me when the ancients are poly.

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@noteducational
me when the ancients are poly.
Hi I just wanted show my art if anyone even cares I'm reallyyyyyyy proud of it and like I think this is the style I wanna draw as someone who didn't know what their own artstyle was for a long time lol. It took me three days as a slow artist but yeah idc I love it honestly BABSSHSHSHSHSJJSHHHHHAHAAAAAAAAAAA Why those two look good up close tho and I haven't finished the hair and eye colouring of the side profile guy I'm lazy rn. Life is hard but fun when I'm a traditional artist 🤑 No hate or I will strangle you/jjjj
No one:
Tumblr when my WiFi is connected and working perfectly:
TW//MURDER AND POLICE BRUTALITY
INTERNATIONAL MUTUALS WE NEED YOUR HELP!!
last night (28/8/2025) in indonesia during a protest, an ojol (motorcycle taxi) driver got ran over by a police truck that was trying to escape and was killed, and the police and the government are trying to silence us from speaking up about it.
we are trying to get international eyes on this, as local tv stations are not being allowed to report it. as usual, the indonesian government are trying to coax us into forgiving them with a bunch of disingenuous apology videos and a slap on the wrist for the perpetrators, but we will not let them go that easily this time.
and so to put pressure on them, we'd like international news stations to report on this. trying to get them to listen to us "normal" civilians will be a difficult and strenuous effort, but if we get CNN or something on this then that might be a quicker way to get them to back down.
if youve got twitter, please retweet this https://x.com/ezash/status/1961068893985800511 as it's one of the many video proof of the incident or this https://x.com/pporapippamm/status/1961070289829449770 as a concise summary of what happened, and maybe any other tweets u might see abt this issue. otherwise if you can, please help spread the message; even word of mouth might help.
edit: if u have time to watch a 4 minute video, this one is in english and explains what's been happening https://x.com/wannabewhisper/status/1961308260763406449
the driver who was murdered by the police is AFFAN KURNIAWAN and he was only 21 YEARS OLD; the breadwinner of his family. he wasn't even participating in the protest. he was delivering food.
there were many other victims and cases too, including forms of human right violations (medics in jakarta being sprayed by tear gas and an ambulance driver in solo getting beaten up) but so far this has been the biggest case, and we're trying to get the attention of international media to blow it up and show how fucked up the govt is here at this point.
sorry if im not making a lot of sense rn im super tired and still really angry
dark choco comes out!
Hello, could you please write Chishiya Hcs or whatever you want where the Reader is a Shy Person? And just doesn't really say stuff they think out loud and likes to stay in the background kind of person ^^
doctor!chishiya x patient!reader
*:・゚✧ summary: You were used to carefully masking your discomfort, to crowds, to social situations, and now to hospitals. But unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) Dr. Chishiya was nothing if not emotionally intelligent. And he didn’t need words to figure out something was wrong.
tags: shy reader, mild fluff, medical au, chishiya is a very smart man.
A/N: I hope this is okay!!! Apologies for yet another medical au apparently doctor!chishiya is all I can think about these days😭😭😭
word count: 1.7k
masterlist!!!
You’re not one for hospitals. Or people, really. Talking to strangers always felt exhausting, and even with familiar faces, you prefer to let your thoughts go unheard. Here, though, your shyness is harder to hide. You were stuck here, recovering from an apendectomy gone wrong. Conversations couldn’t be easily deflected by a claim of “business” or a cleverly constructed sentence to end any questions. Nurses bustle in and out, asking questions, prodding at your stomach. But the worst - or maybe the best, you’re not sure yet - is Dr. Chishiya.
He’s your attending physician, the one who operated on you. Intimidating, in the way that anyone who cuts up organs for a living is, but there’s also something almost detached about him, as if he’s observing the world from behind a glass wall. That was probably quite literal, at least in his line of work.
He comes in twice a day: once in the morning during rounds, and again in the evening to check on your progress.
The first time he entered your room, you froze. He flipped through your chart with those long, practiced fingers before, inevitably, sparking a conversation. “Good morning. How are you feeling today? Any pain on a scale of one to ten?”
