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silkendress · 13 hours ago

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Bitten Bullet

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-ˋˏ➛ Chapter 3: Missing You

-ˋˏ➛ Call of Duty

-ˋˏ➛ Suggestive

-ˋˏ➛ Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

-ˋˏ➛ Strangers to Lovers, Civilian Reader, Slow Build

-ˋˏ➛ 11k Words

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Simon nudges that line between acquaintances and friends ever closer.

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Read on AO3

Simon nudges that line between acquaintances and friends ever closer.

Ever since he took you out on his bike it was like a bridge had been drawn, a light turned green.

It starts with calling you. It’s random and sporadic, only once every other day, but he calls. He calls and he prompts you to tell him about your day. You do. He listens.

You think he figures out from trial and error the days and hours you work, because when he does call it’s almost consistently when you are about to leave work or at home.

You take what you’re given like you always have. You cherish your occasional phone calls, you even begin to look forward to them. Simon doesn’t get deterred if you can’t talk for long or at all, he still sounds the same when you eventually do get the chance to return his call. Unbothered and persistent.

You haven’t spent time with him in person since the bike ride, but he makes up for it by taking a genuine interest in your day-to-day. You can’t remember the last time anyone aside from your mother did.

“Have you been up to anything lately?” Speaking of your mother, she checked in as always with her daily calls—or texts—sometimes you called her, sometimes she called you; she was the one person you spoke to consistently.

And soon enough Simon would be a part of that category.

And speaking of Simon… “Uh, well…”

You’re not sure if the bike ride with Simon was something you should tell your mother or not. Not because you thought she would judge you but because you truly weren’t sure how to explain you found yourself becoming well acquainted with a six foot-something man from the military that you also just so happened to meet at a bar one time.

There was also another, deeper worry, one you couldn’t quite place but was eating away at you now that you thought about it. You didn’t want your mother to become happy for you over something that didn’t exist.

It helped to expect nothing and hope for very little, it kept your heart safe. Even if that safety could sometimes be agonizing.

“I had a nice breakfast at a place I haven’t tried before.” Is what you settle on.

“I have to go grocery shopping.” You open the cabinet to get tea, and breathe out in relief when you see there’s one tea bag left in the box.

Simon doesn’t say anything for a moment. Your conversations were like that. Simon never stuttered or tripped over his words like you did; he would wait, mull them over, then talk. And that was assuming he had anything he wanted to say at all.

He never pressured you to talk either. You still got worked up from time to time and convinced yourself you needed to fill the silence lest you were labeled as ‘abnormal’at best, a reflex you developed from multiple failed social interactions and ridicule. You thought that the more you familiarized yourself with Simon the less this feeling would crop up, but oddly enough it’s been the reverse thus far.

It wasn’t that Simon made you feel uneasy, it was rather that he had this strange penchant of making your heart lurch and stomach swoop. A penchant he was completely oblivious to. You went great lengths to ensure it remained that way.

“Did you ever get that bloody cereal?” This was a part of Simon that you were still getting acquainted with, yet cherished all the same.

He definitely had his own sense of humor. Dry wit and deadpan sarcasm. You find yourself suppressing laughter, you are certain Simon can still hear the grin in your voice.

“No,” you carefully pour the steaming water into your mug. “But I hope I will when I go to the store.” You place the tea bag in.

“I hope it’s on a lower shelf.” You say in the same cadence as your previous sentence. You hear Simon quietly huff through his nose on the other end, it’s as close as you’ve been able to get to a chuckle out of him so far.

“Could just reach it for you.” And your heart lurches and your stomach swoops.

It’s that. When he says things like that.

He’s just making conversation, he’s just talking and you’re just being you. Overly-emotional, sentimental, tender hearted you.

You have to physically brush it off with a shrug of your shoulders.

“Yes. You could reach a lot of things.” You agree.

You want to stop thinking about how Simon dwarfs you, so you keep talking. “Hopefully the store has it. I could give you a review of the cereal and everything.”

“I’ll be lookin’ forward to it.” He replies dryly. “Had it the last time you were there, should still have it.” He almost sounds conversational, it’s a bit of a rarity.

“I’ll be going to a different store to get groceries.” The convenience store was closer, but it didn’t have all the necessities you needed. It would be a long walk to and from the actual grocery store, but you’ve done it before.

Simon’s quiet for a while. You walk over to a different cabinet and retrieve some sugar.

“Where?” He eventually asks.

You tell him.

“And you walk there?” He sounds incredulous.

“Yes.”

There’s a pause, then you hear him exhale heavily. “Fuckin’ hell.” He mutters quietly under his breath, too quiet for it to be intended for you to hear. You discern the words only barely.

You expect him to chastise you, or maybe admonish you for your lack of license—and car.

He does neither.

“When are you going?” It’s a question but it’s said so flatly that it sounds like a statement.

Your answer glides off your tongue easily and without thought. “Tomorrow morning.” You pour some sugar into your tea.

You reach out your hand to open a drawer, retrieving a small spoon to stir the granules into your drink.

“I can drive you there.”

Your spoon comes to a screeching halt on the bottom of your mug.

You sputter. “Oh, you don’t have to—“ Your anxiety flares, you didn’t want him to feel like he had to, you didn’t want him to pity you, you didn’t want to push him away—

“Don’t want me to?” It’s sharp and clear-cut, sharp in a way that comes from the need to know in no uncertain terms if he’s crossed a line. He’s demanding clarification.

You breathe in, then out.

“You can.”

“I will, then.”

You fuss over your appearance more than usual the next day.

You haven’t seen Simon in person since he let you sit on the back of his bike.

You’re not sure why it matters to you so much that you can feel your heart pounding in the very pit of your stomach, but it does. Maybe it was because you were half-expecting him to drift away, not flow back to you. You were just waiting for that inevitable day when he stopped calling.

Perhaps it wasn’t as inevitable as you initially thought.

Either way, your nerves were alight and you were pacing around incessantly while you tried to settle down. ‘It’s just groceries, there’s no need to get worked up over it.’

But that was the problem; you weren’t getting worked up over groceries, you were getting worked up over the idea of being in close proximity to Simon again.

Of course, sitting in the passenger’s seat in his car wasn’t nearly as close as you were on his bike, but that didn’t matter. What mattered is that you’d be sitting with him in the car to and from the store and this time you could easily talk to one another while doing so. What mattered is that you haven’t seen him since you’ve been on the back of his bike.

What mattered is that you couldn’t ignore that despite talking over the phone with him every other day, you missed him.

It left a lump in your throat and a pang in your heart. All dangerous territory for someone like you. It was becoming increasingly troublesome to corral your thoughts and feelings, to keep them all in check; no thanks to Simon.

Of course, just when you were beginning to reach a bitter acquiescence to the idea of dying alone and childless, he had to drift into your life like a phantom.

Perhaps it was precisely the effortless nature of his presence that made you—

You still refused to use the word. It was stubborn, maybe childish, but you weren’t going to say the word. You feel the uncomfortable itch of heat on your cheeks, embarrassment bubbling up in your chest.

You couldn’t help but bury your face in your hands in shame. ‘I’m making a big deal out of nothing.’

You make yourself take a deep breath, then another.

A ping from your phone frees you from your thoughts for a moment. On wobbly legs you retrieve it from where it was charging on the nightstand next to your bed.

It is from Simon.

‘On my way.’

You’re hovering by your front door, peeking out one of the nearby windows to see when Simon arrives.

Your nerves haven’t settled one bit, your twitching hands remind you.

Every time a car drives by your breath hitches in anticipation for the one that will turn in to park. Eventually, one does exactly that. After a moment you receive a notification on your phone.

‘Here.’

You breathe in and out, then do so again. You were determined to behave normally.

You step out your house and fumble with your keys to lock the door behind you. You couldn’t shake the feeling that Simon’s eyes were already on you. It made warmth creep up your spine.

When you turn around to walk over to his car you make an active effort to keep your gaze slanted so as to not lock eyes with him. The distance between your front door and where he parked wasn’t far at all, but it felt like miles.

You’re still thinking of what to say when Simon gets out of the car as you approach.

“Thank you again for this.” You blurt out.

“Anytime.” He murmurs.

Not ‘don’t mention it’ or ‘no problem’ but anytime.

Your heart clenches almost painfully.

You’re staring at your feet as you skittishly pad over to the passengers side of the car. You don’t realize Simon is right behind you until his hand darts out to open the door for you.

The suddenness makes you jump but you recover quickly. You nod at him all while avoiding eye contact, hastily murmuring a small ‘thank you’ before hopping into his car.

It is then you recall Simon got out of the car in the first place—he was going to open the door for you. Your mind was in such disarray you hardly realized it, let alone put two and two together. Your heartbeat is a dull ache in your chest.

The door closes with a soft thud. You’re given a very short moment to yourself in the vehicle while Simon walks around to the driver’s side.

You exhale heavily, clicking your seatbelt into place and running your hands across your face with a shaky exhale.

‘I’m getting in my own head again.’ You run your hand over your mouth, resting your chin in the heel of your thumb, your digits curled around your mouth pensively. Your other hand was resting on your knee, tapping fingers nervously on your leg.

Despite the rationality your mind offered you still were nervous.

You just were never good with talking with people, especially not men, and now here you were about to be driven to the grocery store by one. It was remarkable how effortlessly Simon eased his way into the periphery of your life. And if you were being presumptuous—and a little reckless—you got the inkling he wanted to slot himself even further into your day-to-day. Assuming you were interpreting his consistent calls correctly.

Part of your turmoil was compounded by the small insistence that a man such as Simon didn’t seem the type to make friends just for the sake of it, especially not friends like you. You always tuned that thought out namely because of the conclusion that followed, you didn’t have a good history with getting your hopes up.

You couldn’t get a good read on Simon either. There was no reality in which you were asking him—there was always a possibility that you were wrong.

You could just enjoy the time spent with him. It didn’t have to be anything more than that—

but you wanted it to be—

He would take you there, you’d get what you needed, he would take you home. Simple as that.

Just as you reached that resolution you hear the driver’s side door open. You straighten yourself up and fold your hands neatly in your lap. The car itself shifts just a little, almost imperceptibly, as your towering travel companion takes a seat. He shuts his door and starts the car without any preamble.

His movements are no-nonsense and efficient, there was an ease to his shoulders though. Then with one hand on the steering he places his hand over the back of your seat to pull the car out.

You don’t know why, but your face is ablaze.

Before you know it you’re on the road, your home getting smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror.

It’s only been about a few minutes, nothing has been said yet.

You think you can hear rock music playing almost inaudibly on the speakers—you’re not certain of its exact genre, just that there are guitars, drums and raw vocals.

Normally you wouldn’t mind it, especially not with Simon, but for you feel like you need to fill in the quiet—it’s something to do with how it’s been a little while since you’ve seen him face-to-face.

You had already thanked him twice now. So you end up saying; “Have you been up to anything lately?”

“The same.” Simon gruffly responds.

You gathered bits and pieces of Simon's daily routine from talking to him over the phone. Fragments of his day-to-day. It was never anything specific, you had to be rather observant and piece it together yourself.

You gathered he had a rather strict personal schedule. And he preferred to be solitary more often than not.

Except with you, it seemed.

You were resigned to let the conversation end there until Simon spoke again.

“Have you got a list?” He sounds indifferent, but you knew it was uncommon for Simon to make idle small talk—he was the type to simply sit in silence after a conversation had reached its natural conclusion.

It takes you a blink to fully understand him. A grocery list. “Oh! Yes, I do. I won’t take long.”

There's a beat of silence.

You spare a glance over to him. His eyes are firmly on the road, one of his hands on the steering wheel.

‘He has such large hands.’ You remember how said hand wrapped so effortlessly around your wrist, readjusting your hand to lay over his abdomen, the width of his shoulders filling up your view on the back of his bike—

You shake your head slightly as if to physically fling the thoughts out your head, looking away.

"I'm not in a rush." Came his gruff response.

You’re not sure what to say in response to that. You find a soft smile on your lips and warmth blooming in your chest regardless.

The silence that comes over in the car isn’t an unwelcome one this time. Another song begins to quietly start up on the speakers.

You’re looking out the window watching the scenery go by. At a red light Simon spares you a glance out the corner of his eye. He spends the rest of the drive with his eyes on the road.

You unbuckle your seatbelt as soon as Simon turns the engine off. The large building of the grocery store now right in front of you.

“I won’t take long.” You assure him once again.

Simon drifts his eyes over to you. You’ve just tugged the strap of the seat belt off your shoulder.

You momentarily pause in your action when you hear Simon’s car door open, then see him get out the car entirely.

Your brain still hadn’t caught up all the way by the time he comes around and opens the passenger door for you.

“Thank you.” It comes out as a quiet whisper under your breath. Your eyes are pointedly avoiding his gaze lest your heart beats out of your chest. You expect him to move when you get out the car. He doesn’t.

By consequence of him remaining still you brush against him. Once you’re out the car he shuts the door closed behind you. You feel his eyes burning into you.

“I won’t take long.” You find yourself repeating, it drifts off into a mumble and you begin to scamper off in the direction of the store.

You hear the telltale thud of Simon’s boots amble behind you.

Your neck twitches, you resist the urge to shoot a glance over your shoulder. You weren’t expecting him to come in the store with you.

On the chance you were being presumptuous, you slow to a stop and spare him a look over your shoulder. You almost sputter, flustered, when you see his obsidian eyes are already staring at you intently.

“Did you need something?” Your voice almost cracks, you mentally kick yourself for it.

Simon stares at you. His expression impassive but his irises intense. You watch his jaw shift almost imperceptibly under the black cloth of his mask, his eyes narrow, thinking.

“No.” He replies, the word sounding incomplete.

“Ah,” it looks like your presumption was correct. Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions. “Let’s go, then.” You somehow manage to say.

Before you turn back around to continue onward you catch Simon’s posture easing, the tension previously in his shoulders only becoming noticeable once he relaxed.

His heavy footfalls come up next to you. Arms brush over one another incidentally as you walk together. The chilly breeze does little to cool down your face.

You stand somewhat aimlessly as Simon grabs a cart.

People come in and out the store, the sounds of footsteps, chatter, rustling of groceries and whatever else all become a mosaic of noise in the background of your mind.

Some people spare glances at Simon as they go, more of a reflex due to seeing black cloth where most expect a mouth and nose. Simon is utterly unbothered by it.

Simon tugs the cart along with one hand, only stopping briefly to let a woman and her small child walk past.

“Thanks.” You mumble sheepishly, perhaps for the umpteenth time today.

Simon gives a single hum in lieu of a verbal answer.

He falls into step next to you, his eyes sharp and his presence close. You didn’t get the feeling crowds were his preferred setting, but you also didn’t get the impression that Simon was a man easily rattled.

Either way, you appreciated this favor he was doing for you. ‘How many favors would that be, now?’ You pondered.

As that thought crossed your mind, so too did the urge to repay him somehow.

Your attention is drawn out of your thoughts when Simon speaks. “What’re we gettin’ first?” He grumbles, he made an effort to keep his tone neutral, but the slightest hint of exasperation laced his voice.

He mentioned earlier that he was in no rush, but you could deduce that he would rather not be here longer than necessary. ‘The least I can do is be quick about this.’

“The produce.” You reply, now determined to get this errand done with.

You were nearly done with your shopping. Your list got whittled down bit by bit, and now you were in yet another aisle with Simon lingering somewhere nearby out of your immediate view.

The aisle faintly smelled of coffee, it almost made your head hurt—it certainly agitated your nose. Your eyes were scanning the wide array of instant coffee and powdered tea blends, determined to find the specific brand of green tea you liked.

“Coffee drinker?” Simon piped up behind you, a hint of genuine curiosity in his rough voice.

“Oh, I like tea more. Coffee makes me jittery.” You answer offhandedly, finally finding the brand you wanted—your joy was swiftly dashed when you couldn’t immediately see the plain green tea flavor from said brand, however.

You began your search again. ‘Surely they have it plain…’

“A woman after my own heart.” He replies flatly.

Your entire body goes as still as a statue, your train of thought derailed entirely. It takes about two pulses of your frantic heart for you to spin your head around to look at him.

He’s busying himself checking the options available. His back was to you, a small box of lavender-infused tea leaves in his large hand, his eyes narrowed with scrutiny. Completely unaware of how he was fraying your thoughts. Unintentional in the ruffling of your feathers.

You look away and take a breath. ‘I need to get out of my own head.’

It is at that moment your eyes land on the box you were so determined in searching for. You grab a box of decaffeinated green tea and toss it in the cart.

Simon places the box he was holding back into the shelf, following you out the aisle. You get a few more steps ahead until he calls your name, his voice only just loud enough to catch your attention.

You look over to him curiously. “Oh! You found it!” You cheerfully exclaim. It was a welcome distraction from your incessant thoughts following his offhanded remark; in his large hand was the now infamous cereal.

You couldn’t wait to eat it—and subsequently tell Simon how it tasted.

The cart rattles somewhat as he drops the box inside. Then he sidesteps around you to walk by your side again. You don’t move, he doesn’t step further away to account for that. The sleeve of his jacket gliding over your back is no surprise—you expected it. Hoped for it, if you were being honest.

Your face felt hot when for a fraction of a second you could feel his large, relaxed bicep against the layers of material.

Your eyes darted up to him. He looked as impassive as ever, perhaps a little more relaxed since you very first stepped into the store, but still hyperaware of his surroundings.

You suppose that’s why every brush of contact sent a whirlwind of butterflies in your stomach, for someone as conscious of the environment around him he made a habit of incidentally brushing past you. Incidental being the keyword, like Simon subconsciously included you into his bubble of personal space and therefore didn’t feel the need to give you as wide of a berth.

You wondered if he sought your touch the same way you were beginning to yearn for his. Your face grew ever hotter with that question in your mind.

You conclude maybe, because neither of you ever jerked away.

As you make your way to the final aisle you can’t shake the growing feeling of disenchantment; soon the day would be over, and who knows when next you would see Simon in person again. The fear of overstepping some bound that was clear for all to see but invisible to the likes of you was strong enough to prevent you from asking Simon outright to spend time with you. You just answered his calls and spoke with him that way, all while daydreaming for more.

Despite the moments you got flustered, you enjoyed this—it felt silly to admit to yourself but it was true. The simple mundanity of just existing with another person, with Simon, was something you enjoyed. Terribly so. Terribly.

Your thoughts become preoccupied with finding the last item when you sharply turn into the next, and final, aisle.

Fortunately your eyes catch what you’re looking for almost immediately. Unfortunately it was on the top shelf. You huff through your nostrils, exasperated. You leave the cart momentarily as you approach the shelf.

You stand on the very tips of your toes, it’s a song and dance you’ve done before—sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don’t. Your fingers brush over the box of brownie mix you were hoping to get, but every attempt to grasp it only pushes it further back. It was looking like it wasn’t going to be a lucky day for you.

It’s fortunate then, that another hand grabs it.

You sputter and flinch, just barely catching yourself before you smacked yourself against the shelf in surprise. By the time you steady yourself and turn around you see Simon dropping the box into the shopping cart.

You don’t know how someone so big could be so quiet.

You feel your face flash with heat. You of course had the passing thought to ask him, but you didn’t want to impose on him more than you already felt you were. Even though Simon showed no signs of doing this for you bothering him.

He tugs the cart along with one hand, moving out the aisle as he calls to you. “That’s it?”

You swallow thickly. “Yes. That’s it.”

‘I’m going to miss him.’ You realize defeatedly as you both go to the checkout together, the day nearing its end faster than you wanted. Again.

The line on most of the checkouts were too long for Simon’s liking, it seemed. He sharply drifts to the far less congested self-checkout.

You find yourself fighting a snicker at it; seeing small glimpses of Simon that weren’tblunt indifference was always a joy.

Simon wordlessly began helping you with scanning the items and placing them in bags, he was rather efficient at it. Before you know it the last item is scanned and put away.

You fumble for your wallet to pull out your credit card and turn to pay for it.

Simon is already at the screen and tapping something on it with his large thumb.

You hastily ramble. “Oh, goodness, Simon you really don’t—“

“I want to.” It isn’t harsh but it is swift and final. He isn’t going to argue with you about this.

You stare at your feet as the transaction completes, your hands clammy and your chest feeling as though it could burst.

“C’mon.” Simon mumbles to you, walking past you to take some of the bags in his hands. He then nudges you with a gentle tap of his forearm to get the rest of the bags. You sputter and pick them up, you realize belatedly that he took the heavier bags, leaving you with the lightest ones.

He waits patiently while you fumble with your fingers to get them all. Once you do he doesn’t give you the chance to thank him before he comes back around to softly bump you forwards again to urge you to walk with him.

You have to walk faster than normal to match his longer strides, you don’t have the mental capacity at this very moment to dwell on the casual contact nor how he, unprompted, paid for your groceries.

The air was cold enough to almost make you shiver, even through the layers of your clothing, but it was welcome; it gave you a sensation to focus on instead of the flutters in your stomach.

He opens the trunk of his car for you without preamble. You’re careful with placing the bags in. Simon puts his down inside as well. You and Simon’s limbs hover over one another as you both go about it, he looms over next to you.

With the final bag put away you both stand, with Simon closing the trunk with an audible thud.

“I really appreciate all of this, you know. Really.” You don’t think the words through, but it was the truth. A wary vulnerability etched in your voice.

“And…Talking to me on the phone too, I—“ ‘Rein it in a little.’ “Thank you.” You stare at your feet, your hands fixed in a nervous fiddle.

Simon doesn’t say anything. He shifts his weight on his feet once, a silence begging to be filled grows between you. You take the small risk and look up at him.

The light hits him just right, and there in the depths of his blackened iris you see gold and warmth, amber glinting where the sun shines on one side of his face.

It makes a honeyed crescent, his pupil stark and deep against the syrupy flecks. His pale lashes flash like sparks in the sunshine. His lids are low and his brows are smoothed out, the muscles in his face as relaxed as they could be.

He shifts his weight once more, and just like that his other eye falls back into shadow.

“You don’t have to thank me for that, sweetheart.”

You're cognizant of your heartbeat. You try desperately to not dwell on how the low register of his voice curl so delightfully over that honeyed word, how there still was a masculine gruffness to his voice even when he made it soft. A frisson goes up your spine.

“That all for errands?” He then says, fluidly shifting the subject. You can't determine if he would mind if there was more or not, if he would spend the whole day with you if you wanted.

You don’t find out. “That's all.”

The car ride back was strangely tranquil.

You had thought with your emotions running amok that you would have been a jittery mess, especially with how you could pick apart a few moments in the day where you failed your initial goal of ‘behave normally,’ yet you found yourself oddly at peace.

Simon looked relaxed too—when you last spared a glance at him. Every now and then you’d see his eyes flick over to you in your peripheral.

Your head is leaning against the passenger window, your eyes staring at the road ahead through the windshield but not quite observing anything.

It was peaceful.

“What song is this?” The question sort of comes out, there isn’t any ulterior motive or deeper thought behind it. You realized at some point you liked the song playing so quietly on the speakers, that was all.

“Hometown.” Simon replies without skipping a beat, sure in his answer.

“I like it.” So much so that you’re looking it up on your phone to save it for later, you then ask Simon the artist which he supplies with the same level of confidence.

A moment passes before Simon speaks again. “Didn’t think you’d like this sort of music.” He sounds intrigued, a thought spoken aloud, a branch for you to keep the conversation going.

You then ask him softly, “What did you think I would like?”

You would be lying if you said you weren’t curious if Simon thought of you nearly as often as you did him, if he wondered about you too.

Simon hums, the sound low and thoughtful. “Not this.” He eventually responds. Your lips quirk up in a smile.

You were about to prod him to tell you more, but you don’t have to. “Somethin’ more gentle.”

A beat, then muttered under his breath; “Somethin’ like you.”

Your heart lurches and your stomach swoops, monarch butterflies have migrated into the pit of your stomach—it’s pandemonium.

You swallow, and it’s difficult to with the lump in your throat, you chew the inside of your cheek to give that oversentimental heart of yours time to settle down. ‘Stop getting worked up. Stop getting worked up—‘

“I like those songs too.” It’s the best you can think of for a response, so it’s what you go with.

“Yeah?” Simon shifts his dark irises over to you, lingering for half a second too long before focusing his attention back on the road.

All you can manage is a soft ‘mhm’ and a nod of your head.

“Like a bit of everything, then?”

“Yes, you could say that.” You agree.

You mull over whether or not to continue on briefly before speaking again. “I thought you’d like this sort of sound.” You gesture noncommittally towards the speakers with your pointer finger.

Simon seems amused by this, you can almost hear the smirk in his voice. “What gave it away?”

You bite back a smile. “Oh, you know.” You mumble sheepishly, waving your hand.

You expect him to say something teasing in that dry tone of his, that’s how these sorts of conversations play out over the phone. The car slows to a temporary stop as you come up to a red light.

“What else have you thought about me?”

Your tongue weighs just as much as mercury if not more in your mouth.

You can’t even look at him in surprise, because you can see in the corner of your eye that he’s already looking at you and maintaining eye contact while you were flustered was a recipe for disaster.

You never had Simon say or ask you such a thing before. You had a decent enough idea of Simon to know that he was not the sort of man to place too much stock in what errant thoughts others had of him, so this threw you for a bit of a loop.

He sounded as though he couldn’t care less about the answer yet the intensity in his eyes told a different story. He was observing you, eyes honed in to any reaction or lack thereof.

“I’ve thought about when I’d see you in person again.” You blurt out.

His eyes shift back to the road when the light turns green. The car starts moving once more.

“Missed me, did you?”

Your mouth opens and closes, by the third time you realize you’re gaping like a fish and keep your mouth clamped shut. You run through your typical reassurances that you were making a fuss out of nothing to calm your heart.

In the time it takes you to think of what to say, Simon’s eyes dart over to you, in a blink his gaze is forward again.

You weren’t sure what you saw in that momentary look, either way, you found your voice was lost at the moment.

You also weren’t sure as to what to even say to that. It was possible he was joking—it had happened before, mortifyingly enough, where you mistook one of his dry and witty remarks for sincerity. In the event he wasn’t joking—

You still don’t know what to say or do.

