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syoddeye · 5 months ago

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big game

ghost x f! reader | ~5k words cw: simon lies, mean simon, red flags? what red flags, hunting, animal death (discussed), predator/prey, knives, bad restraints, bad suspension, rough (arguably bad) sex, clothed man & naked woman, blood, murder, italic abuse. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: a cross between this post and this post. banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Simon lets slip that he owns a cabin nearly a year into the relationship. It’s the kind of thing where you could and maybe should be upset, but you play it off as no big deal. You have to. This is Simon. The man didn’t show his entire face until the sixth or seventh date.

(He joked about it, too, that first time—Breathe a word about this mug, and I’ll have to kill ya. You laughed, delirious as he split you in two. He didn’t.)

It’s a few hours away from the city, on the far edge of the boonies. It’s long beyond the truck stops and hog refineries that dot this part of the country. Far from delivery and traffic lights. Deep in an unincorporated village, in an unincorporated area. Its remoteness would make one wonder how a foreign ex-soldier found such a location, but again. This is Simon. Ages ago, you learned questions earn neither his favor nor answer.

The property is impressive for its locale. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen. Heating and cooling. A garage and a shed. Renovated within the last decade and upgraded piecemeal when Simon has time. It sits on a lake shared by only two other cabins, both residing around a reedy bend and well out of sight.

Upon arrival, Simon doesn’t offer a tour, telling you to poke around as he unpacks the car. Well, a jerk of his head and a gruff, “Go on in.” Since you started seeing each other officially, he doesn’t often let you burden yourself with chores. No lifting a finger if he’s available.

The place is sparse. Occupied but not lived in. While stocking a cupboard, Simon explains the previous owner, an older gentleman with cheap taste, left behind what decoration remains. A few tacky fishing signs hang on the walls, intermixed with sun-bleached squares on the wood paneling. A curio box collection of novelty keychains in the hall to the bedrooms, full of states and a couple of names. The lumpy pillows on the sofa pouf tobacco-scented dust when you test its cushions.

Tiptoeing into the main bedroom, you imagine how you might spruce up the austere space. Considering he moved into your apartment after three months, you assume it’s a matter of time until this becomes your cabin, too.

(It was incredibly romantic—the move. Near sunset, Simon appeared like a specter in the pouring rain, with his few worldly belongings in tow. Kissed you hard and fast, told you he couldn’t stay at his place anymore. That he needed you. You. All your effort paid off.)

The memory brings a smile to your face.

You’ll turn the cabin into a cozy love nest like your apartment. Blankets, candles, a rug or two. Though he’ll never admit it, Simon must desire comfort like anyone else. The first night he burrowed into your duvet, luxuriating in the cotton and silk, he fell asleep like an old hound freshly sprung from a shelter. He tossed most of his stuff the next day—said you had everything he needed.

Looking around, you realize you have your work cut out for you. The austere room more a cave than a refuge. The man's bed doesn't even have a frame. Just a neatly made mattress with tucked sheets and two flat pillows. A secondhand dresser and a stack of plastic drawers for extra storage. On the bright side, the adjacent bathroom is spotlessly clean, with a caddy holding melamine sponges, bleach, and other supplies on a shelf. He's always been tidy, likely a military thing.

From the living room, you're greeted with a scenic view of the lake and the adjoining deck through the glass door. A pair of wooden chairs sit side-by-side in front of a fire pit, one of Simon's old welding projects. Down the gentle slope to the shore, a small dinghy rests in the water, tied off at the aluminum dock. A smattering of yellow and white water lily pads hug the bank.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Private.

But your eyes hitch on a strange beam.

Bolted between two mature trees, a hefty piece of timber sits within plain sight of the deck. A series of evenly spaced, fixed eyelet hooks and two pulleys catch the light when the breeze shifts the canopy of the bur oak overhead.

Simon joins you on the deck, the planks creaking beneath his bulk. A cracked beer dwarfed in his hand.

“Did the former owner have kids?” You ask as he sips.

“Kids?”

You point at the curious installation. “Isn’t that for a tire swing? Seems like the perfect spot.”

Simon stares, narrowing his eyes slightly with a chuckle. The tone of it prickles—the same snide laugh he makes at his own awful jokes. When he’s in on the punchline, and you’re not. One of the few things that sour his image.

“Kids? Fuck no,” He shakes his head. “That’s where I ‘ang deer and the like out to bleed.”

You bristle and duck the arm he means to drape around your shoulders, ignoring how he huffs baby and c’mon, don’t be like that between snickers.

He finds you in the bedroom, sorting the clothes you packed with punchy aggression, fuming and embarrassed by his teasing. Stupid and naive, that’s how you feel, for all your care and commitment. You’re just so silly, such a townie, for not recognizing a piece of lumber as a barbaric vehicle for slaughter.