You managed a nod, mumbling a quiet “Four,” before your gaze dropped to the blanket covering your legs. That was it. No elaboration. No questions from you. He waited a beat, those dark eyes flicking over your face, but when you didn’t say more, he simply noted something on the chart and adjusted your IV drip. “We’ll keep the pain meds steady. Let me know if it worsens.”
He left, and you exhaled, relieved. But part of you wondered if you had disappointed him. Doctors need information, right? To help you. Yet the words always seemed to stick in your throat.
By the second day, the pattern repeats. Morning check: he asks about your sleep, your appetite. You whisper short answers- “Okay,” “A little” - and avoid his gaze. He doesn’t push, but you catch the subtle furrow in his brow as he examines the surgical site. “Your incision looks clean, and theres signs of infection. Bowel sounds are returning too - good.”
You nod again, fingers twisting the edge of the sheet. He lingers for a moment longer than necessary, as if waiting for you to speak up. When you don’t, he nods to himself again and exits.
Evening rounds are similar. The room is dimmer, the hospital quieter. He enters in the same way, quietly to the point you almost don’t notice, chart in hand. “Evening. How was physical therapy? Any discomfort walking?”
“Fine,” you murmur, eyes on the window where the city lights blurred. The truth is, it hurt more than you let on - a sharp pull when you tried to stand - but admitting it would draw attention to yourself. Longer conversations that expected more detailed answers, more regular visits. Better to endure silently.
He pauses, pen hovering over the paper. “Pain level?”
“Three.”
His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he checks your vitals himself, pressing his fingers against your wrist as he times your pulse. “Your heart rate’s a bit elevated. Rest well.”
And he’s gone.
You don’t know it yet, but Chishiya is piecing you together. In the staff lounge later that night, he sips his coffee - black, no sugar - and reviews your file again. Quiet patients aren’t uncommon, he’s treated a fair few, none of them a bother. but you were… quieter than quiet. No family visits to his knowledge, minimal interactions with nurses too from what he had heard. He recalls the way your shoulders tense when spoken to, how your eyes dart away. Not rudely, just… guarded.
Emotionally intelligent as he is, irritation isn’t his response. Frustration, maybe, at the barrier to proper care - but he adapts. Always has.
Day three. Morning. He enters, and you notice something different. He doesn’t launch into questions right away. Instead, he pulls the chair closer to your bed - not too close, respecting your preference for space - and sits, crossing one leg over the other and flipping open your chart. “Slept alright?”
You nod, but your hand unconsciously presses against your side, a subtle wince flickering across your face.
He sees it. Of course he does. He notes the way your breathing shallows just a fraction when you shift. “The nurses said you ate half your breakfast. That’s progress.”
You blink, surprised he knows. “Yeah.”
No more words from you. But he doesn’t leave. He checks the monitors, adjusts a setting on the IV pump with a soft click. His presence is calm, unhurried. As he stands to examine the incision, his voice becomes softer. “I’m going to palpate the area gently. Tell me if it’s tender.”
His fingers brush your skin, and you tense, but it’s over quickly. “Slight inflammation, but it’s healing well.” He meets your eyes briefly. “You’re doing better than you think.”
Heat creeps into your cheeks. You mumble a “Thanks,” and that’s the end of it.
Evening. The pain has worsened -a five now, maybe six - but you don’t plan to say so.
“Evening check,” he says, routine as ever. But instead of standing at the foot of the bed, he leans against the wall - alarmingly casual for a doctor - giving you distance. “Walked the hall today?”
“A bit.”
Your voice is quieter than usual, and he observes the way you curl slightly inward, protecting your abdomen. A tell. Pain, pain that’s unmanaged.
“Scale of one to ten?” he asks, but he already knows it’s higher. By the way your fingers grip the blanket tighter just to the point your knuckles turn white.
“Four,” you lie, not meeting his gaze.
He doesn’t call you out. Instead, he nods and taps something into the tablet. “I’ll up the dosage slightly for tonight. Should help with rest.”
You glance up, surprised. How did he know? But he’s already moving on, checking your temperature with the forehead scanner. His expression is empty as ever, but there’s a warmth to his efficiency, like he’s attuned to your silence.
