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twilightofthesandwiches · 2 days ago

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When I made that post about how Spamton and Tenna were probably both mimicking each other due to mutual jealousy, I mentioned by the end that, although both of them saw the other as having something they lack...

Spamton was, like, objectively the worst-off between the two, and his jealousy of Tenna is probably more 'justified' than the other way around'. But also Tenna is unaware and probably totally incapable of understanding this fact . Since the reasons behind it are dependent both on the culture of the internet and the deeper machinations of Light and Dark.

I didn’t really go into depth about it at the time cause it is a complex topic that I did kinda cover for Spamton before Chapters 3 + 4 even released and if I started going into it in detail, it could’ve easily overshadowed the main point I was trying to make with that post. But since I did get some comments/questions about that aspect… I thought it might be a good idea to give it its own post going into it in detail and clarifying my point.

So, both Spamton and Tenna imitate each other because they see the other as an embodiment of something they don’t have. Tenna has the charm, prestige and both metaphorical and literal ‘bigness’ that Spamton craves. While Spamton has the modernity, understanding of technological progress and ability to reach Lightners that Tenna’s so insecure about lacking these days.

(I think you can kinda see it as a metaphor to the relationship between traditional media and the new media in general. Old Media such as the Television is getting overshadowed and outcompeted by the Internet-based New Media, but it also still has an air of respectability and prestige that New Media still generally lacks. The fact that Tenna is specifically jealous of, like, the lowest, least-respectable, most obnoxious aspect of the Internet is just an extra detail that makes him more uniquely pathetic.)

But the main difference is, like… So Tenna is a Television Darkner, he’s supposed to exist for the purpose of providing entertainment. He loves entertainment because that’s what he was created to do and entertaining Lightners is the thing that makes him feel truly fulfilled. He is also, by all accounts pretty damn good at it.

Like, the main conflict between Tenna and the Lightners is because he wanted his show to go on forever (And also he kidnapped Toriel and was keeping the Dark Fountain from getting sealed and working with the Knight). They did clearly enjoy being on his show as a temporary thing. He's honestly good at this.

I mean, the fact that he has a set Purpose hardwired into his very being and can’t feel truly content unless he’s fulfilling said Purpose is kinda Existentially Depressing if you think about it too hard, but at least it’s something he both enjoys and is good at.

And then you have Spamton. As the Magical Dream Representation of Spam Email, he is created to scam people out of their money and information. He is also generally obsessed with all the things your usual Spam Mail blathers on about, success, prestige, being a BIG SHOT. But being Spam Mail also means he is utterly terrible at doing his Purpose and fulfilling his goals. Spam Mail is weird, obviously scammy, gets thrown away 99% of the time, and is the lowest and most incompetent form of online advertising/scams. The basic essence of his metaphysical being is to be a frustrated, miserable failure.

Of course, this isn’t as simple as saying Tenna is metaphysically allowed to be truly happy while Spamton isn’t. Because it’s been a long time since Tenna has been able to fulfill his Purpose. He’s good at entertainment… but he’s not good enough to get anyone in the Dreemurr household to turn on the TV on the regular. His show is loads of fun, but it’s also kind of repetitive, cheesy and old-fashioned… because that’s also the Lightner perception of the classic TV that Tenna was created to represent.

You can easily say that just as Spamton’s preordained role is to be a failure because Spam Mail is by definition crappy, Tenna’s role is to be a failure because in these modern times, the definition of the television has changed to be ‘not good enough’.

And the whole thing is actually totally outside Tenna’s control. Obviously no one can truly control the march of time or stop new entertainment technology from being developed, but even in terms of the content Tenna can provide if he's switched on... That’s in the hands of Lightner TV producers.

In his Dark World, Tenna’s living the high-life, the biggest and only Big Shot in TV World. but he’s incapable of being satisfied with all of his power and prestige as long as he’s a failing his Purpose as a Light World television. A matter that is actually totally beyond his control.

Tenna’s aware of all of these problems, but he’s not fully aware of how these issues reflect Spamton’s situation. He’s knows nothing about the modern internet world

…He doesn’t know what being ‘Spam’ means, and therefore has no idea what Spamton is supposed to be. He met Spamton during the brief period of time the salesman was genuinely successful as an adbot, he has no idea about the unlucky Addison he was before or the total wreck he became later.

… But that is also part of the crucial difference. Spamton only became successful and therefore happy due to the help of the mysterious Someone that has been calling him.

And…we are still not quite sure how that worked. Was that simply someone from the Light World aggressively clicking on so much Spam Mail and shitty ads that it temporarily changed Spamton’s status in the Dark Worlds? Did that Someone give Spamton the secret to actually defy the role assigned him by the metaphysical laws governing his existence? Was it done through the power of the Shadow Crystal? The power of the Prophecy? Were they taking advantage of the fact that the events we're talking didn’t truly happen and were instead retconned into Spamton’s personal history when the Computer Room Dark World created him?

There are so many question marks about Spamton’s Mysterious Benefactor and how that whole thing worked… and that’s because giving Spamton a happier and more successful life is something that seems like it should be literally metaphysically impossible. And while Tenna was pretty much trapped in an unsatisfying existence due to the nature of his being and circumstances beyond his control… his problems were also much easier to solve from a Lightner perspective.

Sure, the television doesn’t get the sort of universal success and influence that it did when Tenna was brand new, but there are still people who watch and enjoy it. As long as that fact holds true for at least one household (and seeing how books, radio and cinema still exist despite the television overshadowing them back during Tenna’s hay-day, I doubt the TV will ever die completely) and as long as Tenna himself is a usable television then Tenna’s happiness is absolutely achievable.

It is kinda existentially terrifying to think about how this was all out of his control and couldn’t have happened if not for Kris and Susie’s actions in the Light World, that Tenna himself still had no power over his own happiness… but that still leaves him in a better position than poor Spamton, where… even if you were a Lightner honestly interested in giving Spamton a happier life… what could you do for him?

Like, Noelle obsessively responds to "Free Friend Finder" Spam in a desperate attempt to find Dess and that got Spamton's attention and gratitude, but it was still obviously a tiny drop in the bucket compared to the success he is destined to crave for… So this is clearly much more complicated than just humoring a few Spam Mails (and also, even that plan carries a much bigger risk to the Lightners compared to just giving someone a second-hand television. Because Spamton is also ontologically doomed to bite the hand that feeds him.)

But, like, there is a reason why Tenna was shoving his nose into Spamton’s Secret to Success. Obviously with Tenna already being Executive Producer and God-King of TV World, he’s not exactly looking to become a ‘Big Shot’ in the Dark Worlds - he’s looking to have the sort of reach and influence that internet-based Darkners like Spamton seems to have over the Lightners. He was looking for Spamton's advice in the hopes he could help him to understand modern technology and the changing times, help him to stop himself from becoming increasingly outdated… But is that something Tenna would've been even able to do?

Again, before the TV World Dark Fountain even opened, Tenna shouldn't have had any way to affect his situation in the Light World, he was just an inanimate TV. If Spamton taught him to 'plug in'… what would that mean? Would the Dreemurr Household's living room TV suddenly gain the ability to connect to the internet? Would it suddenly transform into a Smart TV out of nowhere? Would it suddenly starts broadcasting new content that's more appealing to modern audiences (at least according to Spamton's advice)?

The idea that's the least magically-breaking-the-laws-of-causality is that Spamton was thinking of asking Someone to upgrade Tenna's inanimate TV self in the Light World… and even that kinda stumbles into the mindfuck acknowledgement that all of the events we're talking about didn't truly happen the way Tenna and Spamton remember them because they were an inanimate object and a spam folder on a laptop at the time and all of their past and memories of being People were created when they were brought to life by their respective Dark Fountains so how could they ask anyone in the Light World to do anything at that point in time?

Tenna was actually trying to get Spamton to help him do the same thing he's done, defy the fate he was doomed to because of what he is in the Light World. To help him break the laws of how Dark and Light work so he can get closer to accomplishing his dreams. Even though he doesn't seem to be fully aware of the fact that was what Spamton did in the first place. And… there is a level where I'm wondering if Tenna even understood the full ramification of what he was planning for himself?

Because when it comes to Tenna being unaware of Spamton's miserable fate due to the fact he doesn't know what a "Spam Mail" is, that is a simple problem of a lack of knowledge. Tenna just doesn't have that information due to his status as a pre-internet piece of technology. But when it comes to the matter of the metaphysical mechanics of Light and Dark and how Darkners work… I feel ike it's not really a matter of knowledge as much as a matter of understanding.

Tenna clearly knows that as a Darker, he is created from the Dreemurr Household's TV, he knows that before the Dark Fountain opened he was just an inanimate object, he knows that means that his Purpose is to entertain Lightners… But does he actually think about what all of these facts actually mean? Does he fully understand the implications of his existence? I've already wrote so much about all the little things that make Tenna's life, maybe better than Spamton's, but definitely kind of an existential nightmare in it's own right if you think about it… but that's the question, does he actually think about it?

When we was trying to get that 'deal' done with Spamton, was he thinking about in terms of 'I'm gonna need to break the laws of what it means to be me, Tenna, a Darkner based on this specific old TV. Because by definition I am outdated and if I want to actually catch-up with the times and be watched again, I will have to change that Definition somehow?' or was it just 'Oh boy! That Silly Little Guy knows a lot about this internet stuff that scares and confuses me! And he's got so many views! I have to ask him how he does it..." without ever thinking of the implications of how'd he'd replicate 'how he does it'?

I think there's a lot of little hints that Spamton doesn't just want to rebel against the metaphysical laws that made him a constant failure so he could be a Big Shot… Spamton also wants to want different things. As he exists, Spamton isn't supposed to care about anything but deals and scams and money and success (while also existing to constantly fail to achieve these things), but his actual dream is now something much bigger than that, much more centered around his freedom. Although part of the tragedy is that he is still doomed to only being able to think about it in terms of power and status, and doomed to being unable to think of a plan to achieve that dream without scamming money out of people and exploiting them in general.

Even when he's giving Kris the KeyGen, he has to try and sell it for a sometimes ludicrous amount of money, because he's not supposed to care for anything but sales and deals… But he does seem to try and fight against this instinct.

And it's clear that he is very emotionally hurt by all the friendships he lost and all the bridges he burned. With Tenna most obviously, but also with the Addisons and with Swatch. As a Spam-Email, he's not supposed to care about those things more than he does about Deals and Scams, but as a person, it's clear that this is a huge part of his angst. In the Normal Route, Spamton starts projecting his own issues on Kris the moment he sees them walking through the Dark World alone. In the Weird Route, Spamton only starts doing it in the NEO Boss Fight, when they start calling out to their friends. Either way, it happens when he sees them alone.

In terms of the metaphysics of Light and Dark, Spamton's essential definition is being a weird failed scam-artist. In Spamton's own eyes, his essential definition is being lonely and abandoned.

And of course, the whole point of Spamton NEO's Spare Route, the closest thing to a happy ending he ever got, is about abandoning all of his grand plans to become [BIG] for the sake of friendship.

Tenna… does not seem to struggle against his nature in the same way. He is not bothered by the implications of having a set Purpose or maybe he just never thought about it that much. He fully embraces the idea that his Purpose is to Entertain and to be Watched, and even when he's sad and frustrated because he can't fulfil that goal… he blames himself for failing to fulfil it, he does not go against the idea that fulfilling this Purpose IS the number one thing he wants and needs.

He's already in a better spot than Spamton was, because, although he's got a bit of an Entertainment Industry Sleaze coding to him with all of his shady contracts, being based on an Object that generally makes Lightners' life more enjoyable and has a lot of sentimental memories associated with it makes him considerably more capable of caring about other people and forming meaningful relationships. But even when his obsessive pursuit of his goal ends up with him alienating all of his TV World employees (even Mike!) and causing his world to crumble all around him, he never doubts that there is nothing more important to him than Entertaining Lightners.

I think if you went to Tenna and asked him if he ever wanted to want a different thing, something that doesn't make him totally dependent on outside approval, he'd just be confused. What in this world could be a better and more worthy goal than bringing smiles and tears to the lovely viewers at home? What else is there? It's just not something he could ever even being to think about.

And sure, Tenna might know and acknowledge that he's the Dreemurr Household TV and that's why he cares so much about entertaining specifically the Dreemurr (and Holiday) family… but does he truly understand the way that his personality was shaped by the emotions of Kris and Toriel during the night the Fountain was opened? For him, his emotional grief at the slow dissolution of the Dreemurr family is just his genuine emotional response based on his personality and his memories and the experiences he had… and I think it is real... but it's also a projection of Kris and Toriel's feelings.

For him, his fixation over Toriel is born of the fact she was the last member of the Household to consistently Watch him…

But it's also born of the way he's kind of a reflection of Asgore's Divorced Behavior.

Is Tenna aware of the idea that his feelings, that feel 100% real for him, were also 'given' to him by the Lightners? Does it bother him at all? Does it not bother him because of an actual confidence in his own personhood and the validity of his perspective and his personal sense of self… or just because he never thought that deeply, that far, into the implications of his own existence?

Tenna knows what it means to be a Darkner, but he doesn't understand what Spamton understands. And as long as this gap exists, Tenna won't ever really know how miserable and doomed Spamton truly was. And I think as Tenna gets happier and more content, now that he's got a new loving home, he will be less and less driven and able to understand it. This little adventure he had with the Knight and the Fun Gang was probably the closest he's ever gotten.

Even if you sat him down and patiently explained what a Spam Mail is in the most 70's terms you could muster, he still won't truly understand why Spamton can't just replicate the success he had when these two knew each other, or why Spamton was so determined to 'see past the Dark'. Not anymore, at least. Because that requires delving into things he knows, but has never truly understood on a deep level. And maybe it's better for him that he doesn't.

I think, Tenna was on… the precipice. He took great interest in Spamton's success, he wanted to know his secret, they had almost signed a deal together. Tenna's frustration and lack of ability to fulfil his Purpose had led him to a point where had almost tried to defy his Existence the way Spamton had never stopped trying. He was unsatisfied and miserable enough that he almost became… maybe not exactly like Spamton, but at least a lot like King. Y'know, the Dark World Leader who got a lot of secret info from the Shadow Crystal Holder he was closest to, and thus inspired him to rage against fate and actively try to defy his Purpose?

Maybe not exactly the same as King… but he had almost tried seeing too far. Almost.

But at the end of the day, Spamton felt that the only way he could be truly happy is to find some way to cut off his puppet-strings, while Tenna is someone who finds true joy and contentment in simply dancing along to them.

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daryltwdixon · 1 day ago

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chapter 10

series masterlist Summary: In the time between when he took you to now, something changed. His hands grew gentler. Your fear turned quiet. And somewhere in the stillness, love kindled. || angst & fluff, violence, blood and gore, main character death, animal death (im so sorry), Pre-Boston QZ, Stockholm Syndrome, slow burn, raider!joel, captor!joel, homestead, kidnapping, dark themes, I also just learned what whump means so we're including that too || a/n: this is unlike anything i've ever written, and this is the scene the entire story was written around. please heed the warnings as this is a very heavy chapter. sorry to those who wanted to see joel kicking ass, he does it but you can't see bc im so bad at writing action lol / yes the formatting is intentional. yes i know it hurts. please be kind in your comments, I'm just a baby

It all happened very fast.

And yet it felt like it was all in some horrible, mind altering slow motion.

The handlers at the edge of the clearing let go of their leashed infected like hellhounds surging forward, screams and snarls excited by the sudden noise. They ran into the clearing as gunfire cracked through the trees. Your vision didn’t catch up with it all until Joel moved, turning on the spot and shoving you hard toward the porch, yelling for you to Run!

You stumbled up the steps, heart jackhammering, the world turning into sound and chaos behind you. You crossed the threshold, barely turning the knob with your sweat slicked hands, and were halfway through the door when you felt something rushing past you in a big, furry blur—

Samson.

He shot around your legs with a burst of movement, all muscle and fury, teeth bared as he tore toward the sound of Joel’s voice, toward the chaos.

“No, Samson!” you cried, reaching too late.

The dog vanished into the fray just as the door slammed behind you, Joel still outside. You could hear the crack of his revolver now that he’d reached the porch steps, but there was no time to dwell. He told you to hide, to get into one of the rooms, to lock it behind you.

And so you did– you turned and ran, nearly tripping as you flew through the house, ducking into the first bedroom and throwing the lock shut behind you. Your breath came too fast, too thin, lungs barely working as you collapsed to the floor and backed up, feet sliding across the floor until your spine hit the old radiator.

