#indigestion fic

[secretobsessionstuff]

Idk if ur taking asks rn, but in the fic you posted yesterday with Jory, you mentioned that he tattooed a girl’s neck one time and he couldn’t get his stomach to settle down. maybe you could turn that into a fic 😏

Haha I totally planted that in the hopes that someone would ask about it! Anyway, a year later here's the fic.

There's kinda a surprise at the end of this, and it's not heavy on emeto, but still fun to write! Glad my brain cooperated enough.

-------------------

The first time Jory got a red tattoo, he decided—like a reckless buffoon—to get his entire back done up with inky black tendrils surrounding red eyeballs. It was from his favourite anime, depicting a character ironically called Pride. Like a prideful son of a bitch, he convinced himself that he was immune to the common side-effects of red ink. 

Well, it turns out he wasn’t. Only the red parts of the tattoo remained inflamed and itchy as hell for months. The red eyeballs swelled beneath his skin, creating a monstruous image that he did not ask for, at least until the reaction calmed down. Luckily for Jory, his body adapted to the colour and eventually everything settled properly. It wasn’t so much an allergy to the red, but a temporary reaction. But those six months were hell: an apt punishment for the deadly sin. 

Now, whenever he tattooed another person with red ink, he made sure that the first attempt was small. On most occasions it didn’t matter because clients came in with perfectly healed red ink from years ago. This was the case with the girl at his next session. 

“You’re hundo percent sure you had no issues with red before?” he asked the girl during the consult. She wanted cherry blossoms down her neck which required all the reds, pinks, whites, and browns. He was excited about the design.

“Yes, dude, I promise. It healed perfectly,” she assured him. “I’d show you, but I’d have to take off my jeans and I—”

“I believe you,” Jory cut in. “I have an opening in two weeks.” 

Two weeks later, Kaida was sat in his chair, ready to get her neck pricked by a cherry blossom. At least it wasn’t roses. 

“Kaida’s a sick name. How’d you get it?” Jory asked at the beginning of the four-hour session. He was happy to have eaten a big meal before starting this. He certainly wasn’t hungry, not with food grumbling in his belly. 

“It’s Japanese for ‘little dragon’. My parents wanted something different.” She had no issues talking in the beginning because the tattoo started behind her ear. The vibrations rattled her head, but it was less painful than some of her other ones. 

“Love that! I’ll tattoo a little dragon for you anytime.” Jory swallowed his excitement and a hint of acid reflux. “Were you born in Japan?” 

“No, but my parents were.” Kaida went on to explain her family life. 

This was Jory’s favourite part about being an artist: forcing people to share their life stories while trapped in a chair and suffering mild pain. Just kidding, but he liked getting to know people. Kaida had a cool sort of confidence and chill demeanour. She reminded him of Dev, in the way she carried herself, knowing her worth. 

That afternoon, it was hard to focus on his client’s chit chat because his stomach was vocal enough for the both of them. He wondered if Kaida could hear the wet sounds of digestion coming from his belly. 

On top of the increasing stomach-ache, the neck was a shit place to tattoo. It looked freakin sick, but the angle was killer. Jory couldn’t find a comfortable position. The angle was wonky and made for poor lighting. He didn’t know where exactly to put his hands and he kept worrying that he was going to crush her windpipe. Dev kept a close eye on him during this session for all these reasons.

Jory’s watchful mentor was never far. Dev talked to customers as people came into the shop, but mostly they hovered around him and Kaida. They helped out by replenishing paper towel and picking up inky ones from the floor. 

It didn’t take long for Dev to notice Jory’s unease. There was tension in his jaw that wasn’t normally there. His Adam’s apple bobbed excessively every few minutes. The poor guy looked pale and sweaty. They knew he wasn’t feeling the best when he started suppressing burps. 

Root beer had been a bad idea before a session. The carbonation turned Jory’s stomach into a sudsy bath of sugar and grease. He felt pressure build up in his throat but didn’t want to let it out while being so close to Kaida’s face. 

Whenever he reached back to fill the machine with more ink, he took longer than necessary to let out the sour belches that bubbled in his stomach. He exhaled, trying to blow the smell of his chicken sandwich away from Kaida. 

With the linework done, Jory went back to behind her ear to do the shading, giving Kaida a chance to talk more freely. “What do you do for fun?” he asked her, hoping she could fill the silence and mask the sound of his nauseous tummy. Her long black hair was done up in a tight bun to keep it out of the way, but he could still smell coconut shampoo. It was only slightly assaulting to his senses. 

Kaida cracked a big smile. “My girlfriend and I are learning to crochet together. I suck at it, but she’s good. I tried to make a cat and now the beast haunts her boss’s office at work.” 

Jory laughed, the movement jostling his sick tummy. A burp filled his cheeks, but he swallowed it. “Hopefully she’s a vet or something and they can fix the unholy cat?” 

“No!” Kaida chuckled, trying to keep still. “She works at a dietician’s office. I should have crocheted a fucking carrot instead.” 

Jory had to laugh, but this time he couldn’t keep the belch from coming up. It interrupted his laugh with a wet sound that gurgled in his throat. He quickly pulled back from her face. “Jeez. Sorry, babes.” 

“You good, dude?” 

“Probably…” He covered his mouth with his wrist to burp again. “Frick, my stomach feels like a bubble bath.” Jory felt the blood drain from his face, his skin going grey like a colourless tattoo. 

Kaida didn’t know how to act. “What does that mean?” 

Dev came around the corner then. “It means he’s tapping out.” They grabbed Jory’s shoulder and told him to stand. “Come on, take off your gloves and get some air.” 

“I’ll be back in a jiffy, Kaida,” Jory said, stumbling away.

Dev scoffed. “It’ll be longer than a fucking jiffy, girl. You can stand up and take a break. You sat really well by the way. Jory just doesn’t know when to stop.” 

Dev led Jory outside where the brisk air brought some colour back to his features. Sadly, it didn’t fix the issue. They watched him lean over and burp up a small wave of sick onto the pavement. 

The belches kept coming, forcing up pathetic amounts of frothy saliva and bile. Jory closed his eyes, not wanting to see the disappointment on Dev’s face or the chewed-up pieces of chicken on the ground. He wished Dev would go back inside, but apparently, they wanted to soak up his misery for a while longer.

When Jory’s stomach finally settled, he looked back to see Dev leaning against the wall with their arms crossed over their chest. “You better not pull this shit again, Jory. If you feel sick, you stop.” 

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t. I just need you to understand that this girl’s neck is literally on the line. Let’s ignore the fact that you could make a mistake on a very visible part of her body, but not only that—in there needs to be a perfectly clean environment.” 

Dev sighed when they saw the look on Jory’s face. He got the message loud and clear. He was a dog with his tail between his legs. And he still looked fucking beat. “How are you feeling?” 

Jory kept his gaze away from them. “Better.”  

“Were you too embarrassed to say anything? I could have helped.” 

“It just happened so fast. I thought I was fine.” 

Dev pushed off against the wall and came to lay a hand on Jory’s arm. “Me and the other artists are here to help. You don’t need to convince yourself you’re fine if you’re not. I’ll finish up with Kaida.” 

“What about Kaida?” Just then a shorter woman with bouncy brown hair walked up to the shop. “That’s my girlfriend. I’m here to pick her up.” This girl was all smiles and curls.” 

Jory cocked his head to the side. “We need more time for Kaida’s sess.” He only hoped she wouldn’t see the puddle of sick on the floor. “Do I know you? You look mad familiar.” 

“Um, I don’t know.” She gave Jory an awkward smirk. “My name is Piper. I’m an Aries.” 

Dev chuckled. “Oh right, Piper the Aries. Remember, Jory?” The sarcasm might have escaped Piper, but not Jory. 

He shook his head. “I guess it’s a mystery. Come on in. I’m Jory.” 

“His zodiac is Idiot,” Dev chimed in.”

[corneliathegreat]

Stomach's n life presents: 🧴Tummy therapy 🧺

• ◇SM◇

• "Tanya will be right with you, dear"

• The sweet old receptionist said. Seal nodded and took a seat on one of the velvet chairs. Despite him being known for breeze through every embarrassing situation, he was actually kinda nervous. This massage was gonna be on his stomach this time. A stomach full of partly digested food. It was bound to make noise. Hopefully, he can play it off. The door next to the reception desk opened.

• "Seal?"

• A tall blonde woman said. He stood up quickly, nearly falling off his chair. Nerves are messing up his chill persona! He cleared his throat.

• "In the flesh."

• The light haired guy removed his clothes silently, getting lost in his thoughts. Would the massage hurt? Would digestion pick up immediately, and make him use it here? And most importantly, will he finally feel better? He sighed. Who knows? Health stuff never works for him like it does other. This whole thing might just make his eternal stomach ache worse. His belly rumbled, voicing that breakfast was breaking down slowly.

• Grwwwlll...!

• He sighed again. He looked over at the door. What did he have to lose?

• "Tanya will be with you in sec, okay?"

• The blonde from earlier said.

• "So just sit tight."

• Seal smiled and nodded. The moment she left, the assistant snorted. The lady was having alot of trouble not looking at his body. He may not have huge biceps like Hayden or toned abs like Zee, but he has been working out. And apparently it's starting to show.

• Gurrrrglll...grwwlll...!

• Damn.

• He thought. His stomach was getting gurgly again. He hastily rubbed it, hoping to stop it's rebelling.

• "Settle down."

• Urrr...grroolll~!

• Gas boiled up in his gut, making everything else slosh around. Dang, which was it gonna come out of?

• Grrrlll~!

• The top. It's always the top. Saliva began to fill his mouth as stomach rolled aggressively. Seal groaned. Of course, he'd have to throw up here. At this beautiful massage parlour. He has the worst luck sometimes. A burp shook in his chest. And his belly gurgled under his hand. Slowly, the sick traveled up his throat. Welp, adios breakfast.

• "Seal?"

• A woman suddenly entered the room. Suddenly, he forgot all about his situation. (And swallowed the barf) She was short and had curly brown hair. Thick lips too. And the prettiest freckles that reminded him of chocolate chips. She must be Tanya.

• "Are you feeling alright?"

• She took his hand.

• "It's okay it you want to reschedule."

• Reschedule!? Please. Not after seeing her. (And because of up surprise near up-chuck)

• "I'm fine with today."

• He replied smoothly. His guts were still rumbling, but not loud enough to embarrass him. So far, so good.

• "So I heard you been having indigestion."

• He nodded.

• "And your most frequent symptoms are?"

• Most frequent, huh? Well, his stomach had a habit of growling loudly when he's on the phone with a client. And it wakes him up at six to hurl. And after meals, it feels like a pound of modeling clay is in there.

• "Vomiting, but only in the morning."

• Tanya looked up from her clipboard.

• "And that's all? Besides discomfort?"

• He bit the inside of his cheek. He really didn't wanna tell her about the pretty much everyday stomach talking. It's embarrassing.

• GrRRoowlll~!

• The office worker turned red as his belly growled. The masseuse snickered.

• "Audible attempted bowel movement..."

• "Okay!"

• She set her clipboard down.

• "Let's get started, shall we?"

• Seal laid on the counter, as Tanya grabbed her stuff. He felt SO nervous. Nervous cause a pretty woman was about to knead him like dough. And double nervous, cause he didn't know how his stomach would react. It's been pretty spontaneous today. It suddenly rumbled, making him burp in his throat. He's screwed. He turned to see the brunette walking towards him.

• "Ready?"

• He looked down. His belly said don't you dare. He locked eyes with Tanya.

• "Ready I'll ever be."

• It was actually alot more calming than he thought it'd be. She turned on a lofi playlist, and lit a few candles. And asked him about his day! Is he embarrassed about the BLATANT gurgles his stomach has emitted? Yes. But it's totally calmed down. Crazy right? This place is a 2 hour paradise. Suddenly, a phone rang. Tanya leaned down.

• "I gotta take this real quick."

• She whispered. Seal gave a sleepy grunt of acknowledgement and she left the room. He sighed, feeling content. So long, chronic discomfort!

• Rrrrmmbbblll...!

• "Son of a bitch."

• He grumbled. It would start tripping out the moment it wasn't being massaged anymore. He raised up slowly. His guts rumbled loudly, sloshing from the movement.

• RRRGG~! UrRrr~!

• "Geez, your a pain."

• The assistant put his hand on his rumbling stomach. He felt bubbles and his breakfast moving around in there. To think, once this massage is over, he'll never have to worry about this again. No more reflux. No more heaviness. No more nothing. Just a normal guy with a normal stomach.

• Grrr...rRrrr~! Rrrrrr...!

• He twitched and looked down. Don't tell him... Does he to take a sh-

• Grrrrggglll~!

• His belly growled angrily in his hand. Crap! He does! Was this because he didn't blow chunks earlier? Seal looked at the door. What if Tanya comes back and he's not here? Not to mention, it'd super be embarrassing to explain. As he was thinking, his stomach got impatient. And began to cramp up.

• Urrrrrggglll~!

• Oh for the love of- Seal hopped up and snagged on of the robes off the rack. He quickly fastened the ropes around him and sped walked out.

• 15 minutes later

• He trudged back to the room feeling exhausted. All that fuss for nothing. Man, his stomach was sore. Right before he could turn the doorknob, it opened itself. He was face to face with the gorgeous Tanya.

• "Oh, there you are."

• She tugged him inside.

• "Let's continue."

• Seal begrudgingly laid down. He could feel his stomach stirring. She looked back at him.

• "Is something wrong?"

• He shook his head vigorously and forced a laugh.

• "What makes you say that?"

• "You look sad."

• Damn, he does? Well, now that he thought about it, he did feel a little down.

• "Are you worried if this will work?"

• He nodded. (She read his mind) Tanya took his hand.

• "I know it's hard to put your faith in others people. Especially when your stomach's involved. But,"

• She looked into his eyes.

• "I've been doing this for years."

• "I can guarantee you'll be 100% satisfied."

• Seal blushed. That...was super reassuring.

• "Okay?"

• She said. He swallowed.

• "Okay."

• The masseuse smiled and pressed down on his stomach.

• GRRURRRGLLL~!

• "Hush."

• She said, sternly. His belly shut right up. Wow. How did she do that?

• "Thanks for your help, Tanya."

• Seal said, now fully dressed. She smiled, as she washed the oil off her hands.

• "Don't mention it,"

• "I like helping people."

• Now that his intestines are working properly again, he had approximately 20 minutes until he had to empty his guts. So, he had to make this quick and smooth. The assistant strolled over to the masseuse. He cleared his throat.

• "So, are you doing anything later?"

• She turned around.

• "Well, besides more appointments, I'm free."

• He cheered inside his head. Alright! Hopefully, she doesn't have a boyfriend.

• "So does that mean I can take you out tonight?"

• She looked shocked and smiled.

• "I'm sorry but,"

• "But, I'm married."

• And just like that, his good mood was gone. He chuckled awkwardly.

• "Ooh, I'm sorry."

• She smiled.

• "It's alright, I get that alot."

• No wonder. She's pretty AND has a great personality. Wait? Did she think he asked her because of the massage!?

• "I-it's because of your personality, just so you know!"

• He blurted out. This was even more awkward. Tanya, being her sweet self, just snickered and said she knows. After saying goodbyes, he walked out of the room. Her husband's a lucky one. She's quite a catch. He turned the keys in his car and opened the door.

• I wonder if Chantelle is free tonight?

• What? He had to celebrate. He's finally free from indigestion. Or maybe he could call Jen? Nah, she wouldn't go-

• Rrrrrlll...!

• He looked down. His stomach growled once again.

• Grrr...Rrrrggg~!

• The contents is his belly grumbled ferociously as they went down. He sighed as he got back out of his vehicle.

• "You just have to leave with a bang, don't you?"

This one was fun. Seal being a flirt and totally getting rejected made a silly ending. Maybe he'll see Tanya around again. And MAYBE he'll stay indigestion free.

(Credits to @benkeibear. These are wonderful.)

[kanerallels]

WAIT THIS IS SO ICONIC EVERYONE CHECK THIS OUT

The fun thing about The Zillo Beast Strikes Back episode is that there are about eighty seven different ways it could be turned into a fix it au. For example:

Space PETA finds out about all of this and tries to get Palps thrown out of office, exposing him as a Sith Lord

Palpatine's pissed off constituents and co workers, after nearly dying for a science experiment, try and get him thrown out of office, exposing him as a Sith Lord

Palpatine's guard says screw this and leaves him to get eaten

R2 leaves Palps to get eaten

Ezra Bridger gets thrown back in time, sees a massive beastie trying to eat Palpatine, goes "oh he gets me" and becomes best friends with the Zillo Beast and also kills Palpatine, therefore becoming Mace's favorite member of his lineage

Padawan Cal Kestis heard about this and goes "ANIMAL RIGHTS" and Jaro Tapal decides to use this as a teachable moment about civil disobedience. Palpatine's death is just an ancillary benefit of Cal getting a cool new pet

C3PO sues Palpatine for emotional damages, and Palpatine gets so angry in court that he outs himself as a Sith Lord

Literally just. The Zillo Beast eats him. Is that so much to ask?

Feel free to add more and/or use any of these as fic ideas if they don't already exist!

[writeriguess]

Can you write me a MHA fic where reader and Katsuki have been crushing on each other for ages but both are denying it and Katsuki is really mean to her, and reader is really mean to Katsuki. One day, Katsuki's friends trick them and get them to go on a blind date, they have a huge fight but end up making out.

Like Hell I’d Fall for You

"God, he’s insufferable."

You slam your locker shut with a little more force than necessary, scowling like the world personally offended you. Which, to be fair, it kind of did. Or more specifically, he did.

"Bakugou Katsuki is the human embodiment of a stubbed toe," you mutter under your breath.

"Funny," says Mina from behind you, “because I just heard him say you were the reason birth control was invented.”

You whip around. “He said what?”

She raises her hands innocently. “Hey, I’m just the messenger. Though, to be fair, didn’t you call him a sentient Red Bull can last week?”

“That's generous,” you scoff. “Red Bull gives people wings. Bakugou gives people migraines.”

Meanwhile, in the opposite hallway…

"She’s fucking unbearable," Bakugou growls, kicking his locker shut hard enough to dent it.

“She’s literally the only person who can keep up with your bullshit, man,” Kirishima replies, biting into an apple like this is just another episode of their weekly soap opera. “That kind of energy? It’s flirting.”

Bakugou’s eye twitches. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. She calls you a dumpster fire with legs, but she also stares at you for ten minutes during training.”

Bakugou turns his glare on him. “If I stared at a fire for ten minutes, it’d be because I wanted to burn it out.”

Kirishima just smiles knowingly. “Right.”

This, of course, has been going on for months. The entire class is in on it. The professors? Probably too. It’s hard to miss the sheer voltage of tension between you and Bakugou.

You mock him, he scowls at you. He mocks you, you threaten to shove his gauntlet up his ass. Everyone pretends not to notice that neither of you ever backs down. It’s exhausting. And weirdly entertaining.

Which is why Mina, Kirishima, and Kaminari decide to intervene.

By lying to you.

