Your bare breasts were pillowed enticingly against his chest, making his morning wood twitch traitorously against the scorching heat of your thighs.
Ushijima had to grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut, fighting back the overpowering instinct to roll you onto your back and spear that soaked entrance smothering his arousal. He'd been waking up to this exact same scenario for two years, instantly burying himself to the hilt and reveling in your broken gasps as he staked his claim yet again. Just because you weren't feeling well didn't give him license to deny himself his usual indulgence of your body's splendors.
It took nearly an hour of careful, measured breathing for Ushijima's lust to finally subside enough that he could safely extract himself and leave for practice. The entire grueling commute, he could think of nothing but the way your legs had been obscenely parted, glistening arousal coating your pretty lips in anticipation of him taking what was his. He'd nearly swerved into oncoming traffic at the thought of you lying there waiting for him, to be stuffed and bred and marked with his possession yet again.
But Ushijima held firm in his conviction, somehow making it to the gym in relative control of his faculties. That iron restraint lasted all of five seconds once practice began and his blood started pumping hot and hard once more.
Teammate after teammate kept offering innocuous comments that felt like a savage gut-punch: "You look extra intense today, 'Toshi. Everything okay at home?"
His eye twitched at the innocent jest, visions of your sumptuous naked frame instinctively bent in offering filling his mind. Ushijima could practically smell the addictive, slightly musky aroma of your arousal clinging to the sheets he'd been forced to abandon. He grunted in response and merely intensified the ferocity of his drills.
If only his so-called friends knew the truth of what defined Ushijima's entire home existence — namely, burying his face and cock between your heavenly thighs at every opportunity. Using your pliant form as an infinite wellspring to quench his thirst and stake his claim over and over until you were nothing but a boneless, sobbing mess glazed inside and out with his seed.
The thought alone almost made Ushijima's knees buckle right there on the court. He was sweating, shaking, utterly consumed with the need to rush home and alleviate this rapidly building feverish pressure in his loins. You'd looked so perfect laying there that morning, every lush curve and glistening crevice begging for his reverence and possession.
But he'd robbed himself of that masculine privilege, however temporarily. Now Ushijima could only grit his teeth and endure the agonizing emptiness of being denied his sweet, slick accommodations as your husband. Of not being able to simply take you and use your body to slake his basest urgings whenever the need inevitably struck.
Even after the torturous morning waking up beside your nude form, Ushijima's day was far from over in terms of temptation and denial.
Upon returning home from practice, he was immediately assaulted by the soft sounds and enticing smells of you puttering around the kitchen preparing an early dinner. Ushijima felt his arousal spike anew, mouth watering not for the food but for the memories.
There was the island counter where he'd bent you over just last week, holes already soaked in anticipation as he mounted you from behind. He could vividly picture the way your fingernails had scrabbled for purchase, mewling pleas to "give it to me" falling on deaf ears as Ushijima simply took what he wanted with rough, claiming strokes.
You didn't even have to ask anymore - he would simply spread those luscious thighs and sheathe himself home whenever the whim struck. Your role as his doting wife was to remain constantly bred and aching around the thick bulge of his cock, no matter where or when he desired to rut.
Steam billowed from the oven as you inevitably bent over, back arched and ass presented in that same wanton offering Ushijima was intimately familiar with. Just a few days ago he'd had you bent at that same angle, slamming into your ripening pussy with abandon as his heavy balls smacked that perfect jiggling rump raw.
He could practically hear the vulgar squelch of his cock excavating your insides with each punishing stroke while you squealed and begged for "more, more!" That greedy, slurping cunt audibly protested each time he hilted himself fully, never satisfied until you were swollen and seeping his thick seed in obscene rivulets.
Ushijima's jaw clenched hard enough for his temples to throb sickeningly. You didn't even seem to register his presence, too focused on preparing a meal that would ultimately end up splattered across the messy kitchen once he reasserted his marital rights. He'd made it a personal mission to christen every possible surface of their home with your mingled fluids over the years.
That table you were idly wiping down? He could clearly make out the faint indentations your nails had worn into the lacquered wood from relentlessly clawing into it while he was rutting atop you hundreds of times before. Just picturing the way your head would loll back, mouth parted in fucked-out bliss as he pounded into your welcoming depths was enough to make his cock twitch needily.
The kitchen was far from the only location drenched in such lascivious memories, either. Ushijima's hungry gaze trailed over to the plush living room sofa where he'd taken to alternating between facefucking your spit-soaked throat and slapping his heavy sack against that pretty cunt until you were a delirious, choking mess. More times than he could count, you'd ended up splayed in a helpless tangle of limbs, wheezing as he pumped load after thick load directly into your convulsing womb.
That tightness would then be stuffed into whatever spare orifice remained - be it your gasping mouth or even your perfect, puckered little asshole begging to be reamed and seeded next. You were Ushijima's personal cumdump, built to be adorned with his creamy leavings inside and out until you were rendered a gooey, thoroughly ruined wreck of fucked satisfaction.
As the days crawled by in achingly slow torment, Ushijima could feel his grasp on sanity slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. The persistent ache in his groin had bloomed into an all-consuming inferno, singeing away every ounce of his once-vaunted restraint.
He tried valiantly to cling to rational thoughts - reminders that you were the love of his life, his precious wife who deserved to be cherished and appreciated rather than rutted into oblivion at his basest whims. Ushijima wasn't some feral beast incapable of controlling his formidable lust, no matter how heavenly your body's siren call might be.
But such lofty ideals were rapidly crumbling against the onslaught of vivid memories and temptation at every turn. Simply watching you go about the most mundane household tasks was enough to reduce Ushijima to a vibrating mass of desperation, obsessively recalling every decadent way he'd claimed you in that same setting before.
The living room where you idly straightened decorative cushions immediately morphed into a garishly pornographic tableau in his mind's eye. He could clearly envision the way you'd been splayed across that very couch, legs hoisted over his straining shoulders as he pumped into you with harsh, jolting strokes. The debauched rhythmic sounds of skin smacking wetly against skin, punctuated by your broken gasps and whimpers for more, more, harder, deeper...
Ushijima's hands curled into white-knuckled fists as he willed the sordid visions away, jaw clenched so tightly he could hear his bones creaking in protest. Get a grip, he chastised himself harshly. She's not some depraved cocksleeve put on this earth solely for your pleasure. He adored and cherished you deeply - had sworn binding vows before the heavens to love, honor, and respect your sanctity just as fiercely as you committed your heart and body to him.
Yet those noble convictions crumbled like a flimsy sandcastle under the raging tide of his basest impulses whenever you wandered within arm's reach. Ushijima could practically feel the scorching phantom grip of your silken walls clinging to his aching length as you bent at the waist to gather laundry or retrieve items from lower cabinets. The sight of your lush backside wiggling hypnotically immediately triggered his body's muscle memory - of mounting you from behind, hips already pistoning greedily as he stuffed himself balls-deep into that creamy paradise with a guttural groan.
You didn't even seem to register his heated stare, focused as you were on domestic chores. But in Ushijima's mind's eye, you were already whimpering and keening, insides convulsing with each rapturous thrust as he took his well-earned marital rights over and over without reprieve. He could practically smell the musky aroma of your compounded arousal permeating the air, begging him to shed the last threads of his tattered control.
