Relationship: Agent Stone & Dr. Eggman | Dr. Ivo Robotnik
Add tags: Pre-slash, established friendship, established routine/partnership, caring about each other, domesticity, discussions of ramadhan, breaking of fast, discussions of GUN work
A/N: I just realized somewhat belatedly most of these fics are inspired by things ive personally experienced in association to Ramadhan which is why theyre a lil nothingburger. Anyway wordcount wise this is a little better than day 2, but not by much.
Musafir means Traveller in arabic!
Stone hasn't been able to catch a break in weeks.
It wasn't anyone's fault—well. Perhaps their "superiors", but not even they were acting any out of routine.
Works ticks up within the first quarter of the year like clockwork, added that to the fact of operations moving sluggishly post previous Christmas and New Year celebrations. Appraisals and re-proposals and reports and meeting new clients squishing deadline after deadline after deadline. Everybody wanting everything right now at the cost of a smoother streamline of operations by the time they hit the 2nd quarter mark to discuss funding, and one of the many grievances of assisting the one man army that was the Robotnik Labs as the semi-government forefront of research and development of the United States' Homeland Defense was that one finds oneself juggling an inhumane amount of obligations.
It's nothing Stone hasn't been able to excel before, and that he will of course continue to do—but it's the first time he's doing it fasting.
The ticking time clock of the Hijrah calendar follows the natural rotation of the moon, accounting for the years it's preceded. It's just his luck almost the entirety of the Ramadhan will befall what he's expected to be the most hellish time of year—although, Stone muses, it is funny to see that regardless of the month it lands on, his parents' old age adage rings through. You don't get good weather on Ramadhan.
He's interrupted out of his musings by the audible chirping of Ivo's wrist-control; itself a semi-automated AI-learning mechanism—a stationary, marginally less fatal version of her Badnik siblings. The bony pillow from beneath his head shifts with a desolate grunt, and jolts him from his half-sleep.
"Up," Said Ivo Robotnik, and he shoves at Stone a cold halal turkey sandwich and a bottle of chilled water.
Stone sighs, and takes them wordlessly, watching his boss slump against the window of his private plane as he mutters breaking fast prayers under his breath, almost entirely automatically. It takes less than a minute before he's scarfing down the second meal he's had in—Stone checks his watch—11 hours. Jesus.
"Just crossed the Mediterranean?" Stone asked affably.
"We're landing in 5 hours." Ivo groans in response, rubbing between his eyes—no doubt a futile effort in discouraging an oncoming migraine—before he sets Stone with an all too familiar glare. "I thought you weren't even supposed to fast while travelling."
Oh, here they go again. "Doctor, we've been spending the last three months travelling. We'll be on the plane before 5 again today, given it all goes well." Stone reminds him patiently, taking up his tablet to field a few more emails before his obligatory ablutions. "I would've had to miss the whole month completely."
"What's the point of a rule if it's not meant to be followed?"
"It's an exception," Stone eyes him in warning. "To account for resources, safety, security and circumstances. We're travelling on private planes, on a set schedule I've personally accounted for. I still would've had to carry over those days later in the year, and you know how I feel about unfinished business, sir."
Ivo sighs again, loud and annoyed as Stone finally sets his tablet away, though Stone's eyes soften in counterpoint.
"I appreciate your concern, Doctor," he says. "But I'll be just fine."
Ivo jolts, eyes flashing. "You-!"
But Stone's already left for the bathroom, smiling privately to himself.
Day 7: Eid Celebration coming to you at 2am my time! I had a wonderful time doing all the prompts for this week and if y’all haven’t already please go check out the StobEidWeek tag for all the wonderful creations done by everyone!
Relationship: Agent Stone/Dr. Eggman | Dr. Ivo Robotnik
Add tags: Established relationship, cooking as love language, domesticity, literal sleeping together
A/N: This is half the previous wordcount but I really liked how it turned out.
Stone's woken up to the smell of baking.