Friday, 6:30 PM – Somewhere in a trendy Tokyo café

You’re dressed like a liar. Because you were told this was a casual coffee meetup with Mina and Momo. So you showed up in a cute dress, makeup on, hair nice.

Which is exactly why, when you see Bakugou at the other end of the café looking just as confused and wearing a crisp black button-up (that you refuse to admit fits him way too well), your stomach drops.

“Oh hell no.”

He spots you. His face does a weird thing. You think it might be pain. Or fury. Or indigestion.

You both start walking toward each other like you’re about to duel at high noon.

“What the hell is this?” you hiss.

“I was told this was a Kirishima thing,” he growls.

“Well, Mina’s dead to me now.”

He crosses his arms. “Like I’d go on a date with you.”

“Oh please. Like I’d want to.”

And yet, neither of you leave.

You’re both seated. Begrudgingly. In utter silence. Until the barista drops off two drinks Mina apparently pre-ordered under the names “Queen of Spite” and “Lord Explosion Murder.”

Your cup has a little heart on it. His has a middle finger doodled on the side.

You blink. Then laugh. “Okay, that’s actually kind of funny.”

He snorts. “Idiots.”

Silence again. Then:

“You look good,” he mutters.

You glance up, startled.

He immediately scowls. “I mean, like. For you. Not—whatever. Fuck.”

You smirk. “Wow. That almost sounded like a compliment. Who are you and what have you done with the snarling porcupine I know?”

He glares. “You look like you’re going to a damn gala.”

“Oh, so now it’s too much?”

“You’re fishing.”

“I don’t need to fish for compliments from you, Katsuki.”

“You just did!”

“Oh my god, do you even hear yourself?!”

You’re both standing now. Not yelling, but close.

“You think I wanna be here?” he bites out.

“I know you don’t. You’d rather die than admit you like me.”

He goes still.

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

You freeze too. A beat of silence. Then:

“I—what?” you stammer.

His mouth works like he wants to say something, but can’t.

Then he does.

“Of course I fucking like you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs.

“I’ve liked you since second year,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. “When you beat the shit outta that third year who said my quirk was all boom, no bite. You called him a discount sparklers pack.”

Your jaw drops.

“I've tried everything to stop. You drive me insane. You talk back, you’re loud, you fight dirty—”

“So do you!” you shout.

“Exactly!” he snaps. “You’re like... I don’t know! A natural disaster. A pretty one. With teeth.”

You blink.

“Oh my god.”

And then—

You launch across the table.

He catches you halfway.

Mouths crash. Teeth knock. Someone knocks over a latte. It’s chaos. It’s electric. It’s inevitable.

Your hands are in his hair. His hands are on your waist. Your body feels like it’s on fire and your heart is trying to punch out of your chest. It's a fucking moment.

Somewhere behind the counter, a barista stops mid-pour.

“Holy shit,” says the newer one. “Should we... call security?”

The older barista just watches calmly, chewing gum. “Nah. This is like a nature documentary.”

The new guy blinks. “What?”

She jerks her thumb toward you and Bakugou, still aggressively making out.

“Predators. They fight, then they mate. Give it a minute.”

You and Bakugou eventually stumble out of the café, breathless and flushed, hand-in-hand like you didn’t spend the last year trading death threats.

“So,” you say, looking up at him. “Was that the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

He grins, wide and wolfish. “Nah.”

“I mean, you did spill my latte.”

“You tackled me.”

You smirk. “So we’re even?”

“Not even close,” he growls, pulling you in again. “I’m gonna spend the rest of the damn week making up for lost time.”

And he does.

Much to the horror (and secret delight) of everyone at U.A.

[neonovember]

So I currently have food poisoning and I can’t help but it think how mad Carmy would be if a restaurant gave his gf/wife food poisoning

Also Carmy come take care of me and make me soup plz 🙇‍♀️😫

Plus he would give the best snuggles 😭

firstly, sending lots of love and recovery, i've never actually had fp lmao so a lot of time on webmd will be spent. get ur fluids in! secondly, carmen might have to go underground for setting the restaurant on fire. we love him for it

summary: You were hungry and had just finished work and you didn't think about inspecting the goddamn Michelin star restaurant, maybe you should have.

warnings; cursing, food poisoning, richie (he's a warning), hipsters, talks of future arsony, possessive carmen, cracked fic ngl,

divider by @firefly-graphics

i'm slipping back into the unsafe territory of wanting fictional characters. (and i don't care)

You could roll your eyes in annoyance if you weren't hunched over the ceramic bowl of the toilet heaving out the contents of your stomach while Carmen held you hair back.

The one time, the one goddamn time you decide to try a new place without Carmen's input, without his meticulous standards and in depth research behind every night out.

It wasn't like you hadn't tried to vet the new braised beef spot that opened up on west Avenue. In fact, you had heard all but stellar reviews from friends and family, meeting you with suprise hearing that Carmen hadn't taken you. You decided to bring home a small plate, their signature braised meat with plums, red onions and atrichocke hearts.

You had meant to share it with Carmen, and you were going to, but a botched catering order had him staying back another hour than what had been planned. And well..you say you tried to save some for Carmen, but despite its bacteria laced beef and vomit inducing sides it was pretty fuckin' good.

Was this God's wrath coming down upon you? Punishing you for your gluttony? Food poisoning did feel awfully close to perpetual hellfire.

The TV was blaring some indescriptive show, the kind with dramatic introductions and soap opera worthy screams. It helped fill the space of absence when Carmen worked long nights, and you felt quite comfortable wrapped up in a blanket with a full stomach and a warm sofa.

Your phone had pinged with the sound of Carmen's text, letting you know he was on the way when it started. At first you had written it off as mere indigestion, probably from shoveling the cursed meal into your mouth too quickly.

Then, around the time the show's main character had found out her boyfriend got her mother pregnant, the nausea set in. Swirling aches that felt like a whirlpool in your stomach had taken over, sloshing and swirling and never leaving. You couldn't mistake it, as you tried to swallow past a dry throat and the creeping sweats of a headache inducing fever began to ravage your body.

You hated sitting in discomfort, it wasn't as though you were afraid of vomiting no, you just could not bare to feel the way your stomach skipped and jumped with every wave of nausea that took over.

You thought of making yourself sick, but shook your head when the alarming disapproval of Carmen's voice loomed over.

"It's just gonna make it worse, you gotta sit with it till it passes"

Fuck him and his medical knowledge. What did he know?

You had ripped off the blanket that had once felt comforting, peeling of layers of clothing that stuck to your body like a second skin. You just felt hot, so hot, is anyone else feeling this heat? You try to move from the couch to reach your phone, but the sudden movement has nausea bubbling up your throat.

You fall to the ground in a heap, hand clasped around your mouth to stop the possibility of projectile vomiting on the rug you had just bought and shoot your hand up to reach for your phone.

You press Carmen's number, begging him to answer you in genuine crisis rather than when you were drunk with friends and missed him. You feel the urge to heave and crawl quickly to the bathroom, phone clasped in hand and suddenly desperately needed his medical knowledge.

Carmen phone rings from the behind the stack of documents in the office, and he hastily wipes his hands across his apron before trying to reach it before it rings out.

Guilt fills his stomach at the thought of you, he was meant to be home hours ago. The catering order needed a few extra hands to help, and once Carmen began he got lost in it, and now you had spent nearly the entire night alone.

"Fuck- Hey baby, I know I said I was comin' but I had to finish a couple things-" Carmen quickly responds as he swipes the call button.

The groan of pain that responds has Carmen freezing in the middle of the kitchen.

"Baby? What-, are you okay?" Carmen replies quickly, his voice going short as his mind turns every possible scenario that had you whining in pain over the receiver.

"Please come quickly, Carmen I think I might-" You gulp and make a retching sound "I think I got sick from that place I was telling you about" You plead out, breathing heavily into the speaker.

The guilt that had filled Carmen seems to morph into an anger that rushes up his chest as he shakes his head.

"The new place? The one with the fuckin' smoke meat? They did this?"

"Mhm" You mumble "I should've just listened to you" You groan out in sadness.

"Fucking idiots. How the fuck did they even? Okay, okay honey just gimme a second yeah?"

How did he let this happen? Carmen has half the mind to stop at the restaurant that more of a Instagram attraction that a respected place of business. You were so eager and excited t try it, Carmen had his own thoughts but would glue his mouth shut if it meant making you happy.

He'll make sure they get shut down, or at least black listed from Chicago as long as he's concerned. His hands shake with the eager want for the fight, to smash someones jaw for resorting you to a heap of tears and sick. He would, he knows he will, but at this moment he needed to take care of your first.

He mumbles out a rushed reply, phone between his shoulder and ear as he slips out of his work shoes and into his sneakers. He thinks for a moment to grab his things but immediately shut that thought out when he hears you groaning into the phone.

"Just stay on the phone okay? I'm coming now, I need to get you some things alright?"

You let out what you hope is a reply, hunched over the toilet.

Carmen rushes to the store fridge, grabbing containers of soup Tina had prepared for family as the Chicago winter was getting close.

"You alright kid?" Richie mumbles, walking into the kitchen entry way, scratching his stomach as he watched Carmen's erratic movements around the store.

"Fuckin-, she's sick. And I'm here chopping up tomatoes for fucking Guy while she was in pain for god knows how long-"

"Woah, Bugs sick? We talking COVID or.."

"I'm such a fucking idiot. No it's not COVID Rich, Jesus Christ. Some rookie new spot trying something outside of their abilities gave her food poisoning. Fuckin' hipsters"

"Oh that's bad. You know when I got food poisoning the one time I took Tiff to this romantic getaway. Had me projectile vomiting in the AirBnb bathroom. Couldn't even get a deposit back, had to pay some dumb ass cleaning fee-"

Carmen wipes a hand across his face shaking his head. He was already pent up, he might throw a pan at Richie if he doesn't stop talking.

"Richie, I don't have time for this, I need to get her some Sprite or"

Richie shuffles across to the cupboard near the back of the house, grabbing bottles of Gatorade and a pack of saltine crackers.

"How do you even have this stuff lying around"

"You're the one with the inhuman alcohol tolerance Carmy, someone of us actually have hangovers you freak" Richie retorts

"Yeah yeah, thanks. Fuck- I gotta" Carmen replies, to which Richie nods.

"Go. I'll wrap up anything here" Richie replies, understanding in his voice. You took precedence over pretty much everything in Carmen's life.

"And Carm?"

"Yeah?" Carmen calls out, slipping on his jacket as he turns to Richie

"Tell me when we're going to sort out those bearded wearing flannel ass wipes"

Carmen shakes his head with a smile, before nodding and pushing past the kitchen doors. The traffic lights better be green green fuckin' green tonight.

You were stripped to a singlet and sleeping shorts as you knelt over the toilet, blinking back exhausted tears at the state of you.

You suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself, but the indignation righteousness burns almost as bright as the acid reflux crawling up your throat.

You hear the faint opening and loud clang of the apartment door opening and closing and you sigh in relief as you hear the familiar footfalls of Carmen down the hall.

It had felt damn near torturous suffering without him, and as he calls out to you following the trail of loose clothing he spots your figure in the bathroom sprawled.

"Oh honey, I'm sorry" Carmen says

And it was as if your body needed to finally feel safe in Carmen's presence before you felt the nausea spill out of you and splash offensively into the toilet.

You feel Carmen crouch above you, dragging your hair that had gone loose from it's wrapped up do away from your face. Gently rubbing your back, his large hands softly dipping up and down your spine.

"That's it, 'atta girl. Let it all out" Carmen coo's softly

You purged the insides of your stomach into the toilet bowl, retching loudly with every heave as Carmen comforted you. After what seemed like hours, and the nausea had subsided Carmen carefully wrapped his arms up under your armpits picking you up of the floor.

"Slowly, yeah? You damn near emptied out you're entire water content" Carmen murmurs, flushing the toilet and helping you walk to the basin and wash out the taste of bile from your mouth.

"I probably look insane" You cry out, blinking back exhaustion from your eyes as Carmen shakes his head furiously.

"Never, my pretty girl. Need you to go easy okay? Gonna take you to bed and let you sleep through it. Can't have you collapsing on me" Carmen murmurs, wiping at the edge of your mouth, patting the sweat that stuck to your forehead.

You let Carmen carefully maneuver your body, one arm under your legs and the other supporting your back walking to the bedroom. Your wring dry and can barely keep your eyes open as Carmen placed you on the cool sheets you immediately moan at.

You hear the faint rustle of movement as Carmen brings in a paper bag. The clunk of bottles placed on the bedside table as you sing praise for the very short bit of relief you have before the next bout of nausea rolls in.

Carmen pads to the adjacent bathroom, the door opened so you can see the stream of light that illuminates him. Hes running a cloth under water, squeezing the excess and looking up to check on you every so often.

He looked so...domestic, like he hadn't come back from working at one of the most decorated restaurants in Chicago. Stripped of his shirt so he stood bare chested, golden curls pushed behind his ears, sweatpants hung low on his hips and the furrow of his eyebrows in concentration and worry.

Your eyes flutter shut as you thank the midnight sky for bringing him to you, for keeping him for you, this one good thing that was yours.

The skies answer by the sound of his voice listing off all the things you will not be doing in this stage of recovery. Sitting on the edge of the bed as he places the cool rag against your forehead, lips between teeth as he feels your temperature under his skin.

"Just bone broth, Gatorade and bread sticks for you, doll. And no, before you even think it, its not the garlic ones." Carmen tsks.

You were thinking it. He knew you too well, but when he kisses your eyelids and measures out careful tips of the Gatorade bottle, you don't mind it.

[harusmichixo]

Can you please write how Chishiya slowly fall in love with us? He doesn't accept it at first but can't do anything with it🙏🏻 maybe even a talk/kiss scene. Thank u!!!

medstudent!chishiya x reader

*:･ﾟ✧ summary: You join chishiya’s lab group mid semester and won’t leave him alone.

genre: fluff

╰┈➤ A/N: i hope this is okay, its my first time writing like this 🫣 lowkey took points from my fic as something very similar happens and I’m obsessed with the idea of doctor/med student chishiya 😵‍💫

word count: 1.6k

masterlist!

Chishiya had always prided himself on his rationality. Emotions were messy, unpredictable variables in an otherwise controlled equation. As a third-year medical student, he dealt in facts: anatomy charts, diagnoses, surgical routines. People were complex, sure, but he could always solve them from a safe distance. No need to get involved. Involvement led to complications, and complications were for amateurs.

Then you showed up.

It started innocently enough. A slow, almost imperceptible, drip. You were in his anatomy lab group - transferred in mid-semester from some other program, all bright smiles and unshakeable optimism that made him roll his eyes. “Isn’t it fascinating?” you’d say, tracing a vein on a cadaver with your gloved finger. “The human body is full of miracles.”

miracles. Chishiya had snorted at that, hood up, hands in his pockets, leaning against the lab table like he couldn’t be bothered. “Miracles aren’t real. They’re just mathmatical possibilities, that’s all.”

He’d dismissed it. You were just another classmate, a temporary blip in his routine. But then you kept showing up.

Everywhere.

In the library, where he’d claim his spot by the corner booth, you’d plop down across from him with your stack of notes. “Mind if I join?”

At first, he ignored you. Headphones in, eyes on his textbook. But you’d hum softly while studying or tap your pen in rhythms that somehow synced annoyingly with his thoughts. Irritating. Distracting. Yet…

he didn’t tell you to leave.

Weeks passed. Group projects forced proximity. You paired with him for a presentation on pacemakers - fitting, he thought wryly, since his heart rate seemed to glitch around you. Not that he noticed. No, definitely not.

One evening, after a late study session in an empty lecture hall, you stretched and yawned. “do you ever take a break?”

He glanced up from his laptop, expression blank. “Breaks are for people who can’t manage their time.”

You laughed – that sickeningly light, genuine sound that echoed in his brain. “Touché. wanna grab a coffee? My treat. Consider it repayment for carrying our group.”

He should’ve said no. He didn’t even like coffee. But his mouth betrayed him. “Fine. If it’ll shut you up.”

You ordered something sugary and ridiculous - a caramel frappe with extra whipped cream - while he stuck to black coffee, no frills of course. You chatted about everything, somehow engaging him in mindless small talk: your favorite indie bands, that one professor who you both hated, how you wanted to specialise in pediatrics.

All things he filed under ‘unnecessary gibberish.’ But as you spoke, all animated and gestures, he found himself listening. Really listening. The flecks of your eyes glinted under the lights, and for a split second, his chest tightened. Indigestion, probably. From the coffee.

obviously.

That night, lying in his dorm room – undecorated walls, single bed, desk piled with books - he replayed the conversation. Why had he gone? Why did your voice linger in his mind? He rolled over, staring at the ceiling. Ridiculous. He was just tired. Overworked. Nothing more.

But it didn’t stop.

The next day, you texted him - a number he’d given for “project purposes only.” Hey, found this article on neural pathways. Thought you’d like it!

He stared at the message, thumb hovering. Delete it? Ignore? Instead, he replied: Send the link.

And so it began. Texts turned into study meetups. Meetups turned into walks across campus, where you’d point out blooming cherry blossoms and say, “Woah, everything’s starting to look so pretty.” He’d scoff, but his steps still slowed to match yours.

Chishiya noticed the changes subtly at first. His usual solitude starting to feel… empty. He’d catch himself glancing at the door during lectures, wondering if you’d sit next to him today. When you did, a faint warmth spread in his veins. Adrenaline? No, that didn’t make sense.

Then came the dreams. Stupid, vivid ones where you’d smile at him, and he’d wake up disoriented, heart pounding. “This is absurd,” he muttered to his reflection one morning, splashing cold water on his face. He was Shuntaro Chishiya - top of his class, unflappable. Not some lovesick idiot.

Love? Another word he discarded as meaningless gibberish. No. Absolutely not. Infatuation, maybe. A temporary chemical imbalance. Dopamine overload from too much interaction. He needed to cut it off.

So he tried. Next study session, he was curt. “I work alone today.”

You blinked, hurt flickering in your eyes before you masked it with a smile. “Okay, cool. Catch you later?”

He nodded, ignoring the pang in his gut. But alone in the library, he couldn’t focus like he used to. Every page blurred. Your absence was louder than your presence ever was.

By week three of avoidance, he was fraying. Headaches from overthinking. Sleepless nights. He’d scroll through your old texts, then slam his phone down. “Get a grip,” he’d whisper.

One afternoon, holed up in his dorm, he googled symptoms: Racing thoughts. Elevated heart rate. Obsessive focus on one person. The results screamed ‘romantic attraction’ or better, ‘anxiety disorder.’ He slammed his laptop shut. Was he going crazy? Legitimately losing it?

The idea gnawed at him. Therapy? He’d always mocked it - weak minds needing crutches. But if this was a mental break… He even looked up psychiatrists (or shrinks as he called them) in the area, fingers trembling over the ‘book appointment’ button. “No,” he decided, deleting the tab. “I can fix this myself.”

Fix it by confronting the source.

He found you in the quad, sitting under a tree with your notes. Autumn leaves swirled around, painting the scene like some rom-com he despised. Unfortunately fitting. You looked up as he approached. “Chishiya? Been a while.”

