#putting back the link because it didnt return to the tag anyway

[rokutouxei]

so, baby, tonight just be the death of me

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark

theodorus van gogh / mc | E | 4616 | [ao3]

warning/tags: creepy guy behavior, jealousy, outdoor sex, oral sex, fingering, vaginal sex, exhibitionism, vampire bite, multiple orgasms, using the lord’s name in vain, and dom behavior. (yes, all of that.)

You jolt. “Wait, what? On the first of May?”

“Yes, seven at night. In the Marquis’ mansion, a big party, several potential clients, the paintings on display,” Theo confirms, checking his notebook. He turns to look up at you. “Why? Did you have something planned? I can go alone.”

You frown. Of course you did! “No, I want to go with you. It’s just—it’s your birthday night, and I thought we could spend some time together.”

“If you go, we can,” he says, a little too matter-of-factly that you flinch.

“Yeah, we will, but we’ll be doing work.” He reaches out to put a hand on your shoulder, and you relax. A little. “I’m just a little disappointed.”

“We can always celebrate afterwards,” Theo says. His hand moves to cup your cheek, and you lean against his touch. “Besides, what matters is that I’m with you. Late or early, it doesn’t make much difference to me.”

Your heart is warm at how he poured his heart out, but you still pout. “It does to me though.”

“Then,” Theo begins, the gears in his mind working, knowing exactly what he needed to do to raise your spirits even a little—“I’m sure you can think of one or two things that’ll make that birthday night interesting, work aside.”

You raise your eyebrow, but grin back when you see him smirking. “Well, if that’s what you want.”

-

Oh, his big fat mouth. Theo cannot say it’s not his fault when it definitely is. He should have known what was coming when he challenged you.

Theo has on a sleek black suit, one step more formal than his usual work clothes. He’d asked you to dress extra nicely, but decided not to interfere with your fashion choices for the night—you’d spent enough time in this era to figure out which both flattered you and matched the tastes of the current age. But he hadn’t expected you to push those boundaries.

You walk down the hallway in a beautiful deep blue gown that skimmed your curves so deliciously. Beautiful intricate blue lace lined along the front. There were even jewels sewn onto the fabric. There’s a beautiful gradient to deep purple at the bottom. It’s long enough for decency, but has a slit high enough that your ankles peep discreetly with every step. It has a beautiful Grecian neckline too, revealing your shoulders, your collarbones—Theo holds in a breath at the thought of leaving very visible marks on them before you even get to the ball. He’s a little thankful for the conservative front of the dress, because even through the fabric, he can nearly feel the plush of your breasts, pushed up wonderfully by your corset.

Oh, Theo can already see all the men he’ll have to glare off of you.

The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop it, something that only happens when he’s already on the edge of your teasing. A bad sign for him, you think to yourself. “You look enticing.”

You grin. “A hundred years into the future this’ll be tighter and have a slit all the way up my thigh.”

Theo licks his lips before he takes your arm in his. “I can’t wait to get there, then.”

-

The thing is, Theo doesn’t need that thigh-high slit to feel hot for you.

It’s the little things—if he were to be honest with you. The way you bite your lower lip when someone says something flattering about you. The way you hide your face with your hands when you’re embarrassed: like you’re not even trying, you little tease. The little squeeze you make against the firm muscle of his forearm when you cling to him. The nearly-imperceptible shiver that runs up your spine when he pulls you close to him defensively. Possessively.

Tonight, it’s all of the above. But not at him.

The host of the party, the Marquis, was one of high social status—he knew lots of big-shot names of not only rich generals and officials but also philanthropists, with much money to spend and eyes for art. Not great eyes, Theo would argue, but definitely a taste for it that he could use to further his agenda with his artists. This made the party very, very important to attend. The both of you had one goal: to make important, useful connections. To convince them, to persuade them, to get them to listen and to believe in this new dawn of art that Theo dreams of seeing. The strategy was simple: charm as many prospective clients as possible, and, as much as possible, secure future meetings and deals.

Theo doesn’t like dealing with women clients, if he were to be honest. He prefers talking to the men because they usually talked straight business, and Theo—while he was good at it—doesn’t really enjoy the little banter the women liked to do around him, skirting around art, complimenting his looks, his attitude, his suit. But the women here know that he came with another woman, and to get you to convince them was a trickier card to play.