You sat against it gasping. Hands fumbling, you reached for the knife in your pocket, flipping it open with a trembling thumb. You stared at the blade, its cold, familiar edge waiting for the threats that screamed outside the house.

Your heart slammed into your ribs like it was trying to punch its way out. You stayed locked in that room, pressed to cold iron at your back, while Joel fought outside. While Samson tore across the dirt, brave and loyal and so, so stupid.

And you—what were you? You felt like a child hiding beneath the covers, a coward with a blade she barely knew how to hold. You told yourself you’d be ready, that you’d be strong when it mattered. But now that it was here, you were trembling alone, praying as if that alone might be enough.

You sat there with the knife clutched in your fist, pressed so tight your fingers had gone numb. The room felt like it was shrinking, the edges blurring, and the only thing keeping you grounded the rhythmic pound of your own heartbeat slamming against your ribs. The radiator dug into your spine, but you didn’t move. Your mind wouldn’t let you.

And after a while of only being able to hear your own blood roaring in your ears, you realized the chaos outside had gone quiet.

No more shouting. No more gunfire. Just a hollow, buzzing silence. Your ears strained, clinging to any sound, but all you could hear was the rasp of your own breath and the thud of your pulse in your neck.

Maybe it was over. Maybe Joel had driven them off. Maybe he’d already be climbing the porch steps, bloody but alive, Samson at his side, ready to take you into his arms and tell you it was done.

Please, you thought. Please let it be done.

Then came the sound of shattering glass.

You flinched hard, knife jerking in your grip, nearly falling from your grasp, but you kept it tight. Somewhere outside the door, a window had broken, the sickening crunch of splinters and shards spraying across wood. You could hear footsteps, but— no, not quite footsteps. A scraping sort of noise, a slapping of feet, wet and off-rhythm, stumbling too fast, like something wearing a human body but not quite knowing how to use it. You got up, slowly crawling to the door, and pressed your ear to the wood.

You could hear the ragged breaths, those waterlogged lungs breathing in the air of the house. It was a low, starved, inhuman rattling of breath.

Your blood froze.

No. No, no, no, no—

But then, there was more. A padding of movement suddenly on the glass, the infected screaming at the sound of it, and a snarl matched it, loud enough to travel through the door and shake the walls of your heart. And you knew. Knew who it was. Samson’s bark echoed through the house, sharp and feral. He was after it. That sweet, dumb, brave boy had gone after the infected. You heard his claws scraping against the floor, the snarl in his throat, the heavy thump of his body throwing itself toward the thing that dared to trespass into your home.

Samson’s voice, if a dog could even have one, went raw and ragged, erupting into a series of snarls and screams so violent they didn’t even sound like him anymore. And as you pressed your ear harder to the wooden door, the sound of him rattled around your skull like a loose train over rusted tracks. You felt it in your bones, could hear the wet thud of bodies hitting wood, the skitter of claws trying to find purchase on the floor.

But worse than that, worse than a dog fighting for its life, fighting for your life is that high, shrill, gut-wrenching cry that cuts clean through the noise and leaves silence in its wake. It shattered you—froze your lungs mid breath.

And suddenly, when your lungs filled again, it wasn't with air, but with cold, burning dry ice fury. You realized you didn’t care that you could die, that if you opened the door, there was a strong possibility of a nightmare on the other side.

You ripped the door open, slamming it on its hinges. The creature turned unnaturally fast, all instinct and no humanity. As soon as it saw you it lunged, and its body collided with yours so fast it knocked the air from your chest. It was heavier than it looked, wiry and wrong, all muscle and hungry hungry hungry. Its hands clawed at your shoulders, jaws snapping inches from your face, bloodied teeth gnashing as it screamed that shrill, inhuman sound right into your skin.

You hit the wood floor hard, but the pain didn’t matter. All you could feel was that earth-shattering vehemence—the kind that made your blood churn and your vision blur. A scorching ice storm tore through your veins, wild and merciless, for your dog, for your home, for this sacred little life you had carved from the dirt with blood and sweat and aching hope. Anger for Joel, who had fought tooth and bone to keep you safe. And as the infected’s face loomed closer, snarling, breath rank with rot and death, all you could think of was him. Joel. Your Joel. The man who thought he was no good, who still stood between you and the fire, who was out there now, doing just that. You hoped he was still breathing. You prayed. And as you prayed for his life, you screamed and sobbed and thrashed beneath the weight of that thing, your hands searching with desperation. One found its jaw and shoved, just enough to shift its balance, just enough to move. The other rose like instinct, like fury given form, and drove your blade up through its mouth, straight into the soft ruin of its brain.

It collapsed on top of you all at once, heavy and lifeless, and still your sobs came wracking, splintering through your ribs, aching deep in your chest. You shoved it off with trembling arms, gasping as you scrambled backward, until your spine met the cold, comforting iron of the radiator once again. You pressed against it like it could hold you steady, like it could anchor you to something that still felt like home.

By the time your breathing began to steady, your body came alive with reality. You ached in places you hadn’t even felt the impact. Your skin prickled with heat and cold in turns, a clammy sheen sticking to your neck and chest. A buzzing sensation crept through your limbs, like your nerves were trying to fire all at once. Just the adrenaline wearing off, the shock.

But as you waited there and the silence thickened, your heart began to beat harder again, not with panic now, but with fear. Real fear. The kind that settled into your bones, the kind that felt like knowing. Where was Joel?

As if your prayers were suddenly answered, you heard the front door open, accompanied by low and steady footsteps padding through the front room. But then, that instinctual part of you that was responsible for keeping you alive shot a flare of panic through you. You clutched the blade tighter, heart thudding like a war drum in your throat. What if they had found you? What if they’d killed Joel and they were coming to finish you off now?

The footsteps were slow and uneven, floorboards creaking under their weight as they got closer. There was no voice, no words, just the echo of boots and the soft drag of an undeniable limp.

You saw the shadow looming closer to the doorway before his familiar, big, rough hand pushed the door wider and stepped through. He was looking down at the body on the floor, the blood that was pooling around it, before looking up at you.

Joel.

His shoulders filled the frame, blood smeared all over him as his face was drawn pale and utterly familiar. He held his hand against his side, cuts all down his face and neck from the fight. For one fleeting breath, your soul unclenched. He was alive.

But then he stepped forward, and your breath caught like a fishhook in your chest. Your spine went stiff.

“Stop,” you gasped, “Don’t— just stay back, don’t come any closer.”

Your hands came up between you like a barrier, shaking but firm, with eyes wide and glassy. His boots halted on the threshold, and for a moment, he looked like he’d been shot. Your pulse skyrocketed again, fear icing your veins and blood rushing to your ears. You couldn’t tell if the light headedness was from being forced to the ground in the attack or the panic that thrummed through you now.

“What—?” he began, stepping forward again, both of his hands reaching, open and supplicating.

“Joel!” you shrieked, scrambling and keeping your hands up, one with the knife still clutched tightly, “I said stay back!”

He stopped cold, breathing hard, and for a moment, something flickered behind his eyes, something more painful than all the cuts and bruises and wounds on his body. You wondered, then, if he remembered the way your voice echoed the same way against the walls when you demanded for him to let you go all those months ago.

How that felt like such a far, far away dream now.

Your chest heaved, skin feeling lit on fire, feeling like it was screaming, wanting to peel away from the inside. The adrenaline was fading, and what was left behind felt like flames in your blood.

“What happened?” he asked, void of softness and gentleness now.

You didn't answer.

Instead, you reached for your shirt, bloody fingers pulling at the collar, and shifted it aside.

His eyes dropped, and all the color drained from his face as he exhaled every ounce of air left in his lungs, “Oh, Christ.”

It was as if his entire demeanor crumbled in front of you. He remained standing, but his face fell into an awful, splintered, painful look of grief, so pure and immediate. Like the pain was so sharp it gutted the breath from him.

You watched, frozen, as he sank to his knees in front of you, looking at the angry, blistering red bite on your shoulder.

“Baby…” he breathed, voice cracking on the word. It nearly shattered you then and there.

“I’m sorry,” your voice broke, lips trembling as tears blurred your vision. You looked at him, at this man who had lost so much, survived despite it all, and fought so hard to feel again, now sat in front of you unraveling.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, a useless whisper, “Is Samson…?”

He closed his eyes, answering only in the way his jaw tightened, his head dropping forward with a silent sigh.

You let out a strangled sob, knees curling into your chest as it hit you all at once. The dog, the bite, the way Joel picked his head up and looked at you like he couldn’t bear to breathe without you.

He began to crawl forward, reaching—

“No!” you cried out, jerking back so violently your shoulder throbbed with pain against the radiator behind you.

“Please,” he said, breath stopping in his lungs, “Don’t do this.”

“Stay back Joel,” you warned again, voice stern and barely holding together, “I mean it.”

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

He shook his head as if trying to wake from a nightmare, eyes locked on you with that same desperate ache that once made you fall for him,

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you whispered, voice small and broken.

“I don’t care.”

He pushed forward again, steady and unstoppable, like he’d decided if this was it, he’d meet it holding you.

You shoved at his chest as he got close enough, dropping your knife with a clattering to the floor, “No! Joel, stop! I said no—I don’t want to hurt you!”

But he was stronger, always has been. And now his arms wrapped around you, holding you like he’d try to keep you tethered to him, to the world.

You still shoved at his chest fruitlessly, sobbing as he said, “Stop fighting me, please, baby, just—just let me hold you.”

He didn’t flinch against your weak punches, he didn’t move, just held onto you tighter, soothing you with soft whispers, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

You were shaking, every part of you trembling like your bones wanted to come apart when finally your hands stopped fighting him. Like whatever had sunk its teeth into you was burrowing into the deepest parts. But Joel’s arms never loosened, if anything, they held tighter, his hands splayed across your spine, touch heavy and grounding.

“Please,” you whispered, though you didn’t know what you’re asking for anymore. For him to go. For him to stay. For this to not be real.

But Joel just pressed his lips to your temple, to your hair, to the damp skin at your hairline. Again and again and again. His breath stuttered against your scalp as he kissed you like a prayer, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone.

“It’s okay,” he breathes, “It’s okay. I ain’t gon’ leave you.”

You let out another sob, quieter this time. Less wild, the panic still there, coiled tight in your chest, but it dulled beneath the weight of him, his body anchoring yours, his voice soft and sacred.

Your hands gripped the front of his shirt now, no longer pushing, just holding, clutching fabric like a lifeline as your head sank against his chest. His scent wrapped around you, that firesmoke burn, the smell of sun kissed leather and something undeniably him. The most familiar thing in the world.

You cried into him, hiccuping as his hands slid up your back, one cradling your head, the other splayed wide over your spine. He didn’t tell you to stop, to breathe. He just held you, steady and unshaken, as your whole world caved in.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, barely more than a whisper.

You lifted your eyes to his as your sobs slowly began to fade, your breath still stuck in your throat. His hand came to your face, cupping you so gently, so softly you almost started to cry again. Your hand came up in return, fingers red with blood, cupping his face back.

“I’m s–”

He shook his head, cutting you off, “‘Nough of that, please,” he whispered, hazel eyes pained and aged, “This ain’t your fault, baby. I’m sorry I wasn’t here in time. I should’ve…I could’ve…”

It was turn to cut him off, but this time you leaned up, kissing his lips so, so gently.

You pulled away just to meet his eyes again, and they glistened, but no tears fell from them.

“I love you.” you whispered.

His mouth pulled together in another tight frown, chin wobbling, his hand petting your hair over and over like he was trying to soothe the both of you.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” he whispered to you, kissing you back. His mouth was shaking, breathing uneven as his lips molded to yours.

He eventually lifted you off the ground, carrying you with the intent to make your way to the bedroom. But you stopped him suddenly as you came into the main room, your hand finding his chest.

“Will you…” you looked over at the chair, old and worn by the empty hearth, “just one more time.” you whispered.

His hands tightened around you, and he nodded, “Yeah, alright.”

He set you down, not before making sure the moth-eaten blanket was down so your knees were comfortable. He began to bring over the firewood, pushing it into the hearth and getting it lit. The warmth was welcome against your clammy skin, your blood beginning to heat and make your skin rise in goosebumps.

When the fire was lit, he moved to sit behind you, and called to you.

“Come here.” His voice commands. Though it’s…soft. Not cruel, not mean.

Not anymore.

It hasn’t been in a long time.

You move without hesitation, the old floorboards warm beneath your skin as you settle in front of him. The fire in front of you reminds you of everything that’s come before this. The first day, when every snap of the burning wood made you flinch, uncertain and raw. Of each quiet meal shared in the hush of survival, each pot of water boiled for a bath, a kindness, a ritual.

It glows now, steady and golden, casting both of you in ribbons of amber and shadow despite the afternoon sun still reaching through the windows. And for a moment, it feels like time has folded in on itself, like you're still there at the beginning, and somehow at the end all at once.

Joe’s old armchair groans when he shifts, knees spread, a hand already reaching. His fingers are warm and gentle when they gather your hair, undoing your braid. The brush is missing bristles after all this time, its wood worn soft.

He doesn’t speak. Just parts your hair, gently combing through it in slow strokes, smoothing it back from your damp temples as if this were just another morning, not the end of anything.

With each stroke, your body melts more and more. When the brush catches slightly on a knot near the base of your skull, to the side of your neck where your skin throbs and screams, you flinch slightly. Your breath hitches, the pain searing through you. Slowly, he pulls the knot free, keeping your locks away from your shoulder, and you exhale, your eyes locked on the flames.

When he finishes, you don’t move right away. Just sit with him in the hush, the fire casting flickers of gold across your faces. Then, quietly, you turn toward him, not yet reaching, though every part of you aches to.

“Joel,” you say, soft as breath.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are fixed on the fire, like he’s been staring into it for years.

Then he blinks and looks at you with silent reverence.

“You promised me,” you murmur, voice tight with everything you’re afraid to say. “You promised that if—”

“I know.” His voice breaks like a snapped branch. Just those two words, and already it sounds like the weight of them might crush him.

That’s when your hands move. Shaking, you cup his face, thumbs brushing over his thick beard, the roughness of his face. His eyes shut hard, lines deepening across his face as if he’s trying to hold something back. His hands find your hips, pulling you closer until you’re leaning into him, flushed against his chest.

You lean in, resting your forehead to his, and for a beat, neither of you speak. There’s just breathing—yours fast and shallow, his slow and unsteady.

“There’s so much you don’t know,” he whispers, “so much I could’ve shown you. I should’ve taken you away from here when we had the chance, taken you far—”

You kiss his lips gently, only brushing against him to silence his anguish, “Stop,” you whisper, “Everything you’ve done, everything we’ve done…it’s been…I never thought I’d have a life like this Joel.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, pulling you into him completely, his head tucking into the crook of your neck. After a moment, his hands wrap around you, and he lifts you into his arms.

You curl into him automatically, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you. Your cheek presses against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as you breathe him in. Sweat, firewood, the faint scent of your soap still lingering in his shirt from the last time he washed it. The smell of home.

He carries you to the bedroom upstairs and lays you down like something sacred, like setting you down too fast might shatter you. The covers rustle around you as he tucks them in tight, one hand smoothing over your arms, your chest, as if he could keep everything from unraveling if he just holds you close enough.

You’re trembling now—harder. Your skin burns, sweat trickling down your temples despite the way your teeth chatter.

He slides in beside you, wrapping his arms around your shaking body, cocooning you in the warmth of him. The way your body interlocks with his, chest to chest, belly to belly, your arms around his waist and his around your shoulders, your head between his jaw and shoulder. It couldn’t be coincidence, could it? You were meant for this. To be here, with him. To be held by him. Like your bodies had always known how to find each other, like they'd been waiting their whole lives to remember.

And for a few minutes, there’s nothing but silence. His heartbeat thuds steady and strong where your palm rests against it, your breath stuttering in your chest.

But then the dizziness starts.

The edges of the room blur. The floor tilts. You shut your eyes tight, trying to force it away, but it doesn’t stop.

Joel feels it and he shifts, hand sliding to your cheek, tilting your face toward his. “Hey. Hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”

You try to speak but your tongue is heavy and throat thick. “I feel…” you breathe, voice shaking as you shake your head, “something’s happening.”

Your eyes flutter open, vision swimming, but he's right there, face close, eyes wide and scared.

“I can feel it,” you whisper.

Joel swallows hard. You can see it in his throat the way his jaw clenches, his hand flexing against your back like he’s bracing for impact.

“You have to,” you say, voice breaking. “Joel, you promised.”