As the days blur - four, five - Chishiya learns your mannerisms without a word. The way your brows knit when the pain spikes, how you bite your lip when you wish you could voice your pain, but can’t. Mornings, you tend to be more alert, so he saves the more interactive checks for then - asking about dreams or the bland hospital food, drawing out one-word answers that he can piece together into an understanding of your needs.
Evenings, you’re wearier, so he keeps it brief, observational. He notices you favor the left side when lying down- to ease pressure on the incision, most likely. One night, he brings a small pillow from the supply cart without asking, positioning it under your right side. “For support.”
You murmur a thanks. That’s the first time someone’s anticipated your needs without making you spell them out. Even your parents weren’t that intuitive about you.
By day six, you’re walking more, albeit slowly. You still avoid small talk with nurses, preferring to read or stare out the window. But with Chishiya, there’s a gradual shift. His questions are usually open-ended but undemanding, that helps: “See anything interesting out there?” he asks one morning, nodding to the window.
“Clouds,” you reply softly. “Theres one shaped like a cat.”
He smirks faintly and comments dryly, “Cumulonimbus feline. Rare.”
You almost smile, ducking your head.
He memorizes more: how your pulse quickens when anxious, not just in pain. Like when a loud cart rattles by in the hall, and you flinch. So he starts closing the door during his check-ins.
Your pain improves because of it. He adjusts meds based on cues- the hitch in your breath, the subtle shift in posture - rather than waiting for you to speak. “You’re at a two today,” he says one evening, not asking, because he didn’t need to ask. He already knew. “Better.”
You nod, relieved. “Yeah.”
He lingers, flipping through the chart. “You’ll be good for discharge soon, if progress holds.”
The thought twists your stomach. Home means solitude, but also no more of his visits. You push that feeling down.
Day seven. Morning rounds. You’re sitting up, book in lap - a medical thriller, fitting. He enters, eyes flicking to the cover. “Good read?”
“It’s okay,” you say, more than usual. That’s progress.
He checks your vitals, his touch feeling familiar now, not so intimidating. As he listens to your lungs with his stethoscope, you blurt out: “Why do you… notice things?”
He pauses, stethoscope still pressed to your back. “Breathe in.”
You do.
“Out.”
As you exhale, he straightens. “It’s my job. But with you…” He chooses his words carefully. “Words aren’t always necessary. Bodies speak too.”
No one’s ever said that – you felt validated. Seen, but not in the way that makes your skin crawl.
Evening. Your pain is minimal now, a one. But anxiety creeps in about leaving. Which is weird, considering you’re currently in a hospital. When he arrives, you fiddle with the IV tape, a new tell he’s learned: nervousness.
“Last check before you’re discharged tomorrow,” he says, sitting in the chair. “How do you feel?”
“Okay.” A pause. “Scared, actually.”
It’s the most you’ve volunteered since being here. He nods, no judgment at all. “Recovery at home can be daunting. Your follow-up in a week - I’ll see you then.”
You meet his eyes for the first time fully. “You will?”
“It’s my clinic.” A faint smile. “Unless you’d prefer another doctor.”
“No,” you say quickly, followed by a blush. “I mean… you’re fine.”
More than fine.
He stands, but hesitates at the door. “If you need anything - pain, questions – just call. Being quiet is okay, suffering however, isn’t.”
Discharge day. You’re dressed in your own clothes, feeling exposed without the hospital gown. Weird, considering the hospital gowns came with a convenient hole at the back. As you wait for the wheelchair escort, the door opens.
Dr. Chishiya. Not a scheduled visit, but here nonetheless. “Final once-over.”
He checks the incision one last time. “It’s healing nicely. Remember: no heavy lifting.”
“I know.”
His eyes soften a fraction. “You’ve done well.”
Your throat tightens. “Thanks to you.” Three words in one go. Progress.
He responds with a rare, genuine smile that looks almost misplaced on his features. “Mutual.”
