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foreveia · 5 months ago

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director’s cut ⤨ tsukishima kei

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

⨭ pairing; tsukishima kei x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 17.3k

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

⨭ warnings; profanity, alcohol, smoking

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

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

one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You just bribed me with strawberry soju.”

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

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

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

“Sounds like every other indie film ever made.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because you love me.”

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

three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Study.”

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

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

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

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

four.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean you’re winging it.”

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He always has.

five.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shit. This might actually be good.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he drawls.

“You’re actually trying.”

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s... breathtaking.

You swallow, suddenly feeling warm.

They’re good. Too good.

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

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

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

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

six.

The blinking cursor on your laptop is mocking you.

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

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

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

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

Endings mean making a choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Risky how? Like existentially?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tsukishima and Yachi. Together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

seven.

“You look like shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I thrive under pressure.”

“You thrive off caffeine and bad decisions.”

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

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

You blink. “Huh?”

“You clearly need a break. Let’s go.”

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know my order,” you say, amused.

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

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

And for some reason, that makes your stomach twist.

eight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

nine.

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

Instead, you have filming.

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

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

You try not to think about it too hard.

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

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

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

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

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

The air shifts.

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

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

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

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

It’s not scripted.

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

Not in the script.

Not in the goddamn script.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ten.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet, here you are, running.

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

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

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

You mean, how hard could it really be?

eleven.

Evidently, very difficult.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he speaks.

“What’s going on with you?”

You freeze.

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

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

His eyes narrow slightly. “Bullshit.”

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

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

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

Your breath hitches in your chest.

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

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

The moment shatters.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

Too casual.

Like he’s trying to make it look effortless.

Like he’s making it look effortless for you.

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

It should be fine. This should be fine.

The scene is simple.

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

And then, they kiss.

Your stomach lurches.

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

But you’re not looking at the shot.

You’re looking at him.

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

Making it feel real.

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

The shot is perfect.

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

Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

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

But you do.

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

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

But all you can focus on is him.

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

The slow exhale against Yachi’s lips.

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

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

Your fingers are shaking.

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

Your breath catches.

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

“Cut.”

The word slices through the air like a blade.

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

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

Natural.

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

Natural.

You feel like you’re going to throw up.

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

His expression isn’t unreadable anymore. It’s something else—something 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.

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

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kumkaniudaku · 5 months ago

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Had Me At Hello

Summary: Terry and Patrice meet for the first time.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: None

Francis Edwards High School was a pristine, two-story jungle filled with Cumberland County's most gifted teenagers. From the first bell at 7 AM until the final ding at 2:30 PM, impenetrable cliques and established hierarchies ruled the hallways, classrooms, and bustling cafeteria, turning the already daunting task of making friends into a nearly impossible uphill battle.

A new school year was nothing more than a formality for returning students. Friend groups were locked in. Moving up and down the sacred social ladder was a tall task many dared not undertake. Seniors looking to make a name for themselves before walking across the stage concocted grand plans to achieve legendary status. Incoming freshmen were given the golden opportunity to shed their image from middle school and step into brand new skin if they were lucky.

By mid-October of his freshman year, Terrence Richmond felt like he'd cracked high school's code. A massive growth spurt throughout eighth grade shot him up from a slight 5'7" to a respectable 5'11", aiding his first-string wide receiver campaign. Sure, he was brand new to the team and coming behind an all-state senior plus two juniors making waves in their own right, but stranger things had happened. One twisted ankle or subpar progress report, and he'd be well on the way to becoming the big man on campus.

While student-athletes gathered to work through math problems and critical thinking questions in factions during study hall, Terrence used his binder to deflect jagged paper balls aimed at his forehead from his teammate and lifting buddy, Robert.

"Bro, chill," Terrence laughed before chucking the piece of trash back in Robert's direction. "I'm trying to do my homework. You should be, too, by the way!"

Robert turned his nose up and scoffed. "Why? Get somebody to do it for you." He gestured toward a library full of students, then looked back at Terrence. "Pick somebody. Shit, ask one of your teachers. You on the football team. Your job is to play football."

"Yeah, okay," Terrence scoffed. "Try tellin' my mama that. If she found out I had people doin' my work, she'd kick my ass. Then tell my daddy, and they would kick my ass together."

"At least you got a dad. I'm still waiting on mine to get back from the store. It must take a long time to get cigarettes."

Their goofy, loud laughter eclipsed a spirited conversation between the senior defensive core, earning attention neither of them cared to have.

While being on the team shielded Terrence from the dog-eat-dog world of high school civilian life, it wasn't enough to escape the internal politics governing a rowdy bunch of teenage boys.

The pecking order was clear and meant to go unchallenged. Seniors commanded starting roles, leaving everyone else to fight for crumbs until their time came to rise up the ranks. Most underclassmen accepted the natural order of things. Eventually, an opportunity would arise, and they'd run with it. But Terrence didn't have time to wait. Four years wasn't long enough to play safe. He had his sights set on NFL glory. And, while his coaches found his ambition honorable, young men three years his senior considered Terrence a threat to stability.

Scowling, the starting defensive back directed his ire toward Terrence and Robert. "Fuck is so funny?"

“Nothin’!” Robert's quick response made Terrence roll his eyes. Robert's deer-caught-in-headlights gaze darted back to his friend, softening his brown eyes into apologetic saucers. He mumbled a timid, "Sorry." as an apology.

For Terrence, backing down wasn't an option. Even if it was, he couldn't imagine a universe in which his father's stern lesson about standing up for yourself wouldn't haunt him for all eternity.

He shrugged as cooly as he could as he leaned back in his chair. "Homework, Drew. You wanna talk about your's too, since you still in ninth- grade algebra with us? Let us help you, bro. We a team."

Raucous laughter at his expense made Drew shrink back in embarrassment. His intelligence, or lack thereof, wasn't a secret, but it also wasn't a line anyone dared cross. Unfortunately for him, Terrence had no reverence for tired rules.

Anger turned Drew's ears and nose red as he considered turning a light spat into a physical altercation. Terrence sat up straight to answer his adversary's unspoken challenge, narrowing his lids into slits and tightening his jaw repeatedly. His fists sat balled in his lap, clenching and unclenching in preparation. If things took a turn for the worst, his readiness was paramount. What he lacked in size, he could make up in speed. Either that or he'd have to deal with his father when all was said and done. He chose to take his chances.

Sensing a fight on the other side of harmless jokes, one of the senior linemen with a soft spot for Terrence's fearlessness stepped in.

"Alright, D, he busted yo ass. Let it go, man." Demarcus laughed before gripping his friend's shoulder to push him back into his seat. "Aye, Terry, you gotta chill. You a freshman. Be cool sometimes."

"It's Terrence. Not Terry."

Demarcus waved off Terrence's correction. "It's Terry, nigga. We already got a Terrence," he mentioned, pointing to a junior safety at the far end of the table. "Now, if y'all wanna fight about it, we can set something up after practice." Terrence eyed his older namesake, sizing him up before making a business decision. His father also taught him to pick his battles wisely. Demarcus took Terry's silence as an answer and continued. "Exactly. Now, move yo skinny ass out the way so we can see ol' girl behind you."

Catcalls and lewd whistling rippled around three tables pushed together to make one as young men coursing with raging hormones leaned over to get a glimpse of the new girl.

Long-legged and umber-skinned, she stood out in a room full of semi-familiar faces. Everyone at Francis attended school together at some point. Schoolyard bonds followed most students from pre-k to graduation, turning each schoolyear into a reunion of sorts. She, however, was different, fresh, and mysterious.

Dark brown pressed hair pulled into a low ponytail showed off high cheekbones and piercing eyes. Plump lips drooping into a slight frown told anyone wondering she wasn't interested in too many long conversations. A thin frame sporting naturally lean muscle might trick a less perceptive person into believing she was an athlete. The handwritten 'Francis Edwards Book Club' sign hanging crooked behind her head told a different story. She was a serious scholar with little time for public school games.

"Damn! She gotta be from outta town." One player commented after blowing the girl a kiss and receiving an annoyed eye roll in return.

Another boy added his two cents to the mix. "I heard she transferred from some private school. Catholic girl or something like that."

"You know how the Catholic school girls get down. Straight nasty."

Crass comments, growing increasingly inappropriate, turned into nothing more than background chatter while Terry stared at the only person worth existing as far as he was concerned.

Patrice Ellis. He'd seen the back of her head in one of his classes, not knowing the beauty hidden on the other side. She always smelled like the cocoa butter his mom used to keep his baby sisters moisturized. In class, she was quiet and observant. He liked hearing her answer questions and sometimes jotted her responses as notes in case they were hit with a pop quiz or he needed a reminder during his study time.

Seeing Patrice quietly adjust stacks of paper while waiting for anyone to interact with her table nearly stole all of the air from Terry's lungs. He couldn't look away. He didn't want to look away. She had his undivided attention.

Until a grating voice spouting crude nonsense forced him to rejoin the conversation.

"Bet $15 I can't take her down before Christmas break."

Demarcus extended his arm toward Drew for a handshake agreement, a disbelieving look settling on his face. "I'll bet you $20 you won't go over there and talk to her right now."

"Who won't? Man, stop playing with me!"

"Do it then!"

Terry's eyes darted between the two seniors, syncing to his rising heartbeat. Everything in him wanted to stay out of their antics. He begged his legs to stop bouncing, trying to negotiate with his brain to let go of the stupid idea it'd concocted. Mind your business. Make a good impression. Don't step on any toes. Sit down, Terry.

A hush fell over the group while they watched everyone's favorite mouthy frosh jam books and papers into his backpack before taking long strides toward the neatly decorated folding table by the library's entrance.

Patrice noticed his lanky body standing out in the crowd like a car wash inflatable with adorable curls forming a dense afro. His eyes, beautiful round orbs of sea green and honey, bore into hers like he owed her a tongue-lashing for something she couldn't remember. They sat near each other in third-period algebra. Maybe her constant pencil tapping was more of a distraction than she thought.

Then he smiled. Full lips beneath a wispy mustache smoothly slid into a bright, teeth-baring grin to show off all his pearly whites. His nose scrunched, and his eyes crinkled on the side, betraying the intensity he'd displayed only seconds prior.

Breathtaking. Patrice rushed to busy her mind and hands, hoping his attention-stealing grin was meant for someone she couldn't see and that he'd stroll right past her into the hallway.

A shadow the size of a beanstalk appeared over her navy blue tablecloth and spoke to her in a soft, small voice. "Are y'all still accepting sign-ups?"

Most of what he said was lost in the chaos of students transitioning out of the room for their respective sports obligations, forcing Patrice to finally look up. Terry stood before her, still smiling, his eyes expectant and curious as he looked down at her.

"I'm sorry, you have to speak up. I didn't…I didn't hear what you said."

"Oh. I-" Terry stopped short to clear his throat. "I just asked if y'all were still accepting sign-ups. Because I'd like to, um, join…if I can. Are you in the club?"

"Wouldn't be sitting here if I wasn't."

Terry nervously adjusted his heavy bookbag on his arm. "Right. My bad." He pointed at the sign-up sheet. "Can I?"

Patrice cocked her head to one side. "You sure? I figure you'd wanna join math club since you're so good at it. Or literally anything else. Didn't think you were the reading type."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Terry watched Patrice pluck a pen from her advisor's mug and slide it across the table to him. When she didn't answer, he pressed again. "Why'd you say that?"

"Say what?"

He bent over to scribble his last name into the appropriate box. "That you didn't think I'd be the reading type. Why?"

"Because you hang around a bunch of idiots," Patrice sassed as she nodded behind him to a table of boys jeering in the background.

