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sarahroutldge · 1 day ago

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caveman.

a/n: I wrote this for the brilliant 'make rafe great again' campaign by @zyafics!! It's a bit of a mess and unedited but I hope someone enjoys it!

summary: you may love rafe cameron, but that doesn't mean you have to love his borderline toxic possessiveness and jealousy.

word count: 4k

warnings: angst, fluff, creepy guy behaving creepily (nothing graphic), violent rage on rafe's part (what else is new), alcohol, weed, smoking, mentions of past messy relationships, I'm lazy so I didn't proofread this... uh I think that's it. lmk if I forgot anything!

Parties at the Boneyard are practically rites of passage for the kids who grow up there; whether you’re a kid from the cut or the heir to a multi-million-dollar fortune on Figure Eight, you’re probably spending those summer Friday nights getting drunk or high—most likely both—at the Boneyard. In high school and college, those nights are treasured, rare moments where the parents and grandparents aren’t eyeing their kids, waiting to see them fail.

And sure, maybe, on occasion, things get messy. The Pogues and the Kooks are never quite at peace for long, but usually it blows over before anything truly terrible can happen, as the Kooks involved know that once Deputy Shoupe gets notified, so will their parents. And for the Pogues, one run-in with the police is a future discarded—a scholarship taken away, a college acceptance thrown out, a job opportunity lost.

But it’s hard to care so much about that when you’re a bit tipsy, a bit high, and dancing with your friends under the moonlight. Your boyfriend is just across the beach, drinking with his friends, and you can almost swear that the winks he sends you every once in a while feel like a jolt of electricity. Truly, they’re almost as intoxicating as the weed and the alcohol.

Kiara spins you around, and the two of you twirl across the makeshift dancefloor (which is really just sand), as you enjoy a drama-free night. The wind is just strong enough to provide an extra breeze to what would usually be a much hotter, much more humid Outer Banks night. And the music has mellowed from Top 40 hits to some softer, bedroom pop. You don’t know the words, but you’re having too much fun to care.

Unfortunately, though, nothing in the Outer Banks is ever truly uneventful. The bliss you’ve taken for granted is shattered without warning, when you feel a sweaty, unfamiliar hand grasping at your midsection. Immediately turning around, your hand drops from Kiara’s, and you make eye contact with the tall, unfamiliar man before you (a Touron, if you had to guess). Not wanting to make that much of a fuss, you simply shake your head, hoping he’ll get the message. But he’s either too wasted or simply doesn’t care, and he reaches for your waist again, and this time his grip is strong enough to pull you back into his chest.

“What the hell, dude?” Kiara bites, before pushing him off of you. “Get off our beach if all you’re planning on doing is acting like a perv,” she adds. You grab her hand, squeezing it in thanks.

The man raises his hands up as if he’s totally innocent, and you just scoff. Thankfully, though, he seems to finally take a hint, as he turns around. Kiara looks up at you, and opens her mouth as if to speak. But unfortunately, before she can, you hear the familiar but worrying shout of your boyfriend, Rafe Cameron, from behind you.

“Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Rafe starts, before shoving the man’s back.

You can immediately sense where this is going, and frankly, you’re not up for it. “Rafe, it’s fine. Let’s just go.”

Rafe turns around. “It’s not fucking fine. He’s scum.”

And just as you’re about to grab your boyfriend’s hand and pull him away, the stranger turns around. “Hey man, it was an honest mistake.”

“Yeah? Well, next time, ask a girl before you put your fucking hands on her, especially when that girl is my girlfriend.”

“Rafe, please, let’s not do this. I just wanna go home,” you chime in, hoping that you’re loud enough for him to hear over his rage.

“You didn’t want to go home until this prick put his hands on you,” Rafe argues.

And while you were annoyed before, now you’re irritated. “Rafe, let’s go,” you say, colder.

He stares at you for a minute, and then looks around, noticing that the man who touched you has walked away. He huffs, his fists balled in anger, and then he walks away from you. You watch as Rafe walks across the sand, away from the crowd.

“Do you want to go after him?” Kiara asks, feeling awkward about the obvious tension between you and your boyfriend.

“No. He just needs to blow off some steam.”

Kiara nods. “Are… are you okay?” she asks, seeming genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just… That was gross. And I’m mad at that guy, but unfortunately, shit like this happens. And I’m tired of having to deal with Rafe’s temper tantrums every time we go out.”

“Any other time, I’d get it. Believe me. But this wasn’t just a guy getting too close—he wouldn’t back off. That piece of shit deserved whatever punch Rafe was gonna give him.”

“It’s not about what the guy did. Trust me, I’d be happy to see him get punched. It’s the possessiveness that bothers me. It’s like Rafe thinks I’m helpless without him,” you explain.

“I promise that’s not true,” Kiara assures you, but even she seems a little unsure of the words she’s saying. “Look, I’m not Cameron’s biggest fan—”

“I’m aware,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes.

Kiara chuckles. “But this time, I think that guy deserved what was coming to him. And it’s so obvious that Rafe loves you. Maybe your anger is a bit misplaced.”

You shake your head, trying to get her to understand your point of view. “Shit like this has happened before, Kie. And with guys that were way less upfront than that one. It’s not that I’m mad he defended me; I’m mad that he sees me as some damsel in distress, someone who can’t function without him as a bodyguard. I just wish he’d have a bit more faith in me.”

Your friend considers your words for a minute, ultimately giving you a tight smile. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. You can hang with us at the Chateau while your man figures his shit out.”

She tosses her arm around your shoulder, and your mouth curves into a reluctant smile. As the two of you make your way off the beach, your head turns behind you, looking out for your troublesome but usually well-meaning boyfriend. He’s far away now, but you can still sense the frustration radiating from him in waves.

A few days pass before you see Rafe again. You’ve texted a bit back and forth, putting some space between the two of you. You know you’ll forgive him eventually, but you need time to consider how to move forward. Rafe’s issues with anger and jealousy span far back into his childhood. And it might not be your job to “fix” them, but you can’t help but want to.

Rafe is complicated, always has been. From his issues with his father to his struggles with hard drugs and history of getting into fights, there’s a lot of darkness swirling around in that brain of his. For the longest time, he struggled with asking for help, lacking the attention and care of a parent who could teach their child how to deal with the toughest emotions. But you won’t deny that he’s gotten better at it. He’s matured in a way that his younger teenage self would never have imagined, and the responsibilities of adulthood combined with the weekly therapy appointments (that only you and his sisters know about) have helped to mellow him, giving him the tools with which to face his demons.

And that’s why you won’t give up on him.

Midsummer’s is just around the corner. Though balls and galas in the name of “charity” are certainly not rare on Figure Eight, Midsummer’s is always one of the grandest and most important (at least in the minds of the Eight’s parents and authority figures). For the teenagers, it’s a time to converse with adults about the future, hopefully landing connections that will help with the process of college applications and even internships later on. For the parents and grandparents, it’s the perfect time to show off the family unit; those who live on the island year-round and the families that stay just for the summer all come together to brag about the past year’s “achievements.” For those in their early twenties like you and Rafe, it’s a time to take advantage of the open bar and see the friends from high school that you haven’t seen in a while.

This year, however, is the first year that Rafe and you are attending as a couple. Your table is a mix of the Cameron family (plus Sarah’s boyfriend John B. who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else), your own family, and a few singles. Normally, this would be an occasion for pressure, but your families have known each other throughout the years, as the Figure Eight scene has always been a tight circle.

After the main courses have been served and the parents have swapped conversations about business for the latest gossip, the band’s music starts to slow. The sun has set and the moon looks stunning over the country club, reminding you of just how lucky you’ve been to grow up in a place so beautiful. And even though you and Rafe are a bit rocky, you almost forget it. The tipsiness from a few too many unclassy shots behind the bar with your friends has set in, and Rafe’s hand on your thigh feels almost too hot for a night like this. He squeezes the bare thigh uncovered by the slit in your dress every once in a while, as the two of you shift in and out of conversations with your family. It’s almost going too well.

That is, until your father mentions your cousin’s upcoming marriage when he speaks to Ward.

“She’s the first of my nieces to get married. We’re all thrilled, and the wedding is only two months away.” He shifts a bit, seeking your attention. “Y/N, honey,” he says, and you turn your head to face your father, away from the pleasant and lighthearted conversation you’ve been having with Sarah and her boyfriend.

“Yes, Dad?”

“I still need to book the tickets for your trip with your cousin, so please send me the dates tomorrow at the latest. Or else you’re going to have to find your own way to pay for them,” he adds, laughing at himself like it’s the most ludicrous thing in the world.

“Will do, Dad,” you add, and as soon as the words have left your mouth you go back to the conversation with your friends.

But before you can speak, you feel the hand that’s been on your thigh move to your hand, squeezing to get your attention.

“What trip was your dad talking about?” Rafe asks, unsure of why this hasn’t been mentioned before.

“Oh, Rafe, I’ve told you about this. I’m going away with my cousin and a few other girls in a few weeks for her bachelorette party.”

Rafe considers this. He knew you’d mentioned a vacation, but he could’ve sworn it was a family trip up to visit your grandparents. His jaw clenches, though his tone remains the same. “Where is it?”

“Miami. We’re all staying in one large suite at a beach resort that I can’t remember the name of.”

He nods. “Why can’t I come?”

You hesitate. He did hear the word bachelorette, right? “Rafe, it’s a bachelorette party. You’d be the only guy there.”

And yet he doesn’t seem to get it. “Exactly. Babe, you’ll be going to bars in Miami without me or any other guys. And as much as I love you, you’re the clumsiest drunk I know,” he adds, with a smirk. Clearly, he thinks you’ll find his comment funny. Though you normally would, he says it with a condescending tone that makes you drop the hand you’ve been holding.

“I can take care of myself, Rafe.”

“Can you?” he asks, not yet sensing the change in mood.