The longer he was forced to endure this agonizing denial of relieving himself inside your body's heavenly accommodations, the more Ushijima's composure began to unravel. His hands felt perpetually clammy with suppressed longing, hard cock straining needfully with every subtle wiggle or bend of your lush feminine frame as you remained blissfully unaware of the tempest brewing within him.
It was only a matter of time, Ushijima knew, before this torturous drought finally reached its breaking point and he reasserted himself as your virile, dominant caretaker. As your husband, staking his primal claim to breed you full over and over until you had no choice but to lie disheveled and sloppy with the sloshing overflow of his heady cum.
In a way, perhaps Ushijima mused feverishly, robbing you temporarily of his godly seed was an act of mercy. Because once the floodgates were finally breached, there would be no tempering the ravenous onslaught with which he intended to ravage and stake his ownership yet again. At last he understood the dire warnings his own friends and family had issued about not being able to control himself around his little wife.
So for your sake as much as his own, Ushijima continued his white-knuckled struggle to maintain the shrinking barriers of propriety and restraint, however momentary the reprieve. But with each passing moment in your smoldering presence, he felt those final fortifications crumbling at an exponential rate.
The couch cushions seemed to envelop Ushijima as he sank back, trying in vain to relax his tense muscles. His eyes were inexorably drawn to you, perched so tantalizingly on his lap as you happily snacked on treats from the pantry. Even this simple act of indulging in sweets somehow made his heart swell with tenderness.
You were a vision of cozy domesticity in that moment - casually dressed, hair slightly tousled, entirely at ease within the sanctuary of your shared home. Yet Ushijima couldn't help drinking in the sensual details of your form pressed against him. The gentle swell of your curves molding to his powerful thighs, the subtle floral scent of your perfumed skin surrounding him. Just being this close after days of forced distance made his insides churn with longing.
As if sensing his scrutiny, you glanced up with a warm smile. Ushijima's breath hitched at the unguarded adoration shining in your eyes. You were so beautiful, so precious to him. Without really thinking it through, he found himself leaning in, powerless to resist tasting those inviting lips.
The whisper-soft caress of your mouths meeting ignited an instantaneous firestorm within Ushijima's veins. He sucked in a harsh breath through his nose, hands tightening reflexively on your waist as the kiss deepened with heady fervor. Every fibre of his being thrummed with awakened desperation after being starved of your affections.
When you finally parted, you let out a breathless giggle. "Well someone clearly needed that," you teased gently, eyes sparkling with mirth and fondness. "The great Ushijima Wakatoshi getting so worked up over a little kiss..."
The warm ribbing sliced straight through Ushijima's haze of rekindled ardor, allowing clarity and a flicker of sheepish chagrin to return. Of course you'd find his churning restraint silly and overblown. To you, the past few days of self-imposed celibacy amounted to little more than a temporary, unnecessary hurdle of his own making.
"You’re making fun of me for holding back?" he couldn't resist rumbling in response, quirking one eyebrow challengingly. "Even when it’s taking everything in me not to ruin you right here, my wife?"
Rather than looking properly chastised, your eyes fairly danced with that same teasing gleam. "A struggle you seem to be failing at spectacularly, my love. This whole 'abstinence' idea was sweet but utterly pointless."
Ushijima drew in a sharp breath as your hand boldly traced the hard planes of his abdomen through his thin shirt. The simple caress felt like a lick of flame setting his insides ablaze with rekindled hunger. "You underestimate the importance of proper restraint and respect, my dearest. A man shouldn't mindlessly take and rut like some sort of—"
"Beast?" you cheerfully cut him off, emboldened fingers now trailing higher to fan against the sculpted ridges of his chest. "Is that what you were going to say? That you're some kind of ravenous animal who can't control their own lust around me?"
Despite your playful tone, your words sliced straight through Ushijima's tenuously reformed restraint. Because in his most unguarded of moments, that's precisely how he saw himself - a primal, shuddering mess reduced to bestial desperation by your very presence.
Chest heaving, he captured your meandering hand and quickly pinned it against the couch cushions in a vice-like grip. Your teasing grin faltered as you suddenly found yourself caged beneath his powerful frame, entire body radiating a scorching intensity.
"You mock what you don't understand," Ushijima growled in a low, gravelly timbre that made you shiver. “Every second near you is pure torture. Just one touch, and I lose all control…”
To punctuate his point, he rolled his hips firmly against yours, allowing you to feel the undeniable ridge of his cock straining needfully against the thin barriers between you. Your pupils flared, a tiny whimper escaping your lips in reflexive response as liquid heat flooded your features.
Ushijima continued in that same low, intense purr that seemed to reverberate straight to your core. “So you were right—I couldn’t fight it. Trying to deny how badly I want you is useless. Because in the end, I’m just a man who falls apart at the thought of being inside his wife again…”
After that heated moment of intensity, Ushijima took a deep, steadying breath and gently extricated himself from your provocative position. As much as every fiber of his being screamed to surrender fully to his primal urges, he couldn't bring himself to completely obliterate the last vestiges of his self-restraint.
Not yet, at least.
You let out a small huff of disappointment as he shifted away, leaving you flushed and aching on the couch. Ushijima's dark eyes drank in the petulant pout on your kiss-swollen lips and had to summon every ounce of willpower to avoid lunging right back in.
"Patience, my love," he rumbled, more to himself than to you. "We've waited this long..."
You shot him a look of pure skepticism. "Waited? For what, exactly? For you to completely lose your mind over some made-up idea that I need to be protected from your absolutely vanilla desires?"
Ushijima felt his brow furrow at your blunt phrasing. He opened his mouth to protest, but you barreled onward before he could get a word in.
"This whole self-imposed celibacy thing has been utterly ridiculous from the start. When are you going to get it through that thick skull of yours?" You rose up on your knees to bracket his thighs, leaving you eye-level and effectively trapping him against your soft warmth. "I'm your wife, Wakatoshi. Your partner in every sense of the word. I don't need sheltering or restraint - I need you. All of you, utterly unrestrained."
Your hands cradled his face with unexpected tenderness even as your eyes burned with determination. "So stop holding back and treating me like something fragile that needs protection. I can handle everything you have to give and more."
The challenging spark in your gaze was like a physical caress against Ushijima's resolve. He could feel it shuddering under the weight of your conviction, cracking nearly beyond repair. You always had possessed an uncanny ability to strip away his loftiest barriers with just a few choice words and that utterly arresting stare.
"You know I only ever want to cherish and respect you," he managed in a hoarse murmur. "To keep you safe and honor the sanctity of our—"
Your lips sealed over his in a searing kiss that obliterated whatever noble justification still clung to the tip of his tongue. A harsh rumble reverberated up from Ushijima's chest as his arms instinctively wound around your body, returning the embrace with rising fervor. He could already feel his restraints unraveling, fragile hold over his brazen desires slipping with each ravenous clash of your mouths.
When you finally broke away, you were both panting harshly. Foreheads pressed together, you stared up at Ushijima from under your lashes in a way that made his blood pound.
"Keep your sanctity," you breathed in a tone of husky challenge. "I'll take the unchained desire of a man utterly obsessed with making me his..."