That left you to take care of the most important client of the night: the nephew of the great Marquis, Major General Lowell. Unwed, but rumored to have had many children out of wedlock, the Major General was famous for his, say, interest in women, particularly those half his age. And you were definitely at least half his age.

The two of you stand across the room from Theo, a distance away, champagne glasses in hand. Theo can’t hear what the Major General is talking about, but he’s talking animatedly at you. Probably bragging about the spoils of war. Theo can see that you’re hardly listening: just enough to keep conversation flowing. He watches you closely, the way you tip the champagne glass just to press teasingly on your lower lip, the touch of your shoulder against his to respond to a joke.

Anger begins to simmer underneath Theo until you turn to look at him, your eyes filled with heat.

Just for him.

“Sir Theodore,” one of the ladies around him say, calling his attention back. Countess Ysabella. She insisted that he call her Ivy, though, perhaps a nickname from childhood—an effort to create some semblance of familiarity. She’s well-known in events like these, a beauty, someone desirable in high society for her wealth and her smarts. Invested in both the arts and sciences. And in him as well. Boldly, she touches a hand to his chest to call his attention. “Were you listening?”

Theo feels your stare digging into the back of his neck. Well. Two can play at this game.

-

Work, you remind yourself, swirling the champagne in your glass. Work. But you can’t seem to focus. Major General Lowell is still talking non-stop into your ear about the glories of war: his fame, his wealth, his power; the bloody trenches, stepping over corpses—you were almost 100% sure he made up at least half of what he was telling, or had blown it up to a degree that was near unrecognizable. You take another sip of your champagne, turning your head toward Theo, who you’d much rather be with. He’s engaged in conversation with a wealthy-looking woman, in a half-slow dance, her hands on his shoulders, and maybe he’ll reach out and put his hand on—

“A fast drinker. You better take care of yourself, miss, wouldn’t want something to happen to you,” the Major General chides, sliding a hand over your waist. You feel the instinct to tense up, but remind yourself this is work, and relax into his arms.

You cock your head toward him, a teasing smile on your face. He’s too close for comfort, but you have to do it. “Oh, what’s a little liquor. Even a lady such as me is up for a little fun, just like you, sir.”

“You smart ones, so rare. Valuable little treasures. Makes you so much more worth it to find.” You want to gag a little. He releases you (you sigh in relief) just to move in front of you and press a kiss to your knuckles. “However did a beautiful lady such as you end up in this drab party all alone?”

Jackpot.

-

“Oh, I have a beautiful little manor. We can definitely host your exhibits there, if you’d like,” the Countess says. “I would want to see the pieces first, of course, as it is my residence, but oh, I have a ballroom. Of course there’s a ballroom, with beautiful sunlight in the afternoon. It would be a nice place to hold it in.”

“It would be an honor,” Theo says, as politely as he can muster, when really he just wants this to be over. The Countess is lovely, he can’t deny that—quick-witted, has an answer to his every quip, knows what questions to ask to keep the conversation going. That was exactly the problem. She was so good at keeping the conversation going, it wouldn’t end. He could probably get her to agree to host a hundred of his exhibits and she still will not stop trying to talk to him. Why did she have to be so good at this? He turns toward your direction in the ballroom, to find that you’re already pointing at the paintings on the wall. Your eyes sparkle with excitement now, when you talk about art, and Theo can see it. He can also see the Major General’s hand on your waist.

Then, bringing him back to reality, Countess Ysabella presses herself as flush as she can to him, forcing his hand on her hip. “But of course, it’s really still up to your approval, of course. You’re welcome to visit anytime. I’d love to have you over, a cup of tea, maybe dinner.”

Theo nods. “That would be great. I would have to bring my assistant with me, however. If you don’t mind.”

“An assistant!” she gasps. “Oh, to think you’d have another young man so enthusiastic and brilliant at the dealings of art with you. Lovely, just lovely. Bring him over, of course. I would love to hear his thoughts as well.”

Is she just so used to getting whoever she wants?

“A woman, Countess Ivy,” Theo corrects. She jumps at his use of her provided nickname, but also at the revelation. “My assistant is a woman.”

Her face instantly falls. She doesn’t do it quickly, as if she’s hesitating, but Theo feels her slowly distancing herself from him. “Is that so?” she murmurs, mouth a thin line. “Very well, that would be interesting. Still, bring her over. It’d be great to meet her, another woman in the arts. See what she’d made of, if you know what I mean.”