“Yes!” you respond, more sternly but without raising your voice. “I’ve taken care of myself drunk way longer than you and I have been together. I think I can manage a few days in Miami with my cousin and her friends.” His eyebrows furrow in confusion, not understanding where your anger is coming from.

“I know you can take care of yourself, babe, but you shouldn’t have to. I’m a guy—I know how guys behave. And you’re nice—sometimes too nice—and it makes me worry about you.”

“I am a grown woman, Rafe. I’m not helpless.”

“I never said you were helpless, and you know it. Why are you fighting with me over this? It’s like you think I’m the bad guy, and not whatever perv is gonna start groping you in a sticky Miami bar.”

Frankly, you’re stunned, and a thought comes to your head. Is he really worried for me—or does he not trust me? But you don’t feel like voicing your opinion out loud, and you need to cool off. You stand up out of your seat, and shove your chair in. The action draws the eyes of your family, but you ignore your mother asking where you disappeared to. You need fresh air.

Taking the path you and every other Figure Eight kid knows from the time they’re fifteen years old, you follow through the winding hallway of the club that leads out back, to where the waiters and other club employees take their breaks. The immediate gust of wind feels refreshing on your face, and you walk to the edge of the parking lot.

Your feet take you to the abandoned dock that, for whatever reason, was never taken down when the country club was renovated a few decades ago. It’s hidden behind overgrown trees and weeds, and you breathe in relief at the absence of anyone else there. Though from here you can still faintly hear the sounds of the event behind you, it’s quiet enough to where you can also hear the swamp waters crash against the dock, and the night bugs buzzing around you.

The edge of the dock is too dirty for you to sit down on—your eagle-eyed mother would immediately notice any stain on your dress and berate you for it—so you simply stand there, thinking about the boyfriend you left at the table. The look on Rafe’s face just makes you let out a harsh chuckle. It occurs to you at that moment that your boyfriend is either an idiot or really entitled. Maybe he’s both.

You’ve dealt with this shit before, and Rafe knows that. He knows that your most recent boyfriend before him was controlling and overprotective in a way that made you feel uncomfortable. It’s why you broke up in the first place.

Does he not even listen to me?

The small but effective cardigan that covers your shoulders begins to itch, and you reach to take it off, only to stumble upon something in the left pocket. When your hands grasp the item, you immediately sigh in relief, pulling it out.

The pack of cigarettes is old, of course; you haven’t worn this sweater since high school, but it was the only one that even somewhat went with your dress tonight. And Outer Banks summer nights have always had a bit of a chill to them. Your fingers carefully open the pack, pulling out one of three cigarettes left, before setting the pack down next to your feet. You drag it to your lips, holding it there as your fingers naturally reach for the lighter in the opposite pocket.

It takes a few flicks before a flame is successfully lit. You draw it to the end of the cigarette, an inhale.

About halfway into your second cigarette, you hear the sounds of footsteps on the creaking dock.

“You hate when I smoke,” he says, and though the immediately recognizable voice of Rafe Cameron should be comforting, in the aftermath of the argument it’s only agitating.

“I don’t want to do this now,” you say without turning around to face him. He nods, though you don’t see, before walking a few more steps.

He’s about a foot away from you, and you still haven’t turned. “Look, Y/N, I only—”

And his insistence on talking only adds to your irritation. Turning around your heel, you look him right in the eyes, meeting his blank face. “No, Rafe, you don’t get to speak.”

“But I—”

“No,” you say, and he finally seems to understand.

A beat passes, and he nods, encouraging you.

“Rafe, I love you. I really love you. But I don’t love you enough to deal with distrust that clearly comes from a place of insecurity rather than genuine concern. I’m not saying that you don’t have any concern for me; I’m saying that whatever your little interrogation was back at the table felt more like an insult than anything else. And you know the shit I went through with Noah. So don’t act as if my rage is misplaced or coming out of nowhere. I’ve done this shit before and I know I deserve better, Rafe.”

You take an inhale of the cigarette, before exhaling right in his face. He rolls his eyes at the action, but you remain unbothered. “Can I say something now?” he asks.

“Sure.”

He looks hesitant, but he proceeds anyway. “I’m not great with words—you know this. I’m not good at expressing myself eloquently, and one of the things I like so much about you is that I don’t ever feel like I need to. You know what I’m feeling even when I can’t find the words to describe it, and you don’t push me to.”

He waits a bit, eyes searching your face to ensure that you’re paying attention. When he finds at least a bit of interest in your eyes, he continues.

“I’ll be honest. I didn’t get why you ran off before.”

“I can tell.”

He ignores the snark in your comment. “But it doesn’t matter whether I get it or not. What matters is that I love you and I trust you. And I did sound a bit like a dick.”

“Just a bit?” you ask, and he tries not to smile at your question. Clearly, he’s headed in the right direction with his speech if you’re willing to even joke with him.

“Fine, I deserve that,” he accepts. “I mess up a lot. Like a lot. I don’t always say the right things and I don’t always express my feelings in the most polite way, but I’m working on it. I promise.”

“Rafe, that’s just the problem. I’m tired of hearing you say that you’re working on it—I want to actually see the change. I can’t do the possessive caveman shit again, I can’t. And I don’t like feeling like your teacher. I’m your girlfriend; as much as I care about you and want to help you with shit like this, it can’t be all our relationship is.”

He nods. “I know, babe. You deserve better than that.” And something in his tone makes you want to lean into his sincerity, trusting that he actually gets how you feel. You drop the butt of the cigarette, and he stomps it out with his foot. “Your mom would go insane if you ruined those heels.”

You smile… just a bit. Testing the waters, he brings a hand up to your face, and your body reacts by leaning in, craving his touch. Even when you’re mad at him, he’s the one you yearn for. But before you can get swept away in the magic, you need to make sure that he gets your point. Your hand reaches up to his and pulls it down. He immediately frowns at the action, and it takes all the willpower you possess to not abandon your speech when his lips pout in that adorable way that they do.

Instead, you squeeze his hand in assurance, and his pout morphs into something less worrying, more hopeful.

“Rafe, I don’t mind that you get worried sometimes. I don’t even mind that you get a little jealous. They’re your feelings and you’re entitled to them. But you’re not entitled to talk to me the way that you just did. I love you and I would never, ever do anything to risk that.” You punctuate your declaration by bringing your hands to his face, pulling him down to meet you. He settles into the familiar action, and leans in.

“I’ll work on it, I promise,” he says, only an inch away from your lips.

You nod, sensing the truth in his words. “Thank you.”

His blue eyes look into yours with a gleam of hope. With the natural habit that comes with almost a year of dating, his lips come to press against yours, as his hands fall to your hips. The moment is picture perfect, and your hands run down his tux-covered chest. It’s gentle at first, almost hesitant—just like when you first started dating. But then it moves into something deeper, as you feel his hands squeeze at your hips and his lips move against yours, his tongue finding its way into your mouth. What started out as something soft and romantic quickly becomes something much more crazed and heated, with whines and sloppy kisses drowning out the noise of the waters behind you and the country club in the distance.

You make out like teenagers, hidden away from everyone else as if you’re not both grown adults in a serious committed relationship. It’s thrilling and messy, filled with passion and earnestness, as if he’s trying to convince you of his promise with the kiss. And you love it.

But unfortunately, the fog of youth can only last for so long. Your immature but intoxicating makeout session is too-soon interrupted by the sounds of your boyfriend’s closest friends, Kelce and Topper.

“I told you they’d be making out,” Topper says, and you and Rafe immediately jump apart as if your parents have caught you. But he refuses to drop you entirely, instead pulling you with him as he turns to face his friends.

His mood quickly shifts from slightly annoyed to severely unimpressed when he sees Topper take a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet, passing it to Kelce. “Really?” he asks. You roll your eyes at the juvenile bet. He pulls you in front of him, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Hey, you have no reason to be mad, Cameron. You’re not the one with twenty dollars less in their pocket,” Kelce bites back, and Topper just snickers.

“Not really my problem and also not my fault,” Rafe retorts. You can’t help but giggle at the petty argument, and Rafe’s heart swells knowing that your argument has been resolved. Maybe not completely, but he knows the two of you will move forward. You always do.

As the two boys in front of you begin to bicker more about God-knows-what, Rafe leans down to your ear. “You reek of cigarettes by the way.”

“And since when does that bother you?”

“Oh, I couldn’t care less. But your mother—”

You huff, not letting him finish. “Don’t even go there. Let’s sneak out through the back parking lot.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth. Come on.” He grabs your hand, tugging you forwards. The two of you shove through Topper and Kelce, but Rafe couldn’t care less. You quickly make your way across the parking lot, hand-in-hand.

“And maybe since I won’t be joining you on the Miami trip, you could give me a little show of all the bikinis I won’t get to see,” he adds with a smirk.

You gasp in mock agitation, but the mischievous glint in your eyes tells him that you’re back in tune with him. “Only if you’re on your best behavior,” you tease back.

I'm soooo bad at endings so apologies for that - but otherwise hope y'all enjoyed!! and here's a reminder that requests are very much open :)

also again - shoutout to zyafics for this clever campaign!! I loved participating and I encourage y'all to read the other great fics written for it <3

#zyafics-mrgacampaign #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron one shot #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron reader insert #obx fanfiction #obx x reader #she writes

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oh-no-its-bird · 24 hours ago

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Shikamaru accidentally becomes the second coming of Jiraiya via anonymously publishing BL novels with Sakura and Ino as his managers and editors

HEAR ME OUT. HEAR ME OUT.

Ok so, Shikamaru's grandfather passes away (aka my oc Shikasada, for those in the know) and among his things is a very old diary dating back to Konoha's founding. Shikamaru opens it to fund uhh. Many things. Many things he could have gone without knowing. Mostly revolving around his grandpa's apparent years long slow burn affair w some Hatake boy.

Shikamaru, sort of horrified but in too deep to back out now, resolves to at least finish the diary-- and despite himself, besides some of the more painful to read sections, there really is a lot of really interesting information in the diary.

Which brings Shikamaru to being unable to set down the diary, and bringing it to the academy with him in the morning.

