a/n: nothing to do w this chapter but i seriously need to update my masterlist and i am wayyyy too lazyyy
wc: 1.1k
You wake up on the floor with a mouth full of cotton and a skull that feels like it’s been split open. Lucki’s licking your face because he needs to pee and you’re still sprawled in yesterday’s clothes. The vodka bottle is empty beside you. Your phone is across the room where you threw it, screen cracked in the corner.
You crawl over on hands and knees, plug it in with shaking fingers. It buzzes to life. The voice note you sent stares back: 1:28 long, delivered 3:17 a.m., read 3:18 a.m. Below it: three voice notes from Hollis. 3:20 a.m. – 52 seconds 3:22 a.m. – 1:19 3:25 a.m. – 48 seconds
Your stomach flips. You remember sending yours—slurred, angry, pathetic. You don’t remember hearing his responses. You passed out cold on the floor, phone dark across the room.
Before you can hit play, there’s pounding on the door.
Lucki goes nuts, barking and scratching. You stumble up, head throbbing, and peek through the peephole.
Hollis.
He’s in sweats and a hoodie, hair messy, eyes bloodshot. He knocks again, softer.
“Shorty? Please. I know you’re in there. I got your note. We need to talk.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. You’re still in yesterday’s clothes, hair a disaster, apartment smelling like weed and vodka. You look like the mess you accused yourself of being in the voice note.
You open it.
He looks wrecked- shoulders slumped, face pale under the hallway light. His eyes meet yours and something in them cracks.
“Shorty-”
“What are you doing here?” you cut him off, voice hoarse from crying and vodka. You sound angry. You are angry.
“It’s 4 a.m.”
“I couldn’t wait.” He steps forward like he wants to come in, but stops when you don’t move. “I listened to your note. Three times. I had to see you.”
Embarrassment burns your face. You remember the words now—mess, shapeshift, miss you.
You feel exposed, stupid for spilling it all when he’s been silent for two weeks.
“Yeah, well. I was drunk. Ignore it.”
He shakes his head. “No. I can’t. You think I don’t miss you too? That I haven’t been dying these past two weeks?”
You laugh, but it’s bitter, breaking. “Miss me? You ghosted me, Hollis. After your family treated me like trash, you just… vanished. No text back, no nothing. And now you show up because I drunk-voiced you some pathetic shit? What, guilt finally kick in?”
Lucki whines, pawing at his legs. You sigh and step aside. He comes in, shuts the door softly. The apartment feels tiny with him in it—messy counters, empty bottles, ashtray on the counter you forgot to hide.
He smells the weed immediately. His eyes flick to the ashtray, then to you, concern sharpening.
“You’ve been smoking a lot,” he says quietly. “And drinking. Alone.”
You laugh, bitter. “Yeah? Well, you don’t get to be mad about it. You weren’t here. You didn’t say jack shit while I fell apart. Only now you’re worried?”
He winces. “I’m not mad. I’m… scared for you. This isn’t you.”
You step closer, anger rising. “You introduced me to half this shit, Hollis. The joints on the rooftop, the late-night smokes. And yeah, I’m doing it more now because I need to get out of my fucking head. Because missing you hurts too much sober.”
His face crumples. “I know. I know it’s my fault.”
You’re face-to-face now, inches apart in the tiny kitchen. Your voice rises.
“I don’t understand you. You were so good to me—carrying me up stairs, remembering everything, holding my hand under the table—and then your family says I’m trash and you just… disappear. Like I was nothing. Like those months were nothing.”
He doesn’t back away. He takes it—all the anger, the hurt, the words you hurl like weapons.
“You chose easy,” you say, voice rising. “Brianna. Your parents. The world where nobody questions you. I get it—I don’t fit. I never did. Thrift-store girl at the crystal table. But you could’ve at least said something. A text. ‘Sorry, we’re done.’ Anything. Instead you let me sit here for two weeks wondering what I did wrong.”
He runs a hand through his hair, eyes desperate. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. All me. My parents—they said you were dead weight. That people like you drag people like me down. And I… I let it get in my head. I thought if I stayed away, you’d be better off without my family’s bullshit. But I was wrong. I’ve been miserable. Brianna’s… she’s not you. It’s all fake again.”
You’re pacing now, anger boiling over. “People like me? That’s what they said? And you believed them? God, Hollis, I thought we were friends. Real friends. Not some pity project you drop when mommy says so.”