Ushijima's chest seized with a shuddering inhalation at the blatant gauntlet you'd thrown down. He could feel the quivering threads of his propriety and misguided chivalry rapidly fraying against your onslaught of temptation. You always did know just which buttons to push to bring him inexorably to the edge.
This time, he sensed you wouldn't be satisfied until he well and truly plunged over the precipice into the yawning chasm of his most selfish, rapacious hunger. And you knew perfectly well he lacked the fortitude to deny your deliciously provocative demand, even if he wanted to.
"Minx..." Ushijima growled, the endearment dripping with a low rumble of burgeoning capitulation. "You'll very much regret poking this beast until it—"
Whatever vaguely ominous warning he'd been about to issue evaporated the second your lips crashed against his once more. Ushijima instantly melted into the searing kiss, thick arms winding around your body as you pressed flush against his powerful frame.
For several heated moments you simply lost yourselves in the messy, urgent melding of your mouths. Tongues tangled and hands roamed with escalating fervor as you both surrendered to the smoldering need that had been cruelly denied for too long.
When you finally parted for air, Ushijima's eyes were dark twin pools of want, boring straight into your soul. His chest heaved with each ragged inhale, drawing your entranced gaze to the taut ridges of defined muscle and the V-lines which pointed lower still...
A soft whine nearly escaped your lips at that tempting visual. God, you wanted - no, needed - to feel all of him against you again with no barriers. The hot brand of his weight pinning you to the sheets, thick cock sheathing itself to the hilt in your aching, neglected depths—
Ushijima seemed to read the feverish need blazing across your features. His jaw clenched almost painfully and you saw the tendons in his neck strain as he visibly fought to maintain the last threads of restraint already disintegrating between you.
"Easy, sweetheart..." he managed in a low, guttural rumble that did absolutely nothing to soothe the burning riot of arousal dancing under your skin. If anything the pet name tumbling so naturally from his lips in that gravelly tone just stoked the flames higher.
You squirmed impatiently against him, purposefully pressing your softness against his hardening length in a silent, wanton entreaty. "Don't 'easy' me, Toshi," you huffed without an ounce of real rebuke, gaze locking blatantly on his kiss-swollen mouth. "I want you so damn bad right now, it's driving me crazy."
A rumbling groan vibrated from the depths of his chest at your blunt admission. You could see his composure rapidly unraveling at the prospect of your mutual desperation - the scorching temptation to shatter that fragile control and ravage one another without further restraint.
"You have no idea the willpower this is taking..." Ushijima ground out, calloused hands flexing against the swell of your hips almost involuntarily. "To deny myself the sweetness of being buried deep inside you again after being starved of it for so long..."
You felt your core clench at the hot promise laced into his strained words. Without consciously deciding, you hooked one leg around his thighs to pull his hips flush against your own. The thick ridge of his arousal ground deliciously against your clothed heat and you sucked in a sharp breath at the exquisite friction.
"Then stop denying us," you whispered throatily into the charged air between your lips, even as Ushijima stared down at you with a look of rapt, blazing torment. "Stop being so careful and just take what you-what we- need already, dammit..."
For one tantalizing heartbeat, you saw the naked desperation and hunger flare across his strong features. You held your breath, dizzy with hope and anticipation that he would finally let his deeply leashed passions loose upon you.
But then, almost as quickly, a muscle ticked in that sharp jawline and Ushijima's expression settled once more into a mask of strained resolve. He pulled back from the tempting cradle of your heat and thighs with a shuddering exhalation. "No...not like this," he rasped out, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than you as he averted his burning gaze briefly. "You don't know what you're asking for, my love..."
A sliver of real frustration lanced through your lust-fogged thoughts at his continued refusal to let himself surrender fully. "The hell I don't!" you snapped. "I'm asking for my husband to give me what I want, no holding back!"
Ushijima stared at you, chest heaving with the force of his inner restraint as you glared back defiantly. The simmering tension could have been cut with a knife. For a long moment, neither of you moved or spoke - you issuing an unspoken challenge, him fighting viciously against his instincts.
Then a sly look stole across your features. "You know what?" you said in a tone of feigned nonchalance. "Clearly I'm not going to get what I want from you tonight..."
You slid off the couch in one smooth motion, back pointedly turned to Ushijima as you sashayed towards the stairs with deliberate sway in your hips. "So I'll just take care of my needs myself, since you're too busy wrestling with your precious control."
The implication in your words was as blatant as it was effective. You heard Ushijima's sharp intake of breath behind you and couldn't resist glancing back over your shoulder. His entire body had gone rigid, fingers digging into the couch cushions as his eyes bored into you with an intensity that made your core clench.
Holding his burning stare, you very slowly dragged your hands up your body until they cupped your breasts through your thin shirt. You gave them a gentle squeeze, lips parting on a soft sigh of pleasure meant just for his viewing torment.
That seemed to be the final straw shattering Ushijima's tenuous grasp on restraint. With a guttural growl that sent lightning zinging down your spine, he surged off the couch in a blind rush towards you.
A bright peal of laughter burst from your lips as you whirled and bolted up the stairs, the thunder of his footsteps rapidly closing in behind. You could practically feel the scorching heat of his presence at your back as you raced down the hallway towards your bedroom sanctuary.
Just as you reached the open door, Ushijima's powerful arm whipped around your middle and wrenched you back against his heaving chest. You let out a breathless squeal of surprise and delight, struggling half-heartedly against his restraining hold.
"Let me go!" you gasped out between giddy giggles, even as your hips instinctively pressed back against the undeniable ridge of his arousal. "I told you I'd just take care of myself since you won't—"
The rest of your words were abruptly smothered as Ushijima spun you around and sealed his mouth over yours in a searing, desperate kiss. You melted against him with a muffled moan, dimly registering the way he easily scooped you up with one arm banded around your waist. Then you were moving, stumbling the few steps to fall in a tangle of limbs across the rumpled bedsheets.
When you finally surfaced for air, Ushijima was looming over you - body taut with barely restrained intensity, chest heaving, eyes dark molten pools of banked hunger. His fingers thread almost roughly through your hair, tilting your head back as he held your heated stare.
"You'll be the death of me, woman," he growled in that low rasp that never failed to make you shiver. "Pushing me to the very edge of control like some insatiable vixen..."
You shamelessly pressed your thighs together, feeling a fresh gush of arousal at his words and commanding presence towering over you. "Maybe I wouldn't have to push so hard if you'd just give us both what we desperately want already..."
The blatant challenge hung heavy in the charged air between you. Ushijima's jaw clenched almost painfully as his willpower seemingly waged one final war against his blazing desires. You could have sworn you saw a vein throb in his neck as he struggled to maintain his fracturing grasp on restraint.
Then, as if a switch had been thrown, the last of that iron control appeared to snap. Ushijima's features contorted into a look of dark rapture as he ducked down to rasp directly against your parted lips.
You could feel the scorching heat of his quick breaths fanning across your mouth as he held your unwavering stare. Ushijima's eyes had gone hooded, pupils blown wide with undisguised yearning in a way you'd never quite witnessed before. There was no pretense, no filtering or constraint remaining - just molten, primal need gazing back at you.
