Fresh out of culinary school, you landed the position of lead chef in what you assumed to be a fabulous hotel casino. This was what you chose to believe; this was what you knew now to be completely untrue.
Now you sat, the toes of your shoe bouncing against the faded linoleum as you chewed anxiously at your fingernail. A young chef in a failing hotel, wasting away in an empty kitchen. You chose most days not to even turn on the stove, knowing you’d only be cooking for yourself and Miles.
And then there was Miles. He was the only other employee in this cracker-box inn.
Although a sweet man, he was your only source of socialization since you had been hired. You found it strange that he was the only face you’d seen for weeks, not even hearing from your supposed boss since the initial phone interview.
Of course you enjoyed every second of Mile’s company, but from the few weeks you’ve known him, something always seemed a little off.
For now you remain alone, standing in your kitchen, twisting a wooden spoon over and over in your hands as you wait for the clock to signal the end of your shift.
Your tapping soon mingled with the sound of another pair of shoes connecting with the floor. They drew closer, a familiar patter of polished derbies anxiously walking towards the kitchen door only to stop right before it.
The next noise to follow was a soft knock at the kitchen door.
“Come in, Miles.” You called out to the disembodied tapping, knowing full well it was only the shy bellhop politely asking for entrance into what was supposed to be your domain.
You saw those familiar blue puppy-eyes, his soft brown hair combed to the side in a small wave, and he was still wrapped in his pressed red uniform. The somber pout of his lips was replaced with a soft smile for just this moment.
“Hey…” he greets you, calling your name as he slips past the open kitchen door. “I just wanted to see how you were doing, all cooped up down here.”
“Just as well as I always do.” You said back somberly. “What brings you to the dungeon?”
His lips quirked at the edge with amusement before he dampened them with his tongue to reset his features.
“Well, I hope I can raise your spirits.” He said back, wiggling his fingers into the pocket of his jacket to pinch his fingers before pulling it out and holding it out to you.
You take the slip hesitantly. “What’s this?”
“I was digging through some old papers in the main office, and I found something I thought you might like.” He said, voice somewhat stifled. It's as if he's unsure of your upcoming reaction as he watches you unfold the square of paper.
What you’d find, typed up in black ink and surrounded with an ornate border, was a small menu of food.
“I know we don’t have the supplies for any of it…or guests, but I thought you’d think it was interesting.”
“Is this the original menu?”
“Y-yes.” He stuttered back, watching intently as you seemed more and more excited. “It’s not much, but I thought you might be interested.”
“I’d kill to make this kind of food.” You say, a soft smile blooming over your face. You miss the way his eye seems to twitch for just one second after your statement. He gives a smile back, but it’s not as genuine at first.
“I doubt we’d ever make you go that far.” He chuckled back awkwardly.
You drag your thumb over each word in the short yet extravagant menu. Fine cuts of steak and expensive seafood.
Duck à l'Orange
Oysters Rockefeller
Filet Mignon
Baked Alaska
And a simple silk pie. It seems to stick out among the more complicated dishes, like a shiny copper coin in a pile of gold.
“Well, I’m glad you like it, anyway.” He asks as if he’s turning to leave, watching how you become so engrossed in such a small piece of paper.
“I could make this.” You said back, absentmindedly. Instead of telling him he didn’t have to scurry away so soon, you blurted out exactly what was rattling around your head.
Miles laughed, a soft chuckle, as he leaned to hold his weight against the doorframe. “I can’t imagine we have any of the ingredients for that food.”
“I mean this one, sorry.” I hold the menu up to him, pointing at the words silk pie.
“You think so?” He asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.
“It’s not the most gourmet option, but I think I have just enough supplies.” You began to walk as you spoke, already walking towards the fridge for needed ingredients.
You looked back at him after grabbing the heavy cream and asked, “Wanna help?”
His eyebrows were pushed up in confusion, surprised you’d ask for his assistance. “Me?”
