if only i could jump higher

ep.38 — is this what they call “shipping”?

[lycheeflavr]

sorry i’m not writing anything it’s cuz i’m obsessed with fortnite atm 😭😭😭

[lycheeflavr]

btw if you’re also playing hmu!! <3 i’m playing on eu server :)

[lycheeflavr]

sorry i’m not writing anything it’s cuz i’m obsessed with fortnite atm 😭😭😭

[lycheeflavr]

guys i’m currently obsessing over mha, might write for shoto or someone else idk

[lycheeflavr]

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

[lycheeflavr]

guys I don’t know who I should write for next? kenma again, maybe megumi? any wishes?

[lycheeflavr]

The Dress Stays On 🐝🪻

pairing: needy!(aged up)Yuji x female reader, Dom!reader tags: public tension, begging, praise kink, ass obsession (yes yuji is the biggest ass man on earth, fight me) desperate sex, yuji is down bad, like literally so whipped, nsfw summary: Yuji can’t stop staring. You wore that tiny sundress just to mess with him—and now he’s begging to take you home. Needy, desperate, and absolutely obsessed with your ass, he’ll do anything if it means he gets to fuck you in that dress. word count: 2.7k

The sun was heavy, sticky on your shoulders, and your dress — light and short and perfect for a day like this — clung in all the right places.

Yuji had been quiet for a while.

Not in a bad way. Not sulking or annoyed. Just... intensely aware. You could feel it in the way he walked half a step behind you, eyes fixed somewhere around your hips. His fingers flexed a little every time your dress swayed with your stride, as if his hands wanted to reach down and stop it — or maybe lift it higher.

“Yuji,” you said lightly, peeking over your shoulder, “you’re being weird.”

He blinked, a little too fast. “What? No—no I’m not.”

You raised a brow. “You’ve been hovering behind me for five blocks.”

“I’m just…” He cleared his throat. “I’m watching out for you.”

You laughed. “From what? The corner store?”

But Yuji just flushed, reaching out to wrap an arm around your waist like it was an excuse — like he needed to anchor himself. His palm rested low on your back, thumb skimming the dip above your ass. You could feel the warmth of it through the thin cotton of your sundress. Too soft, too possessive for someone “just watching out.”

“You okay?” you asked, teasing.

He nodded too quickly. “Uh-huh. Totally fine.”

And yet his voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

When you bent forward slightly to read the snack shelf inside the 7-Eleven, you heard him make a noise — something between a cough and a strangled groan. You turned your head just enough to catch him adjusting his stance and very obviously not looking at you. Or more accurately: trying and failing not to look at your ass.

The dress had ridden up just a little. Not much. Just enough for someone standing behind you to see the soft line where your thighs curved into the roundness he clearly loved so much. His eyes were locked there like it hurt to look and hurt worse to look away.

You stood slowly, tugging the hem down with an innocent shrug.

“You sure you’re okay?” you asked again.

Yuji swallowed hard. “Yeah. I mean. I just…” He scratched the back of his neck, flushed to the tips of his ears. “You’re wearing that dress.”

You tilted your head, playing dumb. “Which dress?”

“That dress,” he whispered, like someone might overhear, even though you were the only two in the aisle. His hand gripped your hip again, firmer now, like the only way he could stop himself from doing something stupid was by holding onto you. “It’s short. And flowy. And it keeps... fucking moving.”

You smirked. “So you are losing your mind.”

“Kind of,” he admitted, miserably. His eyes dragged down your legs, lips parted like he was fighting for air. “Baby, it’s—every time it rides up, I just—my brain stops working. Completely.”

You leaned in a little, brushing your hand over his chest. “You’re adorable when you’re desperate.”

Yuji made another strained sound. His arms wrapped around your waist again, this time tugging you closer like he needed to feel you, remind himself he was allowed to touch. You could feel the faint tremble in his fingers when they landed just at the curve of your ass, respectful but undeniably there.

“I’m seriously trying so hard,” he muttered against your ear. “So fucking hard to behave.”

You smiled sweetly, brushing a hand through his hair. “I can tell.”

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, like he was in actual pain.

When you moved toward the counter, Yuji stayed closer than ever — a solid presence at your back, chin nearly on your shoulder, hand never straying from your waist. His fingers kept twitching. Possessive. Hungry.

By the time you paid and stepped back into the sun, the heat felt different — heavier, like a weight in your stomach and between your legs.

Yuji still hadn’t let go.

You tilted your head toward him, whispering with a smirk, “Want to go home?”

He nodded immediately, no hesitation. “Yes. Please. Fucking please.”

You hadn’t even finished locking the front door before Yuji was on you.

One hand flat on the wood, the other sliding up your thigh, slipping under your dress like he needed to get skin-to-skin right this second or he’d die. His chest pressed to your back, breath hot and shaking against your neck. His voice—wrecked.

“Baby. Fuck. You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”

You smiled like you hadn’t noticed the way he’d walked behind you the entire trip home, breathing hard, looking like he was seconds from dragging you into the nearest alley. Like you didn’t feel how hard he was when he pressed up against you just now.

“Mm,” you said innocently. “Was it the dress?”

His hand gripped your thigh tighter.

“The dress,” he groaned, like the word alone broke him. “That little—fuck, baby, I saw your ass every time you moved. Every step, every breeze—Jesus, you were bending over.”

“I was buying snacks,” you said sweetly.

He whined.

Full-body, desperate, crumbling-in-place noise, like he couldn’t believe you were still pretending this was anything but intentional torture. You bit back a laugh.

“You’re such a tease,” he mumbled, kissing down the slope of your neck as his fingers skimmed higher—up the back of your thigh, ghosting the hem of your underwear. “You know what you’re doing.”

“I really don’t,” you said with mock confusion. “I just like this dress.”

Yuji spun you around and kissed you like he was starving.

There was no buildup. No hesitation. Just heat—his mouth crashing to yours, wet and needy and raw, like he’d waited all day and couldn’t be patient another second. His hands tugged at your hips, dragging you against his cock through his jeans. You could feel how hard he was, how badly he wanted it, the way his hips bucked without him meaning to.

“You gotta let me fuck you in it,” he gasped. “Please, baby—just like this. Keep it on. Let me see you in it.”

You nodded, voice low. “Yeah? You wanna fuck me in my little sundress?”

“Please.”

It was a whimper. A full-body plea. His knees almost buckled.

You pushed him back slowly, watching the flush crawl down his chest, and walked him to the bedroom with one hand on his waistband, his fingers twitching at your hips the whole time.

When you reached the edge of the bed, you let go, stepping back just far enough that he whimpered again.

“Take your clothes off,” you said, voice low. “But I’m leaving this on.”

You twisted at the waist a little, giving him another shameless look at the way the dress curved over your ass.

Yuji groaned, fumbling with his belt like his hands didn’t work.

“I’m gonna fucking cry,” he mumbled. “You’re not real. You can’t be real.”

You helped him kick off his jeans and pushed him back onto the bed. He landed with a soft thump, red-faced and wide-eyed, already hard and leaking. You straddled his thighs, brushing your fingers over his cock just once—barely a touch—and he jerked like you’d electrocuted him.

“Fuck—baby, please.” He reached for you, flushed and wild. “I need you, I need—I’ve been hard all fucking day.”

“I know,” you whispered, kissing down his throat, your dress brushing his hips. “I saw you staring every time I bent over.”

Yuji whimpered. “You’re evil.”

And then he gasped, louder this time, because you were lining him up, not even bothering to take your dress off or your panties down—just pushing them aside, slow and slick, sinking down onto him with a moan that made his head tip back instantly.

“Fucking—oh my god—fuck.”

His hands gripped your hips like he didn’t know what else to do—like he’d dreamed about this and wasn’t prepared for it to be real. His eyes fluttered open, locked on your thighs, the way the fabric bunched up over your ass.

“You look so good,” he moaned. “You look so fucking good, baby, please—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

You rolled your hips slow, steady, keeping eye contact while his voice broke over and over.

“You’re so tight,” he gasped, “so warm, holy shit—I’m not gonna last, I’m—fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come—”

You leaned down, dragging your nails down his chest. “You better hold it, baby. Or I’ll stop.”

Yuji groaned helplessly, back arching. “No, no—please don’t, I’ll be good, I’ll be good—just don’t stop—please.”

You hadn’t even started riding him properly, and Yuji already looked like he was about to break.

Sweat gathered at his temples. His face was flushed deep pink, neck blotchy and chest rising in fast, shallow pants. Every time you rolled your hips, even just a little, his fingers twitched around your waist like he didn’t trust himself not to grab and rut—to ruin it in five seconds flat.

“Baby,” he whimpered, “you’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned over, voice low, teasing. “That bad?”

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he gasped. “The way your ass looked in that dress, how short it was—fuck, I was gonna lose it in the middle of the store. You bent over once and I saw everything.”

You smirked and lifted off him slowly, almost all the way, then dropped your hips again with a filthy slap.

Yuji moaned.

High-pitched. Broken. Desperate.

You giggled against his mouth, brushing his sweaty bangs back as you rode him slow and steady, dragging it out just to watch him squirm.

“You like watching me in this, huh?” you whispered.

“So much.” His head fell back. “I love your ass in it—I love everything, you’re—fuck, baby, you’re so hot—”

You leaned in again. “Wanna fuck me from behind?”

His hips bucked hard enough to lift the both of you.

You laughed and pulled off him slowly, standing up with your thighs slick and his eyes glued to your legs. His cock twitched helplessly against his stomach.

“Come on, then,” you said, climbing forward onto your hands and knees, lifting the back of your dress so he had the perfect view. “If you’re gonna beg for it, better do something about it.”