“Very well,” Theo says, bows as she lets go. “Looking forward to business with you, Countess.”

If only she knew she’d never match up to you.

-

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, you sidle up next to Theo at your designated meeting spot with a smile on your face. Your eyes are a little hazy, perhaps from the alcohol. Theo puts on a frown. “Well?”

You raise a hand to reveal a business card between your fingers; then slide them to show you have two. “The Major General and his Lieutenant friend. They promised to buy, but they’d like to talk more about the pieces. You?”

Something flares in Theo, knowing it’s not just the pieces they want a bit of. But that’s for later. “The Countess agreed to hosting a show or two in her manor, but she gets to veto the pieces. Seems interested in art nouveau. We can handle that.”

“We can handle that,” you echo, tucking the business cards into his coat pocket, if an excuse to pull closer to him. “So, let’s get out of here?”

“Yes,” Theo says, breathy. “It’s my turn now.”

-

You expect Theo to hail a carriage as soon as you got out of the fancy mansion, but instead he asks if you’re up for a little walk. You think it’s a little weird—typically, after a night of “associating” with his female clients all he wants is to shut down and rest—but you humor him. The both of you walk down the street in companionable silence.

The streets of France at night is a sight you enjoy seeing. Cobblestone paths lit by orange lamplight, laughter and conversation and music coming out from bars and cafes still open for the night crowd. It must have rained a little, because the stone paths glimmered lightly in the dim light, making the city seem almost dream-like.

You’re just about to bring this up to Theo when you feel his strong grip around your wrist, and he pulls you into a back alley with what seems like all the restrained force he can muster. When he carries you up onto something—a stack of crates—you see his pupils are blown wide. His mouth is on you before you can even react.

The kiss is messy and rushed and searing: a mash of teeth and tongue. It’s like he’s trying to take back something that has been lost to him. Theo groans when you wind a hand into his brown hair; and he snarls when you tug on it. He bites your lower lip before his kisses begin their downward path, the line of your jaw, the column of your neck. When he pauses at the juncture of your shoulder and neck you feel his fangs graze the skin lightly; you moan when he refuses to bite.

“Feeling like admitting I’m a way better lover than Mister Major General?” he asks, forehead pressed against yours. Of course he is, you know that. He doesn’t have to ask. Hell, he probably knows that too. Why’s he even messing with you like this?

You decide to play with him too. “Hmm, can’t be sure yet. He seemed like someone good with his… gun.”

“I’ll show you something better than gun,” he growls. “I’m going to make you cum so hard you’ll regret making me jealous.”

He steals your lips for another burning kiss before he descends, hiding underneath the fluff of your long skirt. The moment he’s out of your sight, the situation finally sinks in: here you are, fucking in the back alley in the middle of a still-awake city! You turn your head both sides to check if anyone’s around, thankful to find both ends of the alley empty. Oh, but you remember that one side—that’s the street where Isaac and Napoleon go to teach the children some afternoons, and Isaac said that morning he was going to tutor some children at night with a girl named Aliza, because she could only go after work, and Napoleon had teased him for it, because—

“Hondje.” Theo’s voice snaps you back to the present. He’s rubbing circles along your inner thighs, and only then do you realize you were tense from all the worry of getting caught. Relax, you can nearly hear him say, as he presses a kiss on the inside of your calf, your thigh. Let go.

You hum in acknowledgement, taking a deep breath, and in a moment, Theo is on you.

You’re already damp where he touches you with his fingers, caressing the outer lips gently like prying open a flower. That slow, gentle torture he reserves from when he really wants to wreck you out of your mind. You buck against his hand and he only laughs, a deep sound coming from the bottom of his throat, as he traces his fang against your inner thigh. Two fingers press against your entrance but don’t enter, just circling. You shudder.

“Theo,” you beg, canting your hips towards his mouth. You try to keep your voice level, quiet enough to hide in this dark alley, but you’re not sure your best is soft enough. “God, just do something. Bite me, touch me, please—”

You feel his tongue graze against the soft bud of your clit and you gasp. His breath is hot and your body is on fire. You feel him smile against your folds before he drags his tongue over you, slowly, near-reverently, like doing this with you is holy. He slips his tongue inside of you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever had. A low moan rolls out of you, your fingers bunching in the fabric of your skirt.