“I–I…” he says, the words stuck in his throat.

“I can’t be one of them. I won’t. I won’t hurt you.” You try to keep your voice steady, but it fractures, your lip wobbling as tears rise fast. “Please.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you, his face lined with pain, his mouth pulled tight like he’s holding in a scream.

“I always wondered,” you whisper, “how much of the person is still in there. In those first moments. When they’re still… runners. The way they sound, Joel…when they’re screaming and crying while tearing into someone. Do you think it’s the real them in there? Watching it all?”

Joel shakes his head slowly, his eyes steady on you, “I don’t know,”

“If I turn… if I see myself hurting you… if I know it’s happening and I can’t stop it—” Your voice cracks and you cover your mouth as a sob punches out of you. “Don’t make me live through that, Joel. Please.”

Tears stream down your cheeks, warm and silent, soaking into the pillow beneath your face. You don’t even feel them anymore. Your whole body is pulsing with heat, the fever blooming beneath your skin like wildfire.

Joel doesn’t speak right away. He just pulls you into him like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together—his arms crushing around you, chest to chest, heart to heart. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to commit it all to memory.

“I won’t let nothin’ happen to you, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, shaking, lost. “I promise. I promise.” It sounds more like a prayer than a vow. Like he’s begging God for more time, even though you both know it’s run out.

Your body shakes in his arms, but slowly, the violence of your cries dull. His warmth seeps into you again, grounding you for just a few more moments. Just enough to open your eyes and look at him, your lashes heavy, breath shallow.

Your voice is barely more than a whisper when you say it for the second time.

“I love you,” you whisper. “I don’t say it enough. I didn’t tell you how you saved me—how much of my life has been because of you. And I want you to know... even after everything, even now—I’m yours. I’ve always been yours, Joel.”

His throat works, his eyes shining. He nods, just once. Like that’s the most sacred thing he’s ever been told.

“And I’m yours,” he says in return.

You both fall quiet again.

For a moment, there’s peace. Just the rhythm of Joel’s hand on your back. The warmth of his chest against yours. His mouth brushing your forehead, your hairline, the corner of your eye. He kisses you like he’s trying to chase the sickness from your skin, as if he could just hold onto you hard enough, it won’t take you.

Your breath stutters. The heat becomes unbearable—coiling in your stomach, your spine, spreading through your limbs like liquid fire. Your fingers twitch, and at first you barely register it. Just a flicker, a reflex.

But Joel goes still.

You feel the shift in him. His breath catches, his hand falters.

Another twitch. This one stronger as your arm jerks, your leg following. Your muscles pull in ways you’re not asking them to.

No. No, not yet.

You force your eyes open. The room spins and blurs around the edges, but Joel’s face is there, close and stricken. Your vision swims, but you find him. You always do.

“Joel…” you whisper. It comes out garbled, slurred, like your mouth doesn’t quite belong to you anymore. You can’t stop shaking. Your hand fists in his shirt like an anchor, like maybe he can keep you here if you just hold tight enough.

His voice breaks as he leans in, as his hands cradle your face. “I’m here. I��m here, baby. I love you. I love you, I love you—”

Your limbs jerk violently. Your jaw tightens until your teeth grind. Your head lolls forward, then back. A low groan builds in your throat—not yours, not really, but it comes from you all the same.

Still, you feel him. Hands on your face, his lips at your temple.

“I love you,” he’s whispering, again and again, panicked now, broken. “I love you, I love you—”

You try to find him again. Just one more time. Your fingers claw weakly at his shirt, but you can’t see his face anymore. Can’t see anything through the blur and fire and blood pounding in your skull. There’s only heat, only screaming inside your veins.

You don’t hear the whisper of metal against cotton, the shift of weight as he reaches for his knife.

You’re somewhere else in your mind, through the fire and the heat. Lost in the noise, the tearing of your own mind. In the last fragments of what made you you. Like sinking below the surface of a lake in winter—frozen on top, black and endless underneath. Your mind is a room with all the windows shattered, wind howling through the broken panes. You're still there, somewhere in the wreckage, but your body is a distant thing, just meat and memory.

But you can hear him, from somewhere above the frozen ice in your mind. Joel’s voice moves back through the static like warm water through it, slow and thick, muffled at the edges but still his. Still him. It trembles, low and wrecked, but it reaches you, finding some last corner of your mind not yet taken.

“You’re okay. You’re so good. So good, you hear me?”

You think you try to nod. Maybe you do.

“I love you,” he says, as if it’s the last time he’ll ever be allowed to speak it aloud.

“I got you. I got you.”

You want to tell him it’s okay. That you’re not scared anymore. That he made this life feel like something real. That even if it was short, even if it ends here, it was still worth it. Because it was him.

But you can’t. Your lips won’t move.

And his voice starts to drift, the edges blurring like it’s being pulled back into that darkness, that lake.

Then, with a quick pressure to the back of your skull, there was nothing.

No darkness.

No light or sound or warmth.

Nothing.

As if someone pulled the cord to the stars.

taglist: @orcasoul, @ilovetoomanymen, @niceforcum, @glaszdoll, @therewastherewas, @axionn, @aleariixx, @izzy698, @shivispunk @demonsasss, @pedropascalsbbg, @urlivingdeadgirl, @televangrl, @mani-pedro, @erska777, @samarav, @levlli, @harriedandharassed, @tomie-it-girl, @streamermattsgf,@uravitsy, @lostinthestreamofconsciousness, @umadirectioner, @quistals, @cinnxmxngxrl, @ithinkimaslutforharry

#that house in nebraska #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller angst #joel miller tlou #joel #joel x you #joel x reader #joel miller that house in nebraska #ethel cain #a house in nebraska

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dykeforhire · 24 hours ago

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emily strap headcanons?? pls and thank u mwah

Strap Headcanons | E.P.

[NSFW]

pairing: emily prentiss x reader

masterlist || ao3

a/n: writing this whilst I wait for the new CME episode to come out… might add more idk… MWAH

Giving

One thing about Emily Prentiss, that woman knows how to handle a strap-on.

Her motion is INSANE. She has a super strong core and that aids in her very fluid motion. She can easily switch between slow and gentle and quick and rough.

She loves fucking you in missionary, mainly because she loves folding your legs up, and hearing the sound of her hips against your thighs, that and the way your face scrunches up every time she hits that perfect spot.

She loves it when you ride her, loves watching your body writhe, the feeling of the base rubbing against her. She also loves pulling your torso down and fucking up into you, she adores the sounds you make and how limp your body goes.

She also loves it when you suck her cock, or give her handjobs. It makes her feel really good when you treat the toy like a true extension of herself, that and incredibly aroused.

I feel like her strap wouldn’t be too crazy. A solid 6-7 inches, slightly girthy (just enough to give you that delicious stretch), and definitely an unnatural color like pink and sparkly or at least straight black. She spent good money on a super nice harness too, definitely some fancy polished leather.

Recieving

When Emily is on the receiving end of your strap, she turns into a sort of minx. She is so effortlessly sexy, and the way she slinks over your body, taking the toy in her hands, guiding it inside herself—it’s too much.

She loves taking your strap from behind, letting you pummel her into the mattress, hold her arms behind her back as she goes limp, letting you take control. She loves looking back at you over her shoulder, watching you with those half lidded eyes, rolling back every once and while when you fuck her just right.

She loves teasing you when you wear the strap, having you put it on just for her to sit in your lap nearly fully clothed, grinding herself along its length. She loves watching you react, its turns her on to see you so wrecked.

She’ll tease you until her panties are soaked through, then she’ll let you slip the panties to the side and press the cockhead in. She takes what she wants at her own pace, and you let her completely.

She’d love picking out straps together, picking out the perfect one for you to fuck her with. She loves exploring, different sizes, different shapes.

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss headcanon #emily prentiss smut #dykeforhire anons #dykeforhire fic stuffs

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bmwiid · 10 hours ago

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let me tell you this - being asked for things is great.

Better when its just kinda assumed that you'll help in a nice way.

For example- work events. Everyone knows I hate em. Everyone knows I don't drink and I'll leave early. Everyone knows I'm not shy in saying "I'm done with everything here, am out."

So when they roll around I'll have a couple people ask for a lift there. Why? So they can also leave at the same time. They don't ask me to be an out, they just assume at some point in the night I'll say "I'm leaving" and they can be like "oh no, Robyn is my ride home! I have to leave too, I'm so sad... byeee"

My boss (also one of my best friends) will say in a meeting - Robyn will be driving so anyone who needs a lift can go with them. Does she ask me if its okay? No. Because she (and others in the room) know me. I drive to events.

They know that if its a work event I can't leave (we have one every year thats like a big event with food and drinks and they put busses on for everyone to get there and back) that at one point in the night I will find a wee quite place and sit with a snack and headphones or play on my phone. I end up with a few people also chillin beside me because its a lot less pressure to join me than strike out on your own.

We might chat, I will always trade my drinks tokens for food tokens (last year you could only use drink tokens for alcohol, which was fucked up but they also had an icecream van and a churro van so... fair) so people will pop over for trades and quiet times.

Work friend needed help with cleaning the house she just bought. She asked if I could help. It was great. I felt awesome that she felt comfortable enough to ask me.

Let people ask you for help. Let people know you well enough so they don't have to even ASK.

“Oh boo hoo you shouldn’t ask your friends for favors we’re all adults”

I just spent three hours pulling up carpet and staples for a friend’s home renovation and we all did nothing but chat and joke and have wonderful conversation the whole time.

Helping somebody move or renovate or giving them a ride to the airport is functionally the same as going mini-golfing or playing a board game: it’s an activity that you do that is made more fun by having good company, and which provides something to talk about when the conversation lulls.

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anonymous-dentist · 2 days ago

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The Corruption isn’t evil in the same way as it isn’t actually good, either. It’s a living organism akin to, say, a fungus. It just wants to live and grow and spread, and that isn’t necessarily evil; it’s impossible to judge it by human senses of morality because it isn’t human.

But it is important to remember that every single member of the former Kingdom of Null besides trLukey was either killed by the Corruption and its Calamities or corrupted and turned into Keepers. And, with the Keepers, we’ve only seen the few who survived with their minds intact. Most lost their minds and were locked away for their own safety, and all of them lost their physical bodies and their voices.

And then there’s what happened with the dwarves and the giants. From what I remember, the giants became corrupted and killed off most of all of the dwarves on the server, making it two for two in civilization destroying.

And then there’s what it did to a certain few outworlders, trPangi especially. It probably sought him out as a host because he was kind to it before the End Fight, but attempting to bring it into the ‘family’ ended with him absolutely miserable before losing his memories and him debatably more miserable up to the point of him getting cured. It erased his memories and took out his eye. It tried forcing him to kill trLukey and trAimsey enough times that even Lifesteal Pangi was terrified of hurting these complete strangers. The way he described it, the Corruption was trying to erase him and turn him into just a puppet of it.

Granted, trAce and trAsh are pretty chill with the Corruption, but Ash doesn’t remember anything but being corrupted and Ace is corrupted down to his very soul. The Corruption treats them both well, but also? Huge potential of it doing what it did to Pangi and making them accept it?

If anyone has heard of The Last Of Us, they know that there are types of fungus in the real world capable of biological ‘mind control.’ Is that evil? Not really, that’s just how those organisms have adapted for survival.

But when the Corruption has been shown to be capable of this kind of mind control- in a literal sense this time, how can we trust what it’s saying through trBad that it really isn’t that bad? It isn’t evil, yeah, but that doesn’t mean that it’s as harmless as it wants people to think it is, either. Whether it means to be or not, it has hurt people. Entire civilizations are dead. While that might just be a means of survival for the Corruption, it’s also a bunch of reasons for people like trLukey and trAimsey and the dwarves to hate the Corruption and what it does. People they loved are dead or seemingly being puppeted around by a sentient world-destroying parasite who, in its loneliness, has adapted itself into becoming something that will destroy the entire world in order to stop feeling so alone.

#the realm smp #guys it isn’t evil it isn’t good it’s a mushroom #it’s a bastard mushroom

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litsenn · 2 days ago

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Safe touch

Pairing: Astarion x reader [no gender mentioned] Word count: 1.7K Summary: Astarion is starting to have a panic attack, will you find a way to help him? Read it on AO3

Jaw clenching, alarmed eyes, trembling lips; Astarion isn’t feeling alright. And you, you recognize the first signs of a panic attack.

Approaching carefully, you try to catch his gaze with your own, but it’s shifty, elusive. You know it would be pointless to ask him how he feels.

“Astarion? Maybe you should try to breathe slowly.” You suggests in a gentle whisper.

“I don’t need to breathe.” He snaps, his voice hoarse, bitter, and his fists clenching at his sides. You can almost hear the heavy, painful lump growing in the back of this throat.

You don’t recoil. You’re not letting him down now, but you know you have to proceed carefully.

Your chambers in the Elfsong Tavern are awfully quiet. The other companions are downstairs, and you’re both supposed to join them. But you already know it won’t happen this evening.

“You might not actually need it, but sometimes it helps.”

Astarion shakes his head, his movements sharp. The wince on his face, filled with fear and anxiety, breaks your heart. You never saw him like this before, but you should have expected this to happen. After all, you’ve been back in Baldur’s Gate a few days ago only, and after the spawns’ intrusion the night before, you can’t expect Astarion to feel serene.

You need to be patient with him, and you will. He needs you to be patient.

The tension between the two of you is so heavy you can almost feel its weight on your shoulders, but it won’t stop you. You slowly walk to the bed behind Astarion and sit down on the edge. He observes you from the corner of his eyes but doesn’t make a single move.

“Please, sit with me, Astarion.”

No answer. Your heartbeat quickens with anticipation as you silently beg for him to accept.

After a moment that feels like an eternity, Astarion finally turns around hesitantly and makes a few steps toward the bed. His features are still tense, but they’re also imbued with a disarming vulnerability. You give him a gentle, hopeful smile. When he finally closes the gap between you and sits at your side, his body is still agitated with tremors and he refuses to look you in the eyes.

With great care, you slowly reached out for his hand. As soon as your skin touch, Astarion freeze for a second, before relaxing slightly just enough to let you rest your fingers against his knuckles. Your touch is light as a feather, barely brushing along his fingers. A gentle presence, but not an overwhelming one.

Your eyes never leave his face as you start to take long, deep breaths, quietly encouraging him to mimic you. He hesitates again, frowning as he watches your chest rise and fall rhythmically, the sounds of your breath like a soft music only he can hear. He opens his mouth but doesn’t speak. He breathes. You nod. One inspiration after another. He struggles to match your rhythm but eventually aligns his inspirations with yours. You’re breathing in synch, and you can easily see him relax, if only a little. Shoulders slouching slightly, his eyes finally finding yours. The moment feels precious, sacred almost. For a few long seconds, only the two of you exist, your featherlike touch on his hand, the air that passes between you, the melody of your synchronized breathing. You want to tell him it’s going to be alright. You want to tell him he’s safe. But you know words, right now, are meaningless. Your silent promises carry more truth than any grand declaration.

Another sparkle of relief rises in your chest as you feel his fingers react gently to your touch, intertwining with yours. You give a little squeeze, and he gives you sad smile that touches your soul so deeply you could have wept about it.

Breathing helps but Astarion is still unwell. No longer in panic mode, but clearly dismayed. His fingers are pressed against your palm, and another idea pops up in your mind.

Shifting slowly on the bed, you let go of his hand and sit against the bedstand. Astarion watches in confusion, a disappointed twitch of his eye as your hands part. Crossed-legged, you take a pillow and put it on your lap.

“What are you doing?” he asks in a raw whisper, as if rediscovering his breath was altering his voice.

“I’d like to try something with you, Astarion.”

He looks at you suspiciously, tensing up again.

“Nothing you’re not comfortable with!” You quickly add, desperate to reassure him. “Whatever happens, say the word and everything stops.”

The look on Astarion’s face is still that of suspicion, but you can already detect a few signs of curiosity in the way his lips curls, in the spark in his eyes. As for the tension in his body, that creeping anxiety, it hasn’t receded but it’s under control – maybe too much.

“I’m listening.” He says, his sharp gaze following your every move.

“Would you rest your head against the pillow?”

His eyes widen as he watches you pat the cushion on your lap. “I don’t understand, darling. Why would I…?”

“Please, Astarion. Can you trust me with that? I promise I won’t insist if you don’t like it.”

He lets out a laboured sigh, gazes at the room around you, taking in the quietness of the moment but also the looming threat only he can feel as the night falls upon the city.