Yuji scrambled up behind you like a man possessed.

“Holy shit,” he moaned. “Baby—your ass— fuck—”

You felt the warmth of his hands grab at your thighs, trembling fingers pushing your panties aside again before his cock nudged against you. He slid in with a groan so deep you felt it in your spine, chest pressed to your back like he couldn’t bear not to be close.

“Just like that—fuck, you feel so good—so tight—”

His hips started moving without thought, rutting into you with hard, needy thrusts, dress bunched up at your waist and nothing but the sound of skin and moaning filling the room.

“I’m not gonna last,” he whined. “I’m—baby, I’m trying so hard—just don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

“Don’t stop what?” you teased, looking over your shoulder. “Fucking me in my little sundress?”

“Yes,” he groaned. “Yes, baby—please, let me keep going, I’ll be good—you look so good, I can’t take it—”

He pulled out just long enough to grab your hips and spread you open a little wider, eyes locked on the way your dress framed your ass. His moan was wrecked—guttural and strangled as he pushed back in, deeper this time, hips snapping harder now, no rhythm left.

“So perfect,” he babbled, breathless. “You’re so perfect, I love you so much—gonna come, I—fuck—please.”

You clenched around him.

Yuji choked on a moan.

You pushed back against him, grinding slow, fucking yourself on his cock while he desperately tried not to fall apart.

“Hold it,” you said, firm. “Be good.”

Yuji’s whole body trembled.

“I’m trying,” he whined. “I’m trying so hard—you’re so tight, baby—please, please, can I come?”

“Not yet.”

He sobbed. Like actually sobbed. Half-laughing, half-crying, fully overstimulated.

You pulled off him and turned around, pushing him back onto the bed again, his eyes dazed and glossy as you climbed back over him, guiding him inside with one hand and sinking down again.

He gasped.

“ Fuck— baby, you’re so—oh my god—please ride me, I can’t take it—please—”

You rolled your hips slow, gripping his jaw with both hands so he had to look at you.

“You like me like this?” you asked softly, fucking him deep and smooth while your dress slipped down your shoulder. “Riding you in my little sundress?”

Yuji nodded frantically.

“You like watching it bounce while I ride your cock?”

“Yes,” he cried. “It’s so hot—your tits, your ass, your dress— you— you’re everything—baby, I love you so much—please—”

He was nearly delirious, completely flushed, hands gripping your hips so tight it left marks.

“You’re so good,” you whispered, brushing sweaty hair from his forehead. “You feel so good, baby. So deep.”

That wrecked him.

He let out a strangled noise and thrust up helplessly, cock twitching inside you.

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come—can I? Please—let me come, please—baby—”

You grinded down hard and fast, all heat and slick and friction.

“Come for me, Yuji.”

He shouted.

Thighs trembling, eyes rolling back, mouth open—he came so hard it left him limp beneath you, moaning your name like a prayer.

You fucked him through every second of it.

Only when he was completely spent, twitching and breathless, did you slow down.

He blinked up at you, dazed.

“You just ruined me,” he said, still red. “I’m never gonna look at that dress the same again.”

You smiled, kissing his nose.

“Good.”

Yuji was still trembling under you.

His skin was warm and damp with sweat, chest rising slowly now, like he was trying to catch up to himself. His hands rested lazily on your hips, thumb stroking over your skin in slow, thoughtless circles.

You leaned forward and kissed his jaw, and he made a soft sound—almost a purr—then buried his face in your neck like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Still alive?” you teased, brushing back his messy hair.

He nodded, but didn’t move.

“Barely.”

You laughed softly and settled over him, warm skin pressed against warm skin, his cock still soft inside you, sticky and spent.

“You’re everything,” he murmured, lips ghosting over your collarbone. “That dress… fuck, you wrecked me.”

You smiled into his hair. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” he mumbled, still hiding in your neck. “I was so hard for so long I almost passed out. You kept bending over and—ugh—your ass—”

You giggled, and he groaned helplessly.

“I think I blacked out for a minute.”

“I noticed,” you said sweetly.

Yuji turned his head and kissed your shoulder, then your jaw, slow and soft and worshipful. His hands slid up your back, holding you close like you might disappear.

“I’m so in love with you,” he whispered.

You cupped his face and kissed him, gentle this time, your fingers stroking his cheek until he sighed against your lips.

When you pulled away, he looked up at you with stars in his eyes.

“Do you think…” he started, hesitating a little, “you’d wear it again sometime?”

“The dress?”

He nodded quickly. “Or—or I could get you more. Like, if you like that style—I could find ones you like. I just—I don’t know, you looked so happy in it. And so…” He flushed deeper. “Hot.”

You tucked his hair behind his ear. “You really liked it that much?”

He gave you a dazed, sleepy smile. “I’m literally still hard.”

You laughed and kissed him again, and he hummed low in his throat, holding you close with the kind of soft strength that meant home.

There was nothing left to say. So you didn’t say anything at all. Just laid together, warm and tangled and quiet, with the dress still on.

authors note: first of all, I am sorry for how often I used the word sundress hahah, but I really hope y'all enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. I love needy Yuji 😔 reqs are open!

[lycheeflavr]

anyone wants to read a yuji os today? it’s nsfw tho 😭

[lycheeflavr]

Heat of it 🐋🍊

pairing: Jealous!Choso x female Reader. Heavy smut, soft aftercare. Situationship-to-something-more. tags: PWP with feelings, Situation ship to lovers, possessive male lead, emotional smut, angst (light), hurt/comfort, jealousy, rough sex, praise kink, Dom! Choso, cream pie, aftercare, miscommunication, emotional vulnerability, reader-insert, nsfw, kind of mutual pining.  summary: You and Choso don’t talk about what this is — not really. But when he sees you laughing with someone else, it rips something ugly open inside him. He doesn’t ask questions. He just takes — until there’s nothing left but your name in his mouth and your nails down his back. word count: 3.2k

You barely got the key in the door before you felt it — the air, too still. Too thick.

The lights were low, the hallway quiet, but the second you stepped in and shrugged your jacket off, you knew. He was already here.

Your boots thudded softly against the floor as you padded toward your room, trying not to let your breath catch. But it did. Because there he was.

Choso.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, broad shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees. Hair pulled back messily like he’d dragged his fingers through it a dozen times. Head tilted just slightly.

Watching you.

“You have fun?” he asked, voice flat. Unblinking.

You blinked at him, confused by the tone more than the question. “What—yeah, I guess. Why?”

His head cocked a little to the other side. Like a predator assessing.

“Who was he?”

You paused mid-step, purse still half-on your shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not fucking stupid.”

The words weren’t loud. But they hit like a closed fist.

You squinted at him. “Okay, seriously—what is this? Some kind of interrogation? I went out with some friends, that’s it.”

He stood up slowly. Like every inch of him wanted to go for your throat but was trying very hard not to. You felt the heat roll off of him — jealousy not loud or obvious, but boiling underneath. A quiet storm with no lightning strike yet.

“I heard you,” he said, voice low. “Laughing on the phone. Talking about how he was cute. How he bought you a drink.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Choso, are you serious? That was some random guy—he was harmless. It wasn’t like that.”

He moved then. Not fast, not violent — just deliberate. Each step closing the distance, forcing your back toward the wall without even touching you yet. You could feel it in your spine: the tension in him wound up so tight it made your skin prickle.

“You think that makes it better?” he asked, stopping just inches from you now. His voice dropped even lower — dangerous and silk-slick. “That it was some random guy?”

Your breath caught. You hated how your body responded to this. The way heat bloomed low in your belly like it always did when he got like this. The way he made you feel like you were the only thing he could see, the only thing that existed.

You lifted your chin, trying not to show it. “You’re not my boyfriend, Choso.”

His eyes narrowed.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m not.”

Then his hand came up — slow, careful — and curled around your jaw. Not rough. But firm. Like a warning.

“But you let me fuck you like I am.”

That hit somewhere deep. Shame and arousal twisted together so tight you almost swayed.

Your voice cracked. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means everything.”

He was closer now. You could feel the ghost of his breath against your lips. His thumb dragged down your bottom lip, tugging it gently.

“You want to fuck around, fine,” he murmured. “But don’t lie to me. Don’t pretend you don’t know what this is.”

His hand slid from your jaw to your neck, resting there. Not squeezing. Just… claiming.

“And don’t pretend you don’t love it when I get like this.”

Your thighs clenched before you could stop them. And he saw. Of course he saw.

His mouth curved into something dark.

“That’s what I thought.”

Your heart was thudding now. Loud in your ears. Or maybe that was just how close he was — how his presence filled the room like smoke, like heat, like something you shouldn’t want but craved anyway.

You didn’t move. Not when his fingers tightened slightly on your neck, not when his eyes dropped to your lips again like he was trying to decide if he wanted to kiss you or ruin you.

You tried to sound steadier than you felt. “Are you gonna keep posturing or actually say what’s on your mind?”

He laughed. Quiet. Dark.

“You want me to say it?” His thumb dragged under your jaw, lifting your chin just enough. “Fine. I don’t like the idea of anyone else looking at you. Touching you. Even talking to you like they’ve got a fucking chance.”

You swallowed. “So you’re jealous.”

“No,” he snapped. Then caught himself. Breathed through his nose. “No. I’m territorial. There's a difference.”

You tilted your head back slightly, exposing more of your throat, whether consciously or not. “You don’t own me, Choso.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at you. Like the words had lodged somewhere deep and painful.

And then—

His hand dropped from your throat.