Theo’s already gotten the act of going down on you like an art. He knows your every weak spot, knows which strokes you like, which ones make you shake and shudder the most. He uses every bit of information to his advantage. He suckles on your clit until you’re shivering, your slick cold down your legs, then, still not satisfied, slips two of his fingers into you. You lift a hand to your mouth and bite, knowing if you don’t, you would be screaming. He pumps you slowly, fingers curling, trying to find that one spot that—

“Fuck!” The cry rolls out of your mouth when he hits it. Theo emerges from under your skirt, his hand still firmly between your legs. You try to turn away from him but the way he seeks your eyes is something you can’t resist. When you finally make eye contact with him he smirks, his sea-blue eyes darkening with hunger.

Theo moves closer to you, making sure to keep his hand on the right spot, and asks: “Think you can cum on my fingers alone?”

Your ragged breath almost prevents you from speaking, but you have to. You want to. “I can, yes, oh, I can,” you say. “I can, but I don’t— I want—”

He nibbles on the shell of your ear. “Want what?”

“Theo!” you say, trying to sound angry at his meanness. But you only sound desperate. Theo presses harder against you, the palm of his hand heavy against your clit. You feel electric. You decide to surrender. “Want to cum on your mouth, please.”

He’s on his knees again. You swear his mouth is magic: everywhere it touches feels set on fire. He rolls your clit with his tongue, teasing, timing it with the pump of his fingers inside you—he listens to you sing. Half-praises, half-curses, the strained vowels of his name. Then finally he pulls your clit between his lips. Harshly. You let out a cry that goes straight to his cock.

He calls out your name, groaning, with his face still between your already-shaking thighs—then he says, an order, a command—“Cum.”

So you do. The rest of the city disappears: there’s only Theo and you in this little universe. You orgasm so hard any semblance of voice control you have on you melts into thin air, forcing Theo to scramble up and press a hand on your open mouth. It smells like you. Your insides pulse against his intruding fingers for what seems like forever. Your vision spins, head lolled back upwards. You see the endless night sky hovering above. Theo always makes you feel like you own the world.

-

Theo hears the passersby long before they cross the small alley. Your dress is now unceremoniously popped open, corset out of the way; he’s fucking you from behind with your once-fixed-up hair twined in his fists, a mumble of “ah ah ah” falling out of your lips with every thrust. The both of you aren’t too close to the adjoining streets, but the low lamplight would make the both of you a tad visible if someone passing by tried hard enough to look. The footsteps get closer; he hears the sound of a woman’s laughter. He pulls your head up by your hair, then covers your mouth with his hand.

You make a sound of confusion, and Theo shushes you. You strain your ears until you finally hear it too: the sound of a couple walking by, maybe for a late night romp. Why does that voice seem awfully familiar…

Theo whispers against your ear: “You’ll have to be quiet if you don’t want to get caught.”

Then, remorselessly, he begins thrusting up against you once more. You think you might be able to do what he asked pretty easily, but the new angle let him reach way deeper, that spot that makes your knees weak. And it felt good. Your knees buckle with the pleasure and Theo has to hold you up by the waist so you don’t collapse. You try to trap your cry in your throat but it comes out as a shuddering sigh into his hand.

Theo chuckles, a low sound that sends fire down your belly. Theo’s not usually one for dirty talk, not this much, but today feels like a whole different timeline altogether anyway, fucking in a back alley. He continues to aggravate you, whispering, “You got tight. You like this, don’t you? That we might get caught. Maybe you want to get caught.”

You sigh softly into his hand but he’s relentless. The footsteps get closer. In a few more seconds you might just hear their conversation. The girl is questioning why the hell her partner is at a bar if, out of everything he could order, he drinks coffee. Wait—

Theo grins into your shoulder. “Don’t let Arthur hear you.”

Before the realization even hits, Theo snakes his hand on your waist downward until his fingers rest on your clit, circling. Your eyes suddenly focus, laser-sharp, to the shadows crossing the alley.

Arthur laughs, that flirty laugh he’s long perfected. “Oh, my dear Roxy, my luv. I don’t want to leave a bad expression on beautiful ladies like you, you know? Alcohol, they make men sloppy.”