Two wide mitts glide over your sides as you try your best to ignore the behemoth behind you. You are by no means small, but Simon. Fuck, Simon, you whisper, half-exasperated when he nuzzles into the crook of your neck—he’s—fuck, he is big.

It’s an hour before your clothes are finally put away, and you’re already down a pair of underwear for the weekend. Simon leaves you sated and dozing, a tactile apology accepted, and retrieves you to fix supper when he’s hungry. Later, parked in the chairs in the yard, watching the end of the sun’s march to the horizon, you broach the topic again.

“Will you take it down?”

“Sweetheart, what do ya think I do on the weekends you work?”

You shiver. Ten seconds ago, you’d’ve said read or weld or fish. It’s ridiculous how your mind cannot wrap around the idea of Simon out in the woods, stalking through the trees and underbrush, hunting. Decked out in blaze orange and realtree, rifle cradled in his hands. You know his history and what he’s capable of. What he’s done.

But this is different from his military career. Simon said he didn’t want to do any of that. Enlisting was how he escaped a lousy home life; he didn’t plan to get stuck in it for as long as he did. He confessed once, after a silly tiff over your job, that the day he was discharged was the best day of his life, second only to the day you met. That’s where the disconnect lies. Hunting and killing for sport, that’s not the Simon you know.

You tell him as much.

“That so?” His smirk matches the rising moon. A waxing crescent.

You insist.

Simon cracks his neck. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts, fingers flexing around the neck of the beer bottle. “I’ll quit, if I can bag one last trophy.”

The thought of burning the beam distracts you from the flicker in his eyes. The ugly thing is the only hiccup keeping the cabin from textbook perfection. You don’t want to think of Bambi’s poor mother dangling like some macabre ornament whenever you look outside.

“Fine. What’s the trophy?”

Simon grins.

“I better win a fucking award for this. It’s freezing.” You’d said, tugging on your sneakers.

He laughed wickedly. The sound burned right up your spine.

“You’ll get a fucking award, alright.”

Simon sent you off a half hour ago if the time on his watch’s dull, glowing face is correct. He buckled it around your wrist before you darted into the woods, tightening it as far as it would go. It spins loose around the bone anyway. He warned you to watch your footing, pressed bear mace into your palm, and then gave you five minutes to make yourself scarce. Inwardly, you preen. To go undiscovered for this long—you’ve surpassed your own expectations.

However, squatting with your back to a distressingly damp tree trunk, regret eclipses pride and buzzes under your skin. Hopefully, it's not a parasite from one of the puddles you stomped through. It's out of devotion, you tell yourself, itching under a wet sock, that you agreed to this game. Out of love. There isn't much you wouldn't do for Simon. From the moment you met him, it's been magnetic. Poetic.

And that first date? Cinematic. You went out with one man and returned home with another. Your date caught Simon staring from across the joint, a mean set of eyes in a ski mask eating you alive. What kind of man lets another steal his ‘bird’? That’s what he called you—birdie. Need some company, birdie? Complete disregard for the flop-haired man across the table. Cupped a hand to your date’s ear, said a few words, and Mike or Matt or whatever his name was vacated his seat, leaving the big Brit to take his place.

Bringing him home was a foregone conclusion, the decision finalized as you watched him, absolutely rapt, stab the meat of your entree and claim it as his own. Rolled up his balaclava just enough to take a bite with a row of crooked teeth. Breath hitching at the scars, the pale white lines stretching over his chin. You didn’t even know his name when you blurted out the question. And it’s with fondness you recall the flash of surprise in his eyes at your resolute zeal. Didn't make him work for it, offered yourself up on a silver platter.

('Course, afterward, you had to convince him not to fuck you in the parking lot, promising breakfast in the morning if he slept over. He did. For two days. He kept turning up after that.)

You may be hiding in the woods, but he's the animal. Yes. A neglected stray you dedicated the better part of a year into domesticating. Lured him with food, a warm bed, and sex. Assiduously filing down his sharp teeth and rough edges with your body. Introducing him to creature comforts, to living versus mere survival.

Which, again, prompts the question—why hunting? Didn’t you take care of him? If he needed more, all he had to do was ask. Take. Prying a burr off of a sleeve, you wonder if it's like the old saying goes: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe he needs to chase or track, and you’re another soft-handed city slicker keeping a working dog cooped up in an apartment.

If you still saw your therapist, she’d probably suggest you dissect that. But you don’t, and you’re not inclined to schedule a session. Besides, Simon said all shrinks are—

A twig snaps. It shocks you how quickly you push to your feet.

Twenty feet or so dead ahead, a hulking mass moves through a thin shaft of moonlight.

You run.

Huffing and puffing, you charge clumsily through the trees, miraculously avoiding clusters of roots and shielding your face with your hands. Feels unnatural to run from him. The blood rush in your ears drowns out the heavy thuds on the ground behind you, Simon pursuing, shirking stealth for speed.