He steps closer. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I was scared. Of losing everything—my family, the safety net. But I lost you instead, and it hurts worse than anything they could do.”
You’re face-to-face now, inches apart in the tiny kitchen. Your voice rises to a yell. “Scared? You think I wasn’t scared? Showing up to that dinner in my Goodwill sweater, pretending I belonged? I did it for you! And you just sat there while they shredded me. Then ghosted me like I was nothing!”
He doesn’t back away. He takes it—all the anger, the hurt, the words you hurl like weapons. His eyes are shiny, jaw clenched, but he doesn’t interrupt.
You’re yelling now, borderline screaming. “I would’ve fought for you! I showed up to that dinner for you! And you just sat there—”
He moves. One hand cups your jaw gently, thumb brushing your tear-streaked cheek. The other tilts your chin up so you’re looking right at him. His touch is soft, careful, grounding.
You go quiet instantly. The anger freezes. You realize how close you are—noses almost brushing, his breath warm on your lips, eyes locked so intense the room narrows to just him.
“I choose you,” he whispers, voice raw. “Now. Always. I’m sorry I didn’t before.”
Your heart hammers. His thumb traces your jawline slow. Your eyes flutter shut. You feel him lean in—the barest shift, his forehead almost touching yours.
Lucki barks—loud, demanding, pawing at the door because he still needs to go out.
You both jump apart, the moment shattering.
Hollis laughs, shaky. “Worst timing ever.”
You wipe your face, heart racing. “I… I need time. To think.”
He nods, stepping back. “Yeah. Of course. Take all the time you need.”
You walk Lucki together in silence, cold air clearing your head a little. When you get back he hugs you—tight, lingering, face in your hair.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers. “Text me when you’re ready.”
You nod against his chest.
He leaves. You lock the door and finally play his voice notes.
Every word matches what he just said—guilt, missing you, hating himself.
You sit on the floor and cry again.
But this time it feels different.
So I'm stuck on this shithole Island, and I can't even have a smoke? (pt. 7)
Derek Danforth x fem reader
Word count: 3.6k
Tags: 18+, Derek x fem reader, no use of y/n, HEAVY angst, fluff, enemies, enemies to lovers, (very) slowburn, sass, banter, suggestive themes, mentions of drug use, withdrawals, rehab, masturbating!!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
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Derek wakes up long before you do the next morning.
Except, not really. Is it really "waking up" if he never fell asleep in the first place?
He'd insisted on going to bed early, skipping dinner. For once, you hadn't pushed him to reconsider, and he wasn't sure whether to be angry about that or not.
He has plenty of other things to be angry about, anyway.
Derek flings himself onto the couch in a huff, fumbling for the T.V remote. Maybe he could drown out his thoughts with some bullshit movie.
It doesn't really work. His mind keeps wandering back to you. How could you dismiss his feelings so easily? Sure, maybe it's too early to drop to his knees and make a declaration of love... but he's sure there's something between the two of you.
Seriously. You'd given him not one, but TWO kisses yesterday. If you don't like him, you're just being cruel.
Around midmorning, you stumble downstairs, and Derek purposefully ignores your greeting. He doesn't have any especially nice words for you at the moment.
"Have you eaten breakfast yet?" You call out, heading through a doorway and into the adjacent kitchen.
"M'not hungry." He grumbles back, determined to show his displeasure.
There's no response, so he just sighs and curls up on the couch, tucking his face into the cushions and hiding away. He can still feel a bit of lingering embarrassment from yesterday's rejection.
Well, sort-of rejection. Secretly, he was still holding onto some level of hope that you like him. Technically you never told him how YOU feel. You just brushed him off and ran away.
Coward.
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"Sit up. I'm not letting you skip two meals in a row." You gently shake Derek's shoulder and place a plate of food on the coffee table. A simple breakfast, toast and some fruit. Hardly a good offering considering he made you pancakes yesterday, but damnit, you weren't sure he was going to eat at all.
Derek rolls over and stares blankly at the meager breakfast, mumbling some kind of thanks. He doesn't make any effort to sit up and offer you room on the couch... so you make due and perch on the armrest, near his head.
"So... what do you wanna do today?" You ask, trying to remain casual after yesterday's uncomfortable conversation.
Actually, "uncomfortable" might be an understatement. Damn him. Couldn't he see that anything romantic between the two of you is ABSOLUTELY out of the question?