(Quick note, lets set this like two or three months before graduation, so Shikamaru is like, ~13 I think)

SO, SHIKAMARU IS IN CLASS AND READING HIS GRANDFATHERS DIARY IN THE BACK OF THE CLASS (his first mistake, tbh) And he doesnt notice as Ino and Sakura appear behind him and Ino starts reading over his shoulder. And Ino, proud fujo, after a minute of reading goes really loudly,

"is that YAOI???"

And now Shikamaru essentially has two options. Both of them a uniquely kind of terrible. Does he,

a) admit this is his grandfathers very gay, very sappy, very depressing, kind of steamy diary about how he cheated on his fiance with a Hatake boy and even briefly debated running away from his wedding to be with him instead (but ultimately didnt)

or, b) let his classmates think hes a fan of doomed yaoi romance novels.

He decides that option b at least doesnt invoke a possible scandle for his clan (which his mom would kill him for) and says its a book.

Sakura immediately points out the fact that its hand written.

On pure reflex, Shikamaru blurts, "I wrote it."

(Instant regret.)

So anyways Ino and Sakura (mostly Ino) bully Shikamaru into letting them read 'his' book. And they come back to him with it going "omg, this is amazing! It's just as good-- maybe even better than most of the things on the market right now!!!"

And Shikamaru is like, "great can I have it back please."

And they're like "Shikamaru, you cant just let this kind of masterpiece rot in your closet!!!! This is incredible!!!! Heart wrenching!!! Hair raising!!! Super dramatic and filled with tension and drama and history and 𝓇𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 !"

And Shikamaru, again, is like, "Great. Can I have it back please."

"Shikamaru, you don't understand. You have a gift."

"Can I please have it back now."

So. One thing leads to another and after much peer pressure (and maybe some light threats of blackmail because Ino and Sakura have totally realized that Shikamaru didn't actually write the diary, and it instead belonged to his grandfather. (Mostly because Ino had actually met the man before, and obviously recognized his name)) Shikamaru has now gained:

a) two very eager 13 year old publishing managers / editors

b) the contact information of Sakura's cousin, who coincidentally works at one of the biggest publishing houses in Fire counry.

c) somehow, some way, the obligation to edit and publish his grandfathers diary as a bl romance novel.

Shikamaru hates his fucking life.

SO. THEY PUBLISH IT AFTER SOME EDITING AND CHANGING OF CLAN NAMES AND ITS A WILD SUCCESS. SHIKAMARU IS KIND OF MAD AT HOW MUCH OF A WILD SUCCES IT IS.

(Though, laying in his bed of money that now rivals his father's personal funds as the Nara clan head, he can't bring himself to be... as mad as he might have otherwise been.)

(Sakura and Ino, also with their giant piles of money, are also very satisfied.)

But the satisfaction doesnt last for long bc soon the girls are scheming to get Shikamaru to write something new for them to publish.

"But I didn't write the diary to begin with!" Shikamaru argues.

"What does it matter?" Ino insists. "You still edited it, and it was your grandfather who wrote it! Some of the talent has to be there!"

(depressingly enough for Shikamaru, some of the talent does seem to be there.)

And thus begins Shikamaru's life of becoming a famous romance author with his (blackmailers) managers Ino and Sakura <3

(In the pure lands, Shikamaru's grandfather is screaming into a pillow as his Hatake boy in question laughs his ass off and insists this is exactly what he deserves after keeping them a secret for so long. Really, Shika, you should be proud for having such a resourceful grandson.)

So anyways, this brings me to the fact that Sakura's first ever encounter with her new sensei, Kakashi, would have gone WILDLY different on her end. Because she saw the original diary. She, unlike the general public, didn't get the edited version of the story with changed clan names.

So when her teacher walks into the room and introduces himself, her very first thought is omg like the yaoi.

And her first act is to start giggling maniacally in the corner of the room like a little freak. In Sakura we stan

Kakashi meanwhile has no fucking clue what kind of drugs that little girl is on, but finds that he probably doesn't want to know.

WHICH ALSO BRINGS ME TO THE FACT THAT LIKE. Theres something profoundly funny about known icha-icha lover Kakashi reading this novel and becoming a huge fan-- absolutey 100% unaware that it's about HIS direct cousin, only two generations back.

Shikamaru put way more effort into disguising the Nara clan's involvement in the book-- both because he cares more about the Nara and because he kinda uhh... was under the impression that the Hatake were all dead, like, for real. In the book, the Nara's clan name is changed, the character names are changed, their sacred animal is changed to a rabbit and their traditions are all altered-- but the Hatake clan just becomes the Hasake clan and is largely left alone bc Shikamaru is 13 and can't really be bothered to go the extra mile.

(Editing so much is such a bother, Ino. You just dont get it)

So like, Shikamaru has no idea who Kakashi is, he only learns he exists when Sakura fucking bodyslams into him and Ino screaming about how HER NEW TEACHER IS RELATED TO THAT GUY YOUR GRANDPA HAD NASTY GAY SEX WITH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"THE ONE LIKE IN THE DIARY ONE???" Ino screams

"IS THERE ANOTHER GUY WHO HAD NASTY GAY SEX WITH SHIKAMARU'S GRANDPA WHO I'M SUPPOSED TO KNOW ABOUT??!?!?" Sakura screams back

Shikamaru just screams into his pillow. The girls both ignore him.

Meanwhile, Kakashi knows SHIT about his clan and recognizes nothing in the novel. Which is a special kind of tragic because as he reads it, he's being given more information than he's ever been given about his clan. And even specific stories and in depth recorded conversations about his grandmother-- and even occasional mentions of his own father as a baby, and he just... has no idea.

Man is literally reading about his ancestors, getting stories of his family only a single generation before him, going: "Wow something about this clan just speaks to me. Probably the dogs."

Literally getting his fathers childhood stories. Not a single clue.

Hes going on a mission going "Hmm, what would Haruka Hasake from hit bl series XXX do" like that isnt secretly his fucking GRANDMA

Meanwhile, all three of the kids are acting SO shady around him. Ino and Shikamaru specifically are so fucking suspicious bc they are largely successful in avoiding him like the plague-- so when they do interact, it's an Event(tm) for them, while Sakura is forced to learn to be normal near him via exposure.

Tho not even the sage himself can save Sakura from the day Kakashi pulls out THE book during training instead of his usual icha-icha. Sakura fucks up her aim on a body flicker and flies straight into a tree, giving herself a concussion. Rip!!

Anyways yeah. Let Shikamaru discover his grandfathers old, scandal filled diary and be blackmailed by Ino and Sakura into publishing it-- setting him on his journey of becoming the next big thing in naruto romance publishing. It'd be funny as hell.

Special thanks to @imsosleepyofyourbull and @halsaph for talking to me about this on discord, this is so fucking stupid and I had so much fun with it

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veal-exe · 2 days ago

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I’m going to go ahead and link the post I wrote on misappropriated leftist language since you seem confused about what counts as radical speech and what is, in fact, just being a self-congratulatory asshole.

There is a difference between not being up to date on language, or using the wrong language, and knowingly calling someone 'a stupid tranny'

You are not being transgressive. You are not being edgy in a meaningful or liberatory way. You’re just saying slurs on someone else’s post like a teenager trying to prove you’re the most punk person at the school assembly, and somehow thinking that makes you clever instead of embarrassing. Let me make this simple for you: calling a trans person a slur they haven’t consented to, in a context where it clearly is not welcome, is not activism. It’s not neutral. It’s not anything but hostile.

You can scream “context” all you want, context includes the power dynamics of a space. You’re replying to a post I made calling out harm, and instead of showing basic respect to the community in the inter-community conversation happening, or the person who wrote the post, you decided to swing in and drop a slur because you use it “neutrally.” Which you did not by the way, don't delude yourself, calling someone a 'Tranny Loser' is not fucking neutral.

Okay. Great. You know who else thinks their use of that word is “neutral”? Cis people who haven't learned what language they're allowed to use for other people and who don't care. Do you want to be in that company? You’re closer to them right now than you are to anything resembling praxis.

You say you “use that word regularly.” That’s your business. I do too for myself and people who consent to it, like buddy, I'm Tranny. That doesn’t give you license to throw it around on other people’s content or to use it for trans people who you don't know personally who haven't reclaimed it.

Reclamation is not universal just because you’re trans. That’s not how community works. That’s not how slurs work. That’s not how respect works. If someone hasn’t opted into that language with you, you don’t get to slap it onto them and then act shocked when people don’t cheer you on for being bold and rebellious. The Queer Community doesn't even call fellow individual LGBTQIA+ Queer without consent/knowing reclamation because it is overwhelmingly considered uhh Not Fucking Cool. And I say that as someone who knows that Queer is only really used as a slur in pockets these days.

And comparing your behavior to a Black person using the n-word with another Black person? That’s not just disingenuous it’s laughable. You are not part of an equivalent dynamic here, calling another person a Tranny Loser in the trans community is not the same as black people reclaiming words in their community as a whole, and you clearly don’t understand the history or gravity of what you’re invoking. You’re not “punching up.” You’re punching sideways and calling it solidarity while stepping on people’s toes and insisting they thank you for it.

You seem like the kind of person who reads the first paragraph of a leftist zine and thinks it gives you carte blanche to do harm as long as you talk like a Tumblr-era anarchist. It doesn’t. Your tone policing accusations don’t scare me. Your performance of not caring doesn’t land. You can yell about how not-a-slur it is all you want, you’re still using my post to do harm in a way that I won't allow.

Let me say it again:

this is not a debate. I am telling you to Fuck Off and Get Fucked. I don’t care if it was casual or deliberate, you don’t get to put on your cool kid baby idiot hat and call that boundary invalid just because you’ve decided your usage of a slur is enlightened and everyone else is “throwing a hissy fit" you dumb motherfucker.

You came into my house and tracked mud across my carpet, and now you want to argue that because you’re used to walking in filth, I should be fine with it.

No. Get the fuck out.