Terry tried to contain his smile at how adult she was despite not looking much older than his fourteen years, instead fighting to keep his brow furrowed in feigned confusion. "What does that have to do with me, though? You think I'm an idiot?"

"Birds of a feather flock together. I've heard some things."

Stories of hazel eyes and broad shoulders kept young girls from 9th to 12th-grade giggling amongst themselves whenever news got around that Terry was in the vicinity. He took the ogling in stride with the guys, sending diplomatic waves to googly-eyed young women like the second coming of President Obama. But, privately, the new attention overwhelmed him. He wasn't sure how to exist in his body or navigate the sudden drop in his voice.

Patrice only knew unconfirmed rumor mill pieces of information. Terry was dating multiple girls in the ninth grade. Terry had a girlfriend at a school across town. Terry was an asshole. Terry this, Terry that. She couldn't keep up and preferred to steer clear of this Terry character. Still, there he was, standing in front of her and expecting an explanation for an offhanded comment she desperately wanted to move past.

"You shouldn't judge a book by its cover. Nobody ever told you that?" Terry's eyes flickered up to Patrice's to find her making a face as she rolled her eyes.

She kissed her teeth. "Yeah, they did, and it's stupid. How else will I decide to pick a book if I don't judge its cover first?"

"Okay, well, what if I judged you?" He paused to make space for Patrice's rebuttal, but one never came. He continued. "In class, you don't talk and scrunch your face up at everybody. You bring your lunch to school instead of goin' through the line like the rest of us and rush down the hallway like you're late for something every day. What if I said you thought you were better than us because you came from private school?"

"You'd be wrong. I just… haven't been able to fit in yet," Patrice countered. "And who told you I came from a private school?"

Terry chuckled. "I'm judging you by your cover. And the St. Pius pin you keep on your backpack." He pointed toward the white and gold crest pinned to the left strap of her orange Jansport, then gave her a sympathetic smile. "You miss your friends. I get it. I would, too. But, if you wanna make some new ones that aren't teachers, you can't be so mean all the time."

"You don't know me," she countered in defiance.

"I want to."

Terry didn't know what made him make such a bold declaration. He wasn't usually so forward or willing to converse with strangers. This stranger, in all her beauty and endearing sass, was different. She'd drawn him in with little more than a slight scowl, which he knew was only a defense mechanism to ward off unserious would-be suitors. He wasn't them, though. He never said anything he didn't mean.

Capping the pen, Terry smiled, handed Patrice her utensil, and slid the paper back to her. "I'm Terrence, by the way. Or Terry. Either works."

"Which one do you prefer?"

"Um, Terrence…I think."

She smiled, finally showing her teeth, before giggling. "You think? Which name do you like more?"

"Terrence," he answered as he returned her smile. "Call me Terrence."

"Okay, Terrence." Terrence. Patrice wanted to repeat his name again and again to feel the easy cadence roll of her tongue. Instead, she extended her hand for him to grab and shake. Terry gently took hold of her fingers, forgetting to finish the process until Patrice initiated it for him. "Welcome to the club. I'm –"

He cut her off, still holding on long after they'd completed the simple formality. "Patrice. I know. Nice to meet you." Slowly, he released her hand, immediately creating a void she wished he'd fill again. A short laugh escaped past Terry's lips before he adjusted his backpack again and prepared to walk away. "Guess I'll see you during free block next Wednesday? Maybe you can get to know me for yourself instead of making all those assumptions."

"Yeah. Maybe."

A final once-over helped Terry and Patrice commit each other's faces to memory before Terry backed his way out of the library and temporarily out of her life.

As easily as her new connection's effortless cool calmed heightened anxiety, his associated band of buffoons infiltrated her serene bubble with their unique brand of foolish behavior. They filed out of the library one by one, some making faces and a few more spouting garbage in passing. Idiots, just as she thought.

When they were out of dodge, and the library was back to the quiet, safe haven she loved, Patrice looked back down at the sheet of paper with one name neatly written in slender, slanted print. Her index finger traced each letter as she tried to relive the smile and soft voice attached to the name she'd never forget.

Terrence Richmond. A beautiful cover to a book she hoped to read from front to back one day.

--------

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TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse @yaachtynoboat711 @jenlovey @pinkpantheris @blowmymbackout @onherereading @becauseimswagman1 @thiccc-c @hrlzy @urfavblackbimbo @blackburnbook @ashanti-notthesinger @xo-goldengirl @ariiijestertheklown @blyffe @tvchi @wabi-sabi1090 @blackmoonchilee @flydotty @aldrigmer444 @ash-ketchumzzz @nayaesworld @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @writingsbytee @teddybeerz @trippyscotch @theogbadbitch @ghostfacekill-monger @nyifly22

#aaron pierre #terry richmond #terry richmond x oc #rebel ridge

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crazycat010 · 17 days ago

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I'm Mr. Lonely

Gojo Satoru x Reader HIGH SCHOOL AU (Not sorcerer world)

Inspired by Mr. Lonely by Bobby Vinton

"Lonely. I'm Mr Lonely. I have nobody for my own"

Warnings: reader feel lonely, insecurities, angst, sad, sarcastic reader, heavy bullying though it's not too explicit, unrequited love, reader comes from a poor family but has worked hard to get in a prestigious school, attachment issues and absent parents+controlling and over protective mom (Satoru). Characters are aged accordingly to the Alternate Universe I pictured them in. Fluffy ending!😆

Reader insert, no reference to reader's body so it can be seen as female, gender neutral and male reader. Reader has interests in scientific subjects+business but you can obviously think about different subjects you enjoy studying.

Part 2?

word count = 4.013

c/n= city name (refers to your birthplace or whatever city you'd like your character to be born in)

The bell rings.

Great, another stupid hour with my stupid Physics professor (sorry Professor Brown, I hate to tell you this, but I already know by heart the entire Physics program for the first years, and you certainly don’t make reviewing known topics enjoyable)and my even more stupid classmates. Like, I never thought QI levels could go below zero until I met my classmates.

Oh, right. Sorry! I forgot to introduce myself, I’m Y/n Y/Ln. I was born and raised in c/n, I have the most lovely parents in the whole world (or that’s what I started believing once I saw how my classmates had been raised) and I go to Aurelian Crest Academy. Yes, you heard right.

I go to THE Aurelian Crest. And, for those of you who didn’t know, one of the most prestigious High schools in the entire world.

Now, you may be wondering: “Y/n, why do you despise your very own classmates so much?”

To answer your question, we need to analyze my initial situation. When I started High School, that small old school right beside my house, I was a nobody.

I didm’t come from a wealthy family, so I couldn’t afford to go to the private school in town, and had to settle down for the public institute, full of all kinds of people.

From students who smoked w££d weekly, to those who smoke it daily. And then, there I was. Little ol’ me with the same backpack from when I started Elementary School on my shoulders, a pair of patched up jeans from my cousin, the absolutely worst ponytail one could conjure, and a new polo my mom had bought just for the occasion(also used, but at least this one wasn’t ripped).

Ever since I first started school, teachers had always seemed to notice my inclination for scientific studies, furthermore, they all looked shocked whenever I handed over my perfectly executed Maths, Physics and Computer Science papers. Sure, I was still top of the class in many more subjects, such as my first and second languages, History, Natural Sciences and whatever, but out of all the classes I took, the scientific ones always let me stand out more.

I was raised up reading stories of famous physicians, mathematicians and engineers, whom had built their whole life around their interests, so I’d always dreamt of becoming an engineer as well, or at least have a job that would grant me a luxurious lifestyle while still doing what I loved most.

Therefore, I decided to spend my time reading and studying at the local library.

I didn’t partecipate in any extracurricular activities at school, did any sports or even went to the park in the afternoons, since my parents were usually too busy working to bring me, and when they weren’t, they were often too tired to do so but, either way, I enjoyed spending time with them or on my own better.

Those are the main, if not only, reasons for which you could call me a loner, and I wouldn’t bother. Mostly because I was used to getting picked on for my unusual hobbies, and partially because I often had my worn out headphones in, blasting whatever song I felt like listening to that day, and therefore didn’t hear a single noise aside from the singer, drummer and guitarist of said song’s band.

Time-skip to when I was in high school. My lifestyle hadn’t changed much throughout the years, unless you care about me starting to enjoy eating avocados and other green foods.

However, what had changed, were the professor with whom I interacted. During both elementary and Middle school, my teachers had never cared that much of my piqued interest for numbers and formulas, but in my first year of High school, it had all changed after I’d met my new maths teacher. Mr. Williams was old to say the least. His grey hair sticked in different ways from all over his head, giving him a crazy scientist look, kind of like Einstein if I may. His soft voice couldn’t be heard over the chaotic chatter of my classmates, but I refused to not listen to his lessons, since he was the first teacher to actually look like they enjoyed teaching a bunch of strays and a nerd.

For the first time in my entire life, I met someone with my same exact interests. I began listening to all his lessons, which was a huge change, considering that, with all my reading, I’d always found lessons boring as teachers reviewed stuff I’d already studied. In time, we built a strong teacher-student bond, and after a while, he convinced me to try out for the Aurelian crest.

When I first heard there was a test with which, the students with the highest scores, could enter the Academy and have their studies paid for, I didn’t believe it.

However, I still studied hard the entire second semester and summer in order to achieve the perfect score, 100%, on the test.

And that’s how, someone like me, became part of a student body like the Aurelian Crest Academy’s.

Thanks to the school’s funds and my parent’s agreement, I moved to the huge dorms near the High School campus and began my journey at one of the most famous Academies in the world.

Nonetheless, I still find it very hard to make friends, and I still struggle to come to term that I spend most of my time with rich kids that have no idea whatsoever of what earning their right to be here means, as most of these kids’ parents have paid a crazy amount of money and done insane donations to the school just to give their children a chance. Obviously, this doesn’t mean that these kids are dumb, no. It simply means that they’re smart, but would rather use their knowledge and money to ruin somebody else’s life than worry to make theirs better.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason for which I found myself in this peculiar situation.

I was casually heading to the bathroom for a quick break before the next lesson, when all of a sudden I hear a familiar group of girls giggling together like middle-age women of the high nobility classes, which, from my personal experience, is never a good sign.

As I got out of the bathroom, kind of clumsily I have to admit, since I basically tripped myself over getting out of that small cabinet and almost knocked over a younger girl to whom I apologized profusely, I saw the commotion’s cause.

Hanging loosely from a small pin on the main mirror, there was a picture, a picture of me specifically, from my first day of school here.

Now, you might think: “Well, Y/n, they hung a beautiful picture of you for everyone to see, shouldn’t you be happy with yourself?”

And let me tell you, my dears. That picture was indeed very pretty, if you ignored the drawn over beard, smith’s goggles, squiggly lines representing the bad smell, witch moles, thick animal fur and a just chewed chewing gum attached on the paper to top it off. That was a heck of a print!

Staring intently at my hands, I washed my hands and face. Taking a big breath, I headed out to the physics classroom. However, the walk created a giant hole in my teeny tiny mortal heart.

The more I looked around, the more prints like the one hanging on the bathroom’s mirror there were, scattered around the whole building.

I sped up, focusing solely on my new shoes my parents had bought for my birthday.

“Oh no! Did we make Y/n Y/Ln cry?” One of the girls who had planned the whole thing came up to me laughing, followed by her minions.

She blocked my way, causing me to stop walking. With a gentle touch, that held a good amount of malice and wickedness, she lifted my chin to meet my eyes with her own.

“Why don’t you go back to where you came from? Huh? I’m sure you’ll feel better once you rejoin with your poor stupid parents.” She said.

I didn’t even remember her name, so why did I care so much about what she said? Why did her words sting me so much?