Even ignoring the whole son-of-your-boss thing, (which is disgustingly cliché), he's still a fucking Danforth. Son of the goddamn president. And a billionaire, to boot.
Okay, those qualities were probably attractive to some people. Or most people. But not you.
You look down at the man who is pointedly ignoring your question and poking at his food. No, his wealth and influence were not his best qualities. You much preferred his dorky charm. Hell, even his bratty side could be cute. Sometimes.
"It's toast, Derek. Not poison." You scoff and take a bite of your own food just to prove a point.
He glares at you for a moment, and you finally get a good look at him. Are those... eye bags? Suddenly, you feel guilty for not offering to let him sleep in your bed again. Maybe he really does need it.
Eventually, he grumbles something under his breath and grabs for his plate, beginning to nibble a piece of fruit.
Damn. He's so cold this morning. Usually you'd be sitting properly on the couch with him, his head in your lap, and your hand in his hair... not just precariously balanced on the stupid armrest.
Is he really that upset about last night? You'd tried to let him down as gently as possible. And there was no way he was serious about you, anyway. He's the kind of rich asshole who could snap a finger and have the perfect trophy wife delivered to his door in a heartbeat.
You have to be honest with yourself here, and the truth is that Derek Danforth would drop you as soon as you two got back home. Better to save yourself the heartbreak.
"If I have to watch T.V all day I think I'll die of boredom." Derek breaks your contemplative silence after a few minutes, whining and dramatically draping an arm over his eyes.
Ah, right. Gotta keep the brat entertained so he stays out of trouble.
"I'll see what I have for us to do." You respond calmly, hopping down from the armrest and heading upstairs.
Damnit. You need to diffuse the situation, fast. Everything feels so tense between the two of you, like he's pulling back into his shell. Normally you'd suggest going down to the beach again, but considering he nearly drowned yesterday? That's off the table.
After poking around in your closet for a few minutes, you return with an armload of various boxes. A few board games, a pack of cards, puzzles, books, and even some paper and colored pencils. Hey, with no internet, you'd have to make due.
"Any of this look interesting?" You huff, dumping it all on the coffee table.
Derek sits up and raises an eyebrow at the pile of less-than-adequate activities. "What is this, a summer camp? Do I look five?"
"Hey, you're the one that called me a glorified babysitter."
He just rolls his eyes in return, standing up and muttering something about a headache.
"Where are you going?" You ask, watching him trudge upstairs.
"To rest."
You're left alone on the living room floor, watching him disappear as a couple of the various precariously-stacked boxes tip off the coffee table and spill their contents across the rug.
This is not going well.
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Derek lies back on the mound of pillows piled against his headboard, a sleepy haze clouding his mind as he tries to stay awake.
He rubs his eyes, blinking at the flat screen TV mounted to the wall opposite him. The bright flashing colors are probably the only thing keeping him awake right now.
Just as he's about to drift off, a knock at the door pulls him back into reality.
"Derek? I brought you some Tylenol."
Before he can tell you to go away, you throw the door open and waltz in. Apparently, you've forgotten what happened the first time you did that.
"Here, take this. And something to wash it down with."
He sighs and accepts the medicine, swallowing the little pill and downing half the glass of water before setting it aside.
"Oh, so watching TV wasn't the issue, you just didn't want to watch it with me, huh?" You ask, taking a seat at the foot of his bed and turning your attention to the television.
He can tell you're just being playful, but the question still makes him squirm slightly. Damnit. He's torn between wanting to joke back, and wanting to chew you out for acting so normal. You made his whole world fall apart last night, and now you're going to sit on his bed and crack jokes?
"You're blocking the screen." Derek grumbles, trying to show his annoyance.
Unfortunately, you take that to mean "crawl further into my bed", and end up taking a seat next to him, with your back to the headboard.
He begrudgingly allows it, silently watching as the stupid movie he picked out plays. At least you're not touching him.
...
Fuck. Not even a minute passes before you lace your fingers into his hair, a gesture he'd usually appreciate. Now? It just serves as a reminder that you aren't his.
He finally loses it when you tug on his hair in that oh-so-familiar way that makes him whine involuntarily.
"Can you stop?"
"Stop what?" You blink down at him with a blank expression, clearly confused. God, can't you see what you're doing to him? How is he supposed to just sit back and let you touch him like this after being rejected?