The only place white cis men have in trans discourse is sitting down, being quiet, learning, and standing up for trans people against their fellow cis people.

That also means not blindly parroting hateful transphobic rhetoric from other trans people, because some trans people are transphobic (TRFs, Transmeds, Truscum, etc), as an example, if you were a white cis man and you had a trans friend who was constantly telling you that say, and I’m gonna make something up here that hasn’t happened, but say you have a trans friend who’s constantly saying people who don’t want to start HRT aren’t REALLY trans.

you would have no business thinking, repeating, or pushing that. You’re obligated to listen to the whole community, not just the ONE trans friend you have spewing bigoted rhetoric. This goes doubly so if your bigoted trans friend is white because then they should also be sitting down and listening to the poc in the community.

Cis White Men have no place giving their thoughts and opinions about how the kind of trans person they like less isn’t oppressed. They definitely don’t get to say they ‘have tboy swag’ while being actively transphobic and uplifting TRFs, stop, cis white boy, stop, etc.

Cis white women don’t either ftr, no cis person does, but this is about a specific event.

#reply

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dee-writes-anime · 1 day ago

Text

The Art of Homemade Gloves

FEATURING Choso Kamo x Reader

SUMMARY When you handed him a heat pack and told him to get some rest, you didn’t think anything of it. But Choso had never really been given warmth before and now he doesn’t know how to stop bringing it back to you.

CONTENT WARNINGS choso is awkward (!!!), not much other than cute fluff :D

AUTHORS NOTE some cute choso fluff I wrote to break up some request posting. Sometimes, you just gotta let those creative juices flow freely. ;)

It starts with a mission and a sore back.

The fight hadn’t been brutal, but it left everyone scraped raw—too much cursed energy in the air, too many small injuries that didn’t need a healer, just rest. By the time Choso finds a quiet hallway in the safehouse to sit down and breathe, the adrenaline’s long gone and a strange stillness is settling into his bones. Not peace. Not exactly. Just quiet.

You find him there, sitting against the wall like an abandoned shadow, elbows on his knees, head lowered. You don’t say anything right away. Just sit beside him with a soft grunt and stretch your legs out. Close, but not too close. It’s that subtle kind of closeness he’s noticed about you—natural, like you belong where you are without needing to ask permission.

You’re both quiet for a moment. Breathing in the same air, letting silence do what it does best: make space.

Then, you nudge something into his lap.

He looks down.

It’s a heat pack—one of those soft, microwavable ones, stuffed with rice or seeds, a faint trace of lavender clinging to the fabric. It’s warm. Still holding the heat from your hands.

“You looked tense,” you say. “Helps with the soreness. Just pop it in the microwave for like thirty seconds.”

He stares at it, confused. “You’re giving me this?”

You shrug. “Yeah. You didn’t look like the type to grab one for yourself.”

That’s… true. He wouldn’t have.

You stand, stretching your arms overhead, the hem of your shirt lifting just slightly. Choso looks away.

“Rest up, Choso,” you say over your shoulder, and then you’re gone.

He stares at the heat pack a while longer before pressing it to his chest like it might teach him something.

The next day, you find your favorite bottled tea sitting on your desk.

No note. No explanation. Just a single can, placed neatly beside your papers.

You glance down the hallway in time to see Choso disappearing around the corner.

The day after that, it’s a bag of spicy chips—the exact kind you’d mentioned craving once after a mission, in passing, weeks ago.

You open the bag and pop a chip into your mouth, chewing slowly.

“…Huh.”

When you see him again in the common room, you raise an eyebrow.

“Choso,” you say, arms crossed. “Are you… bribing me?”

He freezes mid-step, holding another drink can in his hand. You’ve caught him in the act. His eyes dart to the tea, then to you.

“No,” he says immediately, too fast. Then he pauses. “…Is it working?”

You try very hard not to laugh. “Maybe.”

He nods, completely serious, and sets the can down carefully before turning and walking away with the stiff posture of a man fleeing a crime scene.

You’re still laughing ten minutes later.

The gifts don’t stop.

They’re not flashy—never flowers or jewelry or anything extravagant. Just little things. Snacks. Canned drinks. A fresh roll of wrist tape after a tough training session. A pair of soft socks when the weather turns colder.

One day, it’s a neatly folded cotton scarf. You recognize it from the vendor stalls near the school—simple but warm, and in a color you once said you liked. Choso doesn’t even stick around to see you open it.

You don’t know what to do with it all, exactly. You try to give things back. He refuses every time.

“No,” he says, like it’s obvious. “It’s for you.”

Sometimes he hovers after dropping things off, pretending he’s not hovering. He doesn’t talk much, but his presence fills up the space slowly, like steam curling through the air.

Eventually, you stop pretending you don’t enjoy it.

One evening, after a mission with a few too many close calls, you sit outside the safehouse, elbows on your knees, cooling off under the open sky. The stars are just starting to emerge—faint and flickering. You rub your thumb over a small cut on your palm, mind wandering.

Choso appears quietly beside you, holding something wrapped in a soft cloth.

You blink. “Another peace offering?”

He sits without answering and sets the bundle in your hands.

You unwrap it carefully.

Inside is a pair of gloves. Hand-stitched, soft, warm. The seams are slightly uneven in a way that makes your chest hurt. Not messy—just… real. Like someone had done their best, even if they weren’t used to doing things like this.

You slip them on. They fit perfectly.

“You made these?” you ask, voice soft.

He nods once.

You flex your fingers and stare down at your hands, searching for words. Before you can find them, Choso speaks first.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on the horizon. “After you gave me that thing.”

You look up at him.

“The heat pack,” he clarifies. “You gave it to me and… didn’t ask for anything. You just did it.”

He pauses. His voice is low and steady, but you can hear the tension underneath, like a bowstring drawn tight.

“No one’s ever done that before,” he says. “Just… gave me something. Because they wanted to.”

Your heart pulls, slow and deep.

“I didn’t know how to say thank you,” he adds. “So I started… bringing things.”

You swallow, touched in a way that’s hard to describe.

“I noticed.”

His hands twitch in his lap. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“It’s not weird,” you say gently. “It’s… really sweet, actually.”

He turns to look at you—cautious, uncertain.

“You didn’t have to do any of that,” you continue, “but I’m glad you did.”

He’s quiet. Then, after a long pause:

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you say immediately.

He exhales, quiet and almost imperceptible.

“…Good.”

Things shift after that.

Not dramatically—just slightly. Like a door left cracked open. Choso starts lingering more. Sometimes he doesn’t bring anything at all, just sits with you while you read, or trains quietly nearby.

He doesn’t speak much. But when he does, it’s careful. Intentional. Like he weighs every word before offering it to you.

And sometimes, he watches you.

Not in a way that feels heavy or uncomfortable. Just… watchful. Soft-eyed. Like you’re something he’s trying very hard to understand. Or maybe memorize.

You don’t push. You just let it be. And quietly, you start giving back.

You bring him little things, too. Not out of obligation—just instinct. His favorite onigiri. A new set of hair ties. A small bottle of eucalyptus oil for his aches. The first time you brush a leaf out of his hair after a mission, he goes so still you think he’s stopped breathing.

Then he thanks you in a voice so quiet it barely makes it past his lips.

One day, you find a new heat pack on your bed.

It’s handmade. Soft fabric, the same color as your favorite hoodie. There’s a note tucked underneath, the handwriting small and oddly careful:

For when you’re sore. Or cold. Or both. —Choso

You press it to your chest, smile, and feel warmer than the pack itself.

You don’t realize how normal it’s become—this strange rhythm between you—until you wake up one evening from a post-mission nap on the common room couch and find Choso sitting on the floor beside you.

He’s reading. His legs are crossed, and there’s a mug in his hands. The book’s upside down, you realize after a moment.

You blink groggily. “How long was I out?”

He glances over, calm as ever. “Not long.”

There’s a blanket draped over your shoulders.

You frown, tugging at it. “Did you…?”

He looks vaguely guilty.

You smile. “Thanks.”

You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. Choso sets the book aside (right side up this time) and watches you for a moment. Not saying anything. Just… looking.

There’s something in his gaze tonight. Something quiet and vulnerable and very, very present.

You decide to ask the thing that’s been sitting in the back of your mind for weeks now.

“Choso,” you say, “are you courting me?”

He freezes.

You swear you see his soul leave his body for a full three seconds.

“…I don’t know,” he says finally, voice small. “Am I?”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing.

“I think so,” you say gently. “And if you are—I don’t mind. In fact, I kind of like it.”

His eyes widen slightly, like you’ve just handed him the moon and asked if he wanted to keep it.

Then—slowly, like a cloud parting—he smiles. Just a little.

“…Okay,” he says.

You reach out and take his hand.

It’s warm.