Only to slam against the wall behind you a second later — palm flat, caging you in, his body crowding yours. Not touching you fully, not yet, but you felt it. The crackle of it. The heat radiating off him, barely restrained.

“You keep saying shit like that,” he growled, low and lethal, “but you moan like you’re mine every time I’m inside you.”

You flinched. Not from fear — from how true it was. How easily he got to you.

Your back hit the wall as he stepped in closer, chest brushing yours. His other hand curled around your waist, not pulling — just holding. His grip flexed like he was fighting himself.

“Say it,” he said, almost under his breath. “Say you didn’t want him.”

You opened your mouth, but the words caught.

And Choso saw that, too.

His eyes flashed.

“That’s what I fucking thought.”

He moved fast this time — not violent, just decisive. Your back hit the wall a little harder as he pressed you fully against it, hips pinning yours, his body flush against you now. Solid and warm and overwhelming.

His mouth was right next to your ear.

“You really think he could touch you like I do?” he whispered. “Think he could even get you wet?”

You sucked in a breath, your hands coming up instinctively — not to push him away, but to anchor yourself.

“I didn’t do anything,” you said, voice shaking now. “He just—he was there. I didn’t even want—”

“Bullshit.” His mouth dragged down your jaw, hot breath against your skin. “You liked the attention. You wanted me to see. You wanted me like this.”

Your thighs clenched. His grip on your waist tightened.

“God, you’re fucking twisted,” you whispered.

His teeth scraped your throat.

“Only for you.”

Then his hand dropped, sliding down your side, slow and rough through the fabric of your clothes. Not groping. Not yet. Just touching. Mapping. Remembering.

You felt his voice when he spoke again — deep in your chest, down your spine.

“Open your mouth.”

You hesitated. Just a second. And that second cost you.

Because his hand gripped your jaw again, firmer now, tilting your face to his.

“I said open your fucking mouth.”

You obeyed. Without thinking. Without questioning.

And his fingers — two of them — slid between your lips. Pressed to your tongue, slow and heavy. Not deep. Just enough to make your eyes flutter, to feel the weight of him. The intent.

“Good girl,” he muttered. His eyes burned. “Now stay like that.”

Your breath caught, a soft noise muffled by his fingers.

His hand still gripped your hip. His leg slid between yours, thigh pressing against the heat there — and god, he felt it. You knew he did. You knew the way your body betrayed you.

“Look at that,” he breathed. “Already soaking.”

His fingers pushed a little deeper. His other hand slid around to your lower back, dragging you closer, grinding you against him now, and the friction was obscene. Too much, not enough, like being dragged under by a tide that spoke your name.

You whimpered, eyes rolling slightly, and he smirked.

“You don’t need anyone else, do you?” he asked, withdrawing his fingers slowly. Your lips stayed parted, wet and swollen. “You never did.”

You shook your head, dizzy, dazed.

And still — he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t touch you where you needed him.

Just let the tension hang, breath to breath, as if daring you to beg.

“Bed. Now.”

You barely had time to breathe before Choso’s hands were on you again — dragging, not gently, toward the mattress. Every step back you took, he followed. Eyes on you like prey, his body a storm ready to break.

You hit the edge of the bed, and before you could steady yourself, he pushed you backward, flat onto your back. The air rushed out of your lungs with the force.

He stood at the foot of the bed, panting, jaw tight, his hands shaking as he pulled his shirt off over his head. Eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re gonna say it,” he growled. “Before I’m done with you. You’re gonna say you’re mine.”

You opened your mouth, but the words never came. Just a gasp — because he was already on you again, crawling over your body like he was claiming it.

“You liked him looking at you?” he spat, mouth against your jaw, your throat. “You think he could make you cum like I can?”

His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding the heat there instantly.

“Already fucking soaked. Fuck.”

He pushed your underwear aside with rough fingers, dragging two fingers through the slick mess he’d made of you.

“This is mine,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “Say it.”

You whimpered.

He pressed a palm hard against your cunt, just to feel how hot it was — and then slapped it once. Sharp. Not enough to hurt, just to make your body jolt and your eyes fly open.

“I said,” he hissed, “say it.”

You choked on a breath. “Yours—fuck—yours, it’s yours—”

“Damn right.”

He shoved your thighs open wider, burying himself between them like he’d die without it. Tongue flat against your cunt, he licked a stripe up the center, groaning like he hadn’t eaten in days and you were the only thing left to survive on.

You cried out, hips twitching. “Choso—!”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t ease up. His tongue worked you like a threat, like a warning — the kind of head that made your vision spark white and your fingers claw the sheets. One hand gripped your thigh. The other was pressed flat over your lower belly, holding you down.

He came up for air only when your thighs started to tremble. Lips and chin slick with you.

Then he kissed your inner thigh. Once. Soft.

Before sinking his teeth into it hard enough to leave a mark.

Your cry turned into a moan. Pain and pleasure blurred into something shameless.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Get up.”

“What—?”

“I wanna see you. Get the fuck up.”

You moved, shaky and dazed, and he manhandled you until you were on all fours, crawling toward the headboard, legs shaking. You reached it and turned just as he knelt behind you, grabbing your hips, yanking you back.

Your cheek pressed to the mattress as you felt him rub his cock through your folds — thick and hard, dragging through the mess he made.

Then—smack. He slapped it against your cunt. Once. Twice. Cruel and slow.

You gasped at the humiliation of it — the sound so loud in the quiet room.

“Feel that?” he muttered. “That’s what you need. Not some punk talking pretty in a hallway.”

He lined up. Pushed in.

Not gentle.

He buried himself in one slow, brutal thrust, hips snapping forward until his thighs met yours. You arched, mouth open, moaning something that didn’t sound like a real word.

“Fucking tight,” he breathed. “Like you were waiting for me to do this.”

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there. Deep inside, cock pulsing, letting the stretch ache. His hands gripped your waist so hard you knew you’d bruise.

And then he started to move.

Rhythmic. Deep. Mean.

You weren’t quiet anymore. Couldn’t be. Every thrust punched little breathless sounds out of you, broken moans, choked cries, the slap of his skin against yours echoing filthy through the room.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Take it. Take all of me. Fuck—this pussy was made for me.”

His hand wrapped around your throat from behind, pulling you back into an arch. His chest was warm on your back, breath ragged in your ear.

“You hear me?” he snarled. “Say it. Say this pussy’s mine.”

You tried to speak, but nothing came — just a whimper, a half-sob, because your mind had already gone somewhere high and dizzy.

He laughed. It was breathless. Wild. Almost cruel.

“You can’t even talk. Look at you.”

His grip tightened. His other hand came around to rub your clit — fast, hard, like he wanted to drag it out of you, make you cum around him so hard you forgot your own name.

“You want him now?” he asked, voice dark with mockery. “You think he’d make you cum like this?”

You sobbed, full body trembling. “No—Choso—please—fuck—”

He pushed deeper, changing the angle, and you screamed.

“Who’s it for?” he demanded, snarling into your neck. “Say it.”

“You,” you gasped. “You, it’s yours—yours—!”

“That’s right.”

You barely had time to recover before he was hauling you up again, dragging you up until your knees were off the bed, your back against his chest. One arm around your ribs, the other gripping your face, turning it to the mirror.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Watch me fuck you.”

And you did.

You saw the flushed mess of your face, your mouth open, drool on your lip. Saw your thighs trembling. His hand around your throat, his hips slamming up into you.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, low and final. “You’re mine now. You always were.”

Your eyes rolled back. He knew you were close.

“Cum,” he growled. “Cum for me.”

And you did — hard, your whole body seizing, his name torn from your throat as you came around him, walls squeezing him so tight he nearly lost it.

But he wasn’t done.

He held you through it. Let you shake. Let you cry out.

Then slammed you back down onto the bed again — face-first, used, marked, shaking — and fucked into you with wild, brutal need until he came too. Groaning your name, biting your shoulder as he buried himself deep and spilled inside you.

Hot. Endless.

Like he needed to mark you from the inside out.

You lay there, shaking, wrecked.

And Choso kissed the spot between your shoulder blades.

Still breathless. Still possessive.

“Mine.”

The room was hot with the scent of sex, thick and heavy in the air. Your breath still hadn’t evened out — neither had his. Sweat clung to your skin, sticking your chest to the sheets. You weren’t sure if you were trembling from the aftershocks or from the weight of what just happened.

Choso didn’t say anything at first.

Just hovered above you, his body still pressed flush against your back, breath rough in your ear. He pulled out slow, careful — and even that made you whimper.

You felt the heat of him leaking out, the mess of it, the ache in your thighs and spine.

Still, silence.

Then the mattress dipped as he moved beside you, dragging you into his chest, one arm tight around your waist, the other cradling your head like he needed to make sure none of you could vanish. His heart thundered against your cheek.

Not gentle — not quite — but not rough either. Just desperate.

Possessive.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

But his hand kept moving. Over your back. Your shoulder. His thumb brushed your cheek, wiped the sweat from your temple. He looked at you like you were something he could lose if he blinked wrong.

Finally, he muttered, voice hoarse:

“Don’t want to lose you.”

It was barely above a whisper.

You blinked. Lifted your head just enough to look at him.

His face was tight. Like it cost him something to say it. Like he hated himself for it but couldn’t keep it in.

Your voice cracked when it came out.

“I wasn’t going anywhere.”

He didn’t answer.

Just pulled you in tighter.

And buried his face in your neck.

small bonus scene hihi 🤭 (with some well-deserved aftercare)

You woke to warmth. Not just the sun, though golden light stretched lazily across the sheets. No, it was him — his body wrapped around yours like a second blanket, face buried against your shoulder, his arm heavy across your stomach. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, the deep, even breaths of real sleep.