Warm, goo-ey and the distinctly savoury scent of melted parmesan. He buries his face further into the pillows—no dice, especially as it cold it was then, lacking a familiar smell of sharp cologne and mild coconut shampoo as he'd gotten used to over the last couple of months have long since gone. Stone sniffs. At least 30 minutes or so.
From the kitchen; banging, though not so loud it could've otherwise woken him, had he not already been awake. The restrained—but unavoidable—sound of a full baking pan as it hit the marble countertop.
A clatter of cutleries. Plates. Stone exhales through his nose, almost allowing himself back to sleep.
"Hey." Said a familiar—and most beloved—voice. Still just a little raspy from sleep. "Hey. Hey. Wake up."
Stone groans.
Ivo hits him on the back—heel to spine—and Stone jolts, hissing from pain. He flips belly up, which accomplishes Ivo's true goal.
Stone blinks, eyes gamey. "Tdime isdit?"
"It's sahoor."
"What time?" Stone whines.
"I made lasagna." Ivo said, and just as it seems like he isn't likely to answer Stone's question at all, he sighs gustily. "You can check the wall clock in the dining room."
Stone groans again, loudly, childishly, smiling goofily as his lover pulls him to his feet by his wrist, and he laughs and laughs.
Stone does look at the clock, just as Ivo's scooping pasta into individual plates.
"Oh my god." Stone mourns.
"Hush." Said Ivo.
"It's ass o'clock."
Ivo looks up sharply, and some part of Stone—the gay one, the lovestruck one, the one who would burn the world and build it anew in the name of the one man who has ever made it matter—melts instinctively for the dark, sleep deprived undercircles of his eyes, and the flop of his uncombed bangs.
In his semi-asleep state, the warm embrace of safety in the security of his own four walls, Stone reaches out to comb his fingers through Ivo's hair.
The older man sighs again, gustily. Eternally pretending their adoration wasn't mutul, even hunched over a homecooked meal made for one man to enjoy before a day going without.
"It's 4.30." Ivo points out, strained.
Stone suddenly remembers what he was so upset about.
"I could've slept for another hour!"
Ivo stares at him. "Subuh is 5.50."
"I would've made it." Stone insists.
Ivo scrambles for the wooden spatula by the baking pan, and Stone doesn't even give it his all in flinching away as he's hit, over and over and over, his laughter echoing like gold in the warm, dark silence of the morning.
Relationship: Agent Stone/Dr. Eggman | Dr. Ivo Robotnik
Add tags: Traditional Lebanese clothing, implied sewing, domesticity, established relationship, Agent Stone is called Aban.
A/N: I hope I described the outfit well! I'm Malay myself, so I was familiar with sherwals and kaftans, but my own traditional garb is very different. What's up with men traditional clothing being harder to find and refer to than women, anyway?
At least I finally have a reasonable word count lmao
"Don't peek." Stone ordered, just as Ivo found himself purposefully craning his neck where the bedroom door hangs ajar, tempted by a mischievous breeze. "It is not sexy."
Stone had tacked on the latter not as an untruth—despite the undercurrent of amusement in his voice, it's clear this to be something he believes. Ivo doubts it, himself.
Ivo huffs, regardless, plopping obediantly back sideways into the back of the couch, fingers twitching for something to hold. A coffee mug, perhaps, or the stem of a half-filled wine glass. Stone had offered when they'd both made way across the threshold, jittery and nervous for their pre-planned reveal, but it's Ramadhan still.
Ivo usually had little mind for manners, but when it's Stone…
It had just felt gauche. He'd declined, and now reaps the unfortunate consequence of a choice he does not regret.
We digress. Stone is an excellent agent, even by Ivo's standards, but it goes against his training to roll over for an exposed underbelly—metaphorically speaking. This evening was about vulnerability, and Ivo thinks it well to soothe frayed nerves as well as he would allow himself. Stone makes it worth it.