So are you.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu sorcerer #gege when i catch you gege #jjk #kamo choso #choso kamo #jjk choso #choso x reader #jujutsu kaisen choso #jjk au #x reader

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radiohao · 3 days ago

Text

yushi swears he has an “obvious” crush on you, but you're in major denial

pairings: tokuno yushi x f!reader

genre: fluff, crack, uni!au, soccerplayer!yushi, bulletpoint fic, oblivious!yn, ft. ive rei, sion, riku, friends-to-lovers

warnings: REDO OF THIS FIC, mentions of reader getting sick, one joke abt kidnapping, a mention of a broken wrist but it's not in detail, mentions of getting drunk, not proofread

wc: 2.7k

—

lately, you've been developing an unHEALTHY obsession with the new transfer student, tokuno yushi

he's in your econ class and came in from japan last semester

you still remember him walking in with a gray sweater, dark washed jeans, and soft, tousled raven black hair

and of course you remember you two locking eyes

u swore you were hearing wedding bells imMEdiately

you looked away so fast your neck probably cracked a little

thank god you sat in the back of the room because then you can just stare at this god-given sPECimen every day for an hour

well... nOw he sits right next to you...

it was... an interesting story, to say the least

— flashback —

you're barely awake and class only begun five minutes ago

wHY did you let rei convince you to play roblox obbies with her at 3AM?? half the world is ASLEEP at that time

and now you're suffering the consequences because your eyelids feel like they weigh 10 pounds

you got an americano since you assumed it'd wake you up, but it's so bitter you can't take another sip without scrunching your face in disgust

u should've gotten a frappe instead

your professor clears her voice before speaking

"good morning everyone! with the new semester starting, i thought it'd be nice if we all compress so it's easier to hear. as you may know, i recently got a surgery done in my throat, therefore i can't speak at loud volumes as it strains it-"

you roll your eyes and softly groan at the announcement

oh lord PLEASE you do not want to be sat with some gUy-

"y/n, may you please sit up here at the front next to yushi? thank you."

wHAT??? oh nonono well now u regret ever thinking that because yushi is not just some GUY!!

you mumble curses as you grab your things and make your way to where yushi is sitting

when you get there, his bag is on the seat next to him, which u assUME is your seat

he looks at you just standing there stupidly and his eyes widen before he takes his bag

"oh, sorry." you wave him off and sit next to him

your professor moves some more people to the front before starting her lecture

ykw this is perfect!! you're in the front so u hear her better and won't... fall.... asleeeeeppp.......

your eyes are drooping and your head jerks forward

crap nO not now

you need to take a sip out of your americano- ZZZzZzZzZzZz

—

so you blacked out.

goddAMNIT

you're woken up when someone lightly squeezes your shoulder

"wake up y/n, lecture is over."

"augpghgnm five more minutes plEAse.."

"okay." oh really? okay period!! that usually doesn't work but hey you'll take it! and whoever this is has a cotton candy-like voice that easily puts you back to sleep again

five minutes pass by and your shoulder is being squeezed again

you FORCE your eyes open before you get drowsy again and once u make eye contact with "cotton candy voice" you nearly fall off your chair

tokuno yushi is sitting next to you with his hand on your shoulder

"i'm sorry, did i startle you?" he says softly

you're like ??? what what what

"no, you're good! thanks for giving me a couple extra minutes to sleep," you say with a laugh

he chuckles and shakes his head, saying "don't worry about it. you seemed tired anyway. i'm gonna head out now- oh, also, make sure to check your notebook."

yushi slings his bag over his shoulder and you just nod as he talks (you're losing focus because of how good he looks rn)

"'m yushi, by the way. see you." he waves goodbye and leaves the room

you open your notebook and see that he wrote down notes for you during the lecture

ur eyes are glued to a little note he put in the corner saying "sorry my handwriting sucks lol" and your first coherent thought is I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN

but then you're also like why did he do that in the first place???

he was probably just being nice since you looked so pathetically tired

yeah that's it

— flashback over —

safe to say you would do anything for tokuno yushi

he tells you to do his homework for him? you'd do it. he says to throw out all your clothes? everything is in the dump already. he asks you to jump off a cliff? you're already falling off the ledge.

well now you and yushi are friends.. sort of

you talk every class and text each other

and when you found out he was on the soccer team he asked you to come to his games, and ever since then you've been going to each one

but it's just that sometimes he does things that make your heart jump and your cheeks warm up

like that one time he gave you his jacket after class because it was raining, saying he "didn't want you to catch a cold"

or that other time when he came to your dorm after his game with snacks beause you said you weren't feeling well

you feel like you should believe that he likes you but it just seems too good to be true!!

and if you're being honest there's so many other girls that line up at his door every day, so it wouldn't make sense for him to choose you!!

this man is making you go clinically insane

and rei keeps telling you HE DOES LIKE U GIRL but ur just like no... i don't tHINk so...

you're torn because there are signs that maybe he does feel the same but when you think about his popularity and how much of a wanted bachelor he is, you feel your confidence start to crumble

maybe you should just give up on your man because there is NO WAY he likes you

—

yushi is going to rip his hair out of his head

WHY is it so difficult to ask a girl out?????

truth is, he's liked you since the day he saw you

it was like wedding bells were ringing in his head and he was like YEP this is the mother of my kids right here

the first time he tried to make a move on you was when you were asked to sit next to him

he silently pumped his fist under the table like Y E S this is my chance

and he thought u looked so pretty while sleeping

yushi secretly moved some of your hair behind your ear because he could see it was bothering you, but he didn't tell you as to not sound creepy

and he's pretty proud of his status with you now, but he really wishes you'd just call him out for all the moves he's made on you because he's SHY

he tried to ask you out two (2) times already!!

the first time when you walked out of the lecture hall together and it started POURING

he lended you his hoodie and he was about to confess but it just so happened that rei called you

"y/n, i have something to tell you."

"what is it?" RRRRIIINGNGNG "oh, hold on. hello, rei? wHAt?! you broke your wrist??? oh my gOD- sorry, yushi i have to go.”

that's fine!!!! there's always next time!!!

the next time he tried asking you out was when you said you came down with a fever on the day of his game

horrible game by the way, he played so bad

(he never plays well when you're not there, yushi swears you're his good luck charm)

he bought all your favorite snacks and a plushie and went to your dorm after the game

you open the door wrapped in a blanket and he just wants to cuddle you-

who said that

"hi, ushi," you say with a croak to your voice, "what are you doing here?"

he smiles softly and holds up a bag

"i got you some snacks. thought you didn't eat yet."

you snicker, "how do you always know?"

"i just do."

you invite him inside and have a little chat

about an hour later, you and yushi are sat on opposite sides of the couch

yushi thinks it's now or never and takes a breath, "y/n, i have feelings for you."

hOOOOOOOnnKK SshhhOOOo

what the hell

he looks to the left and sees you snoring your ass off

and yes u look adorbs but REALLY?? he JUST mustered up the balls to confess and you're sleeping

he sighs.

yushi SWEARS his crush on you is obvious, i mean how is it not??? he lends you his stuff, listens to you talk for hours on end, talks to you more than he talks to his own teammates, and buys you small gifts all the time

LITERALLY EVERYONE KNOWS TOO

like the soccer team, the girls that like him, even his younger brother

he'll just have to give it another shot

third time's the charm, i guess

—

okay, yushi has officially devised a plan

well, technically it's his, riku, and sion's plan

basically what's going to happen is yushi invites you to the upcoming soccer game (to which you always go anyway), and when they win the game, he will offer a ride home to you and confess in the car with flowers and a plushie

sion suggested the car thing so there are no distractions and you can't run away ("that sounds like i'm going to kidnap her," yushi deadpans. "lovingly, of course!" sion exclaims)

riku suggested the flowers and plushie so it's less creepy

so actually this isn't yushi's plan at ALL but he will sAy it's his plan anyway because he's the one confessing!!!

alright, game time. (literally)

—

you walk into the lecture hall and sense bad juju

what's going on, you think. you don't like this!!

as you head to your seat, you notice yushi isn't there in the spot next to you

okay wow so you like him so much your body just knows when he's not there??? got it

but nOO :( he's not here!!!! who are u supposed to stare at now!??!?

you grumble a little as you sit down, but you spot a little post-it note on the chair.

huh, weird

taking it off, you read the writing scratched onto the note, with lettering you recognize all too well

'sorry, skipping class today to rest for tonight's game. it'd be great if u were there, like always. have rei drop u off bc i wanna eat out w/you after. c u :) - yewshee'

you laugh at the stupid spelling of his name

he wants to eat out after??? what do you WEAR????

—

it's almost time for the game and ur STRESSING

HWAT DO YOU WEAR OH MY GOD

you settled on a cute frilly blouse and some shorts

pretty but simple (like yushi, you think)

rei drops you off (her wrist is mostly healed) and you find a seat in the middle of the stands

SMACK in the middle to be more specific

it's not rlly what you wanted but you don't mind because the front stands are full of families cheering on their sons and girls in the back cheering on their bfs

u totally don't wish that was you on the top of the stands haha

oop game is starting

you see yushi warming up and your heart swells

he looks SO good in his uniform because you can see his calves and biceps flexing

amen for soccer uniforms

—

yushi feels like he's going to crap his pants

he's already got the usual pre-game jitters, but it's even worse because he can't SEE you in the stands

where the hell are u???????

he's squinting like an idiot and riku laughs at him

"you look dumb as hell," he says

yushi smacks his back and riku winces in pain

just then he sees you, looking around

wow, you look really pretty

"she can't hear you, by the way." sion laughs

what

OH CRAP DID HE SAY THAT OUT LOUD

he groans and rolls his eyes in embarrassment

their coach tells them that the game is going to start soon

at least yushi knows he'll win now, since you're there

—

they won

is yushi surprised? not at all

he KNEW it from the moment he saw your face

now it's time for the next part of the plan: get you in his car

okay that doesn't sound weird at all

um but it's kind of hard trying to get you when there's a swarm of people around him congratulating him

PLEASE he just needs to get to his (soon-to-be) girl

he practically shoves everyone out of the way and heads to the parking lot

thank god you're already there, leaning against the hood of his car

"sorry, i was held back a bit," he starts

you smile and omg yushi thinks he's gonna faint

"it's okay. but congrats!! you guys did so good, as always."

the two of you open the car and sit inside

"i'm excited! i didn't eat dinner yet since you said we'd be going out- hello why are you not starting the car" you say

"y/n, i have something to tell you." he says cautiously

your head tilts to the side and you gesture for him to continue

he pulls out the flowers and plushie from the backseat and you softly gasp

the bouquet is beautiful, full of your favorite flowers

yushi clears his throat and leans forward a bit

"i have feelings for you. i've liked you for around... 5 months now? but yeah, i thought i'd let you know. if you don't feel the same way, it's okay, we can just move past it. the last thing i want is for you to be uncomfortable, which is now making me realize that i probably shouldn't have done this in the car because it seems weird-"

he's basically rambling at this point but he doesn't cARE he just needs to get it all out before he bails out on himself

"you... like... me??" you question

yushi nods with a small smile on his face

"are you sure? i mean, like, why me?"