It was quiet. Peaceful.

His fingers twitched against your waist in his sleep, like they couldn’t stand to not be touching you — even unconscious.

You lay there for a long moment, just breathing. Sore in the best way. Skin humming with leftover heat. Everything ached, but nothing hurt.

Choso shifted slightly behind you, and you thought he might still be asleep — until his arm tightened.

“…You okay?”

His voice was gravel, low and rough with sleep. You turned your head a little to look back at him.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Are you?”

He was quiet. Then:

“…Didn’t mean to go that hard.”

You could hear it — the tight edge under the words. Guilt, maybe. Or fear you’d pull away now that the fog had cleared. That you’d look at him and see only the monster in the jealousy.

You reached back, found his hand where it was resting on your stomach, and tangled your fingers with his.

“I liked it,” you said. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. Pressed his forehead to your shoulder.

“…Good.”

You turned over slowly to face him. His hair was a mess, dark strands sticking to his forehead. His eyes, though sleepy, looked more open than usual. Like the walls had slipped.

You reached up, brushing his bangs out of his face.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you said softly.

Choso didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you like you’d said something foreign — something he didn’t know how to trust, but wanted to. So badly.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“I’ve never wanted something like this before.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Didn’t think I could.”

You moved closer, pressing your forehead to his. Letting the silence wrap around you both again.

He kissed you then. Nothing like last night — not hungry, not demanding. Just lips pressed to yours in a warm, lingering drag, like he was trying to memorize you in daylight.

When he pulled back, he whispered:

“Stay.”

Your smile was soft. Certain.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

authors note: well, what can I say... I was thinking about choso and this is what came out of it. Also tried something new, something a little rougher, so I hope y'all still like it <3 reqs are open :)

[lycheeflavr]

And they were Roommates 🫐🧃

Pairing: timeskip kenma x female reader (roommates, secret identity, tiny bit of slow burn → smut) Genre: Modern AU, roommates to lovers, secret identity, smut, mutual pining, fluffy tension, emotional comfort Summary: Living with Kenma is easy — quiet mornings, shared takeout, the occasional side-glance that lingers too long. You’re just roommates. Nothing more. Except you’ve been falling for him silently, the same way you’ve been falling for your faceless gaming partner with the calm voice and comforting presence. You don’t know they’re the same person. And Kenma? He’s just as in love, just as hopelessly silent. It takes a power outage, a few candles, and one vulnerable night playing board games in the dark for everything to unravel — secrets, feelings, and eventually, clothes. word count: 9k

The apartment was quiet in the way it always was after midnight — low city noise outside, the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of old floorboards. You were curled up on the couch, blanket half-draped over your legs, the TV remote idle in your hand. A video of someone playing a vintage indie game, you weren’t really watching played quietly, mostly to fill the silence.

Kenma sat at the dining table nearby, face lit only by his phone. He had just finished a stream, you could tell — his hair still a little messy from the headset, sleeves pushed up, fingers absently tapping at his screen like he was still mentally logged in. You knew his schedule by heart now. Not because you asked. Just… because you noticed.

"You done for the night?" you asked softly, not looking away from the screen.

"Mhm," he hummed, noncommittal. His voice was low, a little rough with sleep or disuse.

There was a familiar comfort to moments like this. You weren’t really friends — not in the way people talked about friendships. But you’d been roommates long enough to fall into habits. You made dinner when he forgot to eat, he brought you canned coffee when he came back from runs to the corner store. You never really pried into each other’s lives. Not directly.

But that didn’t stop you from knowing more than you were supposed to.

Especially about him.

Your eyes flicked toward his closed door down the hall. You could picture the room behind it perfectly: gaming chair, ambient lighting, that ridiculous cat-eared headset he wore when he played certain games for fun. You’d seen it. More than once. On stream.

Not that he knew.

You kept that part to yourself — how you’d stumbled onto his channel by accident a few months after moving in, and never stopped watching. Not because he was popular, though he was. But because… it was the only place he talked. Not just short replies or sleepy nods. But talked. About games, about random thoughts, about things that made him laugh quietly under his breath.

Things he didn’t say to you.

"You hungry?" he asked suddenly.

You blinked. "What?"

He glanced up, fingers still tapping. "Did you eat?"

"Yeah. You?"

He shrugged.

That meant no.

You got up with a soft sigh and padded into the kitchenette, grabbing the last two onigiri from the fridge and tossing one his way. He caught it without looking.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"Don’t die," you said, half-teasing.

That got a slight curl of his lip — not quite a smile, but close enough to count. You watched him a second too long, then forced yourself to sit back down, hiding under your blanket like it could erase how warm your face suddenly felt.

Your phone chimed. You knew that sound.

A match invite.

You looked at the clock. Almost 1 a.m.

Probably from him.

Not Kenma — but the other Kenma. The one who messaged you under a different name and played co-op games with you late into the night. Who said things like “you’re easy to talk to” and “same time tomorrow?”

The one you didn’t know was him.

You picked up your phone slowly, already seeing the notification pop up.

🕹️ [OfflineButHere]: you up?

You glanced at Kenma across the room. He hadn’t moved, but something in his posture had shifted. Looser. Familiar.

You didn’t think much of it.

You should have.

Instead, you just smiled at your screen, typed always for you, and hit send.

You liked to pretend it wasn’t weird — how often he messaged, how quickly you replied, how it always felt like something tethered you together through your screens.

OfflineButHere never missed a night.

The username made you laugh the first time. A little on the nose, right? A stranger who never turned on voice chat, never talked about real life, but somehow always felt so close. He wasn’t loud. Never flirted. Just… existed beside you. Quietly. Steadily.

It was comforting.

And maybe a little intoxicating.

The game loaded in. Your character spawned just beside his, and you felt your chest ease the second you saw his familiar avatar give you that same casual crouch-hello he always did.

🕹️ OfflineButHere: you’re late 🧍‍♀️You: 1 minute late doesn’t count 🕹️ OfflineButHere: was worried

Your hands paused over the keyboard.

It was probably a joke. He did that sometimes — short, subtle things that made your stomach twist. You never called him out on it.

🧍‍♀️You: didn’t know you cared 🕹️ OfflineButHere: didn’t say I didn’t

You stared at the screen a moment too long.

Somewhere down the hall, the soft creak of your apartment’s floorboards shifted. Kenma. Moving around, probably heading to brush his teeth. You could almost imagine him now — hair pulled back lazily, face dimly lit by the same glow of a screen.

Sometimes it scared you, how similar they were.

🧍‍♀️You: you play like someone I know 🕹️ OfflineButHere: oh? 🧍‍♀️You: my roommate. kenma 🧍‍♀️You: you both like the same characters. same weird routes 🕹️ OfflineButHere: he must have good taste 🧍‍♀️You: he does 🧍‍♀️You’re cooler though 🧍‍♀️(but don’t tell him I said that)

There was a pause on his end. Longer than usual. You bit your lip, heart in your throat.

🕹️ OfflineButHere: I won’t

That was the thing about him. He didn’t flirt. But sometimes he said things like that — short, warm, real — and it left your heart lurching toward something dangerous.

"Fuck," you whispered to yourself, pushing your chair back and running a hand through your hair.

You were crushing on a stranger you played games with at 1 a.m. And you were also in love with your roommate. And you had no idea which one hurt more.

You played for an hour longer. He covered for you when you missed shots. You revived him without hesitation. It was teamwork built on weeks — months — of instinct and trust.

🧍‍♀️You: same time tomorrow? 🕹️ OfflineButHere: always for you

You stared.

Your fingers hovered, then typed something you didn’t think too hard about.

🧍‍♀️You: if you ever stream, I’d watch

No reply.

Your heart sank.

But just as you moved to log off, his name blinked back to life.

🕹️ OfflineButHere: you already do

You stared at it.

And stared.

And before you could reply — before you could even think — he was offline.

You sat back in your chair, heart pounding. Somewhere down the hall, you heard a door creak softly shut.

It’s late — too late — and the apartment is humming with a quiet kind of static. The only light comes from Kenma’s monitor in the other room, the glow of his stream casting faint shadows against the hallway wall.

You’re curled up on the couch, half-scrolling, half-listening. You’ve been waiting for offlinebuthere to log on for over an hour now. He’s usually consistent. Always there when the world goes quiet.

Then — just as you shift your weight, thinking maybe you’ll go knock on Kenma’s door and ask if he wants tea or something stupidly casual like that — everything stops.

A low click. A silence that’s too thick. The whir of the ceiling fan dies. The monitor’s light vanishes.

Darkness.

You blink. Once. Twice.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, tugging your phone out of your pocket — only to find it at 9%, with no signal.

From the hallway: “…Power’s out?” Kenma’s voice, muffled.

“Yeah,” you call back, trying to sound more annoyed than startled. “It’s not just the breaker, is it?”

A moment later, he appears in the doorway, barefoot, hair tied loosely back. His phone screen lights his face — soft, golden, shadows clinging to the edges of his features like they belong there.

He shakes his head. “Whole block’s out.”

You try not to stare. You fail a little.

“Oh,” you say, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Cool. So no WiFi, no heat, no microwave popcorn.”

Kenma looks at you for a long second, then turns on his heel.

“I’ve got candles,” he says over his shoulder.

When he returns, he’s carrying a half-melted cluster of tea lights and one fat lavender-scented thing you vaguely remember buying during a stress-fueled grocery run. He arranges them on the coffee table like it’s completely normal, like this isn’t already the most romantic lighting you’ve been in with him, ever.

“So.” He sits across from you on the floor. “Wanna play a game?”