You throw in the metaphorical towel. A huff of air escapes your throat, a sound that could pass for laugh, but there’s no genuine humor in it; this was as much of a response as you could manage. You rest your head against the window once more, the glass cool was welcoming against the rising temperature of your skin.

The only thing you could think of was to simply let the conversation simmer out. It wouldn’t be anything new for you and him, sometimes your conversations just did that.

Seconds tick by. Simon doesn’t press it, he doesn’t say anything at all. You’re grateful for it.

And gone as it came, your body cools down to a normal temperature. The quiet serenity from before envelops the car.

Your eyes shift over to spare one last look at Simon, a myriad of thoughts in your head.

‘I did miss you.’ Was one of them.

Simon is a gentleman in his own right. He opens the car door for you again once he parks the car in front of your home, he helps you carry the bags inside—taking the heaviest ones like before.

It is when you’re fumbling with your keys to unlock your door that you realize Simon has never been inside your home before. You didn’t think he’d help you put the groceries in, let alone pick you up to drive you to get said groceries or pay for them—

So you weren’t sure if the inside looked presentable. You kept everything clean, of course, but you couldn’t shake the incessant paranoia that you could have cleaned more.

You weren’t expecting anyone to come inside.

And yet, here Simon was, looming behind you while you finally twisted the key and opened the door.

You shuffled inside awkwardly, Simon right behind you on your heels. You take off your shoes at the door and Simon observes this before silently following suit.

Hearing the door shut makes your head whirl around. Simon stands in the short hallway, his stature was so wide that it made the hall appear narrower.

“Where do I put these?” He asks gruffly.

You blink, then sheepishly smile up at him. “The kitchen, over here.”

He trails behind you as you lead him. He places the bags next to where you put down the ones you were holding.

Then you hear the bags rustle. Your eyes go increasingly wide as Simon pulls out vegetables, one in each hand. Presumably to help you put the groceries away.

You open your mouth to insist he didn’t have to, but close it when it dawns upon you that this was an opportunity to remain in one another’s presence for longer.

You didn’t want him to leave just yet.

“Those go in the fridge, in the bottom shelf.” You say softly.

He gets to work immediately.

Simon made your kitchen feel smaller.

It’s strange, being so skittish around him that you go out of your way to avoid accidentally brushing him when you had already clung onto him while on the back of his bike, when you already brushed against one another in the store. Your mind convinced you that these were different circumstances, however.

You try not to think about how simply domestic this all feels.

Putting things away is much faster with someone else to help you, which came as no surprise. It wasn’t long before the last item was put away.

You hover in your kitchen awkwardly. Simon’s presence made you feel like a stranger in your own home.

“Thank you.” You mumble, staring at your feet. You can feel Simon’s eyes on you. He merely grunts in response.

Your eyes flick up to him, then dart off away from him. Your arms hang limply at your sides.

“Do you want any brownies?” You sputter out suddenly. His eyes go half-lidded, it almost makes him look soft. Soft felt like a word that was contradictory to everything you knew and assumed about Simon thus far, but that was what that look made him become—even if it was only on a minuscule level.

You feel your stomach swoop.

“As thanks.” You hastily tack on when Simon doesn’t immediately answer.

“You already thanked me.” He murmurs slowly, the careful tone in his voice makes you hesitantly look up at him. He’s still looking down at you past blond lashes.

Whatever was there in his eyes is there no longer the next time he blinks. “Won’t say no to dessert, though.”

The brownies are put in the oven. A timer is set on your phone.

Simon had gotten himself comfortable in one of the dining room chairs. You can’t help but think he looks endearingly out of place in your home. You never had many, if any, visitors.

Now that you thought of it, the only people that visited you so far was your immediate family.

And now Simon.

When you look up from your phone you find that he was already observing you. He had made a move to help you with the brownies, but you insisted you had it covered. Besides, he paid for your groceries—you thought this was the least you could do.

And goodness, did you have to insist. He wasn’t a man that would back down easily once his mind was set on something. It wasn’t until you stuttered out that you just wanted to gift him something for once that his mind was finally changed.

Admitting such a thing was embarrassing for you, but it worked. The only downside was that you once again felt like a fish out of water.

Simon leans back a bit in his chair, his eyes never leaving you. Heat creeps up your neck.

He had taken off his jacket earlier—took off his gloves and stuffed them into the pocket—it was draped over the back of the chair he was in. He was wearing a plain, short-sleeved black shirt. It exposed even more of his sturdy arms, and also the tattoos he had.

“You have a lot of tattoos.” It’s an observation impulsively said aloud.

He blinks slowly, his eyes shifting down to his inked arm, then back to you. “Just the ones here.”

You softly hum in reply. You can’t help but stare at the swirling ink, you think it’s flames. The designs of whatever else is on his skin is too clustered together for you to make out at this distance.

“You can take a closer look.” It’s said so casually that you think you misheard him for a moment.

All you know is that you were in the kitchen, and now you were seated next to him in the dining room. You track the motion of his thick arm outstretching to lay on the table, you notice the corded muscle flexing under his skin, the pale wisps of hair decorating his arms—just as blond as the hairs on his head, the veins in his arms.

And his hands. He had such large hands.

His fingernails are blunt, short enough that you barely saw any white on the tips. There’s some old nicks there, so faded that it looked more like a blemishes now. You could tell just by looking that his palms were calloused.

You lean forward a bit in your seat now that you’ve been given permission to closely examine the art etched onto his skin. You notice Simon’s eyes are tracking you in your peripheral.

You start at his wrist and work your way up.

The one there is the first tattoo of his you ever saw; the jawless skull with the crown. What is directly above it is more difficult for you to make out, the art is all bunched together and interwoven with black ink.

After squinting and tracing the lines carefully with your eyes, you make out the shape of a tank, looming over it is a helicopter. Behind that is larger piece of a solider holding a sniper rifle.

You think you see what looks to be the edge of another rifle—the silhouette of one in pure black—on the side of his forearm, but with the way his arm is laying on the table you can’t see the whole of it.

Further up his arm the images become more clearer, they aren’t as cramped together, but they still are rather close.

There’s another skull—he must really like the motif—and to the upper left of it is an anthropomorphized cartoon missile with its teeth bared. The backdrop of flames are increasingly comprehensible the further you go up his arm.

The final tattoo you can see is—

“Wait, what is that?” Your normally soft voice is raised somewhat in surprise, it makes Simon look at you curiously.

You point at the upper edge of his bicep, not at his shoulder but close. The artwork flows over the curvature there, so it’s somewhat warped, but not by much.

“Is that a knight holding an axe?” It was. One surrounded by flames and with skeletal hands—it was just a bust, only the shoulders up.

His eyes crinkle, you try to imagine what his smile looks like. You bet it’s teasing.

“Like that one, do you?” He rumbles, you could hear the grin in his voice. He had a sort of nonchalant confidence about him, completely at ease with himself.

You suppress the urge to shiver. You sputter a bit. “Well, I like them all.” You reply amicably. His eyes feel like they’re burrowing into you.

“Do you have one you really like?” You ask him in one quick exhale, your hand coming up to rest your chin in your palm to give yourself something to do. You feel the heat on your face from your fingertips.

Simon settles back in his seat a bit, he’s somewhere else while he thinks. He’s staring almost blankly ahead.

Then he tilts his arm, showing the inside of his elbow.

“This one.” He taps at it with two fingers.

It’s a pair of dog tags, barbed wire is looped through them where you think a chain should be.

He removes his arm from the table before you get the chance to read the text on them—the ink much too faded and blurry to be able to discern the letters with a quick glance. The hope of one day being able to know the story behind each tattoo is an unbidden one.

The quiet that comes over the two of you is familiar at this point, pleasant.

You spare a quick glance at your phone. Time is moving slower than you expected.

“Do you want any tea?”

There’s a good-natured scoff on his lips when he answers. “Always.”

You are scrunched up in on yourself on the far end of the couch.

Tea soon became ‘do you want to watch anything while we wait for the brownies?’

And thusly you found yourselves doing exactly that.

It wasn’t like your couch was comically small, just that you didn’t want to intrude on Simon’s personal space by mistake—personal space which encompassed a wider area than most. He took up a good portion of the couch, the furniture dipping a little under his weight when he sat down.

Sure, you held onto him like your life depended on it on the back of his bike, but that was different. He gave you the green light to do so and it was an appropriate response given the circumstances.

Simon’s legs were spread, but only just enough to be comfortable. You could sit up, but then your leg would be against his the entire movie.

When you asked Simon if he had any preference for what to watch he simply shrugged, so you picked. The brownies would probably be done before it concluded, but that was fine; this was just so you could have a sort of social buffer.

The title flashes on the screen and you see Simon’s eyes squint.

“Have you watched this before?”

“No.” He replies, deadpan.

The two of you quiet back down as the movie begins in earnest.

Simon is just as relaxed as he was at the restaurant. He’s leaned back lazily, his long and wide legs stretched out in front of him, there’s a mug of tea in his hand.

Every now and then he lifts his mask up from under his chin to take a sip, you catch glimpses of his jaw, a sight that you’ve seen before but still were intrigued over. You find yourself wondering what his entire face looked like. His nose, his cheekbones, if he had freckles or scars you couldn’t see.

‘I need to get it together.’ Your face scalds with embarrassment, bringing your mug up to your lips to take a small sip.

The most reaction you got out of Simon during the movie was quiet huffs and the occasional roll of his eyes when appropriate. You didn’t mind; it was a movie neither of you have seen before so you didn’t begrudge him for his silence during it.

It wasn’t a bad movie at all. At least, from what you could tell before you had to pause it to take the brownies out the oven lest they burn.

Shortly after you placed the pan out on the counter to cool you heard the soft shifting of the couch as Simon rose from it. He rolled his shoulder and tilted his neck to stretch out the muscles there. You made yourself look away.

“They’ll need to cool a little.” You mumble.

You hear Simon’s footsteps come closer into the kitchen. His head slants slightly to get a look at the desert, then his eyes drift to you.

After a beat, he slinks out the kitchen to return to his seat at the dining table. Simon was willing to wait.

Silence with him was easy. Talking to him was easy, too.

When you weren’t getting in your own head, that is.

You had asked him how he thought of your place, he made a show of flicking his eyes around the space at that moment, but you got the feeling he already observed your living space as soon as he stepped through the door.

“It suits you.” He eventually says with a slight shrug.

You give him a smile from over your shoulder before getting two small plates to place the brownies on. They had cooled down enough to not immediately burn the tongue once bitten into, which meant it was time to eat them.

You nearly jump out of your skin when you notice Simon standing next to you in your peripheral.

It was remarkable how quickly and how quietly a man as large as him could move. All the reasons you came up with for how he learned to move so stealthily all involved the military and the macabre, so you let it go.

He took one of the plates from you and waited while you cut him a piece, you couldn’t fight the small smile on your lips while doing so. Simon, objectively, was still an imposing man; something about him waiting so patiently with one of your delicate plates with pastel floral detail wrapped around the edges held in his calloused paw of a hand was endearing.

You gently place the piece you cut for him onto the plate, you may have subconsciously given him a larger slice than usual. Simon doesn’t seem to mind either way.

“Thanks,” he murmurs before ambling back off to the dining table. You nod to him, giving a soft ‘uh-huh’ in response before turning to give yourself a slice.

When you turn back around to go take a seat at the table yourself you nearly gasp aloud.

Simon’s mask was crumpled and discarded on the table beside his plate.

It takes your brain longer than usual to recognize it all. You didn’t even stop to think that Simon would have to remove the thing to eat.

Perhaps some part of you didn’t expect it to be so…Simple. Unceremonious wasn’t quite the right word—just being able to see his entire face unobstructed was an occasion in of itself. But it was uncomplicated. His mask was on and now it was off.

His eyes are, of course, the same. Darker than the earth, more ink than cocoa, framed by pale lashes and eyebrows. His lids are lowered, disinterested, yet the whites of his sclera are stark and aware.

He wears the gaze of a man woken from the dead, it wouldn't have looked handsome on anyone else but him.

But in context of his whole face, his eyes look different—different in a sense that they aren’t just isolated features anymore, but a part of an entire, storied picture. You recall the crinkle in his eye when he smiles. You wonder what his smile looks like.

You’ve wondered what he looked like many times by now, all different variations; now you realized some were close to the mark, some not. None resembled how he truly looked.

He looked like himself; perhaps he inherited more facial features from paternal or maternal line—you wouldn’t know. It didn’t matter. He looked like Simon.

Light stubble decorated a strong jaw. You see the entirety of the scar there now, it nearly grazes the edge of his earlobe. It had healed long, long ago; but you could tell just by looking at it that it hurt when he got it. His the bridge of his nose didn’t look completely straight, there was a slight tilt that suggested it was once broken.

You could also see the whole of scar on his lip, how it trailed up and further into his nostril. On the same side the scar was located his vermilion border was ever so slightly higher than the other.

“Cleft lip.” He says, simple and devoid of any strong feelings—positive or negative. He brings the baked good up to his mouth to take a bite out of it.

He wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were far off and away, yet he still noticed you enough in his peripheral to tell you were staring.

“Ah,” there’s no point in pretending you weren’t looking at his scars. “I was wondering what that was.” You sheepishly admit. Corrective surgery, you fill in the blanks yourself.

“Well, now you know.” He says with no small amount of exaggerated dry sarcasm. For a mortifying breath you think you’ve offended him somehow, but then the corner of his mouth twitches up in a phantom smirk.

You’ve seen his mouth before, but you’ve never seen him full-on smile yet; the twitch of his lip reminds you.

Your face feels warmer. You force yourself to stop looking at his lips.

You are quick to cross the room and seat yourself down across from him. Once seated you take a bite out of your desert far more hastily than necessary just to give your hands something to do other than fidget.

It was embarrassing to admit to yourself, but you struggled to not pay attention to him in your peripheral; to his jaw and how the tip of his tongue would occasionally dart past his lips to lick a stray crumb.

He was handsome. Perhaps not in the standard magazine cover sense, but there was a sort of ruggedness to him that plenty could find appealing. You were also a member of said plenty. Scars, broken nose and all.

It was unbidden; the hairs that rose on the back of your neck, the warmth pooling in your stomach—all just from seeing his face.

You considered mentally reprimanding yourself as you have countless times before throughout your life, but decide to give yourself a bit of a break and just enjoy what you could of his presence—which was no easy task since it was almost second nature by now, but you managed.

You opt to eat in silence. The brownie mix from stores practically never tasted bad, so it felt pointless to ask him even just for conversation.

You try your very best to commit his face to memory, cherishing it.

You half expect Simon to put his mask back on as soon as he's done with his brownie. He doesn't.

He gets up and balls the cloth up in his big hand and shoves it in his pocket.

Simon brings his thumb to his mouth, getting a bit of chocolate that had melted there. “Can I have another?” He asks, his accent thick.

It was new to see him talk, how his mouth curled around vowels, how his jaw shifted along with what was spoken. You clear your throat and keep your gaze away from the sight determinedly.

“Have as many as you like.” You answer with a self-conscious smile, simply pleased to have Simon stay for longer, no matter how arbitrary the reasoning.

You’re about to get up to get a second brownie yourself until Simon grabs your plate in his free hand. “I’ll get it.” He rumbles before going into the kitchen, not giving you a chance to respond.

Once he gets you both another slice you fully expect Simon to return to the dining table.

Instead he keeps going into the living room. He only gives you a firm nod in the direction of the couch to motion you to follow him.

You get up from your seat, the chair screeching against the floor with the suddenness of your movement and skittishly follow him.

He had already returned to his spot on the couch, your plate was on the coffee table waiting for you.

His spot. To think that he's only been here for a short while and you were already labeling that part of the sofa as his. You gingerly sit down in your self-designated corner, and take your plate in your fidgety hands.

In the corner of your eye Simon glances at you expectantly. You waste no time in resuming the movie.

Simon gets a bit more talkative this time around. Little snide remarks here and there, deadpan quips that never failed to make you smile or laugh.

You see his lips twitch on occasion, a huff of breath that you knew was a scoff, but no full smiles just yet from him. While you did want to see his smile and hear his laugh, you didn’t mind. You got a feeling that was just how he was. He was human, he’d do one of those two things eventually.

He would shift every now and then, a roll of his shoulder or a flexing of his fingers. Little movements that would indicate his presence. Eventually he put his arm over the back of the couch, relaxing. It would be too easy to sit up and have his arm—You felt pinpricks of heat lick at your cheeks.

You keep your attention on the TV from then on.

One movie turned into two, then three. You were still only a couple minutes into the third when you noticed the sky growing ever so slightly peach. You swallow thickly, as much as you wanted him to stay all day, you didn’t want to keep Simon, nor did you want to risk the potential of coming off as overbearing.

You pause the movie, causing Simon to lazily shift his eyes over to you.

“It’s getting late, I’m sorry for keeping you—“

“Want me to go?”

‘No.’ You clamp your mouth shut, your tongue pokes the inside of your cheek.

Your expression must have said it all, because Simon continues.

The gruffness of his voice contrasts with the reassurance in his words. “Trust me, if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t.”

He sounded as soft as he could be with a voice like his.

You suddenly speak. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

You’re taking small bites out of your everything bagel, your eyes are staring at your plate, directionless.

Simon did, in fact, want to stay for dinner. Except he insisted you didn’t have to make anything for him—the brownies were enough. You insisted that he should still eat something. So now he was sitting with you at the dining table yet again; this time with a plate of eggs.

You had eggs too, but yours had cherry tomatoes diced in them—Simon just wanted his plain—and a bagel.

Simon gave you a somewhat amused look from the fact you were eating breakfast for dinner—a look that made your face burn—but otherwise said nothing aside from thanking you.

At this point Simon was done eating his, and soon you would be done with yours.

A glass of juice is in the middle of the table, right by your plate the other is situated next to it. Neither of you have drank out of them yet, so he can pick whichever one he wants.

He leans forward in his seat, his large hand reaching out languidly—

And his thumb, calloused and rough as you thought they would be, gentler than you ever could have imagined, presses against the corner of your mouth.

Everything stops. The only thing moving is your heart, sending a tender ache throughout your chest and into your throat with every pulse.

His thumb swipes across a single time, it doesn’t linger—you wish it did—it pulls away, gone as it came. The only evidence of its presence being the heat on your face and the flutters in your belly. On it is a sesame seed, he presses it down and away on his napkin.

He says nothing. You say nothing. It’s almost dizzying.

You want to say something, you want to tell him that it was okay for him to do such a thing—in hopes that he would do so again, that you would share meals together again, that this feeling behind your ribs wouldn’t be the first and only time.

Your head is still tilted down when you flick your eyes up at him. He is looking at you intensely, gauging your reaction.

You want to speak but all that you manage is a small, misshapen smile.

He leans back in his chair, at ease.

You continue to eat in a soft, gentle silence.

He still hasn’t put his mask back on yet.

As the sun dipped lower Simon told you that after this last movie he’d be going home. It was when he said that you realized he had spent practically the entire day with you.

He slotted into your day like he was always meant to be there.

You barely are able to comprehend the finer details of the movie at this point, your mind replaying the events of today like a vinyl.

There was a shift in the air after he touched you. Not a bad change, but it was a change. You couldn’t put your finger on it. Simon was as unreadable as ever, so you couldn’t discern if it was just you or not.

Some kind of electricity just barely contained.

You and Simon were far more talkative during this movie due to the fact it’d be the final one for the day. Yet no matter how many words were passed between the two of you that electricity never fully dissipated.

Before you knew it the movie had reached its end. Simon’s cue to leave.

You felt a dimness come over your mood, but you weren’t as disappointed this time considering you had spent most of the day with him.

Simon, unexpectedly, utters your name.

You look over to him, brows raised in curiosity.

He holds your gaze, his expression placid. It was strange seeing it on him now that his face was exposed, so familiar yet unfamiliar.

His lips thin out, you only notice it due to the crease in the corner of his mouth deepening as a consequence. It’s subtle, but it was there. Simon has never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but you truly can’t tell what he’s thinking about in this moment.

You’re not sure how, but he made brown eyes piercing.

Then his eyes flutter in a blink, and his gaze drifts off and away from you.

“Today was nice.” You can’t shake the feeling that wasn’t what he initially was going to say.

“It was.” You agree. The feeling is still nagging at you.

Simon gets up, the couch shifts from the absence of his weight. You linger where you are for a moment longer.

He exhales from his nose, long and heavy. His shoulders set straight in a tenseness you couldn’t place. His jaw shifts.

He looks down and over to you. Simon already towered over you—and most people—while standing, being curled up on the couch as you were only exaggerated that gap. You swallow thickly, waiting. You’re not sure for what, if anything.

The connection gets severed when Simon looks away walks past the couch to go to the dining room to retrieve his jacket, his footsteps heavy.

You get up and off the couch slowly, your arms wrapping around yourself in a subconscious self-soothing gesture. Your heart was pounding and anticipation had sunk its claws into you.

Simon’s back is to you when you walk in to the dining room. He’s in the middle of putting his other arm into the sleeve.

You stare at his broad back while he zips the jacket up, the sound of it so loud in the silence.

“Thanks for spending the day with me.” Your voice is almost a whisper, anything more felt too harsh.

This makes him turn around. He nods in acknowledgment, then stills afterwards. Inky eyes consider you. His breathing measured.

There’s a long pause before he actually speaks. “I’m just a call away, you know.”

Your heart is racing, yet there’s no good reason for it to. “So am I,” you try to keep your voice even, giving him a barely-there smile. “I just didn’t want to bother you—“

“You never do.”

You feel your skin prickle with pleasant goosebumps. There’s something in the way he said it. You blink rapidly. You set your sights a little off to the side of him, not trusting yourself to look him in the eye right now. The energy is frenetic despite the slowness and quietness of the conversation itself.

The two of you stand listlessly in the dining room for a moment longer before Simon marches out towards the direction of the front door, though not before beckoning you to follow with a nod of his head.

You trail behind him.

He’s quick about putting his boots back on. Tying them without fumbling even once. Utilitarian, efficient. Your eyes go downwards then upwards when he rises to his full height after securing the boots in place.

He still hasn’t put his mask back on yet.

He says your name. You expect him to say his goodbyes but instead he shifts his weight on his feet. You can almost see the thoughts cycling through his head, but you’re not privy to any of them. His jaw clicks, a decision made.

He takes a step forward. It’s tentative. Tentative in an aware sense, not from lack of confidence.

The anticipation that was gnawing at you makes itself known once more. Your tongue and mind are not cooperating enough to make a sentence, and even if they were, you wouldn’t want to break whatever spell you found yourself caught in by speaking.

The following steps are more sure, less slow but still languid. He stops right in front of you, well within what would be your personal space, stopping just short of your torsos touching.

You thought that your mind was pandemonium in the car ride back home; that was nothing compared to what you were feeling now, standing so close to him.

Simon murmurs your name again, barely above a whisper.

“Can I?” The word is forced out past his lips, like the very question itself was foreign on his tongue, stilted. His voice was so forcibly even that it barely sounded like a question at all.

You nod before you even know what you’re agreeing to. All you knew was that he was close and you wanted him to remain close.

You only realize the amount of tension in his shoulders once they relax. In your peripheral you see his arm shift, coming around you—

It isn't quite a hug.

He sort of cradles the back of your head, his touch wary and slow. The deliberate carefulness of it gave you more than enough clearance and time for you to back away. You don’t, you don’t think you ever would want to. His wide palm rests there.

Simon is soft when he pulls you to him, so cautious that it is you that leans forward and fills in the gap.

Your head nestles against his chest. A key fitting in a lock.

And just like that, the anticipation eases and fades away. Your heart is still pounding but it is more of a steady drumbeat. You are awash with relief, more than anything.

You feel more than hear Simon exhale heavily; like one would after finally dropping something heavy.

You feel small, coveted. Simon is all encompassing, you feel sheltered in the vastness of him. Something far older than you in the fabric of your subconscious shudders, pleased.

Your arms, which are more flimsy and shaky than they ever have been, reach up to clutch your equally trembling hands into his jacket. You hold on, squeezing. Then squeezing tighter.

His paw smooths down to the back of your neck, he rubs a slow circle on the atlas of your spine, each pass sending quakes in the pit of your fluttering stomach.

His head dips low, then lower.

His lips brush across your hairline when he murmurs. Not a kiss, but similar enough to be an approximation of one.

“I want to see you tomorrow.”

“I do too.”

Your voice is so quiet that you are anxious that he didn’t hear you.

He pulls back away, his hand shifting from cradling your neck to just barely cupping your cheek, his thumb by your ear. His eyes are half-lidded again.

“Good.” He heard you. You feel a rush of relief.

Hands fall away from one another, neither of you step away just yet.

Simon reaches in the pocket of his jeans to retrieve his mask to put it back in its rightful place, he’s done it countless of times and you can tell by the ease and efficiency of the movements.

He gives the bottom of the fabric a one last tug to settle it over the bridge of his nose.

“Tomorrow.” He ascertains.

“Tomorrow.” You affirm.

He stands there for another moment, almost contemplative, almost stalling, then he nods.

He turns and is out the door, a cool breeze snakes its way in as he does so, making you wrap your arms around yourself.

The door closes slowly with a resounding click. You’re still standing there in the hall, and if you allowed yourself to you would still feel the intoxicating goosebumps on your neck from where Simon held you close.

Eventually you pad away from the front door.

You don’t think friends held each other like that.

You turn off the TV, you turn off all the lights on the way to your bedroom, you turn on your night light and redress into pajamas.

You peek out of your window, the one by your bed, your fingers delicately slide between the blinds and slowly pull them apart. Where Simon’s car was parked is now empty.

His absence is now a presence in of itself.

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Thank you so much for all of the continued support on this story, it makes me so happy to see people enjoy what I’ve written, you have no idea!!

I’m trying not to rush certain things with this story and letting things unfold at a pace that feels natural to me. I had to save a few scenes and ideas I had in mind for a later chapter because it felt awkward to try to shove it all in this one. ;;__;; (The slow build tag really applies here…)

The song that was playing in the car is Hometown by Cleopatrick if you were curious!

I didn’t make up Simon having an axe-wielding skeleton knight tattoo by the way, it’s actually one of his tattoos in the game! (As are all the other tattoos that were mentioned!)