“Heard her mother’s so poor she couldn’t even get her a decent prom dress. She got an old rusty party dress, borrowed from like a cousin or something.” Another girl added. How did they know? Besides, it wasn’t a party dress, it was a ceremony dress, and it wasn’t from your cousin, it was from your mother, which made it ten times more special.

“Not that she’d need a dress anyways, right girls? Who would ever invite her to prom?” The first girl said, which we’ll call Bubblegum chewer, since she was always chewing on a pink sticky mass of sugar.

“Get out of my way.” You mumbled through gritted teeth, giving her the most dramatic eye-roll one could witness.

“What did she say? Did one of you hear her girls? I guess she’s too shocked to form coherent words.” Bubblegum chewer said. Thinking about it, we should give her a different name, maybe one that begins with S or B, if you know what I mean.

“I said, get out of my way.” I muttered, voice just slightly firmer, shoving her hand away from me.

“Or what, huh? You’ll call your boyfriend? Oh no, wait. You don’t have one!” Her minions laughed hysterically as if it had been a comedian’s joke. “You’re so lame it’s almost boring to pick on you.” She continued.

“What do you want?” I hissed, annoyed at her brattiness.

“Nothing more than to watch your humiliated and sad face at prom, where, while you’ll be the same loser loner as ever, I’ll be winning the prize for Prom queen with my amazing boyfriend!”

She spat, but, at last, moved out of the way, for you to cross the last corridor that lead to Physics class.

2nd PERSON POV

The next hour flew in a daze, and you could only hear her words on repeat in your head as you unsuccessfully tried to concentrate on your assignment. Thankfully, it was an easy test, so you handed the paper over after no less than 20 minutes and sped out of the classroom, wanting nothing more than the comfort of your tiny dorm room to console yourself.

Nevertheless, you weren’t able to rest that much, as you remembered you had to tutor Satoru for the next hour. Satoru Gojo was your complete opposite: he came from a rich family, the Gojo clan, and, as an only child, inherited all the family money and possessions. He spent most of his time partying, and when he wasn’t, you could find him in one of his immense villas, perhaps relaxing in a hot-tub, or lazily reading on one of his luxurious Italian sofas.

However, he wasn’t like the rest of the spoiled brats who attended the Academy. He was very smart, almost as much as you actually, and he was the first in his business class, one of the most difficult classes, as you’d heard.

Nonetheless, his knowledge in business all came from his father’s lectures and the books he read in his free time, since he hated studying with all his guts but had a brilliant memory. His lack of dedication and determination to study for all of the classes he took, and not just the ones he was interested in, lead to him failing his Physics class. And that was why, for three hours every week, instead of a vip bar or five star hotel, you could find the infamous Gojo Satoru sitting at the desk of your own dorm room, as you incessantly repeated the same formulas over and over, trying to get them to settle somewhere in his brain.

“I can’t do this anymoreeee. I’m tired Y/n! Can’t we go eat something? Please, I’m begging you. I’ll pay for the both of us! You know we both need a break for our hard-work.” He whined babyishly.

It was funny, really, how someone like you had been able to find a friend in someone like him. You didn’t trust him when he first asked for you to tutor him in Physics, after he’d gotten another F and you’d been once again praised by your professor for your neat essay. Hesitantly, you’d accepted to help him, earning small amounts of money (you refused to accept all of his gifts, knowing you’d never be able to repay him in any way), until you almost became “famous” for your tutoring lessons, and people had started lining up at your door in need of repetitions.

To earn some money for your college fund and for little pleasures like pastries or a dinner at a fancier restaurant once every couple weeks, you accepted to tutor most of those who’d asked you. However, while you did most of your repetition classes with more students and in an empty classroom your professor ad granted you free access to, you’d sticked to your traditions and kept tutoring Satoru alone in your dorm room, by now feeling at ease in his presence.

With how good you taught, he didn’t actually need your help anymore, and it had now turned in more of a babysitting for you, having to deal with a five year old kid in the body of a white haired blue eyes teenager with constant pregnancy-like cravings.

“Just finish your homework and we’ll head out to eat something alright?” You groaned.

He raised his fist in victory and went back to his Maths problems. They were very difficult, as you were exploring an Algebra branch that was even hard for you to understand, thought you hadn’t experienced any difficulties acing the practice tests, which meant it would probably take him quite some time to finish his load of exercises-

Your flow of thoughts was interrupted by him spinning around in your office chair, waving his paper in the air to signal he’d finished everything.

“I’m finished! Record time huh, bet even you couldn’t this!” He sang triumphal, handing you his scribbled test.

With an untrusting look in your eyes you took it in your hands, scanning the answers quickly and efficiently.

“It’s perfect, good job Satoru!” You started with a smug smile. Everyone else would’ve thought this meant they’d done a wonderful job, however, Gojo had known you for years, and knew better than to fall for your tricks. You were playing with him, but he never understood why you did what you did, so he opted to not look too much into it and just go on unfazed.

“Yeah, I know. Now go grab your coat sweetie, I’m taking you out-“ He was interrupted by you shoving his papers back in his chest.

“Except for this exercise here. It’s wrong.” You pointed out victoriously. “You’ll never be as good as me if you let yourself fall for these little Math tricks.”

His eyes widened in realization, as he looked back at the red marks on a scribbled section of his papers, discovering his mistake.

“Oh come oooonnnnn!!” He whined, correcting his answers with a grumble.

You spun around, going to grab your coat as he finished rewriting.

Soon after, you found yourself eating a pistachio and salted almond flavored ice cream, as he devoured his plain chocolate cone, the same flavor he had always eaten since he’d first taken you out to eat ice cream.

“You know, growing up means trying out more ice cream flavors than chocolate.” You told him.

“Blah blah blah. You’re just jealous.” He spat like a stubborn child.

“Of what exactly, if I may?” You asked, smiling.

“You’re jealous I can never get bored of something as simple as chocolate ice cream eating it almost every day.”

“Oh no I already knew that.” You chuckled, to which he eyed you confusedly.

“Well, if you got bored of simple things we wouldn’t be hanging out anymore.” You said, mind still going back to what the gum chewer had told you earlier that day.

“She’s still giving you trouble?” He asked, though the compassionate look in his eyes showed he already knew the answer.

Becoming friends with Satoru, meant having someone else that cared about you and knew everything you went through, and not only growing accustomed to randomly find him sleeping on your couch. He was the sneakiest and most protective kid you’d ever met, so it was either you gave him the passcode to enter your dorm room freely, or he’d find it out on his own. He said it was to bother you, but you knew, deep down, he card for you and wanted to check on you every once in a while. Ever since the beginning of your relationship, you’d come to know about his attachment issues, caused by the lack of a parental figure he experienced growing up. Because of his parents’ hard work ethic, he never actually spent time with them, and was usually left on his own or with a random babysitter who only put up with his childish acts for the money. You’d come to realize that was the main reason for which he acted like such a baby all the time: he wasn’t needy or childish, not even egotistical or wannabe the center of attention all-the-time, he just wanted somebody to look out for him and care about him, a role which you’d been grateful to fulfill all these past years.

“You know you mustn’t listen to what she say, right? She’s dumb and her brain has melted with all the chemicals she puts in her hair and on her face in an unsuccessful attempt to hide her wicked witch of the east’s features.” He said, breaking the forming silence.

“Yeah, I know.” You sighed, still unsure of what you felt about this whole situation.

Sighing, he stopped you mid-track, grabbed you by the shoulders and looked in your eyes, as if he was trying to connect his mind to yours. “What’s bothering you?”

“I mean, she’s right…” You mumbled under your breath, voice just over a whisper, only loud enough for his trained ears to hear.

“I’m a loner. I don’t actually have any friends, aside from you, and I don’t have all the luxurious she takes for granted. I don’t party, I don’t go shopping or to the hair or beauty salon, I don’t like loud noises, I don’t have a boyfriend and lets admit it, even if I wanted to get with someone, who would ever want to put up with me and my weirdness?” You said, looking at your shoes.

He scoffed, chuckling. “Hoe many times do I have to tell you: you aren’t weird or a loser, you’re Y/n. And you with your life and your way of living are worth infinite times more than she would ever dream of! Besides, I’m sure there’s someone out there, maybe you even know him already, who’s perfect for you. You just have to realize it.”

“You’re right, as usual.” You said, shoulders slumping.

He pulled you in the tightest hug possible, almost like he never wanted to let go, and it took you guys a while to get detached from each other.

“There’s still a problem isn’t there?” He asked.

“I don’t have a date for prom!” There, you said it. A couple of years ago, if you’d asked what your younger version about prom, she would probably have said that it was a party where bored teenagers got drunk with their daddies money, and while you still believed it was true, part of you lingered to participate, to dance with someone who actually wanted to be with you, not because he needed you to explain him a Computer Science subject or give him your homework, but because he enjoyed spending time with you, heck, even liked you-or, even better, loved you, though you were kind of scared to use the l word right now.

You already knew who you would’ve wanted to dance with, but things were perfect with him right now and you wouldn’t risk ruining it for anything. Ever since you’d first met him and his smart brain in Business class, the only kid who could actually compete with you in some subjects, you’d been head over heels for his blue eyes, confident yet funny charisma, childish behavior and weird likings. However, you knew his parents were very strict, being a pretty powerful and rich family, so they’d never let their precious only son, heir to their patrimony, be in a relationship with someone like you, a nobody from a poor family who had fought her way in life for even the smallest and most banal luxuries. He already risked getting in trouble for being friends with you with his very controlling and over-protective mom, and you didn’t want to mess up his relationship with his parents, which was already crumbling in pieces, or to ruin your friendship with him.

“I’ll go with you!” His words came out before he could even realize it.

“What?!” You said loudly, shocked at his remark.

“I-I mean, what did you just say?” You asked hesitantly, not sure if you wanted to know the answer.

“I said, I’ll take you to prom, as friends! What do you think?” He asked.

Right now, you could feel your heart racing and drilling holes in your chest with how strong it thumped. Had you had time think about it, even briefly, you were 100% sure you would’ve declined his request, knowing it would only mess up your contradicting feelings for him furthermore, but you didn’t have time. In the heat of the moment, you threw all your doubts and fears out of the window, and without wasting any time, you responded: “Yes!”

Your boldness must’ve made him step back a second, as he became the shocked one.

“Of course! I’d love to go with you! A-as friends obviously.”

“Great then!…” He scratched the back of his neck as a bubble of awkward silence trapped you both.

“Yes, great…” You replied, playing with your rings so you wouldn’t have to face the handsome male in from of you and risk fainting right then and there.

“I-I’ll get going then. I have lots of homework to do.” His brows were corrugated in what you believed was anxiousness.

“Yeah, me too. It was good to see you though!” You responded, spinning on your heels and turning your back to him to get away from this uncomfortable situation as quickly as possible.

“You too and erm, Y/n?” You could feel his presence behind you, even if he hadn’t moved an inch.

“Yes Satoru?” You stopped without looking back.

“The Academy is this way…” He explained.

“Right, sorry!” You apologized, cringing internally just as the words were out of your mouth. Your brain was short-circuiting. What was happening? Was this what losing your sanity felt like?

“What are you sorry for?” He chuckled light-heartedly. Okay, now you knew you wee about to faint. How could he make you this nervous and not be affected by it? He seemed to have everything in control, nonchalant and as handsome and ready as you’d ever imagined.

You simply chuckled in response, unable to form any coherent words.

Instead, you gave him a tight lipped smile and going to walk in front of him wight away, not wishing another embarrassing figure for yourself this evening.

That was when you realized, you were down bad for him. But shh, it was meant to be a secret! He couldn’t know, not now, not ever! It would ruin the only friend you’d had in years. He obviously didn’t like you back, right? Or at least that was what you thought.

Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it. You're welcome to come check out my account and my other posts and/or make requests :) (MASTERLIST) Do NOT plagiarize this or any of my content.