As he leaves, he slips a card into your hand - his direct line. “For the pain.”
hi! please can you write how chishiya would react to being called kind? something like reader sees him distributing food and maybe some small toys he had crafted to the few kids that are residing at The Beach. and being uncharacteristically nice to them and the reader approaches him and tells him its a kind thing to do. thank u!!!!
chishiya x reader
*:・゚✧ summary: you find chishiya in the abandoned play park one night, surrounded by kids. Usually detached and bitter, you were startled to find him looking so… kind?
tags: 5 minute craft chishiya, soft chishiya, slight angst.
word count: 2k
masterlist
You wandered the grounds one afternoon, keeping to the edges, out of sight, merely observing. It was a habit born from necessity - spot the threats, the weak links, the ones to avoid in a team game. Today, though, your gaze snagged on something else.
Chishiya, with his hoodie perpetually zipped up, hands in pockets and eyes scanning for… well, whatever it was he scanned for. You had crossed paths with him a few times before – a few brief nods in the hallways, a shared game where you had barely kept up with him. He was smart, unnervingly so, but kind? That wasn’t a word people usually associated with someone like him. He was detached, almost dissociated, like he was in a different world altogether.
But there he was, in a quiet corner near the abandoned playground area - overgrown with weeds pushing through cracked concrete, swings creaking in the faint breeze. A handful of kids, the rare survivors who had somehow lasted long enough to end up at The Beach, clustered around him. There weren’t many children here; most didn’t last long in this world. These ones - maybe five or six, ages ranging from toddler to pre-teen - looked scruffy and malnourished, but alive at the least.
Chishiya was crouched down, his usual condescending smirk absent for once, replaced by an expression far softer. One that barely suited his features.
In his hands, he held small objects: toys, it looked like. Not the flashy plastic kind from the old world, but makeshift ones crafted from scavenged junk.
A little car whittled from wood scraps, with wheels made from bottle caps.
A doll fashioned from cloth rags and buttons.
Even a puzzle box, pieced together with wire and cardboard.
He handed them out one by one, talking to them in an oddly soothing voice, not the condescending drawl you were used to.
“Here,” he said to a small girl with pigtails, placing the doll in her grubby hands. “Don’t lose the arms; they’re fragile.” She beamed up at him, clutching it to her chest like it was a prized treasure. A boy next to her grabbed the car, zooming it across the ground with an enthusiastic vroom.
And it wasn’t just toys. From a small bag slung over his shoulder, he pulled out rations - cans of fruit, packets of crackers, even a few candy bars that managed to outlast their expiry. The Beach had food, sure, but it was rationed tightly by the militants. These kids weren’t high on the priority list; they were afterthoughts, surviving on scraps and the occasional pity handout. Chishiya distributed the food methodically, making sure each got an equal share, his fingers brushing theirs gently, there was no rush, no irritation.
One kid, a boy with a bandaged knee - probably from a tumble during a game - tugged at Chishiya’s sleeve. “Do you sometimes scratch yourself when you make them?” he asked, pointing to the toys, referring to how he crafted them with a small knife.
Chishiya tilted his head. “Not if you’re careful. Want to see how?” He sat cross-legged on the ground, pulling out a pocket knife and a piece of scrap wood, demonstrating with slow, deliberate strokes. The kids leaned in with rapt attention, as shavings fell like snow on the ground between them.
You stood there, half-hidden behind a tree, watching this unfold. It didn’t compute. Chishiya, the guy who you watched shrug when the player next to him was exploded into pink mist, was… nurturing? Patient? The word ‘kind’ bubbled up in your mind, as unusual as it was. You had heard rumors about him – some say something to with medicine, or some say assassin - but this? This seemed like neither of those things.
Curiosity got the better of you. You stepped out, gravel crunching under your shoes, and approached the group. The kids glanced up, some scattering a bit like startled birds, but Chishiya didn’t flinch. He finished handing a puzzle to the last child - a quiet girl who hadn’t spoken - and stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants.
“That’s… kind of you,” you said, the words slipping out before you could overthink them. “What you’re doing for them.”
He turned, his expression neutral as ever, those eyes locking onto yours, considering you. For a split second, something flickered there - surprise? Confusion, maybe? But it was gone in an instant, replaced by his trademark indifference. He shoved his hands back into his pockets, the bag of remaining supplies slung casually over one shoulder.