"Alright," said Stone, and the nervousness is made all the more apparent now. He has shed, completely, the facade of his making—this is not about to be Agent Stone, Ivo realizes, but Aban, his friend, partner and lover.
Ivo fidgets again, snapping, ironically nervous himself. The sound is loud and jarring in the silence of the apartment, and so he commits. He snaps, once and twice more, beckoning, and he hears Stone laugh.
"Alright, alright." Said Aban, and Ivo hears him shuffling—making his way out—into the limelight. "Fine. But you'll have to help me with my belt."
He steps into Ivo's line of sight, and lo—Ivo hitches his breath, rumbling deep in his throat. A sound not unlike purring.
Stone looks at him from beneath half lidded lashes, flustered by the positive response. "It's not sexy." He says again, and Ivo was right to doubt him.
Here were the facts; Stone is a beautiful, fashionable man. Point B, in parentheses, Ivo was a man in love, who falls deeper for every new bit of stripped flesh, bared. Point B exists in paradox, in such circumstances—Stone was dressed exceptionally, almost uncharacteristically modestly—but it is the sentiment of it all.
The Lebanese traditional menswear was never, of course, meant to be erotically tittilating.
It is composed of heavy, loose fitting fabrics—meant to encourage sweat in dry plains, making use of harsh, sand ridden dessert winds; meant to protect bronze tinged flesh from the beating sun; meant for ease of work, for comfort. The Sherwal Stone has on hangs baggy and low, a satin tan colour that compliments his skintone, no doubt as well from the gentle cool feel against his legs. They're tied off at a point just below the knees, where it overspills into a pair of brown leather boots, polished to a shine. Clean and rarely worn, no doubt—Stone would never have allowed himself to wear shoes indoors otherwise.
To counterpoint the loose fit of the trousers, Stone wears an eggshell tunic—a Kaftan—carefully embroidered in delicate patterns that run down the sides of his torso, and the horizontal width of his shoulders. A stiffer sort of fabric, with more embroidery and beads sown into the cuffs of his sleeves. Ivo cannot admire them with the reverence they deserve, not from this distance—and so he beckons Aban closer with a curl of his index finger, and Aban shuffles ever so dutifully closer—lacking the jitters he'd been so plagued with just a moment ago.
Their hands brush as Ivo stands, taking from him the embroidered Shirwel as Stone passes it over. No further words are shared as Stone turns his back on him, and Ivo is left free to run his fingers down the draping length of the well made silk; the kind with tensile strength to stop bullets and pull trains, like woven steel; and he he loops it around Stone's waist. Front to back to front again, tying a rounded knot by his leftside hip—Stone's dominant side.
Lebanese traditional wear, delightful as it was in it's simplicity, was not made for sex, though arguably such was a matter of taste. But there was an attractive masculinity in it's silhouette, that pulls his eye to the snatch of Stone's waist, the shape of his thighs, and the breadth of his shoulders. Shoulders in which Ivo buries his nose in, inhaling the scent of something freshly laundered and rarely worn, masking the musk of sweat and cologne buried in the crook of Stone's neck.
Aban laughs, placing his hands over Ivo's own where they've wrapped themselves around his waist. "You don't hate it?"
Ivo makes a point not to entertain redundant questions, not even from him. Instead, he asks a better one. "You made these?"
"Well, the pants, yeah," Stone says, falling into the easy and happy groove of explaining something he loves. "I couldn't find one with the silhouette I wanted that didn't drape like chiffon, but the lady I bought this fabric from was Iranian, and she gave me some advice to alter this full length skirt the way I wanted this to. But I couldn't have done the embroidery on my tunic if I had a gun to my head, but I added the beads, and it was an easy match because the statement piece was supposed to be the belt, right? It's why I thought maybe you could look it over, because I had an idea for the vest—,"
They spend the rest of the evening that way, and when the Adhan croons through Stone phone alarm they'd both had to jump for the kitchen, having realized they'd both whiled hours away in conversation without a single dish put out to show for it.
An unfortunate consequence to a choice Ivo does not regret.