Do you think I should make a part 2? I kind of already have something in mind but let me know in the comments if you have any specific ideas for part 2!

Love you guys! See you soon!😘

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flamingpudding · 2 years ago

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Part 8 of Ghost Kid in Gotham

>>Masterpost

<<1 Previous Next

Ghost Cult Guides and Light Silhouettes

Duke had avoided the family drama that was brewing in the manor all day. In the morning he had been too tired to deal with the families usual drama when he had walked in on Dick having gotten bitten by a child that Damian appeared to take care and shined way to bright for him who had just gotten out of a sleepy daze, while Tim and Jason were laughing at the eldest expense.

Lunch he had the excuse by being in the library studying but now that it was dinner time he knew he couldn't avoid it any longer. It was time to see and face whatever craziness this family has gotten themselves into. He knew Bruce was home already but according to the group chat message from Dick the man had locked himself into his office and was brooding again.

The eldest made sure to tell them not to worry and that the reason would be explained by the family dinner Alfred was organizing and had invited everyone too. A must attend event and probably the reason why Dick was going to stay longer in Gotham than he had originally planned.

Well, that was going to be a whole other dinner to go through once everyone was available. For now, he was hopeful in for a nice and calm dinner.

Sitting down at the table he was sort of surprised to find that he was the only one there yet.

"Alfred?" He asked carefully as the butler placed down plates for the others. "Where are the others?"

"Master Jason is attempting to avoid Master Tim, who is very insistent in finding out Master Jason's connection to an occult. Master Damian is currently showing Master Danyal the barn, and Master Richard is still talking to Master Bruce."

Duke nodded. Okay, that's fine. Wait Danyal? Was that the kid he had gotten a bright glimpse of this morning? "Who is Danyal?"

Alfred only smiled softly and Duke couldn't help but wonder, not realizing that Alfred didn't answer his question at all as Jason made his entrance and unceremoniously plopped down in a chair by the end of the table looking like a mix between annoyed and tired.

"Jason! You did not just walk out on me like that! I need to know why you can read these occult sigils!"

Tim stormed in right after aggressively pointing at an open page in the book he was holding. So that was the occult thing Alfred mentioned. Looked like Tim had been pestering Jason all day about that considering how obsessed the other could become with cases.

"For the last time I have never been in a ghost cult!" For a second Duke wondered how many times 'last time' had been said considering the tired and frustrated look Jason was giving Tim. It was strange anyway to see Jason still in the manor if he was this frustrated with the other and Bruce was home too.

Their arguing was sort of amusing so Duke kept quiet and listened to them arguing, wondering how long it would take for them to notice him. Considering, Tim even took the seat right next to him. At least this way he could get a sneak peak of the book Tim was referencing here.

[...Ruler of the realm connecting the universes together supported by the ghosts of ancient time. The sigils covering the artifacts are what keeps their presence in our dimension. A circle created from chalk with the sigils spelling in our known language 'Oh Ruler of the other side, Soul of the old, Ancient of War, King of the Realms. I plead to you to hear my calling' will have a summoning success of 40% and sacrifices no longer… ]

Duke side eyed Tim and decided Steph was never to find out about that book. It was bad enough that whatever the other was working on had him reading a book like that. Duke didn't need Steph to read it and to decide that they all try one of the summoning the book apparently listed. Worst case Tim would go fully along with this in support of whatever he was working on. What did get him this obsessed with…. Duke eyed the book title… 'Ghost Cult 101 How to properly communicate with the other side'.

Yea, he did not want to get involved with that but knowing his luck he would anyway. Just as Duke looked away ready to focus his attention on something else, since the two arguing still hadn't noticed his presence, he had to cover his eyes as a freaking brightness entered his vision of the dining room that had him groaning.

"I need sunglasses." He muttered apparently loud enough for everyone to notice as he covered his eyes with his hands and desperately blinked at the darkness they provided.

"Dude you okay?"

"No."

"Danyal, wait!"

He heard someone chirp and for a second he wondered if the others were pulling a prank on him or making fun of him until he felt a small hand pulling on him. Carefully he peaked through his fingers and blinked.

The brightness was reduced and not as strong as it had been earlier. He looked at where a small hand was pulling on him and came face to face with a mini version of Damian with glowing green eyes and also noting the dimmed glow around the kid. Before he could even ask who that kid was, he noticed the light forming a silhouette behind the kid.

"What?" Unconsciously he patted the kids head as he stared at the light silhouette that definitely looked like the Damian he knew. The Silhouette sort of looked sheepish and seemed apologetic to him.

"Thomas?" / "Duke?" He ignored Tim and Damian too focused on the figure. Not even noticing how Damian was next to him looking every bit ready to pull the kid away, he was still patting uncousciously, eyeing him carefully. While Tim was closely observing them.

"How the hell is that kid not hissy with him? Or even attempting to bite him?!" Jason on the other hand complained loudly standing and leaning with his hands on the table.

"Duke, what do you see?"

Before he could even answer, the silhouette made a shushing sign and grinned before disappearing. The light it formed returned to the kid that blinked at him now with blue eyes and Duke blinked back at the kid stunned.

"Um, who is that kid?" He asked in return very confused by what he just saw turning to look at the others for answers. Ignoring that he did not answer Tim's question earlier. Whatever that was, it wanted him to stay quiet about it by the looks of it.

Duke would wait for an explanation of who that Damian look-a-like child was, before deciding if he should tell the others or not.

Suddenly he felt a sting on his fingers and he yelped attention returning to the boy he had been patting and finding the kid nibbling on his finger with sharp teeth giving him an annoyed look.

"Danyal! No, what did I tell you about biting others?" Damian was instantly by the kids' side taking them away from him and seating the boy on the other side of the table.

"What the fuck?! That wasn't even a full bite? Where is the hissing and biteyness?!"

"What?" Rubbing the finger that got nibbled at he stared at the others. "He bites?"

"Normally yes. Maybe he just finds Jason to be the tastier chewtow. We should test it out if he will bite you again." Tim seemed interested and amused at the same time as he studied the kid that now sat quietly on the opposite of Duke. The kids sole focus was now on Jason with a strange clint again, was the boy even blinking?

"Drake, stop wanting Danyal to bite others or suggest them as bait for my brother."

"Wait Brother?"

All three turned to him and Damian opened his mouth to say something as Dick entered the room looking exhausted but smiled when he saw them. Wasn't he supposed to just have a talk with Bruce? Did that art out into one of their famous fights?

"Oh hey Duke. Looks like you meet our youngest brother teethling Danny already!" The eldest walked over to them and reached out a hand to pat the kid sitting next to Damian. Duke watched with a sweat drop how the boy's head instantly turned to Dick hissing and bearing his teeth and snapping them in his direction and causing the oldest to pout.

"I guess I have." He slowly offered as an answer, still very much confused, knowing that he needed a little bit more of an explanation from them. He heard a sigh next to him and turned to Tim.

"You were asleep by then. But Jason got attacked by a child-"

"I did not."

"-last night and that child turned out to be Damian's brother."

"So Bruce has another blood child." Well that also explained why the kid looked so much like Damian and most likely also why Bruce wasn't here but, according to Dick, was brooding in his office.

"So is the kid a meta?" He tried to ask carefully but that was not very easy and considering the light show he had gotten earlier it was either that or the boy harbored some other big secret.

"Why do you ask?"

His eyes went to the boy that was still hissing at Dick sitting at the edge of his chair closest to Damian not paying any of them any attention at all it seemed.

"The kid glows or it had a pretty bright glow earlier now it's more dimmed. Easier on my eyes too." That was probably the safest to say, he still wasn't sure if he should tell them about the Damian look-a-like light silhouette.

"Well…" Tim started carefully, clearly looking for the right words.

"Danyal died when he was eight and apparently got revived and severely contaminated by Lazarus Water." Damian stared at him and Duke couldn't help but straighten under the stare and gulped. "Thomas, what did you see earlier?"

There was really no hiding anything from this family, well he didn't put that much effort into it either. He mentally apologized to the light silhouette as he glanced at the still hissing child before turning his attention to the others.

Not noticing the small flicker of green as Danny's eyes looked at him just as quickly before turning back to Dick and his offending hand that still tried to pat him.

"There was a light figure right behind the little guy. It looked exactly like Damian, though thinking about it now its hair had a different cut and they looked like they were wearing a hazmat suit with a logo on the front."

"Just to clarify. The spirit looked the same age as Damian?" Tim further questioned and Duke nodded.

"Do you think that could be a manifestation of Danny's actual age?" Dick asked withdrawing his hand from the boy who in turn finally stopped hissing turning his attention to the food that Alfred placed down before the child.

"His actual age?"

"As I said before, Thomas. Danyal died at the age of eight. That was eight years ago. If he had lived he would be the same age as me right now." The formerly youngest explained, his attention split between watching the child next to him and their discussion.

Duke gapped, ready to ask more but then Alfred placed a plate before him and smiled at them all, the kind of smile that had all of them stiffening.

"I believe further discussion in regards to Master Danyal's situation can wait until after dinner, yes?"

They all agreed and focused on the meal that had been prepared for them. Well Duke guessed any further questions he had, could wait until after dinner espacially with the way Alfred was making sure they ate.

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ilovetheriddler · 1 year ago

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The Enigma of Love.

(Gotham) Edward Nygma x F!Reader.

Chapter One.

Word Count: 1,737.

Contents: A bit of backstory, you and Edward meet for the first time.

You're in a dark room, the only source of light being the walls illuminated by green tinted question marks. There's a faint Cedar wood smell lingering in the air. Pieces of paper lay at your feet, riddles scrawled all over them. You reach down to pick one up and read it.

"I hurt the most when lost, yet also when not had at all. I'm sometimes the hardest to express, but the easiest to ignore. I can be given to many, or just one. What am i?"

You jolted awake with the sudden sound of your alarm. It was just another weird dream... You had been having that specific one though for a while now, and you often wondered what was causing it. Was it a result of stress? Perhaps because of your worries about your mother recently? She was sick after all. And what was with that bizarre riddle? Every time you had the dream, it was exactly the same. You ultimately decided that you couldn't waste any time today dwelling on it. Not right now, at least.

You rubbed the remnants of sleep from your eyes before you glanced over at your alarm clock. 8:00 am.... wait, 8:00 am?! You were supposed to be at work at 7:00, oh God, you could only hope that maybe your boss wouldn't be too harsh with you over this, after all you've never been late before now.

You quickly scrambled out of bed and made your way to the bathroom, turning on the sink and splashing some water on your face. You hopped in the shower and washed up as fast as you possibly could before getting dressed. You made sure you had everything and also grabbed something to eat quickly before you left to head to your place of employment. The Gotham City public library.

Not too many people frequented the library, which you didn't exactly mind. It made it a fairly quiet and peaceful place to work, which was rare in a place like Gotham. You first got this job a few months ago, mainly to help pay for your mother's hospital bills, which just seemed to increase every time you closed your eyes.

You felt like it was your responsibility to help her out in any way that you feasibly could. After all, it wasn't like your father would help. In fact, you weren't even sure if he was still living in Gotham. You haven't seen him since he walked out on you and your mother when you were six. You were twenty-three now, so it was close to almost two decades ago. You tried not to waste energy thinking of him over the years. You had your mother who was always there for you, and that was all the family you needed.

You always knew and understood how difficult it was for her to raise you as a single mother, but she truly always put every ounce of energy and time she had into making sure that you were happy, safe, and felt loved. Even if she wasn't always around since she worked two jobs just to support the two of you. Maybe that was why it weighed on you so heavily that she was now in the hospital. It wasn't fair. She spent all those years running herself into the ground for you. She deserved to be able to spend her time now relaxing, perhaps traveling even. But it seemed the universe and its cruel sense of humor had other plans, and that tore you apart every night.