"Acting like everything can just go back to normal."
"Can't it?"
"No."
You take in a sharp breath, but before you can respond Derek pushes your hand away and sits up. He isn't done with last night's conversation, and he's not letting you worm your way out of his questions this time around.
"If you don't like me, that's fine. But stop fucking pretending like you do."
That statement seems to hit you hard, because you wince at his words and harsh tone.
Derek doesn't care, continuing his rant. "Always touching me... playing with my hair, hugging me, kissing me, hell... we fucking slept together..."
"Don't say it like that, please." You visibly grimace, slinking back against the bed.
That just agitates him further.
"Yeah, well, even if we didn't fuck it was still EXTREMELY intimate."
"YOU'RE the one who begged to sleep in my bed."
"Yeah, after you KISSED me!"
"On the cheek!"
Derek is just fuming. He wants to argue back, but the truth is, he's not even sure you're wrong.
Yes, the two of you have gotten... closer, over the past week or so. But is he reading too far into things? Are you really just... this nice?
Fuck. He has no idea. Maybe he's not special. Maybe you treat everyone this way. Or everyone you're close with, at least.
He slumps down face first into his pillows, having completely lost the will to argue. Something tugs at his chest, but it's not the same pain he felt last night.
He just feels... defeated.
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You stare down at Derek, and you can't help but feel bad for the man, even if he's sort of pissing you off as well.
Yeah, you've been getting closer with him... so what? He's not some innocent bystander in all this. He literally BEGS to be touched, whether he realizes it or not.
Like right now. God, you can't just leave him like that. If he starts crying again, you'll probably cry with him.
"C'mere, love. Can I hold you?"
It's probably best to ask permission before grabbing for him, just in case he tries to use this as further evidence you're leading him on. You don't exactly give him a chance to say no, though, tugging him up towards you.
He resists slightly at first, but gives in completely when he looks up into your eyes.
You pull him tightly against your chest, his cheek pressed just above your heart. If you weren't wearing the simple cotton t-shirt, you could probably feel his stubble.
One of your hands finds its way into his hair, lacing your fingers in his soft curls. The other rubs soothing circles into his back, pulling him as close as possible.
His arms wrap around your waist in return, and he shifts to lie between your legs, melting into your embrace.
You lean back against the headboard and just hold him for a while, doing your best to comfort him. He can act angry and standoffish all he wants, but you know deep down he still craves your touch.
"This sucks."
"I'm trying my best here, Derek. I'd like to think I'm a pretty good hugger..."
"Not you. Well... not ALL you. This whole things sucks. Being stuck here, I mean."
Derek sighs and tilts his head up to look at you, his chin resting right between your breasts as he slumps lower.
"Well, you only have..." You pause briefly to do the math. "...11 days left?"
"I was only SUPPOSED to be here for two," he grumbles.
"I know... just, your mother thought-"
"My MOTHER is part of the fucking problem." His face turns sour and he squeezes you a little tighter as he rants.
"I thought- FINALLY - she was going to make time for me. Of fucking course not. She just wanted to get rid of me for three weeks."
Ah, great. So drug issues AND mommy issues. This man really has it all, huh?
"It's not exactly a good look for the president to have a druggie as a son." You say the words in a lightly teasing tone, but he seems to take them as accusing.
"I didn't ASK her to be the fucking president, okay? And regardless, she never would have made it this far in her political career if it weren't for me. Before I stepped in, she was behind in 15 of 20 counties she needed to win."
You just watch helplessly as he rants, biting your lip as to not say anything that could provoke him further.
"15 of 20!" He repeats, scoffing. "I fund her entire fucking campaign... and how does she repay me? By shipping me off to some shithole island."
It's wrong, but... you can't help but wistfully smile at his little comments.
"You know, Danforth... most people don't have the luxury of an all-expenses-paid vacation on a private island while they're getting through an addiction... they just continue working their shitty dead-end jobs."
"Spare me, please. When has the 'It could be worse' sentiment ever helped anyone, EVER?" He responds sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
Honestly? He has a point. Even if he's still relatively spoiled when compared to the general public... well, this is probably the toughest thing he's ever gone through in his sheltered life. And it IS your job to help him though it.
You tug at his hair a little more in an attempt to soothe him, which just makes him wine. He tries to cover it up by burying his face into you, but accidentally ends up with a faceful of titty.