Theo squeezes your clit. You shiver and nearly cry at the effort of not making a sound. You buck your hips backward toward his hand.

“You certainly know your way around then,” the girl says. Her voice has that low dip that sounds hungry. You’d know what that sounds like. “Experienced lovers are a delight.”

Theo slumps his head on your shoulder and shakily sighs, the sigh he makes when he’s close to the end. God, can’t Arthur just walk any faster?

“Yes, they certainly—” Arthur turns his head to the alley, and you duck your head down, praying you’re out of the light. Your heart is pounding so hard in your chest and in your ears and everywhere you don’t know if it’s from the sex or from the fear or excitement or all. “They certainly are,” Arthur finally says after a brief pause, wrapping an arm around the girl’s waist. “They’re the ones with the most surprises.”

As their footsteps slowly disappear to the distance (you half-mindedly remember there’s an inn down the road) Theo returns to work full force. His hand on your clit, one on your mouth, his cock deep inside you. Bite, you want to tell, bite me, please, but without your voice—

You sink your blunt teeth into the skin of his fingers, and Theo instantly understands. Face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, you hear him moan likely in relief as he finally sinks his fangs into your skin. The pain sears but it is gone in a moment, and then suddenly, there is only the white-hot of pleasure. It takes mere seconds for you to collapse, dizzy from his teasing and the tension of nearly getting caught pushing you right over the end. Your moan is muffled into Theo’s warm hand as you go rigid then limp into his arms, your cheek pressing into the damp wood of the crates.

Theo laughs, a deep rumble full of pride. He is still inside you, reveling in your post-orgasm pulsing. He massages gentle circles on the small of your back. “I can’t believe you actually enjoyed that.”

You huff, a little laugh through your nose. “I thought I would die,” you admit. “You are ruthless.”

“And you love it.” He brushes away your hair and presses kisses down the nape of your neck until your breathing evens out a little bit. “Think you can take a bit more?”

“Yes, please,” you say, your voice faltering at the end when Theo moves to hits that spot you love once more. “Oh, fuck, come on, Theo, cum.”

That’s all the permission he needs. His hand returns to your hair, tugging sharply, as his thrusts become messier, harder. Your insides, your thighs, your hands, your entire body is still sensitive and everything feels too much. You sob desperately as you stutter out his name between each thrust; “Shit!” he growls,  his fingers grasping at your hips so hard you’re sure they’re bruised. He nuzzles the crook of your neck, fangs just gently scraping, not enough for the skin to break. You feel the mess dripping down your thighs.

“Christ, Theo,” you start to say, but then he flips you over and kisses you softly, like you’re the first flower of spring, as if he hadn’t just fucked your brains into goo—and the words disappear from your mouth.

-

The two of you hailed a carriage and spent the ride home in silence. As much silence as “still hearing your heart pound through your ears” could be. Theo had one hand on your thigh and you leaned against his shoulder until you got back to the mansion.

You’re about to turn the corridor to head off to your room to rest, mouth open to tell Theo goodnight, when once again he catches you by the wrist.

“You think I’m done with you tonight?”

-

You wonder if you were ever going to get used to this, his lips on yours, his hand on your thigh. Your hand in his hair, your tongue in his mouth. The both of you hadn’t even bothered to turn on the light—just crashed on the bed in a mess of limbs, Theo hurriedly disassembling his perfectly-worn suit. You felt a little bad (because you sure enjoyed the sight) but the sight of his flushed skin sure was a little treat. He’d helped you out of your dress too, cloth fluttering to the ground, accessories haphazardly hanging on the edge of the bedside table. Now, there was a little tent in his pants and there was no hiding how wet you are through your thin underwear.

“You were doing it on purpose, weren’t you?” Theo asks against your throat, voice muffled. One hand of his has snaked up your side, cupping the curve of your waist. The same side Major General Lowell had placed his hand on you much earlier that night—so far back it felt like centuries.

You want to tease him a little for being jealous, but you figured you’d had enough fun for today. He freezes a little when he feels you brush his messy bangs aside and press a kiss against his forehead. “Just to rile you up. You know there’s no one else I’d want, Theo.”

Instead of words, he answers by grazing his lips against your neck again, the sensation making you shiver. When he reaches the part where he’d bitten you earlier, he presses a kiss on it. It’s the same as him telling you I love you.