You snapped out of your intense train of thought as you finally arrived at the library. You mentally prepared yourself to be chewed out by your boss but were surprised when you walked in only to realize that she wasn't there. You walked over to your coworker, who was organizing some of the books back onto the shelves.

"Morning Ashley, have you seen Mrs Jones around today?"

Ashley, who was only a few years older than you were, sighed, pushing some of her longer black hair out of her face. She turned to look at you before answering.

"No, she had to call in today. Apparently, she caught that flu that's been going around lately.... you're late though, let me guess, you overslept?"

"... Yeah... I um... apologize for being so late..."

"It's alright, I genuinely don't care that you're late. You still showed up, and this place is always practically a ghost town anyway, so don't worry about it."

Your nerves calmed down at this. You didn't really know Ashley too well since you hadn't worked here long, and you two didn't really speak much, but she genuinely always seemed like a pretty cool person. She was actually Mrs Jones's granddaughter, which you thought was kind of interesting. You breathed out a relieved sigh.

"..Thanks... i was honestly worrying myself half to death over it on the way here."

She chuckled to herself slightly at your relieved state. Before offering you a bit more of reassure.

"You honestly shouldn't worry about it. You've been working here for like... what? Six months now? And you've only ever been late once? That's not too bad! My grandma is a pretty laid-back woman. She's not going to hold it against you."

"...I know she is.... I guess I just got a bit worked up for some reason..."

With that, you made your way over to the front desk and began updating the system with what needed to be changed and added. It was actually a bit more than you usually had to input as a result of the library getting an entire new shipment of books in today, which wasn't exactly a pleasant day for anyone. Ashley would be stuck reorganizing and adding new books to the shelves all day. You'd be stuck inputing all the new information into the database for hours on end, and your other coworker, Kevin, wouldn't actually do anything. Because he didn't show up again! You honestly sometimes wondered how he hadn't been fired yet. You're so deeply focused on your current task that you're startled by a sudden voice speaking to you.

"I'm made from trees and can bring people either incredible joy or intense sorrow. I can be short or long, big or small. It can take people a long time to create me or very little, depending on the person. What am i?"

You glanced up to see a fairly tall man. He had neatly kept short brown hair and rich brown eyes, which were framed by his black glasses that he adjusted slightly as he stood there. He had a somewhat goofy grin on his face, and you couldn't deny that he was definitely kind of attractive. His words finally fully dawned on you, and you were confused... was... he asking you a riddle of all things?

"I... I don't know, what is it?"

He set down a stack of books that he had in his arms on the counter in front of you. Before giving you the answer.

"A book! I um... I'd actually like to check these out... You know if um... it's not too much trouble, that is...?"

"Not at all! That's why I'm here, I just need to see your library card, and if you don't have one, then I'll have to sign you up for one."

He handed you his library card. After fumbling around his pocket for it. You take a quick look at it and can't help the smile that crosses your face. Edward Nygma... His name was similar to the word Enigma, and you found that kind of amusing. You pulled him up in the system and started looking through the books he's picked up. 1000 Riddles to stump your friends and colleagues! The history of puzzles. And the entire Sherlock Holmes collection.

"Quite the um... selection you have here... I'm going to take a wild guess and assume you like riddles and puzzles?"

"O-oh! Yes, I do enjoy them quite a lot...."

You finished up getting everything sorted out for him and handing him back the books. You give him a soft and kind smile.

"Well, I hope that you have an enjoyable day, Mr Nygma. And that you also find those books to be to your liking."

He seemed to get slightly flustered as he attempted to quickly stammer out a response.

"O-oh.. um.. i..I will! T-thank you miss!"

He left with his books, and you resumed the process of adding to the database. Thankfully, it ended up not taking as long as you thought it would. You noticed the time and realized that it was almost your lunch break, so you make your way to a place to sit down for a bit and eat the sandwich that you brought with you, because the only place really close to your place of employment was a fancy Cafe that sold their sandwiches for like 32.99 a sandwich, and that was highway robbery as far as you were concerned! You weren't paying that much for a damn sandwich when you could just make one at home and bring it with you, which is what you always did. You sometimes wondered how a place like that could even stay open in Gotham. Who the hell was paying for those sandwiches!?

You ultimately decided not to think about it, instead just focusing on your lunch. However, something caught your eye. It was a wallet setting on the counter. You put your sandwich down and walked over to look at it. It was a fairly nice material and had a green question mark on the front. You looked inside to try and find any id and immediately found it.

Edward Nygma. It was Edward Nygma's wallet. You sighed, you knew that he definitely needed this and thought for a moment whether he'd realize that he lost it and come back, or it you should pull up his profile in the database and call him to inform him. You ultimately decided that you should absolutely do the latter, only to realize that he didn't have a number listed. Damn it, that made this more difficult. You checked his wallet again and noticed something mentioning his place of employment.

You asked Ashley to cover for you while you were gone and started to make your way down to the GCPD.

#dc comics #batman #gotham #edward nygma #the riddler #riddler #the riddler x reader #edward nygma x reader #x reader #fanfic

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dotieeee · 2 years ago

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A Small Act of Kindness

A DARK one-shot

Pairing: Dark!Morpheus x you, afab reader

Warnings: dark!Morpheus, obsessive behaviour, dark!Dream won't take 'no' for an answer, disturbing themes like kidnapping, imprisonment, isolation, etc, 18+ only!!

Inspired by this ask for @roguelov See: https://www.tumblr.com/roguelov/721739134130143232/this-isnt-smut-but-dream-has-strong-miette?source=share

Summary: You were at the cusp of making a life for yourself when you bought a loaf of bread for a stranger, who seemed a little bit too taken with such a nice gesture.

When you were a kid, everybody around you seemed to think you got a great life ahead of you. You kept hearing them comment how bright you were, how talented, how lucky your parents were to have such a behaved, wonderful child - and for a time, it got to your head.

Until life proved you weren't really any of those things.

It started creeping in when you went away to college. You had a taste of freedom, of zero expectations, and a glimpse of a world suddenly leagues beyond yourself. It was one class at first, then another, until you started dropping out of every class and left college altogether.

Many therapy sessions, and a couple of therapists later, you found out what it was called: burnout. It just so happened it plagued you a little early in life.

In retrospect, perhaps you could've tried harder - if you had just snoozed your alarm off a little less; if you had just grit your teeth and stomached your way through a few more algebra periods instead of sitting alone in that little corner of the library, reading whatever, hidden from a world you barely knew - perhaps it all would've been different.

Perhaps, you wouldn't be stuck in this small, glass cage floating in a vast chasm, in a place you hadn't thought existed even in your wildest dreams.

It was a day like any other, you supposed: the day you met him. You had to go to work, to a desk job that you actually liked, writing for a local food magazine. You were quite good at it too - it's a skill you had when you were quite young and had not had a chance to cultivate until late. Sure, you were barely making ends meet and had very little time to spare, what with taking a certificate course at a nearby university and recently moving out of your parents' house to rent your own little apartment, but you were feeling optimistic for the first time in a long while. Your boss just let it slip the other day that you were due for a well-deserved promotion soon. It was a slow process, but you were finally on your way to getting your life back together. You had a future you looked forward to.

Having already established your morning routine, you were on your way early to the office and decided to stop for coffee at this corner bakeshop you had once featured in one of your articles. The smell of freshly baked bread distracted you from a mental draft you were making for an article due tonight, so on impulse, you asked the cashier for a plain butter croissant at the counter. You looked to your right where the pastries were to see whether you wanted something else (the danishes looked scrumptious). You opened your mouth to ask the other lady behind the bread counter for a cherry danish, but her attention was already on the man beside you, clad in a thick, woollen black coat, collar upturned, his chiselled jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly at the question the lady posed for him.

"Uh, sir? I asked what you'd like to have?"

He tilted his head imperceptibly and for a moment, you thought he couldn't speak, until he opened those pursed lips, and finally, came out the most velvety, alluring voice you've ever heard: "I'd like some bread, please."

"Well, we've got quite a lot of them," the lady replied slowly as if she was trying her best not to be snarky at the stranger. "Might I recommend the baguette? It's fresh out of the oven."

The man nodded curtly as the lady picked the steaming bread from the basket display using a pair of tongs and placed it inside a brown paper bag.

"That'll be one twenty-five, sir."

The man made no move to shuffle in his pockets for money. In fact, he stayed still, stiff as a board, staring at the lady behind the counter who was getting rather irritated at his dawdling, probably keeping her from attending to the growing line of other customers waiting to get their breakfast. Perhaps, he didn't have money? Perhaps, just like your first few weeks out of your parents' house, he was struggling and he had no one else to depend on?

"I-I'll pay for it."

You didn't know what it really was that compelled you to say it - maybe it was that draft you were itching to get to, maybe you found empathy in his situation, whatever it was - at that time, you had no regrets. Seemingly surprised by the gesture, the man in the black coat, with his dishevelled hair and his pale countenance, stared at you intensely through those long eyelashes of his, and for a few moments, you held his gaze.

His eyes. They were a nice shade of ocean blue. They were the most beautiful pair of eyes you had ever seen.

You would later discover they could bleed to depthless black - ruthless, vindictive, inhuman.

The cashier handed you your change and your croissant, effectively breaking the spell the stranger beside you had on you. The cherry danish all but ignored, you flashed the man a small smile and headed out of the bakeshop, going about your merry way to the office with nothing but that article in mind.

And for the next two weeks, you had already put the rather bizarre incident (man) behind you, having been assigned to another place to visit and write about.

The man, however, never forgot.

The place you had been assigned to, called the New Inn, actually belonged to a professor in your university. You've had quite a lot of fun in his classes, so this was a gig you were pretty excited about.

It was a little over five in the afternoon when you stepped inside Professor Gadling's pub. He was already there in the corner booth, grading several essays. He put them aside as you arrived and asked a waiter to bring you both coffee. You were in the process of bringing out your digital recorder for the interview when you heard a voice so familiar it sent shivers down your spine.

"Hob."

Completely taken by surprise, you dropped the recorder to the floor, and it landed just a few inches from a pair of black boots. You tried to reach for it, but a pale, bony hand picked it up and wordlessly handed it to you. You looked up, only to get lost in a pair of ocean-blue eyes focused entirely on you.

It was the stranger from the bakeshop.

You took the recorder, muttering a flustered 'thank you,' before Professor Gadling greeted him like an old friend. He then introduced you to the stranger, who oddly enough just stared at you the entire time.

"She's interviewing me for the pub. I'll be featured in a magazine, can you believe it?" Professor Gadling said to the stranger who stepped inside the booth, intending to take the empty seat directly across from you. Turning to you, he stated, "This is my friend -"

"You may call me Morpheus." The man interrupted, a ghost of a smile visible on his usually blank features. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

It was unnerving the way he held your gaze without blinking, but perhaps it was just your imagination - after all, you hadn't had anything to eat since that leftover Chinese noodles this morning.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” was all you could come up with.

You were grateful when the waiter arrived with two cups of coffee and a dessert platter, and the interview with the professor went well and without interruptions. You both had so much fun, you ended up having dinner and drinks at the pub, and while it struck you odd that your third, silent companion did not partake in any single morsel of the food, by the time the evening ended at half-past ten, you had enough material for your article and were in great spirits. You thanked him for being such a gracious host and politely bid your farewell, as you were anxious to get a headstart on the draft.

The three of you simultaneously got to your feet - Professor Gadling to walk you outside, and the odd man named Morpheus trailing behind.

"Do come by again, my dear, and good luck with the article. I know you'd do a fantastic job." The professor said as he waved farewell outside the pub. He turned to Morpheus, who stood just a few feet away, watching the interaction, and gestured to him inside - presumably for them to continue their conversation - but as soon as you waved goodbye, he made a beeline for you, stopping just a few inches away and towering over you.