“Who else?” You asked back.
He stifles an awkward laugh before answering. “I-I should really be getting back.”
“Is there a line forming or something?” The sarcasm was laid out thickly, coating each word in a bitter syrup.
He huffs a small chuckle, catching your sarcastic jab but not able to disagree.
He goes about taking off his jacket, not wanting it to get in his way before rolling up the sleeves of his white collared shirt. Pushing apart the buttons in the cuffs and folding the fabric towards his elbows.
You gathered the necessary ingredients to mix together some dough, a decent filling, and enough tools to mix it all together.
You pour the flour and then sugar as he watches. Chopped butter, pinch of salt, and finally equal parts cold water and chilled vodka. The spirits would be the most luxurious part of this dessert, a top-shelf Sakharov Miles had slipped from out of the bar. What a crime to bake it into a pie, and it made you chuckle before pouring a worthwhile shot.
“Is it safe to drink and bake?”
“You kiddin? That’s the best part of cooking.” You laugh back, sliding the bottle and the glass beside him.
He looks at it sheepishly, softly shaking his head before reluctantly grabbing the neck of the bottle. He bypassed the shot glass and took a mouthful to the dome. He swallows with a wince, nose pinching as he laughs away the sting.
“Atta boy, Miles.” You clap him on the back, squeezing his shoulder and rocking him to the side before dragging him to the bowl of ingredients ready to become a pie crust.
“Alright, what we’re gonna do is work the mixture with our hands until it’s dough.”
“M-me?” He said with astonishment. Surprised you’d be letting him get his hands dirty.
“I’ll help.” You chuckle back, sliding the bowl in front of him before sliding between him and the table. You grab his wrist and guide his hands to knead the dough. His hands are warm, and as oddly nice as it feels, it could cause the butter to melt, so you work quickly.
You don’t notice the way your proximity seems to elicit change in him.
His breathing shifts, air flowing to his lungs in an abundance before falling out over the deep pink of his lips with heavier puffs.
If your fingers raised only an inch over his wrists, you’d feel the outbreak of goosebumps that grew over his forearms.
“We knead the mixture…” you continue to guide his hands through the mixture of ingredients, helping him make it something more malleable. “…into a dough.”
It begins to form a sticky paste, gluing our fingers together before it becomes something like soft airy clay. “It’s looking great.”
You barely feel the way he seems to shiver as you squeeze fingers to pull the sticky dough from his skin.
“You’re a very good teacher.” He said softly. His voice is nearly a whisper in an already empty room, warm breath slipping from his lips to hit the back of your neck.
You stifle a shudder of your own, furrowing your brows in surprise at the way his words seemed to tickle your skin.
“I…uh.” You have to clear your throat before pulling your hands from his and lifting the ball of dough from the bowl. “I can’t say I’ve ever taught, but I was always a good student.”
“You’re very patient.” His voice was kept low and quiet so as to be heard by only your ears.
“I try to be.” You hummed, tilting your head slightly to the side as you spoke to him. It leaves his face so close. Closer than he’s ever been.
You think this is the only moment where a distance of safety wasn’t held between you at all times. But now you felt the pulse of his heart beating beneath his skin, the warmth of his hands seeming to melt yours. Now, without his contact, you felt cold.
“We’ll need to sprinkle some flour on the table so the dough won’t stick.” You pivoted to the next step, and he quickly obliged. There was that familiar distance again when he left your side to grab the container of flour, but he soon returned to his previous position.
His movement was cautious, reaching past your side to toss the flour over the table ahead. “Like this?”
“Perfect.” You say back, tossing the still sticky mixture onto the table.
Some instinct propels your hands back onto his, pulling him forward, pulling him closer, so as to better guide him through folding the dough. He doesn’t stop you, welcoming the touch as his chest presses to your back.
“We just need to roll the dough flat, and then we can work on the filling.” You say, regaining some of the composure that seemed to have slipped away, and reach for the rolling pin at the edge of the table.