You wait silently, until Astarion finally decides to lay down. Resting on his back, his head against the soft pillow, he’s looking up at you. Now you can feel the little tremors in his tensing muscles.

“Thank you…” you whisper, and you mean it. You’re grateful for his trust, for his willingness to give you a chance. “I’m going to touch your hair. Nothing more.”

A sarcastic chuckle leaves his lips. “And why would you do that, darling?”

“Try to relax, please. And let me know if anything feels wrong.”

He shrugs but keeps his eyes on your face. The pressure of his head against your lap is somehow comforting. It’s the first time you see his face from this perspective, and he looks as handsome as usual, albeit the anxiety still haunting his features.

“This is ridiculous.” Astarion winces, obviously unconvinced.

You don’t pay attention to that last remark, moving your hands instead, putting your fingertips against this scalp. Your touch is careful, and you watch Astarion closely, observing his reaction. The vampire spawn doesn’t react immediately, waiting for you to actually do something. Your heart is pounding hard, and you know he can hear it, feel it. You take the time you need to calm down.

When you feel ready, you start combing his silver locks with your fingers. His hair feels like silk, and you can’t help marvelling at its softness. Of course it’s not the first time you touch his hair, but you never really had the opportunity to focus on it before, to really appreciate how soft it is, to observe its luminous shine in the candlelight. For a short moment, you even forget to check on his reaction, your fingers gliding hypnotically through the silky strands.

When you focus on his face again, you instantly notice the change in his features; Astarion has closed his eyes in the meanwhile, the tension is slowly leaving his muscles, but there’s still a confused frown on his brow.

“Is it alright?” you ask hesitantly, as if afraid of his answer.

The nod he gives you is instantaneous, visceral. And it’s followed by a deep, content sigh.

You smile, you can’t help it, and you go on. You play with his hair, brushing ever so slightly against his scalp and forehead, your fingertips tracing his hairline down to his temples. Your nails aren’t that long, not after so many weeks of adventure, and some of them are even broken, but with the tip of them, you follow his hairline until your reach the nape of his neck. A gentle caress there at the top of his spine, and he shivers under your touch.

He’s smiling softly.

Your fingertips keep on travelling through his hair, combing the silver strands, and each time you brush against his ear, a little gasp escapes his lips.

He’s relaxing, progressively, slowly, but it’s working.

“Astarion…?”

“Hmmm?”

“May I touch your face?”

A moment of silence. His eyes are still closed but you can almost see the gears in his mind.

“Yes…”

Tilting your head, you carefully place your thumbs against his temples while your index fingers begin to trace his jawline, gliding down to his chin ever so slowly. Then back up again, across his cheekbones, tracing soft patterns under his eyes and from the corners of them up to his forehead. With infinite care, you let your finger glide along his eyebrows until the frown on his brow finally vanishes.

“Does it feel alright?” You ask softly.

“Keep going, darling… please.”

Your heart skips a beat. Astarion is enjoying this, and so are you.

The whole world around has disappeared, you’re both tucked in your own bubble, safe and finally peaceful.

It’s like a dance, your fingertips on his skin, sweeping away the tension, leaving goosebumps in their trail as they follow the line of his nose, the line of his lips and the corner of his mouth. You can even see that Astarion is trying not to smile, and suddenly, you want to kiss those lips. But you don’t. Not now. This is not about kissing or groping, not even about flirting.

It’s something else. Something that needs no word, no explanation.

Just your touch, safe and soft against his skin, in his hair, and Astarion’s precious mind released from the growing panic that was plaguing it just a moment ago. His body, bruised and abused so many times, finally rediscovering what tenderness truly means, finally understanding that a foreign hand is not necessarily a violent hand. All fingernails don’t scratch and cut, some of them can caress and soothe.

Before long, his features look perfectly peaceful, the fears gone, for now at least. You soon realize that he’s truly resting. Not trancing. Sleeping. You wonder if he’s dreaming, you hope there will be no nightmare, but the slight smile on his lips doesn’t vanish, and you smile with him.

#based on a hc I have and which I didn't manage to actually explain #so here's a little fic about it #astarion #spawn astarion #my writings #my stuff #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 fic #astarion fanfic #astarion hc #astarion x reader

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elfwreck · 2 days ago

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This stems from, in addition to the constant problem of "everyone wants to get out of work they don't need to do," the major problem with most modern education systems:

They grade on correct answers, not on learning.

Students are rewarded for handing in correct answers. Some answers are more subjective than others - there is no "correct" analysis of a movie they watched in class, but there are certainly wrong ones.

Students are not rewarded for learning the subject matter unless that also produces "correct answers" on homework and/or tests.

Every student knows other students who know fuck-all about the topic but have managed to produce Correct Answers via some trick - whether that's copying answers or stealing the test questions in advance or some neat algorithmic trick learned online ("tests by X company follow one of these three patterns of multiple choice...") or advanced bullshit talents for writing essays that sound coherent but say nothing. Or wheedling their way into extra chances, or just cramming hard the night before the test and holding all those facts in their head for 15 hours and not a moment longer.

And that's without getting into "his father's on the Board of Trustees so the school absolutely will not fail him." Not talking about corruption - just tricks to produce Correct Answers without knowing the material.

Every student probably knows someone who knows the material well - but cannot produce Correct Answers on demand, and is failing or close to it. From students whose disabilities aren't being addressed (can't read or write fast enough to fill out the tests on time; can't study in a noisy crowded room), to those whose home life doesn't allow them to finish homework, to those who are sick often enough that it affects their grades, to those who are brilliant and so bored they can't (or just won't) focus on the tests far below their level.

Most students figure out by high school that "get good grades" and "know the material" are two entirely separate skills.

And if they don't get a break from school before they jump into college... they carry that awareness to college.

Which also... utterly fails to focus on "learn the material" instead of "produce correct answers."

They know damn well it's cheating. But the penalty for cheating is not any higher than the penalty for not producing correct answers. It might even be less; getting caught cheating often comes with a do-over, do-better option.

And most of the people going into Nursing or Architecture or Psychology or Engineering, aren't doing it because they have an extreme passion for the topic and they really really want to improve other people's lives.

They have an interest in the topic - which doesn't lead to good grades on its own, regardless of how much understanding they have - and they want a career that makes solid money.

You get the career with good grades, not with understanding of the topic. The school's hope is that "good grades" are because of "understanding the topic" - but there's no direct connection.

ChatGPT just makes that gap wider.

The fix is not "ban ChatGPT for schoolwork" (Not because "we shouldn't ban it" but because it's a bad idea to pick impossible goals. Schools do not have the ability to remove access to ChatGPT. Action to restrict or end ChatGPT & similar apps has to be outside of the lens of "good for students.")

The fix is, "overhaul the education system so that grades are based on learning the material."

That's big, and it's an ugly fight. Among other things, it would mean disconnecting age from grade level. It means refocusing grade schools and middle schools on academics and removing some of their babysitter functions - in an era where those functions are essential to keep the economy running, because capitalism needs all the parents to be employees.

As long as grades are based on putting Correct Answers On The Paper, answer-generators that are 75-ish percent correct are going to be widely used.

The college fix is easy enough: More labs. More in-person, hands-on activities that can't be skipped. Make some of them essential for graduation - and make it so straight-A's in paper classes and D's in labwork raises a huge red flag and kicks off an investigation.

Of course, for that... colleges need to allocate space, time, and teachers to lab classes small enough for the teacher to understand what each student is doing.

And again, actual learning does not align with the goals of capitalism.

Right now, there's a few odd professionals here & there who cheated their way through college with ChatGPT or something like it. Watch for warning flags and be ready to switch if you catch them.

If the AI industry doesn't collapse in the next three years or so, in the next 5-10 we'll have a LOT of people with professional degrees or certificates that have a terrifying lack of comprehension of what they're doing.

Some of them will figure out pretty damn quick that they can't build bridges/assist at surgery/calculate a flight path etc. But of course they won't want to give up the career they've "worked hard for."

...They'll apply for inspector jobs. That's much safer for everyone, right?

ur future nurse is using chapgpt to glide thru school u better take care of urself

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 1 day ago

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isekai and in over my head.

chapter three │ there's no wiki for this.

it starts with you waking up in what might be a coma, probably isn't a otome game, and is definitely not your life. It ends with five dangerously attractive men forming an unofficial committee to keep you alive, loved, and under constant emotional surveillance.

ABOUT │ 2.3 k words. f!reader x 5 Li (non-romantic so far). slice of life.

TAGS │ isekai. for shits and giggles. flirting. banter. fluff. survivors guilt.

NOTE: wow. absolutely wow. i went in to this not expecting anything. just writing for my own sanity. and the fact that you guys love it this much? fuck this community is amazing. thank you sm for the support!

INDEX │ chapter one ✧ chapter two ✧ chapter three ✧

chapter three │ there's no wiki for this.

THE DOOR CLICKED...shut behind Tara with a chirpy, “Rest up!” and the second her footsteps faded down the hall, I dropped the smile I’d been holding like a tray of drinks that had overstayed its welcome.

One beat.

Two.

Then I doubled forward, bracing my hands on my knees, and let out a noise I can only describe as part whimper, part wheeze, part this-can’t-be-happening-to-me.

Because I’d done it.

I had successfully faked normalcy long enough to be left alone.

And now—I was alone.

In an apartment I didn’t recognize but was apparently mine. Sleek. Immaculately organized. Suspiciously dust-free. The kind of place that came scented like bergamot and quiet breakdowns. Stainless steel accents. Dimmable lights. Not a single dish in the sink.

I was standing in someone else’s life.

Someone composed. Someone capable. Someone who didn’t show up to their interdimensional apocalypse wearing bloodstained pants and one sock.

I stumbled over to the coffee table—real wood, glass top, coasters no one ever used—and collapsed onto the couch like a marionette whose strings had just been very politely severed.

A framed photo on the sideboard caught my eye.

I blinked at it. Once. Twice.

It took three full seconds to realize I was in it.

Me. Smiling. Positioned neatly between Caleb and Zayne. All of us laughing like we shared inside jokes and complicated history and the occasional brush with death.

Which, sure, might’ve been sweet—if it weren’t borderline existentially catastrophic.

Because I didn’t belong in that photo. Didn’t belong in this apartment. Didn’t belong in this story.

Not with them. Not here. Not like this.

I grabbed a throw pillow and clutched it like a life preserver. The silence pressed in, thick and padded, the kind that didn’t care how close I was to falling apart.

My legs wouldn’t stop twitching. My heart kept thudding like it was trying to get ahead of something. I couldn’t breathe without noticing how weird breathing had become.

I wasn’t panicking. Not yet.

But the runway was cleared. Engines on. Takeoff imminent.

I leaned forward, pulled the pillow tighter, and muttered, “Okay. Okay. Let’s think.”

Which was optimistic, really—considering half my brain was still screaming about Zayne’s jawline and the other half was building an isekai survival flowchart using crayons and fear.

I shifted the pillow to my lap and reached for the notepad I’d found earlier—tucked beside the bookshelf like a secret. Cream pages. Gilded edges. It looked far too expensive to be defiled by my nonsense.

Naturally, I grabbed a pen and got to work.

The Isekai Disaster Log. Title at the top. Underlined. Bold. Possibly cursed.

Step One: Identify Method of Entry. – Truck-kun? No. – Fell into a book? Also no. – Video game glitch? Closer… but there was no dramatic boss fight screen-suck. – Summoned by higher power? Still pending.

I tapped the pen against my lips, trying not to think about how unhinged this all looked—sitting cross-legged in someone else’s apartment (mine, technically, fictionally), scribbling genre tropes like a conspiracy theorist with a soft spot for K-dramas.

Because that’s what I was, wasn’t I? A placeholder. In high-waisted pants.

Next Section: Potential Exit Routes. – Defeat final boss → unlock return. – Earn true love → reset cycle. – Regain original body → body-swap reversal. – Die → classic dramatic reset (not ideal). – Confess truth → universe implodes?

That last one I underlined three times. Then drew a skull. Then a frowny face. It made me feel slightly better.

I tossed the pen aside and flopped backward into the cushions, arms flung wide like a swooning opera widow. The ceiling stared back—matte, pale, too sleek to be real. Probably had hidden heating vents and mood lighting triggered by emotional instability.

I blinked.

“Okay,” I said to no one. “Let’s say this is an isekai. Let’s say I got pulled into the body of the character I’ve played for years. Let’s say I’ve overwritten her like some cursed save file from hell.”

I sat up again—faster than necessary—and seized the notepad like it had personally offended me.

New Heading: Ethical Implications. – I stole her life. – I stole her wardrobe. – I stole her contact list, her unread messages, and—oh my god—I stole her men. – Her SSRs. – Her entire romance arc with the most devoted, animated, emotionally generous love interests ever coded.

I scrawled across the page: I AM THE PROBLEM. IT’S ME.

Taylor Swift would be ashamed.

Some small, rational part of me whispered, It’s not like you meant to. You didn’t hit “Steal MC Identity” in the settings menu.

But that part was quickly drowned out by a louder, nastier voice—one that sounded suspiciously like the YouTube comment section under a spoilery reaction video:

You’re ruining the canon. They loved her, not you. You’re breaking the story. You’re just a fan with access.

My throat tightened.

I reached for the water bottle on the counter, then stopped. It wasn’t mine. Nothing in here was mine. Not the framed photos. Not the notes in my inbox. Not the half-unwrapped gift on the kitchen island with a tag that read:

Don’t open until tomorrow – C.

I didn’t even know if C was Caleb or someone else entirely.

The guilt settled in my chest like a paperweight—heavy, cold, polished by years of fandom, lore, and longing.

I was a reader who’d fallen into the game.

But I wasn’t supposed to edit it. I was supposed to cheer from the sidelines. Cry when the confession finally happened. Not be the one getting tackled mid-battle by Caleb or scanned under sexy-doctor scrutiny by Zayne.

I pressed both palms to my face.

What if I couldn’t leave? What if this wasn’t temporary?

What if I was stuck here forever—playing the part of a woman who had earned every bit of love this world gave her, while I just flinched every time someone touched my shoulder?

My hands dropped. I stared at the notepad.

Pages torn. Corners dog-eared. Ink smudged by my own uncertainty.

A new plan began to form.

Not an exit strategy. That wasn’t coming anytime soon.

But a coping mechanism. A survival guide. A soft reboot.

If I couldn’t leave—if I was here for the long haul—then I would be so nice. So harmless. So deeply inoffensive that if the real MC ever came back, she’d look at my log of wholesome side quests and say: Wow. You really took care of my save file.

I nodded to myself. Out loud.

“I’ll smile more,” I told the wall. “I’ll bake muffins for Caleb, even if I nearly die turning on a space-age oven.”

And above all?

I would say nothing.

Not one syllable. Not a single whisper about who I really was.

Because this world had rules.

And I had read enough manhwa to know exactly what happens when you break them.

Best-case scenario? Narrative collapse. Worst-case? A tear in reality. Everyone dies. Caleb cries. The End.

So I was going to be good.

Like, really good.

I was going to smile at everyone like I’d graduated top of my class at the Hunter’s Association Charm Academy. I’d say things like “great teamwork” and “thank you for your service” with such radiant sincerity that even Zayne would log it as medically viable.

I’d become the kind of woman people described as “so lovely” and “just a joy” and maybe even “strangely polite given the circumstances.”

With that sacred vow in place, I folded the notepad shut, gave a resolute little nod, and stood.

Immediately tripping over my own foot on the way to the sink.

Because grace, it seemed, was not included in my starter kit.

Still, I rinsed my face. Brushed out the knots in my hair with something called an ionizing detangler. Changed into a pair of sweatpants I prayed were actually mine and not something the real MC had once emotionally bonded with. Every motion was deliberate. Precise. Good girl on her best behavior.

I was going to pass for normal if it killed me.

Which, frankly, it still might.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Polite. Almost apologetic.

I froze mid-sip from a pastel mug that read: Hunters Do It Better.

One gentle knock. Then another.

A beat. Then—

“Your lights are still on.”

The voice was deep. Calm. The kind of voice you’d hear during a power outage and just trust. Familiar, too—like velvet cut with steel.

I crept toward the door like it might bite.

Then—

“It’s Xavier.”

My entire soul left the chat.

No. No-no-no-no—

Because Caleb and Zayne coexisting in the same timeline made sense.

But Xavier?

The quiet, lethal swordsman with the voice of a lullaby and a gaze that could skewer you into next week?

That meant—

Oh god.

That meant they were all here. All of them.

