Alhaitham having a fiancé/e but no one believing him until the very last minute. . .
It should have been obvious to everyone, really. It's not like he tries to hide it. He never works overtime and his weekends are always busy. He's honest about it too! The only problem is. . . everyone just assumes it's his sarcasm.
"Your excuse to call me on a weekend better be valid." Alhaitham crosses his arms, eyes throwing daggers at the committee group who begged to meet him for an urgent consultation.
"Acting Grand Sage! What could be more urgent than pursuing knowledge?"
"Spending a nice weekend with the love of my life, perhaps." He rolls his eyes.
"Oh please, now let's continue with the meeting."
~
"I never knew Alhaitham is so partial to buying trendy desserts."
"Obviously, it's for my darling spouse."
"Haha very funny."
~
"What do you mean you're leaving before we start filing these works?"
"A little birdie wants me home before dinner."
"Ugh. You could just say you didn't want to help."
~
Yes, it's his sarcasm but it's also the truth. People just seem to scoff at the idea, maybe even laugh, because who could stand to be with such a blunt and sassy guy? You, apparently.
"Acting Grand Sage. . . what is this?"
"A wedding invite."
"Yes but. . . why does it have your name on it?"
"Obviously because I'm getting married."
Someone chokes on air. Married? Him? Alhaitham the crude??
"Since when??"
"Since always? I mentioned it last week that I was planning it."
"I thought you only said that to skip overtime!"
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Your moirail likes to touch you.
It's another symptom of his damage, really, all the pitiful, cracked bullshit about him wrapped up in the needy, hungry way he strokes your hair or your horns or takes daring, glancing reach-arounds to brush a hand over your back. Trolls are tough as chitin and claws, and you don't give a shit about your aberrant mutant blood, you're a troll through and through.
You shouldn't like to be touched. You don't.
But Gamzee does. And you, for some godforsaken reason, are infected with some kind of disease that makes you tolerate him.
It's cold tonight, and you can tell as soon as you wake up because Gamzee's curled around you like a grub, face buried in the back of your neck and hands rubbing absently up and down your belly. You have the slime set pretty warm, but not warm enough, apparently. When you move to get untangled, Gamzee grumbles and groans and reels you in even harder, nuzzling behind your ear.
You're a troll, you don't care about being touched. But you also can't get away. So you settle, and grumpily let him pet sleepily at your face, your chest, your neck. The slight, rough scrape of the pads on his palms and then the prickling, controlled threat of his claws.
You don't need to be touched. You don't need anybody for anything. A troll is an island. A troll doesn't give a shit. A troll doesn't get frustrated and irritable if they have to go a few weeks without their moirail touching them, so you don't. You don't.
You don't realize you're purring until he starts purring too. The tips of his claws trail across the curve of your thoracic cage, prickle and knead at you like you're some kind of wriggler comfort object, and you try to choke down the rusty rumble in your thorax and can't make it happen.
Gamzee mumbles, "Best friend, beats every miracle on the sand, sea and sky how sweet you turn for me touching you," and curls around you a little tighter, bites harmlessly at the side of your neck and the nape, where the hair trails off down your posture column. For a second all of his claws and his fangs press just hard enough to catch you still, breath hitching--then his palms smooth past the place his claws pricked at you, and he nuzzles his bare cheek against the mark of his teeth, and you're purring even louder, melting into warm, stupid shivers.
You understand what he actually said a second later, and are immediately, breathlessly indignant.
"I'm, you, fuck you," you retort, which is far from your best work, but in your defense your moirail is a soft embarrassment of a troll and he won't stop touching you, bundling you up into the curve of his freakishly long body, petting the line of one of your thighs, kneading a tense muscle there, going back to rubbing the place your purr hums at the base of your thoracic cage. "I'm humoring you, dipshit, because apparently you fucked up too many cartwheels when you were a wriggler and sloshed most of your panmatter out of your ears."
Gamzee gives a rattling, huffing chirr of amusement, melting into an actual laugh when you growl at him. "If you say so, brother," he says, soothed amiable, and nips at the back of your neck again, where he's definitely going to leave a really obvious mark for all of your chucklefuck hatefriends to hoot about.
"You're embarrassing both of us."