Thank you so much for any and all likes or reblogs! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost cod x reader #ghost x reader #⤜stories #reader insert #x reader #⤜call of duty #⤜Simon Ghost Riley/Reader #⤜suggestive

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perpetualcontrolleddrowning · 3 days ago

Text

Moshang Fic - Part 3

half of something else

JRaylin441

Summary: A few things are added to the Overarching To Do List

Content Warnings: some discussion of bad childhoods again, EXPLICIT, NSFW, light restraint, dom/sub undertones, size difference, temperature play (a little), and anal sex

Read it on ao3 here (x)

Read Part 2 here (x)

Shang Qinghua wakes up with his entire body aching. His legs are both asleep. He can't feel them. There's a terrible crick in his neck and he's not sure where it's from.

There are nice things about being an immortal cultivator. Even though it took so much more work than he would ever want it to take, and he didn't really have a choice, it's nice that a lot of his injuries heal quickly and that he doesn't really age. His original body was in much worse shape, and he always had to be doing wrist stretches and move around to maintain any kind of mobility with the amount of time he spent writing. Mostly, he wouldn't do those things and then would be in pain day in and day out.

This is a very long way to say that he has gotten used to not feeling all those terrible aches and pains, now that he has a body that rapidly heals itself.

So it's disorienting, waking up like this. He's warm. He's really warm right now, more so than he usually is in this palace. It made him all sweaty and he knows that he stinks right now.

When Shang Qinghua opens his eyes, he is in his King's chambers. Right. That's right. He was here last night. Talking with his king until late late late into the night. Telling him, fuck, did he tell him stories last night? He's pretty sure he made up a silly little child's fairy tale version of their life? And his king just watched him and listened while he talked for hours?

Who does that?

When has that ever been something that people do? What the fuck has been in the water in this palace for the past few days? Did Tianlang-Jun start up a very slow carbon monoxide leak? There's not any other possible explanation for this stuff and Shang Qinghua is going to lose his mind. This is ridiculous.

He stretches his limbs out. There are so many blankets on top of him. Where did all of these come from? He definitely didn't fall asleep with this many blankets. The blood flowing back to his legs prickles with pins and needles. He circulates his qi to make it all happen a little bit faster, bring that crick out of his neck that he can now tell came from sleeping with his head against the back of a chair for the whole night.

Or, okay, maybe not the whole night. The sheets of thick ice that make up stained glass skylights in this room are not letting in any kind of light, just yet. The fireplace is full of the fire from earlier, smouldering in quiet embers now.

When Shang Qinghua glances behind him, he can see the dark shadow of the shape of Mobei-Jun, asleep in his own bed. He is sprawled out atop the nest of pillows and blankets, rather than huddled under them to protect from the cold. There are notably fewer blankets on his nest than there were earlier this night.

The blankets on top of Shang Qinghua smell like the air right before it starts to snow.

His King doesn't do things like this. This isn't how they interact, except for the way that it absolutely has been for the past few days. This is still more. This is consideration for Shang Qinghua's needs and, like, gentle and shit. Shang Qinghua has literally never had anyone do something like this for him, not since before his parents split, and that was when he was five fucking years old. So, you know, it's been a while.

That doesn't mean that he's not burning to death right now, under all these blankets. He shoves them off, and then it's not clear what to do about them. Should he just throw them on the ground? Put them back on the bed? Is it weirder if he folds them back up?

Mobei-Jun is sleeping over in the corner. He doesn't snore, but he's breathing in that deep, dragging way that people who are deeply asleep do.

Shang Qinghua could probably sneak out right now without waking him. It's what he would normally do in a situation like this. Not that there's been situations exactly like this before, but he's most certainly been in a room when Mobei-Jun is asleep there before. It happens, when you've been living life alongside each other for literal decades and also your relationship has to stay a secret, due to all the betraying humanity and double-agent aspects. They've spent nights in the same places before. Shang Qinghua generally handles it by making himself as quiet and invisible as possible and not doing anything to upset his king and ruin all the tentative peace.

Things have been different recently.

He could sneak out again. It's easy to do that, in this castle. He's been living here for years. He knows how to make his way back to his room without it being something Mobei-Jun gives a single thought to.

He could do that. He knows how. It wouldn't be hard.

Things have been different.

He takes some of the blankets in his hands and starts to make his way over to the bed on the side of the room. He hasn't been over to this side of the room before. Never once, no matter how long he has known Mobei-Jun. He could leave. Some would say that he should leave.

He doesn't do that. Instead, he is going to take the blankets over to Mobei-Jun's bed and put them back where they belong. He'll probably sleep through it. He's sleeping pretty deeply. If he wakes up, though, well. There's no way he could have known that would happen. No way that Shang Qinghua could have controlled that. He's just trying to be a good guest at the surprise sleep over.

Shang Qinghua gets closer to the bed. Mobei-Jun's face is smooth and expressionless in his sleep, much like it looks when he's awake, except that little line between his eyebrows is gone. He's huge, laying on his side like this, so that his shoulders are almost the same height as Shang Qinghua's shoulders, even though he's standing. His voice is always deep, and the tone of his breath is similar, huffing in and out with just the edge of a snore to it.

He's so...physically here. So present. So much more touchable and real than he ever feels. He sounds like a man. A man much larger than Shang Qinghua. Spread out on his bed, heavy with his physical presence.

Shang Qinghua licks his lips.

He should redirect this thoughts. He's acting like the old pervert that he actually is right now, creeping on his king while he is asleep. That's not good. He definitely shouldn't be doing this.

Mobei-Jun heaves in another deep breath, slowly lets it out. His long, straight dark hair is tied into a loose braid and strewn across the pillow to the other side of him. He's not wearing a shirt. The lines of his musculature are round and soft, the way that real muscles act when they're relaxed, rather than the dehydrated, porny version that Shang Qinghua would always imagine. It would be the perfect snuggling place, the way his two pecs are large enough to look like pillows. Each one is the size of Shang Qinghua's head. His thigh is thicker around than Shang Qinghua's head. Everything about him is thicker than Shang Qinghua.

He shouldn't be standing here, perving at his sleeping king.

Shang Qinghua clears his throat.

He is holding several blankets in his arms. Slowly, he reaches out and begins to tuck them in around the sleeping form of his beautiful king. He is maybe clumsier about it than he technically needs to be. There is no shift in his King's breathing or his body, and he thinks that the blatant ploy for attention hasn't worked, until the last blanket is placed. When he glances up at his king one more time, he sees the steady gaze of two ice-blue eyes, clearly trained on him.

Shang Qinghua knows he is trembling. He would like to say it's from the cold, but it's not really that cold in here right now, with the fire and the blankets and everything.

They don't do this.

They don't do things like this. They really, really don't do things like this. He's not sure where the courage for something like this is coming from, except for all the comments and letters over the past few days (Your King). It's all ringing in his head and it's making him act like he never would. It's killing his endless pragmatism and all that terrified anxiety that always keeps him right where he knows is safest. That's gone. It's all completely gone and there's nothing he can do about it.

Qinghua can know whatever he likes, regardless of reason.

Because Qinghua does not have fur.

I want to make hand-pulled noodles for you every day that you want them. If you decide you do not want noodles, then I want to know what else you like and learn to make that too.

He created Mobei-Jun to be his perfect man. From the very moment he came into existence, he's occupied a special place in Shang Qinghua's heart.

When he was living his first life, it's not like he pretended that Mobei-Jun was alive or anything. He never crossed the line that far. Instead, it's more like Mobei-Jun was a character that lived inside his head. Something that was always so nice and comforting to think about. When he was on a long train ride and his phone had died, what better thing was there to do than look out the window and imagine all the things Mobei-Jun would be saying, if he were there too? When he was alone, and it was so late that his fingers weren't working and he had to stop writing for the night, who better to imagine while he flicked mindlessly through songs? He could be another person there to share in the experience. Shang Qinghua liked to imagine what he might think of each song that played.

When he wrapped his own lonely hand around himself because he was bored and alone and horny and didn't have anything better to do, and he'd been writing endless straight smut for days on end and just needed a cleanse from all of that, what better thing to fantasize about than his dream man?

When his family remembered he existed for the first time in months, invited him to attend the graduation of one of his younger half-siblings, just so he could see what a huge party they had been capable of throwing for him but didn't. When he was in a situation like that, can anyone blame him for this? Standing there, in his too-tight and too-small suit jacket, watching as his own family members forgot that he existed, feeling the way that his hands were starting to shake in his pockets. In a situation like that, of course he knew it wasn't real, but it was still nice to imagine someone strong and powerful and beautiful and cold and intimidating standing right by his side. Driving away all the people who didn't value him enough to push past that, fully focused on Shang Qinghua.

Mobei-Jun has been a source of comfort, warmth, companionship, everything for longer than he's even been alive in this world.

When Shang Qinghua met him for the first time, he was young. So young. He didn't desire him the same way, exactly, but his soul still recognized him. Suddenly, that silent, strong, and beautiful presence over his shoulder was very much a real thing, and Shang Qinghua wasn't alone.

As he aged, as they grew closer, as he truly did begin to accompany Shang Qinghua everywhere, answer his call, stand by his side, what could Shang Qinghua do but fall utterly and inescapably in love with him? It's a trap he set for himself! Thank you, past self, for thinking only with your downstairs head and surrounding us with a completely inscrutable and incomprehensible man who will forever be so far out of our reach that we could never even hope that he might love use back! Way to go! Really looking out for the team there!

But it's fine. It was all fine. Shang Qinghua has a whole fucking lot of practice being in relationships with people who forget that he exists. Who would happily trample all over him and his silly little feelings while going after their own heart's desires. That's not new. He knows how to live off something like that alone.

It's been years. He's thankful he even got to have what he's had up until now.

I want to make hand-pulled noodles for you every day that you want them. If you decide you do not want noodles, then I want to know what else you like and learn to make that too.

It's early in the morning, so that the icy skylights are letting in only the very faintest hints of gray light.

Shang Qinghua is standing over Mobei-Jun's bed and he's awake. He's staring back at Shang Qinghua. He's not moving. It seems like he's waiting for Shang Qinghua to do something first.

And that just really isn't going to happen. Shang Qinghua isn't the sort of man who takes a leap of faith. What part of reclusive shut-in author did you not understand? He's never going to be the one to take the first step for something like this. If there even is something. Which there almost definitely isn't. It's just the early-morning light that's doing his head in and making him think about impossible things. It's a lifetime of imagining a version of Mobei-Jun that doesn't exist in reality.

His hands are shaking. Actually, there's a fine tremor running all through his body. Every part of him. He can't tell if he's panicking or turned on. Probably some terrible combination of both. Shang Qinghua has never pretended that his libido is anything healthy or sane.

Mobei-Jun is still just...waiting. Watching. The same kind of intense watching that he always does, except it's different right now, because he's in bed and Shang Qinghua is standing over him and Shang Qinghua's hands are separated from touching his ribs by a single layer of thin blanket. Something woven by a silk spider demon in the court, responsible for making sheets and blankets that slide off the skin and keep heat in.

He can feel the chill of his king's body through the blanket now. He wonders if Mobei-Jun can feel the warmth of his hands on the other side of things.

It would take just the smallest movement, just barely anything at all. It could be an accident, really, if you think about it. Shang Qinghua moves a single pinky, allowing it to shift the blanket out of the way, brush against the bared skin of his king's ribs with nothing between them to block the heat of it.

Mobei-Jun hasn't moved for all of this. They have been suspended in some kind of terrifying limbo, while he seems to merely stare piercingly at Shang Qinghua and wait for him to tell him what they're going to be doing next.

At the touch of the pad of his very smallest finger, he can't miss the harsh breath that gasps into Mobei-Jun's lungs. It is loud in the silence of the early morning. More than that, his finger is resting just against his ribs, and he can feel the physical way that they expand with the gasping inhale and slow, hissing exhale.

God. Fuck. This is not anything he knew to be prepared for today. This is not on the Overarching To Do List. This is so ridiculous. This sort of thing does not happen. They don't do things like this.

Shang Qinghua shifts his hand, allows gravity to tug the blanket down to settle alongside Mobei-Jun's body. It leaves absolutely nothing between his hand, fingers spread and palm flat against his king's ribs. He can feel the muscles stretching from his back to his abdominal muscles. Fuck, but he's a man and he's a demon and Shang Qinghua imagined the exact person that he wanted more than anything, and now he's touching him and it's dark and he's not wearing a shirt.

The first touch of his finger could have been an accident. This, clearly, is not. Shang Qinghua has no excuse for completely letting go of the blanket, and even less of an excuse for lingering in this space, rather than moving away as soon as it happened.

Mobei-Jun sits up, moving slowly like he's interacting with a spooked animal. Maybe he is. Shang Qinghua can feel the way that he is still trembling, all over, and can't help but hear his own panting and panicked breathing in the silence of the room.

The blankets that Shang Qinghua spent so long painstakingly moving shift and rustle with the movement, and then Mobei-Jun is sitting up before him, and now he's back to a height where he can look down on Shang Qinghua again, and it's exhilarating.

He's moving slowly. Predictably. There is no excuse for the shocked gasp that Shang Qinghua makes, when Mobei-Jun's enormous hand finally touches the side of his face, brushing some of the loose strands of hair behind his ear. There is no excuse for being surprised, but he still is.

His hand is so big. Shang Qinghua likes big hands. Mobei-Jun's hand could wrap around that entire side of his head. If he brought both hands into play, he could probably cover the entirety of Shang Qinghua's head. It's cold, because he's an ice demon, and Shang Qinghua made him that way. It's cold, because he's an ice demon, and he's been cold since the moment they first met, all those decades ago.

Shang Qinghua hisses out his own breath, and then leans his head into the touch on his face, allowing his cheek to fully press into the hollow of his king's palm. They freeze there, for a moment, Mobei-Jun still silent and still watching to catalogue every movement, because he is the kind of man who makes sure he understands what is happening before taking his next step. Shang Qinghua made him that way. Shang Qinghua watched him grow up and become that way.

The two versions of all of this keep overlaying themselves in his vision. The man that Shang Qinghua created to be an indulgent daydream on the nights when he was his most alone and invisible. The man that Shang Qinghua has spent the last several decades of his life working with, getting to know, understanding. Of course he knows him. Of course he knows him ten times over.

Shang Qinghua leans into the touch. Mobei-Jun is still not moving a single part of his body, except for one thumb, which is stroking a delicious line from the edge of Shang Qinghua's temple to his hairline. It's just a small thing. It's the only thing he can think about right now.

He is still not moving. Why won't he just take over and take control and then Shang Qinghua doesn't have to worry about whether he's reading any of this wrong, or whether or not it's an okay thing for him to be doing? Why can't Mobei-Jun be the kind of man who just takes what he wants without asking? Isn't that how Shang Qinghua wrote him?

It is how he wrote him. It is not the man he has watched his king become in the past few decades. What does that mean, when Shang Qinghua is the only thing that has been different in his life?

It doesn't matter. It could not matter any less right now. Shang Qinghua is waiting for him to do something else, but he's not going to, because he's waiting for Shang Qinghua to show him what is happening right now.

Dammit. Fucking damn it all to hell.

Shang Qinghua can't stop noticing that delicate touch at his temple. He doesn't even try to distract himself. Instead, he turns his head, just a little, presses a soft, dry kiss to the very edge of the hollow of Mobei-Jun's palm. That's as clear as he can allow himself to be. What else could that possibly mean, but that he is willing to do whatever it is Mobei-Jun wants from him? What else could that possibly mean? There is nothing else to see in that.

And, sure enough, he can see as the fire flares higher in Mobei-Jun's eyes. This, then, is the moment when it has all moved from coincidental to undeniable. Shang Qinghua has made the lay of the land clear enough, finally.

Mobei-Jun leans in with inexorable force. He is an iceberg moving across the land, carving new landmarks in his wake. Changing the geography irrevocably.

His lips are cold when they touch Shang Qinghua's, but the shock wave it sends through Shang Qinghua is blazing hot. This is something he hasn't had in years and years and years. In over a lifetime, really. He can't help the way his entire world is narrowing down to this one instant.

Mobei-Jun is so large. His presence is overwhelming. Just this gentle press of lips, barely moving, Shang Qinghua can feel the cold of him radiating down to his bones. This is the closest he has ever been to his king.

Mobei-Jun is keeping it light. He's keeping it courtly. Shang Qinghua has been writing porn for longer than this demon has been alive. He has been lusting after this specific demon for longer than he has been alive. He is also, potentially, completely and utterly in love with him, which is a terrifying complication to this situation that he is not willing to examine at this point in time.

Instead, there is nothing he can do to stop a frantic whimper from making its way between his lips. Cannot help the way that his hands are drawn to Mobei-Jun's long and glorious hair. It slides gently between his fingers, light tension from the hold of the braid he wears to sleep.

Shang Qinghua changes the angle, gets their lips just that littlest bit off center, so he can press in even closer than before. Mobei-Jun's hand moves to the back of his neck. One at the back of his neck and one pulling him closer by the small of his back. With the new closeness, he breathes out a cold breath that warms on Shang Qinghua's flushed face.

That's all the welcome Shang Qinghua needs. He presses closer, closer, takes advantage of the opening of his mouth to slip him the tongue, just for a second. Or, well, he was planning for it to be just a second until a low groan echos out of Mobei-Jun's chest, at which point Shang Qinghua figures that this is ridiculous and that they should stop pretending that they want this to be chaste in any kind of way.

To help with properly throwing that idea out of the window, Shang Qinghua pushes his way closer, lets that hand at the small of his back guide him, clambers up until he is properly straddling his king's lap, just as he has always kind of fantasized about doing when he's sitting so grandly on his throne.

Mobei-Jun is quick to get with the program. Good boy. Shang Qinghua trained him so well, over the years, to follow his lead and do whatever he tells him to do. Good boy. Clever past Qinghua. This is all setting him up for nothing more than perfect success.

Their teeth click against each other with the change, but it hardly matters. Shang Qinghua yelps a little, pulls away, but doesn't get far before his king is smiling softly, just a little, just if you really know where to look for it (and Qinghua does because he made him this way, because he's known him for years), and reeling him back in.

With this new position, Shang Qinghua can press his flushed and super-heated body against the cool skin of his king, since he apparently doesn't sleep with a shirt on. The combination of arousal and cold is making his nipples tighten. His whole body is tightening. He's shaking again, still, but it's a different thing now. There's something electric running through him. The tremors are just a side effect.

Mobei-Jun can read the position well enough to know that Shang Qinghua would not mind getting a little bit more intimate, apparently, because the hand on his back slides lower, to take a proprietary grip on Shang Qinghua's ass. It's making little sparking shivers run up and down his spine. The hand on his neck is still there too, but it's pulling him in even closer, so that Mobei-Jun can lick deep into Shang Qinghua's mouth, let him suck on his tongue. There is absolutely no part of this that Shang Qinghua does not want.

It's clear that Mobei-Jun feels the same. If not only from his body language, from his smile, from the way that he keeps escalating the physical contact, then from the way that Shang Qinghua cannot help but notice the shared state of arousal where their hips are helplessly close to each other.

Shang Qinghua has put more thought than most people in this world into the exact mechanics of having sex with demons. He would argue that he may actually be the person who has put the most thought into these mechanics, if it weren't for the existence of Cucumber-Bro.

That said, he knows that he gave demons monster cocks. He stands by that choice, even as he can feel the undeniable proof of it pressing into his hips and lower stomach. He also knows that he put extensive thought into how someone much smaller might be able to take on such a thing. Although, that was primarily in a heterosexual kind of configuration.

There's still a lot to be adjusting to here. They are so close, and he knows better than most other humans what to expect below the pants, but it's one thing to write about it and another thing to jerk off to the fantasy of it and something completely different to be here in the moment.

They're so close to each other. They're so close. Shang Qinghua wants to babble himself to death, just because he's feeling so much all at once, but there's no way for him to do that and keep kissing his king, and there's only one of those options he's been wanting to do for years and years.

Mobei-Jun probably doesn't need to talk. He's a quiet man. He does keep making these faint noises, though, something growling and possessive and satisfied. They're shaking down to the very bottom of Shang Qinghua's bones, curling in his stomach and making him helplessly grind his hips forward.

That makes Mobei-Jun let out the same kind of noise, a little louder, a little more aggressive, and all that old fear that sometimes flares up when he has this vibe has magically transmuted itself into raging libido, and Shang Qinghua can't help but throw his head back a little.

Mobei-Jun wastes no time at all, clawing Shang Qinghua's body even closer to himself, moving his mouth down to nip against the bottom of Shang Qinghua's chin, making its way down his neck. There are cool, sucking bruises being kissed into a ring around his neck, and there is nothing that Shang Qinghua can do but lean into the pressure of hands, of body, and let himself revel in the feeling of it.

"My King," he gasps, and he can't stop thinking about that letter from yesterday. Your King. His king. It's coloring the way that he says the words. He can't help it. There's no way to hide it, and maybe he doesn't have to, with the way that Mobei-Jun is holding him even closer now. Maybe there's nothing he needs to hide about how he feels anymore, and isn't that a fucking thought. "Yes, good boy, you're so good. You're doing so good. I can't believe you're here right now. I can't believe this is happening."

He can't shut up. Mobei-Jun doesn't seem to mind. He wouldn't be the kind to mind. Shang Qinghua designed him to be the kind of person who listens when he talks, who cares about him. He invented him to be the perfect man, and then they spent decades building up a trusting and knowing relationship between them. Mobei-Jun really does listen, and he's doing that right now. He's kissing his way down to the edge of Shang Qinghua's fluffy and thick outer robes, and there's nothing that could keep Shang Qinghua from babbling away right now, and there's no reason he should try, so he's spilling out praise and commentary and compliments.

"My King, you're so good. You're doing so good." Mobei-Jun hits the edge of the robes, tugs a little bit in that entitled way he has, where he's communicating his desires without bothering to ask the other person a question. It should be presumptuous and offensive. Shang Qinghua used to see it that way, but that's really just the only way that he knows how to ask for things, after a lifetime where it was never safe to openly put himself in a vulnerable enough space to ask a question.

"Yes, yes, of course." Shang Qinghua will answer the question anyway. He frees one of his hands from the grip in his king's hair and uses it to tug the folds of his robes open further. Loosen the ties. Let them drip a little bit off of his shoulders.

There's something powerful about the way that Mobei-Jun's eyes fly directly to the newly-exposed skin of his shoulders. Shang Qinghua knows that it's just pale and freckled, nothing to write home about, but Mobei-Jun is staring like a feast has been laid before him.

They are so wrapped up in each other. Time doesn't exist like this. They might have been kissing for hours, except the sun still isn't up, so it can't have been that long. At some point, they ended up where Mobei-Jun scooted up the bed, Shang Qinghua isn't quite sure when that happened. It means, though, that he's leaned back a little bit, indolently, like the lazy king that he is, with his weight slouched against the headboard and both hands full of his closest advisor. Shang Qinghua, for his part, is sort of draped over top of him, if he's being honest about things. It helps to make up for the height difference, plus the coolness of his body is the only thing keeping Shang Qinghua from spontaneously combusting.

They kiss like that. Mobei-Jun makes his way back up from his shoulder and Shang Qinghua can't help but shove his tongue back in his mouth.

They might have gotten stuck like that, if the cold air hadn't started to conspire against Shang Qinghua. Now that his robes are falling down, and he's moved away from the fire, and he's pressed against an ice demon, the cold is moving away from sexy temperature-play and much closer to freezing his balls off. There's a fine line. When his testicles try to crawl back up in his body, it's a barrier to the rest of this.

He's been shivering this whole time, because he's pretty much always shaking. Just a byproduct of being himself. It shifts a little bit, though, a combination of cold and panic now. The change is subtle, just the smallest little thing, but Shang Qinghua has only just noticed when Mobei-Jun seems to adjust. They've been enjoying this sort of draped-over-his-king position for a bit, but now Mobei-Jun takes one solid handful of Shang Qinghua's ass, wraps an arm tight across his shoulders, and then they're flipped.

It's a new position, Shang Qinghua flopped back with his head against the pillows and his king huge and pressing down onto him. In the hustle of all that shifting, Shang Qinghua is pretty sure he let out a high-pitched yelp. He's never been manhandled quite like that before. It's no secret that it's the kind of thing that he enjoys. He worries, sometimes, that it's annoying, the way that his voice goes high-pitched and whining at the drop of a hat. Something about the way his king's grip tightens immediately to a bruising degree makes him think that he might not have to concern himself with such things.

They have to pause, enjoy the liberties granted by this new position. Or, well, not quite. Before they can do anything like that, there are more immediate concerns that Mobei-Jun seems focused on addressing. His king is looking around and trying to drag the blankets closer, to surround his smaller, human advisor. Said advisor has the better idea to wrap his legs around his king's waist, cling like a limpet, and roll his hips up into the delicious pressure and coolness of him.

"Stop," Mobei-Jun growls, and it's one of the first things he's said since this all started. His voice is so low, raked through the gravel. Fuck, but Shang Qinghua really did a good job when he created this one. No regrets here. Just to be a little bit more of a shit, he rolls his hips again and locks his arms behind his king's neck.

"What do you mean, My King?" Shang Qinghua is an immortal cultivator. He should be more than able to maintain a simple grip like this. Mobei-Jun is stronger though, and he isn't really fighting that hard, so it's almost effortless for him to reach behind his neck, unhook Shang Qinghua's arms, gather them above his head and pin both wrists in one enormous hand. "Ha, is this not what you wanted?" He's wiggling his hips, and he can feel the tension, see the tension, in every one of his king's muscles as he tries to stay focused despite it. It's so fucking good. Fuck, but why haven't they been doing this for decades? Why did they wait so long for something like this?

"Hold still," Mobei-Jun snaps, and he's reaching behind himself to try and wrangle Shang Qinghua's legs.

"Make me, My King," Shang Qinghua teases back, because he's never known how to quit while he's ahead, and he has consumed far too much porn in his life, and he's dizzy with the glare that he gets in response. It doesn't take long for Mobei-Jun to fully pin him. As soon as both his legs and arms are held still, Shang Qinghua can feel a peaceful hum through all of his body. It's easy to lay there, limp, knowing he's staring up at Mobei-Jun with relentless heart eyes. How can he do anything else? At the sight of him, his king merely scoffs, and then continues to hold his arms in place while he gathers the blankets closer. It's going to be a little bit counterproductive to cover him up, but his king makes a sort of nest all around him, bolstering the edges of Shang Qinghua's body with the thickest furs and blankets, so that the rest of him is kept warm even while he's still exposed to the chill of his perfect ice demon.