Not spaced out by chapter unlocks. Not split across plot branches. All. Together. In canon proximity.

I flung the door open more out of panic than purpose.

Xavier stood there like a moodboard come to life—hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair slightly tousled, expression unreadable. One hand in his pocket. The other holding—

A thermos.

He blinked, slow and unbothered.

“I saw your lights.”

I nodded. Then realized I was nodding like a socially anxious bobblehead and stopped.

“I—yeah. Lights.” I cleared my throat. “They’re… on.”

Another blink. Another pause.

Then, tilting his head just slightly:

“You okay?”

Which, to be fair, was a complicated question.

Physically? Fine. Mentally? A patchwork quilt of anime tropes and impostor syndrome. Spiritually? Somewhere between “lost in a cutscene” and “actively dodging God’s gaze.”

“I’m great,” I lied. “Perfect, even.”

He gave a small nod—slow, deliberate, as if filing the answer away in a database for later review.

Then he held out the thermos.

“Chamomile.”

My brain short-circuited.

Because nothing in the romance route prep guides—nothing in the character notes or fandom wikis or fan-translated interviews—had ever warned me about this.

Not quiet night visits. Not sleep tea. Not the soft weight of care wrapped in a mundane gesture.

“Oh,” I said, brilliant as ever. “Thanks. That’s… nice.”

“I can stay.”

He said it without drama. Without loaded meaning. Just a simple, solid offer, like staying was something people just did when they noticed someone might need it.

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Then, very, very dramatically—

Shut the door.

Because this world didn’t make sense.

Because if Xavier was here, calm and lethal and handing out herbal tea like it was standard field protocol—

Then Sylus might be next.

And Rafayel.

And if that happened?

I really would die. Right there. On canon soil. Of romance-induced heart failure.

From the other side of the door, his voice came again—low, steady, perfectly calm.

“If you change your mind…”

I didn’t answer.

Just leaned my forehead against the cool wood and whispered, half to myself, half to the devs:

“Fucking hell, InFold. Are you trying to murder me?”

I stayed like that for a while.

Just breathing.

Forehead pressed to a door that had no idea how high the stakes were. That didn’t care about timelines or fan theories or character routes or the logistical nightmare of making muffins in a kitchen where you didn’t recognize the knives.

The air on the other side stayed still.

Eventually, footsteps.

Not angry. Not impatient. Just quiet.

Xavier didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t knock again. He simply left—offering space like someone who understood the weight of silence and had no desire to fill it.

Which was kind, really.

And also maddening.

I peeled myself off the door like a sticker someone had given up on and slumped back into the living room, thermos still in hand. The tea was warm—floral, faintly sweet. It tasted like a lullaby I hadn’t earned.

I sank into the couch and stared at the ceiling.

Plain. Elegant. Ambivalent to my suffering.

“I’m in a dating sim,” I muttered.

It wasn’t a revelation. More like a Google Maps reroute: You are here, even though I’d known for hours because nothing around me had changed. Except here, the landscape was made of heartbreak rendered in high definition, elite military uniforms, and a doctor who looked like the human embodiment of a soft-focus lens.

And they were all in love.

Not with me.

But with her.

The one who belonged. The real MC.

I looked down at my hand—the same hand Caleb had held, Zayne had examined, Xavier had offered tea to—and curled it slowly into a fist.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered. “But I have it.”

So maybe I couldn’t fix it. Maybe I couldn’t undo the weird narrative tumbleweed that rolled me into this story. Or explain why no one could see through me. Or how I’d managed to fall face-first into the Super Bowl of boyfriend content without so much as a strategy guide.

But I could survive it.

One kind gesture at a time.

I would become the world’s politest interloper. The most considerate impostor. The human equivalent of a please and thank you wrapped in seasonally appropriate gift wrap.

I would make muffins. I would compliment everything. I would be so pathologically nice that if the universe did collapse, it would at least whisper, thank you for your service on the way out.

And I would say nothing.

Not to Caleb. Not to Zayne. Not to Xavier. Not to Sylus or Rafayel or anyone else who might appear in this dimension like it was just another Tuesday.

No world-breaking honesty. No selfish confessions. Just saintlike patience, passive support, and possibly chamomile-induced enlightenment.

“Okay,” I exhaled.

I curled into the corner of the couch, clutching the thermos like it held divine answers.

Lights still on. Ceiling still boring. Tea still warm.

“I can do this.”

Beat.

“I think.”

To be continued...

♡ taglist : @spicypomegrana2 @asilaysdead @sunshine-angel08 @demon-master-zero @mosscoveredmist @glassandhoney @adrasteiax @mentaltrouble2201 @inutrasha94 @aweebs @noxus123 @in-a-far-away-land @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

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devswritingcornerorsmth · 2 days ago

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Can I get like a familial or platonic headcanon with Dorian? Like yeah he’s fine but he’s also like my dad fr fr trust

you are so real for that anon congrats on such an amazing dad

i'll do both cuz its dorian and all love/like him

like always, these are my headcanons and personal thoughts! if you don't like them make your own! :D tumblr could always use more lol

Platonic Dorian/Reader Headcanons

familial at 'read more'! also more door puns sorry not sorry

= Becoming friends with Dorian was surprisingly easy, given his closed-off personality and behavior. He's a little open, making basic conversations and such, but you're the one who has to put in a little more work during the start of the friendship.

= It starts off with *very* simple hellos and hi's ending at one-word answers and responses, on his end anyway. Asking how his day was results in, again, one-word answers. But, in time, he slowly gives more information.

= Dorian is quick to realize you really do want to be friends with him and taking time out of your day, and a slot out of The Datviators proves to him that your feelings are genuine. He talks a little more when you greet him and eventually starts asking about your day or what you plan to do, depending on when you speak to him.

= After a few days, he asks you if you genuinely want to be friends with him and want to know about him. He smiles happily when you say yes and apologizes for being so closed off. Dorian admits that his past interactions with friends and lovers weren't the best, leaving him closed off and almost scared to talk about his real feelings, but you've proven to him that you can be trusted.

= You both talk about anything and everything when you can. He'll listen to your current hyperfixations or interests, asking questions about them or nodding along and listening. Dorian might not understand much if it's about an anime, TV show, movie, or something else in the latest times, but he'll try his best.

= Dorian is very smart and knows nine languages aside from English (according to his description on his page), so if you need help with history or a language class, he'll do his best. He won't give you the answers but gently lead you to them. Very patient and understanding if you get stressed or frustrated.

= He'll comfort you if he sees you feeling down, ask what's happened, and if he can help. He hates seeing his friends uncomfortable and sad. Dorian understands if you don't want to talk about it and just need someone to stay with to take your mind off things. If one of the objects in the house made you upset, he'll speak with them himself to try and work out what happened and get them to apologize for mentally hurting you. Physically is another story. If another human upset you, he may or may not let himself hit them on the way out if they ever come to visit.

= Overall, a great friend to have! Will comfort you in the worst times and celebrate with you in the best. Even when he's Realized, Dorian will try to take time to visit you now and then to make sure you're doing alright.

Familial Dorian Headcanons (Dad ver)

so i'm kinda making two here where you're an actual door like dorian and another where dorian is realized and has a kid with someone (me/j)

Door version!

= You are Dorian's only child, cut from the same piece of wood, leaving him a little (lot) protective. You are also a door, taking place in the kitchen, where a tiny Dorian should be, but he trusted you enough to get your own spot in the house after a while of preparing.

= Dorian is very hesitant once the human comes around, trying to romance everything, telling them to stay clear of you until he's figured out if the human is safe to trust or not. He tells you to stay silent and locked up, but it's your choice at the end of the day to talk with the new human.

= If you do talk with the new human, Dorian will be... disappointed but also a little proud for showing confidence and telling them they couldn't open you just yet. If you're nice, Dorian tells you to be safe and to not tell them too much about yourself.

= If you don't talk with the human, he's proud and tells you that you did a good job.

= Dorian doesn't want to smother you, but doesn't want you to make harmful mistakes like he did when he was younger. Yes, you can make mistakes, but ones that harm you would be too much for him to bear. He'd never forgive himself if you got hurt.

yea that kinda sucked sorry anyways onto the better stuff wahoo

Human version!

= Dorian never thought the day would come that he would have a child of his own, finding himself to tears as he holds you for the first time, promising himself to be the best dad and protector anyone could ask for.

= Once again, protective. Always checking in on you mentally and physically. Someone's bullying you at school? A stern talk to the parents and the principal is in order.

= He teaches you how to defend yourself both with words and fists. Dorian constantly tells you to try and use your words first and fists for last if things get ugly. If you use this to bully others or for evil, instantly grounded and disappointed; he taught you better than that.

= Onto a lighter note, he gives the best dad hugs. One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other placed on the back of your head, holding you close to comfort if you're having a bad day.

= If you are upset, Dorian sits down with you, offering his shoulder to lean on and an ear to talk. He'll listen and try to help you through your problems, offering solutions and answers. He will stay silent and listen if that's all you need, though. Will take you out for ice cream or sit down and watch Tv/a movie/anime/whatever with you to help cheer you up.

= Dorian goes into full protective dad mode when you talk about a crush or date, asking for their phone number, address, what they look like, SSN, etc. They will have to meet him first before anything official happens. He trusts you to an extent and only wants the best for you. He immediately tells you no if it's one of the objects from the player's house.

= If you get upset over this, and if you're old enough, Dorian tells you his own experiences with love, telling you about Keith and Reggie and what they did. He tells you that he just wants you to be safe and not have your heart broken like he had at one point. It's up to you if you want to understand him or not.

= Dorian couldn't care less about the gender of your partner. He does give you *the talk* when you're old enough and explains to you the birds and the bees... and the bees and bees. And birds and birds.

= On that note, if you tell him you want to transition and go by a different name, he'll support you 100%. It might take him a minute for pronouns and the name change, but know he's trying.

= At the end of the day, he's a father who loves you very much and is happy to have you in his life.

---

i was gonna put here that i was writing this at a reasonable time but i looked down and saw it was 2am lol

hope this was alright, not very good at familial/platonic so I'm sorry if i fucked it up

thank you for reading! mwah!

#devv's writings #date everything #date everything game #date everything dorian #date everything x reader #date everything dorian x reader #dorian date everything #dorian date everything x reader

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cloudbends · 2 days ago

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So. skip and loafer chapter 72 thoughts. lives were changed.

it's something i say endlessly, but what truly works so beautifully about shima and mitsumi's dynamic is that, first and foremost, its constituted on both of their genuine admiration and appreciation of each other as people, and as forces in each others' lives that make them strive to better themselves and become worthy of the other. i think their last interaction in this chapter encapsulates this perfectly on both ends.

shima, since the beginning of this manga, prominently never initiates physical touch. he simply doesn't do it with anyone other than mitsumi, and then when he very rarely does, it's in incredibly significant moments. given both of his social status that he sorely hates, and our newfound knowledge of his relationship with his mother, characterized by trauma of abuse, it makes sense - his wariness of physical touch crystallizes his wariness of showing vulnerability and exposing his true self to others. the first to come to mind is in chapter 11, when he grabs mitsumi's hand - it's a similarly sudden gesture that symbolizes shima's rare vocalisation of his feelings for her:

Considering these two moments are 60 chapters apart, it's incredible to see just how much both of them have grown. how shima's beautiful character arc culminates in fulfilling himself and letting his emotions out after bottling them for the vast majority of his life, and how coming to terms with his past and re-finding his passion allows him to come to terms with his feelings and act on them - because he finally feels like a whole enough person, worthy of the person he admires and loves. Shima had to have gone through his arc - open himself up on stage and gain some sort of closure from his mother, allowing to "be a kid again" as he ought to be instead of forcing himself to adopt the facade of maturity, in order to, for once, he acts on a whim - to show his genuine appreciation for mitsumi which he's only been able to internally ruminate over.

I think the significance of this gesture for mitsumi cannot be understated either. It's been established many times over that just as shima struggles with wanting to catch up to mitsumi, mitsumi has had similar feelings of inadequacy in comparison (see: "i always knew it was too much for me"), and it's been apparent that she's been somewhat walking on eggshells ever since their breakup. while of course mitsumi has self esteem and it's one of her great qualities, she is also significantly characterized by insecurities - thinking she wants to be important to shima one day, thinking, after the breakup, "of course this amazing person was never within reach for someone like me". which might make one insane given how absolutely important she is to shima. this is why she purposely chooses to shy away form approaching him at first, regardless of how mesmerised she's been by his performance - he's surrounded by people which, she assumes, are more important than her - and so she settles for staying in the back, but wishes to tell him how genuinely great he was. so in this sense, mitsumi is posited in a similar position to the one shima has been - they're both constantly struggling to become worthy of the person they admire. shima, having been so emotionally paralysed to the point he couldn't convey his feelings to mitsumi properly, probably fed into her subconscious feelings of his being out of her reach.

That's why that moment is so incredibly cathartic for both of their character arcs. shima, having finally come to terms with both his feelings and his past, is finally taking his turn to externalise his feelings like mitsumi did before, while mitsumi finally gains the appreciation and recognition she's been subconsciously missing. finally, they (hopefully) realize their outmost importance to one another - shima caught up to mitsumi not just in having fulfilled himself or (at least in his own eyes, as we all know he always was) being worthy of mitsumi, but also in voicing his feelings for her. and i'm so proud of him !!! the writing being so careful and nuanced around it just, yet again, shows the masterful understanding of human relationships in skip and loafer. i love these two so much

#vi rambling #vi.analysis #skip and loafer #skip to loafer #anyways im so normal. time to go stare at the ocean with my hands behind my back until august 24th #hope this makes any sense. had a great discussion with my skippies lito and maddie #also thank god for tsubame club because if ive had to sit with all of this by myself for more than a couple hours i fear i would simply #lose my mind and explode.#skip and loafer just.... is always so good. peak and loafer whatever

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miss-m-winks · 10 hours ago

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Yeah honestly, I just appreciate fantasy that puts thought into its world. I don't think every fantasy needs to go into detail about like, why there are potatoes there. A lot of the time, "potato" is also just an easy shorthand to tell the audience "starchy root vegetables exist here", like in LotR where a lot of the details you might consider anachronisms are very easily overlooked with the "this is a translation" explanation. And LotR makes that explanation work because of all the other unique details present in the worldbuilding.

The problems with anachronisms usually come in when they don't feel like they've been integrated well with the rest of the world. I can believe Hobbits have potatoes because of how much farming they do. Of course they've managed to breed their own starchy root vegetable they can call a potato. It's easy to picture them having every fruit and vegetable known to man, because they love food and they do a lot of farming. That's all it takes to make the potato and the cornfields fit into their world.

But if I'm reading a book set in a standard UK-ish middle ages/vaguely old fashioned time period, and out of nowhere they're using oranges as a casual common breakfast fruit, or coffee just shows up to be a regular morning drink, or cheap chocolate candy just exists now, all with exactly the same connotations they have in our real modern world, i find that weird. It throws me out of immersion.

I don't need the author to write a whole paragraph explaining where those things came from, but I am going to need a little more set up and a reason to feel like those details actually fit the world. They need to fade into the background, easily overlooked. If they stand out, they end up feeling weird. If your worldbuilding can't stand on its own enough for me to glance past the morning coffee, there's a problem.

I think the root cause is authors who just toss in details from their own modern life experiences without really considering whether or not it fits. They're not immersing themselves into the world they're writing, and you can kinda feel it. So authors just need to get into their own worlds and think about what it's really like to live there, and I think that fixes most of the immersion problems.

All it takes is a little description of a fantastical orchard and I can believe the oranges. Mention the import market and I can believe the coffee. Maybe give it a new cultural context while you're at it.

For the longest time I opted on the side of "no coffee, potatoes, etc" in fantasy writing, on the argument that if I was writing a pseudo-european medieval story, featuring elements brought to Europe by colonialism would imply the existence of colonialism, and if I was going to include that kind of elements, I could not just mention them casually, it would have to be a major theme of the story.

Then I scrolled past a post on tumblr specifically about "can you have potatoes in a fantasy setting for no reason" that had pics of Peruvian potato farmers and asked "are you really too much of a coward to not write these people into your stories?" (the tone was probably not that accusative, I paraphrase from my own perspective of this), and something clicked in my head, and this epiphany manifested in my head as Gordon Ramsay yelling

"IT WAS NOT THE FUCKING COLONIALISM THAT INVENTED THE FUCKING POTATO."