You blink. “What kind of game?”

He raises an eyebrow and gestures to the shelf behind you — board games, card decks, a stack of unopened strategy boxes that have gathered dust.

“You’re a menace,” you say, trying not to smile. “You planned this.”

He shrugs. “I’m just adapting.”

The room feels different like this — slower. Warmer. The candles flicker against his skin and you try not to let your eyes linger on the way his fingers move, deft and careful as he opens the worn lid of some card game you don’t remember buying.

You sit across from him on the rug, knees almost brushing. His thigh rests dangerously close to yours. You swallow.

“Do I get bonus points if I win?” you ask.

Kenma doesn’t look up. “That depends.”

“On?”

He flicks his eyes up to meet yours — gold in candlelight, unreadable.

“On what you’d want the points for.”

You go still.

It’s stupid, how fast your heart picks up. How close he is. How easy it would be to lean in, just a little—

But you don’t.

Instead, you lean forward and deal the cards. Let the silence stretch. Let the candles flicker. Let yourself pretend, for now, that this is just a normal game night. And not the moment everything starts to shift.

The game stretches on, laughter light and easy now, the awkwardness melting away like wax from the candles.

You’re both sprawled on the floor, a scattered mess of cards and game pieces between you. Your hands brush once — twice — and each time your breath catches, but neither of you says a word.

You can’t remember the last time you two talked this much — or laughed, or even touched. It’s… nice. Seeing this side of Kenma almost makes you forget about your online friend, the one probably waiting for you to hop on the game. But tonight, you have to break this streak.

To be honest, this feels better — playing board games with Kenma, hearing him mutter quietly when he loses. There was that one time when he almost bad-mouthed you for winning, only to stop mid-sentence, shocked at himself. You both ended up laughing so hard your sides hurt.

That was nice.

“You want to keep playing?” Kenma asks, voice soft.

You shrug. There’s not much else to do, really — board games or sleep. And sleep feels like the biggest waste ever, especially now, when it seems like you two are finally becoming something like friends.

“I don’t know what else we could do, but… we should do this more often. Play games together, you know?” you say.

He chuckles lightly. “Is once every day not enough for you?”

His voice is low, eyes downcast, fingers fiddling nervously. You can tell he’s a little on edge.

“What do you mean?” you ask, confused. You’ve never actually played a game with him before… unless—

He looks up with a shy smile, shoulders shrugging slightly.

It clicks.

Your online friend… it’s him.

That’s why he’s always on his phone when your friend texts you. Why he never sends you an invite while streaming. Why he said you’d watched him before.

You grab a pillow and toss it at him, laughing. “I can’t believe I’ve been so oblivious!”

You throw another, and another, and for once Kenma doesn’t dodge. One or two quiet chuckles escape his lips.

“Why didn’t you just ask me to play a game with you?” you say between laughs. “I would’ve said yes! We’ve been doing this for months.”

His confession is sudden and so silly you don’t know how to react other than laughing until your belly aches.

“I didn’t know if you would have liked to,” Kenma says honestly.

You stop laughing, the air between you softening.

“You don’t have to guess,” you say gently. “You can just ask.”

He blinks, as if the idea surprises him.

For a moment, silence settles comfortably between you.

Then he says quietly, “Maybe… I will.”

Your heart does a little flip.

You glance at him, and he meets your eyes — a little less guarded than before.

No words, just a quiet understanding.

And suddenly, the night feels full of possibilities.

You lean back against the couch, the warm candlelight flickering across Kenma’s face, making his usually unreadable expression softer—almost vulnerable. A slow grin spreads across your lips, fueled by the intimate quiet between you.

“How about we make things a little more interesting?” you say, voice low but teasing. “Truth or dare.”

Kenma’s eyes flicker up, sharp but amused. He blinks slowly, like he’s weighing the idea. Then he nods, voice calm but with that hint of challenge you recognize. “Alright. But don’t expect me to go easy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you reply.

The first few rounds are simple—harmless questions, light dares that don’t push too far. But with each turn, the air thickens; the questions dig a little deeper, the dares inch a little closer to something unspoken.

He asks first. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” you say, heart rate speeding slightly.

“What’s the last thing you thought about before falling asleep?”

You catch the glint in his eyes and hesitate, just for a second, then answer, voice barely above a whisper. “You.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond—just studies you like he’s seeing you in a new light.

“Your turn,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Dare,” Kenma replies without hesitation, eyes locked on yours.

You bite your lip, thinking carefully. “I dare you to lean in—close enough to feel my breath.”

His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t say no.

Slowly, he shifts closer, until the space between you shrinks to nothing.

Your pulse hammers in your ears. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers as they rest just inches from yours on the couch.

He stops just shy of touching you, voice low and rough. “Enough?”

You swallow hard, the unspoken electricity crackling between you. “Not yet.”

A teasing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—rare and fleeting.

“Truth or dare?” he murmurs.

And the game continues.

You take a breath, heart pounding beneath the quiet hum of the candles. “Truth.”

Kenma’s eyes narrow, the playful glint still there but with a sharper edge. “What’s something you want, but you’re too scared to admit?”

You pause, caught off guard by the question’s weight, the sudden intimacy of it. For a moment, you consider brushing it off, but then you meet his steady gaze and decide to be honest—just enough. “I want… to stop pretending I don’t like you.”

A flicker of something unreadable passes over his face—surprise? Relief? Something softer.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back, exhaling slowly, the tension thick between you.

“Your turn,” you say, voice quieter than before.

“Dare,” he replies, eyes darkening just a little.

You smirk, feeling bold now. “I dare you to tell me one thing you’ve never said to anyone else.”

Kenma’s silence stretches, then he shifts, running a hand through his hair, avoiding your eyes. Finally, he speaks, low and hesitant. “I don’t like losing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

He glances up, a ghost of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I don’t want to lose you either.”

Your breath catches, and the distance between you feels even smaller.

Without thinking, you reach out, your fingertips brushing his arm—light, tentative. He doesn’t pull away.

“Truth or dare?” you whisper.

He smiles—a real, small smile—and says, “Truth.”

You lean closer, your voice barely audible. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

Kenma’s eyes flick to your lips, then back up to your eyes, dark and searching. “I’d kiss you back.”

The words hang between you, heavy and electric.

Neither of you moves for a heartbeat.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Kenma shifts, closing the space just a little more.

But before anything else can happen, the soft chime of a notification breaks the spell.

Both of you jump, the moment broken but not forgotten.

Kenma glances at his phone, then back at you, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Looks like the game isn’t quite over.”

You grin, heart still racing. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

The glow from the candles casts flickering shadows around the room as the game’s playful tension shifts into something far heavier. Neither of you speaks for a long moment, the silence wrapping you both like a warm, electric current.

Kenma’s gaze lingers on your lips, then flicks up to meet your eyes—searching, hesitant, but undeniably drawn.

You inch closer, breath mingling, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. His hand finds yours again, this time holding on—not tentative, but sure.

The space between you collapses.

Then, slow and deliberate, his lips brush against yours.

It’s light at first—an exploration, a question.

You respond, tipping your head, deepening the kiss.

His hands move from your fingers to your waist, pulling you closer, as if he can’t get enough of the feeling.

Your hands thread through his hair, fingers tangling gently, careful not to rush what’s blossoming between you.

The kiss grows hungrier, more urgent, the careful teasing turning into something raw and real.

You feel the heat spreading, your body awakening under his touch—the way he cups your face, the gentle but firm pressure of his hands on your back.

When you finally break apart, breaths heavy and hearts racing, Kenma’s eyes stay locked on yours, searching.

He swallows, then murmurs softly, voice almost a whisper, “If you want… we don’t have to stop.”

His words aren’t flashy or bold, but they carry all the weight you need. The invitation is there—quiet, hesitant, honest.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Without another word, he reaches out again, hands gentle but sure, pulling you closer into the warmth of the moment.

The moment lingers between you like the last flicker of a candle flame—warm, fragile, charged. Kenma’s quiet invitation hangs in the air, and you can’t help but smile, feeling bold and nervous all at once.

“Alright,” you say, settling back against the couch, “how about one more game? Something… a little different.”

Kenma quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t say no. “What did you have in mind?”

You think for a moment, then grin. “Let’s play something like truth or dare, but with a catch: every time someone refuses a dare or dodges a truth, they have to… remove an article of clothing.”

Kenma’s eyes flicker, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “A dangerous game.”

“Only if you want it to be,” you tease, letting your fingers brush lightly over his knee.

He shifts slightly, the contact sending a small pulse through your nerves. “You start.”

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

You lean in just enough to catch the scent of him—something faintly woodsy, familiar, comforting. “What’s something you’ve never told anyone about… me?”

Kenma’s gaze darkens just a bit, and he looks away for a moment, fiddling with the hem of his shirt before answering quietly. “That I watch you when you think no one is looking.”

Your breath catches.

You give him a slow, deliberate smile. “Alright, your turn.”

He considers, then says, “Dare.”

You bite your lip, heart racing. “I dare you to touch me.”

There’s a brief flicker of hesitation, then his hand moves slowly—just a ghost of a touch along your arm, tracing a delicate line that makes your skin tingle.

You shiver slightly but keep your expression neutral, making him lean in just a little more the next time, his fingers brushing lower.

The game stretches on, each round a deliciously slow peeling back of layers—both clothing and walls.

You dare him to whisper something you’d only hear in the dark.

He challenges you to tell a secret you’ve never shared.

You both dodge and comply, laughter mingling with gasps and the soft scrape of fabric sliding away.

Every glance, every touch is a conversation without words—a silent question and answer charged with meaning.