It's brilliant. It feels like sitting in a car with heated seats while blasting air conditioning at full blast. There's something about it. Pinned and warming up and taken care of by his king. Shang Qinghua feels so held.

There's an easy peace winding its way through his muscles. He could live in this moment for the rest of his life. What a way to go. What a life to live.

When Mobei-Jun finally swoops back in, mouth open, claiming his mouth again, there is nothing standing in the way of Shang Qinghua's eager welcome.

*~*~*

He keeps looking at Mobei-Jun.

Qinghua's eyes are wide and a little bit glassy, and ever since this started they haven't stopped staring right into Mobei-Jun.

That's not how this usually goes. Mobei-Jun is the one who stares like a fly caught in honey, unable to do anything, say anything, but unable to stop watching. Qinghua is the one who flits from task to task to task, always off on some new check list to make sure that Mobei-Jun's kingdom stays standing and his power remains unchallenged. Obtaining his focus for a full minute is a gift granted maybe once in a week. This kind of laser-focus, without any distractions, is completely new.

It's drugging. It should simply be gratifying, and it is that. It most certainly is appreciated: Mobei-Jun finally feels as though he is desirable and appreciated by the man he has loved for more of his life than he hasn't.

More than that, though, this bright-eyed, teasing focus that Qinghua is bringing. The way that he is relaxing back into the bed that Mobei-Jun made comfortable for him, it is settling onto his shoulders with the weight of responsibility. Like the day that he was coronated, and felt the crush of a kingdom resting on him.

Qinghua never relaxes. He is never still, never calm, never present in the current moment. The idea that this is what it takes, that Mobei-Jun has the ability to change that, he is responsible for it now. He will take this on with more honor than even that of his kingdom. He will worship at the feet of this responsibility. There are no words, for the way that it is coursing through him now.

He kisses Qinghua, kisses him, kisses him. He is learning how to pleasure someone right now. Mobei-Jun never bothered with things like this before. He didn't have a name. He didn't have any power. He was never safe enough to trust another person to have them this close. It was never worth the risk of it all.

And then, when he was finally in a position where that was not the case, it was only thanks to the actions of this small, precious human before him. By then, his heart had already pinned itself to the man before him, and there didn't seem to be much of a point learning how to pleasure someone generally when he had such specific interests.

Qinghua likes it when he presses down. He had been holding himself back at first, careful with the larger size of himself, but when he lost a little focus, leaned in too far, there was no denying the gasp that tore from his human's lips. Even less denying the praise and commentary that flowed from his mouth like sugar.

Mobei-Jun doesn't want him to stop talking. He wants to listen to this voice for the rest of his life. It's not even a particular barrier to anything they're doing. If he's talking right now, why would Mobei-Jun ever do something to make that stop? He kisses his way back down his neck instead, allowing Qinghua to ramble about whatever might catch his fancy.

"Come on, you went through all that trouble. Got me all comfortable. My King, My King, come on. You know what you want. I can't move. You've got me all pinned and trapped now. Come on, keep going, I know you want more than this. I know you. Come on, take it."

It should be lovely. It is, it is, it's everything that Mobei-Jun has wanted from the moment he realized he could want such things.

He has thought, before this, that he was doing the right thing. He has thought they were in the same place of understanding, only to later discover that Qinghua had been hurt, scared, thinking of running away. Tianlang-Jun knows nothing at all, except he was right to say that Qinghua is a man of words.

Mobei-Jun is not. He hates all the effort it takes to speak, only to end up with an unsatisfactory result. He can never manage to take all the vast, animal urges and feelings that course through him and pare them down into such small little syllables.

He will speak, for Qinghua. He will learn how to do this, if it means that he gets to keep him. If it means that he can stay Qinghua's king and never lose him again.

He pulls back just a little, lets the space between them grow, uses the last of his self-control to overcome the siren song of Qinghua's grumpy little noises and grabby hands.

"You are willing." He drags the words out of his chest. They aren't enough to clarify what he's asking. It's so few small words for the riot of thoughts and feelings inside. He has to trust that Qinghua will be able to hear what he is trying to say with all of this. That his man of words will understand where his own abilities fail.

"Yeah, that's right, you're doing such a good job. You're-, wait, huh?" Qinghua has been clinging to Mobei-Jun like a second skin, wiggling and arching to get closer than he already was. It clearly takes a moment for the haze of pleasure to clear from his eyes enough that he can process that Mobei-Jun is trying to have a conversation. "Are you asking if I'm, like, into this?" His voice is disbelieving. There may be some space between them, but Qinghua hooks his heel around the back of Mobei-Jun's legs, rolls his hips up against where they are both straining against their pants. "What part of this makes you think for even a second that I might be phoning it in?"

The words are confusing, but Mobei-Jun learned long ago that, while more than half of the words Qinghua chooses are absolute nonsense, the tone is generally a good guide to what he's trying to say. Mobei-Jun has never been very good at reading tone. He has put extensive effort toward developing this skill.

"There have been times, before, when this king thought he understood Qinghua's intentions." This is all that he can manage to say. Qinghua deserves more. This is more of an admission of fault than Mobei-Jun has given to a single other person in his entire life.

Qinghua is below him on the bed, nestled among the best of his comfortable things, his brown hair sprawled across the pillow and fully free of the bun. There is a pause after Mobei-Jun says his piece, as Qinghua clearly works to parse through what it could possibly mean. Words, words, words. They're such dreadful things. And then, maybe not, because he can watch as the understanding softens over Qinghua, melting him like ice in the summer sun. There's this tiny, cautious little smile that spreads across his face and it's the most beautiful thing that Mobei-Jun has ever seen. Qinghua tugs one of his hands from where it is still pinned above his head. Mobei-Jun lets it go easily. He had forgotten he was still holding on.

"My King," Qinghua murmurs, brushing along the edge of his cheekbone with just the very tips of his fingers. "My favorite. This one is willing." He seems to laugh at some private joke, and Mobei-Jun already knows that the next words from his mouth will not make any sense. "This is all very safe, sane, and consensual of us. I never thought it would be like this."

Those words are shaking through Mobei-Jun, and how could he resist, now that he knows for sure, gathering Qinghua's hands back up and licking a long stripe up the burning hot skin on his neck?

"Qinghua has thought of this."

He knows what he's doing, with a question like that, now that he has a proper read on what Qinghua is thinking. Sure enough, Mobei-Jun is able to set himself to systematically removing every one of Qinghua's layers and fastening his mouth around one of those pert, dusky nipples while listening to the endless ramblings of the only person he has ever been able to trust.

"Thought of this? Of course I've thought about this. My King, what else did you think was happening, when you were walking around this palace with your tits fully out? Lounging around on that throne of yours, ha, that throne of yours like you're just waiting for someone to come along and pleasure you?" He lets out a yelping laugh then, because Mobei-Jun can't listen to something like this without bringing teeth into the equation. "My King, ha, you animal. What do you think you're doing down there? Are you trying to turn me into a chew toy?"

He nibbles a little harder, because it's what Qinghua deserves, and it's what he deserves too, after waiting this long for something this good.

"And what about you, My King? Sending me letters like that. I thought I was supposed to be the one who was good with words." Mobei-Jun is kissing lower and lower down Qinghua's body. He can't help the smile that he is pressing here as well, because there is no other way to respond to such ridiculous comments, and because he knows that Qinghua is going to ask for a response anyway, and how else is he supposed to contain this much knowledge of another person? "You called yourself My King, do you know that? Do you, ha, do you remember that?" Qinghua keeps rolling his hips up into the grip he's got around Mobei-Jun's legs. With the size difference, the way that he's been moving down his body, it's pressing his erection into Mobei-Jun's chest rather than his own hips. It's fairly obvious that this is not an accident.

"I remember."

"You're laughing at me. I know you're laughing at me. No, don't stop that. I'll just talk and you keep that up." Mobei-Jun continues back up Qinghua's body, leaving cold hickies around his neck and reaching down with his one free hands to finally palm against the erection that Qinghua seems so intent to focus on. "Haaaaa, yeah, like that, My King. I almost lost my mind, you know, when I saw that. You can't just call yourself my king and not expect me to lose my mind a little bit. Did you do that on, ha, on purpose? You have to tell me if you did it on purpose."

Mobei-Jun has a loose grip around Qinghua's cock, not enough to provide any real satisfaction, especially not while he's still wearing his loose pants, but that isn't stopping Qinghua from thrusting into the loose circle anyway. There is a red flush high on his cheeks, and he keeps squirming against the nest of blankets, and he is so dear that he could live inside of Mobei-Jun's heart for the rest of his life.

"It was on purpose," Mobei-Jun confirms, and the noise that Qinghua makes at that is nothing short of filthy. He sort of lunges, pressing back against the grip on his wrists for leverage, and smashes his face into Mobei-Jun's, mouth open. The kiss is an immediate transition from the luxurious, sucking ones earlier. This is flame-hot and desperate.

Mobei-Jun is happy to oblige. He lets Qinghua take the lead, because he always does when Qinghua asks for it. When the small, hot tongue plunges deep, Mobei-Jun can't keep himself from sucking against it desperately, keeping it there. He leans in closer, so that it's less of a reach for Qinghua and he can get a little more leverage with his head, shoulders back against the bed beneath him.

"My King," he breaks the kiss to gasp, and he's saying it that way he does sometimes, an endearment rather than a title, as if he doesn't know how much it destroys Mobei-Jun every time he hears it. "My King, more, I need more. You can, ha, come on. I know you can do it." He's shifting and writhing more and more against the grip, thrusting into Mobei-Jun's hand. It should maybe look foolish, the way that he is so focused on chasing his pleasure. Something about the unselfconsciousness of it, though, is ripping right through to the core of Mobei-Jun.

This is Qinghua. Mobei-Jun has known him and loved him for decades. He has never seen him appear to be comfortable and happy in his own skin. Rather, it is simply a matter of noticing the different degrees of panic and finding the ways to lower it. To see Qinghua like this, flushed and happy and comfortable, focused on nothing but increasing his own pleasure. Mobei-Jun would burn civilizations to see this happen. It's a miracle, that this is all that it take, just his own touch, his own attention.

That same, heavy settling of responsibility on his shoulders.

How can he do anything other than exactly what Qinghua has asked?

He breaks away from the kiss to allow himself to gain some level of focus, pulling frantically at the ties around Qinghua's waist and tugging the loose trousers he wears under his robes free. Finally, finally, finally he is fully unclothed in this bed. He's flushed pink and soft and human and so incredibly small and eager. Mobei-Jun wants to lay on top of him and hide him from the entire world for the rest of their lives.

Instead, he palms at Qinghua's erection again, rough with friction, and returns to kissing him.

Qinghua permits it, frantic and hot, for just a minute before he starts to wiggle more determinedly and begins to pull back.

"No fair, no fair, My King, you can't do this to me. Ha, you, ah, My King, you can't deprive this lowly one now. After all the hard work I put in, all the fantasies. Pleaaaahhh, please, My King, it's not fair." It takes a moment for Mobei-Jun to work out what the point of this rambling is, because his brain completely whited out at the pleading tone he just heard from Qinghua's mouth. He has to work to pull his thoughts together long enough to realize that Qinghua is waiting for him to remove his own clothes as well.

It is a privilege to be desired this way. He does not take the time to make a show or a tease of it. Mobei-Jun stands from the bed, ignores the pleading whine at his withdrawal, and strips the loose-fitting sleep pants from his body. When he makes his way over to the bed, Qinghua licks his lips and reaches for him, squeezing at the air like he is already touching him.

"Come here, come here, come here holy shit yes. You're perfect, literally perfect. My favorite, come here." And how can he do anything but follow, when that is his reception? Mobei-Jun lays himself back atop Qinghua, and the press of skin without anything between them is intoxicating.

They rut like that for just a moment. Mobei-Jun wonders if the temperature difference feels as stark and exhilarating to Qinghua as it does to him. Whether or not it's the case, Qinghua's body is certainly receptive. Mobei-Jun can feel the drag of his erection against his own, between their bodies, electric and too-dry and still so staggeringly good. How is he supposed to do anything else but this ever again? He's the king of the Northern Desert and, together, he and Qinghua pretty much run the Demon Realm. How tragic, that everything else will have to fall to disrepair and anarchy, because he is not going to allow either of them to ever stop doing this.

"My King, My King, My King," Qinghua is chanting. His voice is high and whimpering, like someone is squeezing the words out of him with every movement of their bodies.

And suddenly, the lazy heat of this moment flares into a roaring fire. Mobei-Jun needs to be inside of him, and that needs to have happened yesterday. There is no more desire for lazy touching. He is ravenous.

Counterintuitively, Mobei-Jun pulls away at this shift. The whine that spills from Qinghua's lips is almost enough to bring him back, but there is a goal that means more than that.

He has envisioned this many a time. For most of his life, when he thought of sex, it was in vague images and impressions of pleasure. Only in the past few years has he learned more about the specific mechanics of sex between two men.

This was not unwelcome, but it was also not intentional. Rather, several months after the weeks-long celebration of the marriage between the Junshang and his empress, Luo Binghe had come to Mobei-Jun with a list of destinations he wished to be teleported to and extremely limited patience.

Apparently, it is complicated to have sex in a way that is pleasurable to the receiver, rather than painful, particularly when the receiver is a human and their partner is a demon. This is not something that Mobei-Jun wanted to know about his boss, but it is also the sort of thing that is inevitable, when he is the one in his retinue able to transport over vast distances in the blink of an eye. When Junshang had wanted to quickly travel to find experts and information on the appropriate way to make sex more pleasurable, Mobei-Jun had been the one accompanying him.

If he was already going to be there, and already holding these fantasies in his head of what it might be like to one day take his closest advisor, then it would have been foolish for Mobei-Jun to do anything but listen.

This is all a very long way of saying: Mobei-Jun has recently come into possession of a fragrant unguent, meant to ease the way. In this pause in their activities, he goes to the dresser further in his room and retrieves it.

"Oh shit, is that what I think it is? Yes, well done, My King. Come back here. Good thinking. Good job. Good boy." Qinghua is doing that same thing as before, reaching his hands out in front of him and opening and closing them in the air. He is still sprawled on the bed where Mobei-Jun left him. His small body, flushed and nestled in a nest of the finest fabrics. His legs are open, the knees spread wide so that Mobei-Jun might fit himself right back between them and be sure of his welcome. At the crux of him, his flushed member stands red and glistening.

Mobei-Jun has waited for decades to have this moment. He is unable to wait any longer.

The noise Qinghua makes as his king returns, licks deep into his mouth, wraps a slicked hand around both their cocks, is nothing short of rapturous. That's good. That means he's feeling at least one tenth as much as Mobei-Jun is right now.

He's slicked the way, made it easier for Qinghua to thrust up against his King's stomach, but that's not enough anymore. There is so much more that he is craving.

While still kissing him, this beautiful, small man, Mobei-Jun holds one hand to his cheek and allows the other to move lower. His hand is slick with the oil he gathered earlier. It is likely still chilled from being against his own skin. There is no helping that. When he first touches the soft, silky skin at his inner thighs, Qinghua jumps in his hold, yelps into his mouth.

Mobei-Jun cannot help but smile at that, swallow the sound down. How is he meant to do anything other than build a home in the feeling they are creating together? How could he ever hope to leave?

"Ah, My King, yes. Yes yes yes." Qinghua gasps the words into the connection between their mouths. He shimmies his hips to press into the touch, making his fingers slip even closer to the crux of him. It's everything Mobei-Jun ever thought it would be. There are parts of this he never would have even dared to dream about. It's good. It's so good that it's blasting through him, leaving him scorched and remade. There are no words for this.

His fingers are slick and Qinghua's body is warm and wanting. In the end, it is nothing at all to slide one of his long fingers along the rim of him and then inside. He was mocked, as a child, for his long thin hands. Artist hands. Not those of a warrior. But here, he cannot help but think that thicker, rougher fingers might not feel the same way. He is thankful, now, for every part of him that is allowing him to please Qinghua in this way. It is as if he were made for this. This, specifically, is the point of him. Of his life.

He is shattering in half. Magma is bubbling up from the core of him and filling the wreckage left behind. He is being reforged into something new and unrecognizable. There are no words for this feeling. He would simply feel, revel in it in silence.

Qinghua is a man of words. As Mobei-Jun presses another finger inside of him, alongside the first, he throws his head back and gasps toward the head of the bed. There are no words for this, but Qinghua is a man of words, and so he will try. He will try.

"You are beautiful." That, after all, now that he has said it, was not that hard to say at all. That is true. Even so, the effect of the words is immediate. Qinghua's eyes blow wide. His head rears back and he searches to catch his king's eye. Mobei-Jun allows himself to be caught. In that moment, spun between them like filigreed ice, he watches as a splotchy flush crawls its way up from his chest. "You are so beautiful," he says, again. It is more true every second.

"My King." He's gasping with it, and his voice has gone so soft, so tentative, so worshipful. There is something here. Something terrifying and deeper than Mobei-Jun had ever thought they would be able to have. Deeper than Mobei-Jun had ever thought he might deserve. "My King, please, you can't say things like that unless you mean it." He wiggles his hips again, thrusts down onto the two fingers deep within him even as he struggles with the words. "You have to, ah, you have to be careful when you say things like that to me or I don't know what I'll do."

It's a warning. He is afraid too. Afraid of the feeling that is swelling up between them right now.

Mobei-Jun does not listen.

He widens his two fingers from where they are held in the clutch of Qinghua's body, dragging them against the inner walls of him and crooking them. He is not trying to accomplish anything in particular. More, he is simply trying to make his presence here undeniable and overwhelming. Prove to Qinghua that he means what he is saying.

At one solid drag of his fingers, he feels as he brushes past something of a slightly different texture. This is particularly notable, because as soon as that happens, Qinghua lets out a shocked yelp-shout and jumps in Mobei-Jun's hold, almost fully escaping his touch.

They stare at each other in surprised silence for a moment, and then Mobei-Jun has one hand on the jut of his hip bone. He drags Qinghua's smaller frame down the bed, back onto his fingers, and thrusts them back inside, aiming for that place. It takes a moment to find, but soon enough he's got him again.

Qinghua seems to be overwhelmed with it. That hectic flush is growing deeper, darker, and it seems as though the rest of his blood has flooded to his neglected cock, which thrusts damp and proud up toward his stomach, bobs in the air with their movements. The feelings seem to have him caught in some kind of disoriented pleasure, and he keeps rolling his head back and forth on the pillow and mouthing at the fabric of the pillowcase. It's intoxicating. Mobei-Jun would shove his fingers in that mouth, since it seems so desperate for something to fill it, if both of his hands weren't busy here.

"Yes, God, fuck. My King, My King, my favorite. You're so good. You're doing so good. I'm going to die right here. You're going to kill me if you keep doing that. My King, My King, My King."

It is impossible to make Qinghua be quiet. Mobei-Jun has never particularly wanted him to be, either. Even less so in this moment. He is pushing further and further. There are three fingers buried deep and spreading within Qinghua, and he keeps whining just on the edge of his gasps for breath. Mobei-Jun can feel something terrible and wonderful welling up within him, pushing against his lungs.

And then he's got four fingers deep in Qinghua, spreading them on the pull out, and he's not grimacing in discomfort at all. He's pressing back against it, and that is all that Mobei-Jun's self-control can take. He pulls his hand out, releases his vice grip on Qinghua's hip. Qinghua makes some kind of confused, bereft noise at that and it's more than any person could be expected to resist. Mobei-Jun lunges his way up his body, a predator with prey sprawled out in front of him, defenses down. He slams their mouths together, graceless and teeth-clacking and hungry, so hungry, so desperate for every part of this. Qinghua's hands, which have been grasping uselessly at the sheets beneath him, jump to his hair and dig in deep. His small legs wrap around Mobei-Jun's waist and his hips keep thrusting, thrusting, thrusting while they kiss, like he's trying to draw Mobei-Jun into him by feel alone.

He wants to pull back, slam home, take him as ferally as he feels. He almost does.

Mobei-Jun is a man of actions. Qinghua is a man of words. He has thought they understood each other before. He is trying to be better.

"Qinghua," he has to pause, press his face against the side of Qinghua's and breathe deep to catch his breath. Get some kind of control back over himself. This is all so much more than he ever imagined it would be. Qinghua is not helpful in his quest to gather the faintest hint of his composure, nuzzling and searching for his king's mouth so they can go on kissing. Mobei-Jun indulges him twice more before he is able to pull any kind of thought together. "Qinghua, wait."

"My King," he gasps, and it's a new way of saying it, something he has never heard before. There is sometimes fondness in those words, but it is nothing compared to the way that he is saying it now. As if it were something holy. As if it were a secret, just between the two of them. As if they have known each other for decades and loved each other the entire time. "What, what, My King. Please. Come on. Comeoncomeoncomeon-"

Mobei-Jun kisses him again, briefly, because if he keeps talking like that then he is going to have to start this all over again. He pulls away before the intoxicating drag of it can pull him back under.

"Qinghua, you are willing." He can't keep kissing him while he talks, but he noses his way between the soft brown strands of hair that hang sweaty around this beloved face. "You are willing to continue further."

It's too little. It's always too little, to capture everything that he is feeling inside. To illustrate the abstract and overwhelming shape his thoughts take. He needs to know the answer to every question welling up inside of him and he doesn't have the words to ask a single one of them.

Qinghua, Qinghua, Qinghua, the man who knows him better than anyone else in the Three Realms. Qinghua, who would never let him get away with saying something like that without a little bit of gentle teasing. He can feel, under the bulk of his own weight, as Qinghua stills, all motion stopping as that brilliant mind of his puzzles through what his king has just said, pulling out every piece of meaning hidden in those few words.

"Ha." He's still got his legs wrapped around Mobei-Jun's waist, and his hips seem to be moving in occasional, helpless little jerks to chase some kind of stimulation against his neglected cock. "My King, My King." He pulls a hand through the long strands of Mobei-Jun's hair, all fallen loose from any semblance of a braid, pulling him until he is no longer able to hide his face and must face his closest advisor head-on. "This really isn't how I thought you would do this. What happened to that brute who used to beat me up every day, huh?" Mobei-Jun can feel himself closing off a little, maybe pouting a little bit. Who could say? Either way, Qinghua makes a chastising, coaxing little noise and holds his king's face between his hands.

"No, no, no. Don't go hiding now. My King, what would give you the idea that I am anything other than completely into this?" He rolls his hips again at that, this time very obviously intentionally.

"I am making sure."

"You're good." Qinghua pulls his face down, smacks a kiss to his forehead, and Mobei-Jun can't stop himself from blinking in shock. This is not at all what he imagined. This is all so new. "Good job getting consent. Yes, yes, we all love to see it. Such an unproblematic fave." It is important, when you love Qinghua, to understand that you will only understand approximately half of the words that leave his mouth. If they are important to understand, he will repeat them or write them down. Mobei-Jun listens closely anyway. "Now, My King." Here, his gaze turns serious, in that cheeky way that he shows so rarely. Qinghua pulls his face down until he is able to speak directly into Mobei-Jun's ear. "Are you going to fuck me, or do I have to do it myself?"

And that, really, is all that Mobei-Jun can take. That fire that had been dimming slightly, warming instead of burning over the course of this conversation, flares so high that he can feel it in his throat.

He raises himself back up to his hands and knees, crouching over Qinghua's disheveled form. He shifts down, grabs a handful of Qinghua's ass on each side, lines himself up. They may have paused, but he is still stretched and eager and waiting. It is nothing at all, in the end, to haul him down and thrust into that tight heat.

At their coupling, finally, Qinghua releases a high and wandering moan that breaks in two places. Mobei-Jun feels animal with it, grunting and doing everything he can to hold himself back from immediately losing his mind.

"Yes, yes, yes," Qinghua chants, and he wraps his legs around Mobei-Jun's waist again, like they live there now. Mobei-Jun is doing what he can to override the possessive voice in his head that is telling him that he should never allow Qinghua to leave again. He's strong enough. He could carry him around like this all the time. Let him live like this. Mobei-Jun could feed him cold grapes and refreshing drinks and they could never be separated again. "Come on, My King, please."

A sharp kick from a small foot at the small of his back is what brings Mobei-Jun back to be fully present in this moment in time. He was trying to be gentle, take his time, as he learned on those trips with Junshang, but Qinghua does not seem to be interested in such things.

He pulls out, thrusts back in solidly, testing. Qinghua scrambles up the bed, clenches tight on him, wraps his arms around his shoulders. That is a positive response, and the welcoming clutch of him is staggering. There is nothing that could have stopped the next several judders of his hips, thrusting into that tight heat.

And Qinghua, Qinghua, Qinghua. He's so beautiful. He's flushed and sweating and scratching at Mobei-Jun's back. He's so beautiful. Why did it take them this long to get here? Mobei-Jun thrusts in as hard as he wants to, hears the filthy sound of their bodies slapping together. Qinghua yelps and holds on tighter and it's good.

It's all so good.

The sun is still not even up, but the sky above them has gone dove grey, just enough to catch in his wet brown eyes, and Mobei-Jun cannot look away. He uses one hand to grab at Qinghua's shoulder, haul him down when he thrusts up, and Qinghua shouts his approval for everyone in the palace to hear. Good. Let them try to comment on this. Let them try to take Qinghua from him ever again. He will murder them all for even looking.

The scrape of Qinghua's soft little nails down his back are still drawing blood, and the scent of it, along with the sweat and oil and sex of it all is coiling through the air. There is something tight and hot building in Mobei-Jun's lower dantian. He can feel his balls pulling in closer to his body and he cannot let that happen yet, not when this moment is still so lovely and so perfect and Qinghua has not come yet.

He refocuses on his companion, pulls himself out of his own pleasure. Qinghua is gasping in overwhelmed pleasure, clinging so tightly to his shoulders. Mobei-Jun moves his arm from his shoulder to help brace himself, so that his other arm is free to move down to his cock. Qinghua's cock is smaller than his own, able to fit within his hand and barely emerge through the tunnel he has made with his hand. It allows him to get a proper grip, stimulate the entire thing in one motion.