He seems to immediately realize his mistake, because he mumbles a lame-ass apology and starts to pull away from you.
You pull him right back against you, probably a little too eagerly.
"I don't mind."
It's a struggle to get the words out without sounding giddy. You absolutely love having him there, so close to your heart.
Your chest swells with warmth as he looks up at you through his eyelashes, the lower half of his face sinking between your breasts.
“This is cruel.” He grumbles and looks down, burying his face in your chest.
“What? Letting you shove your face in my tits is cruel?”
“When I know you're just going to write it off as platonic behavior later, yes.”
Ouch. Okay, he had a point with that one, too. Damnit. Can he really blame you, though? Getting involved with Derek Danforth of all people… can’t he see just how MESSY that could be for you?
But looking down at him, it’s really hard to see him as your boss’s son, or the president's son, or a billionaire, or whatever-the-fuck else. He just looks… needy.
You continue to stroke his hair and rub his back simultaneously, and a few whimpers escape him as he nestles his face between your breasts.
It’s honestly shocking just how natural the whole thing feels. God, if only you were bare-chested…
"Okay, maybe this isn't a purely platonic relationship." You slump back against the headboard as you admit this, groaning internally.
This piques his interest, but you don't give him the chance to look up at you, shoving his face back down into your chest. Looking him in the eyes is just too much right now.
Hell, all of this is too much. Derek seems to share the sentiment, because he lets out a low groan. Or was that a moan?
"You're killing me." He whines, shifting his hips almost imperceptibly and slowly grinding them against the mattress.
"Oh? What's wrong, love?" You hum in response, tugging at his hair with one hand and tracing your nails across his back with the other. Like you even need to ask. It's obvious how he's feeling. Horny bastard.
He groans in response, tipping his head back to stare up at you. Fuck. Those eyes. He looks completely lovesick. Or lust-sick, maybe? He's still not-so-subtly grinding against the bed.
"You're so fucking pretty. It's not fair." You cup his face in your hands, lifting him from your chest slightly to better examine his face. His dark eyelashes flutter as he blinks up at you, a look of pure disbelief on his face.
Yeah. Pretty. You can't think of any other word to describe him in this moment. His cheeks, lightly dusted with freckles, turn pinker by the second as you lean in for a kiss. Then another kiss. And another.
He squirms in your grasp as you pepper soft kisses from one side of his face to the other, following the pattern of his freckles. His eyes flutter shut and he squeezes you tighter, eager to feel your touch.
You pull back to look at him again, still cradling his face in your hands. This is so wrong. You shouldn't be kissing him like this. You shouldn't be kissing him at all, actually. What happened to stomping out your feelings and hoping for the best? Protecting yourself from the man who would just inevitably break your heart?
"You're prettier." He mumbles, eyes half-lidded and hazy as he stares up at you with blissful admiration.
Those words penetrate straight to your core. Damnit... as much as you hate to admit it, this man is no heartbreaker.
"Oh, love..." You pull him back against your chest as you trail off, the words getting lost on their way from your heart to your lips.
He whines again as you absentmindedly tug at his curls, something that's become nearly as comforting for you as it is for him.
"Please... I'm... mnnghh..." He mumbles, the words coming out muffled as he nuzzles further into your chest.
You're not even completely sure what he's asking for, but damn, hearing him beg is addictive.
"What do you want, love?" You coo at him, voice soft and low as you hold him tightly against your chest.
He just pants in response, occasionally letting a whimper slip free as you continue to play with his hair. His breathing gets more and more shallow as he continues to shamelessly jut his hips into the mattress.
For the hundredth time, you remind yourself just how wrong this is. Those thoughts are immediately drowned out by his soft noises of pleasure, and you can't help but wonder just how much he can even feel through those sweatpants, anyways. Maybe if you took them off for him...?
No. Fuck. That's too far. Right now, you're not doing anything wrong. How could you be? You aren't even touching him. Well... not touching him there.
"Please." He repeats, crying the word out a little louder this time.
Guilt and lust battle in your stomach, and you can tell which has won when you clench around nothing. God, something about him begging is just so... ugh.
"What? You wanna cum?"
Derek lets out a high pitched whine, nodding into your chest.
"Can you wait for me?" You whisper the words, barely audible as one of your hands makes it's way down to the waistband of your shorts.
Another nod. More panting. The bed starts to shake slightly with the intensity of his grinding, and your brain goes fuzzy as thoughts of him overwhelm your senses.