"i just feel so comfortable and safe around you. i love how independant, thoughtful and selfless you are, and how you always appreciate the small things in life. i love how genuine you are, because it never makes me feel like i'm being judged or lied to- it just feels real. you always think about others before yourself, and that makes me want to be the person to take care of you."

wow you did not expect that

yushi just kinda stares at u because he didn't expect to say that himself either

haha that's so sweet of him,,, oh god,,,,, this is a LOT to take in

why do you feel lightheaded and why is your vision going black

um what's happeni-

—

so you passed out

maybe it was the shock or the mental stress of the situation but you BLACKED OUT

you wake up to yushi fanning you with some random papers from his backpack that he hurriedly took out

he even has a hand on your wrist to check if you still have a pulse lmao

he freaked OUT when he saw all the color drain from your face

"hey- you okay?" he asks worriedly

you chuckle weakly and sit up, brushing the hair out of ur face

"yeah, sorry i just- i guess i was just surprised."

"did you want me to take you home? or to urgent care?"

"nO- i'm good, i swear, yushi. i just- it was a lot to take in. i didn't think someone like you would like someone like me, but i shouldn't have doubted you. i feel the same way. that was really sweet of you- this whole confession was, to be honest. i don't mind you being the one to take care of me. i want that, actually. i want that with you."

you two are just staring at each other like haha what do we do now

yushi leans forward even more and cups your cheek with his palm gently

"can i kiss you?"

GOD and he asks for consent, how perfect can he get??

"of course."

he presses his lips against yours and they mold together so perfectly it's like he was made to kiss you

when he pulls away you just look at each other fondly

"oh, and y/n?"

"hm?"

"please don't pass out on me like that again, i almost got a heart attack."

you laugh and rub the back of his hand softly

"no promises."

— bonus —

at the diner, you facetime rei and tell her the news

"GOD, FINALLY!!! i nEVer thought this day would come — thank you for having the balls to ask her out, yushi-" she's squealing so much on the other side of the phone she literally starts lagging

riku and sion just laugh at her reaction

"you know," sion starts, "yushi got drunk once and was ranting about you-"

"oh my GOD i remember that!! he was like 'y/n, i looooveeee youuuu...' i think i have a video, actually-" riku adds

"god, please don't." your bf says, massaging his temples

you laugh

he's so cute

—

author's note: hiii!! i loved this banner so much i thought it deserved a better fic to go with it haha so here we go :) have a good day/night everyone!

#nct wish #nct wish imagines #nct wish x reader #tokuno yushi #yushi fluff #fluff #yushi x reader #tokuno yushi fluff #nct wish scenarios

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whirling-star · 3 days ago

Text

I have some thoughts on The Roaring Knight, recently revealed in Deltarune Chapters 3+4! I made some sketches and wrote down some vague ideas I got after thinking about it for a bit.

“Did we fight this in Ch. 4??” [Looking at the central titan in the image of chapter 2’s prophecy addition]

“Actually some kinda titan???” NOTE: The titans to either side of the one in the middle do look a LOT, though not exactly the same as, the Knight. They also don’t look much like any lightener seen in the dark worlds so far…

“Looks more like these guys than like the lightners”. [Pointing at some little doodles of the titan spawn shown in the battle with the titan]. I’m thinking that the Knight shares more properties with the titans so far than with the Darkners or Lightners, which could be why they could enter the Light World with Undyne and also carry her all the way to the other end of town without anyone noticing a thing, and without Susie catching up to them.

“Strangely bird-like… Shapeshifting??” [Pointing at the Knight’s form as they kidnap Undyne]

“NOTE: Clearly not wearing a cloak.” That and the Knight’s mysterious orb form, as well as their screeching animation before their fight, makes me think that they’re actually more amorphous than their sharp-edged look might suggest.

Their form also destabilises when Susie hits it: (I don’t know how to shrink the image on i-pad)

And also when they lose, they flicker between this and the mysterious orb again:

“What’s this? Baseball? “Soul”? Darkness? Dess’s Dust?” [Pointing at the mysterious orb] “Inky darkness wrapped around this?”

“Maybe this is to Dess, as that statue thing was to Gerson?” [Pointing at the Knight holding aloft their very bat-like weapon, which also becomes a sword]

I was thinking that maybe that’s not really Dess, but it is enough to make Carol (and Kris??) think that they might be. We still have no idea what really happened, so I’m going to speculate a bit.

Option 1: Dess is actually dead and Kris was there for it, but Mayor Carol knows about dark worlds and believes she can be brought back with the dark fountains somehow. The player is needed for closing dark fountains. Kris also thinks or thought at the time that the plan could actually work, maybe because the Knight was the result of some attempt at this?? Maybe the Knight is not Dess but wants to be??

Option 2: The Knight is not Dess, but some manifestation of fear relating to her, as the titans are stated to be the fear of the dark, the things that go bump in the night. The Knight knighting Kris and Kris struggling to fight them before Susie and Ralsei go down may have to do with potential guilt about being involved with Dess’s disappearance. This idea also assumes, therefore, that it was Carol talking to Kris on the phone. Maybe the Knight manifested during or after the incident?? Note that Queen only saw them at a distance and that King never actually met them (according to post-ch.3 dialogue in which he talks about Jevil talking about the Knight). Though… Jevil might have met them. Maybe.

Option 3: The Knight resembling the Holidays at all is all one big trick, as their form flickers and shifts. Their weapon is solid (Susie chips a shadow crystal and a weapon-sized shard off of it), but they don’t seem to be fully solid. Maybe the orb is their true form, and the rest of them can look however they please?? It’s a bit of a stretch but maybe. And what if there’s multiple “Knights” in the future? How real is this antagonist..?

Also I have very little idea about what to think of their weapon possibly being made out of shadow crystal. I’m sure that implies something important… Or maybe it just confirms that the Knight is responsible for shadow crystals and therefore the secret bosses receiving/finding them. (Gave one to Jevil? Left a shadow crystal in the NEO suit as a trap for Spamton? Left one lying around for Gerson, who didn’t take the bait?)

Another thing I find odd is that Ralsei has nothing to say about the Knight. While Susie’s doing her epic heroic speech, Ralsei’s kind of just there. He doesn’t seem afraid of the Knight in the same way he was of the titan. Did the prophecy mention the Knight anywhere at all? Titans and the end of the world are, but I don’t think the Knight is.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Was Susie right? Or wrong..?” [Pointing at some sketches of the Knight’s goopy-looking laugh, referring to Susie declaring that they’re helpless in the Light World and that without the Dark Fountain they’d be beaten straight away.]

(Also what is “aura farming” and why do some posts about the Knight say this is a thing that they’re doing?)

#deltarune #deltarune fanart #deltarune chapter 3 #deltarune chapter 4 #dr spoilers #deltarune spoilers #deltarune the knight #the roaring knight #deltarune theory #dr theory

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behindthemirrorofmusic · 2 days ago

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Remembering Michael Jackson today. Michael was a big fan of Musical Theatre and The Phantom of the Opera was his favourite production which he visited many times. Andrew Lloyd Webber has often talked about the times he spent discussing music and theatre as well as various projects with Michael. Here is an article he wrote about this in 2009.

"I first met Michael when he came to see Phantom of the Opera in New York when we'd just opened in 1988. He was clearly interested in the piece. He saw it several times and used to come backstage, often without the entourage that followed him around in later life.

The story got to him. I think he had a connection with the lonely, tortured musician. He found the idea of somebody working through music and having a girl as a muse very intriguing – and he loved that there was illusion in the show.

Michael became interested in playing The Phantom himself, in a movie version of the show. We talked about it a lot, but we'd only just opened and, at the time, I felt that it was too early for it to become a film. I felt his interest in Phantom was because he was interested in doing something theatrical himself.

He was a highly theatrical animal. I remember him saying to me that he'd seen Cats and how happy he was that dance was making a comeback in the theatre. He certainly talked about theatre a lot, and when he was last in London, he went to see Oliver!. Of course, he was a great showman himself, but he found the whole stagecraft of musicals extraordinary.

Seeing clips of Thriller on the news this week reminded me what an extraordinary dancer he was. He really brought dance and staging into the pop world, through his videos and concerts. Nobody before him had really done anything much like that. He was ahead of his time with all that he did.

I saw him a couple of times in concert. Thriller was probably the best stage event I've ever seen. From my musical-theatre perspective, I could see that he was bringing a completely new vision about dance to the stage. A tremendous amount of what he was doing then you see in musicals now.

Musically, Michael was also different to anyone before him. He was clever at taking pop hooks and using them in original ways, developing them theatrically. It's an influence that is now everywhere today. I remember listening to a Justin Timberlake album and hearing Michael's influence.

Young people still keep coming to his music because so many of his songs are classics. In the history of pop, Thriller will possibly stand out more than Sergeant Pepper because there were even more stand-alone hits on it. It's right up there with the all-time great albums.

Similarly, I would absolutely put him up there with the all-time greatest performers. I've seen most of the top rock acts – I saw Elvis several times – but with Michael's concerts, his showmanship was consummate. Very few rock singers have such quality.

Everybody was so looking forward to seeing what he would do when he came back to London. From what I was hearing, he was going to push the boundaries of what we'd seen in a rock arena much, much further.

The debts, all the court cases, and the trouble he got himself into, it was all so sad. But you can probably say already that his music has transcended all of that. Nothing sticks to him. In the end, the music will always survive."

#phantom of the opera #poto #the phantom of the opera #Michael Crawford #michael jackson

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camficdiner · 19 hours ago

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can i get 1.1, 2.16, 3.3, and 4.3 if i did this right

jack hughes finds your fan account (you writing rough smut for him) and fucks you the exact way you wrote it🙂‍↕️

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 054

🍒Thank you to the smutty, filthy angel who left this request, love, you're as delulu as me hoping that one day Jack will magically find the blog, its served piping hot and spicy

Enjoy your meal love

your favorite server

💬 "His Good Girl Would Never"

✨ Description and prompts:

character: Jack Hughes

prompt: Jack finds your anonymous fan blog where you write rough smut about him… and fucks you exactly how you wrote it

word count: ~1.3k+

Extra: Quinn Hughes

🛼🧁✨🍒

You were Jack Hughes’ girlfriend.