At this touch, combined with the relentless pace Mobei-Jun has set with his hips, Qinghua releases a hiccuping little sob. Looking closer, there are tears limning his eyes. One drips down the side of his face, and Mobei-Jun licks it up, bites the apple of his cheek while he's there.

"Don't stop, don't you dare stop, My King. This one is willing. I'm willing. Please, My King. Please."

How can he do anything but comply? Mobei-Jun can feel as Qinghua grows tighter around him. His voice is raising in pitch and his grip on his shoulders has grown ever tighter. His head starts to shift restlessly from side to side again. Mobei-Jun cannot help the sudden, visceral hunger that sweeps through him. He needs to see Qinghua come. He needs to know what he looks like when pleasure overtakes him completely.

He continues to stroke his cock in time with his own thrusts. When that seems to be almost enough, he lets one of those long artist fingers dip down and fondle his balls, press firmly along his perineum where he can feel the heat radiating from the stretch at his hole.

And that is all it takes. Qinghua comes with a bubbling, yelping laugh. His cock spurts onto his own chest and Mobei-Jun rubs him through it, still thrusting into him even as the pressure around his own dick flutters and clenches.

The laughing moan turns into something of a whimper, and Mobei-Jun forces himself to slow, even though it's going to kill him. The sight of Qinghua like this, ruined and satiated and calm for the first time ever, it's scratching an itch deep within him. That sense of responsibility satisfied. He did this. Qinghua works so hard to take such good care of him, and now Mobei-Jun has managed to return the favor in some sort of way.

His own erection is aching, still locked deep within Qinghua, but it seems like it's causing him some kind of discomfort, and there are other ways to achieve his own pleasure. He starts to pull away, only for Qinghua to muster some level of awareness and lock his ankles closed at the small of his back.

"Nope nope nope, My King, don't you dare. I haven't waited this long for you to fuck me for you to not finish inside me. If you don't come like this, I'll never be satisfied. Come on, come on, you did, ha, you did such a good job, ah, taking care of me. Come on, My King, keep going."

With such an encouraging litany, Mobei-Jun can do nothing but obey. At each deep thrust, Qinghua makes a whimpering gasp, but his body remains welcoming. He keeps holding on tight.

It takes nothing at all for Mobei-Jun to return to that same place. Not with Qinghua below him, flushed and ravished and covered in his own spend. Not with such things being said in such a breathy, desperate voice. Not when this is everything he has wanted for decades.

He can feel that pleasure building in his lower dantian again, the tightening in his own balls, and he does nothing to try and divert his attention now. He knows he is grunting like some kind of animal, but Qinghua is receptive. He is welcoming and warm and so good and Mobei-Jun can't help the pistoning of his hips now.

He's close. He's close and the reality of the moment is swelling up and crashing over his head. There is so much and he could never capture any of it in words but Qinghua is a man of words and so he will try. He will try, because this is the most important thing in the entire world and he will do whatever it takes.

"So good. Qinghua is so good." He is close. He's so close. Just a few more seconds of this and he won't be able to last. "This king is yours, Qinghua. I want to be with you every day. Cook for you every day. Fuck you until you can't worry about anything else. Qinghua. I think I was made to please you."

The words strike true. He can see the way Qinghua's eyes fly wide, and that's it. That's all he can take before he finds himself wrapped around Qinghua, animal, and shaking through the waves of pleasure that shake out through his core.

He realizes, only a few moments after he is able to think again, that somewhere in the middle of all of that, he had latched on to the soft skin of Qinghua's chest, just above his heart. He can taste blood on his teeth from the force of his bite. He would worry about that, about letting the more violent and painful urges of his demonic instincts influence things again, if it weren't for the quiet way that Qinghua is murmuring in his ear and the soft, hesitant hands he can feel stroking along the hair at the nape of his neck.

He could move. He probably should move. But why would he go anywhere, when everything that has ever mattered is right here?

*~*~*

It should be more awkward than this.

Shang Qinghua keeps waiting for it to get uncomfortable. They just fucked. They've known each other for decades. They've built a kingdom together, and they've never had sex or even kissed each other until right now.

He's laying, sprawled in the comfortable and silky nest his king has made up for him on the bed in the royal bedchambers. There is an enormous demonic ice king laying on top of him.

Honestly, he's kind of being crushed by the weight of his king. He can feel the cold stick of sweat cooling in the blankets around him. The tacky itch of come drying on his own stomach. The strain in his ribs when he tries to breath past the much larger weight of his partner. The sting on his chest where Mobei-Jun's fangs had sunk deep. The ache in his own backside as he is forced to reckon with the realities of his old, wish-fulfillment tendencies to make all demon dicks inordinately large.

There is so much happening. It should be horribly uncomfortable. It should be awkward.

Instead, Qinghua lets himself snuggle in a little closer, tangle his fingers in the fine baby hairs at the base of his king's skull.

How long has it been since he touched someone else? Like, physically? He honestly can't think of the last time. Maybe Tianlang-Jun bumped into him or draped an arm across his shoulders. Maybe Mobei-Jun had grabbed his arm to redirect him or something. But, thinking of it, it's been years and years since the last time he really spent time touching another person. Snuggling? It's been ages. Probably not since he was a young child for the second time.

So, sure, maybe this is weird. Maybe this is a little bit uncomfortable. He's still going to take advantage of literally every moment of it, because Shang Qinghua has never claimed to be anything other than the worst kind of opportunist.

They rest there, in silence, for an uncountable length of time. The icy skylights above lighten and lighten until it's properly sunrise. Fuck, he can't believe this literally all happened in the early hours of the morning. He's not some college kid with endless energy and stamina. What's he supposed to say? That he was swept up in the heat and lust of the moment? He's the advisor to the king. He runs the demonic and human realms. He's pretty much 80 years old. That shouldn't be an excuse at all.

It's true, though. And, you know, #noregrets. Not when it means that he gets to have this moment.

Still. The endorphins are starting to fade a little and the discomfort isn't.

"My King, ah," he murmurs. "I don't think we can lay here all morning."

"Mmph," says his king, very persuasively, from where he is nestling his face in at the crook of Shang Qinghua's neck and shoulder. To be fair, it's a very good point.

"We have a kingdom to run. The sun is coming up." He pokes a little at one incredibly large deltoid muscle where it's within his reach. Please see this action as a functional way to get your attention and not as him acting on a fantasy he has held for literal decades. Please also see the motivation for this entire conversation as admirable dedication to his profession rather than any kind of avoidance of a longer conversation. There's a lot to do. There's always a lot to do. This is the reason for the Overarching To Do List. They are in the position that they are in because they do their jobs and they do them well (unlike a certain emperor and empress of the demon realm). There is no time to lounge around and waste the day away.

Shang Qinghua, seeing that he is going to be ignored by the enormous demon king currently crushing him, starts to wiggle his way out from under him. Mobei-Jun makes an even louder unhappy noise than before and tightens his grip. There is no way that Shang Qinghua is going to be able to escape this position until Mobei-Jun decides he is willing to allow it to happen.

The thought of that doesn't make his dick twitch. Or, if it did, then he doesn't know how he was supposed to help that. He is a simple pervert and purveyor of fine pornography! So what if the implication of a little restraint gets to him? That's not important! He is still going to escape! There is work to do! Also if he looks his king in the eyes right now he might die!

"Qinghua is sending two different messages." He can feel the smartass smile his king is hiding by pressing it into his neck. He knows exactly what expression is on his face. He's known this man since he was nothing more than an acne-ridden teenager! "There have been times, before, when this king thought he understood Qinghua's intentions. He cannot help but work to make sure that he is understanding Qinghua now."

The nerve of this man! What was Shang Qinghua thinking, making a love interest like this! He slaps ineffectually against his king's arm. Mobei-Jun starts to laugh in response, low and quiet and happier than Shang Qinghua has literally ever heard him before. Fuck. Fuck, but he's so fucking in love with this stubborn asshole. He slaps a little harder, wiggles to escape more thoroughly. Mobei-Jun just continues that low chuckle that rumbles through them and bites playfully at the neck right in front of him.

Shang Qinghua yelps in offense, slaps a little more aggressively, until Mobei-Jun has no choice but to pull away and pin his arms back down again. Defeated by the strategic mind that runs both the demon and human realms! Take that!

Ah, but this was something of a miscalculation, because now he can see his king's face again, and he's even smiling a little bit. There's a deep contentment there, more than he's ever seen before. What is he supposed to do about that? Not that he has much of a choice either way, because all of his muscles automatically go lax at the sight, and he flops back into the grip his king has put him in.

"Stay," Mobei-Jun orders, exactly like the kind of command one might exasperatedly say to a puppy who hasn't actually learned how to do this trick yet. Asking for something but clearly not expecting to be obeyed. "Qinghua is always in such a hurry to run off somewhere else." He presses in a little more firmly against his grip on Shang Qinghua's wrists, makes sure to catch his eyes in intense eye contact. "Stay."

Then his king gets up and wanders over to the ensuite attached to his bedchambers. Shang Qinghua considers getting up, just to be a little shit, but he doesn't actually want to move yet, and also he kind of liked the way that his king had ordered him around just then.

In just another minute, Mobei-Jun has returned with a damp rag, warmed with his demonic qi. That's not the natural way that his qi works. It would have taken intention and thought and focus, to make it warm rather than cold.

When he makes it back to the bed, Mobei-Jun begins to slowly wipe down Shang Qinghua's body, clearing it of some of the worst of the messiness they just created. It's so much softer than Shang Qinghua ever would have thought to expect from a hookup with his king. Also not the roles he thought either of them would take. He can't help but sit in paralyzed silence while it happens. He feels like prey in the eyes of a predator again, but in the kind of thrilling way, not the terrifying way, you know?

Maybe that's stupid.

When his stomach and chest have been wiped clean, Mobei-Jun tosses the rag to the side of the room and grabs his shoulders. Before Shang Qinghua can do something logical, like get up and start his day, Mobei-Jun has tugged the blankets up from underneath him and wrapped him up in something of a blanket burrito. After that, his king gets into the bed and hoists Shang Qinghua up into whatever position he wants. Shang Qinghua wiggles a little, just to put up a token protest, but there is nothing that can stop him from ending up snug as a bug in a rug and tucked beneath his king's chin.

"Tell me, Qinghua." He can feel the way that Mobei-Jun's low voice resonates in his chest while he speaks, from this angle. It's going to lull him back to sleep if he's not careful. "How does this king's closest advisor go about categorizing the items on his Overarching To Do List?"

"Huh?" This is not at all what he thought the sexy, post-fuck pillow talk would be. But, well, he is always able to talk about logistics. So, you know, whatever. "Um, well it's divided up by a couple different categories. There's the Immediately Pressing section, which isn't sorted out any further because it all needs to happen, like, right now. But then, after that, I've got it sorted between area of the world and realms, and then by whether I have to do it or if I have to delegate it, and then ranked in importance based on how much trouble it's going to cause us or how much it might impact relations with someone important-"

He is cut off there by a sweet kiss. It's one of the more effective methods someone has tried for shutting him up. The things you learn about yourself.

"And what might cause something to end up in the Immediately Pressing section?" his king asks, tone utterly indulgent. Shang Qinghua still has no idea what to make of this conversation but, as this is what he spends almost every minute of every day of his life thinking about, he is more than able to answer.

"I mean, it really depends, I guess? That's the sort of thing where, as soon as you try to put some kind of criteria on it, something is going to come up that doesn't fit at all, but still definitely needs to be on there, and then you have to start all over again. Which is why I can't just delegate this to anyone else, because they're never going to know what things actually need to get done right then and what things can wait, even if it doesn't sound like they can wait when whatever messenger is panicking to you about it." He knows that he's rambling, but his king asked, and he doesn't seem to be losing interest? Qinghua could talk about this forever, because this is basically what the inside of his head sounds like all the time.

"I guess, if I had to talk about general timelines, it's things that are going to be, like, realm-endingly bad if they aren't done right then. So, like, making sure we're keeping peace with the other tribes and making sure that Junshang doesn't go off and start a war because someone looked at his husband a little bit funny. After that, it's also the stuff that's going to make my life hell if it isn't handled right away. So, like, things that would make the castle wards break and stop the temperature regulation from working the way that it should. Or, sometimes, requests from certain demanding kings." He reaches out at that, to flick at the exposed skin of his king's chest, just to make sure it is crystal-clear who he is speaking about.

He has more to say, but it seems that, whatever was motivating Mobei-Jun to ask in the first place has been answered, because he leans in again to steal another kiss. This one isn't the short, sweet kiss from earlier. It also isn't the same as those heated, desperate ones from earlier. Instead, Mobei-Jun leans forward on his hands to press against Shang Qinghua's blanket-bundled form and dives between his lips in a deep and languid kiss. It is dragging and heated and intoxicating, so that, by the time that he pulls away, Shang Qinghua has fully and completely forgotten what it was he was even talking about in the first place. It takes a moment for his brain to even start to blink back online and have complete thoughts. Fucking wild. His brain literally never shuts up. He can't believe this is all that it took and it still took him this long to actually go for it.

"This King has a demand." Shang Qinghua feels the Pavlovian urge to roll his eyes and grab for a scrap of paper at those words. It is the sort of thing Mobei-Jun has been saying since the day they first met, and it usually means that he is going to have to take careful notes and rearrange his schedule for at least the rest of the day.

"Yes, My King. This servant is listening." This is kind of weird, considering the fact that they just fucked, but it's also so incredibly normal to the pattern that they've made over the past few decades that he almost doesn't notice all the weirdness. He's so mad that this is happening while he's all bundled up and can't write. He'll just have to listen closely and fucking repeat it to himself over and over until he's somewhere he can write it down. This ridiculous demon. Why was this the kind of man he dreamed up for himself?

Mobei-Jun smiles a little, like he's just played a winning move in weiqi. He pecks another brief kiss to Shang Qinghua's lips and then pulls back to hold his eye contact with great seriousness.

"This King commands Qinghua to spend at least the next several hours in bed with him." Shang Qinghua, who had been prepping his mind to pay very close attention and memorize words, is offended at the grievous trick that has just been played on him. He starts to wiggle out of his king's grip and off the bed, just to show him what happens when he decides to pull things like this.

He doesn't get more than a few cun away before Mobei-Jun drags him back with an arm around his waist, slings himself up and over, pins Shang Qinghua down with a hand on either shoulder.

"I am afraid this is a very important demand." He is clearly doing what he can to maintain a straight face, but there is a deep joy shining out from his every pore. It's going to kill Shang Qinghua, probably. "If my advisor does not follow it, I may even go start a war." He leans down, drags a kiss down Shang Qinghua's neck, cold tongue flickering along the tendon. This is all horribly unfair.

"My King, there are actual tasks that need to be completed today." He's not even just saying this to be difficult! There is an Overarching To Do List! There are two separate realms to be run! Things will fall to pieces the second he stops looking. It's happened before.

"This King has complete belief in Qinghua's backup systems." And, well, okay. There's maybe something valid there. Shang Qinghua definitely has safeguards in place. Obviously.

"Those are for emergencies only, My King. They can't be counted on for the everyday." He doesn't even know why he's arguing against this so hard. He does want to be here, in bed, with the man he created to literally be his ideal. Well, he sort of wants to be here. He's also pretty sure it's going to all blow up in his face in just a few minutes, and it might be better to just dip before it has the chance to do that. But, you know, most of him wants to stay. There are things to be done, though. He really is the one thing holding all of the human and demon realms together. If he suddenly starts slacking, there will be no one left around to pick up all the extra jobs from everyone else's laziness.

"If Qinghua does not stay with this king, who knows what he might do. It could be realm-ruining." Shang Qinghua knows that his king is joking about this (which, weird, this never happens), would never actually go start a war without Shang Qinghua's say-so, but he really doesn't have the time to sit around and joke like this. He was so relaxed, for just a second, after that incredible orgasm, but he can already feel his brain running off and making a list of everything that should be on his list for today, and what the most efficient order would be to get it all done. He's a wind-up toy, and someone is constantly winching the spring inside of him tighter and tighter. He's going to snap if he doesn't get up and start moving. He opens his mouth to begin explaining all of this to Mobei-Jun when he is once again interrupted by a gentle kiss. This time, it's not against his lips, but cold and soothing against the center of his forehead. He doesn't know if he's ever been kissed there before.

"Qinghua works too hard." The call of the bed, the call to relax and actually let everyone else do the work for once, is strong and seductive. Still.

"This lowly one wouldn't have to work so hard if everyone else would carry their own weight for once. Why don't you go take it up with Junshang, if you have such a problem with my workload," he grouches. Mobei-Jun doesn't laugh, but the fond breath that huffs across his face is something close to it.

"Qinghua would not allow anyone else to take over his tasks."

"As if you know that! No one else has even tried to help, so you've never even seen how I would respond to something like that!"

"Mm," Mobei-Jun is laughing at him. He knows he laughing at him, even if he isn't doing it out loud, and it's winding Shang Qinghua up even tighter. "Of course. This king will write his next speech for himself."

"Well, now, hold on a second." Shang Qinghua knows he's being played, knows that this is a trap he's walking into, but he really can't take the risk that his king might follow through on this joke and accidentally fuck everything up. "Don't do that. The next speech you have to give is to the Eastern Snake Clan. They aren't going to respond well to your, ah, more direct approach to things. Don't do that, My King. I'll just write that speech. Please don't get any ideas like that in your head. If you have something you want to say, maybe just come let me know and I'll see if I can fit it in."

He finishes this ramble, and Mobei-Jun still has him pinned down and trapped within a blanket straight jacket. There is a smile hiding in the crease of his eyes, and it's smug and knowing. Shang Qinghua rolls his eyes but doesn't try to defend himself. He knows what just happened.

"Qinghua works too hard."

"Yes, yes, okay, My King. But, still, I can't just suddenly stop doing that. Everyone's counting on it, at this point. If I stopped, no one would even know how to pick up the tasks that they would need to start doing again. And then they would fuck it all up anyway."

"What is on the Overarching To Do List that needs to be done in the next few hours."

"Oh, sure," Shang Qinghua snarks, because he hates being backed into a corner like this. Hates feeling like his control and choice are being taken away from him. Hates when someone acts like they know how to do his job better than him. "Let me just pull up the several-dozen-page-long, always-changing document that I just keep memorized in my head at all time." His king gives him a Look, as if he's calling Shang Qinghua on some bullshit, which is absolutely unfounded. "I really don't have it memorized! Have you seen how long my list is, My King? Even if I tried to remember all of it, I would maybe forget something really important. I can't just pull it up like that."

"Mm," Mobei-Jun hums. He is using the tone that he employs when he is in the middle of a political negotiation that Shang Qinghua has perfectly prepared him for, when he has all the cards in his hand and already knows exactly what to say to counter every argument. It is not turning Shang Qinghua on. Especially not when he also kisses a line down the tense tendon in his neck. "Then we should go back to Qinghua's office and check."

"Fucking, okay. Fine. Let's go, My King." Mobei-Jun stands up and does not help while Shang Qinghua wrestles and scrambles to get himself out of the constricting blankets. He shoots a glare in his king's direction and receives nothing but placid calm in response.

He still has that feeling like he's walking into a trap. He knows that his king is secure in the knowledge that, whatever he's trying to prove, he is going to win. Shang Qinghua hates this feeling. He rarely ever has to feel it because, generally speaking, everyone in his daily life ignores and underestimates him, while he holds all the cards and knows more than just about anyone else. He does not enjoy the feeling that someone is looking at him, sees all that he is capable of, and is still secure in the knowledge that they are winning anyway.

There's nothing he can do about it now, though. If he suddenly changes his mind and doesn't follow through with going to look at the Overarching To Do List, then his king will have already won. So, they walk down the hall together, Mobei-Jun striding leisurely at his side while Shang Qinghua mutters and grumbles to himself, generally making things more difficult. He's already halfway to his rooms when he realizes that he's actively shivering, the few layers he hastily threw on doing nothing to offset the chill in the halls of the Northern Palace, particularly when he still has a fine layer of sweat on his skin.

He tries to just keep walking. There's nothing he can do about it now and this is something he just has to come to terms with, as a human who has chosen to build his life in the northern desert of the demon realm. He has only been thinking these thoughts for a few moments when a heavy, thick cloak whoomphs down onto his shoulders. He is immediately surrounded by the sharp smell of his king and the deep comforting warmth of fine pelts. When he glances Mobei-Jun's way, he is already staring back, watching with a steady and laughing gaze while Shang Qinghua cannot help but wiggle deeper into the thick ruff of furs in the collar.

"Shut up," he says. His king continues to not say anything at all, but grandly gestures with his hand for Shang Qinghua to go ahead of him.

They make it to Shang Qinghua's rooms without any further incident. When he stomps inside, it's to the sight of multiple piles of work already there and waiting for him. There have been several pieces of correspondence that arrived in the night, and they have been stacked on his desk where the letter pile will build up throughout the day. Several scraps of parchment are on the pile too, reports on the movements of VIPs from various members of the spy network. His Overarching To Do List looms large and ominous in the center of his desk, the first stop for all things. There is always something that needs to be done.

He strides over to the desk, pulls up the Overarching To Do List, begins reading it out loud. Maybe he reads out every single word. Maybe he's showing off (and complaining) a little about just how much he does every day and just how busy he actually is. Who can say. He'll certainly never tell. The point is: he reads off the first full page of the Overarching To Do List, putting extra emphasis on the items that are more like seven thousand items under one big task umbrella (like maintain peace in the Northern Desert, as if he hasn't already broken this down into a thousand different sub-points that are all also part of the Overarching To Do List).

Mobei-Jun watches on with the indulgent smile of someone who has been through this kind of rant before. In his defense, Shang Qinghua can admit that he has forced him to sit there and listen while he reads out every item on the Overarching To Do List before. Just so that he might have a better understanding of all the things that Shang Qinghua is forced to manage by himself every single fucking day. He didn't realize that he was actually listening every time, okay??? That's not on him! What kind of king listens to every word that his main advisor has to say? What's the point of even being the king, if that's what you're going to spend your time doing? If anything, Mobei-Jun is the strange one here, not Shang Qinghua.

He gets through all of the items on the Immediately Pressing list, as well as several items into the general list before Mobei-Jun interrupts him again. There's a smile on his face like he already knows that he is going to win this argument. Shang Qinghua wants to kill him and also fuck him until he can't make a face like that anymore. It's a complicated feeling.

"So, at the end of the list, this king cannot help but notice that none of those items will cause the end of the world if they are not completed in the next several hours."

"That's what you think!" Shang Qinghua exclaims, furious, furious about all of this. His control over everything is being slowly taken out of his hands and he hates it. "But if I don't get in touch with the representative from the Owl Clan in the next few days, then that's going to throw off my entire sixteen-step plan for building rapport and relationships with the clan. If we're going to pursue a truce with them at the next meeting we have scheduled, then we need in-roads before that ever happens, and if we wait until the autumn solstice hits then it will already be too late."

"This king is not asking his foremost advisor to wait until the autumn solstice." Mobei-Jun walks forward, prowls, really, and slides himself right up alongside where Shang Qinghua is standing. The smell of him washes over the space between them. He still smells like sweat and sex and himself. Shang Qinghua is not going to let the useless gay hamster in his brain take over at that. He is going to be stronger than that.

"This king appreciates all the things his foremost advisor does to maintain peace and prosperity in this kingdom." He reaches out, one long, thin-boned hand, made that way because that's how Shang Qinghua likes for men's hands to look, and plucks the Overarching To Do List from Shang Qinghua's hand. He is furious with himself, for how unresisting his grip is.

"This king is asking his lover to come back to bed, for a few hours more." He's so close. His body is cold, his breath is cold, and it's all bringing up goosebumps across the tops of his arms. Fuck. He needs to stay focused. He has a point here. He can't remember what it was, exactly, but he definitely has a point. Never let it be said that forgetting exactly what the plot is has ever stopped Shang Qinghua from speaking hundreds of words anyway.

"My King, this is all," he pushes at Mobei-Jun's chest a little and, thank every good fucking thing, his king moves with the pressure. His head clears up just the smallest little bit. "This is all very sexy and romantic and everything, and we are going to come back to that comment about me being your lover, but it's also true that if I stop doing all of the things that I do, things are really going to fall to pieces in the demon realm and in the human realm. So, it's nice that you want to spend the whole day languishing in bed and everything, but my whole entire job is to work my ass off so that everyone else gets to do things like that. So, you know, really appreciate it, really want to do it, but also really just can't make that happen right now. If you want to do something like this again, which, again, lover, wild to think about, then let me know and I'll try to make sure it's on the Overarching To Do List."

He realizes that he is breathing pretty hard. The trembling panic attack of it all is something that he feels pretty much every minute of every day of his life. Still, it's only the fact that it's coming back that helps him realize that, for just a second there, he wasn't feeling like this. Maybe it's just the post-nut clarity, or the afterglow, or whatever the fuck, but he was definitely feeling, like, settled and shit. Indignant and angry, sure, but usually the panic is so loud that there isn't even space for feelings like that.

Mobei-Jun is going to be pissed about literally every fucking thing he just said in the past few seconds. That's not how you're supposed to talk to your king. That's not how you're supposed to talk to your new lover. Schedule him in??? Like they're some washed-up married couple making a last ditch attempt at holding onto intimacy before they split up and never speak to each other again. Like all that they just did meant nothing more to him than any other little bullet point on a list. He's braced for something, a hit, if he's honest. Physical or emotional, it would be the same.

"Qinghua works too hard." The words are not said harshly. Shang Qinghua wasn't even really looking at his king while all of these thoughts were flying through his head, so it catches him a little off guard when he feels sudden pressure around him. Rather than touch him with his cold hands, Mobei-Jun has stepped forward and pulled his cloak, already around Shang Qinghua's shoulders, even tighter around him.