You turn and take his face in your hands. “Happy Birthday, Theo,” you say, sneaking a kiss to his nose before flipping him over and straddling his waist, hands already on the hem of his pants. You remember the Countess’ hands all over him at the party.

Time to get revenge.

[bastardnev]

Cheat Day

in which i inexplicably decided to write a fic about mustafa’s cereal-nutella-oreos breakfast combination

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: World Wrestling Entertainment, Professional Wrestling, All Elite Wrestling Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mustafa Ali/Pac | Adrian Neville Characters: Mustafa Ali, Pac | Adrian Neville Additional Tags: damn i guess i gotta start tagging aew in my nevstafa fics huh, Fluff, Silly, mischief involving nutella and oreos Series: Part 1 of Jess Has Too Many Fics In Her Notes Summary: Neville wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the scene in his kitchen that morning.

(ao3 link)

i ended up making a new tag list bc its been so long since i last posted a nevstafa fic + i didnt wanna tag ppl who might not be interested anymore -- im going off the likes/replies to the post i made abt this yesterday so if you’re not on the list and you wanna be added lemme know !! i’ll add you 🥰

tag list: @sailor-slam-dunk @residentjoth @riveliciousx @lambchopviking @storyranger

Neville wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the scene in his kitchen that morning.

He had heard Mustafa get out of bed earlier, but he figured he was just going to get breakfast started — it was his turn, after all. Technically, he still was, but not at all in the way that Neville anticipated. Rather than finding him cooking the pancakes they’d agreed upon the night before, Neville instead walked in on him preparing a bowl of cereal in a large serving dish he’d placed on the island. This in itself wouldn’t have been so odd (other than his choice of bowl) if he didn’t follow up his milk pouring with a big search around the kitchen. He was rummaging through the cabinets that lined the walls for... for something. Something that Neville couldn't quite figure out, especially since the only thing he could plausibly be looking for was a spoon. What a can of olives had to do with anything, Neville had absolutely no idea.

And so, he choose to ask him about it. “What the hell are you doing?”

Mustafa glanced over at Neville quickly before putting the can back and going right back to his hunt. “Oh, good morning. Where’s your snack stash?”

Neville blinked, confused. “My what?”

“Your snack stash. Y’know, where you keep the snacks?”

“I— I know what a snack stash is, Mustafa.”

“Then where’s yours? I know you have one — everyone does. Fess up.”

What was he trying to do? The fact that he still hadn't given Neville a clear answer was a bit concerning. “What does it matter where my snacks are? Wait, forget about that, aren’t you supposed to be cooking pancakes?”

"Who said anything about me making pancakes?"

"You did. Just last night."

"Ehh, that was just pillow talk."

"You told me about how badly you were craving them when we were eating dinner." Why would they be discussing pancakes during pillow talk, of all things?!

Mustafa scoffed, and he offered no further response other than continuing to push aside the items stacked up on the shelf. "Are you planning on answering my question at all?" Neville crossed his arms. "What are you doing?"

“You'll see!" Mustafa responded when he finally decided to speak again. "I’ve got something even better than pancakes in mind."

Mustafa placing a breakfast food above pancakes was almost enough for Neville to consider the idea that he'd been replaced with an imposter. Almost. “And, that is...?”

“A secret — until you tell me where your snack stash is, of course.”

Neville sighed, rolling his eyes. He knew there was no getting out of this no matter how hard he tried. “Oh for the love of God, it’s the one under the microwave,” he at last confessed.

“The only one I didn’t check!” Mustafa grinned, and he darted over to the appropriate cabinet, digging around excitedly. “Ooh, you’ve got a lot of good stuff in here!”

“No need for the commentary, just take what you need.”

“You’re pretty defensive over your candy, huh?”

“You’ve got the biggest sweet tooth out of anyone I know — how can I not?” Now that he thought about it, seeing as Mustafa now knew where he hid all of his sweets, Neville would probably have to find a new hiding spot once this visit was over...

“Hmm.” Mustafa pouted as he moved a variety pack of mini candy bars aside. “You bought the Oreos I asked for, right?”

“Of course.” Like Neville honestly wasn’t going to do so after Mustafa practically begged him to pick some up when he went on his most recent grocery run.

“You do love me!” The package of cookies in his hands, Mustafa triumphantly brought it over to the island, pulling back the seal.

“Can you tell me what you’re doing now?”