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jjwolves · 1 day ago

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This one might be a bit random so ignore if you wanna but how about DBBQ Ena having to “rescue” the reader(I.E. the reader encounters conflict and ENA has to come resolve it for them, or the reader gets lost in that cave we have to go through in the game for the taxi drivers’ heads or the pet that’s in there). And then ENA’s meanie side berates the reader for needing help all the time

Ω BIT DEFENDER Ω

What: 5 Headcanons of a Protective ENA the Worker X Reader

Who: ENA the Worker from ENA Dream BBQ

How Much: ~1300 Words, ~8 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G

Warnings: Language, Slight Violence

Well, this was it. After carrying this ball of the last 30 sacred silver rainworms through the compression gate, you and ENA were probably home free. She was far ahead of you with her own ball. You weren't looking forwards to ENA berating you over your comparatively slow speed, but you were also feeling motivated to get done quickly, if only to hear her smoothly compliment you by comparing you to her favorite office supplies. A skip over the shadow bridge and you were already halfway there. It's nice to have a job where the signs of progress are apparent: a straight line in territory you're familiar with. But there is one tiny detail you don't recall from your travels before. Occasionally, you hear a voice roll between the valleys, sounding like a cross between the chirp of a bird and a warbly voice. "Won't someone save a little me! Oh no, the depression strikes!" It sounds like someone might need help. Or perhaps a pep talk from someone who knows literally nothing about them. Feeling resolute, you start being on the lookout for alternative paths and the like which might lead you to this voice. The job could wait if someone was in real trouble, and besides, carrying boxes of worms was a little boring.

Not much time passes before you're able to hear the voice more clearly. You find a divot in the valley where metal fenceposts have been forcibly jammed into the walls, and you push on until you find the source of the odd voice: a conspicuous manhole cover centered in the middle of a small clearing. You ask the voice if it needs help, and the cover shifts in response. A small yellow head pokes up from the manhole, bearing a simple line as a frown. Sparse strings of hair fall over its face. "Ah, as someone finally heard the cries of the depression?" Setting the box aside, you crouch down in front of the stranger and say that you're considered somewhat of a professional when it comes to making people's days better, and besides, you needed a break anyway. The entity seems to consider this for a moment. Then, all at once, a disproportionately large claw shoves the manhole cover out of the way and a gigantic monster pulls itself out. It waves its fake "head" around on a stick as its torso opens to reveal a sharp-toothed grin. Before you can react, it's bearing down on you with a war-cry of "I feel better when I eat dessert!" You squeeze your eyes shut as you brace yourself for death, if it even exists here. Fact or fiction, you weren't too eager to discover it now that you were at its doorstep.

Hardly a needle, a hair, of time had passed before a sharp, sweeping edge had carved through the creature's body a hundred times over and turned it into sashimi. You hadn't had the presence of mind to even look behind you yet as the creature's faux head rolled over to you, face still contorted into a simplified frown. "You didn't tell me you were veggies." And just like that the head, too, was blown into confetti. Shakily, you gathered enough agency to swivel to your savior. ENA stood in place as the shreds swirled away on the wind, her face bearing a menacing scowl and a deepening shadow over her eye. You often called it "aesthetic" but most called it for what it was: danger. Her gravely voice rumbles out as she sticks you with her post-murder stare. She delivers a clipped rant as her surprisingly deadly handfan is returned to its pocket. "I got a lotta questions, and you're gonna answer them as soon as our little delivery is over. I nulled someone's contract today, so it's the least you could do." Your girlfriend begins manhandling you and forcefully steering you back onto the main path quicker than you can form an excuse.

It was a pretty long walk, filled from start to finish with icy silence. When you finally deliver the rainworm orbs, you don't feel as strong of a sense of completion as you'd expected. Maybe it's because the dangerous encounter shook you up... Or maybe it's because you know the real danger is on its way as soon as you and ENA finish the job. Not long after completion, ENA's voice is already bursting through her megaphone and hammering on your eardrums. "Is there a hole in your brain or something? I bet if a breeze flowed into your ear, your head would whistle! What is wrong with you?" Feeling a bit cornered, you bashfully mention that it sounded like someone needed help, and the job was getting boring, so you figured you could assist someone and take a break all at the same time. ENA's eyes narrow warily. "That sounds like something a goody-two-gloves-in-case-of-no-feet like you would do. I thought I said not to engage with outside conspirators, but you clearly disregarded my advice!" You retort and exclaim that ENA runs up to strangers all the time! "Yeah, and I can turn them into pixels just as easily! Make sure to hang that picture in your gallery if you even have one. Any other bugs in my programming we need to address or can I move on?" You nod sheepishly--there's not much to be added in the way of arguments. What you did was pretty reckless, especially since you were on your own. You owe ENA an apology, and admit as much. Her expression doesn't change, but her posture softens a little bit once you admit that you were being irresponsible. A clawed hand jerks your chin up and forces you to meet her stare. "Look, you need to be watching where you're walking from now on. I can't do shit if I'm going to be worried sick all the time because you can't keep your ass out of trouble. Am I understood or do I need to laminate this and tack it to your forehead?" Nervous, and also feeling kind of flushed from the contact, you blush. ENA's eyes widen in... Fury? Confusion? You're not sure. "Disgusting. I don't need a handwarmer! What I need is a functional partner! Reset! Reset!" You don't think it'd be wise to point out that she's blushing, too.

After that, while it's never brought up again, ENA never speed-walks ahead like she used to. At any point in time during your work, you can turn and find her matching your stride. When you ask why she's always directly next to you, she says, "Long walks like this can be such a chore. Now introducing: Me By Your Side! I'm looking for focus groups to test out this new product, so what do you say?" She smiles with crimson mischief, a sign that she's laying it on thick to get a chuckle out of you. It's very effective, five stars. "Try out our new product by talking to me or interacting with me. I think you'll find me to be in a very close spatial approximation to you. Long gone are the days of 'where is my sweetheart?' and 'help, I can't get this jar open'!" You laugh at her shenanigans before going quiet when you realize that there's some sort of secret entrance in one of the buildings you're walking past, with something shimmering inside. You go to look closer, but are distracted when ENA pecks you on the cheek and slings a suave arm around your shoulders to guide you further down the allotted path. She chirps apologetically. "Forgive me for the inappropriate public gesture of PDA (preventing dangerous accidents). An explorer invincible you are not, love." You return her romantic gesture with a kiss to the top of her head, and her arm returns the favor, jealously holding you away from the spiked rods and poisonous bones littering your path. You think you'll always be safe with someone like her around.

A/N: I'm trying to get back on the horse of like, making stuff and things. Sorry for the week-long vacation everyone. I know a lot of you guys like to read my stuff so hopefully I'll be able to get back into the groove of writing stuff which is fun to read. For now... Have this one, coming to you from the brink of consciousness! :o)

#ena x reader #ena fandom #ena headcanon #ena dream bbq x reader #dream bbq ena x reader #joel g ena #ena the worker x reader #ena the worker #ena dream bbq #x reader #imagine blog #imagines #writeblogging #writers on tumblr #writeblr #dbbq

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mrs-dot-kennedy · 3 days ago

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What if Henry met his very own muse? His very own Helen or Penelope? His soulmate. his constant. who is there for him always. Someone who truly understood who he is?

also? Romantic and fluff please. because…

*gestures at what’s happening with everything*

I loved this request! Slightly ooc Henry? Idk

Of quiet devotion-Henry Winter

There’s something about Henry Winter that unsettles people.

Not in the conventional sense — not in the way of stifled menace or antisocial awkwardness — but in that quiet, glacial intensity of a mind burning so cold it might as well be fire. You’d heard about him long before you met him. He is the sort of myth that travels faster than truth in a place like Hampden.

The Classics building is far from yours, but the walls talk, and the walls always talk about Henry Winter.

The prodigy. The recluse. The snob.

The genius with an umbrella for a cane and a mouthful of Homer.

The student who would tutors professors.

The boy who translated Catullus into German for fun.

But that’s not who you meet.

No. The Henry you meet is no myth. He’s worse — he’s real.

You run into him, quite literally, outside the east library at dusk. It’s raining lightly, just enough to cast everything in wet gold, and your satchel is too heavy, full of marginalia and Norton anthologies and pages of painstaking notes on Milton that may as well have been written in blood. You’re late. He’s early.

You round the stone arch of the library entrance, turning too sharply, and there he is. Tall. Stark. Damp around the collar of his dark wool coat, a book under one arm. His umbrella tilts just slightly, and in your scramble to not knock into him, you drop everything.

He doesn’t move.

For a moment you both just stare. You — crouched, hair clinging to your cheek, fingertips brushing the wet corner of your annotated Paradise Lost. Him — marble-still, eyes unreadable behind wire-rimmed glasses.

Then — a voice, dry and precise:

“You’re holding Book Nine upside down.”

You blink. And laugh, despite yourself.

“You’ve read Paradise Lost?” you ask, brushing rain from the cover.

He tilts his head. “In Latin, yes. Once.”

Only once. Of course.

You should be annoyed. You should think he’s insufferable. And maybe, in the tiniest way, you do. But something in you — something well-worn and brittle and too clever for its own good — curls toward him like a vine straining for light.

He doesn't offer to help pick up your books. Of course not. Instead, he watches as you gather them, as your fingers nearly tremble under the weight of wet paper and shame. But when you stand, he says your name.

He knows it.

Of course he does.

“Come,” he says then, with that quiet authority of his. “You shouldn’t be in the rain.”

You become a habit before you become anything else.

Henry is not the sort to fall — he allows. Permits. Resigns himself to what already seems inevitable.

And you — you are inevitable.

You appear in the corners of his days like a recurring verse. He begins to expect you: the way your fingers brush over the spines in the library’s poetry section, the whisper of your laughter in the quad, the way you fall asleep at the library table without meaning to, cheek pressed to your sleeve, pen still caught between your fingers.

He says very little at first. Henry is not a conversationalist. He does not dabble in small talk or exchange passing pleasantries — not even with you. But he listens.

He listens when you talk about Donne’s holy sonnets and the loneliness of blank verse. He listens when you dissect Brontë with surgical precision, when you confess how badly you want to translate Ovid’s Heroides as a thesis even though you’re “not in the department.” He listens to you read aloud. To your questions. To your silence.

He listens with the same reverence he has for Julian, and that is the highest honor he can give.

You learn Henry’s rhythms like you learn meter.

He does not smile much, but when he does — and it’s only for you, only ever for you — it is soft and so rare that it stuns you. He walks slower when his leg aches, though he will never admit it. His migraines arrive like storms, and when they do, he retreats. Withdraws. Says nothing for hours. You don’t ask questions when it happens. You simply stay.

You dim the light.

You bring tea.

You sit at the foot of his armchair and read aloud — Eliot or Pindar or even Austen, because he pretends to hate her and doesn’t — and when he finally speaks again, voice dry and pained, it’s only to say: “I can always hear your heartbeat.”

You don’t know what he means. You’re not sure he does either.

He never asks you to stay.

But you do.

When the cramps in his leg keep him from sleeping, you kneel on the threadbare rug in his apartment and press your fingers to the muscle just beneath his knee. You don’t ask. You simply watch for the twitch in his jaw, the barely-there tension that means pain.

“Too much?” you ask.

“No.” His voice is a whisper. “Continue.”

Your touch is gentle but firm, and when you ease the pain — slowly, quietly — he looks at you as if you’ve done something miraculous.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says once.

“I know.”

He never says thank you. That word feels foreign on his tongue. But he watches you like you’re a cipher he intends to study for the rest of his life. And if you leave — even just to brush your teeth or fetch a book from your dorm — he asks where you’re going in a voice too casual to be casual.

“You are,” he says one night, unexpectedly, “my Helen.”

You look up from your copy of The Iliad. “Because I might start a war?”

“No,” he replies simply. “Because I would burn a city to find you again.”

You begin to leave little things behind in his apartment.

Not on purpose, not really. It starts with a pair of reading glasses you didn’t even realize you had brought over until he places them on the table beside your annotated copy of Middlemarch, the bridge of them newly polished, as if he’s been keeping them safe. Then it’s a scarf. A mug. A faint trace of your perfume on his favorite blanket.

He never mentions any of it.

He just lets your things collect, lets your presence saturate the quiet rooms like dust in sunlight — inevitable, undisturbed.

Some nights, you sit on the windowsill while he writes, your knees drawn up, spine curved, your head against the cool pane of glass. The light catches in your hair. You never notice, but Henry does.

“You fall asleep like a child,” he tells you once, his voice low and unreadable.

“Sorry,” you murmur, shifting groggily, blinking.

“Don’t be.”

When you drift off, your fingers curled in the edge of his coat (you’d pulled it over your legs without thinking), Henry watches you for a long time. He doesn’t wake you. He only marks his page, closes the book with reverent care, and sits beside you.

He does not touch you. Not then.

He simply watches the rise and fall of your breath.

As if he’s afraid you might disappear.

Henry says he doesn’t like sweets.

But you’ve been paying attention.

You see the way his eyes linger on lemon tarts in bakery windows, the way he lets a square of dark chocolate dissolve slowly on his tongue as if he’s performing a sacrament. He never buys it himself. Never indulges in front of anyone else.

But you — you begin slipping them into your shared library bag. Macarons. Candied orange peel. Almond sugar cookies wrapped in wax paper. You never hand them to him. You just leave them there.

Sometimes he pretends he doesn’t notice. Sometimes they vanish without a word. And sometimes — rarely — he hands you half a sugar-dusted pastry without looking you in the eye and says, with painful formality, “This one was particularly good.”

Once, you bring him a slice of baklava from a Greek deli — from a trip out of state you went to with your friends. You find it days later — carefully wrapped, carefully hidden — still uneaten in a shelf of his fridge.

You confront him. “You didn’t like it?”

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he says, with a frown you can’t quite interpret. “It was… too thoughtful.”

Your laughter surprises you both. “That’s a ridiculous reason not to eat dessert.”

“You’d understand,” he murmurs, “if you were me.”

Henry doesn’t sleep much.

When he does, it’s uneasy. Fitful. Occasionally laced with murmurs in Greek. His dreams aren’t nightmares — not quite — but you can tell by the creases in his brow that they’re not kind, either.

So when he wakes with a sharp breath, spine taut and hand gripping the edge of the blanket like a man half-drowned, you’re already there.

You press a hand to his arm. Gently. Warm.

“You’re alright.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. Breathes.

You don’t ask what he dreamed.

Instead, you shift beside him in the narrow bed — both of you fully clothed, half-covered in notes and folded books — and rest your hand over his, anchoring him.

“I can’t remember what it was,” he says softly.

“That’s alright. I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And you mean it. You always mean it.

He doesn’t believe in soulmates. Or destiny. Or fate. Not in the romantic sense.

To Henry, fate is Greek — an unyielding moral logic that has nothing to do with love. Fate is Cassandra, fated to be disbelieved. Fate is Orestes, murdering for honor. Fate is suffering carried out with mathematical elegance. Fate is death, inevitable and absolute.

But then there is you.

And you are not tragic.

You are not symmetrical or prophetic or bloody.

You are soft flannel and ink-stained fingertips. You are the curve of a question asked at the right moment. You are stillness in a library carrel, the rustle of paper, the scent of old books and Earl Grey tea.

You are his — in the way the moon belongs to the tide — and he never expected you. Not here. Not in this century. Not in this life.

“I don’t understand you,” he says one evening. Not accusatory. Just quietly perplexed.

You look up from your Latin translation.

“Why do you stay?”

You blink. “With you?”

He nods, eyes trained on the polished wood of his desk.

You consider it.

“Because I see you,” you say finally. “I mean really see you.”

That makes him look at you.

“I see the way you hold yourself like you're two steps from collapse but won't let anyone know. I see how you quote Virgil under your breath when you're anxious. How your hands tremble when your head aches. I see how you wait for people to leave you before you ever let them close.”

He says nothing. His expression is unreadable. You can’t tell if you’ve gone too far.

Then, softly:

“Don’t ever leave.”

You reach for his hand.

“I’m not going to.”

And he doesn’t cry. Of course not. Henry Winter does not cry. But something in his face unknots, and in that moment you understand: this is what trust looks like, when offered by someone who has only ever relied on himself.

You are his constant.

Winter arrives like a cathedral bell — sudden, echoing, holy.

Hampden grows colder. Whiter. The trees stretch their bare limbs toward a colorless sky, and the snow falls soft and unhurried, like ash from a divine fire.

You find him, one evening, standing motionless in the middle of the quad, eyes skyward, snow clinging to his lashes.

He looks like something out of time. Out of myth.