The kids were dispersing now, toys in hand, munching on their treats as they ran off to play. One waved back at him, and he gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible.
You waited for a response, but Chishiya just stared, like you were something he hadn’t anticipated. Kind. That word hung in his mind, awkward and heavy. No one had ever called him that before - at least, not that he could remember. Compliments were always reserved for his intellect, his skill, never for his personality. And here, in this world? He had quickly deciphered that Kindness was a weakness, a target on your back.
He didn’t do it for praise; it was… what? A habit? A calculation? Even he wasn’t sure why he did it sometimes.
He shifted his weight, trying to summon that disinterested mask he wore so well. “Is it?” he finally said, almost sounding bored.
You nodded. “Yeah. The toys, the food. Most people here wouldn’t bother. Hell, I’m not even sure the kids are on the rations list.”
He glanced away, toward the horizon where the city skyline loomed. “They found a way to survive long enough to get here, same as us. Might as well give them an equal chance.”
It wasn’t much of an answer, but you pressed on, leaning against a rusted swing set. “Where’d you learn to make those? The toys, I mean. They’re pretty detailed.”
Chishiya shrugged, the movement minimal. “Boredom. Scavenged materials aren’t hard to find if you know where to look.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “keeps my hands busy.”
You chuckled softly, the sound surprising even you. “Right, I see.” You gestured to the now-empty spot where the kids had been. “They lit up, you know. Like actual kids, not… whatever this world turns people into.”
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he pulled out another small item from his pocket - a whittled bird, wings spread as if in flight - and turned it over in his fingers, examining it like it held answers. Kind. That word echoed in his head again, unfamiliar and almost irritating. What did you want from him? Gratitude? An explanation? A partnership? It had to be something material. He wasn’t used to this - people seeing through him, or worse, misinterpreting his actions as something noble.
Finally, he met your gaze again, forcing a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe I like kids. Problem?”
The words came out sharper than intended, a defensive edge honed from years of solitude. But there it was - his response, the one that shut down any further probing from you. Just a casual deflection as always.
You blinked, then smiled faintly. “No problem at all. Just… it’s unexpected, coming from you.”
He pocketed the bird, adjusting his hoodie. “Careful. Expectations are dangerous here. Gets you killed.”
The conversation could have ended there, but something kept you rooted. Perhaps it was the rarity of having an actual conversation with him, or maybe something else, you wouldn’t know. “Fair enough. Mind if I stick around? Watch you work your magic on the next batch of scraps?”
Chishiya raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t say no. Instead, he sat back down on the ground, pulling out his knife and a fresh piece of wood. You joined him, cross-legged, the grass prickly against your legs. The air smelled of chlorine from the pool and the faint decay of the body bins nearby. An odd mix for the scenario you had found yourself in.
The kids trickled back eventually, drawn to him by the promise of more toys. One boy, the one with the bandaged knee, plopped down beside you. “Can I try?” he asked Chishiya, eyes pleading.
Chishiya handed him a duller tool - a makeshift chisel from a spoon handle. “Watch your fingers.” He demonstrated again, remaining patient as the boy fumbled. This side of him felt like a glitch in the matrix.
The sun set lower, turning the playground orange, and for a moment, it felt almost normal. Kids laughing, crafting, or sharing stories of “before.” One girl talked about her old school, another about a lost dog. Chishiya listened, interjecting occasionally with an added fact or an encouragement to talk more. “Dogs are smart. Did you know their noses are 10,000 times stronger than ours?”
Hours passed like that, the group growing and shrinking as kids came and went. You helped distribute more food when Chishiya pulled out extras, your hands brushing his accidentally.
By dusk, the playground emptied again. Chishiya packed up, standing from the ground with a stretch. “That’s enough for today.”
You rose too, dusting off your clothes. “Thanks for letting me crash your… whatever this is.”
He nodded, already turning away. “Don’t make a habit of it.”
But as he walked off, hood up, hands in pockets, you called after him. “Hey, Chishiya?”
He paused, glancing back.
“It was kind. Really.”