Once the pin is set out over the dough, his hands move towards yours, changing his position to be the outermost set of hands as he cupped yours with his warm palms.
It was such a soft moment. The first you’ve shared with him, and as the dough was finally flattened over the table, you felt somber at the loss of touch when he pulled his hands away to reach for the pie tin.
The kitchen was quiet again as the crust baked. You’d tasked Miles with whisking the ingredients for the filling as you melted the semi-sweet chocolate. You bit off a few squares, offering some to him that he politely turned down as he continued to do as he was instructed.
His movements were stiff, whipping at the cream clumsily so that it nearly sloshed out of the bowl.
I turn out the flame on my burner, setting my pot to the side before helping him again.
“Hold on…” You’re quick, sliding between him and the bowl before covering his hand with yours. All without hesitation.
You adjust his wrist, knocking his elbow up with the bump of your forearm, and guide his movements to be more fluid.
“Much better. You want to make it fluffy, not beat it into submission.” You chuckled back at him.
“You really know what you're doing.” He said with a puff of a laugh with a bashful smile, nearly trying to burrow into your hair.
Your jovial mood spurs you to absentmindedly squeeze his hand. You never noticed that before, pinching the utensil in your fist upon receiving praise.
His hand left the table, steadying itself over your side instead. You don’t swat him away, still mixing, only slower as you lose focus. You give his fingers another soft squeeze, and his own mirrored your movements. The grip on your hip becomes harder as a breath escapes him with a subtle shudder.
“You’re not doing half bad.” You chuckle softly, losing your breath as your skin becomes warm.
“Even if you did have to hold my hand.” It’s said with a small laugh caught up in his throat as he shook his head. He leans further towards you, his brow tickled by your hair. It was still tied into a loose bun, leaving your neck bare to the brush of his breath as it traveled down the collar of your coat.
You shiver, now caged in his slowly growing embrace, twisting your head to the side as you shake away the tickle he’d sent down your spine.
“I don’t think we’ve ever been this close before.”
You spoke without hesitation. The barrier in your mind that kept such thoughts from falling from your lips, had failed.
Your voice was soft, a whisper, in spite of not having another soul in the entire hotel to hear you.
In the next breath, one of you became bold.
He was bending closer by just another inch, meeting you at your shoulder and stealing your lips with his.
It’s a peck, testing you in case it wasn’t what you’d wanted. Giving you a moment to push him away. Once, twice, a third time his heart would beat before he locked his lips against yours again. Deeper and deeper the two of you fall. The brush of a tongue, the drag of teeth. You suckle at his lower lip before your hand leaves the bowl to cup the back of his neck, nails raking over the soft crop of hair along the back of his head.
The hand perched on your hip grips harder, burrowing into the opening of fabric between your coat and pants.
Fingers dragging further, tickling bare skin as it followed the curve of your waist before fanning over your belly. Once he tastes the bitter chocolate still stained to your tongue, he dips deeper. Something in his demeanor shifted, the rumble of a building aggression you’d never seen in him before. A darkness in him crackles out as his touch mirrors a new sense of greed.
His hips push against yours, pressing you further against the metal countertop. A whimper erupts from your belly, tumbling off your tongue and onto his lips before you could stop it. There’s a building stiffness hidden behind his plain black slacks, pressing against the small of your back.
“M..Miles.” You struggle to call him by his name, shaking him and yourself from the cloud of arousal. Miles, you fought, tongue-tied into a tight knot as you crumbled under the weight against the thrust of his clothed cock pressing into your back.
His fingers, devilish, still hungry as they force their way down the front of your britches. He had this knowledge you hadn’t been aware of, instinctively finding the spot that pulsed the hardest, circling it with the jerk of his hand.
It’s then, when something in a high alto erupts from your throat, that you sense something truly off. The tainted, salty smell of something on fire…
You try to push away, but he’s already lost, and it takes a solid yank of his hair to pull him back as you say loudly.