“Hades in a wool coat,” you say quietly, stepping up beside him.

He doesn’t look at you.

“You’re late,” he says.

“For what?”

He shrugs. “Whatever it is we’re always doing.”

You smile. “You mean studying.”

“No. That’s not what I meant.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He never does.

Instead, he turns, holds out his arm, and you link yours with his. The snow keeps falling. You walk in silence.

The library is near-empty, as it always is this time of night. You settle at your usual spot: west-facing window, second floor, two cracked leather chairs and a small table between. You lay your books down. He lays nothing down — he never carries what he doesn't need.

You think he won’t speak again. That he’ll sit in his usual contemplative stillness, fingers steepled, eyes distant. But tonight he surprises you.

“I used to think people were unknowable,” he says, voice low, precise. “At best, shadows flickering on the wall. At worst, distractions. Temporary. Misunderstood.”

The snow drifts against the library window, soft and spectral. You sit beside him, knees almost touching. His fingers brush the spine of the closed book between you, idle, as if coaxing it to speak.

“I made peace with solitude a long time ago,” he continues. “I even mistook it for strength. Silence was structure. Coldness—control.”

A breath. Barely audible.

You glance up, but he’s not looking at you. He’s watching the snow outside, as if the answer might be written in the air.

“But then there was you.”

A pause. Not for drama — Henry doesn’t do that — but because it costs him something to say it.

“You didn’t ask to know me. You just… stayed long enough to see what no one else bothered to look for.”

Your throat tightens.

“It's disarming,” he admits, with a faint exhale. “Like hearing your own voice spoken back to you by someone who’s never heard it before and getting it exactly right.”

You don’t speak — you can’t, not yet — but your hand finds his, and he threads his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And somehow, it is.

Later that night, he reads to you in bed.

Your head is on his chest, the worn collar of his linen shirt brushing your temple. His voice is soft and unwavering, reciting Virgil in Latin, translating aloud only when you ask.

“…et si non aliqua nocuisses, mortuus esses,” he murmurs. “and if you hadn’t hurt him somehow, you’d have died.”

You tilt your head. “That’s morbid.”

“It’s the Eclogues,” he replies. “You’d be disappointed if it weren’t.”

You smile against his chest.

“You know,” he adds, brushing his thumb along the side of your arm, “I used to think all beauty was tragic. That all things worth loving had to end in destruction.”

“And now?”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Now I think… maybe some things are beautiful because they last.”

You don’t know if he means you.

But you feel the answer in the way his arms wrap around you — not possessive, not desperate — just sure.

Sure, in the way gravity is sure. In the way night always follows dusk.

Weeks pass. Months.

He remains as he is — strange, brilliant, sharp-edged — but with you, the edges soften. The cold thaws.

He still wears black, still quotes Pindar without warning, still speaks in riddles and gives answers that sound too rude. But now he holds your hand under the table in Julian’s office. Now he buys your favorite tea without being asked. Now he touches the inside of your wrist when you’re nervous, just lightly — as if to remind you: I’m here.

And when his migraines come — as they always do — he no longer faces them alone.

You draw the curtains.

You make the room silent.

You lie beside him, your forehead pressed gently to his shoulder, and wait. Just wait. Like you always have.

“I see you,” you whisper, when the pain lifts and his eyes finally open.

And he smiles — slow and rare and real — and whispers back:

“I know.”

#henry winter x reader #henry winter fanfic #henry winter #tsh fanfic #the secret history x reader #tsh donna tartt #the secret history

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lycheeflavr · 2 days ago

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Hiii i js stumbled into your blog and its superr cutee!! I really love your writing was wondering if you were open to wrote about Tsukishimaa? If not, its okay :))

Heiii, first of all, thank you very much, and also thank you for the request <3 yes, of course!! I honestly had so much fun writing this, also I didn't know if you would like some smut as well, so I added a little smutty bonus scene at the end. You can skip it, it doesn't really matter to the story :)) now I hope you have a lot of fun reading this!!

The Bones Beneath 🧢🐠

pairing: timeskip!tsukishima kei x GN!reader tags: slow burn (ish), mutual pining, coworker tension, art & science themes, tsuki being a secret softie, slight angst with comfort, banter & emotional closeness, confessions without confessing, fluff if squint, reader is an exhibit designer/artist, tsuki is an AV tech/paleontology nerd, almost love, quiet longing summary: You were never supposed to get attached to the quiet AV technician helping set up your fossil exhibit. He was there to wire the lights. You were there to make bones beautiful. But somewhere between late-night fixes, museum shadows, and cups of burnt breakroom coffee, something between you began to take shape—slow and fragile and maybe a little ancient in its own way. word count: 5.8k

Tsukishima Kei liked his hours quiet and his fossils older than God.

The museum opened to the public at nine, but he was always there by seven. The early mornings were his: no chattering tourists, no interns asking questions he didn’t care to answer, no toddlers smudging glass with sticky hands. Just silence, bones, and the low mechanical hum of the lights flickering to life row by row.

He walked the exhibit floor with a mug of instant black coffee and a clipboard he didn’t really need. The Tyrannosaurus rex stood tall in the center of the room, jaws frozen in a permanent snarl, ribs exposed like cathedral arches. Tsukishima paused beneath it every morning like it was ritual. One sip of coffee, one glance upward. The bones never changed.

That was the point.

He liked things that stayed the same. Fossils. Labels. Dust motes in the morning light.

At exactly 7:43 a.m., he opened his laptop behind the front desk — not where the general staff worked, but the tucked-away station he’d unofficially claimed. It had the best Wi-Fi signal and worst chair. He preferred that no one else wanted to sit there.

Emails loaded slowly. He sipped his coffee and scanned subject lines. One caught his attention, marked URGENT – EXHIBIT SUPPORT REQUEST. He clicked it without much enthusiasm.

To: Tsukishima KeiSubject: Visiting Artist Collaboration | Exhibit Support

Kei, You’ve been assigned as the museum liaison for our upcoming interactive exhibit, “Extinction Echoes.” The guest artist arrives tomorrow to begin work on the installation surrounding the T-Rex centerpiece. Please provide access and assist as needed — you’ll be their primary point of contact.

Let us know if you have questions. — Ms. Fukuda

He stared at the screen. Then took another long sip of coffee.

Artist, he thought, in the way someone might think pest infestation. They always asked too many questions. They moved things that weren’t supposed to be moved. They cared about aesthetics over accuracy, emotion over science. It made his teeth itch.

He clicked the artist’s attached bio and scanned the page.

You had a list of gallery credits longer than his patience. Installations in Kyoto, Seoul, Paris. Something about “immersive spaces challenging temporal experience.” He didn’t know what that meant and didn’t care enough to pretend. There was a photo of you attached — mid-laugh, head tilted back, paint-splattered hands. You looked loud, even in stillness.

Tsukishima closed the tab with a sigh.

This was going to suck.

He stared at the skeleton of the T-Rex for a while longer, like maybe it would offer sympathy. It didn’t.

Back to his feet, clipboard tucked under his arm, he continued the routine — checking casing screws, labeling touch-up requests in pencil. As long as you stayed out of his way, maybe this wouldn’t be a disaster.

Maybe you wouldn’t talk too much.

Maybe you’d cancel last-minute and spare him the headache.

He doubted it.

The fossils, at least, wouldn’t leave him unread.

The next morning, Tsukishima arrived five minutes earlier than usual.

Not because he cared. Just to set the rules. It was important that people knew their place in a shared ecosystem — especially the kinds of people who used phrases like temporal fluidity and wore too many rings.

The exhibit hall was still empty, the bones calm and familiar in the blue-toned light of early morning. He was mid-sip of coffee, debating whether he had time to finish it before the chaos arrived, when—

“Hi!” a voice called from the far end of the gallery.

He turned, already bracing himself.

You were a splash of color against the muted sandstone walls — all layers and movement. A long, oversized coat in a shade too bright to be taken seriously, mismatched socks barely visible beneath wide-legged trousers, a bag slung across your shoulder like it weighed more than you did. One hand held a battered sketchbook. The other, naturally, clutched a drink in a cup aggressively labeled LAVENDER MATCHA in bubble letters.

He blinked once. Then again.

“You’re Tsukishima, right?” you asked, walking toward him without waiting for an answer. “Sorry I’m early — I just couldn’t sleep last night, I was too excited. This place is incredible.”

He nodded once, clipped and formal. “I know.”

That stopped you for half a second. Then you laughed.

“Oh, cool. Confidence. Love that.”

He didn’t respond. Just turned and started walking toward the control panel, trusting you'd follow.

You did, footsteps echoing lightly behind his. “The bones are even more haunting in the morning. Kind of like they know they’re supposed to be asleep, but they’re still here. I mean, isn’t that sad? In a poetic way.”

“I’m pretty sure the skeletons don’t have feelings,” he muttered without looking at you.

“Well, someone’s a morning person,” you teased, grinning.

He resisted the urge to sigh. “I assume you read the layout brief?”

“I did, but I don’t do great with maps,” you said, flipping open your sketchbook and holding it up like proof. “I just take notes like this. Shapes, light impressions, space planning... it makes more sense to me.”

He stared at the mess of charcoal strokes and layered watercolor swatches that resembled absolutely nothing useful.

“This is your system?”

“Mhm.”

“It looks like a bird flew into a window and died.”

You snorted — actually snorted — and Tsukishima narrowed his eyes.

“Wow,” you said, grinning. “Are you this charming with everyone, or am I just special?”

“I’m not charming.”

“Well, you’re something.”

He stared at you, unreadable, then said, “Let’s get this over with.”

You followed as he walked, still chattering, unbothered by the blank expression he wore like armor. He gave you the tour — exhibit boundaries, restricted zones, lighting rig limitations — and you nodded along, eyes darting between him and the bones above like you were seeing a world he couldn’t.

“This place feels like a cathedral,” you said eventually, voice lower now. “But broken. Like worshipping something that’s already gone. That’s why I want the light to move slowly across the ribs. Like… memory.”

He paused.

The quiet stretched. For a moment, you thought he hadn’t heard you. Then, softly:

“They weren’t worshipped. They were feared. The T-Rex was a predator.”

“Still deserves a little reverence,” you said.

His jaw twitched.

You smiled. “You’re kind of a fossil snob, huh?”

“I’m a paleontologist.”

“Oh, that explains the glasses.”

“I don’t wear—” He stopped himself. Exhaled sharply. “You’re going to be exhausting.”

“I’ve been called worse,” you chirped.

You sat cross-legged on the floor a few minutes later, sketchbook open on your lap, head tilted at an angle only artists and toddlers attempting handstands ever attempted. You tapped your pen against your lips thoughtfully.

Tsukishima hovered nearby, clipboard in hand, pointedly not watching you.

“I think we should try sound too,” you said suddenly. “Subtle—like a low hum. Maybe faint echoing footsteps, like ghosts. Not too literal.”

“That’s not in the budget,” he replied, immediately.

“Not yet,” you shot back, unfazed. “But maybe if I bribe the right intern—”

“Please don’t.”

“No promises, dino boy.”

The silence that followed was immediate. You looked up, blinking. He was frozen mid-step, like you’d just said something blasphemous in a sacred space.

“What?”

“Did you just call me—?”

“Oh. That slipped out,” you said, sheepish. “Sorry. I mean—Kei, right? Or… Tsukishima? Do you prefer one?”

His expression flattened. “I prefer not being called a pet name designed by a cartoon character.”

You grinned, and there it was — the spark. The part you hadn't expected. Under all that sarcasm and sharpness, something coiled and unreadable. Maybe not warmth. Not yet. But interest, flickering low and quiet like the gallery lights overhead.

“Well,” you said, tucking your pen behind your ear and getting to your feet, “I guess I’ll just have to earn it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Earn what?”

“A less embarrassing nickname.”

He rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible.

You turned, already halfway to the next room, your voice floating behind you. “Come on, fossil prince. We’ve got work to do.”

He muttered something under his breath — probably unflattering — but followed.

Not because he cared.

Just because you clearly needed supervision.

Tsukishima wasn’t sure when it stopped bothering him.

You were in the exhibit every day. That part made sense — you had work to do. What didn’t make sense was how you did it.

You hummed when you worked. Never full songs, just little pieces, shapeless and aimless, like you were keeping yourself company. You talked to the bones like they were old friends. Called the Stegosaurus “Big Spikey Boy” under your breath. Left coffee cups in bizarre places — behind glass cases, perched on light fixtures, one time balanced delicately on the rib of a hadrosaur like it belonged there.

He found himself moving them instead of snapping at you.

That annoyed him most of all.

You sprawled on the floor to draw. Sat backwards on chairs. Doodled stars in the margins of your blueprints. You weren’t messy — you were chaotic. But not in a way that ruined things. You took up space like you belonged to it. Like you’d earned it.

He hated it.

He really, really didn’t.

Tsukishima started staying later under the excuse of “supervising.” In truth, he just… didn’t want to leave. Not when your sketchbook was open across your knees, feet bare, toes tapping the air in rhythm with the music you played from a tiny Bluetooth speaker you weren’t technically allowed to use.

Soft stuff. Dreamy. A little sad. Fuzzy guitars and synths like melted sunlight.

He told you to turn it off.

You didn’t.

He didn’t ask again.

Most evenings, he brought work with him — real work, grant edits or exhibit updates — but he barely touched it. Instead, he watched you in the corner of his eye. The way you moved around the bones, measuring with your hands, frowning thoughtfully at light angles. Talking to yourself under your breath.

And once, when he stayed too late without realizing, he looked up and caught you lying flat on your back in the middle of the exhibit floor.

At first he thought something was wrong — your limbs were outstretched, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like you’d fallen and simply given up.

Then you spoke, quiet and unhurried.

“It’s beautiful how it still takes up space after all this time.”

He didn’t answer right away. The gallery was too still, the air too thick. It was the kind of sentence people usually said in museums when they were trying to impress someone. But you’d said it to no one. Like you didn’t expect to be heard at all.

His voice came out rougher than intended.

“You mean the T-Rex?”

You didn’t move. Just blinked, slow. “Yeah. It’s been dead millions of years, and it still makes people stop. Still commands a room. Like… it never left.”

He stared at the curve of the bones — the arc of the ribs, the open jaw — and swallowed.

“It’s not really the same,” he said eventually. “This is a reconstruction. Most of the bones are casts.”

“Still,” you said, softer now. “It’s the shape that matters.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Or maybe he did, but it sat too heavy on his tongue.

Instead, he sat beside you.

Not close. Not touching.

But that was the first time he didn’t go home early.

Over the next week, something shifted.

You stopped asking if he wanted music on — just played it. He stopped pretending to glare.

You started bringing two coffees, not one. Always black for him, always in a plain cup labeled KEI in smudged pen.

He never said thank you.

You never expected it.

You adjusted a lighting fixture one evening, standing on the lowest ledge of the exhibit’s frame. Tsukishima reached out instinctively when you wobbled.

His hand curled around your waist for half a second. Warm. Steady.

You froze. He stepped back like he’d touched a stove.

“Careful,” he muttered.

You smiled. “You do care.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go as fast next time.

He started reading your notes after you went home.

Not snooping — just... curious. Your sketchbook was a mess of lines and light notations: “bone shadows curl here,” “weight of silence stronger in this quadrant,” “add faint shimmer to mimic breath.”

Breath.

He didn’t know how to explain how badly that word undid him.

You treated the exhibit like it was alive. Not a museum piece, but a memory you could still talk to. An echo with ribs.

And you never once made him feel like he wasn’t allowed in that echo, too.

One night, he walked into the exhibit after hours to find you asleep on the bench beneath the T-Rex.

Your coat was bundled under your head, sketchbook lying open on your chest. The gallery lights glowed faintly overhead, casting soft shadows across your face. You looked peaceful. Quiet. A part of the space now, not just working on it — woven into the silence.

He sat across from you, pretending to read a paper he wasn’t holding. Time passed. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe more.

Then your voice, soft with sleep:

“Are you watching me sleep?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not even fully asleep.”

You peeked at him with one eye open. “Maybe I was dreaming about you.”

“Unlikely.”

“Rude.”

He rolled his eyes — but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, unguarded for once.

You caught it.

“Kei,” you said, like it meant something new now.

He looked up.

“Yeah?”

You blinked like you hadn’t expected that response to come so easily.

Then you just smiled and said, “Nothing.”

He didn’t press. But he stayed until the building closed.

It started with the lighting.

You stood in the center of the exhibit with your hands in your hair, gesturing to the overhead rig like you were conducting some invisible orchestra.