Your had dips into your shorts, and you begin to play with yourself as Derek does the same. Well, something similar enough.
"Faster." The word comes out as a moan, and you aren't sure if you're talking to Derek or yourself.
He takes the order seriously, jutting his hips into the bed more rapidly.
Fuck. The noises he's making are almost pathetic, and somehow it's the hottest thing you've ever heard. Soon your own moans join his, creating a lustful symphony as you both lose yourselves in the other's touch.
All thoughts of this being inappropriate are long gone. All thoughts in general are long gone. You see, taste, smell, hear, feel, and breathe Derek Danforth.
He must feel the same way, because he starts to mumble your name over and over, his hips stuttering as he grips you tighter, like he's afraid you'll slip away.
"I'm here, love." You coo at him, planting a quick kiss on the top of his head.
"Cum for me. Can you do that for me, pretty boy? Hm?"
Apparently he can, because he gasps, and with a few more thrusts... he's reduced to a sweaty, writhing mess in your lap.
You aren't much better off, finishing immediately after him. Shit... are your legs trembling? Is that normal? Fucking Danforth.
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Derek finally pries himself from your chest, staring up into your eyes and breathing heavily from the exertion.
Two days in a row... that's got to be a personal record. He shudders at the uncomfortable, yet familiar, feeling of hot cum in his sweatpants.
"S-sorry... Did you...?" He stumbles over his own words, face flushing as you stare down at him. This is so fucking embarrassing. He shouldn't let himself get so damn desperate.
"Yeah... I did." You respond, blinking at him with a dazed expression.
Derek knows that feeling. He's half convinced this is all some kind of sick hallucination induced by his severe sleep depravity.
His worries are washed away as you lean down and plant another kiss on his forehead. He wants nothing more than to stay here with you, but fuck... the mess.
"I'm gonna go clean up." He mumbles, pulling away from you and discreetly covering the wet spot on his sweats... like you don't already know what happened.
"Please, just... stay." Derek looks back at you one last time before disappearing into his bathroom, and all he can do is pray you'll still be there when he returns.
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Author's note: Okay this took WAY too long and I have no excuse I'm sorry. I hope it was worth the wait! It's currently 3am, stayed up all night writing this because I'll be out of town then next few days. Hopefully I can get the next chapter out in a reasonable amount of time... but I do plan to write a one-off smut piece first, so... who knows. I'll try.
Also I REALLY want to write about Derek teaching the reader to play poker but I do not know how to play poker. Someone help. Can two people play poker together? Or does one have to be the dealer? How does that work? DM me or send an ask or a comment or something I need help!!!
Al-Haitham and Kaveh become best friends and then strangers. Al-Haitham moves on; Kaveh tries to.
A decade later, they meet again. Everything has changed, except a few things: the way Al-Haitham's shoulder rests warm against his, the flecks of amber in his eyes, and the way Kaveh - despite everything - finds himself falling in love once more.
Read the story here!
A brief snippet of Chapter 2 is below the cut. Enjoy!
Hm, Al-Haitham thinks as he watches Kaveh stumble out of the guest room, rubbing bleary eyes and yawning widely, the corners of those reddish eyes crinkling from the movement. Looks like the water's still rough.
Some things, after all, stay steady over the years; and in this, Kaveh certainly has very, very old company. Besides, Al-Haitham is not one to talk; he has the quilt his grandmother made him as a child, now well-worn and faded, draped over the edge of his bed alongside his folded covers.
"Good morning."
Sunlight filters through the open windows in the living room, dappled by the trees and plants surrounding the house. It casts early afternoon green along the furniture and floors. But hearing Al-Haitham's words, Kaveh pauses in the threshold of the hallway, just out of the light's reach. Shadows creep along the lines and curves of his face. His golden hair is matted; he must have tossed and turned quite a lot in his sleep. But the bags under his eyes are smaller, so at the very least, he slept soundly in spite of his inebriation and his woes.
Al-Haitham takes in the way Kaveh's shadow stretches behind him into the darkness of the hallway, watches the way he absent-mindedly rubs at his right wrist, and feels an age-old pang in his chest. He once considered this man to be the sun in the sky. He was, once upon a time, the boy who became his very first friend.
But Kaveh, standing there as he is now in the hallway, is not nearly as tall as Al-Haitham remembers him to have been.