He stopped a safe distance away, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. “We need to talk.”

“Okay…” You patted the grass beside you. “Sit?”

He didn’t. Standing felt safer. “This… whatever it is. The texts, the coffees, the constant proximity. It’s disrupting my routine.”

Your brow furrowed. “Disrupting? I thought we were friends.”

“Friends.” He tasted the word, bitter. “I don’t do friends. Not like this.”

“Like what?” You stood, closing the gap.

He exhaled sharply, gaze flicking away. Your closeness made his skin prickle. “You’re making me go crazy. So go away.”

The words hung there. Your eyes widened, then softened with understanding, like you’d somehow figured him out. “Crazy how?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.” He said. “You know what I mean. The distractions. The… feelings.” He spat that word out like poison.

You stepped closer, undaunted. “Feelings? As in, romantic feelings for me?”

“No.” Denial, automatic. But his pulse thundered in his ears.

“Liar.” You teased with an annoying grin.

He met your eyes then - really met them. The flecks catching in the sunlight just enough for him to notice. And something cracked inside him. “I don’t like complications.”

“Life’s full of them,” you whispered teasingly. “Kinda the point.”

The wind picked up, tousling your hair. He reached out without even thinking, tucking a strand behind your ear. Your breath hitched. His did too.

Then, impulse overrode logic. He leaned in, lips brushing yours - tentative, testing. It was uncoordinated, uncertain, like he was dipping a toe into unknown waters. You responded gently, hand on his cheek, pulling him closer.

When he pulled back, reality suddenly crashed in. “I don’t like it.” He said.

You laughed. “Liar.”

He wanted to argue, to retreat into himself and push you away. But your hand on his cheek, unfortunately, kept him there. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But it’s… uncomfortable.”

“Good uncomfortable?” you asked.

“The worst kind.” ____________________________________________

That kiss under the tree marked the beginning of Chishiya’s surrender. Not that he admitted it outright. No, he fought it in each and every step, convincing himself it was a phase, a glitch in his otherwise flawless system. But you were annoyingly persistent.

The days blurred into a new routine. You’d drag him to campus events - movie nights in the common room, where he’d critique the plot holes while you fed him popcorn. “See? This character makes no sense,” he’d say, allowing his arm to rest casually around your shoulders.

You’d roll your eyes. “It’s a rom-com, its not supposed to make sense. it’s just about the feeling.”

Feeling. That word again. It infiltrated his thoughts like a virus. During lectures, he’d doodle absentmindedly - your name in the margins, quickly scratched out.

Nights were the worst. Alone in his dorm, he’d replay certain moments: your laugh, the way your hand fit in his during walks. “This is insanity,” he’d mutter, pacing. He’d even drafted an email to a campus counselor: Subject: Potential Psychological Evaluation. But he never sent it. Instead, he’d text you: Can’t sleep again. Your fault.

Your reply: Come over?

He’d go, every time. Your room was the opposite of his - posters on walls, fairy lights, a mess of books and plushies. overstimulating, but comforting. Because its you. You’d curl up on the bed next to him, talking until dawn about random gibberish.

Gibberish he only cared for because its you.

One night, rain pattering against the window, you asked, “Why do you fight this so hard?”

He stared at the ceiling, your head on his chest. “Because control is all I have. Feelings… they take that away.”

You propped up on an elbow, gazing down at him. “Or it’s finding something better.”

He pulled you closer, kissing your forehead. “You’re far too too optimistic.”

“And you’re too cynical. Perfect match.”

Slowly, the denial eroded. He stopped avoiding your touches, started initiating them - linking fingers in public, maybe even stealing a kiss when he thought no one was around. Friends noticed. “You’ve gone soft,” one teased during lunch.

He smirked. “Temporary lapse. Don’t get used to it.”

But inside, he knew this was anything but temporary. You were embedding yourself in his life, his thoughts, his routine. And for the first time ever,

it didn’t feel like much of a threat.

[sunshineyrosie]

and in the silence, there’s us (3rd person POV)

summary: she would never have expected bringing her boyfriend a coffee after a long shift to be the moment that changed everything.

pairing: Viktor x reader (no use of Y/N; no physical description but she works as a nurse and grew up in the undercity like him)

w/c: 2.7k

notes: 3rd person POV, allusions to smut at the end, but nothing too explicit. this is my first time posting fanfiction in nearly 10 years, and my first Arcane fic, so please be kind <3 feedback would be very appreciated. also, i’m posting this using the tumblr app, so please forgive any formatting issues.

read on ao3: here masterlist 2nd person POV version here

She slips into the lab, balancing two to-go cups in one hand, while pushing the door open with the other. The scent of the coffee curls into the air before she speaks, announcing her presence.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” she says, setting the cup beside him on the workbench. He glances up at her, his face lighting up just enough to make the exhaustion in her limbs worth it.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before returning to the delicate circuit board in front of him. She watches him for a moment—so absorbed in his work, fingers deftly adjusting the tiny components with careful precision.

“Funny you should say that,” she says, dropping unceremoniously onto the stool beside him, stretching out her sore legs. “Because I actually did save a life today. Well… kind of.”

“Kind of?” He hums, taking a sip of his coffee as he adjusts a resistor.

“Well, mostly because I resisted the urge to strangle a new resident with my bare hands.”

His smirk is instant. “High bar for heroism these days, no?”

“Trust me, if you were there you would understand.” She deadpans, taking a swig of her coffee before continuing. “This patient comes in, right? He’s pacing around, clutching his chest like he’s auditioning for a medical drama. Then the brand new just-out-of-med-school cardio resident struts in like he owns the place, and immediately declares that the patient is having a heart attack. Orders every cardiac test known to man, meanwhile I’m standing there going ‘Hey, maybe it’s just indigestion,’ but apparently my Tiny Nurse Brain wasn’t worthy of such insight.”

Viktor lifts an eyebrow in anticipation. “And?”

She huffs, stretching to get a crick out of her spine. “When I kept insisting, he finally sighed, looked at me like I was a nuisance and told me to give him an antacid ‘if that would make me happy.’ Like he was indulging a toddler!”

“Did it work?” Viktor asks, his smirk widening.

“Oh, beautifully. Two minutes later and the guy lets out a burp so aggressive it could be classified as a seismic event, then suddenly felt amazing. Meanwhile, Dr. Smug, MD was suddenly very fascinated with the ceiling tiles.”

Viktor chuckles, shaking his head. “Did he at least apologize?”

“Of course not,” she replies with a snort. “He’s a doctor. Pretty sure admitting a nurse was right would void their medical license.”

“Well, I hope you were gracious in your victory.”

“Oh absolutely. I smiled, nodded and let him marinate in his shame. A picture of a true professional.” She responds with a cheeky grin.

That earns a full laugh from him, a sound she never tires of. “You could write a book. Things I’ve Had to Say to Medical Professionals That Should Be Obvious.”

“Maybe I should, it would sell millions.” He shakes his head, amused.

She leans into her seat as he returns to the work in front of him, and they relax into their normal routine—the easy back and forth, the familiarity. She talks as she always does, effortlessly filling the silence with whatever happens to be on her mind—recounting the chaotic moments from her day. Her patients. Some absurd interaction with a coworker. And as always, he listens.

He doesn’t interrupt much, mostly responding in low hums, nods, and half-smiles as he works. Occasionally letting a quiet chuckle or a cheeky quip escape his lips. But mostly, he just lets her talk. It’s always been like this between them, chattering from her, contented silence from him.

She knows he’s focused—his mind occupied by whatever invention he’s creating, adjusting, fixing—but he never makes her feel like a distraction, or acts like she’s intruding on something important.

Even if she’s rambling about absolutely nothing, he lets her. Because he likes hearing her talk. She knows that he is listening even as his hands move with precision. His quiet attentiveness is one of the things she loves most about him—not that he simply listens to her, but the fact that he wants to.

The hum of Hextech machinery fills the lab, a steady backdrop to their conversation as she watches him tinker with some new prototype. At this, she realizes the absence of his partner. “Where is Jayce today, anyway?”

“Out with Councilor Medara.” He responds, curtly. “Something to do with finalizing their venue choice for the wedding.”

“Did he tell you about the venue?” she says, tipping her head back to finish the rest of her coffee. “It’s ridiculous—ginormous chandeliers everywhere, some garden straight out of a fairytale, a twelve piece orchestra. I swear, it’s more of a spectacle than a wedding ceremony.”

Viktor chuckles. “Jayce does love going all out.”

“Mel, too. They want it to be unforgettable.”

“Seems like they will get their wish.”

She sighs, absentmindedly rubbing at a stain on her scrub pants that won’t come out. “I don’t think our wedding would ever look like that. It’d be simple. Just something small and meaningful.”

She suddenly realizes what she’s said—that she’s referred to it as their wedding, as though it’s a certainty. She doesn’t expect him to react, hoping he wasn’t listening that closely or would take it for what it was—another passing comment, an idle thought. One that she’d never even considered seriously because, well, she assumed it wasn’t on his radar.

Then, suddenly, Viktors hands still. The tool in his grip falls onto the metal surface with a soft clatter. He turns to her, studying her carefully, like she’s just said something that rewired his entire world. “Is that what you want?”

She blinks. Oh.

She hadn’t expected that response. Hadn’t expected his full attention, the weight of his golden-eyed gaze. She hadn’t expected the way his voice turned heavy and serious. “I—”

Before she can get an answer out, he abruptly stands up, grabs his cane and strides—well, as closely as one who walks with a cane can stride—into a lone storage room on the opposite side of the lab. Wait. What just happened?

Panic sets in fast. Her stomach clenches. She hadn’t meant to drop some grand revelation, and certainly had not expected anything more than a hum of acknowledgment. He didn’t react negatively, but now he was gone, and silent. A foreign, uncomfortable kind of silence her brain struggles to interpret. I ruined everything, didn’t I? Scared him off?

Marriage was something she never bothered dwelling on. His work consumed him most of the time. Marriage almost seemed like a silly afterthought in his world—a world of progress and Hextech research and scientific deadlines. And yet… he’d gone quiet and then left the room.

She grips the edge of the counter, already bracing herself for a polite change of subject when he returns. Backtrack, quick. Fix it.

Maybe she could laugh it off, shake her head, say something about it being a hypothetical. Obviously I wasn’t serious about it being our wedding.

Or she could change the subject entirely—a ridiculous shift into something, anything else. This was certainly an area she excelled at. Hey, did I tell you about my patient who thought she could cure her appendicitis with lavender oil?

She scrambles to think of something, anything to pull herself out of this mess.

She’s just about to get up and find him, to force the words out of her mouth before the silence swallows her whole, when he returns—his expression unreadable, something clutched tightly in his palm.

Without hesitation, he makes his way back to her, stopping close enough that she can see the flicker of determination in his eyes. Anything she planned on saying was suddenly lost in her throat.

Then, gently, he takes her hand, turning it over before slipping something onto her finger—a thin, delicate loop of twisted wires. “I’ll get you a better one,” he says, watching her reaction intently. “But I couldn’t wait another moment to see a ring on your finger.”

Her breath catches, alternating between glancing up at him and back at the wire now wrapped snugly against her skin. The makeshift ring is a delicate twist of copper wire, with thin strands of blue and silver cables weaved through it. It fits perfectly, and it’s threaded in a way that gives it a quiet elegance so beautiful that it shouldn’t be possible for something crafted in mere minutes. Yet, somehow, it is.

It shouldn’t surprise her, really. Not when it’s his creation. Not when those meticulous hands of his could never make something carelessly, even if he tried.

“You—“ her voice is barely above a whisper. “You’re serious?”

“I am.” His voice is steady, sure, like he’s just made the easiest decision of his life. “I’d like to formally apologize for not getting down on one knee—bad leg and all. I figured proposing without completely wiping out on the floor was the better choice.”

A relieved laugh bursts out of her, the tension melting instantly. Then, voice full of warmth, she nods. “Okay.”

His relief is instant, undeniable. Before another word can be said, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her in—so tightly, so fiercely, like he’s afraid she might disappear if he lets go. She hears his cane clatter to the floor.

She presses into him, fingers clutching the fabric of his well-worn vest, her scrubs still wrinkled and stained from a day that now feels insignificant compared to this. Viktor, the co-creator of Hextech, the man who never rushes, never jumps without thinking, somehow did just that today. This man—her fiancé—was going to be her husband.

Neither of them ever thought they would have this—this moment, this certainty, this absolute rightness that never seemed possible growing up in the Undercity. No one had ever expected much from Zaunite kids like them, but they both refused to let their circumstances dictate the limits of their success.

She fought her way into the world of medicine, earning respect in a field that wasn’t always kind to her. And Viktor—he had built something incredible, something groundbreaking, with a brilliant mind that never failed him, even when his body tried to.

They found each other in spite of a world that didn’t seem built for them. But now, here they were. Standing in a city, in a lab, that once felt like a distant dream, holding each other like the world finally made sense, and neither of them would let go.

Not now.

Not ever.

—

Later, much later, they lie tangled together in bed, still sweaty and out of breath.

Their bodies were pressed closed together like the space between them didn’t have a right to be there. He’s been stripped of the braces he wears throughout the day, his back and leg finally free of the rigid support. Just skin against skin, warmth without barriers.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the night outside in Piltover, and an occasional creak from the old apartment settling around them. His fingers trace slow patterns along the bare skin of her back, absentminded; a habit more than a conscious thought. She has her left hand placed on his chest, unable to stop staring at the ring. Hardly believing it was real.

She exhales, shifting against him, pressing a chaste kiss onto his bare chest, right over his heart. “What if we just elope?”

His fingers still for half a second before continuing their path. “Skip the whole thing?”

She hums, placing two, three more kisses against his warm skin. “Think about it—no stress, no planning, just the two of us.”

Viktor considers it. He can picture it easily—just the two of them, slipping away, exchanging vows in some quiet place where no one else exists. Incorporating Zaunite traditions into the ceremony. It’s tempting, ridiculously tempting.

But then—

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I think it would be nice to have our people there. The few we have, that is.”

She exhales, tilting her head back to look at him, pleased to see his amber eyes looking right back at her. “Yeah. It would.”

Neither of them have families in the traditional sense—no parents, no extended relatives waiting for an invitation. But they do have people, as few as they might be. “I guess if we do that, it will barely even be a wedding. No ridiculous venue, no big fluffy dress, definitely no twelve-piece orchestra.”

“No chandeliers?” He asks with a smirk.

“Absolutely not.” She responds with a playful glare.

He chuckles, tightening his arm around her bare body. He places a contented kiss at the top of her head. “Besides, if I were to elope without making Jayce my best man, I think he might cry.”

She snorts. “Cry?”

“Oh yes, full on devastation. Probably will shed real tears just to guilt me about it for the rest of my life.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Alright, fine, we can’t have that. I will not have our marriage haunted by a lifelong grudge.”

A comfortable silence settles between them again. Then, he curls his fingers underneath her chin, a silent request to look at him again. “It doesn’t need to be big. Just ours.”

“Yeah,” she breathes, softly pressing her lips against his. “Ours.”

After a beat, his chest shakes with a quiet chuckle, as if he just realized something. “What?”

He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “I was just thinking about Jayce, and how he is going to lose his mind when he finds out.”

She laughs in response. “He will probably think we’re messing with him at first.”

Viktor sighs dramatically. “And when he finally realizes it’s real—“

“Oh, he’s gonna cry.”

“Do you think we’ll get the quivering lip?” Viktor asks, smirk widening.

“Absolutely.” She nods. “But the moment he wipes his eyes, it’s all over.”

He groans, rubbing his hand down his face. “And then, after the waterworks, he will pivot immediately into planning mode.”

“Oh without a doubt. Give it thirty seconds and he’ll be listing venues, caterers… probably finding some way to put fireworks into the budget. Viktor, I swear, if he starts planning anything with a theme, we’re shutting the whole thing down immediately.”

“This is what I get for letting him meddle in my love life in the first place.” He grumbles, poking her in the side, making her jolt with a startled laugh.

“Hey!” She swats at him, grinning.

“I should’ve known better,” He teases with another quick poke to her ribs, making her regret ever letting him find out she was ticklish. “Letting a scientist play matchmaker? Dangerous.”

“Oh please,” She grins, swiftly pulling him toward her by the back of his neck so he lands on top of her. “You didn’t ‘let’ him do anything. He probably treated us like an experiment—ran the calculations, probably put together an entire hypothesis about why we’d end up together.”

Viktor scoffs, a breath of laughter beneath it, leaning down to begin trailing kisses along her neck and collarbones. “Fortunately for me, his data turned out to be shockingly accurate.”

“I bet there’s a whole spreadsheet somewhere proving our compatibility. Probably laminated.” She giggles, her hand sneakily making its way down his torso.

His groan is immediate. “There absolutely is. And if he tries to present it at the wedding, I am banning him from speech making.”

“Oh come on,” she laughs as he pins her wrists against the mattress and begins leaving teeth marks on her skin. “You’re a scientist yourself, mister. A little scientific validation never hurt anyone.”

Viktor doesn’t argue with this. They both know without Jayce introducing them, they might never be here now. He pulls away to look at her, his gaze lingering down at her for a long moment. When he speaks again, it’s softer. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” she responds, looking back at him with nothing but devotion. “I love you, too.”

They would tell Jayce soon—tomorrow, perhaps. But for now, he wanted to ensure that no man except for him would be on her mind (or mouth) for the next few hours.

Viktor leans down and presses a wet kiss against her ear, spreading her legs apart gently and slowly pressing himself against her until they’re one. And just like that, the world again shrinks to nothing except for the two of them.

—

please feel free to comment any feedback below, and reblog to share with others, if you feel so inclined 🖤

you can find a 2nd person POV version here

[slashire]

Hiii! Me again... Could you do a part four for sebastian fic where reader moves on and flirts with someone? Like jelous Sebastian. In a demonic way? I wanna see it after last episodes.

you know i love your requests at this point. you just read my mind.

one hell of a headache pt four

Summary: after weeks of nothing but normalcy, one stroll through the garden with another seems to get on Sebastian's last nerve, and he just won't admit it. Still protective, possessive old Sebastian, who also has jealousy issues.

Sebastian Michaelis x fem!reader

notes/warnings: no warnings just typical banter. 

WC: 5352

part one part two part three

You walked through the estate gardens. The weather was temperate, the hedges perfectly sculpted. The gravel crunched softly beneath your heeled boots as you walked with measured steps, the delicate stitching of your dress hem trailing just above the ground. It was a deep navy blue today, high-collared with a fitted corset bodice and black lace trim that looped along the cuffs and neckline, modest by design but sharp in detail. Your gloves were a fine cream color, imported. You haven't worn them since early spring. You held your parasol at a precise angle to shade your face, matching the etiquette expected during an afternoon garden walk.

It had been weeks. Weeks since that night in the library. Since the corridor. Since you’d clawed each other to pieces, collapsing between body heat and bitterness. You had not acknowledged it, you hadn't let it show. But you hadn't forgotten either, you remembered everything.

The way his hands undid the laces at your back. The quiet growl in his throat when you cursed against his skin. The exact way he looked at you right before he stopped pretending he had control. And then he vanished before morning like nothing happened. As if nothing had been torn apart.