“We could do a soft fade that moves with the visitor — like the bones respond to presence. Just a slow, low shift as people walk through. Imagine how alive it would feel.”

Tsukishima didn’t even look up from his clipboard.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“That’s not what this exhibit is. It’s not a haunted house. It’s not a performance.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet, Kei. I have a test set-up. It’s subtle. Thoughtful. It adds mood.”

“It adds distraction,” he said flatly. “And it compromises the fossil presentation. Light distortions throw off color perception and may damage the casts over time.”

“Oh, come on,” you snapped, heat curling into your chest. “We’re not burning them under stage lights. This isn’t your personal lab. It’s a space for people to feel something. You said you wanted more engagement.”

“I want clarity. Not theatrical gimmicks.”

The word landed hard.

You went still, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“So that’s what you think this is,” you said, voice tight. “A gimmick.”

Tsukishima looked up then. Slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was set like stone.

“You act like you’re saving them. Like making a dinosaur look dramatic is the same as making people care.”

“And you act like people will care just because you slapped a plaque on the wall and stood under a spotlight!”

It burst out of you, louder than you meant.

“You’re so obsessed with being precise, with being right, that you don’t even see how cold you sound. No wonder no one sticks around.”

The silence was immediate.

You heard it the second it came out of your mouth — the way his face didn’t flinch but froze, eyes going cold and glassy like he’d just flicked off something vital inside himself.

He stared at you. Long and flat.

Then:

“You think people care about your lights? You think they’ll walk out remembering ‘how it felt’ and not just take a photo and leave?”

You swallowed hard. Your chest ached.

“I don’t know what they’ll remember,” you said. “But I’m scared they won’t remember anything. That they’ll walk past bones that are millions of years old and shrug. That all this work will fade into the background because it didn’t shine enough to be seen.”

That cracked something in your voice. The quiet truth beneath the fire.

Tsukishima looked at you for a long moment.

Then he muttered,

“People always care about spectacle.”

And walked away.

You didn’t talk for two days.

You kept your head down when he passed. You played your music softer. Your sketchbook stayed closed, and the second he entered the exhibit, you left.

It shouldn’t have hurt like this.

He wasn’t yours.

But it did. Quietly. Deeply.

Because for all his sharp edges, Kei had made space for you in the quiet hours. Had let you stay. Had sat beside you under fossil ribs while the world turned slow. You’d let yourself think he was listening. That he maybe even believed in some part of your vision.

Apparently not.

That night, Tsukishima stayed late in the office alone. The building was too quiet. He hated how much he noticed the silence now when you weren’t filling it.

He didn’t even mean to open the sketchbook.

It was sitting on your stool, slightly askew, pages fanned like it wanted to be read. He stood there for a long minute before touching it — fingers brushing the paper like he was afraid it might burn.

The notes were messier than he remembered. Half-formed thoughts, shorthand, tiny arrows. But there was a page marked with a sticky tab in the shape of a cartoon bone. He opened to it.

The full skeleton was drawn by hand — not just a diagram, but alive, posed in a way that almost made it look like it was breathing. Lights were sketched in around it, rays tracing the angles of ribs and jaws like sunlight through water. At the bottom of the page, in your handwriting:

I want people to feel like they’ve stumbled into something sacred. Like the bones were waiting for them. Like they’ve walked into a memory older than the Earth they came from.

He stared at the words until they blurred.

He hated how it made his throat tight.

Tsukishima didn’t sleep that night.

He didn’t know how to say it — how to apologize. He didn’t do sorry very well. He usually didn’t need to.

But the shape of your fear haunted him. The way your voice cracked when you said, “I’m scared they won’t remember anything.”

Because he understood that. Too well.

He spent his whole life being remembered for the wrong things. Or not remembered at all.

And you? You wanted your work to matter so badly you were willing to fight him over it. Risk looking soft. Sentimental. Even foolish.

He thought that was brave.

He thought maybe you were brave.

You noticed it the second you walked in.

The lighting rig had changed.

The movement was smoother now, less of a fade and more of a pulse — like breath in the air, like shadow and presence mingling gently along the curve of the fossil display. It responded, but didn’t overwhelm. Subtle. Intentional. Balanced.

And the tech setup? Upgraded. Clean wiring, reinforced bracketing. Your original sketch still hung nearby, but someone had gone over it in pencil — adjusting angles, improving placements.

Your stomach flipped.

There was only one person meticulous enough to have done that.

You found him in the staff lounge, hunched over a mug of black tea and pretending to read a paleontology journal.

You stood in the doorway for a second, then cleared your throat.

“You… fixed the rig.”

Tsukishima didn’t look up.

“It was sloppy.” He turned a page, like the conversation bored him. “I fixed it.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Thanks.”

“It was bothering me.”

“Right. Of course.” You stepped fully into the room, grabbed your own mug, filled it just to do something with your hands.

The silence that settled wasn’t heavy, but it was strange — like the room didn’t know what to do with the absence of arguing. You sat across from him slowly, letting the mug warm your palms.

Outside, thunder rumbled.

“Looks like the storm’s rolling in,” you said, glancing toward the windows.

Tsukishima gave a quiet hum.

“Museum’s closing early. They already put the signs out.”

You nodded. Another pause.

“I guess we’re stuck for a bit.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t leave either.

Rain began to patter against the windows — soft at first, then sharp, like tiny bones clicking against glass.

You didn’t speak for a while. It wasn’t awkward. Just… quiet.

Eventually, you exhaled.

“I used to think museums were holy.” The words slipped out so gently you almost didn’t notice yourself saying them. “Like sacred, somehow. Even the air felt different. Like I couldn’t breathe loud.”

Tsukishima didn’t move, but you saw the way his eyes lifted, just slightly.

“When I was a kid,” you continued, “we didn’t go many places. But my aunt took me to this little natural history museum once. It was kind of sad, honestly — half the exhibits were broken, one of the audio guides just screamed static. But there was this fossil in the middle of the floor. Some ancient sea creature I couldn’t pronounce. And I just… stood there. For, like, half an hour. Didn’t say a word.”

You smiled a little at the memory.

“She asked if I was bored. But I felt… I don’t know. Seen? Like something that big and that old still being here meant I could be too.”

You rubbed your finger around the rim of your mug.

“I just wanted to make something that someone remembered. Even if they couldn’t explain why.”

The thunder cracked closer now. The lights flickered faintly.

You weren’t sure if he was going to say anything. He didn’t meet your eyes. But after a moment, he spoke — quiet and firm, voice low enough that it didn’t sound like performance.

“Then make something that can’t be forgotten.”

You froze.

Your breath caught.

Not because of what he said — but how he said it.

Not dismissive. Not mocking. But earnest.

Like he meant it.

You looked up. He still wasn’t looking at you, but his fingers had stilled on the page.

The storm roared outside.

Inside, something softened.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just let the quiet stretch — filled with the scent of tea and rain and the unspoken possibility that maybe… just maybe… you weren’t as far apart as you’d thought.

You didn’t expect to cry. But as the lights came up—soft, fluid, breathing in harmony with the slow rise of ambient sound—you felt something tighten in your chest.

It was exactly what you’d imagined.

The fossil hovered like a ghost over time, suspended in silence and reverence. The light kissed every ancient curve, every bone, every inch of its long-buried story. There was a stillness in the room, as if the crowd understood that breathing too loudly might break the spell.

Your piece. Your concept. Alive.

Applause came gently at first. A few quiet murmurs. And then a wave of sound, camera flashes, hushed voices saying your name with excitement.

Someone clapped you on the back. Another handed you a glass of cheap champagne.

“Brilliant work,” one of the donors said. “Unforgettable,” a curator whispered. “You should be proud,” your boss told you, beaming.

You smiled. You said thank you. You tried to listen. But your eyes were scanning the room for him.

Tsukishima stood in the shadows, off to the left side of the exhibit hall, mostly obscured by a pillar. He was still in his uniform jacket, arms crossed, gold glasses catching the shifting light. He wasn’t clapping. Wasn’t even pretending to mingle.

But he was watching.

You met his eyes across the crowd.

There was a pause. A flicker of something you couldn’t name. And then—he looked away.

You turned back to the small crowd around you. Smiled again. Nodded. Said something about collaboration. You think someone took a photo of you mid-sentence. You didn’t mind. This was what you’d worked for.

But you kept glancing toward the pillar. He was gone.

You slipped out not long after.

The night air was sharp and wet, still humming with the electricity of the earlier storm. The exhibit hall door clicked shut behind you, muffling the buzz of celebration.

You found him near the back entrance of the building, leaning against a railing, eyes tilted up toward the cloud-covered sky. He hadn’t heard you approach.

You paused.

He looked taller out here. The pale security light washed over his cheekbones, caught on his lashes. He hadn’t even changed out of his work shoes.

“You disappeared,” you said quietly.

Tsukishima’s shoulders didn’t shift.

“Didn’t feel like standing around.”

You walked over, hands in your coat pockets.

“But you were part of this.”

“I just fixed the wiring.”

You scoffed, half amused.

“You didn’t just fix the wiring, Kei.”

That made him glance at you. Just a flicker of gold through those glasses. And then he said something you didn’t expect.

“It was beautiful.”

Your breath hitched.

He looked away again. Like it cost him something to say it. Like it meant something more.

“You could’ve said that inside,” you said.

“You didn’t need me to.”

You studied his profile in the silver light.

“But I wanted to.”

Silence again. Not heavy this time. Just… tentative. Careful.

Then:

“You’re going to do big things,” he said, like it was a truth he'd known for a while. “And I’ll be here. Resetting lights. Screwing metal into walls.”

Your brow furrowed.

“Is that what you think?”

He shrugged.

You didn’t know what to say at first. Not because you disagreed, but because you’d never really thought about how he saw himself in all this. How he saw you.

You stepped closer.

“Tsukishima,” you said quietly, and the way his name sounded in the dark felt like a confession. “It’s not just mine, you know. That exhibit. It’s yours too.”

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

He looked at you again. This time, for real. Not through the fog of tension or sarcasm or pride. Just… him.

And you almost leaned in.

Almost.

But instead, you stood there — too close, not close enough — breathing in the same sharp air, hearts too loud in the silence.

And when he turned to go, he didn’t say goodbye. Just brushed past you gently. Like the beginning of something, or the end of something else.

You watched him disappear down the long path behind the museum. And for the first time all night, you didn’t feel victorious. Just… full. And hollow.

At once.

A few days pass. The exhibit continues without you. Your name is printed in neat black ink on the display cards, and people wander through, praising your “vision,” your “emotional composition,” your “eye for stillness.” You’re already being emailed about new opportunities.

But the only thing you can think about is the shape of Tsukishima’s silhouette in the silver museum light. The things you almost said. The things he almost said back.

You return one quiet afternoon to pick up the last of your things.

It’s raining again.

The museum feels different in the daylight—less mysterious, more skeletal. You walk past school kids and bored parents, past tour groups and sleepy guards, toward the side hallway that smells faintly of sawdust and old lightbulbs.

He’s at the workbench. Same posture. Same headphones. But you can tell he saw you come in—his hands falter for just a moment before resuming whatever careful task he’s pretending requires all his focus.

You clear your throat anyway.

“Hey.”

No reply. He’s sanding something. Aggressively.

You smile to yourself and set down your tote bag, beginning to gather the few things you left behind. A notebook. A print draft. The sweatshirt he let you borrow when the AC broke one night and you stayed too long.

He still hasn’t turned around.

You don’t push it. You just take your time, folding the sweatshirt with unnecessary precision, letting the silence stretch long enough to sting.

When you finally zip your bag and sling it over your shoulder, you pause in the doorway.

“Thanks,” you say, voice quiet. “For everything. The project… it only worked because of you.”

For a second, you think he’s going to ignore you.

But then, still facing away, he mutters:

“The bones were already there. You just made them louder.”

You blink.

And then you laugh. Soft, surprised.

“Getting poetic, dino boy?”

He finally glances at you. The corner of his mouth lifts just a little.

“Don’t get used to it.”

You take a step closer, a hand still gripping the strap of your bag like a shield.

“Well. It was nice hearing you say something beautiful for once.”

“I’ve said a few beautiful things.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

A long pause. He looks down at the thing he was sanding. Then back at you.

“Come back sometime,” he says, casual but not really. “The fossils get boring.”

Your heart stutters. He doesn’t even flinch.

You tilt your head, grinning now.

“You mean you get boring.”

“That too.”

And it should feel like a joke. It should feel like nothing. But it doesn’t.

You both hold each other’s gaze for a second too long. Not quite smiling. Not quite speaking. Just letting the moment breathe between you—thin and fragile and unbearably loud.

You take a breath.

“I might come back,” you say finally. “Just to check on the fossils.”

He nods once, slow.

“Sure.”

You don’t say anything else. You just walk past him, the hallway stretching out ahead. But this time, your steps are slower. This time, you hope he’s watching.

And he is.

When the door closes behind you, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

NSFW bonus scene 🧢🐠 (female reader)

It starts with silence.

You’re standing just inside the workshop door, bag dropped, rain sliding down the windows behind you. You don’t know what made you come back — not really. You just knew the thought of leaving felt more like a loss than a choice.

He looks up. His brows twitch in confusion, but he doesn’t say anything.

So you walk up to him. Slow. Careful.

“Do you want me to stay?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He swallows, throat working.

Then, simply:

“Yes.”

The word lands heavy. So much more than yes. Yes, I missed you. Yes, I thought about it. Yes, I don’t want this to end yet.

You kiss him.

It’s awkward, at first — all angles and hesitation. He doesn’t move right away, like he’s still computing what’s happening. But the second you breathe his name, something gives. His hands come up, hesitant but firm, catching your waist and pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The kiss deepens, slow and uneven, as if he’s learning it in real time — a little desperate, a little stunned. His glasses nudge your cheekbone. His breath shakes against your lips. You slide your fingers into his hair and feel the shiver roll through him.

“You’re sure?” you murmur.

He nods, eyes locked to yours.

“Yeah. Fuck—yeah.”

You're on the workbench within minutes. It's cluttered and dusty, but neither of you care.

His mouth is at your neck now, hungry in a way that feels new — like he's been holding back for weeks, months. His hands are firm where they grip your hips, but his touch is almost reverent, like he's afraid to take too much all at once.

“Been thinking about this,” he says against your skin, low and wrecked. “You. That night you fell asleep in the AV room. The way you said my name.”

You exhale a shaky laugh.

“You’re such a freak.”

He huffs, presses a kiss to your collarbone.

“You like it.”

You do. God, you do.

His hands slide under your shirt, slow and searching. You lift your arms, and he helps pull it over your head with surprising care. His fingers brush over your chest, your stomach, reverent and unsure.

“You’re allowed to look,” you tease gently.

He does — and the way he looks at you makes your whole body flush.

“I’m not great at this,” he admits quietly. “Just... tell me if I mess something up.”

Your heart pulls. You cup his face and kiss him again, slower this time.

“You’re not messing anything up.”

When he finally touches you in earnest, it’s a little clumsy — he’s clearly overthinking, too aware of your reactions, too in his head — but it’s sweet. Honest. Every movement feels like it means something.

You guide his hand. Help him find the rhythm. And once he gets it—once he really sees the way your breath hitches and your hips shift—he gets bolder.

His mouth finds your chest. Then your stomach. He murmurs something against your skin, but it’s too quiet to catch.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and gasp when he finally pushes your underwear down and touches you properly — one finger, two, slow but insistent.

“Fuck, Kei—”

That’s what breaks him. Your voice like that. His name like that.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder, still working his fingers inside you, lips parted as he groans softly into your skin.

“Want you,” he says, low and ragged. “I—I wanna feel you. All of you.”

“Then take it,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

It’s not fast. He makes sure you’re ready. Makes sure you’re looking at him when he finally pushes inside, like he needs to see you fall apart for him.

You breathe his name again and again, and every time you do, he fucks into you a little deeper. A little harder. Still holding back, like he's afraid of hurting you. But you can tell he’s close — his body trembles against yours, his breathing fractured and tight.

When you come, it’s with his name on your lips, your fingers digging into his back, your legs tight around his waist. He follows right after, buried deep, biting down softly on your shoulder to muffle the noise he makes.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

Just breathes with you. One hand tangled with yours, the other resting over your heartbeat.

“You still want me to come back?” you whisper after a while, voice hoarse.

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.

“Only if you plan on staying.”

authors note: I absolutely loved writing this!! I hope I stayed true to tsukis character and I also hope your happy with your request! :) reqs are still open and very much welcome! ly all <3

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