"I almost thought last night was a dream." Kaveh shifts from one foot to the other, crossing his arms. The house is not cold; Sumeru is warm this time of year. "But you're here."
Al-Haitham had wondered much the same, waking up early in the morning to recall he'd brought a near-perfect stranger home with him. But he can't find it in himself to regret the decision, even as he recognizes the furrowed lines on Kaveh's face that say he certainly does.
"Welcome to my house."
"Yes." Kaveh nods. "You grow padisarahs in the garden?"
"I do."
"Good decision. The scent is lovely to wake up to." Kaveh looks around. "Your home is nice." Frowns and points at the bookends on the shelves. "Not those."
The Aranara-shaped figures are carved from wood by a local artisan. Al-Haitham spent a considerable amount of time picking them out a year ago. "They're cute," he says in their big, round-headed defense.
"That… is one way to describe them." Kaveh seems to remember his manners, because he backtracks. "But, truly, the house feels so warm and inviting. You've done a wonderful job with it."
"Of course," Al-Haitham agrees.
"Do you really intend to let me stay for a while?" Kaveh asks, quietly. Outside, a dusk bird caws somewhere — not too close, but not too far away, either.
"Yes," Al-Haitham answers.
"Alright." Kaveh shifts one foot forward from the threshold delicately, like he's testing how the sunlight feels against his skin. Then: "Thank you."
Al-Haitham nods. Won't wave off the thanks, because he knows the weight behind it. "Come eat."
Kaveh shuffles over, footfalls light. He stops suddenly the moment he reaches the kitchen.
"Oh!"
The reason is clear. Before him, propped up in a booster seat, Nahida holds her silverware tightly. A fork gripped in one palm. Spoon in the other. She takes mealtimes very seriously, but a stranger in her home is unusual. Her green eyes watch Kaveh like a hawk.
New chapter coming Saturday! We finally see happened after that (mean) cliffhanger I left the last chapter on!
I don't have much else to say besides I'm sorry for leaving last chapter on a cliffhanger 😭 on top of it coming out with chapter 261 last week. The cliffhanger part was intentional and I wanted it to happen, but to top that with what had happened in the JJK manga was a lot lmaoo
Sneak peek for Chapter 19 (spoiler warning): You're the One Thing I Can't Stand to Lose
Satoru was late. He should’ve been there a couple of minutes ago.
It wasn’t necessarily the biggest deal, Satoru wasn’t always the best with time to begin with, so maybe he just got distracted once they got off the phone.
Yes, that had to be what it was.
Satoru was fine. He was almost there. Suguru would hear the buzzer any second.
Any second spanned several minutes, with nothing to satiate the growing pit in Suguru’s stomach. It tore through his gut, making him feel hollow.
Should he call Satoru? What if he was trapped somewhere? But if he was, why hadn’t he called? Maybe he didn’t have service?
Suguru debated it more, but figured he probably shouldn't call. If Satoru was still driving, he should focus on getting off the roads safely, whether that was to Suguru’s apartment, or back to his own house, or even holding himself up in a building with other refugees of the storm.
Yet, the pit in his stomach still nagged at him. Suguru settled on just calling Shoko, to check in with her and see if she knew anything.
Satoru was fine. He had to be fine.
The call seemed to ring forever before Shoko picked up.
“Aren’t you supposed to be having a little date with the birthday boy?” She said, half teasingly, half curious.
Suguru felt his heart drop though, his throat closing. “So you haven’t heard from him?” His voice was choked out weakly.
“No?” Shoko said, “Isn’t he with you?”
“No.” Suguru’s hand shot to his mouth as his body started to shake. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. Satoru would show up any second, laughing about how long he took, and giving Suguru a hug for how much he was scaring the life out of him.
Suguru was just overreacting. Satoru was fine. He said he would be.
For those of you who are seeing this for the first time, welcome! If this intrigues you, it would be amazing if you could check out my fic! Updates are posted every Saturday at 3pm est!
Current status of fic:
Current status of fic: 18 out of 25 chapters complete, just over 107K words ❤️❤️
**The story is rated mature and with a warning of graphic depictions of violence.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
A Golden Piece Of You (Slowburn Radio Apple)
Chapter 4: Chocolates And Litterboxes
Present
~
Thankfully, his initial headache had disappeared, most of his angst, and a good amount of the cramps had dissipated by the time, a week after all of that, his daughter made her way to his room.