Lord Hadrian, of the derby estate strolled beside you with practiced confidence, though his steps faltered whenever you turned to look at him. His waistcoat was slightly over-buttoned, and his gloves were a size too large. His posture stiffened each time he spoke. Incredibly average. Charming in a harmless way. He stammered when you complimented his waistcoat and turned red when you laughed at his clumsy compliment. It was innocent. Almost sweet. His hand brushed yours once, and you let it stay. Let the air between you warm just slightly. You smiled. You tilted your head. You let him look. 

You weren't trying to flirt, not really. You'd just gotten good at pretending. And when Lord Hadrian, sweet doe eyed, painfully polite, offered you his arm during the afternoon garden stroll, you took it. Why not? He was harmless. Harmless was safe. 

“I daresay these roses rival the ones back home in Chesterfield,” he said, offering a hopeful smile. Attempting conversation, it was passable.

You turned your head slightly, the ribbons from your hat brushing your shoulder. “You should congratulate the gardener. I hear the soil here does all the work.”

He laughed. It wasn’t unpleasant, just poorly timed. Before he could reply, a soft cough from behind interrupted the moment. Crisp, brief, intentional.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Sebastian stood several paces behind, hands clasped behind his back, coat perfectly pressed, his gaze unreadable. But you could feel him, sharp and simmering, more shadow than servant. His eyes were cold, ancient, barely leashed.

Hadrian blinked. “Erm, am I boring you?”

“Not at all,” you said quickly, smoothing your skirt and glancing back. “My butler simply had indigestion of the soul.”

Sebastian, perfectly composed, offered a single nod. “I apologize, my lady. I was merely startled. The sunlight, you see. It caught Lord Hadrian’s collar in such a way I briefly mistook him for a doily.”

You smirked. Hadrian blinked in confusion. 

“I think it's rather charming,” you said. “He's got the personality of one too.”

“I agree. Disposable, and stains easily.”

You coughed to cover your laugh. He didn't get it. Poor thing.

The stroll continued, awkwardly. Hadrian tried to recover with small talk about horses. You responded with gracious nods, flirtatious smiles, and the kind of laughter that he could pick apart in his sleep. It was a performance, and you played the part beautifully.

Hadrian cleared his throat. “I was wondering, my lady, if you might allow me the pleasure of your company this Friday, my family is hosting a small gathering. Private, of course. Nothing elaborate.”

“She will not,” Sebastian said without inflection.

You stopped walking. The parasol lowered slightly.

“I beg your pardon?” Hadrian asked, blinking toward him.

You turned fully toward Sebastian, face angled with deliberate control. “Explain.”

Sebastian’s gaze did not waver. “Your calendar does not permit detours. The young master’s estate reports are overdue, and your review of the charitable ledgers remains unfinished. I assumed you would prefer accuracy to…improvisation.”

Your jaw tightened slightly. “How considerate.”

Hadrian smiled uncomfortably, looked as though someone poured ice water down his cravat. “No, no, of course, I wouldn’t dream of- if i've overstepped-”

“You have,” he said politely. “But it's understandable. Not all men are born with self-awareness.”

“I believe we require a moment,” you said smoothly, passing your parasol to Hadrian. “Keep this upright, won’t you?”

Then you turned on your heel, skirts whispering against the gravel, and made for the shade of the nearest hedge corridor. You didn’t wait to see if Sebastian followed. You already knew he would. He followed silently, no hesitation in his steps.

Once hidden from view, and out of earshot, you turned sharply. “Since when do you get to decide who I speak to?”

He adjusted one cuff, his fingers precise as they slid the fabric into alignment. “I spoke because you were uncharacteristically permissive.”

“You mean polite.”

“Some would call it transparent.”

You stepped forward, heels silent on the dirt path beneath the hedge canopy. “And you think it’s your job to correct that?”

“I think,” he said, “that Hadrian is the sort of man who mistakes eye contact for invitation. You were entertaining him. I intervened. You are under my car. I monitor potential liabilities.” he tilted his head slightly.

“Liabilities?” you repeated, brows raised. “Hadrian?” 

“A man whose idea of courtship involves complimenting a woman's parasol, three different times,” he said. “Yes. A walking liability.” 

You snorted. “And what's your idea of courtship? Waiting until someone collapses from frustration?”

“I've found that method rather efficient, actually.”

You let out a slow exhale through your nose. “I see. And you, of course, sound jealous.”

“I don’t believe I’ve claimed that. Jealousy is a human indulgence. I do not have time for such inefficiencies.”

“You don’t have to,” you said dryly. “You speak like your presence is already proof.”

He stepped forward, posture still immaculate. “You were laughing.”

“Conversation requires participation.”

“You touched his arm. Twice.”

“It’s called walking in heels, on gravel. I don’t have your centipede-like balance.”

He didn’t react to the insult. “He would’ve tripped over his own shadow if you’d sneezed. Hardly fit company.”

You lifted your chin slightly. “So now you’re the arbiter of my social engagements?”

“If someone must be.”

You stared at him for a long moment. His gloves were flawless. His lapel had not a single wrinkle. His voice hadn’t shifted in tone once.

“You left,” you said, flatly. “After the other night.”

Sebastian’s head tilted incrementally. “You were asleep.”

“I woke up fully clothed, covered, and alone.”

“I assumed discretion was preferable.”

“Don’t pretend you were doing me a favor.”

“I never pretend.”

You stepped in close, expression controlled. You raise your hand to slap him, or try. He caught your wrist, his eyes glinted just for a moment, gold, glowing, and hungry.

“That temper of yours,” he said softly. “It might kill a man someday.”

“Shame you're not one.”

He released your hand immediately. Like it didn't mean anything. Like you didn't mean anything. But you saw the tension in his jaw. The flicker behind his eyes. The possessiveness simmering just beneath the starch and polish. You stared at him, his gloves pristine, as always. No wrinkle in his coat. Not a hair out of place. And yet, his pupils were sharp. Too sharp. Like he has not blinked in too long.

“And, they weren’t insults,” he said. “They were assessments.”

“Right. And what’s your assessment now?”

He looked at you then, eyes steady, gold just barely flickering at the edges.

“You’re deflecting,” he said. “Using Hadrian as a placeholder. Temporary attention for temporary gratification.”

You rolled your eyes. “You think very highly of yourself.”

“Only when proven correct.”

You exhaled sharply. “You're impossible.”

“And you’re predictable,” he said coolly. “You burn every bridge you cross and then act surprised when no one follows.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Better to burn than to linger.”

“That’s why you wear navy,” he added, stepping forward again. “It’s more difficult to spot ash on dark fabric.”

You blinked once. “That sounded almost poetic.”

“I assure you, it wasn’t intended to be.”

You studied his face. Not a single muscle moved. His posture had not shifted since he’d entered the garden. But the space between you had closed. He was close enough to see the embroidery in the collar of your gown. Close enough that the faint scent of starched linen and polished leather lingered in the air between you.

You took a sharp step back.

“I’m going to finish this walk,” you said. “You can either follow at a distance or get back to work.”

He nodded once. “As you wish.”

But he didn’t turn immediately.

You did.

And you didn’t look back. As you rejoined Hadrian, you felt his gaze brun between your shoulder blades until well after tea.

The evening air settled like pressed silk across the garden.

Lord Hadrian had left an hour ago, his carriage wheels crunching over gravel as he bid a too-lengthy farewell, your parasol returned slightly smudged and crooked. You’d tossed it aside the moment he left.

Now, seated alone on a wrought iron bench beneath the upper boughs of the estate’s towering cedar trees, you stared up at the stars, arms folded loosely around your waist, listening to the gentle rustling of the wind through the hedges. The lanterns by the garden paths had been dimmed. The only illumination now came from the pale blue spill of moonlight that caught the metallic glint of your brooch and the silver embroidery on your gloves.

It was peaceful.

The kind of rare quiet that came only after everyone else had gone to bed and the house had sighed into stillness.

You let your head lean back against the bench. The stars above the manor grounds were unblemished by the fog of the city, crystal-clear and numerous. The shape of Orion hung just overhead, his belt aligned in perfect symmetry. For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax fully, spine curving, gloved fingers stretching over your lap.

Then came the sound.

A soft scrape. Like boot leather dragging against gravel.

You straightened immediately, eyes cutting toward the hedgerow. Nothing.

Then again, closer. A shift of fabric against stone. A twig snapping.

You sat forward now, the tails of your coat brushing the wrought iron behind you. Your eyes scanned the shadows between the trimmed rose bushes, the fountain, the stone sundial. The wind had picked up slightly, and the distant rustle of leaves seemed to mimic footfalls.

“Who’s there?” you called, voice clear but level.

Nothing.

The silence that answered was louder than it should’ve been. No birdsong. No insects. Just that heavy, listening hush.

Your hand drifted to the small pocket-knife tucked into your garter beneath the folds of your skirt. You didn’t move to stand yet, but your body shifted toward the edge of the bench, ready.

You turned your head to check behind you, and a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.

Before the scream left your throat, another hand clamped tightly over your mouth.

You thrashed, instinctively elbowing back, but the grip was already shifting, redirecting you, restraining without harming. You recognized the glove first. The scent second, clean pressed linen and faint cologne. And the voice came next, low against your ear.

“Quiet.”

You tried to turn your head, glare sharp and immediate.

He let you go as fast as he’d grabbed you.

You spun around. “You’re lucky I didn’t stab you.”

Sebastian straightened. “I was prepared to disarm you.”

“I had the upper hand.”

“You were sitting.”

“You snuck up on me.”

“I’ve done it before.”

You glared. “Did you come to scare me into bed?”

“I came to retrieve you,” he said. “Someone is trespassing on the manor grounds. I’ve been tracking them since dusk. Your outdoor brooding has compromised the perimeter.”

“Brooding?” you repeated. “I was stargazing.”

He raised a brow. “With a blade tucked into your garter?”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable,” he said. “You’re alone, unescorted, and sitting in the one location with limited line of sight to the main estate.”

You stepped back. “You didn’t need to grab me.”

“I didn’t need to warn you either. Shall we call it even?”

You scowled. “I’m not going inside just because something went bump in the dark.”

A pause. Then Sebastian said, almost too quietly, “It wasn’t a bump.”

The tone shifted.

Before you could answer, he swept forward, one arm at your back, the other just beneath your knees.

You gasped. “Put me down-!”

“You can file a complaint with the young master in the morning,” he said coolly.

“You’re manhandling me!”

“Carrying. There's a distinction. Do hold still, your skirts are tangling.”

“Sebastian-!”

He moved quickly and silently, as always, back toward the main house through the garden path. You squirmed just enough to make it annoying, but his grip didn’t falter once. You couldn’t even hear his shoes on the stone steps as he passed through the open side corridor leading into the manor. The path to the house passed in silence apart from your skirts flapping indignantly with each of his strides and the occasional hiss of, "Put me down," which he ignored like ambient noise. You were deposited at the foot of the stone steps with precision, as though he were shelving you back into your rightful place. Gently. The way one might lower an expensive violin after use.

You immediately dusted off your skirt and smoothed your bodice. “You’re absurd.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

"You deserve worse," you snapped, struggling slightly in his grip as he continued to hold you still after putting you down.“You are insufferable.”

“Thank you,” he said without missing a step. “I strive for consistency.”

You stumbled slightly. “If I had a brick, you’d be meeting it.”

“You should be grateful I didn’t toss you over my shoulder.”

“Oh, please do next time,” you snapped, smoothing your skirts. “At least then I could stab you in the spine.”

“I doubt you’d reach.”

“I would aim.”

He didn’t so much as blink. “A noblewoman of your standing, stabbing her butler. Truly, a scandal worth the headlines.”

You rolled your eyes and turned on your heel toward the hall. “Go play cat-and-mouse with your mystery trespasser, demon. I’m going to bed.”

“As you should have done an hour ago,” he replied smoothly, already stepping away. “Try not to sneak off again. I’d hate to have to leash you.”

You froze, scoffed through your nose, and didn’t turn back. “I'd like to see you try.”

His only response was the quiet closing of the side door as he vanished into the night.

The corridor fell silent in his absence.

You stood alone for a moment before ascending the stairs.

In your room, you undid the buttons on your bodice with slightly more force than necessary, brushing out your hair with methodical strokes as you listened to the muted sounds of the household settling into silence. Outside your window, the night wind stirred the hedges, but you couldn’t hear anything beyond the whisper of branches.

By the time you were dressed in a long, ivory nightgown and wrapped in a soft robe, you were almost convinced you had imagined the earlier sense of danger.

Almost.

You padded quietly down the hall to the breakfast parlor. The household staff had cleared most of the dishes by now, but the room was dimly lit, a small fire still smoldering in the hearth. You helped yourself to a few pieces of fruit left out on a silver tray and seated yourself with the practiced posture of someone determined not to think too hard.

The door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

“I assume you murdered whatever was rustling about out there,” you said calmly as you sliced a grape in half with your fruit knife.

“I handled it,” Sebastian replied. His tone was light, but you could hear the undercurrent of tension beneath the words. Like something that had been wound too tight, and only barely released.

You glanced up casually as he moved around the table, pouring tea into your untouched cup. His gloves were immaculate again, but the corner of his white collar, just near the seam under his jaw, was stained. Faint, but unmistakable. A single smear of dried blood. Crimson against white.

You didn’t say a word.

He didn’t explain.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but deliberate. As if both of you were pretending there wasn’t something heavy and unseen crouching in the room with you, breathing between the teacups.

He set the pot down with a gentle clink. You took the cup. Your fingers brushed his glove as you did. Neither of you acknowledged it. He  straightened. “The young master expects you at breakfast proper in the morning.”

You lifted the cup to your lips. “How thrilling.”

He moved to leave, paused just short of the doorway. “Try not to wander, my lady.”

“I make no promises.”

He didn’t turn his head when he spoke next, but you heard it all the same.

“You rarely do.”

And then he was gone.

You sat alone in the flickering light, sipping warm tea that had gone slightly bitter. Your gaze drifted toward the window. The garden was dark now, nothing moving. And yet your pulse hasn't quite returned to normal.

Not from the fright. Not from the trespasser. But from the memory of a grip too fast to see, a voice too calm to question, and a stain too red to ignore. You didn’t sleep easily that night. Not because you were afraid. Because you didn’t know what Sebastian chose to leave outside.

Or what he'd brought back in with him.

The rain had started sometime before dawn. It wasn’t loud, but the steady patter against the high arched windows made it difficult to ignore. You stirred in bed far later than usual, your sleep patchy and dreamless. The light in the room was soft and silvered, filtered through sheer drapes drawn over tall windows. Somewhere downstairs, the subtle sound of porcelain meeting china echoed faintly, a distant breakfast being served.

You groaned softly, rolling onto your side. Your body ached with that strange stiffness that came from being too still for too long, and your thoughts were too fogged with the weight of the night before to gather themselves properly. A chill clung to the room. You’d forgotten to stoke the fireplace.

By the time Mey-Rin entered to assist with your dressing, you were upright, shoulders draped in a robe, sitting at your vanity and staring blankly at your reflection.

“Yer breakfast’s nearly finished downstairs,” she chirped, bustling in with a towel and a pair of warm stockings. “But the young master said you’re excused for tardiness today, miss. Said you were up late.”

You frowned slightly at the reflection. “Did he now?”

“Yes, miss. Said something about Lord Hadrian visitin’ this mornin’ and that you shouldn’t be rushed, what with his surprise arrival and all.”

Your hand froze mid-reach for your comb.

“…He’s what?”

Mey-Rin blinked, unsure if she’d said something wrong. “Lord Hadrian, miss. He’s already downstairs.”

You straightened slowly, the words clicking together in your mind like the pieces of a trap. Of course Ciel would do something like this. He’d noticed the change in Sebastian’s mood, of course he had. And when Sebastian had let slip, in that clipped way of his, that Hadrian was “less than ideal company,” well… it only made sense that Ciel would file it away for later.

And apparently, later was this morning.

You dressed in record time, though Mey-Rin’s nervous fumbles made the process longer than it should have been. She laced the back of your corseted bodice too tightly and had to start again, apologizing profusely while you barely blinked, your thoughts already two steps ahead.

Downstairs, the long breakfast table was set as always. Ciel sat at the head, a polite smirk hidden behind the edge of his teacup. Lord Hadrian was seated comfortably to the right, his coat removed and hanging neatly over the back of his chair. He looked infuriatingly well-rested, a slice of toast in one hand, the other holding a knife as he gestured toward something Ciel had said.

And standing silently to one side, gloved hands clasped behind his back, posture knife-straight, was Sebastian.

He didn’t look at you when you entered. Not even once.

You were halfway into your chair before Lord Hadrian looked up and said, “Ah, there she is. I was beginning to think you’d taken ill, my lady.”

“I might still,” you muttered as you reached for the teapot.

Hadrian chuckled. “You’re as radiant as ever.”

Ciel cleared his throat lightly. “She’s not a morning person. We find it best to avoid eye contact until after the second cup.”

“Wise,” Hadrian agreed easily. “She almost took off my hand with a parasol just yesterday.”

You raised your brows. “I was simply grabbing it back.”

“I was admiring the embroidery.”

“You were pawing it like a hound at a roast.”

Hadrian grinned, delighted. “You wound me.”

“I could arrange something less metaphorical.”

Sebastian moved to your side silently, pouring your tea with clinical precision. His gaze didn’t touch your face, didn’t even brush your sleeve. When you glanced his way, he simply said, “My lady,” and stepped back like a shadow sliding across the floor.

Ciel watched all of this over his cup, one sharp eye flicking between the two of you.

Breakfast passed in that odd kind of silence where the conversation was polite, but nothing said truly landed. Ciel occasionally tossed in pointed questions, mostly toward Hadrian, and always things Sebastian would disapprove of. “Have you ever seen the south greenhouse?” or “Perhaps you’ll stay for supper if our dear lady encourages it.”

Sebastian remained a portrait of passive indifference.

Until Hadrian rose.

“Well,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, “I really should be off. I’ve taken up enough of your morning.”

“Nonsense,” Ciel replied. “You’re always welcome.”

He turned then, looking directly at you, mischief sparkling just beneath the calm veneer.

“It would be polite,” Ciel said slowly, “if you walked Lord Hadrian to his carriage. Don’t you agree, Sebastian?”

Sebastian’s voice was flat. “If that is the young master’s wish.”

Ciel’s lips barely twitched.

You stood stiffly, expression unreadable, and followed Hadrian out into the drive. The rain had stopped, but the stone path was still slick and gleaming, the sky a pale gray.

“I can’t tell if you hate me or just everyone,” Hadrian said cheerfully as you reached the waiting carriage.

“I don’t hate you,” you replied. “I’m merely indifferent to your entire existence.”

“Ah. Progress, then.” He caught your hand before you could pull it back. “For what it’s worth, I do enjoy our conversations. You’ve got a sharp tongue and a sharp mind.”

“You’ve got a bruisable jaw,” you said, watching him closely.