He didn’t respond to that, just continued into the shadows. But you caught the faintest hesitation in his step, like the word had lodged somewhere he couldn’t easily shove it down.
The next day, you found yourself back at the playground, almost by accident. Or maybe not. The Beach was buzzing with another party, but this little corner felt like a bubble. Quiet and safe. Chishiya was there again, earlier this time, with a new batch of toys: spinning tops made from corks, and slingshots made from rubber bands and forks.
The kids arrived in waves, and you joined seamlessly, helping him hand things out.
“Why do you do it?” you asked later, when the kids were playing nearby.
“Why not?” He shot back.
“Come on. You’re not the type to waste time.”
“Who said it’s a waste of time?” His voice sounded almost thoughtful. “Kids adapt easily. Quick learners. Their best chance of survival is if they treat games like puzzles.”
“So, you’re… teaching them?”
“Something like that.” He finished a top, spinning it on his palm. “Or maybe I just like the company.”
Days blurred into a routine. You’d meet there at the same time in the afternoons, help him hand out food and whatever toys he’d crafted. Chishiya’s crafts grew more intricate over time: a marionette from string and sticks, a board game etched into wood. Food was always there - stolen from the basement storage, you suspected, but he never confirmed.
One evening, after a particularly brutal game night, the kids were subdued. A boy had lost his older brother the night before. So chishiya sat with him, carving silently, then handed over a small figure that inteded to look like the kid’s brother. “Keep it close.”
The boy hugged it, crying silently at chishiya’s side. He occasionally leaned into chishiya, as if seeking out comfort, and chishiya never pushed him away.
The routine continued, words sparse but comfortable. Until one day, you said it again: “This is kind, you know.”
He froze mid-carve, knife hovering. Never been called that. It didn’t fit his self-image.
He forced disinterest, shrugging. “Whatever.”
But you persisted. “I’m being serious.”
He set the knife down, meeting your eyes, and letting out a steady huff. “Only with kids. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
omg i love ur oneshots sm,,,,, i adore u pageee !! Can u maybe write a chishiya x reader where she has REALLY REALLY bad social anxiety and like never goes out at all😭
chishiya x anxious!reader
summary: you had never been extroverted (to say the least). But luckily for you, neither has chishiya.
tags: established relationship, fluff, social anxiety
A/N: hiiii! i feel like this is so bad so i’m so sorry😭😭 my writers block has been terrible these past few days so this is just whatever slop my brain could produce😭😭
word count: 1.7k
masterlist!!!
You’ve always been a creature of habit, but “habit” feels too gentle a word for the walls you’ve built around yourself. Your life exists almost exclusively between the four walls of your apartment, a soft-lit sanctuary of blankets, books, and the faint hum of your laptop. Going out? That’s for other people – those that don’t feel their heart slam into your chest at the mere thought of a stranger’s glance.
But then there’s Chishiya. He is different - solitary, like you, but by choice rather than necessity. You had met on one of your rare visits to the grocery store, bumping into him, literally, and, for some reason, he decided to stick around. You finally confessed your struggles with anxiety to him a few weeks after, expecting him to become disinterested like so many others, but he just said, “meh, outside is overrated anyway.”
He’s learned you, piece by piece, even noticing the signs before you do sometimes. The way your fingers twist the hem of your shirt when you’re overwhelmed. The shallow breaths that come when the doorbell rings unexpectedly. The way you curl into yourself on the couch when your brain thinks just a little too much.
Tonight is one of those quiet evenings between you both. You’re nestled under a blanket, scrolling through your phone, while Chishiya lounges in the armchair across from you, flipping through a book on biochemistry or something equally impenetrable.
“You’re fidgeting,” he says suddenly, not looking up from his page.
You freeze, realizing your foot has been tapping against the floor. “Am I? Sorry.”
He glances at you then, those sharp eyes softening just a fraction. “It’s fine. What’s on your mind?”
It’s nothing big - not really, just the usual spiral. You had seen a post online about a local event happening this weekend. It looked fun, like something you’d enjoy, but you were hyperaware that fear would keep you away once again. It stirred that familiar ache: the longing to be involved, to be normal. But saying it aloud feels silly, redundant even. “Just… stuff. You know.”