"Fuck..." The guttural profanity rumbled out before he could stop it, lending a gravelly edge to the deep timbre of his voice that made your insides turn to liquid fire. "You really weren't playing around, were you? Practically begging me to lose it and take what I want..."
His powerful body was pulled taut as a bowstring where it hovered over yours, every ridged muscle and tendon standing out in harsh relief. You could see the white-knuckled strain in his hands where they fisted the rumpled sheets on either side of your head. Ushijima appeared to be vibrating with the monumental effort of maintaining what little restraint still remained.
Shamelessly, you arched your back slightly to increase the tantalizing friction where your bodies weren't quite touching. You heard the sharp sound of Ushijima's indrawn breath and couldn't resist dragging your hooded gaze down his frame to the prominent ridge tenting against his pants mere inches away.
"Don't act so surprised," you murmured, proud of how your tone remained measured despite the escalating tension coiling low in your belly. "We both know how long you've been dying to wreck me like you haven't been able to all week..."
Ushijima visibly shuddered at your candid vulgarity, but didn't rebuke you. If anything, his eyes seemed to darken further into bottomless pools of banked fire. "Say it again," he demanded in a low rasp that bordered on guttural. "Tell me exactly what I've been too weak to take..."
You felt a burst of fresh arousal flood your veins at his blatant request, at the undisguised savagery flickering behind his intense stare. Ushijima wasn't playing coy or dancing around the issue with courtly pretenses any longer. He was stripping away every last veneer of propriety to reveal the rapacious, unrestrained beast you'd been trying to rouse all along.
Holding his heated regard, you deliberately shifted your hips in a slow, circular grind against the tantalizing bulge of his cock. A punched-out groan reverberated from Ushijima's parted lips at the blatant provocation.
"I want you..." you breathed out, voice already gone husky with burgeoning desire, "...to use this needy pussy however you need to, whenever you want. No more being a good little housewife, waiting for you to tie yourself into knots over being 'gentle'..."
Ushijima sucked in a sharp breath through his bared teeth, hips twitching minutely in an aborted grind against you. His mouth seemed to work wordlessly for a moment, transfixed by the searing promises tumbling so shamelessly from your lips.
"Keep going..." he all but growled when he finally regained his words. "Don't stop now, my love...not when I'm this fucking close to snapping completely and taking you up on that offer..."
You felt another frisson of heady arousal tingle through your veins at Ushijima's rasped demand, at the way his desire-darkened eyes bored into you with a blazing intensity.
Squirming against the mattress, you hooked one leg deliberately around his tensed thighs, savoring the low groan that punched out of his chest as you effectively trapped his rigid length against your scalding heat through the thin barrier of clothes.
"I want you to stop holding back..." you husked, lips brushing tantalizingly against the sharp line of his jaw as you rolled your hips in a slow, filthy grind. "No more being so careful, like I'm some fragile thing that needs protecting..."
Ushijima's thick forearms flexed against the sheets, muscles straining with the herculean effort to keep from pinning you fully beneath his massive frame and slaking his feral need. You could practically see the last fragile threads of his vaunted restraint disintegrating before your very eyes.
"I can take whatever you want to give, Toshi," you continued in a breathy murmur against the thundering pulse at his throat. "I'm your wife, made to take that big fucking cock however you crave it...to be stuffed so full over and over until I'm nothing but a shaking, sloppy mess drowning in your cum..."
A harsh, strangled sound rumbled out of Ushijima at your filthy words, hips jerking helplessly to grind his steel-hard length against your molten center with bruising force. His eyes slammed shut, sharp features contorted into an expression of rapturous abandon as he finally surrendered what little control still remained.
In one explosive motion, Ushijima crashed his mouth against yours in a messy, claiming kiss that left you both gasping and devouring each other with unbridled desperation. His thick arms wrapped around you like bands of steel, crushing your pliant curves against his unyielding hardness as the kiss rapidly descended into frenzied need.
"Fuck yes..." he growled out harshly between messy clashes of tongue and teeth, divesting you both of clothing in a frantic blur. "That's it, darling...beg for it like the filthy little cumslut you are..."
The vulgar profanity tumbled so naturally off his tongue in a way you'd never experienced before, stoking the bonfire in your core to incandescent levels. You could only whine in answer, nails dragging stinging welts down his sculpted back as Ushijima at last sealed your naked bodies together with low, rapturous groan of pure masculine satisfaction.
He was already rock-hard and throbbing where he lay flush against your thigh, the scorching heat radiating off his thick arousal making your mouth water. Without conscious thought, you found yourself grinding up against his length, coating it in a sticky sheen of your dripping arousal.
Ushijima groaned at the delicious, filthy friction, large hand gripping the swell of your ass in a viselike hold. "So wet already," he rasped out, dark eyes drinking in the sight of your bodies grinding shamelessly against one another. "My dirty wife is practically creaming herself just from the promise of getting her needy little cunt wrecked..."
You felt a shuddering moan bubble up from the depths of your chest at his crude assessment, at the unrepentant savagery gleaming in those molten eyes. Ushijima's gaze locked on your face, his free hand dragging through the slick pooling at the apex of your thighs before he raised it to your lips.
"Open," he rasped out in a voice gone hoarse with lust. You eagerly obeyed, parting your swollen lips just enough to lap up the taste of your own arousal coating his fingers. A shudder wracked through Ushijima's powerful frame as he watched your sinful ministrations, hips twitching involuntarily in search of friction.
"Good girl..." The endearment dripped like honey from his mouth, a stark contrast to the savage gleam of his eyes and the thick cock straining insistently against your hip. "So sweet for me, always eager to please and be used, aren't you?"
His words sent a hot shiver down your spine and made you clench with need. With a low, throaty whimper, you pulled away from his fingers and gazed up at Ushijima with a look of burning supplication. "Please, Toshi...I-I need—"
A soft, startled cry escaped you as his fist closed around the front of your top and ripped it open in a single rough motion. You watched, spellbound, as he did the same to the rest of your garments with little finesse, shredding them like tissue paper and tossing the scraps aside without a second glance before turning his ravenous gaze back to your exposed form.
For a few seconds, he just stared at you in awe, blatant reverence and hunger written across his chiseled features as his fingers worked to remove the rest of his clothing. Then, his entire body covered yours once more, hot flesh pressing you firmly into the sheets as Ushijima captured your mouth in a scorching kiss.
"I need to be inside you, darling," he gasped out between hungry nips and licks, "right now."
Your thighs instinctively parted in open invitation, hips canting towards him in blatant need. Ushijima settled into the cradle of your pelvis and his eyes locked onto the lewd view of his rigid length sliding against your glistening folds.
A guttural, animalistic growl vibrated up from the depths of his chest as he gripped his shaft and slowly dragged the thick head through the slippery mess pooling at your entrance. His other hand tangled in the sheets next to your head, fisting them tightly as his eyes snapped shut and he shuddered above you.
Your nails raked down the tensed muscles of his back as he repeated the motion, teasing your hypersensitive folds with agonizing deliberation. A soft whimper bubbled from your lips at the slow drag of his cockhead against your clit, at the searing heat and girth rubbing tortuously against you.
"Toshi..."