Sweet. Quiet. Predictable.

You kissed him in public like you were born for his jersey. Smiled for his photos. Wore his hoodie to practice and sat in the WAG section like a good little girlfriend should. And you didn’t lie — you loved him. Really, truly, fully.

But you were starving.

Jack kissed you like you’d break. Touched you like he wasn’t allowed to leave marks. His idea of rough was gripping your hips a little tighter. The sex was… fine. Safe. Nice.

But it wasn’t what you thought about late at night, when he fell asleep next to you and you crept into the bathroom with your phone.

That’s what the blog was for.

It was a private blog. Anonymous. False name. No links to your IP or social media. You used a VPN, cleared cookies, never wrote about “you” — just third-person filth, detached and dirty. Just fantasies.

You had maybe a thousand followers. Enough for comments, anons, thirst. But not enough for discovery.

Until he found it.

Until Jack found it.

You never knew how. You never even thought he’d read fanfiction — let alone the kind you posted.

But that night, you were out with friends. Phone in your purse. And he’d just wanted to scroll Spotify on your iPad. Just that.

What he saw was the Tumblr app still open.

What he saw was the draft page still loaded.

What he saw was this:

🟪 “Jack pins her against the wall first — doesn’t ask, doesn’t wait. He knows she can take it. He’s watched her take it before, mouth open, begging. Tonight, she’s already dripping when he presses the purple egg between her thighs, not even turning it on yet. Just letting her feel the shape. The threat. The fact that he could destroy her with it if he wanted to.

He kisses her once — not sweet. Not soft. Then he slips the vibrator in and clicks it to medium. She gasps. Squirms. But he holds her still.

“Quinn,” he says over his shoulder, without looking. “You ready?”

She doesn’t even register the footsteps until it’s too late. Quinn’s hands wrap around her waist. His mouth is right at her neck, whispering filth.

“She’s soaked already. Fucking hell.”

The egg buzzes harder. Jack doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just watches her squirm. Watches her fall apart with both their hands on her. Watches his older brother touch her like it’s normal — like she was made for it.

“How many times you think she can come like this?” Quinn asks, dragging his fingers over her soaked folds.

Jack doesn’t answer. He presses his palm against her mouth, eyes dark and wicked.

“Let’s find out.””

He didn’t breathe while reading it.

Didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t drop the iPad.

But his hand — the same hand that always brushed your hair back, the same one that rested light on your waist when he pulled you closer — it tightened. Fist clenched around the frame. Jaw locked.

Because his good girl would never say those things.

Would never beg like that.

Would never want him to ruin her.

Would never fantasize about him and his brother using her like a toy.

Would she?

-----

He didn’t sleep on the plane.

While you texted him goodnight — “sleep tight, love you always 💛” — he was wide awake, scrolling your blog with one hand around his phone and the other wrapped tight around his cock under the blanket.

He read everything.

Not just the fic about him and Quinn — but every single filthy word you’d ever written. Every reblog, every ask answered with shy sarcasm, every tag that said #i’d let him ruin me like you weren’t already letting him every night in bed.

Except you weren’t.

Not really.

Not the way you wanted to.

You’d been so careful. New username. Stock profile pic. No clues to your real name, your real team, your real face. Not even your voice.

But he knew you.

He knew your writing.

He knew what your fantasies tasted like now — and he was going to make them real.

He didn’t tell you. Not right away. You didn’t suspect a thing.

While you were home — painting your nails, packing your gym bag, wearing his hoodie with no panties underneath — Jack was sitting on the bus beside Luke, staring out the window with his earbuds in, obsessing.

Over your words. Over the way you described him when he was mean.

When he used you. When he told you to shut up and take it. When Quinn watched.

You’d written that one two months ago.

Your birthday was coming up next week.

He didn’t want to just ruin you.

He wanted to give you what you’d never say out loud.

“You busy?”

Quinn’s voice on the other end of the call was tired. It was late in Vancouver — time zone math Jack had memorized without even realizing it.

“Just got back from the rink,” Quinn replied. “Why?”

Jack’s fingers drummed against the hotel desk. The room was quiet. Dark. He didn’t know how to say it.

“You remember her birthday’s next week?” he asked carefully.

There was a pause.

“Yeah…?”

“She… wants something.”

Another pause.

“Jack, are you gonna make me guess what this is about or—”

Jack inhaled sharply. Then said it.

“She has a blog.”

Quinn blinked on the other side of the line. “What kind of blog?”

Jack didn’t answer right away.

He just opened the link he’d saved.

Scrolled to the fic.

And read it.

Out loud.

His voice was flat. Low. Controlled.

He didn’t even breathe until the end — the part where Quinn grips your throat and Jack fucks you so hard you cry, and the egg vibrates until you beg them to stop and neither of them does.

The phone was silent when he finished.

Then, finally:

“…Holy shit.”

Jack’s voice was dry. “Yeah.”

Quinn cleared his throat. “She wrote that?”

“Every word.”

A silence stretched between them.

Jack ran a hand through his hair. “I haven’t told her I saw it.”

“She doesn’t know?”

“No. And I’m not mad. I’m just—” He cut himself off. Swallowed. “I want to give it to her.”

“The… whole thing?”

Jack nodded, like Quinn could see him.

“She wants this. All of it. She just doesn’t know I can give it to her.”

There was another pause.

Then Quinn spoke, voice a little lower. A little darker.

“Then let’s do it right.”

----

The evening had gone perfectly.

You weren’t used to birthdays being soft. Quiet. Safe. In the past, they’d meant drunken bar tabs and blurry selfies and trying to pretend that maybe you didn’t care that no one actually showed up with a gift or a plan. But Jack did.

Jack always did.

He’d rented out the rooftop bar above your favorite New Jersey bistro — low lighting, paper lanterns glowing soft pink and gold, the scent of Prosecco and vanilla cupcakes floating in the air. You were in your favorite little dress, lilac with soft mesh sleeves, just short enough that Jack hadn’t stopped touching the hem all night.

His hand sat warm on the small of your back. His lips pressed at your temple every time someone toasted. Every single time.

Quinn had come too — quiet as ever, wearing a slate button-down and jeans, hair a little messy like he hadn’t wanted to overdress. He’d smiled as Jack kissed your cheek again and again.

“Can I crash at your place?” Quinn asked later, once dessert was served. “I flew in from Van this morning, hotel’s overbooked. I’ll take the guest room.”

Jack didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, of course. Stay as long as you want.”

You smiled at Quinn, and he nodded once in return. His expression unreadable.

Later, the three of you returned to Jack’s place. Jack unlocked the door while you kicked your heels off, giggling over how many cupcakes you’d smuggled into your purse. Quinn disappeared down the hall with a towel thrown over his shoulder.

Jack stood behind you quietly, arms wrapped around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You really have no idea,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “You have no idea what tonight is really about.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

Jack turned you in his arms. His smile was soft, almost sad. “You trust me, right?”

Your heart kicked. “Of course.”

He kissed your lips once. Twice. And then leaned in close to your ear.

“Then let me give you exactly what you’ve been asking for.”

Before you could even reply, he took your hand and led you to the bedroom.

—

There was something strange in the air. Anticipation, yes, but something deeper. Like Jack had decided something long ago, and tonight was the night he was going to let it happen.

Your cheeks flushed as he sat you down on the edge of the bed. The purple toy — the one from your fic, the one you thought no one would ever read — sat waiting on the sheets.

“I know everything,” he said simply. No teasing, no smile. Just raw, honest hunger. “The blog. The way you beg for more in your stories. The one with me. The one with Quinn.” His voice dropped. “The one where we both fuck you like you’re ours.”

Your mouth parted. Shame prickled at your skin like static. Your knees pressed together, eyes flicking down. “I—Jack, I didn’t—”

“Shh.” He dropped to his knees, kissed your bare thigh. “You don’t have to be scared. Not tonight.”

He pressed the toy into your palm. “We’re going to start slow. But not for long.”

—

Jack undressed you carefully. Every inch revealed felt like a confession. Like you weren’t just showing skin — you were revealing every filthy word you’d written with shaking fingers at 2 a.m. He kissed your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs. Then he looked up, eyes so dark you couldn’t breathe.

“You’re going to come on this toy first,” he said, voice low, “because I want you begging for my cock when I finally give it to you.”

And then he did it — slid the small, pulsing egg inside you, kissed the inside of your thigh as he turned it on. The vibrations were gentle at first, teasing. You bit your lip, hands gripping the sheets.

“That’s it, good girl,” Jack murmured, watching your legs shake. “Didn’t think I’d ever find that blog, huh? Didn’t think I’d want to ruin you just like you wrote?”

You moaned, barely able to answer, the toy building inside you like a secret.

And then—

Jack reached for his phone.

“Come in,” he said simply, eyes never leaving yours.

The door creaked. You looked up, breath catching in your throat.

Quinn.

Leaning in the doorway, silent.

Watching.

You whimpered. Jack’s hand curled under your jaw, tilting your face back toward him. “You wanted this,” he whispered. “You begged for this in your little story, didn’t you? Say it.”

Your voice cracked. “I—I wanted it.”

Quinn stepped forward slowly. “She’s even prettier up close,” he said, gaze sweeping over your bare body. His voice was low. Controlled. “Can I touch her?”

Jack nodded once. “Only if she says yes.”

He turned to you again. “Sweetheart?”

You hesitated — not because you didn’t want it, but because the shame had turned into something else. Something darker. Need. You felt wetness pool between your thighs as the toy kept vibrating inside you.

“Please,” you whispered. “Yes.”

Quinn knelt beside Jack, brushing hair from your face before kissing you deeply — nothing like Jack’s kisses. Slower. Heavier. His hand replaced Jack’s on the toy, holding it in place, pressing it deeper. Jack moved behind you, lifting you up into his lap, your back pressed to his chest, his cock hard against your ass.