This is all completely stupid. He should be clinging to his king's thighs and crying in thanks for the opportunity, not whatever he would call this. He designed this man to be the perfect man for him and he finally got the chance to get with him after literal decades of pining and even more decades of fantasizing. He could still be in bed, snuggling with him right now. Why is he spending so much time thinking about the Overarching To Do List, as if anyone else in either life has ever taken a single moment to appreciate all that he does? So, what, he's just going to throw his gold opportunity with Mobei-Jun into the garbage as soon as he gets a chance to taste it, just so all those people who never thank him a day in his life keep not noticing all that he does for them?

Oh, look. He's crying. It's about time.

His king does not hush him or whisper quiet, comforting words. It would probably be terrifying if he even tried to. His grip, though, tightens just a little bit more, and he stands there and holds Shang Qinghua for the entire quarter shichen it takes for him to remember how to breathe properly. When he pulls away, puffy and embarassed and rubbing at the itchy dryness of his eyes, his king is staring down at him with that same terrifying fondness that makes him want to run screaming out of the room. When Shang Qinghua huffs a self-depreciating laugh and shrugs his way from the grip, Mobei-Jun lets him go easily.

He grabs a handkerchief from over by his desk, blows his nose, somehow finding a way to still be embarrassed about the noise that it makes, even though he's already made a thousand more shameful noises than that since he woke up.

"Ah, so, yes," he says, because he needs to say something or he's going to lose his mind. He'll find the point of it all once he's got the words already flowing. "That was, ah, this one is perfectly fine. Don't worry about any of that. Thanking my king for his patience."

Patience is not the right word. Patience does not encapsulate the way that Mobei-Jun continues to stand there, soft and smiling just a little, if you know how to look. The way that he just held him for so long without complaining and still looks happy to see him. A better word would be a much scarier word, even to just think it, and so Shang Qinghua isn't going to do that.

"I am, that is, this one did not intend to make it sound as though he is not, ahem, is not honored that the King of the Northern Desert would deign to see him as someone worthy of such status as a lover." Mobei-Jun steps toward him again and Shang Qinghua shuts up. He's just talking. The words don't mean anything at all. He doesn't know why this is such a big deal.

"When would Qinghua schedule this king?"

"Ah, ha ha, not like that, My King. It's not like that. I don't want to you to think I don't care about this, or that, you know, it doesn't matter to me or anything like that."

Mobei-Jun steps in closer, doesn't say a single word, holds his hand up to the side of Shang Qinghua's face. A line of cold and grounding touch. And then he just stands there. His king. Quiet and calm and waiting for Shang Qinghua to tell him when he's willing to spend time with him. The man of his dreams, who he created to be everything he wants. The man he has spent the past decades getting to know and building a friendship with. The man he loves so fucking much it might as well be carved into the marrow of his bones.

Why is he doing this, again? Why is he standing in the middle of his office, fighting to spend more time hacking away at the endless pile of work, rather than laying in bed and snuggling with the incredible musculature of his king?

The panic is draining out of him, and there's something twisty and quiet left behind. He's happy to be held like this. Embarrassed for making such a scene. Frustrated that the trap set up for him is going to work. Excited that any of this happened. Worried worried worried about what all of it could mean. It's all twisted up and nauseous and happy inside of him, but he thinks maybe that's just how it feels, for someone like him, to be handed the thing that he's wanted after so long wanting it.

He knows what he's going to say. He wants to say it, even. It's still hard to get the words out. His fellow transmigrator, Cucumber-Bro, can never bring himself to say shameless things without a hardy blush and hiding behind a fan. Shang Qinghua has never struggled with shameless things. This, though, admitting that he was wrong and that someone else, who he'd been arguing with for a long time, is the one who is going to win. This is almost impossible.

He forces the words out anyway.

"The Overarching To Do List can wait a few more shichen." There. He said it. It's fine. The world is fine. Just admitting that he is going to let someone else take control over what he's doing instead of following his own list of priorities. Mobei-Jun doesn't smile, because he's never been that expressive, but his eyes go soft and warm and he gently strokes his thumb along Shang Qinghua's temple.

"A few more shichen," he repeats. And then he uses that hand to draw Shang Qinghua into a deep, toe-curling kiss, and maybe this isn't so bad after all.

He's going to have to shift a few things around. Schedule around this. Because spending time like this, pressed together and touching, is about to jump to one of the top priorities of the Overarching To Do List. It's maybe not the level of relaxing and not working "too hard" that his king would want to see, but it's more than Shang Qinghua has done for anyone else. It's already a terrifying prospect.

Shang Qinghua pulls away from the kiss, holds his king's hand and starts walking down the hallway again, moving as fast as he can so that his thoughts don't have time to take back over and argue aginst this plan. They head back toward his king's quarters, because that's where Shang Qinghua wants to be, because the bed there is bigger and softer and he's going to take advantage of that as much as he can.

"Ah, it seems our resident lovebirds have finally managed to work out their differences."

Right. The royal nuisance in residence. Tianlang-Jun is lounging against the wall just outside of Shang Qinghua's rooms, even though it's still so early in the morning that no one should be up and moving.

"Tianlang-Jun!" He yelps, because it becomes clear quickly that his king is not going to say something, and someone has to speak up before they piss off the Heavenly Demon staying in the palace. "Is there something Tianlang-Jun needs from this servant?" He sketches a hasty salute, not putting too much effort into it because they both know that Tianlang-Jun outranks him but they also both know that he keeps sneaking into his room at night and stealing all his shit. And then holding it hostage. So, you know, no real mutual respect there.

"I was merely coming to pay a visit to my dear friend, Shang Qinghua, but it seems as though he's found another member of demonic royalty to entertain himself with."

Shang Qinghua knows that Tianlang-Jun is being a little shit on purpose. Mobei-Jun probably does too. That doesn't stop the sudden flare of staggering demonic qi that pulses at his side, or the possessive hand that clamps around the back of his neck. It seems that Mobei-Jun will be a very possessive lover. Shang Qinghua is trying to tell himself that this is a bad thing, a red flag, has the potential to turn into a toxic relationship. Shang Qinghua is trying to ignore that he's suddenly half-hard.

"Tianlang-Jun will return at a later time, if he would like to petition for a conversation with the King of the Northern Desert's consort."

"Consort!?!" Shang Qinghua yelps, contradicting Mobei-Jun's surety even though one of the very first things he ever nagged his king about was how important it is to present something of a united front in the face of foreign dignitaries. But come on, my king! This lowly servant has only just started to wrestle with the idea of being his lover! A consort? The very idea of it is so hilarious that Shang Qinghua might break down cry-laughing right now. Fuck.

Also, if he's going to go making grand changes in the power structure of the palace, he really should have told Shang Qinghua about it several weeks ago, at least, so that he could start getting things in order. If that is happening (which, fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck is happening), then there would need to be all kinds of political moves made ahead of time to make that a success.

"Ah, it seems that congratulations are even more in order than I thought when I first arrived." Tianlang-Jun sweeps into a half-sarcastic salute, which he can get away with because everyone here knows that the only reason this entire palace hasn't been exploded is because he's in a good mood right now. Shang Qinghua would like to go back in time and convince the past version of himself to make the entirety of PIDW into a fluffy, slice-of-life thing. Except with one super-hot demon king in the background. That only he knew about. All these other ridiculously OP characters are welcome to depart, please and thank you. He never should have written them in the first place, crowd-pleasing or not.

Please disregard the fact that it is suddenly becoming painfully obvious that their entire relationship would not exist right now if it weren't for the fact that Tianlang-Jun had so blatantly meddled. Shang Qinghua honestly didn't know he had it in him, but, then, he'd never really bothered to think about or write about a version of Tianlang-Jun that made it out of the mountain and also found out the truth of his whole tragic imprisonment in the first place. Huh.

It doesn't matter too much. He doesn't have any more time to think about this stuff, because Mobei-Jun is scooping him up by the scruff of his own robe around Shang Qinghua's neck, and then they are moving past Tianglang-Jun and back toward the warm and luxurious nest they built in the center of his king's bed.

To think. This is all it took. Just a few letters and conversations. Just taking the time to actually participate in some acts of service. Ones that Tianlang-Jun may or may not have implied were actually demonic courting actions, which Shang Qinghua really should have already known, considering he's the one who invented them. It really wasn't at the top of his list of priorities, when he was stuck in the body of a toddler and working to remember everything that might be able to keep him alive.

To think. This is all it took. Decades of knowing each other and learning the strengths and faults of each other. Learning how to lean on each other and build something better than either one of them ever could have alone. Just Mobei-Jun pushing past a lifetime of self-protection in an effort to learn how to speak what he was feeling. Just Shang Qinghua, taking the time to step away from the lists that are the only ways he's found to make sense out of his life.

To think. This is all it took. Waking up in the light of a fading fire and finally acting on the thing that has been buzzing in the air between them for as long as they've known each other, now that he knows how to look for it.

Mobei-Jun hoists him up and places him in the center of the nest, before Shang Qinghua can take the time to clamber up there himself. It's in no way an unpleasant feeling. He certainly wouldn't mind doing something like that again. Potentially experimenting with other ways that Mobei-Jun could pick him up and move him as he pleases.

But, for now, that frantic need is no longer shimmering between them. Instead, Mobei-Jun pulls Shang Qinghua close, so close that he can rest his head right on those fantastic pectorals that he created for this exact purpose. They wrap themselves together, there, with both of them tucking blankets in strategic places so that Shang Qinghua doesn't get too cold in the middle of all of this.

There is so much he should be doing right now. But, for just this one moment, he doesn't feel guilty about relaxing. This is where his king wants him to be. More than that, it's where he wants to be.

As they lay there, Mobei-Jun's hand moves up Shang Qinghua's back and begins tugging lightly through his hair. It feels fucking glorious.

There are things to do. There will always be things to do. But this is so nice, so comforting. Maybe he'll stay here, for just a few hours longer.

And then, you know, maybe for a lifetime after that. If his king will have him.

He'll put it on the list.

#svsss #svsss fanfiction #my writing #svsss fic #svsssaction #scum villain #scum villian self saving system #moshang #mobei jun #shang qinghua #tianlang jun

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golden-stag · 9 hours ago

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Got distracted looking at Chipp and Venoms win quotes about each other- no one look at me-

#their X2 ending remains real and true-#I think Chipp is like. a refreshing presence to Venom #he's someone that expresses himself openly and relies on his gut instincts to guide him where he needs to go #even if his gut leads him to trying to become president of whatever country that will have him-#Venom can still see he's trying to do something good. he knew that when Chipp attempted to kill him to avenge his master #and trusts him enough to follow his lead in Chipps AC ending #and on Chipps end he definitely picked up on Venom not valuing himself as a person when they met #thats why Chipp didn't go through with killing him when he had the opportunity to #when Venom told him the assassins guild is just a tool to be wielded by someone else #I think Chipp could read between the lines enough to realise thats what *this* head of the guild thinks they are. because thats all he knows #thats why he started thinking about what he could do to actually change things #and once he had his answer he extended his hand to Venom. just like his master did for him.#I feel like... Fundamentally these two see each other as people worth helping and they're going about it in their own way #you know what I mean? ahh big I'm a fool I know nothing disclaimer on this one-#thats just my reading on them so far yk?#if anyone read all that- hi nice to see you <3 #yappin'

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astralmarionette · 8 months ago

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im currently writing an atsugawa (I hate the name shin soukoku or whatever I'm sorry but I'm actually not. also I cannot pronounce soukoku {this is the real reason I don't use soukoku}) and I don't even ship it lmaoo

#maris bsd 🗞️#like its not a bad ship for my personal tastes #I like them alot more in trios tho I've realized #absolutely adore anytime atsu aku and kyouka are together #two disaters and a teenage girl going through the inexplicable horrors #my favorite #I also desparately wish more people saw the atsulucygawa vision.....#anyways the fic is actually more like before an establish relationship but you can read it as romantic if you want #you'd have to work extra hard though because their bickering isn't like #romantic bickering they're actually kinda getting on each others nerves #but then they have a cute moment talking about their respective agency co workers and realize they do have common ground and that's how muc #they love their lil found dysfunctional families #actually its mostly akutagawa talking Abt port mafia (IM SICK OF PPL SAYING HE DOESNT CARE ABT THEM IDC I wRITE CANON NOW TY) and atsu #realizing that akus never rlly been in a position where he could safely and openly show his affection for anyone #and the one time he did they left (dazai) (this is how the conversation starts)#(aku says smth Abt gin and atsus like “awhh you care alot :3” and akus like “no I don't” and then atsus like “ykw its okay to care Abt ppl”#and akus like “:(( but what if they leave again” and atsus like “but what if they stay?” and basically lists all the reasons why they'd sta #and then akus gets all soft and has a nice moment of caring about everyone he works with #(except maybe chuuya I cant rmb any times they've interacted and i cant think of anything fun or like core memory things they'd do together #and then aku is like “what Abt you and your family? how are they?” and then it's atsus turn to be all sappy about their family #and so then they end up having a way better day than expected AND they walked away from it with a new friend and an even better #understanding of each other and stuff #yeah #reminder I don't even ship atsugawa but wow I feel deeply abt them both.#maybe Id like them as like QPR??#I can see that alot better #but man atsulucygawa....#even they'd probably be QPR though imo #anyways pushing my “aku doesn't feel like he can allow himself to share his affection for people because he doesn't want them to leave”#agenda ty for coming to my Ted talk

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dragonairice · 1 year ago

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Ignore the tags this is a vent post. I just need to get this out somewhere that's not private

#I have no idea why the fuck that's a thing like?? no I don't want people to read this but it's not enough to put it in my diary or my chat #-with myself I need people to see this #but also no one should see this #like what the fuck!!#I can't talk to my friends about this because I don't want to bother them because I'm not feeling better #I don't know if I'm fucking HEARTLESS or soemthing my friends are all there for me and being nice and I can't even feel BETTER about it #like i KNOW i dont owe them anything but like CHEER UP when they cheer you up willl you like ugh what more do you want??#they're here for you and they love you and that's not enough???#Like girl (gender neutral) what do you NEED then??#validation from a stranger?? cold words from your parents who don't love you??#I just feel like SHIT today and nothing's making it better and I don't know WHY #all I had to do was study some stuff for a quiz in uni tomorrow!! it's not that hard!! ao why the heck can't I do it!!#and ughhh I've barely prayed at all for like a month and I feel the guilt of that and I have so many projects I want to do and I'm not rush #-ng it but I feel liek if i dont work on them soon im gonna lose that drive #hhhhhhhhhhh #if anyone actually read this #hi #hope you have a nice day <3 #thanks for caring about a rando on the internet <3 #unless you're being nosy then fuck off man (gender neutral) I SAID ignore this #DragonairIce Rambles

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ghostedeabha · 1 year ago

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imagine like simon goes into some sort of surgery and has to be put under anesthesia, and when he gets out hes like still high asf on it 💀 and hes being a lil silly goose

okay this is such a cute idea omg, this is 100% based off that tiktok audio where it's like "my wife wouldn't like you touching me like that" "i AM your wife."

thank you so much for the request nonnie, a forehead kiss for you MWAH MWAH

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

wc: 563

warnings: none really, lots and lots of that good ol fluff, mentions of surgery, goofy simon, maybe a little ooc simon (he's high so it's fine)

a/n: i hope this is okay, i'm feeling a bit rusty with my writing but i've finally got back some motivation and energy to do so after the past two months of low energy and bad mental health. if you guys want to know a bit more about it and my mental health (i don't see why anyone would but lmao) let me know, i don't mind making a post about it if you guys want an explanation of some sort or whatever. anywho, sorry this is so short but i hope you still like it!! <3

a/n 2.0: i recently applied for a part time job at a bookstore so y'all pray for me that i get this job because i want it so bad. i am just gonna decide that i WILL get this job, because why wouldn't i?

simon had been out of surgery for just over an hour now, being a soldier you 'd think perhaps he was going under surgery for some kind of wound he had inflicted upon him on the battlefield but no, he was just getting his tonsils removed after a bad bout of tonsillitis ended up with him developing really bad tonsil stones.

so here you were, waiting by his bedside for him to wake up. the doctor and nurses reminded you just as he had gotten out that he may still be a little, well loopy, off of the meds depending on how quickly he woke up. you waited in a chair at his bedside, reading a book when you heard the blankets of the bed rustling just a little.

looking up from your book you see simon starting to wake up and you reach out to grasp his hand, only for him to rip it away from you when his eyes were fully opened.

"uh, si? you okay, hon?" you ask gently, maybe he just wasn't feeling too well after waking up, or perhaps he wasn't wanting physical touch, that happened quite often and you always respected that space he may want when he wanted it.

"don't call me that." simon said, voice hoarse and scratchy from the surgery, he sounded a little angry.

"what?" you questioned, this wasn't like simon, you couldn't understand why he wouldn't want you speaking like this to him.

"i'm taken."

"i know." you replied with a short laugh.

"you should be touching me like that then."

it hit you then, he was woozy from the meds and didn't recognize you. the realization made you laugh a little more. you decided to have a bit of fun with this high version of your boyfriend.

"sorry about that simon. wanna tell me about your partner?"

"oh, (name)? they're amazing, you know they're so pretty. and they're funny too. they always know how to make me feel better, i miss them." simon replies, ranting and raving on and on to you about his partner, about you.

"you love them a lot, don't you?" you ask him with a smile, it felt so nice to hear all these lovely things about yourself, your boyfriend clearly unfiltered by the effects of the anesthesia he was under.

sure he definitely said sweet things to your face, but something about hearing it when he was basically high as shit made your heart pound a little more.

"i love them with my whole heart." simon replies, a goofy little smile on his face.

you can't help but reach out to gently caress his face at those words, body filling up with some much adoration for the soldier in front of you.

"hey! what did i say about touching me. i have a partner!" simon scolds, trying to dodge your touch.

"simon, love... i am your partner. it's me, (name)." you reply with a laugh.

simon takes a good long look at you when you tell him this, he stares at you, looks you up and down before letting out a soft and quiet "oh."

you begin to hear the beeping of his heart rate monitor speed up, his cheeks turning slightly pink as he stares up at you.

you couldn't help but laugh a little more at this. what a sweet idiot. your sweet idiot.

#ghostedéabha #éabha writes #éabha's 💌#ghostedéabha: ghost #ghostedéabha: simon riley #simon ghost riley fluff #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x reader fluff #ghost riley x reader #awnie's amazing nonnies💞

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fayes-fics · 7 months ago

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To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.

Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)

Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3

I: To Know You….

“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace.

You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.

—

Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.

He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…

—

You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.

You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own.

And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly.

You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.

“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.”

You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.

“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.

“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident.

“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.

“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.

By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…

“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.

Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.

“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”

You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.

“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.

“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.

—

Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.

Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.

“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”

“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it.

Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…

—

You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.

“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.

“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.

“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.

“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.

It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.

—

Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.

“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.

You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours.

“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air. “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”

Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.

As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.

“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.

Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”

“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.

“That is what I said…” “That is what she said…”

You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.

—

Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.

“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”

“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.

“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.

Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.

“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”

His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.

—

You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room.

Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.

“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.

“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.”

And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.

“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast.

You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.

II: …Is To Love You

The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.

“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.

You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.

Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.

“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.

—

Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.

But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks.

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.

As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.

“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.

“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…”

Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.

“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites��, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”

—

You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.

Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.”

“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.

You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand.

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.

—

His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.

“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.

“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”

“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.”

“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.

“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.

“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly.

Benedict has no response to that.

—

The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.

After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.

He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.

“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”

You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”

“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”

“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.

He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence.

You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.

He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.”

A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.

“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”

“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.

“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”

You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.

—

How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly.

“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.

“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in.

He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing.

He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.

—

Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid.

“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly.

“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.

“I can send him away, Miss?” The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.

“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”

Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.

“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.

“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.

“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.

“Why?” Violet frowns.

“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”

“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.

“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.

“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.

Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.

“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.

“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.

“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.

You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all.

—

The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on.

However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.

“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.

“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.

“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”

You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.

“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.

“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.

He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.

—

“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.

“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.

And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.

“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.

Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.

“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.

She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.

You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.

“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.

—

Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.

“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.

Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.

“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.

“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such.

—

You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.

“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.

“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him; his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.

“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat.

“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.

“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”

Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive.

As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.

“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…”

You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.

“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.

“Thank you.”

Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance.

III: … And I Do.

A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.

“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.

“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.

“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.

“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.

You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary.

Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.

“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!”

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.

You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.

“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.

“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.

“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”

There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not.

You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.

—

As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.

He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that.

It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.

How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor.

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event.

His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.

“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.”

Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.

You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.

—

Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face.

He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.

—

You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton.

Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.

“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.

“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.

As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.

Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside.

“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”

“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.

“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.”

There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.

“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.

And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner.

To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply.

“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”

“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man.

He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.

—

That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking.

An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless.

Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.

You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.

You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“What on earth…?”

There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.

“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.

“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”

His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”

You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.

“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.

—

That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.

“No, you certainly will not!” He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.

“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.

He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.

“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”

“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.

“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.

“Thank you,” you answer softly.

You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does.

“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge.

—

Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.

“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”

He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.

“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.

“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”

That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it.

You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.

“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips.

Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…

…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.

—

The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.

“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.

“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.

She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”

He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.

“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.

“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.

“Why would she have?”

“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.

“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.

“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?”

Even he can read between those lines.

“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.

—

Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.

He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.

“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.

“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”

Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”

“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.

He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”

“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”

Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.

“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”

Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.

It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.

“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks.

“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.

“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.

—

The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.

You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked.

A resounding yes.

In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.

And yet.

There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice.

—

Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.

—

You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.

“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.

“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.

“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.

“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.

You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest.

“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”

You are stunned. Speechless.

Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.

So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.

“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.

“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.

“I love you.”

It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

—

You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more.

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud.

The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.

“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation.

He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.

“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.

He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart. “And I do. I truly do.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n #1k notes #2k notes

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caramelkoo · 2 months ago

Text

be still my heart — jjk [one]

the one in which you get a sex dream about the grouchy hockey player you work for.

genre : childhood best friends to frenemies to lovers, physical therapist!reader x hockey player!jungkook, slow burn, smut, fluff, angst

word count : 5.2k

chapter warnings : strong language, mature, slight smut (because im a tease), reader’s name is Destiny, jungkook is a bit grumpy towards her (she makes him nervous leave my boy alone), fat shaming (not by any of the main characters), oc had daddy issues, mentions of allergy. that’s about it, please let me know if i missed something.

a/n : here it isssssss drumrolls please because im so excited for this. jungkook as a hockey player??? *deep breaths* enjoy my lovely people. you’re so so loved. asks, reblogs and likes are much appreciated. kisses <3

read part two here

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

“Babe, you know you're not going to win right? Don't be wasting your breath.” Bella challenges.

You’re sitting on the chair in your office going through the personnel file of the players. Verifying their names with their contact numbers and photographs which, you’re not going to lie, look like mugshots. Jeez, does smiling a little bit cost them? Anyways, once you’re done you close the file and look up at your assistant bickering with her boyfriend. Phone pressed against her ear.

You mime hanging up the call and she lifts her index finger, indicating for you to wait. She throws in words like hmmm, yeah, you don’t know what you’re saying, yeah i love you too. Once she’s done, she drops the phone on the glass table in front of you and leans back in her chair.

“He thinks I will let him get away with anything just because I love him”

You chuckle, “What’s going on?”

“You know, I’ve been wanting a cat for so long I even made a pinterest board for that. Last Sunday he surprised me with one and when I told him that I lowkey manifested it, he was not having it. I even showed him the mood board and I NEVER show it to anyone. Evil eye is real.” she all but cries out.

That’s Bella for you. Highly spiritual and a firm believer of the universe. She claims that everything happens for a reason. She’s like a little ball of sunshine. Ever since you joined the Ice Dominators’ hockey team as a physical therapist, she’s been assisting you and you couldn’t be more thankful seeing the lack of female workers here. Seriously, there's no other female worker here except yourself and Bella which is so diabolical to you.

And it’s not like the men on the hockey team are a bunch of misogynist jerks. On the contrary, they act like they’ve known you for years. It didn't take you long to feel like home here. They are obedient, friendly and pretty nice. Few of them are married with kids while the rest of them remain single. They’re not like a bunch of teenagers, they know what they’re doing.

Except one, what’s his name? Jeon Jungkook. You would describe that man as crude and closed off to a pathological degree. You still remember when you asked him to come to your office so you can look at any possible previous injuries, he lied to your fucking face. Claiming he doesn’t have any when you could clearly see him hobbling sometimes just a tiny bit when he walked away. Years and years of dedication towards your studies have made you capable enough to catch that it is an old injury.

Despite your better judgment, you blamed it on the fact that his team lost the game that day. Poor guy was having a bad day and took it out on you. Big deal.

“Earth to Destiny” Bella waves a hand close to your face and you shake your head as you look at her.

“Leave the poor man alone” You plead and then ask, “Any details about the new player? I’ll have to add it in the file”

“Not yet, as far as I know they’re still contemplating the guy named Park Jimin or something”

That gets you real quick. Park Jimin. The name feels like acid on your tongue .The last game being unsatisfactorily resulted in the federation trading one of the players. It was cruel but was done for the better. Bound to happen sooner or later. You had expected it but what you had not expected was you both sharing a same room, sharing the same air.

“Alright then. We’ll cross that bridge when it’s—”

Knock, knock

“Miss Kim, sorry to interrupt but the manager is asking for you” Taehyung’s head pokes through the door.

You stand, picking up the file and sliding it into the tableside drawer, running a free hand over your scrubs. Bella does the same as she plucks her phone from the table and puts it inside her back pocket.

You look at him. “Sure Tae, thank you for informing”

He flashes you a quick, pretty smile before leaving. Bella turns to you with a worried look on her face.

“What do you think it is for?”

You bite your lip. “I have no idea. I wanna say it's about the new player but who knows?”

You hope it is and as unfortunate as it is for you to discuss him, you will have to hold your own. You know better than to be invited into the manager’s office. Though, judging by the temperament of him you would not predict anything. Last time when he called you, it was about Jeon Jerk, asking you to be more serious about your job as if it was your fault the man spared you the necessary details.

The asshole asked YOU to do your job better by virtue of HIS player not being sweet enough to listen. Maybe, there is indeed a misogynistic asshole going around and it’s the manager. No wonder women don’t volunteer to work for him.

Since, You love your job —god knows you wanna keep doing it— you kept quiet and took every jab he threw at you.