He smiled, lifted your hand to his lips, and kissed the knuckles with exaggerated slowness. Then he bowed and climbed into the carriage. You didn’t turn around immediately. But you didn’t have to. You felt Sebastian’s gaze the entire time. Like a weight at the back of your neck. When you finally did turn, he was standing on the steps with Ciel beside him, expression unreadable. Ciel was watching him.

The carriage rolled away.

The rest of the day passed in slow, deliberate silence. Sebastian spoke only in titles. “My lady.” “Yes, ma’am.” No sarcasm. No wit. No interruptions. He appeared when summoned, vanished when dismissed, and never once acknowledged you outside of formality. It was maddening.

Even worse, you missed it. The friction. The bite. The crackle of tension that had always lived beneath the surface of your arguments. Now there was only space. Empty, pristine silence.

By nightfall, the rain had returned. Thin streams slid down the windows like melted glass. The fire in the library crackled softly as you curled up in the armchair with a book you weren’t reading. Your nightgown was hidden beneath a heavy robe. Slippers silent against the carpet. The clock above the mantle ticked too loudly.

You didn’t expect him to come in.

But he did.

The door opened quietly, Sebastian stepping inside like a shadow made flesh. He was still dressed for the day, only his coat removed, sleeves rolled up just slightly. His gloves were spotless.

You didn’t look up.

“Still awake,” he said quietly.

“I have a library and a storm,” you murmured without turning the page. “What else could I need?”

“A sensible bedtime.”

“Would you like me to fetch my parasol?”

He didn’t answer. You heard the door close behind him, heard the quiet click of his shoes across the carpet. When you finally lifted your eyes, he was standing near the hearth, watching the fire like it had insulted him.

“You’ve been quiet today,” you said softly.

“I’ve had little worth saying.”

You snorted. “Now that I don’t believe.”

He didn’t move, didn’t look at you. But something in the air felt heavier. Tighter.

“You’ve been irritated since breakfast,” you said, marking your page with one finger. “I can’t imagine why.”

He was silent.

“You aren’t jealous, are you?”

His jaw tensed, a subtle shift in the dim firelight.

You smiled slowly. “You’re jealous. That’s why you’ve been sulking like a maid in the rain.”

“I don’t sulk,” he said coolly.

You stood, stepping toward him until only a few feet remained between you. “You’re brooding.”

“Brooding is hardly the word I’d use.”

You tilted your head. “Then what would you call it?”

He finally looked at you. And though his expression didn’t change, something in his eyes sharpened, something old and barely chained.

He stepped closer.

You didn’t back up.

“Watch your tone,” he said, voice low, steady.

“Or what?” you whispered. “You’ll pour my tea a little too quickly?”

There was no answer. Just the sound of rain outside and the fire cracking quietly as the tension between you thickened again, tighter, closer, unbearable.

And still, you stood there, trapped in that quiet, storm-slicked standoff, with only inches between defiance and something far more dangerous.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The fire cracked again, but it might as well have been a gunshot for the way the tension snapped tighter between you.

Your eyes scanned him slowly, reading every detail like it was one of the ledgers you were constantly asked to review. But tonight, the notes were different. Too stiff in the shoulders. Too sharp at the corner of the mouth. Too calm. Too silent.

“Tell me, did you burn a hole in the front window watching Hadrian’s carriage pull away, or was that just a trick of the glass?” Your voice was smooth, mildly amused, but behind it was bait, dangled with precision.

His answer was delayed just long enough to confirm the hit.

“I am employed to monitor the estate perimeter,” Sebastian replied with his usual polished cadence. “Not to comment on the behavior of passing rodents.”

You raised a brow. “Rodents? That’s generous. You called him ‘less than ideal company’ the first time. Now he’s been demoted to a rat?”

“I’ve seen rats with more tact.”

You stepped closer, deliberately slow, eyes locked on his. “He kissed my hand.”

“I noticed,” he said flatly.

“And bowed.”

“Sloppily.”

Your eyes narrowed. “He was perfectly polite.”

Sebastian’s mouth twitched. Not in amusement. In irritation. “That’s one word for it.”

“What would you call it?” you asked. “Aside from ‘vermin,’ obviously.”

“A waste of time,” he said, stepping forward sharply. “And a desperate attempt to impress someone far beyond his reach.”

You blinked, then tilted your head, voice laced with mock-sweetness. “And you think you know who’s within my reach?”

“I know who doesn’t try to peacock around like a fool the moment your back is turned.”

“You mean unlike you, who’s been silent all day, sulking behind tea trays like a brothel ghost?”

He smiled now, cold and thin. “Better a ghost than a jester.”

“Is that what this is?” You smirked. “You’re upset because I humored someone who can actually say something interesting without reminding me he’s ‘one hell of a butler’ every five minutes?”

His gloved hand twitched behind his back.

You pressed forward just enough to make the final jab: “What’s wrong, Sebastian? He talk to me too long for your liking?”

His jaw flexed. Just once. “I don’t concern myself with who you choose to flatter. I simply advise against wasting time with mediocre men who mistake theatrics for worth.”

You laughed, dry and sharp. “So you are jealous.”

He took another step, cutting the last of the distance between you. “Jealousy implies emotional attachment. I assure you, I feel nothing of the sort.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you murmured, chin raised.

“And yet I haven’t,” he said, voice barely above a whisper now. “Because you’ve been circling this since you walked into the room.”

You said nothing.

“Why don’t you admit it?” he added. “You enjoyed getting a rise out of me.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “I like watching you slip.”

“I don’t slip.”

“You’re slipping right now,” you said, nodding down toward his balled fists. “Look at your hands.”

His eyes flicked down once, then back up. His posture remained perfect. Controlled. But there was a heat in his stare that hadn’t been there before. Something flickering behind the mask, ancient and hard-edged.

You turned toward the book you’d dropped earlier, bending to retrieve it. “I don’t blame you for being annoyed. He is taller than you.”

The insult struck like a knife, but Sebastian said nothing. You straightened again, smug, waiting.

But this time, he didn’t take the bait.

He simply stared at you for a long moment, gaze unreadable, and then said flatly, “It’s late, my lady.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

“It’s time you returned to your chambers.”

You folded your arms, spine straight. “Not tired.”

He stared. Then moved to the bookshelf to your left.

“If you refuse to retire, I will stay here until you do,” he said as he selected a random volume and opened it without looking.

“Petty.”

“Practical.”

“Jealous.”

“Amused,” he said, tone colder now. “That you think this affects me.”

You stepped toward him again, brushing past him just slightly, knowing he wouldn’t react. Not visibly. But you could feel it.

The air between you was stiff as steel wire. Tension wound like clock springs between every breath, every glance.

“You sure you don’t want to call Hadrian a few more names while you’re here?” you asked over your shoulder.

“I prefer to deal with pests outside the house,” Sebastian murmured, not looking up. “Or do you enjoy playing with strays?”

You opened the library door with an elegant flick. “You’re getting slow. That insult barely registered.”

“Forgive me,” he said, eyes lifting briefly. “I’m restraining myself.”

You paused, lips twitching. “That’s what I like about you, Sebastian. So polite. So well-behaved.”

He closed the book with a snap.

“Goodnight, butler.”

“Sleep well, my lady,” he replied coolly. “Do dream of something less… embarrassing.”

You didn’t respond, just slipped into the hallway. Behind you, the library door closed without a sound. But the air in the corridor still hummed, heavy with the static left behind. He hadn’t said it. But you’d won this round. And the next would be worse. For both of you.

And somewhere upstairs, that storm still hadn't passed.

[coff33andb00ks]

Max + 12 hehehe 🫶🏻

12: possessive hand-holding let's fucking go i was hoping someone would request this

driver + number = drabble/short fic <3

Max knows you love him. He's extremely confident of that fact, as he is of a lot of things. He doesn't get jealous. Well, much. Well, often.

Well, alright, he gets jealous. He can't help that. It's just that you're the best thing to happen to him and he fears that, one day, something better than him will come along and you'll realize you settled. He'll never say that to you, of course. But the deep-rooted insecurities linger though they aren't as vocal in his mind as they used to be. He knows you love him, knows he makes you happy, and so he doesn't let the jealousy show when it roars to life.

He's a few gin and tonics in but he's far from drunk, enjoying a laugh with Lando in the DJ booth, celebrating the race, when his eyes try to find you in the dim lighting. It doesn't take long - he could find you in any crowd, any lighting, blindfolded and hands behind his back. And immediately the jealousy flares, rumbling now, a sour taste in his mouth and a churning in his stomach that he knows isn't indigestion.

He's so glad his small circle of friends has accepted you in their lives and treat you with the respect they do. They're protective of you, almost as much as he is, and he has thought to himself that he would trust them with your safety under any circumstances.

But Charles is... Charles. Smooth and charming, eyes like a lost puppy that pulls at anyone's heartstrings and with a sort of hapless energy about him. Max knows he doesn't mean to but the man has an innate ability to make people fall in love with him. He's one of his best friends and over the years he's become his biggest defenders.

That being said...

"Mate!" Lando calls after him but he's already gone, downing his drink in one gulp on his way to you.

The club is vibrating with the music and the energy of revelry and you're thriving, relaxed and vibrant in the pulsing lights and gyrating bodies. You love to dance and Max loves to watch you, unable to keep up, and you like to tease him that it's one of only a few things he's not good at. Charles isn't much better but he doesn't care and can laugh when he looks stupid. Not that he ever really does; you don't think it's possible for him to look ridiculous.

The energy shifts, prickles of awareness raising goosebumps on your skin and you know it's Max. You don't have to look back over your shoulder to make sure, you can see the recognition on Charles' eyes when the lights flash. Hands you know better than your own grip your waist and you fall back as the beat drops, basking in the comfort only his hands can provide.

"Let's go, schatje."

It's early and the party has barely started but you recognize that tone. You'll never say no when he's like this. You know he watches you like a hawk, could probably spot someone trying to flirt with you from the cockpit of his car going top speed, and it gives you a thrill, knowing he's so in love with you that he gets jealous. You'll never admit it, even to yourself, but you get off to it and sometimes even encourage it.

"Say goodnight to Charles."

You do so immediately, accidentally on purpose grinding back on Max, seeing Charles' knowing smirk as Max's hand claims yours.

You are a feminist. No man will ever tell you what to do. You bend for no one, anything a man can do you can do better. But oh, when he's like this, his jaw set, hand clamped around yours as he pushes through the crowd you can only meekly follow, stars in your eyes and smiling like a fool. The sea of bodies part for him and you keep close behind, giddy and in absolute love with him, ready to prove to him that he's your one and only.

As if any man could begin to compare.

[2b4st4r]

Helloooo!! It’s okay if you won’t but I was wondering if you could do a straw hat x reader fic but it’s based off a song?? Idk if you’re willing to do that but If you could I’d really enjoy it!! (Preferably one based off an Alex G song plspls any one you want!!)

Mis

Sanji x reader

Words: 4,160

Summery: inspired by Alex G's song "Mis," Initially, Sanji's inexplicable coldness creates distance, which is later revealed to stem from his fear and misguided attempts to protect the reader due to her dangerously high bounty and a dark past connected to a organization called Aether. The story culminates in a raw, angsty confrontation where the reader reveals she wasn't an operative of Aether, but rather an experiment, shattering Sanji's assumptions and forcing him to confront his own insecurities and their devastating impact on her. The narrative then follows their painful journey towards tentative reconciliation, marked by quiet gestures and a desperate hope for healing.

Warning: harsh language, angst, and implied violence female reader!!

*

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The gentle lapping of waves against the Thousand Sunny was usually a lullaby, but tonight, it felt like a relentless, off-beat drum. You sat on the deck, knees hugged to your chest, staring out at the inky blackness that swallowed the horizon. The salty air, typically invigorating, felt heavy and thick. It had been a week since the last island, a week since the last real conversation, and a week since the silence from a certain blonde chef had started to prickle at your skin.

You traced the worn wood grain of the deck with a thumb, remembering the easy banter you and Sanji used to share. His exaggerated flirtations, your playful eye-rolls – it was a comfortable rhythm. Now, he’d just nod, or offer a strained smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His meals were still perfection, of course, but even the bento he’d prepared for your late-night snack felt… different. It was meticulous, yes, but devoid of the usual flourish, the tiny, almost imperceptible heart-shaped carrot or the extra sprinkle of your favorite herbs.

A low sigh escaped your lips, carried away by the sea breeze. You knew the Straw Hats were a crew of eccentrics, and personal space was often a foreign concept, but Sanji had perfected the art of polite avoidance. He was always busy in the kitchen, or tending to Nami and Robin, or even just smoking on the men's deck, his back resolutely turned to you. It was subtle, but it was there, a growing chasm between you two that you couldn't quite name or understand.

You picked at a loose thread on your shorts, the quiet of the night amplifying your thoughts. Had you said something? Done something? The question gnawed at you, a dull ache in your chest. You thought back to your last real interaction, a silly argument over who got the last piece of cherry pie. You’d won, of course, and he’d pouted, but it had been a familiar, comforting kind of pout. Not this cold shoulder.

The moonlight glinted off something metallic near the galley door. Sanji’s cigarette lighter. He must have forgotten it. A small, tentative hope sparked within you. This was your chance. You could bring it to him, ask him what was wrong, finally break through this suffocating silence. You pushed yourself up, the ache in your knees a minor inconvenience compared to the ache in your heart.

With Sanji…

He watched her from the shadows of the galley, the soft glow of the moon painting her in silver. She was picking at her shorts, a habit he knew well, a tell that she was troubled. He saw her sigh, saw her rise, and his heart twisted. He should go to her. He should explain. But the words, the truth, were a bitter, indigestible pill.

It wasn’t about the cherry pie. God, if only it were something so trivial. That was a game they played, a lighthearted skirmish that ended with shared laughter. This was… darker. A cold dread had settled in his gut the moment he’d overheard it. A hushed conversation, not meant for his ears, about the bounty. Her bounty. And the whispers that followed, hushed concerns about her past, her potential… liabilities.

He’d dismissed them at first. Sailors talked. Scum talked. But then, the commander of that last Marine ship, the one they’d barely escaped, had focused his attention so intently on her. The way his eyes had lingered, calculating, dangerous. And the things he’d shouted, half-truths twisted into poisonous accusations that made Sanji’s blood run cold.

He’d seen the shift in the crew’s eyes too, subtle, almost imperceptible. A flicker of unease, a moment of hesitation. It was enough to make him sick. He knew they trusted her, but the seed of doubt, once planted, was a persistent, thorny thing.

And then there was his own fear. A visceral, bone-deep terror that tightened his chest until he could barely breathe. He had watched enough good people get hurt, had seen enough innocent lives shattered by the cruelties of the world. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being dragged into that abyss, of her light being extinguished by the very darkness they fought against.

So he’d built walls. Not to keep her out, but to keep her safe, he told himself. To put distance between them so that if… when… the worst happened, she wouldn’t be standing quite so close to the epicenter of the blast. He kept himself busy, threw himself into his cooking, polished the silverware until it gleamed, anything to avoid her gaze, the knowing depth in her eyes that always seemed to peel back his carefully constructed defenses.

He saw her pick up his lighter, the small flame of hope in her posture almost visible even from his hiding spot. He should call out. He should step into the moonlight. But the words were still stuck, a knot in his throat. How could he tell her that he was pushing her away because he was terrified of losing her? How could he confess that his silence was a desperate, misguided attempt to protect her from a threat he couldn’t fight with his fists, a shadow that clung to her, a burden he couldn’t lift?

He watched her approach, her footsteps soft on the deck, and he turned deeper into the shadows, clutching the counter’s edge until his knuckles ached. He was a coward, he knew. A damned, lovestruck fool. But better a coward than to watch her shatter. He just couldn’t. Not again.

He squeezed his eyes shut, the phantom image of her bounty poster flaring behind his eyelids. It wasn't just the current number, a chillingly high figure that put her in the same league as some of the Grand Line's most notorious pirates. It was the reason behind it.

When she'd first joined them, her bounty had been surprisingly modest, a typical starting point for a rookie. But then, whispers started. Rumors, initially dismissed as Marine propaganda, about a shadowy organization she’d once been part of, a clandestine research group known only as Aether. They were said to be dabbling in forbidden sciences, pushing the boundaries of life and death, their experiments often ending in catastrophic failure and horrific consequences.

The Marines had always been tight-lipped about Aether, their existence almost mythical. But after a particularly devastating incident on a small, unassuming island – an entire population wiped out, not by a natural disaster, but by something far more insidious – the World Government had cracked down. Aether was declared an international threat, and anyone remotely connected to them was hunted relentlessly.

That's when her bounty had skyrocketed. Not for any act of piracy, not for a devil fruit ability, but for knowledge. For the secrets she might hold about Aether’s horrific research, their dangerous methods, and the catastrophic potential of their creations. The World Government wanted her silenced, permanently.

The Marine commander they’d faced had spat the accusations like venom: “You were part of it, weren’t you, [Y/N]? You know what they did! You’re a walking, breathing Pandora’s Box, and we’re going to seal you away!”

Sanji had seen the brief flicker of fear in her eyes then, a subtle tremor that betrayed her usual composure. She'd always been so guarded about her past, her origins. He’d respected it, never pushed. But now, the pieces clicked into place, forming a terrifying mosaic. Her unusual resilience, her quick thinking under pressure, the way she sometimes seemed to understand things that baffled the rest of them – it all stemmed from that dark, hidden past.

He imagined the World Government’s agents, their cold, calculating eyes, their relentless pursuit. He pictured her being dragged away, forced to divulge secrets that could unleash unimaginable horrors upon the world, or worse, becoming a pawn in their own twisted games. He couldn't stomach it. He couldn’t stand by and watch.

So he’d chosen this, the lesser of two evils. To be cold, to be distant, to build a fortress of silence around himself in the desperate, foolish hope that it would somehow create a barrier around her too. If they thought she was isolated, less valuable to a crew, perhaps the scrutiny would lessen. Perhaps they would eventually forget her. It was a flimsy, pathetic plan, born of desperation, but it was all he had. And it was tearing him apart.

He heard her approaching, the soft pads of her bare feet on the deck. This was it. No more hiding, no more foolish, self-sacrificing silence. He pushed himself away from the galley counter, stepping into the moonlit deck, his heart hammering against his ribs.

She stopped, his lighter clutched in her hand, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and something he couldn't quite decipher. "Sanji?" she asked, her voice a hesitant whisper.

He took a deep breath, the salty air doing little to calm his frayed nerves. "We need to talk," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. He watched her flinch, a tiny movement, but he caught it. Guilt immediately pricked at him, but he pushed it down. He had to know. For her sake. For his.

"About what?" she asked, her gaze unwavering.

He gestured vaguely at the vast expanse of the ocean around them. "About… everything. About your past. Before the crew." He saw her shoulders tense, a subtle but distinct hardening in her posture.

"My past is my past, Sanji," she said, her voice firm now, the hesitancy gone. "It doesn't concern you."

"It concerns me when your bounty doubles overnight because of it!" he retorted, the words spilling out, sharper than he'd meant them to be. "It concerns me when Marine commanders are screaming about 'Pandora's Boxes' and 'forbidden knowledge' at your expense! What were you involved in, [Y/N]?"