He was poised at your entrance now, tip notched just inside and pulsing enticingly, but still he hesitated. Your hands gripped his hips, silently pleading him to give you what you craved so desperately.
Ushijima's eyes opened, blazing down into yours as he held himself perfectly still. "Tell me again..." he rasped out in a tone laced with an underlying note of dark command. "Tell me exactly how much you need this."
You let out a frustrated moan and squirmed beneath him, trying desperately to press him deeper. "Need it so bad, Toshi, please!" you begged, shamelessly arching into him and spreading yourself wider. "Need you to fuck me and fill me with cum until I can't move—please, Toshi, please—"
His thick length slicked through your drenched folds in one slick glide, sheathing itself to the throbbing root with a single rough snap of his powerful hips. The harsh stretch of being reamed open by his girth made your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open on a broken keen of sheer bliss.
"That's it...ahh fuck, missed this gorgeous little cunt so damn much..." Ushijima's harsh rumble was utterly wrecked, all sense of composure or decorum evaporating as he drilled himself home over and over in a ruthless cadence.
You could only cling to his heaving shoulders, completely unraveled beneath his ferocious onslaught and utterly drunk on the searing stretch and delicious ache of being so thoroughly taken once more. It had been a week since you'd been stuffed full, and your body hadn't quite adjusted to his sheer size after the long absence.
The friction was mind-blowing, the way his girth speared you so full and deep, forcing your walls to accommodate his unyielding length with every powerful stroke. It was all you could do to breathe and hold onto Ushijima's broad shoulders, body trembling as he hammered you into the mattress with ruthless intent.
His dark eyes roved hungrily across the way your breasts jiggled from the force of his thrusts, the way his cock disappeared so completely inside you, the lewd mess he was making of your cunt. Your name slipped past his lips, a guttural curse, a plea, a prayer as he pounded into you, his gaze flicking back and forth between where your bodies were joined and the unabashed pleasure etched across your flushed features.
"Look at that...you can see where I'm splitting you wide open..." he grunted out in a strained tone, his free hand dragging roughly down the length of your torso to press against the bulge that appeared in your belly with every punishing thrust.The other braced his weight against the headboard, fingers clenching the wooden slats with bruising force.
Your mind went blank as he increased his pace, the lewd sound of your sloppy, dripping core echoing throughout the room and driving you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel the telltale tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, a familiar pressure mounting in response to the delicious stretch and friction of Ushijima's relentless rhythm.
"Ahhh, god, Toshi—I-I'm close—" you babbled, feeling the coil wind ever tighter, teetering precariously on the brink of release. "I'm gonna cum, please, harder, fuck—I need—"
The rest of your desperate plea was swallowed in a low moan as Ushijima leaned back on his knees, hauling your legs up and over his shoulders and folding you in half. You felt the change immediately, his cockhead now slamming ruthlessly into your deepest, most sensitive spots.
A choked sob spilled from your lips as you clung to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sensation of being so thoroughly stretched and filled. You'd lost all sense of time or control, reduced to a quivering, sloppy mess as your husband's thick length pistoned into your overstimulated pussy.
The angle was even deeper than before, his powerful hips snapping with a vicious, rapid-fire intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. He was hitting the perfect spot with every brutal thrust, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with every drive of his hips, the lewd, wet sounds of your dripping core filling the air and mingling with his ragged grunts.
"Cum for me," he growled, eyes locked on your face as his tempo grew even more brutal. "Be a good girl and cum on this cock, just like you promised..."
As if your body was obeying his command rather than your own, a white-hot, overwhelming pleasure crashed over you. You arched and shook as wave after wave of blinding euphoria rolled through your veins. Ushijima continued pumping into you, riding out the aftershocks and prolonging your release as you cried out and trembled beneath him.
He groaned deep in his chest as your walls clenched and rippled around him, his own orgasm rapidly building with each passing second. "Fuck, I can feel you milking me," he bit out harshly, hands gripping the meat of your ass and angling you higher to better suit his frenzied pace. "So fucking tight and greedy, my darling wife..."
Ushijima's thrusts were growing more erratic, the rhythm of his hips stuttering as his cock swelled even thicker and longer. You moaned softly, feeling his girth stretch you almost impossibly wider. Your fingers tangled in the sheets, body quaking and oversensitive but still wanting more.
"F-fill me, Toshi," you begged breathlessly, gazing up at him with a look of sheer supplication. "Need to feel you cum deep inside, please..."
With a sharp groan, Ushijima's eyes slammed shut and his entire body tensed as the first thick spurt of his seed pumped into you. You shivered, moaning at the feeling of his hot, sticky release coating your insides. He was still cumming, his throbbing cock pulsing with each successive pump of his release.
Your walls fluttered around him, milking him dry and prolonging the mind-blowing pleasure as he continued to fuck you through it. Ushijima's eyes remained clenched shut, features twisted in a look of pure rapture as he pumped you full.
After several more thrusts, he finally came to a stop, breathing heavily. A satisfied smile stretched across his face as his eyes opened and fixed on your fucked-out expression. He slowly pulled out, a mixture of his cum and yours leaking from your well-used hole and dripping down your thighs.
"Mmm, look at the mess you made..." he murmured, fingers trailing down to gather some of the slick and smearing it over the reddened, swollen lips of your pussy. "Maybe I should make it even dirtier and stuff it all back inside, hm?"
Ushijima didn't wait for a reply before his thumb dragged through the sloppy, frothy mix and pushed the mess back into your twitching cunt. A small sound slipped past your lips as you felt him work his thick load deeper inside, fingers lazily pumping the rest of his cum into your dripping pussy.
He was already hardening again, his shaft throbbing where it lay thick and heavy against his thigh. You moaned softly at the sight, hips grinding involuntarily as your spent cunt clenched around his fingers.
"What should we do for round two, hmm?" Ushijima's dark gaze burned into yours, voice gone rough with desire once more. "I have several ideas in mind, but I think I'd love to see you ride me...show me what a good girl you are and take what you need, just like you promised."
Your cunt gave another helpless spasm, arousal flooding anew through your veins. It was going to be a very long night, indeed.
I know I'm not the first person to observe this, but banishment is a hell of a funny punishment. I now sentence you to fuck off. I don't care where, just get out of my sight. Go on. Git.
fandom etiquette as a whole died when people who didn’t grow up on fandoms became stans during lockdown, yes, but why am i seeing people openly mocking fics on twitter. why am i seeing screenshots of fics with captions like “bro what is this 😭.” why am i seeing people mock fic writers for not knowing how sports or theater or college or any other organization operates in the real world.
“college is absolutely nothing like this” “why are we writing four people on the team scoring a hat trick in one game” “so tech work is nothing like this, hope that helps!”
if you don’t like a fic, and if you can’t suspend your belief enough to enjoy a fic that exaggerates or ignores real-world orgs, you don’t have to read it. you don’t have to screenshot it and put it on blast for twitter. you don’t have to post a link to it in the replies. the back button is literally there on your phone. it’s not giving baby’s first fandom anymore, it’s giving entitled asshole and it isn’t as cute as you think it is.
⨭ 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 darker, 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
n/a: omniscient narrator, third person The protagonist is the sister of Aemond Targaryen, she is silver wing rider. mention of the Battle of Squawk, rumors of incest with Aemond. canonical time. narrated as in the book. Aemond x oc!fem. Aemond Targaryen One shot.