He nods, closing his book with a soft thud. “The delivery guy’s coming soon. Want me to handle it?”
You exhale, grateful he doesn’t press. He never does. He was good like that, always offering without making it seem like a favor. “Yeah. Thanks.”
You eat in companionable silence, the kind that never demands filling. It never did with him. Afterward, he clears the table while you wash up, and when you return to the living room, he’s already dimmed the lights, knowing you prefer it dark.
“Movie?” he asks, settling on the couch.
You nod, curling up beside him. His arm drapes over your shoulders casually, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. It’s these little things - the way he anticipates what you need without words - that make you feel seen.
Safe.
But Chishiya isn’t content to let you hide away forever. Not in a forceful, sudden way; no, he’s far too clever for that. He plants seeds, subtle suggestions that will nudge you toward the edge of your comfort zone. Like last week, when he mentioned ordering books online but mused aloud about browsing in person someday. “Less waiting,” he had said offhandedly. You had brushed it off, but the idea lingered in your mind. It would be nice, you hadn’t been to a bookstore in years.
He’s doing it again now, as the movie credits roll. “I finished that thriller you lent me. The ending was predictable like you said.”
You smile, shifting to face him. “Told you. What did you think of the twist with the sister?”
“Oh that was from chapter three.” He said with a playful smirk, knowing you didn’t get it until chapter 10. “I need something new. There’s a bookstore downtown – it’s small, independent. Not too crowded.”
Your stomach twists, that familiar knot forming. “You could go alone. Or order online.”
“I could.” He pauses, his eyes meeting yours. “But I thought you might want to come. They have that section on rare editions you like.”
It’s not a demand; Chishiya never demands. But there’s a subtle challenge in his tone. The kind which means he’s not going to back down. He knows you love books - the smell of paper, how the pages sound when you turn thrm. Your apartment is lined with shelves, supplementing any need to go to a library, but all of those books were bought online or gifts from family if you were lucky.
“I… don’t know.” The thought of stepping out, navigating the streets, possible small talk with a cashier - it sends your pulse racing. “What if it’s busy? Or someone talks to me?”
“Then we leave.” Simple, logical. “It’s a Tuesday afternoon. There won’t be many people. And I’ll handle any talking.”
You bite your lip, fingers twisting in your lap - a sign he clocks immediately. His hand covers yours, stilling the motion. “No pressure though. Just think about it.”
The next morning, you wake to the scent of coffee. Chishiya’s already up, leaning against your kitchen counter with a mug in hand.
“Morning,” he says, sliding a cup toward you.
You mumble a reply, sipping gratefully. It was the same routine as always: breakfast together, him reading the news on his phone while you sketch absentmindedly in your notebook. But today, you can tell he’s watching you more closely, not overtly, but you feel his eyes in the side of your head.
By noon, he broaches it again. “I’m heading to the bookstore at around two. If you change your mind, the offer still stands.”
Your heart hammers in your chest. Part of you wants to - desperately. To feel normal, to share something simple with him outside the confines of your apartment. But…
What if you get overwhelmed? What if you embarrass him?
He senses the war in your head without needing to ask. Setting his phone down, he moves to sit beside you at the table. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“It’s stupid,” you whisper. “I want to go, but… my chest gets tight just imagining it. How would I cope if I can’t even think about it? What if I freeze up?”
His expression doesn’t change - no pity, no frustration. Just understanding. “It’s not stupid. And they won’t be staring; people are too focused on themselves. But if it happens, we adapt to it. Breathe through it, like we practiced.”
Those practices - he started those subtly too. Deep breathing exercises disguised as “meditation for focus,” which he claimed helped his studies. You know better now; it was for you, to arm you against your own anxieties.
“Okay,” you say finally, surprising yourself. “I’ll try.”
His lips quirk into an almost-smile. “Good.”
The next hour is preparation, though he doesn’t call it that. He suggests comfortable clothes - your oversized sweater and jeans that don’t pinch. He packs a small bag: a water bottle and noise-canceling headphones, for you, just incase.