The moment he answered the door and saw the look on her face, all crumpled up like she wanted to cry, he knew what was up.
"Oh, Char, mother nature hit you bad this time too, huh?"
She just nodded, making a pitiful noise.
"Come on in."
Charlie had barely waited for an invitation though, and flopped onto his bed, rolling herself into a burrito.
"Ibuprofen?"
"Please," came her muffled answer.
"Chocolate?"
"Yeees," and from the sounds of it she had squirmed her way up under a pillow or two.
When he'd found the desired items and plopped them next to her, he did so himself and patted her cover-lump of a shoulder, peeking under the pillows saying, "Everybody in here being irritating shits today?"
He got a glimpse of her wide red eyes, filtered with unshed tears.
"You have no idea," she said.
Honestly, Lucifer wasn't having that much difficulty imagining how frustrating it must be to deal with everyone right now. They were all riding the high of just having gotten through another Extermination.
"I have a very good idea," he booped her on the nose, and she sniffed, flapping his hand away. "Ah, ducky! It'll be okay!"
"NoooOo it won't," she sniffed again, "I, yuh-yelled at Vaggiiie."
"She's a tough gal. You know how many times I fought with your mother when we were both on our cycles? And it always-"
It always worked out?
"Ugh! No! Bad example, bad example!"
He hastily patted her blanket-covered form as she retreated fully back into her pillow nest, wailing inconsolably.
Lucifer couldn't do anything at this point but let her cry it out, because no matter how many times he tried to reach her under her fortress of blanket-hood Charlie's sobs just got louder.
Finally, desperately, he said, "Ho-kay, well, I guess I'll just have to eat ALL these ferrero rochet chocolates by myself!!"
With that, settled back onto propped up pillows, he made a gigantic show of unwrapping one of the decadent candies as loudly as he could, grinning when the blanket-Charlie lump sat up and an arm immerged, sneaking a chocolate from the box, crinkling noises coming from within as the chocolate was devoured.
The girl had never been able to resist a good sweet treat.
Lucifer supposed a movie might go over well right about now and was messing with a VoxTech affiliated streaming service on the flat screen opposite his bed when Charlie fully flipped back blankets, scooched over, and laid her head on his shoulder while he perused their options.
He almost tensed up with surprise- almost, but resisted. It had been a long, long time since he and his daughter had sat in comfortable silence like this, and a tiny warble of his own emotion tried to come up in his throat. He cleared it with a slight cough.
It was Charlie, his baby girl. And no matter how old she was, she was always welcome to snuggle up to him like she was ten years old again, the only stress and anxiety on her mind being skinned knees or the loss of a favorite toy.
Ah, what the hell- he gave in entirely, opening his arms so her blonde head was on his chest, her breathing more regular now and kind of sleepy.
"Put on Cinderella," she said. "Please."
"The first one? A Twist In Time is pretty good though."
"I've never seen that!"
They decided on a movie and watched it together, the chocolate wrappers growing into an ever increasing pile on Lucifer's lap. When the movie ended he tweaked at her ear a little bit.
"Charlie. Char."
"Huh! What!" She jerked up, eyes wide.
"You fell asleep," he grinned.
"Did I! Oh shit. Shit!!"
She threw the covers back, scattering chocolate wrappers everywhere.
"Hey, it's all good. Looked like you needed a good nap."
"No, you don't understand!" - she stood up to straighten her wrinkled clothing, redoing her ponytail as she was going on, "I've got to- I've gotta apologize to Vaggie. I've gotta get a litterbox for Gumbo, and new bedding for the room additions. I've gotta-"
"Slow down, kiddo. Hey! Look at me. Look."
She stopped mid sentence, her eyes still wide with anxiety.
"Vaggie is super patient and understanding," Lucifer said. "Especially when it comes to you. Maybe not to others so much. And Alastor can get his own damn litterbox. Or- I can. I'll do it. Don't worry about it, Char, okay? You have more important stuff to do, and I'm here to help," he promised.
"Thanks dad," she gave him a wobbly, stressed-out smile.
"There's my girl. Now go talk to your lady."
"Will do."
She snagged the rest of the chocolates, dashing out of his room, giggling madly when he hollered, "-HEY!!"
- His door slammed shut behind her exit, and he grinned.
That grin faltered a little bit.
He had a feeling he was going to just LOVE finding a litter box big enough to handle Gumbo's monster shits.