“Something’s burning!”
It takes him a second too long to snap back into reality; you have to push him back, startling him as you rush to the oven.
You scramble out from the tight squish of his body against yours, breaking free and rushing towards a towel.
You tear open the oven and pull out the pie pan with a wince.
“Oh, shit!”
The edges of the crust were black, the base a terrible shade of gingerbread brown. You wave away the smoke, nose wrinkling at the smell of burnt pastry.
“I should have been watching it. I’m so sorry, Miles.”
“No, it's…” He tries to talk, yet can only breathe. It’s alright, was all he’d wanted to say, but something in his eyes shifts with the lingering smell of smoke still staining the air.
An always prevalent tenderness drains from his gaze, his timid exterior cracking away to show a glare of something dark and cutting beneath the surface.
His hand grips yours, forcing you to drop the towel; the other presses to your chest, backing you into the corner of the counters.
“Miles..?” You call his name in confusion, still worried over the burnt food left out to cool on the stovetop. For you the previous moment was a brief afterthought.
He attacks. Devouring you in a hungry kiss as if it had never been broken, hands no longer careful, tearing your clothing apart to caress the soft skin that hid from him. One hand latches to your jaw, holding you steady against the lashings of his tongue.
Your nails dug into the starched fabric of his white-collared shirt, pulling at the buttons to expose his smooth chest.
Hands painted with a thin layer of flour, leaving fingerprints over the dark fabric of your pants.
He pushes, actually pushes; he pins you to the counter, dragging his clothed stiffness against your aggravatingly still covered lower body.
He pulls at the fabric, knuckles dragging over the seam of your pants, fingers unfurling to dance between your thighs. You shivered, shaking with an overflow of physical euphoria.
His
He’s humming into each kiss, lips tightly locked with yours.
He’s punctuating each word with the peck, desperate and starving.
Each utterance off his tongue is a plea for more.
“Let me, please.”
“Please.”
“Please.”
In return, you catch his lips as he tries to pepper your cheek with soft kisses. You whimper against him, falling inward as his soft affection folds you further and further into him.
He receives the answer to his unspoken question, the pattern of pleas serving as the conduit to his true desire. It falls off your tongue before brushing his, a whisper of “yes” devoured by his hungry lips.
It was the trigger that spurred him entirely out of his timid shell. Fingers leaving the sides of your hips to tear at the fabric of your pants. Buttons are ripped from thread, and the interlocking teeth of a zipper are pried apart with the twist of broken metal and frayed seams.
He opens you to him, fingers weaving behind the hem of your undergarment, curling at the knuckle as they dive to find your sensitive and soft opening. Only briefly did he pull away, dragging his nimble digits from your skin before bringing them to his mouth and lavishing them with his saliva.
The wetter his fingers were, the easier it was to bury them behind your clothes and sink them into your eager heat. They wiggled, pulling apart your inner walls as the flow of overwhelming heat from Miles’ anomalous behavior.
Miles had always been sweet, often standing at a comfortable distance at the edge of your personal space. Never did you imagine he would wantonly tear through the bubble with simply the brush of your hand over his. The weight of touch deprivation finally breaking the character he’d cultivated so well.
He was an animal, a hungry dog wearing the fleece of its fresh kill.
“So…tight.”
The wiggle of his digits drives you mad, all autonomous thought fizzling into fog as he curls both his ring and index finger over the soft flesh of your tight inner chamber.
You don’t mean to cry, never meant to whimper so loud and shamelessly as you’re wracked with a flood of rapture. The drag of his lips along your skin did nothing to silence it, tasting the accumulation of sweat over the crook of your neck instead.
It drew you closer and closer to something unfamiliar, a heaviness over your body as he pushed at your knees until one would finally buckle before he ripped himself away, taking with him the climax you’d nearly tasted.
“Miles…” His name is a wisp of air, caught in your lungs and clouding your mind until you feel lightheaded.
