Timeless [Sting X Reader] || Third Book

15 : Sleep's Good for the ( Drunk and Nauseated ) Soul

! IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE , PLEASE READ !

[a/n]: forgive me for the shortness of this chapter, i had absolutely no idea what to write, and this is kinda like a filler, just some fluffy tidbit!! also an important announcement :

This book is going to be ending very, very soon, and, consequently, this series of Sting Eucliffe x Readers is going to be ending very, very soon as well. I've thought about it, and I've decided to cut this book off at maybe chapter 25- but I'm not so sure.

All I know is that it's going to end at around chapter 20-25; maybe I'll extend it to chapter 30, who knows?

Unfortunately, I WILL NOT BE MAKING A FOURTH BOOK. This is the last book of the series, and I feel it has run its course, so if I make anymore books it'd probably become stale and tasteless. I'll be making a proper author's note on the final chapter, with all the sappy thanks and whatnot. . .

But, for now, enjoy this fluffy tidbit I prepared for you ^^!

- Acnologia_Slayer

x x 

"I swear train rides just get worse and worse each goddamn time," you grumble. Your world is spinning, your head feels like it's been slammed against cobblestone repeatedly, and you can feel your breakfast of meat and eggs coming back up your throat.

You swallow the ( hopefully ) digested food before it spills out of your mouth disgustingly, and you run to the kitchen to fetch yourself a cool glass of water to quell the discomfort of both your head and your digestive system.

Sting's still lying on the same spot on the floor, and he hasn't moved since. You'd think your husband has died, but you could hear him utter colorful curses, grouching still even as you downed a glass of much-needed water.

You set the empty glass of water down on the counter, and the clink of the glass as it meets marble prompts another migraine. Thankfully, your stomach's quieted down, so there's the silver lining in the metaphorical cloud.

You walk towards your husband, every pound of your foot against the floor causing another pound to go off inside your head, and it feels like a handful of centuries have slipped away before you finally reach your husband, who's making this low groaning sound, which sounds quite like the byproduct hum emitted by a machine at work.

"Sting," even talking hurts, and you immensely regret downing all those remaining bottles of wine right before a several-hour train ride. Sting made you drink, even though you were still battling an irritating hangover- all it took were a couple of sniffs of the wine glass, a few slurs, and the bitter taste of Sting's drunken lips before you began indulging in the alcoholic beverage.

There's muffled mumbling coming from your husband.

"I'm taking a nap," you force the words out, and it was as difficult as forcing down vomit, but you're proud of yourself for even being coherent, "you can continue, ugh, becoming one with the floor."

You don't wait for Sting's answer, you don't even think he's going to answer, and you stalk away, into the inviting space of the bedroom, your gait wobbly like the stupid, regretful drunk you were.

You flop down on your bed, heaving both a relieved and a pained groan, and all the nights spent staying up late, gossiping like schoolgirls finally caught up to you, and it's not long before you've fallen asleep.

Sting, on the other hand, lifts his head, and gravity weighs it down, a hundred times more forceful than usual. He fights gravity, and his urge to throw up and pass out on the lidded toilet seat afterwards, getting up to his feet, accompanied by another chain of profanities.

He staggers all the way to the bedroom, and he's surprised to find the door wide-open, but it allows him a view of your sleeping figure, your limbs all splayed out like a cat. He smiles fondly, despite all the figurative punches he's feeling to his own stomach and head. Sting gathers whatever's inside of him that isn't potential vomit, and proceeds to the bed.

He slides onto the warm surface, and the sheets bunching up underneath his hands has never felt so good. He rests his head against a pillow, and he wonders why he preferred snoozing on the floor over snoozing on a bed. He disregards his last thought, because thinking literally makes his head hurt, opting to throw his arm over the curve of your back, slotting into the open space next to you with a small, satisfied grin. It's not long before Sting's surrendered to the temptation of sleep, too.