“Wait, Do I have time to pray? Should I pray?” she’s clearly panicking and you pat her on the shoulder.

“Just hope my job is still intact” you say, warily reaching for your purse. You both head out.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

“Miss Kim, have a seat” James nods at the chair before him.

Once you’re settled, he continues, “I asked for you to join me here regarding the upcoming game. Care to fill in about the status of injury assessment?"

You clear your throat, “Absolutely, I was planning on getting on that today”

“Well, I would love for you to do it soon as you know we have a new player in the team with us now”

You jerk, leaning forward. “We do?”

“Yes, and if you can please hurry with the assessment I would be grateful. You can do that right? Not too much of a work for you, eh?”

Someone give him a medal from the way he's trying to hide the venom in his voice.

“Sure I can” you give him a firm nod.

James Adams is an entitled, self centered asshole who thinks he’s above everyone else just because of his position. You reckon he does anything for the team besides talking bullshit. He kind of reminds you of your dad who also has the nasty habit of thinking the world of himself.

You’re all about self love but when that self love turns into chronically demeaning everybody in their close proximity, it boils your blood. This man in front of you is no better than your father. What's that saying? Out of the frying pan into the fire.

So you say nothing further and excuse yourself. You would have barfed in his face if you stayed there a second longer. Actually that's not a very bad idea. Bella is standing outside waiting for you as you close the door behind yourself.

“What did he say?”

You bark, “Bunch of horseshit”

“Typical”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

Jungkook

There is a buzzing noise somewhere around Jungkook. Fuck, his head hurts. He frantically searches for his phone, still not opening his eyes. When he finds it, he slides his thumb on the screen and picks up the call.

“Dude, how big do you want your coffin to be?” He loves his best friend but right now he would rather be sleeping than listen to him bark in his own ear.

He finally squints his eyes open, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Have you looked at the time?” says Taehyung.

“What time- FUCK!!!” he shrieks as he looks at the clock.

Somebody kill him right now. No wait, he’s gonna die either way so why bother. If he didn’t scream loud enough before, he does now. He all but jumps off the bed when he sees the blondie on the other side sleeping like she fucking owns it, wearing nothing but a thong. She must have heard him malfunctioning because soon she stirs, groaning as she slowly wakes up like a Disney princess. Who the heck is she and how did she get in here? Then it comes to him.

“Please Jungkook just take me to your room and fuck me. Show me what those hockey hands are capable of.”

He wants to swallow a fistful of iron nails. Speaking straight from his shoulders, he has made plenty of bad decisions throughout his career and this is not his first time bringing a puck bunny up to his room but it has never come to this. Missing his hockey practice because he was too exhausted to get his sweet ass up and run to the academy.

Taehyung screams from the other side of the line, “Are you there? Hello?”

Shit, he forgot he was on a call.

“I’ll be there soon. Cover for me until then.” With that he presses the red circular button and ends the call with him muttering some curses.

He glances back at the blondie, “Why are you not gone yet?”

She’s looking at him with those fuck me eyes she had last night but right now when he’s well aware of the fact that he’s in hot water, they don’t do shit to him. Coach will have his head on a platter today for sure. Honestly, they wouldn’t have done shit to him if it was not for the great deal of alcohol last night.

“I thought of you as a morning sex person” she twirls a strand of hair with her finger, sitting up now. Her tits hang free and he can see his hickeys decorating her chest.

He wants to laugh. She’s not even close to his type. His type is the woman in blue scrubs with her brunette hair slicked back in a ponytail. His type is the woman who looks like she could be watching grass grow rather than to look at him. His type is the woman who walks into a room and lights it up. His type is the woman who is too bright for him and his mundane personality, who has a face worth millions. His type is Kim Destiny.

“No need to waste your precious time thinking about me. You can go”

He places his phone back on the table and saunters over to the bathroom, not bothering looking back at her. He has boundaries and he intends to keep it that way.

He quickly goes through his routine of taking a shower, making a cup of coffee, sliding into a pair of sweatpants and the Ice Dominator’s jersey with his name on the back. Not in that order, of course.

The girl is thankfully gone by the time he finishes. Once he’s done with his coffee he picks up the car keys and a protein bar from the kitchen counter and heads to the academy hoping his limbs remain intact by the time he’s home.

The Academy is bustling as usual with players keeping themselves busy with hockey and their gym sessions. He heads straight for the rink not even bothering to change into the uniform. He needs to see for himself that everybody is still on the ice. Everything comes after that.

Surprisingly, he sees not a single guy when he reaches there. His heartbeat stops.

“Hey Pixie, where are the boys? Did they already leave?” he asks the brunette kid who looks like he just saw a ghost. Or it’s just Jungkook who he saw.

He shakes his head, “They’re all in the gym. The doc called them earlier, said she had something important to get done with them”

Jungkook gives him a quick thanks and walks towards the gym. What could be so important that she had to call the boys mid practice? Is someone hurt? Is she hurt? His heart leaps in hid throat as he runs. Fuck, please let him be wrong.

The first thing that he sees as he enters the room full of equipment are his teammates. Taehyung and Yoongi are in the corner lifting weights, Namjoon is using the treadmill as he runs on it. The rest of the boys are all scattered around doing their own thing. He still can’t find Destiny anywhere but her assistant, Bella, is talking to Namjoon while holding a file so he lets out a sigh, relieved that nobody is in fact hurt and in need of help.

“Do you wanna get a tattoo on the peni— oh look who’s here. Jeon Jungkook as I live and breathe.”

Taehyung drops the weight on the ground before walking up to him. He’s dressed in a black tee and sports shorts. The man looks good in everything. Bet he’d look in a sack too.

“Whoa!! Why do you look like you wanna kill somebody or wanna get killed? Is everything okay?”

Jungkook lets his face relax, focusing more on the eyebrows which had gone tensed due to his unnecessary anxiety. “Yeah, all’s good. The practice ended early?”

“The practice ended just on time. It’s you who’s late” he pats my shoulder.

He runs his fingers through his hair and walks towards the bench, dropping his bag on it. Taehyung follows him ignoring Yoongi who’s calling him back for the weightlifting.

“Doc wanted to assess our injuries for the last time before our game if you’re curious which, I know you are. You’re always curious about her”

He winks at Jungkook and he punches him on the chest. Taehyung laughs as he rubs the spot.

“Keep your voice down, will you?”

Bella’s voice echoes across the room, “Jeon, you’re up next”

He takes out his water bottle, takes a swig and stands. A wince leaves him as he gets a flashback of the last time he had to face her. It didn’t go very well and he’s sure she hates him now. He would too. After all, he not only talked to her rudely but also lied through his teeth about his injury. It’s pretty old so he had not felt the need to mention it.

He sees a guy coming out of the office just before he’s about to enter. He has brown hair long enough to reach the nape of his neck. Even from where Jungkook’s standing, he can say the man doesn’t reach above his shoulders. Who the fuck is he? Oh wait, he must be the new player that got traded down here. The guy must have sensed him making a hole through his head by the way he’s staring because he’s begins walking towards him with a bright grin.

“Hey man, you must be Jeon Jungkook? Heard a lot about you. I’m Park Jimin” He holds out his hand, asking Jungkook to shake it and he gives it a firm handshake. Word to the wise : never give someone a weak handshake. His grandfather has been asking him to do that ever since he was 15, said it doesn’t leave a strong impression and he’s be lying if he says he was wrong.

He offers Jimin a nod, “Nice to meet you. Excited to get on the rink with you.”

He takes his hand back. “Oh the feeling is mutual but—”

“Jungkook, please join me inside”

Destiny’s voice cuts him off as she looks over to both of them with an eerie expression on her face. Her eyes bounce between them, resting a second longer on Jimin. Does she know him? Do they have a history? Wait, are they a thing? Even if they are, why does it bother him? Jungkook couldn’t care less about the pretty physical therapist who wears her blue scrubs like armor and white crocs with strawberries on them.

He gives Jimin another nod and follows her into the office. Although, he’s not sure if a massage table and a stool resting beside it counts as an office. The room which she works in is much better. This one is just for examinations and massage therapy so he guesses it doesn’t need that much of an upgrade.

She gestures towards the table, “Please sit”

He says nothing and settles himself up, clearing his throat.

“Look I know we got off on the wrong foot last time and it could have gone so much better, but we can still start over right?”

Destiny takes a deep breath, filling her chest with air. She’s wearing her hair in a bun today. It sits at the top of her head and some strands are set loose cascading down her face. God, she’s pretty.

He looks down and back up at her. “Sure”

Her face shows her annoyance with the one word response. He doesn't blame her. He'd be pissed too.

She’s quiet for a moment, “Why don’t you tell me about your knee injury to start with?”

“What are you talking about?”

She sighs, “You know what I’m talking about Jungkook. Please don’t make me work for it. It’s my job to know about your past and present injuries, if any. The manager has already given me crap about it”

He freezes. His hackles rising and his relaxed face long gone.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing”

He levels her with a stern face, “What.did.he.say?”

She’s not obligated to answer him. Hell, she could just slap him in the face and leave but he needs to know what went down with that son of a bitch. When and if she decides to let him in the details and it turns out something wicked, he’s gonna hunt that man down and make his life miserable.

Much to his surprise, she takes a step back and starts talking. "He called me in his office today and," she halts,

"Well let's just say there were some words thrown around which clearly meant he thinks of me as a feather brained bitch"

He might look unbothered from outside but the indignation inside him could just about burn the whole city down. He tries to keep calm and pries some more.

His jaw clenches. "What else?"

Destiny shakes her head, shuffling on her feet. “Jungkook it’s really not that seriou—”

“It is serious. You work for us, you tolerate our asses and in return if we fail to give you the respect which, you deserve by the way cause it’s the bare minimum, we might as well save everyone’s time and money by giving all of this up.”

“Why do you care?” she shakes her head.

He takes a step forward, “Because you— Because you work for us, Destiny. You look out for our bodies, our injuries, our fuckups. Is that not enough?”

She barely reaches his shoulders. It’s cute how she has to crane her neck up in order to look him in the eye. She keeps looking at him for a long minute, searching his face.

“You think I don’t know that? Do you really think I don’t have what it takes to ask for my own dignity?”

He takes a long step back. This conversation was as unforeseen as they come. The room gets filled with heavy silence and he can hear Destiny’s heavy breath. He can tell she’s trying to calm herself as if his words have blindsided her.

Needless to say she’s a tad bit taken aback. Jungkook would be too if someone who never bothered to speak a word to him and when he did, there was nothing pleasant about his tone suddenly started to care.

But that’s where she’s wrong, nothing about his care or concern for her is sudden. He still remembers the day she accidentally drank the almond smoothie Bella brought not knowing the fact that she’s allergic to it. She’d started choking the second it went down her throat. He also remembers how Yoongi injected the epipen against her thigh as she came back to life.

Meanwhile, he stood behind shaking in his goddamn boots. Too scared to let her out of his sight and too pathetic to hold her close. Yeah, he’s not proud of that.

He sighs, “You know that’s not what I meant—”

Namjoon walks inside with a hand towel around his neck “Doc, you about done? The boys are being incorrigible over there. If you don’t hurry, one of them is gonna call a tattoo artist and get their dick tattooed. Right here”

The room falls silent.

“Jesus” she looks over to where the guys are bickering about something, propping her hands on her hips. “Yeah, give me a minute.”

“Sure” and with that he walks away.

She picks up a blue file from the stool, not looking at him. Why is she not looking at him?

“If you don’t want to tell me about your injury right now, that’s fine. Since, I know it’s pretty old and It’s unlikely that you’re gonna get affected by it in the upcoming games, there’s no need to worry. However, I would still suggest you be careful. Anything can happen out there and your knee is in a vulnerable position. Don’t pick unnecessary fights, don’t let the opponent know your weak link.”

She glances at him, dropping the file back to where it was.

“You can go”

Without a preamble, he heads outside, passing Taehyung. He hears him cracking a joke about penis tattoos and piercings with his girlfriend’s name on it. Destiny cracks up and Jungkook wonders if she would have done the same, had he been the one cracking the joke. Only, he doesn’t crack jokes. Not around her at least. It’s not like he's some grumpy bastard who wants nothing to do with anybody around him and thinks of him as omniscient.

There’s just something about Destiny which puts him at loss of words. Knotting his tongue it in such a way where he can’t get an expression out. Only look at her and god, does he look at her. He's not stupid. He knows it’s a crush but she’s like a mirage to him. She’s unreachable, forbidden and so fucking beautiful.

Does he want to make her his? Yes, Is he going to risk his career and hers over it? Absolutely not. So, he makes use of the only right nobody can take away from him. Not even her. Admire her from afar. Fantasize more about tasting her, licking her slender neck and worshipping the ground that she walks on and one day if she lets him, Jungkook will do anything to turn all of that into reality.

He finds Yoongi seated on of the benches, scrolling on his phone.

Facing him, Jungkook speaks in a low voice. "Do you have any idea where James is?"

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

Destiny

Never have you ever wanted to run away as much as you did when you saw Jimin in front of yourself, standing all tall and proud. You had wished it to be a dream, wished you just had a nightmare about him joining the same team you happen to work with but reality is a goddamn bitch and it bites hard when it does. He had grown out his hair longer but he still has the same smile, same eyes and the same charm he used on you back then. Park Jimin is a man people don’t ever forget once they see him. He has an aura which traps everyone so hard they can never escape. How do you know? You have been a victim yourself.

You meticulously go through the consequences and eventualities of being in the same room as him again. You seeing him everyday and him reminding you of every single detail you have tried so hard forgetting about, the boys finding out about you both and putting you through the wringer or worse, him. The possibilities are endless and you feel the sudden urge to square everything with him.

Contrary to what you had thought, he reacted pretty normally when he saw you as if somebody had already told him about you. You had expected him to get shocked or at the very least pretend to be shocked.

Having said that, he just gave you a single nod as if you're someone he passes by every morning at the park. Are you this forgettable? Are you someone people just brush aside like that? Your father’s words echo in your ears like loud drums,

“You know, nobody will love you if you keep looking like this. Eat less”

“Girl, do you ever stop eating? Every time I see you, you're stuffing something in that mouth of yours!!”

“Don’t come running back at me when no guy gives a shit about you”

You were 10 and he was an asshole. He still is.

Thanks to him, you now have a tendency to cook when you're stressed over anything. It brings you comfort and diverts your mind from the excessive overthinking. You would go bald if it puts the voices into silent mode.

After already wasting half of your life speculating what to eat, counting calories and whatnot, you came to the terms that you can’t actually operate that way and began eating whatever the fuck you wanted. Yet still, you need to go a long way in order to fully love yourself and your body. It's a journey and you're moving ahead step by step. One day at a time.

One would even say you're hot. You have received compliments from several people over the course of time except you don’t have a thigh gap, your arms jiggle and you also happen to have a love handle. You would have adored them if it wasn’t for your dad making you feel shitty about having them.

A knock on your door stops you midway as you're kneading the dough. Biscuit runs over to you, jumping on the counter.

“Coming”

The knock comes back again, this time slightly louder.

“Oh my god wait I’m coming”

The door swings open and you gasp. “Mina?”

She passes by you, dragging her suitcase along with her.

“Hey bestie”

You close the door and follow her further into the hall. “What’s going on? What’s with the suitcase?”

Your best friend’s sudden arrival must have caught you by slight surprise but your cat is rather pleased to see her. Traitor. She starts clawing at her feet excitedly.

“What a good girl you are? Yes, you are” Mina coos at her and then glances up at you from where she has biscuit nestled in her lap,

“I need a place to live for a few days because my shitty boss kept rejecting all my articles and I really wanna bring her something worth the front page. Apparently, writing about the famous coffee shop around the corner and their secret ingredient being maple syrup wasn’t good enough.”

You round the counter and continue kneading the dough for your strawberry pie. It’s not unlikely for Mina to show up unannounced. In fact, she has done that plenty of times but the suitcase was never involved. This one is new.

“So you decided to barge in here without even asking?” You tease.

She flashes you a dramatic look. “Look at us, Destiny. Aren’t we the same girls who giggled about living together after college? With matching slippers and movie marathons?”

“Okay okay you dramatic bitch. How long are you here for?”

Biscuit runs to do her business and she gets up, setting her suitcase to the side.

She sighs, “Not sure. As long as it takes me to come up with a new topic to write about–HEY— why don’t I just write on the hockey team you work with? What are they called? Ice…ice”

“Ice Dominators” you fill in for her.

She slaps her thigh. “That’s the one”

You shrug, “I mean you can, but you’ll have to call in on the coach first. He operates everything inside and outside the team”

Coach Ian is too nice to turn her request down. He’s one of the most genuine people in the federation. Maybe this is why the team is so strong and united. He respects every single boy and receives it tenfold. It's a mutual thing.

“Shit, How come I didn’t think about that” she bites her lip, her enthusiasm replaced by nervousness.

“Don’t worry. He won’t make you work for it. Ian is as nice as they come” you assure.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out. As you watch, she opens your fridge, taking out the box of frozen blueberries and pops one into her mouth.

“Do you want me to give you a hand?” she mumbles while chewing.

You point towards the bathroom, “Go and take a shower, right now. You stinky”

You duck the blueberry she throws your way, laughing as you do. Giving your cheek one last kiss, she excuses herself.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

Warm hands roam over your thigh, squeezing them. You muffle your moan with your palm and take every thrust.

“Yeah, you like that? You like how I’m pounding into this ass right now?”

You gasp.

“Such a good girl” he praises.

The man behind you presses a kiss to your naked shoulder as he rasps in your ears, “Were you walking around all day dripping for me?”

He pulls his cock out and thrusts again. You meet him with equal passion and hunger.

“Tell me”

You nod.

“I need your words, Destiny”

You cry out, “Yes Oh god, Yes. I wanted you in me so bad”

He cups your pussy and rubs your clit with his palm until you're rolling your eyes to the back of your head and squirming. Thrust after thrust he brings you to your sweet release while talking dirty things in your ear. You're about to melt into a puddle of goo. He’s got you totally at his mercy.

“So beautiful like this. Taking my cock so well huh?”

“Ahh it feels so good, right there. Just right there, don’t stop”

He bites down your shoulder, “Come for me and let everyone outside hear the name you’re screaming, you dirty whore”

Your heartbeat picks up as you squeeze him with the tight ring of muscle, orgasm crashing over.

“FUCK. Oh my god Jungkook!!”

Your eyes fling open and you sit up so fast your head starts spinning. Everything around you is pitch black. Wait, where am you?

Mina is at your side in an instant, “Destiny, are you okay babe?”

You look around and release a sigh of relief. You run your fingers through your hair, ruffling them.

“Yeah um… I’m fine. It was just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”

Except it wasn’t. It was one hell of a dream where you were getting fucked into oblivion by your player. You're not even going to lie and say that you didn’t like it. C’mon you're a woman of needs, it’s just that, him fulfilling those needs was not on the cards for you even if it wasn't real.

You check the time on your phone and wince at the bright light flashing up at you. It’s 2:45 am and you just had a back breaking sex dream about a man who you want nothing to do with. Who, as beautiful as he is, annoys the hell out of you with those one word replies and grumpy face. An edgy feeling threatens to rise.

Oh god it’s going to be awkward now. It’s only normal to walk on eggshells around someone people have these sort of dreams about. You have read your fair share of books where the female character gets a sex dream about a man and then they don’t talk to each other for the rest of their lives. Okay, that's a bit of a stretch but it might as well not be.

Yeah, you admit you guys don’t talk to each other a lot as it is, or are longtime best friends tiptoeing around their feelings, but you're afraid you're gonna have to ignore him forever for the sake of your own sanity.

I’m so fucked. You think.

tags - @httpjeonlicious @lovingkoalaface @rpwprpwprpwprw

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sanguineterrain · 3 months ago

Note

Kurt wagner and tail stuff!!! I love that boy! I love how you write! I love the tail! Smashing them together we got a a little piece of heaven! So Kurt wagner with s/o and some tail action pretty please!!

(Like if you need some more then that: for example, the times before they were together Kurt’s tail always seemed to gravitate towards reader (I’m an advocate that Kurt’s tail is like a fricking mood ring) wrapping around them, touching them. The times when they were together! And the time reader wraps their hand or something around his tail or something)

Love your writing! You’re awesome and amazing! And I want to say in advance, thank you so so much for doing this ask! I will treasure it dearly! And if you don’t do the ask then thank you so so much to taking the time to read it! Have a lovely day!

ouuu this is a sweet request <3 tail boy! thanks nonnie :) hopefully I did him justice 🫶 changed the request a bit but kept the same idea about the tail. may write a part 2... we'll see!

kurt wagner (nightcrawler) x gn!reader. fluff, cooking, gambit and rogue trying to talk some sense into the reader.

note: I tried to capture kurt and gambit's accents. however, as always, I'm open to feedback on them. It's definitely not my intention to offend or miswrite anyone!

****

The smell of bubbling cheese wafts from your pot as you stir. It's been a while since you were able to cook for yourself and have a nice meal, always running out to do something or another for the good of the planet.

"Smells good," comes a familiar voice. A moment later, a tail curls around your wrist as you shake some paprika into the pot.

You look away from your stirring into golden, irisless eyes. Kurt grins at you.

"Mac 'n cheese," you say by way of greeting. "Want some?"

"Please und thank you."

Anytime you cook, you offer Kurt to share. You frequently have the thought that you spoil the hell out of him, but you can't help it.

He helps you out by putting away the milk and cheese. But he's never far; his tail remains on you. It slackens from your wrist, then explores up your arm and around your elbow.

It's nothing new, of course. The first thing you learned about Kurt Wagner is how physically affectionate he is.

"That tail seems to have a mind of its own, elfie," you say, smiling down at the pot.

"What do you mean?"

"It's always holding onto me." You turn off the burner.

"Ah." Kurt drops his tail. "My apologies. I can ease up, as you say."

You shake your head. "Don't. I don't mind. Never have."

So Kurt gives you one final tail squeeze. The fur on his arm tickles you as he brushes past. You watch him in confusion.

"Where are you going?" you ask, halfway through scooping two servings of the pasta.

"Not far," he says brightly. "Jean wanted me to bring spoons from the kitchen." He holds up three metal spoons with his tail.

"Spoons?"

He shrugs. "An experiment. Who am I to question a scientist's whim? I promise I will be fast."

He teleports away, and you have a mind to cover Kurt's bowl with a plate. You bring both bowls to the table. At last, a proper meal.

You don't mind eating alone, but that hardly ever happens with Kurt around. Even if he's just eaten, he'll nibble on whatever you've made. You don't know where he puts all that food—perhaps in another dimension—but he makes it a point to eat with you, regardless of whether you've cooked or not. Even if you're in the middle of the forest eating a tin of beans, Kurt will plant himself right next to you and keep you company.

He's a good friend. The best friend you've ever had, actually.

"Woo, smells good!"

Gambit comes in first, followed by Rogue, since the two are never seen apart anymore. Gambit, nosy that he is, makes a beeline to Kurt's covered bowl.

"And what's in here?" he asks, lifting the plate.

"That's Kurt's," you say. "You can get some from the pot."

"Mais, it's Kurt's, huh?" He glances at Rogue, who grins. "Hear that, chère? Not sure if I should take from the pot. Might take my head, too."

You squint as they share laughter. "What're you talking about?"

"Oh, nothin'," Rogue says sweetly, taking the seat diagonal to you. Gambit sits next to her.

Your frown deepens. "I didn't say you couldn't have some, G, I just—"

Gambit shakes his head. "Don't go worryin' 'bout that. I'm just teasin'. I think it's cute how you feed the furball."

"Excuse me, I feed myself first," you say, and shovel a forkful of pasta into your mouth.

You hate not being in the know. It happens frequently, being that you're not a mutant. You're here on a personal invitation from Charles due to your "technology skills."

Really, you'd been brought here to fix Cerebro. And after that, you'd sort of just... stayed at the school. Charles had offered you a room, Kurt had won your friendship (or, perhaps, you'd won his), and you'd never left.

"Well, what do you mean, anyway? So what if I feed Kurt," you say, unable to stand not knowing.

"Just seems like where you are, Kurt's never far," Rogue says, watching you eat.

"Yeah, so? He's my friend."

"Oh, un ami. Is that what we're callin' it?" Gambit asks, eyes gleaming with mirth.

"What else would you call it?"

They look at each other in that Siamese cats way. Often, you've had the thought that they can read each other's minds—no powers needed.

"You really don't know?" Rogue asks, voice softening.

"Know what?" you ask impatiently.

Gambit makes a quiet noise in his throat. "Y'all don't know. He's gone on you."

Your brows rise. "Kurt? Don't be silly, Remy."

"Oh, great. You're both in denial," Rogue says, rolling her eyes. "Haven't you noticed how touchy he is around ya? Always huggin' and clingin'."

"Kurt's like that with everybody," you say. "He's like that with Logan!"

"Mais, the tail, it never lies," Gambit says with all the wisdom of someone centuries older. "He don't go wrappin' that tail 'round anybody."

Rogue nods sagely. "True. And he's always puttin' that tail around you."

"But he's..." You put your fork down in frustration. "That's ridiculous. Kurt would've said—I mean, there would've been a sign. He would've told me. Kurt doesn't hide anything from me."

"This is new for him, honey," Rogue says. "He's never been in love for real. He's not gonna act rationally."

"Alors, look at it this way. La Raison parle, mais l'Amour chante. Hm? His body betray his words. It sings to you. Jus' like I sing to ma cherie."

He reaches to take Rogue's hand, eyes practically heart-shaped. Rogue lets him, smiling in that secret, shy way of hers whenever Gambit is sweet on her.

L'Amour...

"Kurt is not in love with me," you say. "End of story."

They both heave sighs.

"Just watch his tail," Rogue says. "Kurt can hide a lot, but he can't control how he—"

BAMF!

You flinch as Kurt teleports into the kitchen. He grins and waves, then bounces around the table to greet the others.

"I'm back!" he says. "I hope my mac did not get cold. Will you be eating with us?"

"No, that's okay," Rogue says, looking at you meaningfully behind Kurt's back. "Rain check. We've gotta go train."

Gambit winks at you. "See y'all."

They disappear quickly. Kurt turns to you, blissfully unaware of your newly formed nerves.