When he dares you to trace the outline of his collarbone with your fingertips, your hands tremble just enough for him to notice.

His voice drops a notch. “You’re more dangerous than I thought.”

You smile, the room suddenly smaller, the night far from over.

Kenma’s hoodie lies forgotten between the two of you. Your own shirt is tugged over one shoulder, exposing skin, but not enough to fluster you—yet. The game has slowed down now, cards scattered, your mutual competitiveness replaced by something quieter, weightier.

There’s a silence hanging over the two of you that isn't uncomfortable—just charged. You’re both watching each other a little too carefully. You shift, tug your knees up, and glance at him, catching the way his eyes flick down to your collarbone and back up again, fast—like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t stop himself.

“So…” you start, voice lighter than you feel, “is this still just a game?”

Kenma looks at you for a long second before answering. “It was,” he murmurs, fingers curling into the fabric of the pillow in his lap. “I think it stopped being that when you laughed so hard you almost cried.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone.

“Or maybe when you figured out it was me,” he adds, quieter.

You both fall silent again. This time, the space feels different. His gaze lingers. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s seeing you completely for the first time, like he wants to touch but won’t unless you say so.

He shifts again, just slightly closer, the faint smell of his shampoo—something clean and subtle—floating in the still air.

His voice cuts through the quiet, soft but grounding: “Do you want me to kiss you again?”

Your breath catches, and god, the way he says it—like he’s asking permission to feel something, like he’s nervous he read this wrong. There’s no pressure behind it. Just curiosity. Want.

You hesitate, not because you don’t want it, but because you do. So much more than you should. You tilt your head, eyes soft but searching. “What if I say yes?”

His mouth twitches in the smallest smile. “Then I will.”

You nod once, slowly. “Then yes.”

Kenma leans in—gentle, unrushed. He kisses you like it’s the second time, like he’s still memorizing the shape of your mouth. This kiss is deeper, longer. It lingers. It drags out like time’s paused just for the two of you. His hand comes up to your jaw, hesitant at first, but you lean into the touch and that’s enough for him to hold you closer.

You shift in place until your knees touch, and the kiss deepens again, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt instead—holding onto something, anything, to ground yourself. It’s warm and slow and burning beneath the surface. You can feel the way he’s holding back—every part of him still careful.

When you finally pull away, it’s not far. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to see the look in his eyes, his lips slightly swollen, breath uneven.

He doesn't say anything right away, and neither do you. The air is still buzzing between your mouths.

Then you smirk lightly and say, “I thought you were bad at flirting.”

“I am,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb under your lip. “But I’m good at wanting you.”

Your stomach flips at that—equal parts heat and vulnerability.

“Should we…” You glance down at the forgotten cards, at your state of half-undress. “Keep playing?”

Kenma raises a brow. “You mean, keep losing?”

You scoff, smacking his arm lightly. “I let you win.”

“You absolutely didn’t.”

You grin, reaching over for the blanket to pull it over both of your laps, now tucked in close. The tension’s still there, thick and steady, but it simmers under a new layer of comfort. Warmth. Anticipation.

You know this isn’t over. You’re not done. Not with the game, not with him, not with tonight.

And neither is he.

You’re still curled up close, knees brushing and shoulders leaning, but now there’s a noticeable shift in the air. Not just the tension — that’s been simmering for hours — but the way he looks at you. Like he’s taking mental snapshots of every breath you take.

His fingers ghost along your arm again, this time slower. Lazier. You know he’s doing it on purpose, letting his nails barely graze your skin like he’s tracing an invisible line only he can see.

“You’re staring,” you whisper, lips just barely curved into a smile.

Kenma’s eyes flicker from your mouth back to your eyes, like he’s deciding whether to respond or just keep watching you. Eventually, he leans forward again, brushing his nose against your cheek in something that feels more like a touch than a kiss.

“I like looking at you,” he murmurs. “Especially when you’re trying not to squirm.”

It’s stupid how fast your pulse jumps.

You tilt your head a bit, feigning innocence. “I’m not squirming.”

He lets out a soft laugh and presses his palm against your thigh. Not roughly, not to push — just to rest there, warm and grounding. His thumb strokes in absent circles.

“That’s because I haven’t done anything yet.”

You want to reply with something clever, but your breath catches instead. He’s so slow with you it almost hurts, like he’s making a game out of waiting. Like drawing this out is his version of winning.

His lips brush against yours again — not quite a kiss, more like a promise. “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod.

This time, it’s deeper. Slower. Your mouths move together in a rhythm that makes it hard to think, his hand sliding from your thigh to your hip, fingers curling under the hem of your shirt just slightly. His touch never pushes. He only gives you space to move into him, to invite him in.

When you shift closer, legs tangled and bodies flush, he lets out a quiet sound that vibrates right through you — almost a sigh, like this is everything he wanted and more.

And then he pulls back again. Not far. Just enough to make you chase after the kiss.

“Kenma—”

His hands slide to your waist, gripping you gently, coaxing you back onto his lap like it's nothing. Like this is just how he holds people. Like the weight of you on him is something he’s wanted all night.

“I like it when you say my name like that,” he says lowly, voice almost teasing, almost reverent.

You roll your hips slightly without thinking, and that’s the first time his control seems to falter — his breath stutters, and his hands squeeze at your hips.

“I thought you liked taking your time,” you whisper.

“I do,” he answers, voice low and a little rough now. “But you make it hard.”

His hands slide under your shirt now, all the way up your spine, like he’s mapping out each vertebrae. Every inch of him still moves with unhurried patience, but the way his eyes look at you says otherwise.

You press your lips to his again, messier this time. More desperate. And he lets you take it — lets you set the pace for a few moments before his fingers tangle in your hair and he’s kissing you back like he wants to memorize every sound you make.

When you finally break away to breathe, you rest your forehead against his. “Should we go to your room?”

Kenma tilts his head slightly. “If we go now,” he murmurs, “I’m going to take forever with you.”

You shiver.

And god, you want that.

He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Kenma stands up slowly, his hands still on your waist, guiding you with him. There’s something strangely tender about it — like he’s not leading you to bed for sex but for something more sacred. Or maybe it just feels that way because it’s him.

You follow him wordlessly down the short hallway to his room. You’ve seen it before, obviously — passed by it when you did laundry, or when he left his door half-open while streaming — but it feels different now. Warmer. Darker. Lit only by the candles you’d carried here from the living room.

He sits down at the edge of the bed, legs spread slightly, then looks up at you like he’s waiting.

So you climb onto his lap.

You expect him to kiss you immediately, to devour you now that you're finally alone in his room — but no. Of course not. This is Kenma. He lets his hands wander first, fingers dragging up under your shirt again, across your ribs, over the soft skin just below your bra. He’s touching you like he’s committing it to memory. Like if he doesn’t take his time, he’ll miss something important.

“Lift your arms,” he murmurs.

You do, and he peels your shirt off slowly, eyes following every inch of newly revealed skin like it’s some secret he’s finally allowed to see.

“I knew you’d look like this,” he whispers, almost to himself.

You don’t know what to say to that — but it doesn’t matter, because he’s kissing you again, soft and slow, like he’s got all the time in the world. His hands trail down to your thighs, squeezing gently, pulling you in closer so you’re seated fully against the hardness straining under his sweats. The friction pulls a soft sound from you, and he responds by rolling his hips once, deliberately.

You both shudder.

His mouth moves lower, grazing along your jaw, your neck, right down to your collarbone. When he licks a stripe there — slow, warm — you arch into him instinctively. He hums, satisfied, and does it again.

You reach for the hem of his shirt now, impatient, and he lets you pull it over his head. His body is lean and pale, just like you imagined — soft stomach, sharp collarbones, the golden tips of his hair brushing over his bare shoulders.

You run your hands over his chest, letting your fingers linger at his waist, and he gives you a breathy little laugh.

“You’re more confident than I thought you’d be,” he mutters.

“You’re even quieter than I thought you’d be,” you counter, but your voice is already husky, your body already rocking against him without meaning to.

He smirks — just barely — and leans in again. His mouth on yours is slower now, more open, his tongue teasing until you're practically trembling with want. One of his hands slips between your legs, pressing softly where you need him most — not enough to satisfy, just enough to pull another needy sound out of you.

“Please,” you whisper against his mouth.

Kenma chuckles, and it’s low, throaty, unbearably smug. “Already?”

He dips his fingers beneath the waistband of your shorts but doesn’t go further. Just strokes you over your underwear with that same lazy rhythm that’s quickly driving you insane.

“You’re really gonna make me beg for it, huh?”

His fingers pause.

Then: “Yeah.”

You groan, and he finally slips his hand under the last layer. His touch is soft — slow circles, featherlight pressure, making you grind helplessly into his palm.

“I want to take my time,” he says, watching your face like it’s the most important part of this. “You okay with that?”

You nod. “Yes. Just… don’t stop.”

He smiles — a real one this time, soft and rare — and presses a kiss just beneath your ear.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

You barely hear the shift of the sheets as Kenma leans you back, easing you gently onto the mattress. He moves with that same dreamy deliberation — not because he’s unsure, but because he wants to feel every moment stretch.

His hand stays between your legs the entire time, slow and certain, fingers curling just enough to make you whimper when he finally slips one inside. You squeeze your eyes shut at the feeling, head tilting back against the pillow — and he’s watching you again. Always watching.

“I like the way you sound,” he murmurs, voice low and honest.

You reach up blindly, fisting your hands into his hair, and he kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then right beneath your ear again — slow, like he knows exactly what it does to you.