"Aww, motherfucker, that right?"
"You're-- It's not a-- What do you fucking think I am, some kind of--of touch-dependent mammal, huddling in its shitty brood-den with all its wriggling, hairless birth-pupas--"
Gamzee's snickering at you again. "I bet mammals don't purr so nice, best friend."
"Fuck you," you say again, with feeling, and twist half-heartedly at his grip again. He clicks his fangs, a disappointed little noise, and just holds you tighter, tight enough it aches just a little. Tight like it doesn't matter what you are or what you want, or what you don't want to want. He's not letting you go.
You don't like it. You don't, you don't, you don't. A good troll wouldn't. You don't.
He's mumbling some kind of highblood benediction into your hair, some nightmarish honking thing about being anointed in the wicked elixir and the stardust in your eyes. But his claws come to your face, a huge, cool frond wrapped all the way around to cup your cheek, and when his thumbclaw rests on your lip it's just heavy enough to shut you the fuck up, just light enough you know he's not going to hurt you. Just threatening enough to send a thrilling pale shiver through your palms and down your spine, and safe like you can only be like this.
"Little motherfucker gets so fucking hungry for it when he's lonely," Gamzee murmurs, and presses a little harder when you try to open your mouth to argue. "Nah-ah-ah, best friend, shoosh. Shhhh. You're so motherfucking warm, and look at you all soft all over, like clouds or some shit... Lemme all get my feel on. Get a good motherfucking grab-around at you going."
You bite his finger in revenge, a whole lot gentler than you could considering how tough highblood skin is. He laughs at you and then moves all in a rush, pins you into a tight little ball with your arms at your sides and your knees to your chest and dunks you in the sopor, bringing you up growling and squirming.
"What the fuck was that for?!"
"Shooshing," he says, and pats your face again with a stupid-sounding splap-splap noise. "Rowdy little motherfucker's gotta chill the fuck down. And hey, check it out."
His hands find both of your horns, and he combs the sopor through your hair with delicate clawtips and then rubs the sopor at the roots of your horns, right where thin skin gives way to the slight velvet at the bases.
The cool pressure feels completely different combined with the humming, numb-sensitive tingle of sopor, and you're immediately rendered hopelessly, humiliatingly compliant. You melt like a frozen beverage block at high noon in the desert. You make a noise you would murder any of your enemies or friends for hearing. You croon like a pupa who just discovered cotton candy. You'll fucking savage him if he stops.
"...'S real motherfucking sweet how you like it," he says again, peacefully, and this time you feel way too damn good to make yourself argue.
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i wrote a really small thing related to this post!
I've been getting back into OIs so i came up with this arranged marriage scenario in a Victorian setting for Asmo and MC and have been chewing on it for the past several days lol
I think I'm gonna come up with more stuff for this later but I just wanted to post this for now φ(゜▽゜*)♪
The weather was nice out today so you decided to go for a walk around the estate garden and rest in a somewhat secluded spot. Unfortunately, someone had managed to find you. How did the two of you keep running into each other in place so vast?
"Sooo….." Asmodeus leans into your space to look at the pages of you book. "What are you reading?"
"…A book."
"…Well yea, but what is the book about?"
You hold back your sigh and answer instead. "It's just about something I took interest in recently…"
Asmo stares at you for a moment. "You know, I'm starting to realize something about you."
"You are?"
"Uh huh," he nods. "At first, I thought you were a cagey person, but you're just really socially awkward you know? You kind of remind me of one of my brothers."
You close your book without making note of the page you were on. "I'm going back inside. Goodbye."
"Wait, I didn't mean it in a bad way!"
You sigh. "Are you sure? Cause you've been pretty rude to me several times before. So I'm having a hard time believing that."
Asmodeus makes a face. "It was an observation?"
"Okay. Can you just…let me read please?" The request came out harsher than you intended but maybe you were feeling a little defensive.
So what if you were "awkward". You weren't expecting to talk to anyone when you came out here.
Asmodeus huffs and leans back on his hands. But he doesn't leave…. for some reason. Maybe he was bored?
You flip through your book trying to find what page you were on.
"Page seventy six."
You look over at Asmo who has already busied himself with inspecting his nails.
"Thanks."
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