You hear the rumble of a groan in his chest, feeling it vibrating over your body as his teeth trail over the shell of your ear before pulling away. “Say it again…”
Watched, waiting for his name to tumble off your wobbly lips once again as he absentmindedly pulled at the leather loops of his belt, undoing his own trousers as if to pull away a barrier standing between himself and a long-awaited desire.
“M-Miles..” you spoke with a shiver of an exhale, all out of desperation after having lost some of his warmth.
You fight the rising shiver dragging up your spine, gripping his shoulders and digging your nails into the fabric of his shirt as you grapple to bring him back to you.
He brought his palm to his lips, a gush of saliva pouring into his cupped hand before he brought it down to his member to drag the lubricant over his length until he was fully coated. Now, he could disappear inside of you with ease.
His only hurdle would be your clothes; they had fallen slightly from being pulled at and then jostled. He grabbed at the leg of your chef bottoms; the hem of your underwear hooked under his finger as he tore them down.
Your knees were up in the next instant, one leg still wrapped in uncomfortable cotton and polyester sticking to your skin with a layer of sweat, the other bare, with only a sock left around your foot as your shoe has somehow fallen away in the struggle.
You wanted to speak, but no words came to mind. Would you tell him to wait? Would you push him away?
Your heel slipped slightly, struggling to find purchase on a loose drawer handle as he pressed himself back between the spread of your thighs. You're blossoming for him, pressed open by the velvet head of his cock. You feel the subtle throb that punctuated his need to be buried further inside.
Your voice is broken and weak under the scrutiny of his soft smile and predatory eyes. A dark storm of blue clouds hiding thunder before being swallowed behind swollen pupils.
“So warm. Can finally feel you squeezing me so tight.” His voice rattled with a breathy chuckle, lips warm with the cloud of mingled breaths.
His thrusts were a slow, deliberate drag of his hips, fully engulfing himself inside your wet heat with a labored huff.
His patience, both torturous and tantalizing, would wear thin quickly as he snapped forward with more and more ferocity. It rocks you, head bumping against the counter as your back bows in his grip.
You try to push your lips together, fighting the shudder of a cry, not wanting to let your voice sound so weak. But, Miles could not agree with this sentiment any less.
“Yes…please, I-I want to hear you. Please.”
His movements were nearly desperate, yet all dominant. He had your hips pinned beneath him, fucking himself into your tight channel, every ridge and notch of his cock rubbing into your inner walls.
“Tell me. Tell me what you want.” His voice was low, lower than you’ve ever heard from him, gravelly, and yet a whine. He begged for you even as he towered above you.
“I-I wanna..” You can’t speak. Every word was only mouthed with a sharp puff of air with each quick breath. “I wanna cum, Miles.”
“Please, I wanna cum.”
One hand grips the counter, knuckles white as the blood is pushed from the points with the right curl of your fingers. Another hand is clawing at his shirt, pulling hard enough that a seam is strained to the verge of popping.
“Let go.”
His voice was a hum now, something deep from the pit of his belly as he followed you over the edge. “Let go for me.”
You had no choice but to comply, with no fight left in your body as you melted around him in a thick gush of arousal.
You couldn’t say when someone last touched you like this, held you to his chest, and gave you every ounce of strength he had to offer.
He gives a low groan, guttural and weak, as he spills inside of you. In a moment of greed, he’d stolen instead of pulling away to stain the skin of your thigh. Certainly he’d help to clean the mess, but it would still be an indulgence.
Soon he’s able to pry himself away, giving you space to better breathe. You fall back against the countertop, one foot having lost its shoe and just barely grazing the linoleum floor.
“I…I didn’t expect that.”
“Ooh, sorry.”
He seemed tired, not weak-kneed as he once was but nowhere near as fiery as you had just seen.
“…wanted to do that for a while…” He spoke, almost musing to himself in admiration of you as a fine work of art he could finally experience, voice trailing off just as soon as he began speaking as he caught his breath.