“Now,” Jack said, voice gravel, “we take turns.”

—

What followed was nothing short of ruin.

Jack fucked you first, hard and deep, hand over your mouth while Quinn kissed the tears from your cheeks. He held your thighs apart while Quinn slid fingers inside you next, testing your limits. They whispered praise, filth, challenge — until you didn’t know whose voice you were answering, just that you needed more.

“You think you can take both of us?” Quinn growled, dragging his mouth down your neck.

“She can,” Jack said, thumb on your clit now, making you cry out again. “She begged for it. She wrote it.”

You came until your body shook. Until you were gasping, voice hoarse, tears running down your cheeks from overstimulation, from need, from how full you felt.

Quinn kissed your temple. Jack kissed your spine.

You weren’t just ruined.

You were theirs.

----

Your body is trembling, the sheets damp with sweat, the air thick with the ghosts of everything that just happened. You can barely catch your breath, muscles slack, bones soft, lips swollen from too many kisses — too much everything.

And then you feel it — Jack’s hand. Gentle on your cheek. Sweeping away tears you didn’t even know were still there.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, leaning in. “Breathe for me, okay? You’re okay. We’re right here.”

You nod, barely, still dazed. Your limbs are jelly, your mind a blur of sensation and relief.

Jack presses a kiss to your temple, brushing your hair back. “You did so fucking good, baby. So good for us. You’re not dreaming, and I’m not going anywhere.”

There’s no tension in his voice. No edge. Just warmth. Certainty. Love.

He wraps you in his arms, pulling the blanket over you, tucking it around your body like muscle memory — like he’s done it a hundred times before, and will again.

And then, on your other side, Quinn shifts closer. Not invasive, not possessive — just there. A silent presence that feels almost impossibly safe.

“You still with us?” he asks quietly, voice soft, hand resting on your waist.

You manage to hum, eyes fluttering open enough to see him — his lashes low, his expression warm.

“I can grab water,” he offers, already halfway up, but Jack stops him gently.

“I got it,” Jack says. “Stay with her.”

Quinn hesitates — just for a second — then settles back down beside you, fingers brushing your shoulder lightly, like he’s asking permission to stay close. Like he’s still unsure, even after everything.

You turn your head, pressing your cheek into Jack’s chest. “This doesn’t change anything, right?”

Jack kisses your forehead. “No. Not unless you want it to.”

You feel your heart clench at the honesty in his voice. No pressure. No possessiveness. Just Jack. Always Jack.

“You’re still mine,” he adds, voice low. “I still love you.”

And from your other side, Quinn chimes in quietly — not stepping on Jack’s words, not challenging them. Just adding his own.

“And I’m still your friend. Nothing more unless you ask for it. What happened tonight… it was for you.”

You close your eyes.

Between the two of them — steady hands, whispered reassurances, no guilt, no shame — you feel safer than you ever have.

You feel held.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re asking too much.

You just feel… loved.

#camficdiner #jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #jack hughes smut #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes smut #jh86 #jack hughes imagine #jh86 imagine #jh86 x reader #qh43 x reader #qh43

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tagged-by-trauma · 22 hours ago

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hi lovely! i hope you are all well and safe! could i request something with pedro x plus size reader? it makes me feel valid and seen :) it can be about anything, your choice! have a great day! xx

They don't deserve you

When the man you've been dating basically dumps you, Pedro shows up at your apartment and shows you just how much you're really worth. Pairing: Pedro Pascal x plus size!reader Warnings: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, reader feeling insecure, crying, Pedro saving the day, soft reassurences, first kiss, cuddling Word count: 1.4k A/N: Hey anon! This request hit home as I'm also a plus size woman, but I was happy to write it for you! Hope you'll enjoy!

You have been sitting on your couch in your little apartment for over an hour now crying your eyes out. The man you’ve been talking to for months now, who you’ve went even on a date with just wrote a text to you that he didn’t think that it could work out for the two of you, and that you can still stay friends even though the complications that just stepped up between you.

You didn’t answer him. Didn’t know how. You just read the message and cried. You felt like you weren’t worthy of love anymore, that maybe you’re just not capable to be loved. Your thoughts even swam there where you thought it was your body—although you usually felt confident in your own skin. That maybe you were too much for anyone in this world.

The tissues were scattered around you, blanket pulled over your body as you tried to disappear.

He was your closest friend for years now, and you couldn’t deny that you had feelings for him, but things were far more complicated than just confessing to him and waiting for his reaction. You didn’t want to ruin that friendship you had with him. Once you even gave him a spare key to your apartment, letting him into your life completely, and trusting him with your secrets. Years ago, you decided to have a movie night every Wednesday evening, and that night was today.

You didn’t even remember, too buried in your own shame.

You heard your front door open, but you didn’t dare to look up or even stand up to greet him from your place. But as Pedro stepped inside with a bag full of snacks and drinks, he knew that something was definitely wrong because the silence was hanging too thick in the air. He put down the bag on the kitchen counter and walked inside the living room with careful steps, the wood softly creaking under his weight.

And in the doorway, he faltered in his steps.

He looked at your tear-streaked face, the dirty tissues threw around you and the snacks placed on the coffee table. He couldn’t help but be angry. Not at you. But for that person who hurt you this amount. With a soft sigh he walked closer to the couch and sat down. That’s when you looked up at his sad face, and you tried to dry the tears off your cheeks with not much success.

“What happened, sweetheart?” his voice was soft, laced with a bit of pity, and your nose crunched up a bit at the sound of it. That was the last thing you needed. You didn’t want to be pitied, you wanted to feel like yourself again without the doubt in your mind.

“It’s nothing,” you reached for another tissue when his hand came around your wrist and held it gently. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep in the new tears that found their way, and you let out a sigh.

“Cariño,” he scooted closer to you. “It’s not nothing when it makes you cry.”

“It’s just,” your voice faded as you tried to put your thoughts into words, and the warm feeling on your cheeks was proof that the tears spilled over again. His hand came up to your cheek and his thumb dried up the drops.

“Hey, hey, you know you can tell me, right?”

He was so soft with you that the words spilled out of you without a second thought. Maybe they were coming with anger, maybe sadness, but the most possible way was just saying everything with a numb tone.

“There was this guy I met in a café. He was sweet and caring and handsome. He walked up to me, we started talking and, in the end, he just ended up asking for my number. We went on dates, it seemed like everything was going so good, and then he texted me today that it’s not what he’s looking for but we can still stay friends,” you felt your heart become slightly less heavy, but it didn’t change the fact that you still felt like someone who was just dumped on the side of the road, left with nothing but a broken heart and no more tears left to cry.

Pedro looked at you with something unrecognizable in his eyes. Maybe a mix of anger and protectiveness, but there was something way more than these two, and you tried to figure it out. His arms came around your shoulders and he pulled you into his chest. The fabric under your cheeks smelled like him, like the place you got used to, and his arms felt like the soft reassurance after the storm.

He felt like home. And you were afraid of this quick conclusion.

“I just feel like that… Maybe I’m not capable to be loved. Maybe I’m just too much for people,” you mumbled under your breath, but he could still hear it, and he pulled you even closer. “I mean, I’m not those type of girls who walk on the street and every man’s gaze fall on them. I’m not the one who could easily borrow a shirt from their boyfriend and just wear it. I’m not—”

You were cut off by the feel of his lips on yours, and at first you were caught off guard, just sitting in his embrace, trying to not overthink everything. And then, your mouth found the same rhythm of his and the next thing you knew you were sitting in his lap, thighs resting on either side of his hips. His hands moved on their own route. His right tangled in your hair and his left resting on the small of your back, steadying you. Yours were both in his hair, ruffling the brown hair with soft grey streaks in it.

Probably seconds passed like this, but it seemed like minutes. Your dream that you never dared to do is now playing down in front of you, and your mind had to catch up with the emotions and the feeling of his warm body pressed tightly against yours.

You finally leaned back, your breaths coming in shallow puffs against his cheeks, and he gave you a soft smile from beneath you, so disheveled but still so handsome.

“That man doesn’t even deserve to breath the same fucking air as you. You’re not too much, you’re just not for people who can’t handle real beauty. And you,” his hands moved lower and cupped your thighs, giving them a soft but reassuring squeeze. “Are so fucking beautiful, cariño.”

You blushed at his compliment, your fingers combing through the messy curls on his head.

“Thank you,” he wanted to shake his head, as if indicating he doesn’t need gratitude, he was just doing what he wanted to, but you stopped him with a simple look. “Not just for this, for reassuring me that I’m worth it but for everything. For always being there for me, for always showing up when I’m at my lowest. Thank you.”

He pulled his face closer to his, his eyes so full of affection and care that you could have melted there on his lap.

“You’re really worth it, cariño. And if I’ll need to prove it, I will burn down the whole world for you,” his hand moved up and down on your legs, his thumbs tracing slow circles over the bare skin that was revealed by the ridden-up shorts. “I love you. I loved you for a long time, but I was scared. Scared of losing something so deep we had. Scared that if I said the wrong words, you would leave me there. But now I’m saying it. I love you, cariño. So fucking much that sometimes it hurts.”

His words striked a part of your heart you long thought was buried. But now he found it, and he was determined to bring it up to the surface.

“I love you too, Pedro.”

That’s all he needed. His mouth was on yours again. Hungrier, more desperate, full of emotions.

That night you both slept in the same bed. Not because something happened, but because you both wanted to feel each other close. His strong arms around you, the fabric of his t-shirt falling over your body, and the scent of his cologne filling your whole bedroom, lulling you into the calmest and deepest sleep you’ve ever experienced.

Maybe the world didn’t appreciate you the way you would have wanted, but Pedro was there.

And to you, he meant the world.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x f!reader #pedro pascal x female reader #pedro pascal x plus size reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal angst #pedro pascal fandom

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lycheeflavr · 2 days ago

Note

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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