“Patience, Nev! Geez. You can’t rush these things, you know?”

Neville wanted to retort, but the distinctive crunch of Mustafa crushing a fistful of Oreos over the serving dish interrupted him, and all he could do was watch in silent awe (and confusion). Mustafa repeated this process over and over again, unblinking, until he’d gone through one of the sleeves. “There...” He muttered, sealing the pack back up and putting it aside. “Now for the last part...”

Last part? Neville found himself a little afraid to say this out loud. His question received an answer anyway, however, as Mustafa then returned to the cabinet, pulling out the large jar of Nutella that Neville was secretly hoping he wouldn’t notice. (Man goes through jars quicker than I can count.) "Not really much I can work with here..." Mustafa mumbled as he put the lid aside, looking at the jar's contents. "You ate it all on me. Naughty boy."

"I'm... sorry?"

"Better be." Mustafa then went to the silverware drawer and pulled out a big spoon, and before Neville could wrap his mind around what was happening he'd scooped out a healthy amount. "This'll work, though."

"What—"

Neville wasn't able to finish this sentence, as just as he was going to Mustafa let the Nutella drop right on top of his cereal. Neville looked back and forth between the bowl and Mustafa, who appeared to be debating what to do next with his messy spoon. Rather than put it in the sink like Neville assumed he would, however, he shrugged, dipping it into the bowl.

It was right as he was about to put a spoonful of cereal into his mouth that Neville decided to go through with asking his question. "Okay, what the hell?!"

Mustafa paused, spoon hanging in the air. "What?"

"What is this..." Neville gestured towards the bowl, trying to find the right words to describe what he was seeing. "This... concoction?"

"It's... my cheat day breakfast?" Mustafa said this as if it were the most obvious thing ever, like he couldn't understand why Neville so was baffled. "Duh?"

"How did you even come up with this?"

"Easy — I woke up one morning, couldn't decide what I wanted for breakfast, so I just mixed everything I wanted together. It's better than you think it is, really."

Neville pointed to the package of Oreos. "You wanted to eat those for breakfast?"

"You haven't thought about eating cookies for breakfast before? What are you, an amateur?"

"And— And the Nutella, what were you planning on doing with that if you hadn't thought to throw everything together?"

Mustafa didn't respond, instead choosing to avert his gaze. Suspicious, Neville followed up with, "You weren't seriously considering eating it straight from the jar, were you?"

Mustafa made eye contact with Neville again, and neither of them said anything for a solid few seconds. Eventually, though, Mustafa shot Neville a sheepish grin, and the latter brought his hand to his forehead, slowly shaking his head. "Oh, God..." He let out a breath. "All this, yet you still have those abs..."

"I sure do." Mustafa brought the spoon back to the cereal and mixed it up a bit. "Now, maybe instead of pickin' on me you can come give this a try. You might like it."

"I have no use for any of that."

"False — everyone needs this in their lives."

"Not everyone needs something loaded with sugar so early in the morning."

"What are you gonna have instead, then? Egg whites?" Mustafa shuddered at his own suggestion, and he held a spoonful out towards Neville, who leaned away. "You know you want toooo..."

Neville looked at the spoon with a narrowed gaze. He knew damn well that he gave in to Mustafa way too often (something about the look in his eyes, he figured). He'd told himself that he would stop being such a pushover when it came to him, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity for him to stick to his word for once. Mustafa wanted him to try some food combo that he swore was amazing, something that Neville thought was completely ridiculous. He would be lying if he said he found it to be anything but.

...But he would also be lying if he said that he wasn't at least a little curious as to what Mustafa saw in it. Not to mention that he was giving him the dreaded eyes...

Neville said nothing. Instead, he took a few steps closer to Mustafa, allowing him to put the spoon into his mouth. "There we go..." Mustafa took it out a moment later, giving Neville a second to chew and swallow before asking, "It's good, isn't it?"

It was. "It's fucking disgusting."

"Liar, liar..." Mustafa singsonged, and Neville huffed. There was no point in denying it.

"Maybe you're right..."

"Ha! I knew it."

"Why do I always agree to go along with your nonsense..." Neville lamented, and Mustafa chuckled, leaning over to give him a kiss.

"Because you love me," he replied as he pulled away, and Neville struggled to hide the little fond smile that forced its way onto his face.

"...Yes, I do."