“What are you gonna do with the filling?” He pivoted the conversation before pushing onto his knees and then his feet.
“Oh?” You asked absolutely as you tried to recall what he’d just said as you slid yourself off the counter.
You reset your clothes, pulling your pants back on before struggling to find your other shoe. By the time you right yourself, you find Miles looking into the bowl of silky chocolate pie filling.
“I’m sure I could turn it into a chocolate mousse.” You say back, picking the bowl up from the table to tilt it, watching the mixture move around the sides of the metal basin.
There’s a light shining back into his eyes as he looks back up from the chocolate. The glint of mischief you’d originally missed, only to catch it much more easily the second time around. There is this quirk of his lips, the tilt of a smile as his hand found the small of your back as he mused to you.
hii!! before i request, happy birthday (apparently it's your birthday so 🎉)!! this is my first request so i apologise if it's odd. could you do like a college AU sunday and aventurine (seperate) getting drunk heavily that someone escorted them to the reader since their roommates? they also have to take care of him (p.s i have no idea if there are any of Ur works similar to this soo😞😞)
“Let the Room Spin, Just Stay With Me”
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, College AU, Roommate AU, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Intimacy, Soft Angst, Mutual Care, Slow Burn, Quiet Moments, Fluff With Angst, Found Family Themes, Unspoken Feelings, Comfort After a Breakdown, Alcohol Use, Late Night Conversations.
A/N: My birthday already passed 😭🙏—it was on June 15th. I couldn’t post those requests on the day itself because of my schedule. Sorry for the confusion, and thank you for the birthday wish!
It was close to midnight when someone knocked on your dorm door—three slow taps, hesitant, like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure if they should even be here.
You slid your laptop off your lap, padding over in socks (or bare feet, whichever suits you). When you opened the door, your RA stood there, awkwardly shifting his weight. Beside him, half-slumped and clinging to the hallway wall like it was holding the sky together—was Sunday.
Sunday.
Golden eyes dulled to amber glaze. His scarf was uneven, jacket unbuttoned and sagging from one shoulder like he’d barely managed to shrug it on. His fringe was damp, like he’d been sweating—or crying. Maybe both. His body swayed slightly, but his halo hovered, unwavering, behind his head.
"Someone from the Philosophy club party said he was asking for you," the RA muttered. “He’s your roommate, yeah?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I got him.”
Sunday murmured something under his breath as you slung his arm around your shoulder, leading him inside. His ear-wings trembled, feathers fluffed in some defensive instinct. Once the door closed, the silence settled. You guided him gently to the futon.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered suddenly.
“For what?” you asked, kneeling to unlace his shoes.
“…Being like this.”
You looked up. “It’s okay to fall apart sometimes.”
He closed his eyes, face turning slightly away. “I drank too much trying to feel less empty. Turns out, that doesn’t work either.”
You stayed quiet, letting the hush stretch. His scarf had caught on the futon frame—when you untangled it, he looked at you like you’d just cradled something fragile in your palms.
“I’m… not very good company,” he added, voice soft and frayed. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”
You smiled faintly. “Maybe I want to.”
He blinked. “…Why?”
“Because I care, Sunday. You don’t have to be ethereal or wise all the time. You can just be human. Or… whatever you are. With me.”
He exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that carries the weight of centuries—guilt, godhood, grief. Then he reached up and tugged off one of his earrings, pressing it into your palm.
“For safekeeping,” he murmured, “in case I forget who still sees me.”
You sat beside him, quietly tucking the earring away like it was a promise.
Outside, the world moved on. Inside, Sunday fell asleep leaning against your shoulder, wings twitching gently in dreams, finally—just a little—at peace.
The door slammed open.
You looked up from your notes to see someone practically dragging Aventurine down the dorm hall like a misbehaving magician mid-vanishing act.