Too close, you thought. Wait, were his eyes twinkling? It must’ve been the streetlamp, the lights outside were pretty dim.

"I would like to accompany you on your walk home."

His words threw you off because they were so unexpected. He had no reason to do so, after all. Shyly, you beamed at him and replied, "I'd appreciate it, Morpheus, but I wouldn't like to impose...weren't you meeting with the professor?"

Professor Gadling, who apparently was in earshot of your conversation, waved you away.

"No, it's fine, dear. Besides, a young lady such as yourself shouldn't be walking alone at night. I'll see you some other time, my friend," he added, winking at Morpheus, who just tilted his chin in reply.

The professor had a point. You lived nearby, that was true, but the streets weren't safe on a Friday night, especially at this hour. You chewed on the insides of your cheek, nervous at the fact that you have not had anyone walk you home in a long while.

It's just a walk home. It couldn't be that bad, could it?

"Okay."

You would come to regret your response.

***

Inwardly, Morpheus rejoiced at the thought of you lowering your guard with him. He motioned with a hand to let you lead the way, not that he needed it - in two weeks after your fateful encounter at the bakeshop he had gotten to know every little detail he needed to know about you, including where you lived, of course. He had seen the little apartment himself when you were out at work, and while it irked him that you had to live in such a humble abode, he knew through your dreams that you had filled the apartment with love and considered it your sanctuary. It wouldn't matter once he took you home to his kingdom as his lover - for you, he'd craft an entire palace carved in precious stones in the blink of an eye, and it would be your sanctuary, just as much as this tiny home.

He did a fine job, too, of luring you into the place his centuries-old friend now owned. It took him only one dream, planted during your boss’s deepest slumber, for you to get sent right where Morpheus wanted you to be. All this planning and you were right there, with him, just as the fates would have it.

He had to ask you tonight. He has waited long enough.

***

You were just a few blocks away from your apartment building when you finally gained the courage to break the awkward silence between you two.

"Thank you for walking me home," you said quietly as you eyed him sideways. Your eyes widened at the sight that greeted you: he had a genuine, warm smile on his face you'd never seen on him before, and if his demeanour is anything to go by, you knew this was a rarity.

He looked like a prince, even with his hair sticking out in all directions.

"It is I who should be thanking you for your kindness to me at that establishment," he spoke with conviction. "I have not forgotten."

Surprised, but overall glad that he remembered, you matched his expression as best you can and replied, "You're welcome."

Nothing was ever exchanged until you reached your apartment door, but he seemed to draw closer to you, your shoulders almost touching.

Your hand was already at the keys to the doorknob when you asked him if he wanted to come in.

"For tea, perhaps?" You added. "I couldn't help but notice you didn’t eat at dinner, so…”

It was a last-minute decision, seeing as he was kind enough to ensure you got home safely. He could do with a few biscuits, too, in your opinion, judging by his pallor and his refusal to eat anything at the pub.

There it was again - that captivating smile, but behind it, you see a flash of something else entirely. It was gone even before you could fully take it in, so you shrugged inwardly. The hallway’s lighting has always been too dark to see a damn thing.

“You need not concern yourself over me, I am much stronger than I look,” he said in a light, teasing tone. “However, your effort would be appreciated.”

“Oh, it’s no problem!” You waved him off and pushed the door open to your home. “I just hope you don’t mind tea without milk, I haven’t done any grocery shopping yet…”

Morpheus followed you inside, closing the door behind him, as you went off to your room to drop your bag on the bed and set up your laptop on your work desk. As soon as you got out of your room, you found him with his back to you, rummaging through the copies of the magazine you wrote for.

“Nothing interesting in those, I’m afraid. Still, not bad for a would-be writer, don’t you think?”

Chuckling to yourself, you made your way to the tiny kitchen to put the electric kettle to boil, then rummaged through the cupboards for a mug you were saving for when you had guests over. Not that you’ve ever had any - so far, he was the first you’ve had since you moved in.

“‘A would-be writer?’”

The proximity of his voice startled you, seeing as you thought he had still been reading back in the living room. It’s admittedly only a few steps away, but you hadn’t heard him approach. He was at the kitchen doorway, casting a long shadow in the dimly lit space. You had forgotten to turn the lights on, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

“You give yourself very little credit for such riveting work,” he said as he closed the distance between you. The kettle had just turned off by itself, so you concentrated on pouring the boiling water on the mug and dropping a Ceylon tea bag inside. Leaning on the tiled counter, you watched the tea leaves bleed into the water, turning it to a lovely amber colour.

“I don’t know about that -”

Your sentence was cut short as you felt his fingertips subtly stroke your elbow, giving you goosebumps all over your arm.

He’d gotten so close…

Scooping up the mug with both hands, you turn around to hand him the mug, only to find yourself inches away from him you almost spill the hot liquid on his woollen coat.

“Your writing has soul. I should know: I have read every word you have ever written.”

Blinking up at him, you saw him dip his head closer to yours as his pale, warm hands enclosed around yours, still holding the tea.

You were trembling, it seemed, but he stilled it.

“Th-thank you," you whispered, unable to avert your gaze from those piercing blue eyes that seemed to pin you to place, as was his tall, imposing form enclosing you between him and the kitchen counter. He was so close you could feel the heat emanating from him. "That means so much to me.”

Or was it the heat from your cheeks you felt?

Seemingly oblivious to your increasingly flustered state, Morpheus made a deliberate move to extricate the cup of tea from your grasp so he could set it back down behind you (it was probably already over-brewed, you thought), while you try to compose yourself and ignore his fingers softly grazing your knuckles. You didn't have much time, however, because the next thing you knew was those same hands cupping your cheeks and his soft lips brushing over yours in a chaste kiss that stole your breath completely.

You felt him release his hold on you, perhaps to observe your reaction. Perhaps, you could’ve pushed him away right there and then; screamed at him for touching you and thrown him out of your home; but you couldn’t summon your limbs to respond. He took your momentary lapse of judgement to crash his lips on yours once more - it was a more heated, more insistent kiss, and as if to seal you to him, his hands travelled to your back to encase you in an embrace and pushed you further into the counter.

This was wrong.

It was all your instincts could tell you. So you heeded them and pushed against the lapel of his coat with all your strength. It was like pushing against a wall, but you managed to wriggle free from his grasp, so you made an effort to put as much distance between you and him as your tiny kitchen would allow. You glanced immediately at his face to gauge his expression, and to your utter shock, his eyes had gone entirely black. One blink, and it was blue once more, maybe even a tad regretful.

It’s the lighting in this damn kitchen, you assured yourself.

“I understand I may have been too forward,” he began, “But I assure you, my intentions are pure. I have waited for this since our fateful meeting.” He took slow steps towards you, and unconsciously you backed away until your back hit the fridge. There was nowhere else to back into. He halted as soon as he sensed your guard up.

“Morpheus, it was just a loaf of bread, really…”

Morpheus’s eyes softened visibly at your words and simply continued, “And by that selfless act, you have saved me in more ways than you could ever understand. I have held you in my heart since, my precious little saviour.”

“I-I'm sure it's nothing...” you stammered.

“Allow me the honour of courting you, and in turn, you shall know of my gratitude, and my love, until the end of my days.”

Your heart sank at his declaration. Somehow, you knew in your heart he meant every word he said. You couldn’t have this, not when everything in your life was just starting to fall into place. You put on the kindest smile you could muster and spoke slowly as you chose the right words, hoping he wouldn’t be too downcast with what you were about to say to him.

“I'm sure you're a wonderful man, Morpheus. I just…I don't think I can make that commitment right now. I mean, I just met you, and all I know about you is that you’re Professor Gadling’s friend.”

“That can be rectified.”

You let out a sigh. This was going to be difficult, but you really didn’t like the idea of egging him on. “I know that, but…I don’t think I have time for that, you know?”

“How so?” he asked in a low voice, tilting his head slightly.

“It's been a struggle just to get to where I am today… I have my work, which I love, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I'm doing something right and…one wrong move could make me lose my footing. I’m sorry.”

Morpheus seemed unconvinced, taking a few steps forward to close that gap between you. “You need not worry yourself over such trivial matters. I know what you dream of. I can give you the recognition you deserve, the stability you crave and more… Come with me and I can show you.”

He offered an outstretched hand, urging you to take it. But if you were being honest, you just wanted to crawl into bed, the draft be damned. Exhaustion was starting to creep up on you.

“‘Come with you…?’ I'm sorry, please don't take this the wrong way, I'm sure you mean well…but-but-th-this isn't really a good time for this…” you stammered as you crossed your arms to make a point, which you hoped he’d finally take. “I think I'd like to be alone now, please. I-I have that…thing I want to finish, and it's getting late…I’m sorry, Morpheus. I really am.”

Morpheus’s hand lowered steadily, but all the softness he had in his expression was gone without a trace, replaced with cold, hard eyes and furrowed brows. The warmth you have loved your apartment for all but disappeared, replaced with a clammy air that seemed to come from…from him.

“You have no idea what you've just turned away…nor who I am, and what I can do,” came Morpheus’s voice, lowered to an unrecognisable timbre. “I will give you this final chance to amend your answer, my little saviour.”

“E-excuse me?” you said, fighting the urge to run away from him and hide. This was your home, you had no reason to. Who the hell was he to threaten you in your own home? “I'd like you to leave, please, or I'm calling the police…”

He was only a few feet away from you now, and the wind somehow grew stronger, you could feel its rough caress on your skin.

Sand.

The light in your kitchen turned on without a warning, and your eyes widened at the sight of the man you had so carelessly allowed into your home:

A dangerous man - now a being transforming right before you - with chilling black eyes, a heavy flurry of sand circling him, and waves of black smoke emanating from his growing form…

Paralyzed in utter fear, your heart pounding in your ears, all you could do was hold on to the fridge as you watched him approach your cowering form on the floor. Gone was that princely face you shared a gentle kiss with, replaced by a bony, skeletal mask with hollow cheekbones, his mouth contorted in a snarl that revealed razor-sharp fangs.

His voice echoed as he spoke, raspy and deafening:

“I am quite disappointed in you, my precious saviour. No matter: I am not unmerciful.” A pale hand, now with blackened, sharpened nails, made an appearance before you. “Take my hand, my beloved, and I shall forgive your error.”

In your terrified state, all you could muster was an adamant shake of your head.

This can’t be real. It couldn’t be.

“I’m dreaming, I'm-I’m dreaming this, this can’t be real, you’re no-not real…” hunched on the floor, hugging your legs, you muttered to yourself.

“Very well,” he thundered. “You have made your choice. ”

You would later discover just how real dreams could be, and that they weren’t that much different from the nightmares.

***

Morpheus released a small sigh as he watched you in your spherical compartment, deep in troubled slumber. He had not meant to frighten you that much with his nightmarish form. Admittedly, he could’ve done a much better job with reeling himself in, but the pain of your rejection felt to him like a thousand daggers being plunged into his heart. All he wanted was for you to be happy with him. He could’ve given you everything he had seen you dream of - he still could, but not before he heard from your sweet lips an admittance of your guilt, and a vow never to spurn him again.

He held the tiny sphere that contained your form in his palm and drew it closer to his face to get a better look at you. He had fashioned you a dress that brought out the colour of your eyes and soul: you looked ravishing, even in imprisonment. In his mind, he had played the memory of the kiss you had shared with him in your home a thousand times over. You were intoxicating, and the thought of kissing you again and finally marking your skin cemented his decision of keeping you in this space he crafted in his kingdom. You needed time to consider his proposal, that was to be expected. He would allow you the time you needed. All he had to do was assure you of your safety and well-being, seeing as scaring you even further might prolong his wait.