Her eyes narrowed, and a coldness he'd never seen before settled in their depths. "You think I was involved in something? You think I was doing those things?" Her voice was low, dangerous.

He took a step closer, driven by a desperate need for answers, for clarity, for anything that would ease the suffocating fear that had become his constant companion. "What else am I supposed to think? The World Government doesn't just hand out bounties like that for no reason! And you're so secretive, always deflecting, always keeping me at arm's length! What were you hiding? Were you part of Aether? Were you one of them, experimenting on innocent people?"

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. He saw her jaw clench, her hands ball into fists at her sides, and for a terrifying second, he thought she might strike him. The moon cast harsh shadows across her face, making her look unfamiliar, almost menacing.

"How dare you," she whispered, her voice trembling with barely suppressed fury. "How dare you accuse me of such things. You, who always talks about protecting the innocent, about never harming a lady... Do you honestly think I would be a part of something so monstrous?"

He felt a pang of shame, but his fear was a powerful, insistent beast. "Then tell me! Why the bounty? Why the secrecy? Why are you so important to them, [Y/N]?" He paused, his own anxieties twisting his perception. "Or is it that you were involved, and you're just trying to hide your tracks? Is that why you joined us? To escape your past, to bury what you did?"

Her breath hitched, and her eyes, usually so warm and full of life, became vacant, distant. A raw, guttural sound escaped her, a choked sob quickly stifled. "You think… you think I was one of them?" she repeated, her voice barely audible. Then, a sudden, explosive laugh burst from her, harsh and humorless, devoid of any joy. "You're right, Sanji. I was involved. Deeply involved."

He felt a cold dread creep up his spine. He'd pushed too far. He saw it now, in the haunted look in her eyes, in the sudden rigidity of her posture.

"But not how you think," she continued, her voice rising, cracking with a pain so profound it made his stomach churn. "I wasn't doing the experiments, Sanji. I was the experiment. I was their… their project. Their subject."

The words hit him like a physical blow, knocking the wind from his lungs. He stared at her, utterly speechless, the accusations he'd hurled feeling like poisoned daggers now.

"That's why my bounty's so high, you idiotic, self-righteous chef!" she spat, tears finally streaming down her face, glistening in the moonlight. "Because I know what they did, because I was part of it, forced to endure things you can't even begin to imagine! And you, with your righteous fury and your stupid, misguided attempts to 'protect' me, you just threw it all back in my face! You accused me of being the very monster they created!" She took a shaky breath, her chest heaving. "And after everything… after everything, you just assumed the worst. Because of your own damn baggage, you just assumed I was the one hurting people."

She looked at him then, her gaze piercing, filled with a raw, undeniable anguish that cut him to the bone. "I thought you were different, Sanji. I thought you saw me. But you're just like them, aren't you? Judging me based on a number, on rumors, on something I had no control over." Her voice dropped to a choked whisper. "And honestly, Sanji… that's almost worse."

She turned abruptly, his lighter still clutched in her hand, and stumbled towards the railing, leaving him standing there, frozen in the moonlight, the bitter taste of his own injustice filling his mouth. The silence that followed was louder than any scream, a chasm opening between them, filled with the debris of his unfounded accusations and her shattered trust.

The next day passed in a haze of forced normalcy and suffocating silence. Sanji moved through the galley like a ghost, preparing meals with a mechanical precision that lacked his usual flair. Every clatter of a pot, every sizzle of oil, seemed to echo the emptiness in his chest. He tried to catch her eye, to offer an apology, a word, anything, but she was a master of evasion.

He saw her from the corner of his eye, perched on the Sunny’s railing, watching the endless expanse of blue. His baby’s alright, he told himself, a desperate mantra. She ate his food, she spoke to Nami and Robin, she even laughed at Usopp’s antics, a sound that pierced his soul because it wasn’t directed at him. But the truth hammered at his skull: She just doesn’t wanna see me tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or possibly ever again.

He tried, a dozen times. He’d walk towards her, a lame excuse forming on his lips – a forgotten napkin, a suggestion for a new dish – but she’d sense him, or perhaps just the sheer weight of his regret, and move. A casual stroll to the crow’s nest with Zoro, a sudden interest in Franky’s latest modifications, a long conversation with Chopper about a rare medicinal herb. Always out of his reach.

He finally cornered Nami by the tangerine trees, her usual fiery spirit dimmed by the palpable tension between them. "Nami," he began, his voice a strained whisper, "is she… is she okay?"

Nami sighed, picking a ripe tangerine. "She's fine, Sanji. Physically, at least." She peeled the fruit slowly, her eyes not meeting his. "She just… needs space. From you."

"But I need to apologize," he pleaded, his voice thick with desperation. "I need to explain. I was a damn fool, a horrible, insensitive brute. I didn't mean any of it."

Nami finally looked at him, her gaze sharp and knowing. "She says, 'Nothin’ here for you to make right,' Sanji. She’s hurting, and honestly, you dug that hole pretty deep."

The words hung in the air, a final, crushing blow. Not for a minute. Not for a second. She didn't want his apologies, his explanations, his presence. He had taken her most profound pain, her deepest trauma, and weaponized it against her, all because of his own twisted fears and assumptions. He had seen her as a problem to be solved, a secret to be uncovered, instead of a person to be understood and cherished.

He retreated to the galley, the clatter of pots and pans now a deafening roar in his ears. He lit a cigarette, the nicotine doing little to soothe the burning shame in his gut. He had wanted to protect her, to shield her from the darkness, but in his desperate, misguided attempt, he had become the darkness himself. And now, the only one he had truly hurt, was her.

Sanji found her later that night, huddled on the deck, staring out at the churning phosphorescence in the Sunny's wake. Everyone else was asleep, the ship a silent, creaking silhouette against the star-dusted sky. He’d slipped out of the galley, a fresh pot of steaming cocoa in hand, and approached her slowly, carefully, as if she were a wounded bird he might startle.

He set the mugs down on the deck beside her, the clink of porcelain the only sound for a long moment. She didn't look at him, her gaze fixed on the glowing sea.

He sat beside her, not too close, just close enough for her to feel his presence. The cool night air nipped at his exposed skin, but he barely noticed. His throat felt thick, his heart a raw, exposed nerve.

"I… I made cocoa," he finally managed, his voice barely a whisper.

She still didn't move, but he saw a faint tremor run through her shoulders. He waited, his chest aching with the unspoken words, the weight of his colossal mistake.

Finally, she reached for a mug, her fingers brushing against the warm ceramic. She took a slow sip, the aroma of chocolate and mint filling the quiet night.

"I miss you so bad," he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, raw and desperate. He didn't just mean her presence, her laughter, her easy smile. He missed the way she looked at him, the way she made him feel seen, truly seen, beyond the façade of the perpetually lovestruck chef. He missed the trust that had once flowed so freely between them, now shattered by his own hand.

She took another sip of cocoa, the silence stretching, taut and unbearable. He braced himself for a cutting remark, a confirmation of his failure, the absolute finality of her rejection.

Then, she lowered the mug, turning her head slightly so he could just see her profile in the dim light. Her voice was soft, so quiet he almost missed it, carried away by the gentle rush of the waves.

"I know."

A few days later, the "I know" still echoed in Sanji's ears, a stark testament to the chasm between them. It wasn't an olive branch, not truly, but it wasn't a slammed door either. It was just… acknowledgment. And that, in itself, was a small, agonizing comfort.

He found himself retreating into the only space that still felt truly his: the galley. He cooked with a furious energy, the rhythmic chop of his knife against the cutting board a percussive backdrop to his tormented thoughts. He baked elaborate pastries, meticulously layered cakes, and whipped up intricate sauces, each dish a silent, desperate offering.

Sometimes, a flicker of something in his periphery would make him look up. She would be there, sitting at the dining table, picking at a meal he'd prepared. Her expression was unreadable, but she ate. She always ate. And in those moments, a small, twisted part of him thought, guess I don't need her around. He had his passion, his craft. He could lose himself in it, forget the stinging guilt, the crushing weight of his failure.

He just did what he did best when he was down. He cooked. He cleaned. He polished. He kept his hands busy, his mind numb. He painted the problem into a picture, each perfectly plated dish a representation of the perfect, flawless relationship he had so carelessly shattered. The vibrant colors of the vegetables, the delicate dusting of powdered sugar, all masking the bitter taste of his own wrongdoing.

He found himself pacing the galley in the dead of night, chain-smoking, the glow of his cigarette a tiny, defiant ember in the dark. He’d clench his fists, his nails digging into his palms, and twisting his arm 'til he make a sound. A low groan, a frustrated sigh, anything to release the pressure building inside him. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but there was no one to blame but himself.

He knew she wasn’t completely fine. He’d seen the subtle circles under her eyes, the way she sometimes drifted off, lost in thought. He’d hurt her, deeply. And the knowledge festered inside him, a constant, dull ache. He had tried to protect her, but in his hubris and fear, he had only inflicted more pain. And now, the woman he cared for so profoundly was walking around, a shadow of her former self, because of him. And there was nothing he could do to fix it. Not yet, anyway.

Sanji found her again, several days later, late at night on the main deck. The stars were brilliant, painting the ocean in silver light. She was leaning against the mast, staring up at the sails, a quiet solitude clinging to her like a second skin. He approached, his steps slow, deliberate, each one a silent plea.

He stopped a few feet away, the space between them humming with unspoken words. The cocoa mugs from their last quiet encounter felt like a distant memory. He had nothing to offer her tonight but the raw, unvarnished truth of his regret.

"I miss you so bad," he said, the words a raw, torn whisper in the vast quiet of the ocean. It was a familiar refrain now, one he’d repeated to himself countless times in the solitude of the galley. But hearing it out loud, directed at her, it felt heavier, more desperate. He missed her laughter, her exasperated sighs at his antics, the quiet comfort of her presence. He missed the easy way she'd once looked at him, before his fear had poisoned everything.

She slowly turned her head, her eyes catching the starlight. There was no anger there, no bitterness, just a profound weariness that twisted his gut.

"I know," she replied, her voice soft, barely audible above the gentle lapping of the waves. It was the same two words as before, but this time, they felt different. Less like an accusation, more like… a shared burden.

He took a tentative step closer. "I was wrong," he confessed, the words tumbling out, choked with emotion. "About everything. About you. I let my own fear, my own past, cloud my judgment. I projected my own nightmares onto you, and I accused you of being something you're not. Something you were forced to endure." He ran a hand through his hair, his voice breaking. "It was inexcusable. It was… unforgivable."

She looked away again, back at the sails, a sigh escaping her lips. "I know," she repeated, and this time, the word carried a faint, almost imperceptible tremor. "It hurt, Sanji. It really hurt. For you to just assume… after everything."

"I know," he echoed, the word a meager offering. "And I'm so sorry. I know I can't take it back. But I promise you, with every fiber of my being, I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I'll fight any shadow that comes for you, because I believe you. I believe in you. And I know the truth now."

She was silent for a long moment, the only sound the rhythmic creak of the ship. Then, slowly, she shifted, turning fully to face him. Her eyes were still shadowed, but there was a flicker, a tiny spark of something he hadn't seen there in days. Not forgiveness, not yet, but perhaps… understanding.

"It's not that simple, Sanji," she said, her voice still quiet, but stronger now. "Some things… they leave scars." She reached out, her fingers just brushing his arm, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt through him. "But… maybe… maybe we can try to heal them. Together."

A wave of relief so profound it made his knees weak washed over him. It wasn't a complete absolution, he knew that. The wounds he had inflicted were deep, and healing would take time, patience, and unwavering effort. But for the first time in days, the suffocating darkness around him lifted. He saw a sliver of dawn on the horizon, a chance, however small, to mend what he had broken.

"Anything," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion, reaching out to gently take her hand. "Anything for you."

[serenity--writes]

Peter Parker x Reader | Fake-dating gone wrong

You need a fake date for your family's get-together, and just as you run out of hope, someone agrees. Of course, the universe has it out for you, so your plan falls to shit remarkably fast. (Or, you attempt to fake date Peter Parker, but crime never sleeps.) GN! Reader, Unedited, 6.4k words. Holland Peter! (A/N: I can't look at this anymore. I simultaneously like it and dislike it. I read somewhere that even if you're not inspired, you should write anyway, and this is the result. I do have another fic in the works that I am remarkably more invested in, though!)

In a few days, you’ll think back to this moment and laugh about how stupid you’re being, but right now, you’re desperate. There’s no way Saturday can go wrong, and you’re desecrating your pride to make sure it doesn’t. 

MJ just thinks you’re an idiot, you can tell by the amused, borderline-murderous look on her face. “No way in hell, dude. Your family is nuts.” You glance at her sketchbook, which has a half-finished sketch of your face in it. There’s no way you look that…

“Horrible,” you mumble, scrunching your nose. Bringing your hands up to your face, you feel around your face to double-check, but nope, you’re still you. To say you look haggard would be a compliment if MJ’s portrayal of you is accurate.

She hums, shading in the shadows of your nose. You didn’t realize it was that weirdly shaped. Or maybe MJ’s messing with you…? “That’s what you get for staying awake all night, texting someone asleep and not going to answer.” 

“I had to try. I figured I could wear you down, but you didn’t read my messages.” You scowl, seeing her add another lock of hair to her drawing. You should’ve brought a comb or something, shit. “C’mon, I’ll owe you lunch for—” You glance at your calendar, grimacing. Go big or go home. “—a month! You can even get those crazy expensive nachos that give you indigestion the next day. Pretty please?”

“Nope,” MJ says, popping the ‘p’. She’s nearly done with her sketch, and the whole ‘drawing people in crisis’ thing is scarily accurate. You’re now one hundred percent sure you’re not imagining the panic attack waiting to happen; you have a radar for those kinds of things, and it’s brewing in your chest. “Just ask loser number one or two. You can watch Star Wars in exchange.”

Loser one and loser two—Peter Parker and Ned Leeds. Yeah. No fucking way. Your first two new friends at this school—you’re not counting MJ since you’ve known her for five years by now—and she wants you to ruin it by asking them to fake-date you? Social suicide might be a turn-on for her, but it’s not for you.

Besides, you vowed never to watch Star Wars years ago. Said vow is akin to a pact signed in blood; you can’t disregard it or you’ll die. Yeah, you’ve seen The Craft, and you know magic and blood and shit are not to be messed with. Your descendants would curse your name, spinning a tale about how wicked you were, how evil, how you ate children who didn’t go to bed at eight o’clock on the dot—

Coincidentally, your mom was a storyteller when you were a child. She, rather suspiciously, might you add, gave it up once you turned twelve. Your father calls bullshit on her doing it just to scare you, but you know better.

Anyway! 

“I’m three seconds away from getting on my knees and begging. MJ, please!” Your knees bend in preparation. MJ glares at you, drawing a line across her throat with her finger, and you swear her eyes glimmer as you gulp, straightening up. She’d make a good serial killer. Wow! 

“I’m not fake-dating you, end of story.”

You collapse into your seat and groan into your arms, head buried; maybe you’ll suffocate and won’t have to endure the torture on Saturday. Even as you think it, though, you know you won’t be so lucky. The wind in your metaphorical sails depletes like a popped balloon—Star Wars couldn’t be all that bad, right? Worth a blood curse or two, at least?! “I don’t wanna watch Star Wars,” you whine. “My bloodline hates me so much right now. I can tell!”

MJ laughs at you, the scratch of her pencil grating against your eardrums. ‘People in crisis’ you make a face against your arms, almost sticking out your tongue, but think better of it. School desks are probably not as clean as they should be. “Get the popcorn ready. You know how those two dorks are.”

“You’re joining us,” you say, popping your head back up and taking a deep breath of that weird school smell that none of you can exactly pinpoint. At least English class had those nice wax melts, Math just smelled like stale decay. Probably all the dead brain cells floating in the air.

“Nah.”

“You can’t just say ‘nah’ and expect to win the argument. That’s not an argument, even; we haven’t argued!” You pause. “… Argue with me. Debate me. Try to come up with a good reason not to endure Star Wars with me. I dare you.”

“I haven’t argued because I’m more mature than you are, and don’t resort to petty debates that have no bearing on my life. It’s called ‘picking your battles.’”

Ugh. “I hate you, MJ. I hope you know that.” 

She grins. “I hate you more!”

.

.

.

You go to Ned first. He’s way less busy than Peter is, thus more likely to agree, and you don’t have a crush on him (not that you have one on Peter, but like… never mind), so it’s a win-win-win(-loss, because of the blood curse). You know, now that you think about it, Peter is busy. Between the Stark Internship, helping May at the F.E.A.S.T. shelter, or being a nerd in his private time, there’s always something going on. 

(You desperately need to join some extracurriculars.)

So, on account of the win-win-win(-loss) scenario, you ask Ned at lunch to be your fake boyfriend. You didn’t account for him saying no. You swear you see the gates as your heart gives out, but then you remember your trump card. Star Wars.

Except, he says no again. “My Lola needs my help on Saturday, so I’m not going anywhere.” You gape at him for so long that a fly darts inside your mouth and makes you choke. You’re too busy coughing up a lung to notice Peter until he’s putting a hand on your back and asking if you’re okay.

“Fine,” you croak, like the old hag from Snow White. “But also not. What the fuck. The world is turning against me. This is so unfair.”

MJ flicks your forehead. You yelp because what the fuck was that for?! “Peter, they have something they want to ask you,” she says. Your cheeks heat up instantly, realization kicking in. She’s setting you up!

“No, I don’t,” you retort as Peter puts down his sandwich. The poor guy looks too tired to deal with the combined bullshit you three are spewing out, but he takes it like a champ. You stare at him, but then he starts staring back, so you look away. Like a coward.

Ugh!

Ned snickers. Your friends are good at enjoying your misery. Sadists, all of them. Except Peter, because he’s more like an angel than anything else. “They need a fake date to get their family off their back, and MJ and I are busy. So…” Ned trails off, and you all watch as Peter puts two and two together. Horror paints your face, MJ smirks in smug victory, and Ned eyes the two of you knowingly. 

You don’t know what he knows, but you don’t like that he knows something. Smart bastard!

Peter shrugs, nonchalant and not grossed out like you thought he’d be. Something in your chest settles at the sight. “When is it?”

Still, you’re not letting this happen. You’ll just suffer by yourself on Saturday. “It’s fine—”

“Saturday, at four,” MJ cuts in smoothly, throwing you a smirk as you glower at her. If you could, and didn’t fear her retaliation, you’d reach across the table and strangle her. 

Peter nods, considering it. This whole situation is so weird. God, why is your heart beating so fast?! “I think I’ll be free? Mr. Stark is out until next week, so there’s not much I can do. And…” Here, he looks at you knowingly. “Knowing you, we won’t be there for too long, anyway. So maybe—”

“An hour!” you blurt out. Then, before you can lose your nerve, continue, “We can stay for an hour…?” You fiddle with your hands as you wait for him to change his mind. He’s always busy, so he probably meant for the whole thing to be like thirty minutes, not an hour. You always open your big mouth at the worst moments, and now it’s biting you in the ass.

Peter smiles. “Sounds good!”

Oh!

Ned whispers something to MJ, and she smirks, but before you can ask her what he told her, Peter’s asking for the address, and you forget all about MJ and Ned as you talk with him. 