“You’re so—” You try to say something, anything, but all you manage is a sigh as his second finger joins the first, coaxing you open with such care it almost hurts.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

You could cry. The way he touches you is reverent — not timid, not rushed. Just steady. Focused. Devastating. His thumb strokes you softly, dragging you closer with every breath, and he doesn’t stop — not even when your hips start stuttering, not even when you’re gasping his name.

“I’ve thought about this,” he confesses suddenly, voice quieter than ever. “So many times.”

You whine into his shoulder, flushed and shaking. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps moving inside you, achingly slow, until you’re clutching at his arm, your legs trembling.

“Because I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he finally says. “I liked talking to you. Playing with you. I didn’t want you to think I was—just trying to get this.”

You tilt your head toward him, eyes glassy, skin flushed. “Kenma…”

“I just wanted to know what it felt like to… kiss you again. Touch you.” His thumb moves again, firmer this time. “Make you feel good.”

You cry out softly, the pressure peaking in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter.

“And you do,” you breathe. “You really do.”

His forehead presses to yours, and you feel his breath hitch as your thighs tremble around him. The moment hits hard, deep — and he stays with you through it, fingers still moving, thumb guiding you through the waves until you’re breathless and blinking up at him like he’s something holy.

You expect him to stop.

He doesn’t.

He shifts only long enough to tug your shorts off, sliding them slowly down your legs like he’s unwrapping something he’s wanted forever. Then he reaches for the waistband of his own sweats, eyes flicking to yours like he’s asking permission — not because he’s unsure, but because he cares.

You nod, already pulling him back toward you. He kisses you again, slower now. Deeper. Like he’s trying to say everything without words.

“Do you want me to keep going?” he asks softly.

You wrap your legs around his waist in answer.

Kenma exhales through his nose, almost like he’s relieved. And when he finally pushes into you, it’s with a quiet, ragged breath that sends a full-body shiver through you both.

He’s warm, steady, intense — like everything about him has narrowed down to just this. You. The weight of his body. The way he holds you, kisses you, buries his face against your neck and whispers your name like it’s a secret he’s finally allowed to say out loud.

And still, even now, he doesn’t rush.

He rolls his hips with that same quiet patience, dragging it out, watching your face every time you whimper. His thumb brushes your cheek. His nose nudges against yours. He’s inside you like he’s still trying to memorize it all.

“Can I… kiss you again?” he whispers, almost shy now.

You pull him in wordlessly.

The kiss is longer this time. Lingering. He moans softly into your mouth as you move together — a sound so rare, so raw, that it sends another shiver down your spine.

You don’t remember how long it goes on like that — soft thrusts, shaky moans, bodies tangled in the candlelight. But eventually, you feel him tremble above you, forehead pressed to yours again, breath caught in his throat.

And then he’s whispering your name again — broken, beautiful — and you’re both falling together in the softest, warmest kind of silence.

Kenma pulls back just enough to let his lips brush against your skin, slow and tentative, like he’s afraid to shatter the fragile moment between you. His hands cup your face gently, thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones, anchoring himself to you. For a heartbeat, all you hear is the quiet rush of your breathing mingling.

Then, almost like a quiet confession, he lowers his head again — this time moving with a new purpose. His mouth finds your collarbone, then dips lower, lips and tongue teasing the soft skin of your ribs, tracing lazy, featherlight patterns that send shivers rippling down your spine.

You gasp softly, and your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him closer without hesitation. His hands slide down your sides, moving with a deliberate, possessive care that sets your skin on fire.

Kenma’s mouth trails lower still, finally settling between your thighs with a tenderness that makes your breath catch — and then, with a slow, careful hunger that’s almost desperate, he parts your legs wider.

His tongue flicks out, gentle at first, exploring, tasting — but beneath that softness, there’s an intensity, like he’s determined to memorize every reaction, every shiver, every little gasp.

You arch into him, breath hitching as his tongue moves with growing confidence, circling and teasing, flicking and licking in patterns designed only to please. His hands hold you steady, fingers digging into your hips, grounding you even as your body floats higher.

He takes his time, savoring every inch of you like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have — a slow, reverent worship that leaves you trembling. You can feel the tension coil tighter inside you, a knot of pleasure and need that builds and builds.

Kenma’s breath fans over your skin, ragged and warm, as he hums softly against you — a quiet, almost primal sound that sends waves of heat crashing through your body. He’s not just giving himself to you; he’s giving all of himself, every quiet, nervous fragment of desire.

His tongue strokes and flicks with such care it’s almost unbearable, and you find yourself losing track of time, lost in the pure, raw sensation of being wanted — really wanted, by someone who’s both shy and utterly devoted.

When you finally reach your peak, it crashes over you like a storm — fierce and overwhelming — and Kenma holds you through it, lips pressed to your skin, grounding you with his steady presence.

He lifts his head slowly, eyes dark and serious, breath still uneven.

“I want you to know,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “I’ll do this — all of this — as many times as you want. As long as you want. Because you’re worth it.”

You smile, your fingers curling against his cheek, and in the quiet candlelight, it feels like the beginning of something infinite.

Your body still trembles under him, heart pounding like a wild thing as waves of pleasure slowly ebb away. But even as you start to catch your breath, you feel the ache deep inside you — that fierce, aching need for more.

You look up at Kenma, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. “Then… please,” you whisper, voice shaky but desperate, “do it again.”

He catches your gaze, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something almost shy, almost unsure, before his lips curve into a small, knowing smile. “You’re… insatiable,” he murmurs, voice low and husky, like it’s both a question and a challenge.

You can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes you, fingers tangling in his hair as you urge him closer. “I don’t care. I want more. I don’t want to stop yet.”

Kenma’s eyes darken with quiet amusement — and something softer, something almost like admiration — but just when you think he’s going to dive back in, he pulls away, slow and deliberate.

Your breath hitches, heart stuttering in sudden panic. “Hey,” you protest, voice cracking, “don’t stop. Please.”

But he just chuckles, a low, teasing sound that sends heat flooding through you all over again. “Patience,” he says quietly, voice like velvet, “there’s a lot more to this than just rushing.”

His fingers trail lightly over your skin, barely touching, leaving a trail of fire where they pass. His eyes never leave yours, and the slow burn of his gaze makes your skin flush hotter than before.

You babble without thinking, words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “I’m sorry, I’m probably being annoying, I just—this feels so good, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like this before, and you’re… you’re so good at this, I don’t even know how you do it, it’s like you know exactly what I need before I even say it.”

Kenma’s lips twitch in a small, shy smile. “You’re not annoying,” he says quietly. “I like hearing it. I like knowing you’re… paying attention.”

He leans in again, brushing his lips just against your ear. “But if I keep going too fast, you’ll miss all the best parts.”

You shiver, both from his breath and from the slow, teasing way he’s dragging this out. The ache inside you grows — sweet, desperate, delicious.

Kenma’s hands settle firm and sure on your hips again. “Ready?” he asks softly, voice low and full of promise.

You nod, barely able to speak, heart racing. “Yes. Please.”

He slides down with slow, teasing movements, lips finding your skin again, slower and more deliberate this time — like a painter tracing the finest details, making sure every touch counts.

And when he finally lowers his mouth to you again, it’s with the quiet hunger of someone who wants to remember this moment forever — every shiver, every sigh, every whispered name.

You lose yourself completely, riding the slow, delicious wave he builds with patient, tender care — and even as your body trembles toward the edge, you know he’s right: the best parts are still to come.

Just when the tension coils tight and you feel yourself about to shatter, Kenma pulls back, his breath warm against your skin. His eyes meet yours, dark and shimmering with something almost vulnerable.

“Not yet,” he whispers, voice low, almost hesitant. “Can I… again? I want to feel you like that once more.”

Your heart races, a breathless ‘yes’ caught between your lips, even though your body already aches from the pleasure. You barely have the strength to speak, but the words tumble out anyway, desperate and raw.

“Please… do it again.”

Your heart pounds beneath your ribs, a wild, aching rhythm that matches his own. Your breath catches as he leans in, pressing himself against you once more. Slowly, impossibly slow, he slides inside, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch, savoring every inch as if memorizing you again.

A soft curse slips from his lips—a rough, almost surprised sound—and your fingers instinctively tighten around his arms. His hand trails upward, hesitant at first, then more certain, cupping your breast with a gentle but possessive grip. His thumb circles your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, like he’s barely holding himself together. He moves with a slow, steady rhythm, each motion careful, almost reverent, like he’s trying to burn this moment into memory.

You lean into him, matching his pace, your breaths mingling in the quiet room. The way he touches you, the soft curses he mutters when you respond just right—it’s everything you didn’t know you needed.

You gasp as he fills you again, every movement measured, tender but demanding.

He leans down to kiss you again—soft, slow, lingering—and your hands clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs against your lips. “Not until you’re mine.”

Your body tightens around him, breath catching as pleasure builds once more, slow and overwhelming.

When you finally come undone again, it’s with him deep inside you, holding you steady—both of you lost in the quiet, messy, beautiful moment.

“You’re killing me,” you murmur, your voice rough and breathless. “Mind if I try something?”

Your heart hammers in your chest as you reach out, hands shaking just a little with anticipation. Slowly, you take him into your mouth, careful and tender at first, your tongue tracing delicate circles, exploring with a gentle pressure that makes him shiver.

Kenma’s eyes flutter shut, a low, surprised sound escaping him. His breath hitching, fingers curling into your hair, stroking softly as he watches you with quiet disbelief.

“Fuck... you’re... so good,” he murmurs between shallow breaths, voice thick with awe. “I didn’t think anyone could… God, you’re amazing.”