As you step toward the door, your hands start to tremble. Chishiya notices - of course he does, he notices everything when it comes to you - and he silently slips his fingers through yours.
Outside, the world felt obnoxious: cars humming and clanking as they drive by, people talking too loudly, eyes looking your way. You cling to chishiya’s arm, your eyes focused on the ground. “Too much?” he asks.
“A little.” Your voice wavers.
“We can turn back.”
But you shake your head. “No. Lets keep going.”
He just nods, continuing to guide you down the sidewalk. It’s not far - ten minutes at most – but right now it feels eternal. A passerby brushes too close, and you flinch so Chishiya shifts, positioning himself between you and the street, like a human shield.
“Focus on the details,” he says quietly. “Count the cracks in the pavement. Or name the colors around us.”
It’s another trick he’s taught you. You try: gray sidewalk, blue sky, red stoplight. And slowly, the panic ebbs away to something more manageable.
The bookstore appears ahead - a quaint corner shop with a faded sign. Through the window, you can see shelves stacked high, soft lighting, and only a few people.
Inside, it’s heaven. The air smells of old paper and ink, a silence which is only broken by the turn of pages. A single clerk nods from behind the counter, then returns to their book. No forced greetings, no hovering.
Safe.
You exhale, the tension in you uncoiling slowly. Chishiya releases your hand but stays close, browsing a nearby shelf. “Take your time.”
You wander tentatively, fingers trailing the spines. Fantasy, mystery, poetry - your havens. For the first time in ages, the outside world feels… tolerable. Chishiya picks up a volume of his favourite medical journal, but his eyes flick to you often, just checking in.
At one point, you reach for a high shelf, and he’s there instantly, plucking the book down. “This one?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He adds it to his stack. “Anything else?”
You browse longer than planned, the anxiety fading into mere background noise. But as you approach the counter, it surges back. The clerk - a kind-faced woman in her forties - looks up. “Find everything okay?”
Your throat tightens, the words sticking in your throat like tar. Chishiya steps forward seamlessly. “Yes. Just these.”
He handles the transaction, chatting minimally with the cashier about the weather. You stand beside him , grateful for his buffer.
The walk home feels lighter than the one on the way here. You had actually done it – a small step that feels like a milestone towards a slimmer of normalcy. Maybe it was a coincidence, but the cars were quieter now, and the pavements less crowded.
“You did well,” he says once you’re inside, door locked behind you.
“I almost didn’t.” You sink onto the couch. “But… it wasn’t as bad as I thought.”
He sits beside you, unpacking the books. “Progress isn’t linear. Today was a step. A big step for you.”
You lean against him, exhaustion mingling with the small pride. “Why do you push me like this? Not that I mind, but… you are okay with staying in, right?”
“I am.” His voice is thoughtful. “But I see how the isolation weighs on you. I don’t want you to feel trapped - not by anxiety, anyway.”
That’s the closest he’s come to admitting he’s helping on purpose. “Thank you.”
Later that evening, as you’re both reading your new finds, he says, “There’s a café near the bookstore. I heard its nice… quiet. Maybe we could try it sometime?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe is good.”
And it is. With him, nothing feels too scary anymore.
Hi there and welcome to my first Tumblr post ever and probably the first Chishiya x Reader oneshot I wrote this long. I got inspired by other fanfics and writers to finally publish ts loll. Warning, English isn't my first language so there might be mistakes.
Another important thing, the main reason I wrote this is to show how I actually view Chishiya. I love him especially his manga version so much but I think there's a lot more to him than just being cold and intelligent. So that's why I came up with this piece. It's my opinion. I'm never good at describing environments or gestures and I wanted to keep this a simple but emotionally deep oneshot that I hope the right people would like 💕
I don't even know if people will see this 💀💀, but I really really hope lol. Also no Borderlands Au. I know this takes place in a beach but it's just for aesthetic setting lmao it's a random beach not the Aib beach. Don't ask why I chose a beach I just did. Idk. It just happened.
Chishiya and reader already know eachother. I didn't mention anything about their relationship but you can see them as dating or not, doesn't really matter it's up to you.
Don't like it? Don't read it! I won't accept any hate.