.

.

.

Later, after knocking on the door and being let in by the ever-busy May Parker, you plop yourself down on his couch and wait for him to bring the popcorn. As you’re getting comfortable and accepting the oncoming blood curse, May clears her throat.

“Hey kiddos, I’ve got to head to work. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!”

Without looking, Peter calls back, “You would do so much worse, May!”

The door shuts after her, cutting off her cackle of a laugh. You smother a smile before her words sink in. Your lips quirk into a frown. What did she mean by that? It’s not like you and Peter are—

—Are anything! Did she know? There’s no way. 

Peter starts the movie, and it’s distracting enough that you’re no longer lingering on what May said, but boring enough that you stare at Peter from the corner of your eye. He doesn’t even realize how creepy you’re acting—hopefully it stays that way—but the smitten part of you mitigates the guilt welling in your chest.

But, not really, because he’ll never like you back. So, no crush! Just… platonic admiration. Yeah. (Yeah, so, maybe you’re kinda head-over-heels for this guy. So what? Nothing’s going to come out of it.)

You’re totally pining right now. God, you’re such a loser.

“Okay!” Peter’s voice startles you out of your self-induced pity party, and you jump. He ignores it, turning so that he’s mirroring your criss-crossed position, barely blinking as his knees jam into yours. Holy shit, he’s bony as fuck. “You’re acting weird. Why?” You can’t help but stare at him. His cheeks are kind of red. “W—is—do you not want me to go with you?” he blurts out.

WHAT. You shake your head immediately. “No, it’s not that! It’s just…” Quick, think of something. Anything! “Umm, my mom is not going to, uh, buy that—we’re a couple?” You say it like a question because you’re a moron, but hopefully it gets the point across.

Peter’s pinched face relaxes, and he sags into the couch. “Oh. That’s… all. Okay. Hm. We can practice being a couple? Maybe?”

You twitch. This conversation is not good for your pining heart, but you find yourself nodding all the same. They always say getting a taste of what you can’t have is torture. But Peter’s eyes are wide and so pretty, and you want to experience him, even if it’s just for a few minutes.

He sucks in his lip before reaching for your hand. “We can hold hands to start, if you want?” 

You’re grasping his hand before he can finish his sentence. Breath catching in your throat, you slip your fingers between his, feeling tingling run down your spine as his calloused skin presses against your own. You blink up at Peter from your slouched position, light-headed. You catch sight of the blush painting his cheeks an enticing red and wonder what he’s thinking, who he’s thinking of. He coughs when he notices your gaze. “We need to get used to it, so.”

Heart fluttering, you smile. It spreads across your face easily, and it’s too hard to beat down, so you don’t, and you don’t fight it when it grows into an elated grin. Suddenly, you’re not feeling bad about this whole thing. 

“You have nice hands,” you say, then grimace. Why is it that whenever you open your mouth, things get worse? It’s like a talent at this point. “That’s weird, isn’t it? Just forget I said anything!”

Peter ducks his head and laughs, squeezing your hand once before relaxing his grip; he must have felt you trying to let go. His eyes are bright when they look at you, shaking you to your very core. “You have nice hands, too. It’s, uh. Ours fit together kind of perfectly, huh?”

You hum in agreement, feeling yourself preening at his attention. “It’s nice. I’ve never really held hands with someone before, now that I think about it.” You raise your other hand in the air, wagging in back-and-forth til Peter gets the hint. Laughing, he grasps your hand in his own, settling both pairs on the joint peak of your knees.

You avert your eyes. “After this, what do we do next?” You speak calmly, and it’s suspicious, as if an alien replaced you—not unusual in New York, unfortunately—because you’re never this calm in front of Peter. But before you can ask him to check if you are still yourself, he pulls away, mumbling. 

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Gotta go,” he says, coming to an abrupt halt. His eyes are wide with sincerity. “We’ll continue tomorrow? I’m so sorry, I forgot to turn in the report Mr. Stark wanted, so—” He gestures to his front door. “I gotta go. But stay until someone can pick you up? If that’s something that…” His head jerks to the side, and you belatedly hear the distant sound of police sirens.

“Right.” You take a second to calm your pounding heart, then nod. “Right. We’ll continue this later. Tomorrow. Yeah. I’ll just take the subway while it’s still going. See you, Pete.”

He nods, practically bouncing on his heels. He mumbles a quick goodbye before rushing to his bedroom. Ah, yeah, he’d need to change out of his sweatpants if he had to book it to Stark Tower. Makes sense. 

More than weirded-out, a little hurt, but mostly elated, you stumble out of May’s apartment just in time to see Spider-Man fly by, webs pulling taught as he swings between buildings. 

Wow. He’s so fucking cool. You shut your mouth before it can collect any flies (again), and walk to the station with a bounce in your step. Peter won’t believe this. Talk about perfect timing, huh?

.

.

.

“I’m telling you, MJ, I really saw him! He was swinging by Peter and May’s apartment—he’s so fucking cool, I swear to God.” You look around before ducking your head, whispering into the mic of your phone, “And he has a cute butt. But don’t tell anyone I told you. I’ll never live it down.”

“There are forums for appreciating his buttocks, you’re not alone,” is what she designs as an appropriate reply. It does kind of make you feel better, though, so kudos to her. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m interested in. How’d it go with Peter?”

There’s no way she knows. Right? “Nothing happened. We watched the first Star Wars movie, uh—it was called something Menace, I think? With uh, Han Solo? And…”

MJ snorts, disbelief radiating from her even through the phone. You pout. “Let me guess, he wasn’t in it.”

“Nope. Pete would have a heart attack if he heard you say that. Ned would’ve died from cardiac arrest. You’d have to bury them together.”

“‘We’,” you correct instantaneously. 

“No, it’d be just you. Because you aren’t telling me anything, and don’t deserve my help to bury your friends. Of whom you murdered.”

MJ is persistent, you’ll give her that. “Fine, we held hands. And they’re your friends, too. Obviously.” 

A pause. Clothes rustle as she presumably sits up in her bed. “That’s it? You only held hands.”

“Well, we watched Star Wars, too.”

She groans. “I thought you were going to kiss or some shit. Should’ve known you’d be too chicken. And Peter, too, he’s a coward when it comes to his paramours.”

“Hey!” you protest. Then, “What do you mean, ‘paramours’? As in plural.”

You’re not jealous, just… curious. 

MJ snickers. “You’re not slick. And anyway, loser number one gave up on said other paramour a few months ago. She doesn’t even go to Midtown anymore. Her dad turned out to be the Vulture, and they moved.”

“Mother-fucking Liz?” you gasp. Not that you’re surprised. She always seemed to have her shit together. The universe must hate her, though, giving her a dad that turned out to be the Vulture. “Oof. Yeah, I remember. But, Pete really…?”

The call lasts until two in the morning, but you’re brimming with confidence. Whether MJ meant to, she gave you the confidence you needed to—

Well, to do something. 

Peter’s interested in you. And is too chicken to do anything about it. (Didn’t seem that way earlier, but you trust MJ’s observational skills.)

You’ll figure something out.

.

.

.

Turns out, ‘figuring something out’ on the go doesn’t work with you. You’re completely blank as you march your way up to Peter’s door. You even stand around awkwardly for a few minutes to see if your mind can come up with something, but nope. Nada. 

You sigh. Of course. The time comes, and you fail. Story of your life. You knock on the door.

…

“Coming!” 

…

The door opens, and Peter’s face pops out. “Hey,” he says, smiling. He pushes the door to allow you in before turning around and diving onto the couch for the remote; Star Wars is already playing, and he turns the volume down as you come to sit beside him.

“So…” You both speak at the same time. 

You snort. Butterflies battle to the death in your stomach. You hope you don’t puke right now, but the chance is never zero. Experience has taught you that. “You go first.”

He raises an eyebrow but obliges. “Right. Uhm. Practice. Do you want to start with holding hands again?” His eyes light up as he wiggles his hand, with what you desperately want to be hope. 

But you’re on a different mission today. Please be right, MJ.

Your hands shake as you wipe them against your pant legs. You’re sweating like you’re about to pull out a gun to shoot at Peter, like one of those old western movies your dad made you watch. There better be a pot of gold at the end of this potentially vomit-covered rainbow, or you’ll throw in the towel called ‘life’ early.

“Actually…” Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, but you force the words out anyway, “Can we try…” Your cheeks burn. Just say it, you coward! Don’t disappoint your descendants! Or MJ! “Kissing!”

You pull back as you hyperventilate. After a second of silence, minus your rasping gasps for air, Peter’s concerned face falls into view. “Hey, uh, you’re okay! It’s fine! Just match my breathing, okay?”

He takes a deep breath, holds it for a second, then exhales. Rinse and repeat.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

—

When you come back to yourself, the first thing you feel is your aching knees. Youth has escaped you fast, and the world is kind enough to remind you. The second is the fact that Peter looks like he’s about to cry. The third is a mixture: what the fuck, why the fuck, how the fuck, and, ‘Fuck, my descendants are going to hate me.’

“Hi,” you say, pinching Peter’s thigh through his jeans. He blinks at you, then sags in relief. “Sorry. I don’t know what that was. Uhm. Can I still kiss you?”

Peter blinks, silent, then laughs. It’s loud and practically hysterical. You withhold a flinch to place a concerned hand on his shoulder. He looks like he’s a second away from collapsing on the floor. “Are you okay?” Guilt clogs your lungs and nearly chokes you with it, because you didn’t mean to have a panic attack, and you sure as hell didn’t mean for him to have to guide you through it. 

Peter drags a hand down his face. “You weren’t calming down, and May only taught me, like, three things to do, and I panicked a bit.” He takes the hand you place on his shoulder into his own. The rough skin grounds you. “Can I kiss you? If you still want to. Uhm, I don’t wanna assume—just, I think it’d be nice?” He looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole; he’s so cute, it’s almost unbearable.

“I’d like that. If you still want to.”

You’ve never felt more vulnerable, but you’re so eager, it’s debilitating. Peter cups your cheek, and it’s as though he’s lit a fire under your skin. You jolt, but quickly lean into the touch and cup his cheek, too, awed at the soft skin. 

“Just so you’re aware, I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit, with no small amount of shame. 

“Neither do I, but I looked it up—” He freezes, then stutters, “Uhm! N-not that I thought you were going to kiss me, or anything. I was just curious. And Ned was the one who looked it up. I just… read it a little…?”

You laugh, so endeared that your body can’t contain the feeling. “You’ll have to show me, then,” you say, laughter petering off into giggles. He nods seriously, almost solemnly, before tilting his head. Just like that, your world narrows, and you only see him. A shiver runs down your spine as he closes the gap between you, hands settling on your waist. His breath ghosts over your skin before your lips meet.

Wow. That’s your last coherent thought, fireworks dancing across your vision and flooding through your veins. Peter smells so unlike how you would imagine a teenage boy to smell, all eucalyptus and peony mixed with vanilla. He’s gentle with his hands as he explores the skin just under the edge of your shirt. His touch leaves trails of fire along your skin, reminders of him. 

You sigh into his mouth, breathing growing heavier, feeling like you’re soaring yet sinking as he bears down against you. You push back against him, swiping your tongue against his lip just to taste. And boy, do you ever—you never really understood the whole ‘flavored-chapstick’ thing until now, tasting cherries on his lips. 

Heat clings to your cheeks and spreads to your ears; it feels like you’re melting. Your brain is a mix of endorphins and electrical pulses that scream ‘more, more, more’ like you’ll die without him pressed against you. You break away for air, lungs burning, before scrambling into his lap, darting forward to kiss him again. He moans when you wrap your arms around his neck, and it’s the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard; his voice is better than music, and it’s all for you.

Then, the door opens. You fling yourself away, and Peter just sits there, staring at your face—no, your lips—mournfully. It looks like you killed his non-existent puppy. 

May eyes the two of you suspiciously as she walks into the apartment, no doubt noticing Peter’s red face and your rapidly rising chest. She stays quiet, though, just lifts her eyebrows meaningfully at Peter before walking further into the apartment.

You and Peter exchange silent glances before bursting into laughter. He brings you into a hug that you lose yourself in, feeling warm and safe in his arms. “I’ll see you tomorrow? We still have to practice before ‘showtime’. If you’re up for it.”

He stiffens, but you attribute it to speaking too loudly right in his ear. You apologize, your voice significantly quieter. “You’re good. And yeah, tomorrow should be fine. This was, uh, nice.”

You pull away, grinning. “Very nice. Don’t sell us short. We both did very well.”

“... And now you’re making it weird.”

“You like it, Parker.”

“Unfortunately.”

.

.

.

The next day, Peter’s too busy to practice. 

You bully the disappointment down to the pits of your mind, and focus on pleasing your mother, who is very adamant about knowing who you’re bringing over tomorrow. 

“My boyfriend. Like I told you yesterday. No, I’m not lying, he’s my—Mom!”

She doesn’t believe you, which sucks. You’ll just have to prove her wrong tomorrow. 

You suck in a deep breath, then exhale. You remember Peter’s face, concerned and aching with the need to help, the tears that entered his eyes, the softness of his lips, the taste of cherries—

Your mom clicks her tongue, realization seeping into her face and into her voice. “Oh, honey. Tell him how you feel, hm? Don’t hold on to those feelings forever. Your father and I, well, we eloped almost immediately—”

You groan in disgust. “I’ve heard this story a billion times, and it’s still gross. Please stop talking.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have to tell it so many times if you learned from it, now would I?”

—

You don’t hear from MJ or Ned for the rest of the day, which is weird, but you’re not upset, too frazzled to do much other than wonder what you’re going to do tomorrow. 

Confess. It goes wrong; MJ was wrong, and Peter just wanted to get his first kiss out of the way. Bad ending.

Confess. It goes perfectly; MJ was right, and Peter kissed you because he has a crush on you, and he reciprocates your feelings. Good ending!

Don’t confess. Remain pining forever. Peter gets a girlfriend/boyfriend, and you grow up sad and alone. Alternate bad ending.

Don’t confess. MJ talks sense into Peter, and he confesses to you. You get together, grow up, do more than kissing, get married, move in together, and there’s no other person to get in between you, too! Alternate good ending!

Something else happens, and you spontaneously combust. Or something. 

“Right,” you mumble to yourself. “Just fucking do it. No take-backs, no ‘oh, I didn’t mean that, I was joking’, or anything. Just say it! ‘I like you, Peter. Would you like to be my boyfriend?’ It’s perfect. Nothing can go wrong.”

You go to sleep with the hope that tomorrow, the sun will shine mercifully on you for once.

.

.

.

The day goes by quickly. Peter texts you an hour before the get-together that he’s getting ready. Your mom looks at you knowingly as you stare at the clock, willing the time to go faster. Your dad claps you on the shoulder and ruffles your hair until you squawk and shoo him away. 

3:30. No sign of Peter, but that’s not a problem. He still has thirty minutes, after all. You grab a couple of fries and pout at your uncle when he swats your hand away. “No more until the rest is done,” he scolds you. 

You don’t whine, but it’s close, “Fine. Party-pooper.”

“Ha! You know it, kid.”

Cousins you’ve never met before come up to meet you, and you smile and introduce yourself to cover up the nervous twitch of your hands when the time hits 3:45 and there’s no sign of Peter.

He wouldn’t bail, especially not after saying that he’s getting ready. It wouldn’t make sense. 

Your auntie comes up to you and sweeps you off your feet with her hug. She’s always had a heart larger than life, with love to spare. She encases you in it with a pinch to your cheek. “Don’t forget to give Lila some treats, hm? Poor thing is about to jump onto the grill, she’s so hungry.”

You laugh. “I will, I will.”

4:30. 

Your mom comes up to you and wraps you in an embrace. Tears roll down your cheeks. “Shh, it’s okay,” she soothes you. You only sob harder. 

“I really thought he’d come,” you cry into her blouse, voice cracking. She runs a hand down your back, shushing you. You shake your head. Your chest tightens, and you gasp for breath. Did he just lie to make fun of you? You didn’t think Peter would do that, but…

“Listen to me, honey,” your mom says. You quieted immediately, reduced to small sniffles. “Let’s not jump to the worst-case scenario, alright? Maybe he got held up in traffic, or an emergency came up, and he hasn’t been able to text you. Shoot him a text and see if he responds sometime tonight. If not, we’ll see about contacting his Aunt May. Sound good?”

You nod miserably. “Yeah.” You didn’t feel like texting him and being right about him using you. A terrible, horrible part of you hopes something bad warranted him not coming. 

“Alright,” your mom says, pulling you away to look into your eyes. She smiles, then presses a kiss to your forehead. “Go send that text and spend some time with Lila. She’s missed you these past few days.”

“Okay. I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, baby.”

.

.

.

When Peter finally responds, you’re about to take a nap. Dozing peacefully with Lila beside you, you’re just about to fall into sleep when your phone dings! You jolt up, running an apologetic hand across Lila’s coat before opening up your messages.

I’m so sorry. I got mugged and had to get some stitches. I’m fine now, but is the party still going? I’m really sorry.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, gaping at your phone, wide-eyed. Your blood turns to ice. Your hands shake as you type, not used to the lightning-quick pace of your fingers. Panic dances at the edges of your mind.

ARE U OKAY OMG YOU DONT HAVE TO COME IF YOURE HURT I THOUGHT YOU DITCHED BUT THIS IS SO MUCH WORSE PETER!!!!!! ARE YOU OKAY FOR REAL

He responds immediately.

I’m fine now, yeah. And I really hope the party is still going because I’m outside your front door. 

“Oh, shit.” You shake off your blanket and bolt out of your room, bursting into the front hallway like a person possessed. You swing the front door open. Peter smiles at you, but it’s strained. You immediately notice the pallid color of his skin, frowning. 

“Come in, quick. God, you look like shit. W-well, you got mugged. Obviously. Do you want something to drink? Eat? Peter, are you sure you can be here?” 

Peter accepts the glass of water you pour him, but doesn’t drink. He looks around your house curiously, and you realize that it’s the first time he’s been here. “Peter…?”

His head jolts up. “Yeah?”

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

You don’t know what to do in this scenario. Is he super traumatized now? Should you be metaphorically walking on eggshells, or should you just act normally? 

Peter shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m just more tired than I thought I would be.” He rubs the back of his neck. A nervous tick, you realize. He always does that when you ask about his Stark Internship, or sometimes just when you ask about his day. “Well. Did you want me to go out and meet your family still?”

You frown. “No way. They’re rowdy and overbearing. You were—well, you know—and whatever. I can deal with their teasing. How about we just watch some movies? I can go grab you a plate of food.”

“Oh. U-um, if that’s okay. I could eat a horse right now.”

You reach over and hug him lightly. He’s stiff, but wraps an arm around your back, anyway. You pull away after a moment with what you hope is a reassuring look. “It’s not a problem. I’ll be right back. Oh, do you want fries or tater tots? Or both?”

“Both, definitely.”

“On it!”

—

Peter devours the plate of food when you get back, his black-hole of a stomach on full display. It puts you at ease to see him, and despite the shitshow of a day you both have had (Peter significantly more so, unfortunately), spending time with him makes you almost forget about it all.