A raven flew to Oldtown with a precise instruction from the Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen, requesting the aid of his siblings, Vaella and Daeron Targaryen, with their respective dragons, Silverwing and Tessarion. The princes seemed to have been expecting the command, following Aegon's fall at the Battle. They bid farewell to Ormund Hightower, who had served as their tutor since they were twelve, and mounted their dragons, pursuing the trail of the Blacks.
It was Princess Vaella, a fifteen-year-old maid, the last female progeny of King Viserys I Targaryen and his second wife Queen Alicent Hightower, who made her first appearance in the bloodiest battle of the entire war, known as the Battle of the Gullet.
Following the achievement of her grandfather, Otto Hightower, the Triarchy advanced against the Velaryon fleet in an ambush that caught them by surprise near their base at Driftmark.
The she-dragon of the beloved Queen Alysanne and her rider lay hidden among the rocks and water, observing the fleets of Queen Rhaenyra falling one by one, until Silverwing roared, restless. Another roar was returned from the heavens. It was Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, upon Vermax. They dove upon the Myrish ships, swiftly turning them into fire and blood. Princess Vaella did not stop, even when she saw two more dragons descend beside him. She was not surprised; her brother Aemond One-Eye, well-loved and familiar to the maid, had warned her about the 'dragonseeds' in one of their many shared letters. Mushroom, in his forbidden account of the royalty, declared that the two riders gifted each other words of passion and promises of marriage via raven. Though, like much of what the fool said, it cannot be verified, as no evidence exists that declared the rider of Vhagar betrothed to any woman other than the supposed Baratheon. The last daughter of King Viserys claimed many enemy fleets, incinerating them to dust.
Silverwing happily bellowed, or so it seemed, if the fearsome beasts could feel contentment, upon seeing Vermithor, the old dragon of King Jaehaerys I.
Yet, by the time she faced her half-sister Rhaenyra’s heir, the Blacks could no longer be distinguished from the Greens. The fire consumed all equally. Only the dragons were clear. According to witnesses of the catastrophe, both princes paid their respects with a head nod and proceeded to shout words in High Valyrian. From then on, fire blinded the sun, and blood fell like rain. Prince Jacaerys's dragon was smaller and faster than Silverwing, allowing him to easily scratch her left flank. This only served to enrage Vaella’s she-dragon, who flew above them. All were expectant, thinking the princess had fled, frightened of her nephew, but a roar followed by dark fire from the high sky silenced all speculation. Silverwing closed her jaws upon Vermax's back, and with a scream of pain, the young dragon and his rider fell into the embattled sea.
The histories are told differently; many claim Prince Jace flew low seeking his brother Viserys, who had been kidnapped by the Green fleets, while others say he fell from his dragon and an arrow pierced his neck.
The only certainty we have is the words spoken by Princess Vaella upon seeing the dead body: “Do with him as you will, but do not forget he was the blood of the Dragon. King Aegon will be pleased to have him presented as a trophy.”
She flew to the seat of Driftmark, where she and her hungry she-dragon confronted the few servants and knights who offered resistance. When she sat upon the throne, they say she smiled and ordered the castle gates opened to the remaining Myrmen who had resisted the dragonseeds’ attack. Under her command, the entire garrison of the Valyrian family was sacked; men were slain, murdered, robbed, and raped. However, it is said she forbade the defilement of children, young maids, and women who had recently given birth.
The standard of a three-headed dragon on a green field was installed at the entrance of Driftmark, the ancient seat of the Sea Snake.
When the news reached Dragonstone, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen’s scream of grief echoed through the stone walls. In the Queen’s council, it was ensured that Princess Vaella would join her brothers and that only the Myrish fleet would fight at sea. Rhaenyra clutched her breast and proffered curses of horror upon her half-siblings and her stepmother, Alicent. If there was sadness, it quickly transformed into fury. She had lost her firstborn son, her heir, and she would neither forgive nor forget.
The news arrived alongside the rider Vaella, who was received only by the Prince Regent, the Queen Mother, Ser Criston, Otto Hightower, and Larys Strong.
The victory was celebrated with a two-day feast, where Septon Eustace declared the siblings the reincarnation of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister Visenya. The maid merely blushed and thanked him.
In that same instance, the best marriage option for the young woman was debated. Ser Ormund Hightower had a son three years younger than Daeron; this union would leave the Greens permanently protected with a dragon, and the children born of the union would be riders with the blood of both Houses. However, the other option was more necessary. Following the death of Lord Jason Lannister, Lannisport seemed reluctant to continue defending the cause. Marrying Vaella to the Lannister heir would not only breed dragonriders for one of the wealthiest Houses in all of Westeros but also reassure the support of Lady Johanna, Jason’s wife, and Casterly Rock.
The final decision was made by the Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen. His youngest sister would marry Loreon Lannister, a young man of twenty-two with golden hair and attributes well accepted for a Targaryen dragon-riding princess.
It is not well known what transpired between the siblings; Mushroom, as usual, claims the Queen Alicent's youngest daughter went to her brother's chambers and tried to seduce him to take her innocence, but he refused, inciting the woman's shame and rage. She ended up taking out her primary thirst on the current Hand of the King, Ser Criston Cole, as her sister Rhaenyra once did. Munkun claims something similar, only adding that the act between the siblings was witnessed by a horrified Alicent, who ordered Vaella's confinement to her rooms under the promise that the truth would never be known.
We cannot vouch for either account, due to the perverted nature of the fool and the maester's great eagerness for the Black Queen.
The confirmed fact was the sudden distance between the siblings; the rider of Silverwing ate in her chambers and only left to take night flights over the city on the dragon's back. The rest of her time was divided between accompanying the distraught Queen Helaena and her nephews, and visiting her brother, King Aegon, who seemed to have improved in appearance.
Two moons passed until the path of the princes separated; Aemond departed for Harrenhal to confront his uncle Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince.
Vaella Targaryen, the maid, the last female child of the union between Queen Alicent and King Viserys I Targaryen, drew her last breath beneath the crowd of King's Landing. When the Black hosts took the city, she skillfully fought alongside Silverwing against, poetically, the dragon of Jaehaerys I, the King Who Lived. Both dragons, connected by years of history, love, and disagreement between Alysanne and Jaehaerys, danced over the sky of King's Landing, causing the multitude to scream at the sight. It was when Vermithor tore the silver wings from the princess’s mount that both fell, killing those who watched from the ground. Her body never appeared; it is said she vanished, that it was stolen, that the princess survived the attack and slipped away as a Lysene courtesan. Much later, she would be known among those she saved from the Driftmark massacre and some minor allies as the Silver Martyr.
The only thing confirmed was that the news enraged all the Greens. Aemond Targaryen was persuaded not to abandon Harrenhal to pursue his half-sister and her family. All his fury was vented upon the Strongs of the ruined castle.
Shortly thereafter, he would join the unknown.
Thus ended, for many, the secret love story between a prince made of fury and rage and his brave and beautiful sister.
A sad prince. Daeron Targaryen ×fem! reader × Aemond Targaryen
A/N: Omniscient narrator, the reader is Daeron's twin sister, not physically described. Sensitive topics. You would help me a lot with a like.
