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Literature Text
TW: Language. [Gangsta. ofc. ]
He will not ask.
’No.’
It was not his nature to do so.
’Yes.’
Maybe he’ll ask Worick to do it.
’Wait.’
Perhaps not the wisest idea.
His stomach growls, impatient, demanding - partly his fault, he must admit. Lunch will be late than usual, credits to the bastard ballhead of a bodyguard who told him to fuck off earlier.
Earlier.
He snapped.
Ballhead wrecked the wall.
Worick yelled.
’----!’
’What did he say again?’
’A what?!’
’A whor - ? Oh... A hole.’
Ah yes. He just made ’a hole in the wall’.
’Heh. That was funny.’
’Oh?’
Worick’s not impressed though.
Thus, Worick had sent him off on his own to buy the ingredients.
You usually do the shopping.
But you’re still asleep when he found you.
And you won’t be waking up yet.
He just knew.
It was not that hard.
Those normals.
Already used to their weird stares - suspicious. Doubtful.
Hateful.
Not a slightest fuck.
Tomatoes, carrots, spices, and meatballs.
Good thing he asked Alex to write them down.
He just shoved the paper to their faces, along with the cash.
And they said no more.
Just... quiet.
Exactly like you today.
Odd, actually.
You usually greet him first thing when you wake up.
You still got the sign wrong, despite how many times he’d corrected you.
It annoyed him at times.
And you seem to like it, annoying him.
He doesn’t mind.
But does he now?
You just walked past him, like he wasn’t there.
You walked past Worick too.
Worick had said something about your hair, and a nest.
You didn’t seem to hear.
’Are you drunk?’
It’s already high noon when you woke up, but your eyelids are still droopy. You approach Alex by the kitchen counter while he takes his spot on the table.
He watches you make your coffee.
’Wait. What the -?!’
That was fucking two spoonfulls.
He’ll definitely tell you. Only, Alex had already beaten him to it.
You settle your cup on the table, on the spot in front of the seat beside him.
You yawn.
He doesn’t smell alcohol.
You reach for the centerpiece, where the sugar is.
He stands up and slides it towards you.
Not even a ’thank you’.
In the corner of his eye, he catches Alex’s gaze following you, her lips pursed, uncertain.
Is that of worry? He cannot tell.
And so, just to make sure, he looks straight at Alex.
But Alex quickly looks away.
Her cheeks are... like the tomatoes.
He doesn’t get it.
He glances back to his side, and you’re not there. He shifts to the opposite side, and gets a glimpse of your frame as you disappear into the living room. Seconds later, some skin gets slapped, once, twice, and Worick whines, cut mid-sentence from his so-called telemarketing. You march into the kitchen, slightly flustered, and he watches you drag your seat forcefully beside him before plopping down on it.
He grasps at his own brew and sniffs, the savory scent of sautéed spices from where Alex is working teasing his nostrils, and he inhales it more -
- causing his stomach to growl again.
He grunts, and feels your curious gaze at him. He stares back and follows your hues - hazed, still, it seems - as they search for the source of the disappointed note, stopping somewhere below his torso.
Indifferent, he notes. Albeit abrupt.
Yet he stiffs a bit, holding his breath.
Definitely odd.
You move on, one hand smoothing the newspaper on the surface before you, while the other lifts the caffeine to your lips.
You perch one foot on your seat.
And his eye lands on the wrinkled hem of your shirt as it slides up your thigh.
His white shirt.
Askew and messily buttoned.
’Yes.’
He gets it now.
And so he interrupts your routine, grabbing the wrist holding your cup as he pushes down your raised knee. Startled, you resist at first, but submits at the first indication of unwanted ruckus.
After which, he finds Alex staring at you and him both, a steaming bowl settled on the tip of her outstretched arms as it hovers atop the dining table.
Inside it are meatballs swaying, skinny dipping -
- in a lake of tomato sauce.
He sees Worick sauntering into the room, taking in the scene,
just as your stomach joins his in a hungry chorus.
"Oooh ~ ! It seems that [First]-chan had a pretty rough nigh - ack!?!
And there was your slipper, hitting first base on the blond’s face.
He catches the prized bowl, steadying it, as Alex runs to your side, pleading at you to calm down while you angrily roll the newspaper, intended for a homerun hit.
He will not ask.
’Yes.’
And he’s partly relieved, somehow, that Worick never learns when he partly forgets.
Because he remembers it now.
Literature
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This was probably long overdue.
But this was more than nothing at all.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed open the door to reveal a hunky figure sitting on the chair by the bed, the ever-present book of sign language in hand whenever he was home. Already the sight of him was enough to let nervous sweat break through the pores on her skin, and seeing his eyes on her as he averted them from the book doubled the emotions that was running rampant through her.
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Just gonna casually favorite all your Gangsta stories.