He knew you would wake soon, and he would explain his actions when you do. You would have no reason to refuse him, then.

***

You woke with a start, rubbing the sleep off your eyes, just to sit up and think.

You had lost count of the number of days you had spent in your glass enclosure, and there was nothing much to do except to observe your surroundings - nothing but a vast space, where distant stars glittered in the black tapestry that was space, with a single source of light in sight, like the sun, only that it offered no warmth. That, and to ruminate on the events that led you to this situation.

You remembered when you first came to, locked in this glorified cage. You still thought you were dreaming then, so you did everything you could to try waking yourself up, only none of it worked. That was when he appeared.

Dream of the Endless, he had called himself. The King of Dreams and Ruler of the Nightmare Realm.

He claimed to rule the place he had taken you to, which he called the Dreaming. He had then explained that everything humanity (‘your kind,’ you recalled him saying) had ever dreamed of in its sleep was as real as everything it sees, hears, and feels in its waking hours and that he presided over them since the first living creature dreamed, and will do so until the end of all life.

He had revealed that he had watched over you, your dreams and your waking hours, since your first meeting, and that he had not meant to scare you, only that he wished for you to accept his advances.

That was the first of his many attempts to get you to say ‘yes.’

He would ask in many ways: a long walk in this garden he called the Fiddler’s Green; a sumptuous dinner in one of his many grand halls; an adventurous tryst in one of the humans’ dreams. He had promised that if you agreed to be courted by him and be with him, he would take you out of your enclosure and release you, allow you to roam his kingdom as his lover, forever wanting nothing and lavishing in all the riches and trinkets he could offer.

From then, you knew you would never be allowed back into the life you had worked so hard to build, humble as it may have been.

At first, your response to his attempts of coaxing you into a relationship with him was a string of incoherent curses and screaming. After a while, they were plain ignored - his face would remain blank every time, if not a tad disappointed, or hurt.

You didn’t care.

But you were also lying if you said it hadn’t worn out your resolve. This day was one of them.

You missed food. Not that you were ever hungry - he had removed hunger from you in your imprisonment. He had given you the gift of dreamless sleep as well, but in your time alone with nothing to do except wake and sleep, you’d give almost anything to have dreams again. You had no other company except him and the vast, endless space beyond your cage that he had conjured for you. You being sealed away from everything was driving you closer to insanity every day, and that was his design: to make you desperate enough to submit to his will.

Without warning, your hair stood at the back of your neck, your senses on high alert.

Dream of the Endless had arrived.

“My precious little saviour,” he greeted in that deep, velvety voice you had grown to hate and find comfort in at the same time. “I have come for you.”

Your captor had a warm smile on his regal features, one that didn’t match his true intentions. You stared at him with a blank expression and let his greeting go unanswered.

“Will you join me for a walk in my garden?”

He kept his eye contact with you as he waited for your response. It unnerved you to no end, the way he held your gaze with those ocean-blue eyes of his, knowing a single ‘no’ from you would instantly turn it to the black ones you have known to fear. When you opened your mouth to speak, it actually hurt your throat - you hadn’t spoken in a long time.

“Will you be locking me up again, after?”

He grinned at you and tilted his head slightly. “If you behave and do as I say, I will not.”

Only a single tear that escaped from your eye betrayed that gnawing feeling of defeat in your gut. Finally swallowing whatever pride you had left, you made a decision.

“Yes.”

You should never have bought him that damned loaf of bread.

***

Just a little one-shot I wanted to write to get myself out of a writing rut I've been stuck with wanting Comatose to be perfect it stressed me out too much :// I will still work on it, I promise! I just need to get this out the way to get my writing mojo back :D

PART II here!!!!

Thank you for reading!!!! Please engage and all that it's really appreciate iiiit

***

#dark!dream x reader #dark!dream x you #dark!morpheus fic #dark!morpheus x you #dark!morpheus x reader #dark!dream oneshot #dark!dream of the endless #dark!morpheus fanfic #the sandman #the sandman fanfiction

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hollow--sun · 2 months ago

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🕒 When: Today 📍 Where: UMWR Library 👥 With Whom: Jenny Price @whimmortal and Henri O’Dea @hollow--sun 🔹 Summary: Jenny meets Henri in the UMWR Library, seeking research on vampires for her play. Despite her enthusiasm, Henri remains skeptical and dismissive, pushing her toward academic works that focus on vampires as metaphors for human fears.

Internet research could only do so much in her quest to unravel the hidden world of vampires. Jenny had very much tried, but she’d mostly come across the kinds of forums and posts she’d enjoyed viciously before. But she didn’t want to read threads from her peers ranting about fictional vampires of the history of such creatures — she wanted something solid.

Of course, compared to how old some vampires could be, the internet was just a baby. And so she turned her quest to a place of books. The university library promised to hold plenty of resources as well as a helpful hand. It had been a while since she’d been on a campus, but she tried to saunter around the place like she belonged there (she could totally pass as a student, right?) and wasn’t some non-student intruder. Libraries were supposed to be public spaces, anyway.

Jenny let her greedy eyes pass over a few spines before trying to focus on her goal. To meet Henri from online, who was ever so willing to help her on her quest. She doubted that most of the books could help her, but at least one would have to hold some kind of knowledge, right? She didn’t read a ton of non-fiction, but this was the day she was going to change that. Once her eyes fell on the tall blonde, she approached without hesitation. “Hi. Henri, right?”

—

“Right.” Henri lifted his eyes from the book [ Rooke, Lillian F. Survival Ethics: Moral Dilemmas in the Age of Monsters. Harvard University Press, 2019.] he had picked up and opened on a shelf, one elbow lazily keeping his chin up as he waited for the woman who, it seemed, was very much human. His eyes roamed over her briefly, not to get a better idea of what she looked like, but rather as if to assess if the woman was going to be any sort of threat to him.

“Jenny, was it?” Closing the book to put it back where he found it, Henri picked up his coffee thermos and led the way as they ventured through the parapsychology and occult section. Because they were in Wicked’s Rest, the section was twice if not thrice the size it would have been in any other university. It had the benefit of justifying the little lie Henri had to come up with to meet with Jenny in person.

The thing was, he did not like it very much when people asked to dig deep into the local (and not so local) folklore. Unfortunately, Wicked’s Rest did not have the exclusivity on vampires and they had had their golden age a few times already in literature, movies and tv shows alike — although if you asked him, realism and quality had dwindled in the past decades.

“Alright, why don’t you tell me with the utmost precision what you’re looking for and then we can get started?”

—

It was actually very hard, to be left with so many questions. A month ago, she had witnessed the near-murder of a stranger at the hands of a creature she had thought fictional up until then and now here she stood. Not knowing, staring into the great unknown. Hoping that books could help her the way they always had, though this time it wouldn’t be through the escapism they offered. It would be answers to questions like 'how common are vampires' and 'how do you turn into one' and 'how can I entice one to turn me without killing me?'.

She nodded, "Yep, Jenny, that's me," she said. Henri looked like an academic stereotype, which was promising. It also reminded her of her own college days, which she had left behind with a sense of both relief and longing. College had given her life shape and consistency, whereas now she was supposed to create her own work for her. Which, considering she had been too busy with her vampire-finding escapades, had gone ignored for the past weeks.

Jenny wondered how she should go about this. If the books on vampires she'd read were any indication, there was a big chance that most people didn't know about vampires and lived a blissfully ignorant life. If she made it apparent that she believed in the existence of vampires, the other might write her off like a ditz. "Well," she said, "See, I'm in town 'cause I'm doing research for my play." Not a lie. She'd just … paused the whole thing. "Love this place's setting, but also love all the … mystery, you know? And shit, so much has been said about vampires and mysterious small towns in media before, so I wanna say something new. Hence." She gestured to drive her point home. "I am looking for anything and everything that can inform me about vampires. Historical first person accounts and stuff, you know? Obviously they were on something when they made those accounts … but I wanna read it anyway!" Yes, that was good. Very convincing.

—

He brought his thermos mug to his chest, as if to put a shield between himself and the woman’s words, because she definitely talked too much and she clearly believed in vampires (though it was apparent that she didn’t know shit about them).

Henri could not help it, and was looking at her with the kind of look he reserved unwashed excavation sites or undergrad students who quoted Indiana Jones or Lara Croft in their academic essays. Jenny seemed older than most undergrads however, and she definitely was a lot more theatrical, he decided, as he watched her gesturing as though she was on stage rather than in the middle of a near-empty campus library.

“A play.” His tone couldn’t have fallen flatter. He did not mind theater, but he drew the line at theater that involved the word vampire uttered with that much enthusiasm.

“So, let me get this… Let’s make sure I’m getting this right.” A pause. “You want historical, first person accounts and stuff, about vampires because of course the people writing them were on something.” He looked at her. Henri did not seem one bit impressed. “I can see that you’re very enthusiastic about all this, and under the impression that small-town legends are just waiting to be taken seriously but… we have authors on those shelves who thought anything with pointy teeth were vampires.” Pause. “Take Wendell Harrow, for instance.” He pulled out the book from the shelf, and handed it to her. “I’m pretty sure he’s talking about a possum the whole time.”

—

When he threw her words back at her, Jenny could feel her cheeks grow pinker. She might have succeeded in not seeming very suspicious in her request, but she’d still managed to make herself sound like a stupid ditz. It didn’t take a whole lot for that, she thought, but still. It was enough to make her gnaw her cheek for a moment, wondering if she could repair the damage she’d done.

She’d left university and those feeling of inferiority behind, she thought, and yet here she was. Standing across someone who’d made a commitment to their education and knew what he wanted from life. And she? She’d graduated from a prestigious university, but had very little to show for it. Her Untitled Project remained untitled, even after three months of living in Wicked’s Rest. She couldn’t even ask for books right.

“Yes, a play,” she said, not expecting an archeologist to get it. Not that she got it herself. “Not because they were on something. Am just saying it’s not like I’ll take those accounts as truth, ‘cause the sources are probably influenced by stuff like booze and delusion! That doesn’t make it any less interesting, though.” Jenny considered the book, studying its cover. She knew the truth, of course, whereas Henri didn’t. Vampires were very real. There was a big chance Wendell had been writing about vampires, but that people had just thought him crazy and confused. Maybe that was what was happening now, too. Henri thought her a ditz, because she knew more than he did. Ignorance was bliss, but it also made people judgy. That was it. “Do you have any more authors like Wendell, then? I’ll figure out myself if their accounts are worth my time myself.”

—

“Right. Delusion and booze were surely the only things wrong with people who took a fairy tale monster and threw it into our world.” Henri sighed. He didn’t like lying to people’s faces, but he would have liked even less to throw people in the wrong direction. Whatever fantasy she had regarding vampires needed to remain just that. A fantasy. A tale of her own imagination. Nothing more.

The slayer didn’t say much more than that for a moment, keeping his eyes toward the books lined up on those shelves, as though looking for documents that might forever deter her from staying interested in the supernatural. Even if it was not what he saw as his number one duty as a hunter, Henri still believed that humanity was better off not knowing about the supernatural and that the same could be said for supernatural creatures. Mankind too could be monstrous and Henri knew he wouldn't have been able to keep up with hunting each of them down, in such a scenario.

“Oh, I might have something for you here. If you want to stray away from the recent overdone tropes that is.” If he was completely unable to manipulate Jenny with the ease of a snake, Henri still had some hope with that very obvious one : Deathless and Cruel: Why Vampires Cannot Love You by Dr. Imogen Thorne.