“Room 307, right? He insisted he lives here,” the guy huffed, struggling to keep Aventurine upright. “We found him at the poker table in the econ building with a martini shaker and… like, seven shot glasses.”
You rushed over. Aventurine grinned at you with flushed cheeks and wine-glossy eyes.
“My beautiful roommate,” he announced grandly. “Did you miss me?”
“I literally saw you this morning.”
He collapsed against you, hat slipping down one side of his head. “Mmm… but I missed you.”
The poor escort shoved a handful of rings into your hand. “He kept flinging these like poker chips.”
You guided him inside, letting him flop onto his side of the room like a defeated aristocrat. He started to sit up, then immediately fell back down and groaned.
“My luck betrayed me,” he moaned dramatically. “I calculated the odds, [Name]. The odds said: ‘Drink until the pain leaves.’ The pain lied.”
You handed him water. “Maybe drink this next time instead.”
He looked up at you through wine-blurred lashes. “You’re worried.”
“Of course I am. You’re a reckless idiot but you’re my reckless idiot.”
He blinked. For a second, the mask slipped. No grin. No snark. Just… him. Vulnerable. Unarmed.
“I… wasn’t going to come back here,” he admitted quietly. “Thought I’d just crash somewhere. Didn’t want to be a burden.”
You sank beside him on the bed. “You’re not.”
“Then why does it feel like everyone leaves?”
You frowned, resting your hand near his—close, but not touching. “I haven’t.”
He stared at your hand. Then, slowly, carefully, he turned his over and linked his pinky with yours.
A silent bet. One only you could win.
“I’ll remember this tomorrow,” he murmured, drowsy now. “Don’t let me pretend I didn’t.”
“You’re not allowed to forget,” you said gently. “Not this.”
And as he fell asleep, still wearing one sock and a belt buckle, you stayed beside him—guarding the moment, and the quiet promise tucked inside it.
CW: Stripper!Nonmc, angst, hurt/little comfort?, Rafayel is a sad boy, (still learning how to properly tag🙏 have mercy), suggestive themes, slight Nsfw?, MC mentioned, alcohol usage, unhealthy coping mechanism??, MDNI
Notes:Probably a continuation of my Caleb drabble just because. Thank you for the likes and comments! It means a lot. And remember, you chose to put yourself through this😇.
Rafayel could hardly believe his eyes as the wedding card remained in his hand. The studio is silent now, only the sound of the waves can be heard crashing against the shores furiously. Oh he's mad. He's mad, alright. And hurt. Beyond hurt. No, this felt like betrayal.
His bride. The one whom he gave his heart to. The one he has waited for oh so long... she's gone. Slipped right through his fingers like the sand on the beach. Miss Bodyguard had been there. Left an hour ago or so. He doesn't know, and he doesn't care.
She's marrying him. The now Colonel of Farspace fleet. Caleb Xia. Her childhood friend. Foster brother. Rafayel can't give a damn. His studio bears the brunt of his anger, and witness to his cries that night. He indulges in alcohol. The typical nonsense the male leads do in the movies he's watched. But not once does he curse her name. Not once, does he try to prove himself a hurdle in her way.
He still loves her goddamnit. And she's still his Miss Bodyguard. But, not his bride. Maybe not in this lifetime either. So Rafayel goes to the one place he knows on nights like this. Nights when he can't shake off the searing pain within his chest. Nights when the memories of his beloved bride torment him to the point of torture.
The Madame Rouge nightclub.
That's where she is. The one who makes it all go quiet. The one who hypnotises him with the sway of her hips, and her eyes like that of a siren.. So he drives there at high speed. Under the influence, and wanting to just forget. Poor Thomas will just have to deal with all the repercussions.
He just wants to forget his heartache tonight. Drown himself in her scent and fade away into her arms. He parks his car askew and gets out with a bottle in his hand. The most horrible he's tasted, but not worse than the news of his beloved's marriage.