At the start of the catastrophic battle, which the bards called the Dance of the Dragons, the House Targaryen divided into two factions: the Blacks and the Greens. The former were under the command of King Viserys I and Queen Aemma Arryn's eldest daughter, Rhaenyra Targaryen. The Greens fought in the name of Aegon II Targaryen, King Viserys I's second son and Queen Alicent Hightower's firstborn. The peace agreements perished when Aemond Targaryen, second son of King Viserys and Queen Alicent’s union, slew Lucerys Velaryon, the Black Queen’s second son.
The Greens possessed Aemond One-Eye, later called Kinslayer, with his mount Vhagar, the Green she-dragon and sole survivor of King Aegon I's Conquest, and Sunfyre, King Aegon II's dragon. However, after a battle against Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, the Green King ended up severely wounded. With only Vhagar as an ally, as Queen Helaena refused to fly with her dragon Dreamfyre, it is said that two moons later ravens flew to Oldtown. Prince Regent Aemond requested that his two younger siblings, along with their dragons, present themselves and fight alongside him.
Daeron and his twin sister were tutored by Ormund Hightower, Queen Alicent's cousin. They spent their final years in Oldtown, serving as cupbearers and squires. It is said they were well-loved, both by those of high birth and those of low. Bearing the characteristics of the dragon's blood, they drew glances and stole sighs. Daeron rode a she-dragon who grew with him: Tessarion, the Blue Queen. His sister, a maid also of fifteen years, was the rider of Silverwing, the mount of the beloved Queen Alysanne.
Following the crippling of their brother Aegon, they received the command to fly towards King's Landing and put an end to the Blacks. Although we have no evidence, Maester Orwyle adds that Aemond Targaryen promised his sister's hand to Jason Lannister's eldest son, Loreon Lannister. From here on, the versions are told differently, though we leave it to the reader to choose which seems most accurate for the events to follow.
According to Septon Eustace, following Valyrian customs, the princes grew up with the notion that upon reaching the age of majority, they would marry like their siblings Aegon and Helaena. Upon receiving the Prince Regent’s command, they merely looked at each other with sadness and sealed the fate each would have to abide by with a kiss. However, Mushroom, the lewd fool of Queen Rhaenyra, says something completely different regarding the reaction. He recounts that on that day, Prince Daeron Targaryen stole the maidenhead of the Princess, his twin sister, and vowed to fight his brother Aemond for forcing her to marry a man she did not love. Although we cannot vouch for either account, as neither was in Oldtown when the Targaryen princes received the news, the only thing we can confirm is that both departed at dawn on their dragons.
From this point, the twins separate. The maid fought fiercely in the Battle of the Gullet with the support of the Triarchy fleets (thanks to her grandfather and former Hand of the King, Otto Hightower) against the Velaryon fleets and her nephew Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to Rhaenyra Targaryen. She lunged at the rider, calling him a bastard, and brought about his death that very afternoon. It should be noted that Silverwing was larger than Vermax. She made the victory her own when she opened the gates of Driftmark to the Triarchy sailors. They sacked, robbed, killed, and raped any survivors. As history tells us, the Princess forbade the defilement of children, grandmothers, maidens, and newly delivered women. Because of those she saved, she was called the Silver Martyr, alluding to her dragon’s scales. She held a banquet in the name of her brother, King Aegon, that lasted five days and five nights. Her hastened departure from the seat was divided in opinion. Septons Munkun and Eustace affirm that she received her brother’s order to pursue her betrothed after Lord Lannister's death and secure the support of Casterly Rock. Mushroom says the Princess planned to secure the support of whoever she could, and that the seat would be a new Dragonstone where she would receive the father of the child she was carrying: her brother Daeron, recently knighted and called “The Daring” after his victory at the Battle of the Honeywine. Aemond, he claims, would accuse them of high treason and they would pay with death if the Princess refused to comply with his order. According to the dwarf, fury was unleashed in the castle and the Princess allowed herself to be defiled by any stable boy or kitchen maid to spite her brother. However, given the compliant nature of the Targaryen twins, who were known by those familiar with them as more willing to take orders than to give them, we prefer to trust the writings of the maesters.
Be that as it may, and however those who read the historical annals choose, what cannot be denied or contradicted is that neither Prince Daeron nor his beloved sister ever met again in life. The maid departed at nightfall with her dragon Silverwing, after serving her some sheep to her liking, intending to meet her betrothed in war. The Lords of the Rivers had the Lannisters subdued in their attempt to advance. Perhaps it was the certainty of reuniting with her beloved brother that the Princess was ambushed by surprise while burning a Tully encampment; she and her dragon fell, ending the life of the last daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower.
The news did not take long to spread among the Green supporters. The seasoning was added and, by the time it reached the ears of Queen Alicent and Prince Aemond, her end had been so twisted that it was claimed she was being held as a whore in the camps of the Riverlords. The Green Queen wept, heartbroken for the daughter she had and never truly possessed, and the One-Eye Prince did not shed tears but instead departed upon Vhagar. He swiftly annihilated every garrison, camp, peasant, boy, girl, highborn, and lowborn Lord inhabiting the Riverlands who supported his half-sister and celebrated the passing of his beloved little sister. Those who managed to hide affirm that Prince Aemond dismounted from his dragon when he reached the place where the Princess had fallen. He found not a single garment of the woman nor any Black knights, but only a squire upon whom his fury landed, beheading him without mercy.
If the accounts were already confusing before, they were even more so for this part. Perhaps it was the rage that led them to act this way, the sadness that overwhelmed them. But when Prince Daeron the Daring met his brother near the town of Tumbleton, all concur on one thing: the dragons roared as soon as they saw each other and fought in the sky. Tessarion was not even a quarter the size of Vhagar, but she fought bravely against the old beast. She ripped a part of Vhagar's torso, until Aemond dealt the final blow, tearing the head from the bluish beast. Vhagar roared with rage and flew off, beating her wings. It was Loreon Lannister who found the body of Prince Daeron, something shockingly surprising. Per Munkun’s words, the Lannister plunged his sword into his chest as revenge for attempting to steal his lady, but we doubt he even knew what the Targaryen felt. This is refuted by the fact that it was he who delivered the body of the valiant prince to the Queen. Alicent wept for a whole night and it is said she would never recover from having lost her twins again.
That was the end of Daeron Targaryen and his lost princess in 130 AC.
Stories of love and terror were told. They were sung and mourned by those who knew them. The narrators were right about one thing.
n/a: omniscient narrator, third person The protagonist is the sister of Aemond Targaryen, she is silver wing rider. mention of the Battle of Squawk, rumors of incest with Aemond. canonical time. narrated as in the book. Aemond x oc!fem. Aemond Targaryen One shot.
A raven flew to Oldtown with a precise instruction from the Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen, requesting the aid of his siblings, Vaella and Daeron Targaryen, with their respective dragons, Silverwing and Tessarion. The princes seemed to have been expecting the command, following Aegon's fall at the Battle. They bid farewell to Ormund Hightower, who had served as their tutor since they were twelve, and mounted their dragons, pursuing the trail of the Blacks.