“So, what’s this party for, anyway?” Peter asks. He interrupts your favorite scene, but you forgive him when he sends you a sheepish smile, barbeque sauce dotting his lips. 

“It’s for my cousin’s birthday. Everyone got invited because it’s the first birthday after the five-year life expectancy she got.” At Peter’s confused look, you clarify, “She had cancer. It’s officially been one year since the doctors told her she would be dead. Kind of, uh, heavy, but it’s a good thing.”

“Oh, definitely! Wow, that’s—ugh!” Peter chokes, his arm holding his stomach. 

“Peter?! What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

He whines, the small amount of color he’d gained by eating gone in an instant. You get up and grab your phone. “You need to get to the hospital. Did something happen when you got mugged? Did you get stabbed? Shot?”

Peter winces guiltily. 

“You got shot?!” You whisper-scream. You didn’t know Peter was this much of an idiot! “Why are you not at the hospital? Oh, fuck, Peter. You’re bleeding. You’re bleeding because you got shot, and you’re going to die in my bedroom—”

He grits his teeth. “I’m fine,” he insists. “I just need to re-do the stitches. The bullet went right through with no fragments. It was a clean shot,” he laughs without humor. You stare at him silently. 

Peter’s eyes go soft. “Hey, I’m okay. I’ve been sh—” He cuts himself off, but you’re not an idiot. 

“‘Shot before’,” you finish, body numb. With every word he says, the urge to cry grows. “Peter, I’m getting my mom, and we’re driving you to the hospital.” He protests as you stand up, but you dutifully ignore the ignorant, self-destructive boy until he curses and snatches your wrist.

He pulls you back down on the bed with a grunt. Sucking in a breath, he turns to you, “Okay. This isn’t how I wanted to do this, but here goes.” Cupping your cheeks, he brings his face far too close to yours; you’re nose-to-nose with him. You think he’s going to kiss you, and you resolve to slap him after. But he doesn’t.

“I’m Spider-Man,” he says instead.

You can see the way he freaks out when you remain silent. Can feel the regret bubbling underneath his skin. It makes your skin crawl. You don’t know a lot of things, but you know that Peter Parker is your friend (maybe boyfriend) who just revealed his superhero alter-ego, and that fucking freaks you out.

But he got shot, and that’s far more important to you right now.

“What does that have to do with you getting shot?” Why should I not take you to the hospital?

“If they test my blood, they’ll know I’m Spider-Man. Then, who knows what’ll happen to you guys or Aunt May…” His voice is steady with resolve. “I can’t let anything happen to any of you. Besides, I heal fast. Like, abnormally, ‘I’m a superhero’ fast.”

You blink up at him through tears. “You better not be fucking lying, Parker,” you whisper. “Or I’ll sick MJ on you. You know she’ll bite.”

“Rabid dog MJ,” he sighs. “I know. No one else would adopt her.”

You laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. “She’ll kill you for that, Spidey-boy.”

Peter grimaces. “Yeah, no. Let’s not do nicknames right now. But, uh, you’re cool? With the whole Spider-Man thing? A-And, obviously, you can’t tell anyone. If you do…” 

You shake your head vehemently. “I won’t. I wouldn’t. Thanks for trusting me.” Your brow furrows. “Wait, is that the ‘Stark Internship’? Being Spider-Man?”

Peter blinks, then grins. “Yeah, actually. It keeps me a lot busier than typical intern work, that’s for sure. I’m almost certain my neighbors think I’m doing drugs, though. And May always knew I was sneaking out at night. It was a disaster.”

You hum in agreement. You’re sure it was. “But Stark knows you get hurt and still lets you go out? Aunt May, too?” You can’t fathom what they’re thinking, even with his super-healing. Getting shot isn’t the same as getting punched or kicked. 

“They couldn’t take Spider-Man away from me,” he says after a moment. “They just try to make it safer for me. But, y’know, things happen. Like getting shot.”

As safe as being a superhero can be, which isn’t very. “Your life is weird. I hope you know that, Pete.”

Peter snorts, watching you slide off the bed. “Well, duh. I live it.”

You grab your favorite blanket from your closet. It’s big, fluffy, blue, and Peter lets you wrangle him around in your bed until you’re both cuddled up beside each other, wrapped up like burritos in the blue cotton.

“Stay the night,” you demand. “I don’t want you going out again at all. And text May, too, so she’s not worried.” What you don’t say is, ‘I won’t be able to sleep if I can’t see you. I don’t want to wake up and find out that you’re hurt, or kidnapped, or dead. Please don’t leave me.’

Peter sees something in your eyes. The vulnerability, the longing, the protectiveness, the fear—you don’t know which, but it makes him frown. “I’ll be okay,” he says again. It’s a useless comfort. You don’t doubt it now, but he’ll get hurt repeatedly in the future. You don’t know if you can stomach it, but you want him to know he’ll always have a place to go to when he’s in need. 

“I really like you,” you breathe. Your words are quiet, but in the silence of your bedroom, they ring like a bomb going off. Your heart hammers in your chest, but your hands don’t shake when they go to cup his cheeks. You want him to know that you’re there. There’s no time for stuttering, for anxious ticks, just the here and now, the two of you together. “Would you like to be my boyfriend, Peter Parker?”

His yes tastes like cherries. 

“I’d like that,” Peter whispers against your lips. He’s shy now, under your gaze. Too much, your mind mutters. You ignore it. Waves of your emotions bedazzle themselves on your skin, engrave themselves in your touch, and you press them into Peter. It’s overwhelming, almost, but he settles against you so perfectly, pressing his feelings into you, that all your fears wash away, drowned out by the waves. He blushes pink and kisses you slowly, sweetly, and gently. It’s not unlike your first kiss, but somehow, it’s better.

It’s magical.

[ourstochoose9]

What's the robot equivalent of corn flakes, MR-SN needs to add it to the shopping list

Soooo...

Guess I have the honour of posting the first robot smut fic in the fandom? As someone who's never written something like this before I think I'm the last one who saw this coming but hey! I have a thing! I literally have no idea if it'a good but it... exists?

Rest in peace VR-LA you will be remebered for... Whatever happened here

This is an alt ending of the Captain's quarter's fic I posted the other day! I'd recommend reading it first for context.

[gurugirl]

Please tell a little about what BFD!Harry and yn are up to🙏

best friend's dad!harry x you

bfd!harry masterlist

a/n: quick little blurb! this is to connect with what i've got coming in the next update!

453 words

. . .

Well, lately you've been contemplating on reaching out to Fae because you want her at your baby shower. This baby will be her half sibling and you want Fae in your life. She doesn't even need to buy you anything! You just miss your best friend. The closer you get to your due date the more you think about her and how close you two had been before you slept with her dad. Before you started lying to everyone. To her.

So when you log into Instagram and realize she's unblocked you (when did that happen?) you feel like this is your chance. You send a simple hi and wait.

You tell Harry about it later when he comes home from work and he's massaging your feet and legs on the couch.

"Oh really?" He says. You can tell he's thinking about that and probably wonders if she's unblocked him from texting her. He'd love to be able to talk to his daughter again.

When you're brushing your teeth and getting ready for bed later that night you look at your phone when you get a notification from Instagram and it says: Fae Styles reacted 👋 to your message.

It's not much but it makes you drop your toothbrush into the sink and open up the message immediately to make sure you weren't seeing things.

"What is it?" Harry's hands on your hips as he looks over your shoulder and peers down at your screen. He sees what you're seeing and it's silent for a few beats.

You can't help yourself when you begin to type i miss you.

Harry pulls your back into his chest and puts his big palms on your pregnant tummy as you both watch the screen on your phone together. He's just as surprised as you are but this is good. This must be a good sign.

But she doesn't respond. Not right away. Harry talks you into putting your phone on the charger and giving it a rest for the night after you've stared at your screen for who-knows-how-long. You know she's seen the message and she still hasn't blocked you so that should be enough for now, Harry tells you. One step at a time.

Harry helps you tuck into bed, stuffing soft pillows behind your back to keep you slightly elevated to help with your indigestion and sore back.

"Try and get some sleep, Y/n. Okay?" He kisses your temple and brushes his hand over your tummy and you nod at him, closing your eyes.

What you don't know yet, as you've finally allowed sleep to take over, is that you'll wake up with a message from Fae in the morning.

i miss you too

tags: @yousunshineyoutempter @tenaciousperfectionunknown @swiftmendeshoran  @tiaamberxx @lukesaprince

@closureesny @angelbabyyy99 @damnasstyles @malwtilda @love-letters-to-uranus

@itjustkindahappenedreally @ssaama @onlyangellucifer @harryistheonlyoneforme @butdaddyilovehim-hs

@lc-fics @mema10 @hannahdressedasabanana @babegoalsreads @harrrrystylesslut

@elidoho @gotdrxnkonu @cathy-1997 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @certainlysyko

@tiredinwinter @princessaxoxo @angeldavis777 @lillefroe @monicaalexandraaa

@hsonlyangelxo @brittanyzelazno @lemoncrushh @golfrry @caynonmoondreams

@danaehldy @mellamolayla @ladscarlett @babyurthendofjune @heartateasee

@littlenatilda @virgopr1ncess @finelinepie @michellekstyles @harrysredroom

@harrydeary @mrs-anna-styles211994 @devilsqueen722 @bananabk9756 @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite

@zayndrivesmeinvain @i83andrew @shamelessfangirl-3 @onceagainace @stoneyggirl2

@fairytale07 @littlenatilda @stylesfever @whoreonmondays @harryspirate

@lovrave @missstyles4 @cherryluvhobi @ladscarlett @hisparentsgallerryy

@chesthairrry @oscarissacsslut @armystay89

[legobiwan]

Gravity Falls fic rec list...Part 2.

I should be grading writing right now, but in the spirit of procrastination, I'm going to instead post about my favorite new fics that have emerged in the post-Book of Bill era.

~~~~~~

Gen Fics

A Mariner’s Guide to the Unexplained by mariezies

Another fic that tackles the idea of Stan's criminal past coming back to haunt him as the elder Pines twins take to the sea. What I really like about this fic are Ford's inner monologues and in particular, the way he overthinks his interactions with his brother post-Weirdmaggedon due to the crushing level of guilt he feels. Bonus points for the incredibly adorable cat OC who joins the twins on the Stan o'War II. Incomplete.

We're Still Here by Simplistic_Apricity

What if Stan hadn't knocked Ford through the portal in 1982 and stuck around Gravity Falls instead? A bajillion fics have been written about this concept, but this one takes a slightly different approach as to the fallout from a Bill-possessed Ford attacking his brother as Ford slowly (slowly) comes to terms with what exactly he has wrought in that basement. The characterization and interactions of the twins and Fiddleford are incredibly grounded, avoiding melodrama while still being wildly effective. Incomplete. TWs for violence and medical trauma.

~~~~~~

Billford Fics

Not to sound like a 2013 hipster, but I do want to state that I hopped on this seafaring vessel pre-BoB and am delighted to witness the explosion of works exploring the demented, tortured relationship between these two absolute disasters. I've decided to let my cringe flag fly high and free here, with the caveat that I only indulge in triangle!Bill stories (accept no substitutions), as, let's face it, Ford is a freak (affectionate) and he loves his geometry.

Statement Abnegation by Anonymous

This one probably needs no introduction, but I'd be wholly remiss if I didn't include it on my list. A+ characterization of both Ford and Bill and it fucking nails the landing. Ford is taken prisoner during Weirdmaggedon, but this time Bill's playing for keeps. Complete. TWs for torture, death (temporary), Stockholm syndrome, and explicit sexual content.

apology tour by dolorous

There's something downright wistful about this story, which presents as "crack taken seriously" when Bill chooses Ford to be his keeper/chaperone as part of a Theraprism-mandated apology tour to those he has wronged post-BoB. Ford hates Bill. Ford sometimes doesn't hate Bill. Ford definitely hates Bill. And now they're stuck on the road trip from hell. Complete. Implied past (current/future?) relationship, no sexual content.

Then it becomes, it becomes, it becomes a problem by tempusedaxrerum

Takes place post-Betrayal but (so far) pre-Stanley arriving in Gravity Falls. Bill is determined to drag Ford into opening the Portal, kicking and screaming (limbs optional). Features an incredibly well-developed OC who is battling demons of her own when she has the misfortune of crossing paths with both Bill and Ford on a snowy evening in Oregon. Incomplete. TWs for violence, attempted sexual assault via possession, substance abuse.

Live, Laugh, Lather, Rinse, Repeat by ShibaIntuit

The conceit of this story is absolutely wild. Essentially, Ford eats a cursed piece of pizza and suffers from existential indigestion. The world-building once Ford is in the multiverse is delightful as an older Ford tries to renegotiate his past with a Bill Cipher of thirty years previous. Incomplete. TWs for violence.

as falls gravity so falls gravity falls by underwater_owl

A series of three stories that take a deep dive into Ford's subconscious while exploring the idea of the Axolotl placing Bill under Ford's mental power due to shenanigans you are better off reading about than me explaining here. Bait & Switch is the main narrative, which is a gen work featuring the whole extended Pines family plus Mabel and Dipper's mother, while Because & Despite and Cause & Effect explore the intense psychosexual relationship between Ford and Bill before and during the events of Bait & Switch. These last two stories really dig into the nature of Ford's deepest and darkest desires and the utterly twisted relationship between Ford and Bill. Incomplete. TWs for explicit sexual content (read the tags on those two last stories, folks! This author isn't, or is, I suppose, fucking around).

Snakes in the Garden by Miss_Ginger_Bread

Another Jimmy Snakes story! Because both Pines twins have terrible taste in men/demonic entities. A ghost from Stan's past shows up in Norway, prompting Ford to take matters into his own hands. Lovely interactions between the Pines twins, including a murderous, protective Ford and a Ford who is harboring a gigantic, triangle-shaped secret from his brother. Incomplete. TWs for abusive relationships.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Countermeasure 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Jake Jensen

This AU is called Watcher Anonymous and will include different series for different characters. This is our introduction to Jensen and Nano.

Summary: work and personal blur together as an employee takes a special interest.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Jake flips up the lid of the box, the smell of pepperoni steaming into the dim glow of monitors. He really should think about cutting down on pizza, it’s starting to give him indigestion, but he just doesn’t have the time to cook. Between work and... his hobbies, he barely gets any sleep. 

That night is not much different than the one before or the next. He burns the roof of his mouth with the first slice as he’s fixated once more on her. The cameras catch her every move as she wafts around the large house like forlorn wraith. The lens gives him a direct line to her loneliness. 

She’s in her silk black robe and matching nightie. They hug her curves perfectly as furry slides cling to her feet. She’s as refined in her leisure as she is standing by his desk asking for an update. 

Nano is a good boss. The first manager he’s had that even understand his job. He delved into her extensive background in development and backend management. She really doesn’t look like the stereotype. But he does. 

She pours herself a glass of wine. The censor for the davenport triggers. He redirects his attention to the white SUV pulling in. Late is not so better than never. Jake is never late. Never for her. 

He switches back to the kitchen where she leans on the square marble island and sips. She’s unaware, or even indifferent, to her husband’s return. The cabernet usually signals that she’s headed for bed. 

She sits up as she hears her husband enter. Andy is in no hurry as he unlaces his shoes then shrugs out of his jacket. Jake should’ve placed the camera on the other side. This angle is awkward. Well, he had limited time when he wired the house. 

She looks over as Andy enters the kitchen. She doesn’t say anything. He mutters and goes to the fridge. He takes out a bottle of beer. 

“Long day,” he pops the cap with his hand. 

“Tell me about it,” she says as she puts the stopper in the bottle and sets in back in the rack. She takes her glass and struts off. He remains and drains half the beer before he follows. 

He finds his wife upstairs. Why he even made her that is a mystery to Jake. He doesn’t treat her like one. Not like a husband should. 

She sits in bed and balances her wine and her ebook. She’s working her way through an interesting fantasy series. It surprised him to know she was so far into it. He always thought she’d be into those romance rags or the bestseller thrillers. 

“You’re mad?” Andy asks as he strips off his blazer. 

She hums. 

“Like I said, long day. Work was a lot.” 

“Andrew,” she doesn’t look up from her book. 

He’s silent as he unbuttons his shirt. He peels it down his arms and drops it in the hamper. He nears the bed as he looks her over. 

“What’d I forget?” He asks. 

She clucks, “you tell me. For once, Andy,” she drops the ebook and empties the glass before slamming it on the night stand. “I’m not your goddamn secretary, I’m your wife.” 

“Honey,” he sighs. “Work--” 

“I work too,” she flicks him away with her fingertips. “But I guess I don’t work as hard as you. Oh, the leftovers are in the fridge. Take them for lunch so they don’t rot.” 

She rolls onto her side and pulls the duvet to her shoulders. Her husband shifts. He shakes his head and continues to undress. 

He comes up beside her and nudges her. She ignores him. He’s persistent. He stretches out behind her and wraps her in his thick arm. 

“Honey, I’m sorry I missed date night. No more excuses,” he purrs as he caresses her cheek. “I love you. I don’t want you to go to bed angry.” 

“Well, I am,” she sneers. 

He kisses her hair and whispers. She doesn’t react. He continues to nuzzle her as his hand roves her body. 

Jake puts the pizza aside. His appetite dissolves. Don’t let him do it. Don’t. He doesn’t deserve it. 

She shimmies over and rolls onto her back. Andy kisses her. She lets him. She lifts the duvet over him and he angles his body over hers. Jake sighs but doesn’t look away. 

He’s hard even if he is burning with jealous. Andy grunts as he shifts around under the duvet. She bends her knees so they poke up on either side of his thick torso. The duvet slips.  

Andy strokes himself as Jake resists the same. Her husband grows frustrated as he struggles to get inside her. She grips his shoulder and reaches down to help him. He huffs and shoves her away. 

He growls and gives up. He bounces off of her and sits on the edge of the bed. He clutches his head as he hunches. She drops her legs. 

“Sorry, I must be tired,” Andy utters. 

She hums derisively. She pulls the blankets over her again, “next time.” 

“Yeah,” her husband scoffs and stands up. 

He crosses the room and rips his robe away from the hook behind the door. He leaves her in a dark cloud and she hangs her head. It’s a while before she moves again. 

She reaches into her drawer and pulls out the little rose gold vibrator. She shuts off the light and he listens to her breathing and her moans. He’s sad for her. She deserves more effort than that. She deserves to be cherished. 

Another camera activates. He hates to look away from the writhing figure on night vision. Andy is in the front room. The glow of his phone is cradled in his hand, his other is... 

Huh. Interesting. How’s it that he can’t get it up for his own wife but he’s down there doing just fine with a screen? Well, Jake can figure it out. He can figure anything out. It’s why he is Nano’s favourite employee. 

[terresdebrume]

Thank you for podficcing this story! I'm very proud of it and I'm glad it struck you as worth recording:D

Indigestion written by TerresDeBrume | @terresdebrume

A Dead Boy Detectives Podfic read by mistbornhero for CCPA

Crystal is still trying to deal with her recovered memories. Tonight, she gets unexpected help.

Podfic Length: 06:31 minutes