He started a pile on the shelf in front of her, adding on top of that one : Blood and Dominion: The Undead as Apex Parasite by one Professor Marcus Valen, and The Crimson Hunger: A History of Predation in European Vampire Lore by Dr. Lydia Marrow. There were a few mores he added next, though they all had in common their focus on horror, hunger and history. “Like I said, you don't want to approach Wendell with a ten foot pole. He’s rubbish.”

—

For someone who’d offered to help, Henri was being very unhelpful and incredibly judgy. Jenny was making a mental note to check out Wendell regardless: she wanted to see if he was worth it or not. She definitely didn’t want to read the books that he was piling on for her, which he probably thought was a way of helping her. Even if she was truly here to get inspiration for her Untitled Project #1, this was far from what she needed.

These books seemed made to remind people that vampires were bad predators, which she thought very shortsighted. Maybe she wasn’t one to judge, as all she knew about vampires was that they a) existed and b) drank blood, but Henri couldn’t be more knowledgeable than her. Right? Jenny picked up the book on top of the stack, considering the blurb on the back and figuring she might as well try it out. “Do you know where these doctors got their … doctorate?” Was there a university of vampirism? That would be interesting. Much better than comparative literature, even if that had allowed her to analyze (fictional) texts on vampires.

“Academic-sounding works about creatures that don’t exist …” She made a questioning sound, looking up at Henri with a raised eyebrow. “Much different than your delusional Wendell. How reliable would you call these sources, then?” Jenny wanted them to be completely reliable truth-tellers, but she wasn’t all too sure. People were very good at lying about these kinds of things. She held up the one by Marrow, “This one seems a little like what I’d write in college. I’ll take it though.”

—

The part of Henri which, in this very moment, wanted to cry in frustration did not even sigh. Not audibly, at least. But the pause between her flippant commentary and his response was long enough to be considered one.

He glanced over at the book in her hand—The Crimson Hunger—and then back at her.

“Marrow’s from the University of Edinburgh. Thorne was Oxford, before she… vanished.” Henri was willing to bet that Dr. Thorne was a slayer and had met her end the way many of their kind did : bravely, brutally, silently. “Valen’s… well, Valen’s Valen, but also correct more often than not.”

He leaned closer, tapping the spine of the book she had selected with two fingers. “And creatures that don’t exist…” He repeated quietly, as though quoting her back to herself. “That’s how it goes, right? Either you think these creatures, these tales are a metaphor, a myth, some sort of projection—something human and literary you can make sense of. Or you don’t.”

There was a beat.

Then he straightened again and turned back toward the next shelf, without looking at her this time. “I don’t know what camp you are in but I think you should figure it out. Quickly.”

—

She was trying to read every microexpression on his face but struggling to understand what any of them meant, especially because her mind was going a hundred miles an hour. Jenny was waiting for a big revelation between the words, for the world to open up to her, right then and there.

“Academic credentials only mean so much,” she said knowingly, having met too many Ivy league alumni that weren’t worth their salt to know this. She could even acknowledge that her essays during her stint in university didn’t mean that much in the grand scheme of things. “I doubt Oxford believes … in this.” She scrunched her nose. “Even though it does have like, that old-school vampire vibe.”

Henri was speaking in a different tone now, leaning in to reveal something to her and Jenny held her breath to hear him acknowledge the truth she knew. Did he know it too, then? But before he could confirm that thought, he was gone, turned away from her and she was left with a small, intrapersonal battle.

She felt her fingers dig into the spine of the book as if the knowledge within it might steer her towards the right thing to say. “When Stoker wrote about it,” she began, “It was a metaphor for the repression of the time. When Rice did, too, but it represented her grief. Even Meyers — she was writing about a desire she could not act on, I’m sure.” The existence of vampires did not take away from their art, that she believed. “But none of that has to mean –”

She wished he’d turn around. Jenny swallowed. “So why not both? Metaphors can be based on real things.” She swallowed. “Does that make me sound crazy?”

—

Somehow, Henri neither turned around when she challenged academia, or when she brought up Stoker, Rice and Meyer as though she was presenting to him her thesis in the middle of the library.

It was only when she said those words. —metaphors can be based on real things— that Henri paused.

It wasn’t so much about the words. Henri was more taken aback by the way she had said them. She wanted him to cross that threshold, she was convinced she was right, and she wanted confirmation.

Exhaling through his nose, the slayer finally glanced back at her from over his shoulder.

“You sound like someone who wants to be right so badly she’s willing to ignore what it might cost.”

His voice was not unkind. It was steady, as though Henri tried to offer her a warning and yet remain ever so neutral.

Finally, the young man turned around to face her, this time with his arms folded and his spine straight. “You think metaphors hold the truth. They don’t. Fear holds the truth. Yeah, things happen. Terrible things happen, and people wrap language around them to make them… palatable. To process their trauma.”

He gave the book in her hand a nod. “Vampires ? They’re a great metaphor for many things you just said, but they only exist because something came first. Something that made people write things down because they wanted so badly to believe it meant something.”

Henri let that hang in the air between them before his gaze sharpened.

“If you’re looking for poetry or beauty, Jenny, you’re in the wrong aisle.”

—

He was looking at her again, emotion and opinion wiped from his face as he cast his judgment. Jenny felt seen, though it was not a sensation she much appreciated right now. He made her sound foolish, after all, like someone walking right into a lion’s den and hoping that a book on wildlife might help her.

“I know I’m right,” she muttered. What she had seen was not a reaction of trauma, had not been her projecting a fantastical explanation for what had otherwise been a brutal – but, non supernatural normal – attack. She knew that. She knew what she had seen. Whether she understood the implications and potential consequences was up for debate, but she knew the truth. There was no way back. She’d never been good at denial. Vampires were real.

He was beating around the bush, the same way she had done. But he wasn’t telling her she was crazy or that the sheer idea of vampires being real was ridiculous, which was something. It had to be something.

“I don’t — they don’t hold truth, but they’re always derived from something based in reality. When the empire –” She shook her head, not wanting to get into Star Wars of all things on top of it. Fiction mirrored reality, even when it was removed from it. And even if not everything that was fantastical or non fictional could be real, some things had to be.

“What camp are you in?” She should have asked this sooner, so when she finally did there was some desperation in her voice. Jenny was scrambling, afraid to lose momentum in this discussion. “It’s not poetry I’m here for. I want answers.” She held on tighter to the book. Maybe it would give her some. It seemed Henri would give her neither confirmation or denial, which was more than denial but nothing at the same time. “What is it you think was there before the fiction, then? Before the metaphors?” What had inspired authors and myth-tellers to write about blood-drinking monsters, if it hadn’t been repression and a need for horror? If not that, it had to be their actual existence. She wanted to hear him say it.

—

Henri’s gaze remained steady, his posture relaxed but remained rigid in the way only someone who prided themselves on control could manage. Even though he could tell her conviction remained strong as ever, she seemed unsure. At this moment, the slayer couldn’t help but feel empathy for the woman. He wished he could have told her the truth about these things. Maybe it would have been a lot more convincing, but this was not what he was supposed to do, and Henri prided himself in doing things the way they were ought to be done.

“Fiction doesn’t just mirror reality,” he said, his voice low, almost detached, but with that edge of certainty that came from experience. “It draws from it. It …tweaks it. Reality is too mundane for a lot of people to make sense of; it needs to be dressed up. Sometimes it needs to be… feared. That’s how we end up with religion, or cults or… pseudo-science.”

He let the silence hang for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing slightly, sharpening as they studied her. Henri knew the truth, but he didn’t always speak it. Not plainly. Jenny didn’t want a vague answer, though. She wanted him to say it. And she wasn’t going to stop pushing until he did.

His lips twisted into something barely resembling a smile and he sighed. “It’s easy to take what people are terrified of, what they don’t understand, and turn it into a monster that can be kept away in a book, tucked between cover and cover.”

He paused, studying her reaction, but didn’t wait for her to reply. “There’s a reason the world’s full of stories about creatures who drink blood and terrorize the living, Jenny. Vampires, in particular—they always represent something more than just monsters.”

Still, as she asked about camps, the young man tilted his head just slightly, like he was weighing the merit of honesty against the cost of it. “I study patterns. Beliefs. Cultural thinking. And what I know is that stories—particularly the ones that endure—come from somewhere. That doesn’t mean they’re literal.”

He let that hang for just long enough to frustrate her.

“You want me to say they’re real.” His gaze flicked down to the book she clutched, then back to her face. “But you already believe that, don’t you? You’re not here for my permission. You’re here because something in you cracked open, and now it won’t close again.”

Henri leaned back slightly, arms crossing—closing off. “So no. I won’t tell you what camp I’m in. Because if you’re asking, you’re not ready to be in it.”

—

For a moment, Henri reminded her of one of her professors back in school. Jenny had been far from a model student, but there had been a few teachers that had held the capability to make her listen to every syllable spoken. Not just because what they said was interesting, but because they brought it in a way that demanded attention. They could built tension in monologue, a small arc in a collection of sentences.

What he said made sense. If vampires and vampire literature (and all subsequent media) coexisted, some of it had to have been drawn from reality. Perhaps not all of it — it seemed unlikely that Stephenie Meyers had known about vampires, what with the way she had written about them. But some of it, at the very least, was based on the things she had seen. He was right, too — she knew them to be real. She knew what Metzli had told her and what she had seen, in the dark of night. There was more she didn’t know, though. Too much.

“So how do you go about distinguishing the literal from the metaphorical? I know how to do this as an audience member, as a reader — but this isn’t like that.” This wasn’t an essay for comparative literature. This was a hidden world, right under her eyes.

Jenny swallowed. “But — right. So you believe it, that they’re real. You would not be entertaining this conversation if you didn’t. Right?” Maybe he would never confirm it. Maybe he would dance around it with his tense, knowing voice that built up to a climax but never released. She felt frustrated, even if she felt her beliefs confirmed.

She put down the book, if only to have her hands assist her in her talking. “I am, though. I am ready — what else is there to be? I know that this is real, that these stories are not just that. I’m not looking away, putting my head back in the sand.” She had seen a woman nearly die. She had seen a vampire turn to dust. She had felt Metzli’s fangs graze her throat before sinking in. Her fingers inched closer to her neck. “But this has helped me aplenty. And now I know where to look for the right books.”

—

Henri watched as Jenny reached toward her neck, as though a memory still lived there, a ghost living underneath her skin. Her wide, bright eyes stared at him searching him for answers Henri swore to never give, and the more he looked at her, the more the young man saw her resolve.

She would not flinch from her idea. She wouldn’t retreat to being rational. She was dangerous. Not because he found her difficult to read, but because such a strong sense of belief would only lead her to crack things open. Things that ought to stay closed.

He drew a quiet breath through his nose, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the desk. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t pace. He had to make a decision, because she was going to put herself in danger whether he helped her or not. “You cross-reference. Historical record against folklore. Primary source against personal account. You find the consistencies between people who never met.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward the book she set aside, then back to her face. “A metaphor is the truth in disguise, most of the time. Especially in myth.”

The silence stretched once again. This was the only way Henri was going to stay in control of this conversation. It was clear by now that Jenny had seen too much to be persuaded of a lie. “You’re not wrong to look. Just… understand what it means to see. Knowing this, it isn't an invitation. It's a consequence.”

Henri reached out then, not to comfort, but to retrieve the book she had placed down. He turned it over in his hands, eyes flicking across the worn spine, the annotations in the margins. “Keep reading. But read carefully.”

His eyes lifted to meet hers one last time, unreadable and steady. “But if you feel like you came across something too dangerous, don’t try to understand it. You come find me.”

Henri stood, returning the book to her hands with a measured care, as if it might shatter if held wrong before he turned on his heel and walked away. He offered nothing more—no explanations, no reassurances. Only that conditional promise.

#wickedswriting #adventures with henri #ft. whimmortal #thread: vampire studies 101

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