It was Princess Vaella, a fifteen-year-old maid, the last female progeny of King Viserys I Targaryen and his second wife Queen Alicent Hightower, who made her first appearance in the bloodiest battle of the entire war, known as the Battle of the Gullet.
Following the achievement of her grandfather, Otto Hightower, the Triarchy advanced against the Velaryon fleet in an ambush that caught them by surprise near their base at Driftmark.
The she-dragon of the beloved Queen Alysanne and her rider lay hidden among the rocks and water, observing the fleets of Queen Rhaenyra falling one by one, until Silverwing roared, restless. Another roar was returned from the heavens. It was Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, upon Vermax. They dove upon the Myrish ships, swiftly turning them into fire and blood. Princess Vaella did not stop, even when she saw two more dragons descend beside him. She was not surprised; her brother Aemond One-Eye, well-loved and familiar to the maid, had warned her about the 'dragonseeds' in one of their many shared letters. Mushroom, in his forbidden account of the royalty, declared that the two riders gifted each other words of passion and promises of marriage via raven. Though, like much of what the fool said, it cannot be verified, as no evidence exists that declared the rider of Vhagar betrothed to any woman other than the supposed Baratheon. The last daughter of King Viserys claimed many enemy fleets, incinerating them to dust.
Silverwing happily bellowed, or so it seemed, if the fearsome beasts could feel contentment, upon seeing Vermithor, the old dragon of King Jaehaerys I.
Yet, by the time she faced her half-sister Rhaenyra’s heir, the Blacks could no longer be distinguished from the Greens. The fire consumed all equally. Only the dragons were clear. According to witnesses of the catastrophe, both princes paid their respects with a head nod and proceeded to shout words in High Valyrian. From then on, fire blinded the sun, and blood fell like rain. Prince Jacaerys's dragon was smaller and faster than Silverwing, allowing him to easily scratch her left flank. This only served to enrage Vaella’s she-dragon, who flew above them. All were expectant, thinking the princess had fled, frightened of her nephew, but a roar followed by dark fire from the high sky silenced all speculation. Silverwing closed her jaws upon Vermax's back, and with a scream of pain, the young dragon and his rider fell into the embattled sea.
The histories are told differently; many claim Prince Jace flew low seeking his brother Viserys, who had been kidnapped by the Green fleets, while others say he fell from his dragon and an arrow pierced his neck.
The only certainty we have is the words spoken by Princess Vaella upon seeing the dead body: “Do with him as you will, but do not forget he was the blood of the Dragon. King Aegon will be pleased to have him presented as a trophy.”
She flew to the seat of Driftmark, where she and her hungry she-dragon confronted the few servants and knights who offered resistance. When she sat upon the throne, they say she smiled and ordered the castle gates opened to the remaining Myrmen who had resisted the dragonseeds’ attack. Under her command, the entire garrison of the Valyrian family was sacked; men were slain, murdered, robbed, and raped. However, it is said she forbade the defilement of children, young maids, and women who had recently given birth.
The standard of a three-headed dragon on a green field was installed at the entrance of Driftmark, the ancient seat of the Sea Snake.
When the news reached Dragonstone, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen’s scream of grief echoed through the stone walls. In the Queen’s council, it was ensured that Princess Vaella would join her brothers and that only the Myrish fleet would fight at sea. Rhaenyra clutched her breast and proffered curses of horror upon her half-siblings and her stepmother, Alicent. If there was sadness, it quickly transformed into fury. She had lost her firstborn son, her heir, and she would neither forgive nor forget.
The news arrived alongside the rider Vaella, who was received only by the Prince Regent, the Queen Mother, Ser Criston, Otto Hightower, and Larys Strong.
The victory was celebrated with a two-day feast, where Septon Eustace declared the siblings the reincarnation of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister Visenya. The maid merely blushed and thanked him.
In that same instance, the best marriage option for the young woman was debated. Ser Ormund Hightower had a son three years younger than Daeron; this union would leave the Greens permanently protected with a dragon, and the children born of the union would be riders with the blood of both Houses. However, the other option was more necessary. Following the death of Lord Jason Lannister, Lannisport seemed reluctant to continue defending the cause. Marrying Vaella to the Lannister heir would not only breed dragonriders for one of the wealthiest Houses in all of Westeros but also reassure the support of Lady Johanna, Jason’s wife, and Casterly Rock.
The final decision was made by the Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen. His youngest sister would marry Loreon Lannister, a young man of twenty-two with golden hair and attributes well accepted for a Targaryen dragon-riding princess.
It is not well known what transpired between the siblings; Mushroom, as usual, claims the Queen Alicent's youngest daughter went to her brother's chambers and tried to seduce him to take her innocence, but he refused, inciting the woman's shame and rage. She ended up taking out her primary thirst on the current Hand of the King, Ser Criston Cole, as her sister Rhaenyra once did. Munkun claims something similar, only adding that the act between the siblings was witnessed by a horrified Alicent, who ordered Vaella's confinement to her rooms under the promise that the truth would never be known.
We cannot vouch for either account, due to the perverted nature of the fool and the maester's great eagerness for the Black Queen.
The confirmed fact was the sudden distance between the siblings; the rider of Silverwing ate in her chambers and only left to take night flights over the city on the dragon's back. The rest of her time was divided between accompanying the distraught Queen Helaena and her nephews, and visiting her brother, King Aegon, who seemed to have improved in appearance.
Two moons passed until the path of the princes separated; Aemond departed for Harrenhal to confront his uncle Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince.
Vaella Targaryen, the maid, the last female child of the union between Queen Alicent and King Viserys I Targaryen, drew her last breath beneath the crowd of King's Landing. When the Black hosts took the city, she skillfully fought alongside Silverwing against, poetically, the dragon of Jaehaerys I, the King Who Lived. Both dragons, connected by years of history, love, and disagreement between Alysanne and Jaehaerys, danced over the sky of King's Landing, causing the multitude to scream at the sight. It was when Vermithor tore the silver wings from the princess’s mount that both fell, killing those who watched from the ground. Her body never appeared; it is said she vanished, that it was stolen, that the princess survived the attack and slipped away as a Lysene courtesan. Much later, she would be known among those she saved from the Driftmark massacre and some minor allies as the Silver Martyr.
The only thing confirmed was that the news enraged all the Greens. Aemond Targaryen was persuaded not to abandon Harrenhal to pursue his half-sister and her family. All his fury was vented upon the Strongs of the ruined castle.
Shortly thereafter, he would join the unknown.
Thus ended, for many, the secret love story between a prince made of fury and rage and his brave and beautiful sister.
I’m a survivor from Gaza, holding on to hope in a world that has fallen apart around me. 💔
The life I once knew — my home, my family, my sense of safety — has been shattered by war.
Today, I live among the ruins, trying to find a path forward through the rubble and heartbreak. 🏚
Every moment is a battle against fear and uncertainty.
What was once ordinary — a safe place to sleep, a future to dream of — now feels like a distant memory. 🕊️
I share my story not to seek pity, but to keep hope alive — to believe that even in the darkest places, kindness can still find a way. 🤍
If my story touches your heart, please consider sharing it or offering support.
Every voice, every act of care, brings me one step closer to safety. ✨
Thank you for taking the time to listen. 🙏
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