"I am sorry I was gone for so long," Kurt says, sitting down to his bowl. "Jean had some questions about my abilities. Apparently, she's trying to replicate them in a machine."

"That's okay," you say. "Rogue and G kept me company."

Kurt beams. "They are so good for that, yes?"

He shovels a mouthful of mac 'n cheese into his mouth and groans in appreciation. His tail instantly curls around your wrist.

"Amazing!" Kurt says. "Perhaps your special ability is your cooking, hm? I would believe it."

You laugh. "Danke, elfie."

"Bitte schön," he says, eyes lighting up at your German. He frequently informs everyone about how good your German is becoming, even though you hardly know ten phrases.

His tail begins to stroke your arm. You wonder if he's aware of it. If he knows how his tail betrays him.

But no, that's outrageous. And even if it was true, it's not like the feeling's mutual, right?

"Oh, and," Kurt says. "I got us tickets to that show you wanted to see. They're playing it at the theater downtown. We can go on Saturday, ja?"

"You... oh. Wow. I told you about that ages ago, Kurt. You remembered?"

"Why wouldn't I?" he says, tilting his head. Like it hadn't occurred to him to be anything less than thoughtful.

"No, I'm just—thank you. That's really nice of you."

Kurt beams. "I am excited to watch the green witch und her pink friend sing!"

He keeps eating, unaware of the way he's made your world tip on its axis. Because now you know.

You're in love with Kurt Wagner. And the feeling just might be mutual.

#kurt wagner x reader #nightcrawler x reader #nightcrawler x you #kurt wagner x you #xmen x you #xmen x reader #xmen imagine #nightcrawler imagine #nightcrawler fanfiction #kurt wagner imagine #x men fanfiction #inbox #blurb

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jinhyun · 10 days ago

Text

—catalyst.

pairing: hwang hyunjin x reader

genre: fluff, pining, non-idol au, best friend’s little brother au

word count: 5.4k

summary: when your best friend points out how there seems to be something more than just a platonic friendship going on between you and hyunjin, you couldn’t help but start questioning everything you’ve been doing together so far.

a/n: and we finally get y/n’s pov!! (and a little bit of hyunie’s as always lol can’t help myself). there is a lotttttt of overthinking on her end so please go easy on her, she just got hit by facts she hadn’t thought twice about before (thank u chan).

if anyone comes across this in the tags, this is part 15.2 of a social media series called heart out! you can read it as a stand-alone but i wouldn’t recommend it since there are a lot of references to the previous parts of the story.

as always i hope you all enjoy! if you do, please let me know your thoughts on it<3

When you woke up that day, you never would’ve expected to end up with so many unanswered questions by the end of it.

It was supposed to be a normal day — a great one, actually. You were having lunch at the Hwang’s household, and that itself was enough to make you happy as ever.

It had been a while since you’d last seen Hyunjin and Yeji’s parents, let alone shared a meal with them, so you took it upon yourself to get up extra early that morning in order to make some dessert for them —a lemon pie and a chocolate one, as they were Mr. and Mrs. Hwang’s favourites— and still have enough time left to get ready.

Yeji called you out as soon as she and Chan arrived to pick you up, ranting about how it wasn’t necessary for you to bring anything, while you and Chan could only laugh, knowing well enough she was already eyeing the lemon pie and thinking of how many pieces she would have.

What only made it funnier to you was that you knew you’d get a similar reaction from Hyunjin once you met him at his parents’, only he’d be eyeing the chocolate pie instead.

Said and done, as soon as you entered their house and Hyunjin came up to greet you —not without first letting you know just how hurt he was over you sharing a ride with your friends instead of him—, he began to go on about how he told you that you didn’t need to bring their parents any presents, like you said you would after his mother had so generously made you some soup when you were in bed with a fever a week ago. Nevertheless, you could see the way he stole a few glances at the chocolate pie, before offering to take it to the kitchen, while Yeji did the same with the lemon one. You could never get bored with these two.

Their parents, you knew very well by now, were just the same as them. It was clear where Yeji and Hyunjin got their humor and antics from.

You always had a very nice time with them, as they’d always find the right topic to keep the conversation going. But then for some reason your dating life made it to the conversation at one point and Mingyu was brought up by their mother asking you about the ‘handsome young man’ they met a couple of times; and somehow that alone would be the catalyst that set off a series of events that ultimately left you questioning your entire relationship with Hyunjin later that night.

“So you are definitely not getting back together with him?” Their mother asked at last, once the whole ‘Mingyu lore’, as Yeji called it, had been covered.

“Um…” you hesitated, eyes unconsciously locking with Hyunjin next to you, before you looked for Yeji, who was in front of him. “No, we’re not”.

“Oh, dear” she lamented. “What he did was such a shame, the two of you certainly made a very nice couple”.

“You heard how he turned out to be an asshole, though” Yeji pointed out, taking the words from Hyunjin’s mouth and inevitably having him and Chan nod in silent agreement.

“It’s a good thing you’re moving past him” their father chimed in this time.

You nodded, giving him a gentle smile. You were trying your best, for sure.

“His parents must be devastated” Mrs. Hwang lamented again, bringing your attention back to her.

This time, you couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh. “I mean, I got along really well with them, but I wouldn’t go as far as to think they’re devastated”.

“Losing a daughter-in-law as beautiful and attentive as you…” she explained, bringing some heat to your cheeks that you tried to play off by taking a sip of water. “The two of you would’ve made such beautiful children”.

The water you were drinking didn’t follow the path down your throat it should’ve at the sound of her statement, and you inevitably ended up choking on it.

“Yah, mum” Hyunjin called her out, gently patting your back as you tried to catch your breath. “Can we not mention children and her ex in the same sentence?”

“Right, sorry” she apologised, handing you a napkin and giving you a soft smile before her eyes focused on her husband; ignoring the way Hyunjin’s hand remained unconsciously drawing small circles on your back until you were able to breathe normally again. “But just imagine if we had that kind of genes in the family”.

“Did she just call us ugly?” Yeji frowned, locking eyes with Hyunjin, who couldn’t help but chuckle instead of acting offended like his sister — in his eyes you were on a whole other level of beauty after all.

“Honestly though, even I feel offended now” Chan butted in. “I don’t recall you wanting my genes this bad”.

“They met you when we were already a couple, she probably would’ve tried to bribe you too otherwise” Yeji let him know with a cynical laugh, having you all follow right after.

“Trust me, she’s already pictured how cute your children will be” Mr. Hwang let the couple know.

“Can we not?” Yeji pleaded with red cheeks this time. Chan, on the other hand, could not let the opportunity to tease her pass, poking her cheek and repeating in a squeaky voice just how cute their kids would be. “Back to the topic of Y/N’s genes, please” she begged.

“Jeez! Thanks, best friend” you ironically said amidst an incredulous laugh, earning a finger heart and an obnoxious smile from her in response.

“My point was,” their mother resumed her previous train of thought. “Now that Y/N’s single, I’m kind of wishing we had an older son. Imagine how beautiful their children would be if she became a Hwang”.

Well, that certainly felt like a bucket of ice cold water being thrown right at Hyunjin.

“Hyunjin’s right here, though?” Chan pointed out before the youngest could begin to get lost in his —quite angsty— thoughts. “They’re both in their twenties, I’d say there’s hope for Y/N to become a Hwang”.

And maybe, if you weren’t too busy kicking Chan under the table, you would’ve noticed the shy smile curving up Hyunjin’s mouth, as well as his slightly rosy cheeks as he looked down to his still nearly untouched food.

Maybe if Yeji wasn’t too busy laughing at her boyfriend after getting hit and ever so poorly trying to comfort him, she would’ve noticed her brother being all flustered, too.

But, thankfully for him, his parents did. And that was enough for them to nod their heads in silent understanding.

That was the last comment they made about your dating life that afternoon, having no trouble directing the topic once again towards Chan and Yeji’s relationship instead.

You, on the other hand, although had managed to do a pretty good job at following whatever topic was brought up for the rest of the meal, could not seem to let Chan’s comment go.

It was out of place. Way out of it. What did Hyunjin have to do with it anyway? Like, yes, they were talking about you becoming a Hwang and, yes, he was the only son they had, but that didn’t immediately make him an option?

He was three years younger than you. He was only seventeen and still in high school when you met, whereas you were in your second year of university. It felt wrong to even think about it. And it was even worse considering that there was a reason his mum had explicitly mentioned her wish to have an older son instead of pushing you towards Hyunjin right away. It didn’t seem right for them either, as far as you could tell from what had just gone down.

Which is why you couldn’t let it go. Not even after you and Hyunjin got back to your place, like you had agreed to earlier that day when you decided to share a car with Chan and Yeji instead of him, and he wasted no time to secure his much needed alone time with you once you were done at his parents’.

You’d excused yourself to the kitchen to make some popcorn while Hyunjin was comfortably resting on your couch as he looked for any romcom movie to watch while he sipped on the hot chocolate you made as soon as you got home, and you took those few minutes away from him to text Chan and ask for an explanation.

And, God, did you get one.

You re-read the conversation over and over after he went offline, unable to understand where the hell had it all come from.

“He’s 23 now”.

“You may have met when he was 17 but he’s an adult now”.

“Considering what’s currently going on between the two of you”.

“I’m just trying to make you see and actually consider all your choices”.

“Hyunjin is not a little boy anymore”.

Every single text, hitting harder than the other.

Of course he was no longer a little boy. He stopped being one a long time ago, you weren’t stupid. But he was still Hyunjin, Yeji’s little brother. Nothing would ever change that.

You were supposed to care for him just like she did, to be there for him and protect him when the time came. He wasn’t supposed to be ‘a choice’ for you like any other guy could.

He was Hyunjin, the teenage boy who hardly talked to you the weekend you first met and would stutter almost every time he did, and who would so shyly let you and Yeji know dinner was ready whenever you stayed at theirs after that.

Hyunjin, the high school student you’d give some advice regarding the university admission test and applications throughout his last year of it, and whose graduation you attended later on.

Hyunjin, who made it to your university and would constantly ask for your help in his assignments, regardless of him having chosen a completely different major; and who you’d constantly check up on to make sure he was doing okay in his first year of it.

Hyunjin, who held you tight as ever the night Mingyu left you, and refused to go home like Yeji told him it was okay for him to until he was sure you were sound asleep and no longer crying, which didn’t happen until way past four in the morning.

Hyunjin, who would text to check up on you every single day after your breakup, even if it meant getting very short, cold answers from the heartbroken and detached persona that had taken over your body the following weeks.

Hyunjin, who included you in his New Year’s Eve plans and kept you company the entire weekend Yeji and Chan were away.

Hyunjin, who made it known he missed being as close as you once got to be years ago and took the lead to propose picking up where you left off.

Hyunjin, the man who had spent the entire past month making your days better by simply texting or showing up at your place — being there for you even when you didn’t need him to.

Had you really missed how much he was there for you? When was it that the roles reversed and he started to look after you instead?

You jumped when the microwave started beeping, letting you know the popcorn was ready. Shoving your phone into your pocket, you rushed to pour the popcorn into a bowl before making your way back into the living room.

Hyunjin’s head snapped in your direction, unable to hide his smile as soon as he saw you.

You gulped, trying your best to calm your heartbeats down before you took a seat next to him right as he placed the now empty mug on the coffee table. Maybe you should’ve texted Chan later that night, when Hyunjin was back at his place and you wouldn’t have to face him right away after being hit with so many questions.

“I was like one minute away from going over there to see what was taking you so long” he confessed.

“Just making us a small snack” you smiled cutely, shaking the bowl in your hands to make your point.

“I’m pretty sure popcorn takes like three minutes to make in the microwave,” he pointed out, shoving a single one into his mouth. “You took like seven”.

You scoffed in amusement. “Did you set a timer or something?”

“No, but I watched three whole movie trailers,” he admitted, earning a breathy laugh from you. “And that without counting the minutes I spent scrolling through movies to watch. I’d say you took at least ten minutes, actually”.

“Did you miss me that much to actually count the minutes?” You couldn’t help but joke.

“Well, yes” he answered with no hesitation, and no signs of joking either; very unfortunately for your already shaken up heart. “I told you earlier that I hadn’t seen you all week and wanted to spend time with you”.

“We’ve been together nearly all day” you reminded him sweetly.

“Not alone, though” his words made you feel warm inside, like they seemed to be doing a lot lately. “It’s not the same”.

“Sorry,” you pouted, and that was enough for him to melt. “I got kinda caught up texting and… here, I’ll just leave my phone on the table so we’ll just focus on the movie”.

Placing your phone next to his on the coffee table in front, you leaned back against the sofa, tilting your head up towards the TV, so he’d hit ‘play’ and you could get started on your movie night.

When five seconds went by and he didn’t move an inch, you focused your eyes on him instead.

“Hyunie?” You called him, moving your hand in front of him to pull him out of his thoughts and smiling once you did. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, um, I just…” he struggled, having his eyes going back to your phone. “Was it work related? Like, was it… was he…”

“I was talking to Channie” you clarified when you got what was going through his mind. “Don’t be silly now, you really think I’d spend ten minutes of my life texting my ex boyfriend?”

“I mean, you guys have a project together now, so…”

“Still, we can just get it over with by email” you stood your ground. “I only spend that long texting people I actually enjoy talking to”.

He smiled, happy to know you would usually spend that amount of time texting —if not more— and, therefore, he was one of those lucky ones you enjoyed talking to.

Beaming after that realisation, and with the possibility of you talking to your ex out of the way, he grabbed the remote and pointed it to the TV.

“Is this one okay?” He asked, motioning towards the title ‘10 Things I Hate About You’ displayed on it.

You nodded quite effusively. “What are you waiting for, it’s one of my favourites”.

He bit his lip, but not even that was enough to hide the wide smile taking over his face as he leaned back against the couch as well and finally hit ‘play’. Of course he knew you loved that movie. He wasn’t choosing one only he enjoyed after all, and maybe knowing you’d get happy about it was the reason he ended up going with this particular one.

To be fair, he knew he’d spend half of the movie looking at you instead anyway. It was quite cute how you wouldn’t notice, being way too immersed in the plot you must’ve watched a hundred times by now.

Every now and then, he would reach for the popcorn at the same time as you, with the mere intention of his fingers faintly touching yours, but by the third time they touched and he got no reaction from you, he decided he wanted more — having your fingers touch without you noticing was not enough.

So, he slid slightly down the sofa, just enough for his face to be on the same level as yours, and then he rested his head on your shoulder.

That, you noticed. Hyunjin realised by the way your body tensed up under his touch.

And, for a moment there, he considered sitting up and going back to his previous position, hating the thought of his proximity making you feel uncomfortable; but you greatly surprised him by leaning your head on his before he could do so, silently letting him know right then that you did in fact enjoy being this close to him.

In the end, he had nothing to worry about when it came to touching you, for you had made it clear a while ago that it didn’t bother you. But, then again, he wasn’t sure whether you were only enduring it or actually enjoyed it. He didn’t know which touches were okay and which ones were crossing the line. And the thing was, so far, you enjoyed every single kind of physical contact he had tried with you. They were all brief, innocent even, sweet.

Him leaning his head on your shoulder hadn’t made you tense up because he crossed some kind of line, but because, unknown to him, your head was a complete mess right then. Unable to let your previous conversation with Chan go, you were now questioning the meaning behind this small action of his.

“Considering what’s currently going on between the two of you”.

Was this what he meant by that? You and Hyunjin being this kind of close?

This was the first time he rested his head on your shoulder out of all the times you’d been sitting down on your couch just like this, and now you couldn’t tell whether you were overthinking too much because of your friend’s words, or whether you would’ve started overthinking just the same regardless of it.

Yes, he had held your hand before, but it was an act for the hotteok lady not to feel ashamed after thinking the two of you were a couple.

Yes, you had cuddled through the night on this very couch, but it was only because you passed out without either of you noticing.

Every other ‘major’ touch you shared had an excuse behind it. Hyunjin lying his head on your shoulder, however? It didn’t have one. He just felt like it, wanted to be close to you. And ultimately you ended up giving in and resting your head on his simply because you felt like it, too. It felt nice. Regardless of the mess going on in your head, you wanted to be close to him, too.

Was it even an overthinking matter anyway? Friends did this all the time, right? Both you and Chan used to do it a lot before you and Mingyu started dating. You and Yeji still did it a lot, too, up to this day. Why did it suddenly feel different with Hyunjin?

Damn you, Bang Chan. You certainly didn’t need this right now.

Once again, your thoughts were interrupted by a sound. This one was softer than your microwave’s beep, though, more like a buzz coming from one of the phones on the coffee table. Considering your phone wasn’t on silent mode right then, you knew it was Hyunjin’s.

“Your phone just buzzed” you let him know when he wouldn’t budge.

“Leave it” he replied simply, shoving another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“What if it’s important?” You wondered.

He sighed, already giving in — as easily as he always did when it came to you. “I’m too comfy, can you pass it to me?”

You nodded in a second, unable to hold back the chuckle that escaped your mouth when you leaned over to grab his phone and he followed your movement, as he refused to lift his head from its comfortable spot on your shoulder.

Just as you were back in your place and about to hand him his phone, though, its screen lit up, letting you see a single message from Dahye.

As soon as you saw it, you panicked, practically shoving the phone into Hyunjin’s hands.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have read that” you apologised, shamefully looking away.

Hyunjin frowned, sitting up in clear alert before he could check what you were talking about. His eyes opened wide once he read Dahye’s text and he immediately realised what it must’ve looked like to you.

It was a simple question: “Are you coming over tonight?”

No hello, no ‘Hyunjinie~’; just straight to the point, which couldn’t help but lead you to wonder whether texts like this and him going over to her place at night were an usual occurrence by now.

Hyunjin had told you all about her at New Year’s Eve. From how they kissed when he was drunk to how she wouldn’t leave him alone even years after it happened. He told you it was one sided, that he was tired of her constant insistence. But then why did that one text from her make it seem like that wasn’t precisely the case?

Unlike him, you hadn’t read Han’s message following Dahye’s, for it had just been delivered when he checked his phone right then. You hadn’t read the one message that gave the whole context to Dahye’s obscure text.

“She means to the pregame,” he was fast to clear up. “Han just texted me and apparently we’re going to a noraebang tonight and pregaming at Haeun’s. Dahye’s staying with her, so…”

You nodded, feeling like you weren’t in the place to say anything. It was his life, after all. He could be with whoever he wanted. He didn’t owe you any explanations. Fuck, did you want any explanations?

You didn’t know if you were feeling embarrassed for reading a text message that was supposed to be private, or if you were upset over the idea that Chan had just planted in your head being tainted not even an hour later.

Maybe you’d been thinking too much over something that wasn’t even there, being influenced by your best friend and what he thought was going on between you and Hyunjin. Maybe it was nothing after all.

But you couldn’t deny that you did feel quite uneasy over her text.

Were you upset that she was talking to him? Were you upset they were possibly hooking up? Was it being about Hyunjin you were upset about? Or were you just upset over how much the scene playing right in front of you resembled the times you’d just started questioning Mingyu’s relationship with Hayun while you were still together?

The times you’d catch the suspicious text messages popping up on his notifications, how nervous he would get and how he would start to throw excuse after excuse for you to believe he had nothing to do with her… You knew this feeling all too well, and you hated that you were feeling it again, with Hyunjin of all people, when you were not even together, you had no feelings for him as far as you knew, and, most importantly, you knew he was nothing like Mingyu at all.

And yet, here you were, feeling the goddamn lump in your throat you had felt one too many times by now because of a guy.

“Y/N?” He brought you back to reality. He looked worried. “I promise it doesn’t mean what it looked like”.

You had to hold back the hopeless laugh that threatened to escape your mouth at the sound of his words.

Words you had heard and decided to let pass way more times than you were proud of, and which brought you right back to the downfall of your last relationship.

You didn’t know which one of your concerns had to do with the trauma of your past relationship and which ones were actually related to the current situation you had just found yourself in.

When did it all stop being about Mingyu and it started being about Hyunjin?

“It’s okay” you gave him the most genuine smile you could give him, to let him know you were alright. Still, he didn’t look convinced. “You should get going, though”.

“I mean it, though” he pushed it when he could tell you weren’t convinced. “You can go through the t—”

“Hyunie,” you cut him off, this time with a soft chuckle. “It’s okay. I believe you”.

Did you?

“But apparently there is a pregame taking place in a bit, so you should get going”.

“You don’t even know at what time it is” he pouted.

“It’s a little past seven right now,” you pointed out, checking the time in your phone. “I’m guessing at seven thirty? Eight at most?”

Looking down to the group chat with his friends and realising you were right, he only made his pout more prominent.

“Am I right?” You wondered with a teasing smirk.

“Yes…” he let out a defeated sigh.

When you laughed triumphantly, he leaned in to rest his forehead on your shoulder.

“I don’t wanna go yet” he mumbled.

“You have to if you wanna make it in time with your friends”.

“I can always just skip pregame” he suggested, then sitting up again and looking at you with a mischievous smile. “Or skip night out as a whole”.

“Yah, Hwang Hyunjin” you scolded him. “You are not pulling a New Year’s Eve stunt on me again”.

“A New Year’s Eve stunt?” He wondered rather amusedly.

“You know, when you said you’d only stay with me until midnight and then ended up not going back to your friends that night” you explained.

“This is different, though. We had plans before”.

“Staying on the couch watching movies with me can’t even compete with going out with your friends”.

“No, you’re right” he nodded. “It can’t compete because staying in with you would win every time”.

“Hyunjin…” you tried your best to sound stern and not melt over his words. “Go”.

“But…”

“I’m not letting you skip yet another night out with your friends because of me”.

“Come with me then?” He asked with puppy eyes.

You were quick to look away, knowing well enough you would fall for his charms otherwise. “I’ll have to pass this time”.

“Is it because of Dahye?” He carefully wondered, taking your following silence as a yes. “We can skip pregame and then I’ll tell my friends to make up some excuse for her not to join us at noraebang”.

“Hyunjin,” you couldn’t help but chuckle. “You don’t have to do that, just go have fun with them”.

“But I wanna be with you” he pouted once more.

“Hyunie…” it sounded like you were begging by now. “The movie’s about to end anyway”.

“And we were supposed to watch another once once it did” he reminded you, later allowing a taunting smirk to curve up his lips when a certain idea made it to his head. “Are you so set on making me leave right now because you’re afraid you might not want me to leave at all if I stay any longer?”

You snorted, playfully yet gently poking his forehead. “Someone’s gotten a little too cocky, don’t you think?”

“Am I wrong, though?” He pushed it. “Do you really want me to go?”

“Hm?”

“Do you want me to go?” He repeated.

“Your friends—”

“That’s not what I’m asking you” he cut you off. “You have this really bad habit of always avoiding my questions, you know?”

You found yourself lowering your head, feeling oh-so-little under his piercing stare.

Although Hyunjin loved seeing you nervous because of him and it was a very rare occurrence coming from you, right then, he wanted your eyes on him. So, placing two fingers under your chin, he tilted your head back to his eye level — both of you only realising how close you actually were when your eyes met.

“It’s a simple yes or no question” he specified, gently removing a strand of hair from your face. “Do you want me to go?”

“No” you answered truthfully this time.

He smiled brightly.

“But—BUT,” you emphasized before he could celebrate, leaning slightly back and lifting your index finger for him to pay attention. “Like I said, I’m not letting you bail on your friends again, there will come a time they’ll get tired of it. You deserve to let loose and have some fun only with them”.

“But we were supposed to hang out today…”

“And we did?”

He frowned, clearly not happy with your answer.

“Come onnn,” you tried your best to convince him. “We’ll hang out again tomorrow anyway”.

“We will?” He perked up instantly, enough to make you feel shy all over again.

“I mean, if you want to, of course…” you corrected yourself. You had really become that used to seeing him both days every weekend now for it to be more of a given, huh?

“I believe it’s pretty clear by now that I always want to hang out with you”.

You tried to hold back a smile — needless to say, your efforts were miserable. “Okay then, we’ll see each other tomorrow”.

“Okay,” he smiled, satisfied with your new plans. “Let’s go out this time, since staying in is too boring for you now”.

“When did I ever say that?!”

“When you said that this,” he motioned around your place. “Wasn’t competition for a night out”.

“That is so not what I meant?” You argued.

“Still,” he laughed, eyes softening when they locked with yours. “I’m taking you out for lunch, okay?”

You smiled timidly, nodding your head. “Let’s see if you’re not too hungover first. Might have to end up taking care of you instead”.

“Now I might get blackout drunk just to have you taking care of me tomorrow”.

You shook your head in disbelief, unable to hide your amusement as you looked away. “Never mind, I will be sending either Yeji or your mum instead”.

“I’m joking, I’m joking” he laughed, looking for your eyes to lock with his again and gently grabbing your hands that were resting on your lap. “I’ll behave. Just let me take you out for lunch tomorrow, hm? Just us two”.

Staring down at your hands in his warm, soft ones, you couldn’t help but get invaded with more questions than answers.

It felt nice… being touched by him felt nice. Being close to him as a whole made you feel all warm inside. And he was right when he joked about you being scared you wouldn’t want him to leave at all if he stayed any longer, because truth was you already didn’t. You wanted him to stay, as close as you were minutes before.

Was it okay for you to be this close? Both physically and also emotionally? To the point of talking every single day and finding a way to see each other more than you saw your own best friends?

Did you enjoy his touch so much because it came from him? Or was it because you missed being touched?

Was he like this with everyone else? With Dahye? Anyone else at all? Did he treat you differently from them? Or was he just a flirty person and what you were now considering to be some kind of special treatment was just him acting the same as he did with every other girl?

Were you beginning to fall for him? Had you really been that oblivious to your own feelings? Or were you just looking too much into it now because of Chan’s influence, and mistaking a platonic —and rather strong— connection for something more?

Would Yeji be okay with it?

Too many questions were invading your mind, one right after the other, and you couldn’t find a single answer to any of them just yet.

However, although you didn’t know what you were feeling and were unsure about what demons were from your past and which ones were new, you did know one thing for sure: You were never as happy as when you were with him.

So, with a soft smile and a nod of your head, pushing any other thought for later tonight when you went to bed, you said the only thing you could answer to his request right then. “Okay”.

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