His feet carry him forward in stumbling steps. His body seemingly ingrained within his mind the path to the V.I.P area. He spares no cost in booking her. Scarlet Rose. Her stage name was as pretty as she was, all bundled up in a lingerie of the same colour.
She need not ask questions as her smirk falters upon his sight. "My pretty, pretty Rose.. what would I ever do without you?" He laughs dryly as he stumbles to the loveseat and falls flat on it. "Dance for me, Rose.. dance for me. Sing for me.. and then.. make me forget. Forget it allll... oh Roseeyyy.." He slurs, and he laughs while crying.
Rose wonders if she has ever seen a man more beautiful and wrecked as he is. "Let me dance for you, my God. Let me turn your sorrows into pleasures.. like a good devotee.." With a sensual gait, she draws closer and closer to him. Rafayel sits up in hunger. His eyes darken as soon as she lowers herself onto all fours and crawls to her..
Rafayel begins to believe that she is his Sin. His corruption. His own chosen undoing. And as he tips the bottle over ever so gently, he smirks as he now stares down at his Rose. His devouted Rose... as the gin pours down upon her beautiful face and she leans in close to soak in everything he's giving to her...
Feeling very hateful after watching Generations, but the concept of Jim ‘dying’ (and then actually dying) 3 months before retirement has me enraptured.
Of course I’m going to be searching for myself later, but I need to know if there’s ANY fics, Spirk or McSpirk, where Spock was planning on proposing.
Got a little carried away under the cut. Major character death, definitely ooc, but y’know. Need to get my idea across. I neeeed to know if there are more out there PLEASSEE. Need to put the blue boys in a jar and shake them until they explode. Their sun just burnt out. What the fuck. WHAT THE FUUUUUCK.
Perhaps at some point Bones and/or Jim had educated Spock about anniversaries. Bones would be committing micro(macro)aggressions while explaining why humans put so much importance on certain dates. Birthdays, holidays, a new year, whatever. Jim would comment that it’s just some illogical thing humans do, maybe a monologue about how short human lives are, and how celebrating repeating dates reminds us not to fear mortality or whatever.
So Spock gets it in his head that it might be… poetic… to propose to Jim (and bones) the day they’ve retired. He’ll never hear the end of it, but it’s been harder to get Jim to smile lately, and it would be nice to make it a day to look back on fondly. He has it plotted out in his head. He buys a traditional human ring(s) for the occasion, has a nice place by the ocean booked, everything.
Soon the Enterprise was going to launch again, a new crew, a new Captain, and they invited Jim to see it launch. Spock has the faintest inclination to propose there, but quickly does away with it. He wanted it to be a private affair between them (and bones), and there would doubtlessly be a media presence at the launch site.
He never gets the chance, of course. Jim hadn’t even been gone a few hours, and they were already announcing his death on the news.
‘We should have been there,’ he thinks, illogically.
“I knew I wouldn't die because the two of you were with me.”
‘He would’ve been safe if we were there,’ illogical.
“Because the two of you were with me.”
‘I do not understand.’
“Ive always known… I’ll die alone…”
.
.
.
He isn’t aware of himself until something warm was pressed into his hands.
Very warm.
Hot. Burning.
Spock doesn’t remember sitting down. Nor it being dark out. Nor does he remember making this… drink. It’s opaque, light brown, with a few marshmallows drifting around in it. It smells offensively sweet. He looks up. McCoy is across from him, angrily pouring a glass of something. Not the first glass, he notes, when some of it splashes onto the table.
“…May I inquire about the contents of this drink?”
McCoy slurs something unintelligible with a gesticulation of the hand holding his own drink. Haht, which Spock gathered from the temperature. Cocowimarmalls… which could mean anything.
Two renders depicting the relationship between the Prototype and Catnap.
Sure, Catnap sees him as his god. But they are also close enough that the Prototype feels comfortable just chilling with his follower at the factory pool.
(That whisky is probably goddamn rancid, but not like either of them knows XD)