You hum around him, encouraged by his praise, your movements growing more confident, more sure. You take him deeper, swirling your tongue expertly, matching the rhythm of his quiet moans. His hips shift slightly, pressing closer, seeking more.

“Keep going,” he whispers, voice trembling, fingers tightening in your hair as if holding on to you is the only thing grounding him.

With every flick, every glide, you feel the tension build—not just in him, but inside yourself. You can tell he’s close, his body tightening, breath shallow and fast.

And then, with a soft curse and a ragged groan, Kenma lets go, shuddering against you as he spills over, his pleasure washing through you like fire.

He stays still for a moment afterward, chest rising and falling, eyes warm and shining as they find yours.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says quietly, voice thick with gratitude and something deeper. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know you could do that.”

The quiet hum of the city outside filters in through the window as you both lie tangled beneath the blankets, limbs entwined and skin still tingling from everything that just happened. Kenma’s fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm, his touch feather-light, as if he’s afraid to break the fragile spell hanging between you.

You rest your head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and for the first time, words begin to surface—awkward and uncertain but necessary.

“So,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “what the fuck was that?”

Kenma exhales, a soft chuckle rumbling in his throat. “I don’t know,” he admits, fingers tightening just slightly on your skin. “I guess… that was a long time coming.”

You lift your head to look at him, catching the faintest flush coloring his cheeks. “Yeah. I mean, I never thought this—us—would happen like this.”

He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, voice low and honest. “Me neither. But… I’m glad it did.”

There’s a pause, the weight of all the things left unsaid hanging between you. Then you speak, fumbling but real. “Do you think… this changes things? Between us?”

Kenma’s gaze holds yours, steady and sure. “It changes everything,” he says quietly, “but not in a way that scares me. In a way I want to explore. Slowly.”

You smile, heart fluttering, the nervous excitement mingling with a deep sense of relief. “Slow sounds good,” you say. “Because honestly? I’m still trying to figure out what the hell just happened too.”

He laughs softly, the sound like a warm blanket wrapping around you. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And with that, you both settle back into the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, letting the night stretch on around you—soft, honest, and full of the unspoken promise of what’s to come.

The sun creeps in slowly, casting a soft golden hue across the room. It’s quiet, except for the distant sound of birds and the occasional honk of early traffic. You wake up disoriented, warm, sore in a way that makes your breath catch, and completely enveloped in Kenma’s arms.

His breathing is even, still asleep, lashes resting delicately against his cheeks. He looks peaceful like this. Soft. You take a moment to just look at him, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with nerves anymore.

And then, like he senses you watching him, his eyes flutter open. Still hazy with sleep, he blinks a few times before offering you the smallest, laziest smile.

“…Hey,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and warm.

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Morning.”

For a beat, neither of you moves. And then—almost cautiously—Kenma brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering against your skin.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice a little more serious now.

You nod. “Yeah… just processing.”

He chuckles softly. “Same.”

The silence stretches again, but it isn’t uncomfortable. There’s so much you could say. So much that still feels raw, unspoken.

“I thought this would be weird,” you admit. “I thought I’d wake up regretting it or feeling awkward or like I ruined something.”

Kenma props himself up on one elbow, his hair messy and falling into his eyes. “Do you?” he asks, voice quiet but steady.

You shake your head. “No. Not even close.”

He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding. “Good. Because… I don’t either. I actually—” he pauses, searching for the words. “I liked it. All of it. But not just the sex part. Like... being with you.”

You press your forehead against his shoulder, hiding the stupid smile you can’t stop. “I liked it too. A lot.”

Kenma’s fingers start tracing slow circles on your back. “So… what now?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… was this a one-time thing? Or is this something?” His tone doesn’t change much, but you can hear it — the quiet vulnerability tucked beneath the calm. The nervous hope.

You look up, meet his eyes. “I don’t think I want it to be a one-time thing.”

A small, slow smile spreads on his lips. “Me neither.”

And just like that, something shifts — not dramatic, not explosive. Just… real. You curl back into his side, his arm around you, your fingers gently tracing along his ribs. There’s still so much to figure out, but for now, you’re warm, and you’re held, and he’s here.

“Do you think we should talk about this more later?” you murmur sleepily.

“Definitely,” he replies. “But first… maybe we sleep a bit more.”

You laugh softly, eyes already fluttering shut. “Sounds like a plan.”

And in the still morning light, with your heart a little steadier and your body sore in all the right ways, you let yourself rest. Safe. Wanted. Beginning something real.

It’s well past morning when you wake again.

The light is soft and golden, warmer now as it slips through the blinds and pools over the tangled sheets. The room smells like sleep and skin and something sacred. You’re cocooned in a nest of blankets, half buried in warmth — and him.

Kenma is curled beside you, face buried half in the pillow, half in your shoulder, mouth slightly parted, one arm heavy across your waist like he forgot to let go in his sleep. You don’t dare move.

You just watch him for a while, soaking in the details: the way his lashes cast delicate shadows over his cheeks, the faint imprint of the pillow on his skin, the smallest hint of a frown that softens when you brush your thumb along his temple.

Your heart is so full it aches.

You think about the night before — the way he held you, touched you, looked at you like there was no one else in the world. How slowly he moved, how quiet and intense he was, how careful. How absolutely undone he made you feel.

It wasn’t just sex. You both know that now.

Eventually, he stirs, blinking slowly like waking up takes real effort. His eyes find you, and he hums a low, content sound, pressing closer.

“Still here,” he murmurs.

You smile, brushing hair out of his face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles back, sleep-soft and honest. “Good.”

The morning passes in whispers and soft touches, moving only when necessary. At some point, you drag yourselves to the kitchen to eat toast half-naked and laugh quietly about nothing. You don’t talk about what it means — not yet. But the silence is different now. It’s not hiding anymore. It’s comfort.

Later in the afternoon, Kenma moves to his desk and stretches lazily, turning on his PC. You’re still draped in one of his hoodies and a pair of sleep shorts, sipping tea on his bed.

He starts to stream without much fanfare, his voice low and a little raspy as he greets chat. For a while, it’s just game sounds and his familiar quiet commentary.

Then he turns slightly, eyes flicking toward you. “Come here a sec.”

You blink. “Me?”

He nods once. “Just for a second.”

You walk over, curious, and he tugs you gently into frame — not fully, just enough that chat can see your shoulder, a glimpse of your face, his hand resting lightly on your hip.

“Chat’s been asking why I sound so smug today,” he says lazily.

You roll your eyes and laugh. “Maybe because you’re annoying?”

He grins, barely suppressing it, eyes flicking back to the screen. The chat explodes in emojis and chaotic comments, but he doesn’t care. He just leans his head briefly against your arm like it’s nothing.

“You’re cute on stream,” you murmur to him quietly.

He shrugs, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Only because you’re watching.”

authors note: yaay omg!!! I really hope ya`ll liked reading this :) I haven't really written anything in months, so excuse me if this is a bit all over the place. Also, English is not my first language, so bear with me 😭 btw requests are open just in case anyone is wondering, I am up to pretty much anything <3

[lycheeflavr]

i don’t know what kind of aesthetic i am going for 😭😭😭😭

[lycheeflavr]

I know I am updating this page like every three months 😭, but I am currently stuck watching jjk, so maybe expect some stuff in the following days? idk might also just gonna disappear again ngl

[lycheeflavr]

also no I am not dead, I am just currently hyper fixated on stardew valley and reading my werewolf books

[lycheeflavr]

no because what do you mean back to friends by sombr is not about wolfstar?????

[lycheeflavr]

there’s this led zeppelin movie in my cinema today and none of my friends want to go with me, should I go alone?????

[lycheeflavr]

once u finish just lovers I recommend operation walburgas arbitrary no kissing ever rule

can you tell me the author's name? I can't seem to find it :(

[lycheeflavr]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

whoop whoop chapter 4 is out !!!

[lesbianswift]

FOOD DISCOURSE: reblog with ur opinions on guacamole, olives, mango, hummus, tomatoes, and cannolis

[iwonderwhatseawatertasteslike]

obessed with gauc, like would eat it for every meal. hate olives, hate them so hard. i’ve only had mango like twice but it was amazing. hummus is ok, tomatoes are fine. respectfully, what the fuck is a cannoli?

[fist-full-of-feathers]

cannolis are Italian desserts and theyre fire. Guac is the best thing ever, olives are mid, mango tastes good but i dont love the texture, hummus is good but only when there’s other stuff in it and tomatoes are amazing fuck tomato haters

[invasiveroadkill-deactivated202]

Guacamole is good. Olives are in my top 10 favorite foods, especially the ones stuffed with jalapeño, and I wish I could live off of them. Mangos are yummy, but not my go to fruit. I hate hummus it gives me cramps. Tomatoes are ↔️↕️💯🤝🤩, my favorite fruit of all time. I’ve never had a cannoli

[ao3-batman]

I fucking love guacamole, I hate olives, im allergic to mango unfortunately but the few times ive had it it was yummy, i dont like hummus cause it has the same vibe as peanut butter and i fucking hate peanut butter the smell gets in my nose and my throat and makes me want to cough its like snorting sawdust. im allergic to tomatoes, what is a cannoli

[lycheeflavr]

LOVE guacamole, but like simple without tomatoes or onions, love love love olives yummy, mango tastes suspicious, something about mango just tastes off to me, yummy hummus, especially hummus with other flavours, like spicy hummus, curry hummus, OLIVE FLAVOURed hummus crazy good, Tomatoes are my worst enemies, hate them so much and even though i’m literally from Sicily i don’t think i’ve ever had cannolis, but they look tasty ngl