Inevitably, he overtakes you. An iron grip latches onto your shirt, and a kick sweeps your legs. The bear mace flies from your hand into the brush, clanging off a tree. You dangle for a spine-tingling second, suspended, heart lurching into your throat. He leverages your tumbling momentum to swing you to the ground at his feet through strength alone. Landing on the cold floor of the woods expels a gasp, a second following as a boot presses between your shoulders. No force behind it; its presence alone enough to keep you down. Despite the dirt and twigs surely sticking to your front and the borderline painful thunder of your heart, you smile in relief. It’s over. His last hunt. The boot lifts.

“Nice work, big guy,” You cough, breathing hard. “Can we—Simon?”

Before you can move, Simon nudges the toe of a boot into your ribs, compelling you to roll over. You startle at the sight looming above, a strangled, incoherent string of mouth noises trickling out of shock. A pair of brown eyes peer through the orbits of a skull attached to a mask. They trail from your face to your stomach, where he takes advantage of your stupefied babbling, binding your hands with cord. You meet his gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and his eyes crinkle.

About a dozen questions surface on the return march to the cabin. None survive the swirling vortex of your head, unwilling to risk appearing perfidious.

Simon flexes his grip over your bound hands. “Gonna have some fun.”

Your faith does not lapse, though fear simmers low in your belly when he doesn’t lead you to the cabin but toward the beam. A fluorescent nylon rope now feeds through the hooks and pulleys, and an oxidized steel, wide-based triangle sways freely. Beckoning. A humiliating whimper escapes as he positions you on a circle of dead grass, hands of a hangman on your hips.

“Said you wanted a fucking award.”

A fucking award. A fucking award.

Simon reclaims his watch and then methodically changes your bindings. A hand to each vertice, he fastens you to the gambrel and kisses away a rogue tear. He tugs and tests the rope. It shouldn’t induce a flood, and yet.

“Is it—Can it hold me?”

“Birdie, this is built for stags and boars. It can hold me.” He strokes your cheek, tapping the bone with a knuckle, then breaks away. “Stay put.”

As if you have a choice.

Leaving you with the frogs and crickets, you watch Simon retreat indoors. A breeze carries a cool rush of air from the lake, your thin top a poor barrier to the slight chill. You take deep, rattling breaths to slow your heartbeat, still racing from the pursuit.

A distant click breaks the quiet, followed by a low, electrical buzz and the sudden, blinding intensity of light. It sears your vision before you can screw your eyes shut, blinking away the phosphenes with a noise of displeasure. The sensation’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. You squint, sight adjusting, and track the source to a previously unseen flood lamp affixed to the oak tree some distance away.

Simon returns shortly after you regain your bearings, his imposing silhouette accentuating his mass. Closer, he’s stripped down to a fraying and stained white t-shirt, but your eyes hone in on the rig fastened around a thick thigh. The cut of the strap guides your eye to the straining denim, and the image of his dick flashes in your mind, scorching like the flood lamp.

He extracts a knife from the sheath, steel reflecting light like a mirror. You squirm, a cross between impatient and uncomfortable. Is he cutting you down already? What was the point—

He pulls the front of your shirt, setting the knife edge to the hem.

“Simon,” your voice jumps high in your throat. “Don’t you dare.”

A steady upward glide answers the warning, cleaving the material in two open drapes. The breeze hits your sweat, the band of your bra suddenly chilled and sticking, though that doesn’t last long as he slices through it, too.

“Someone could see!” you stammer, nipples tightening in the night air.

“You’re frettin’ over nothin’, sweetheart. Nobody’s out here. Open.” Simon demands, pressing the hilt to your lips. “Good girl.” he praises when you relent to bite the compressed leather between your teeth, catching a whiff of polish. He rips off the remnants of your top and bra, dropping them to the ground in scraps. A big hand fondles and weighs a tit in its palm as if he hasn’t played with it before. There’s a deep inhale from behind the mask as he swipes a thumb beneath its mass, then a chuckle. “Work up a sweat?”

The hand with the knife carefully discards the mask, revealing smears of eyeblack, and he pops his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. A gasp slips out when he steps closer, hand engulfing the tissue again, pushing it up to glide his nose along the underside, tongue trailing. He nips, soothing after you yelp.

You mourn your expensive leggings when he shreds them next, reducing them to ribbons—another deep breath and a throaty laugh, selfish and all too pleased.

“Knew I smelled ya in the woods.”

“You ruined–you tore them–”

“Thought you’d get lucky tonight?” Scarred knuckles drag from your ribs to your thigh, squeezing, his thumb rubbing sweet circles over old stretch marks. Your wires cross, his blatant rewrite of the afternoon makes your lips purse, but his hand, Christ, your toes curl in your sneakers. “A quick screw in the woods?” He sheathes his knife to trace a finger along the crease of your thigh.

Air whistles through your teeth in a sharp inhale. He skims, dipping to gather some of your wetness, licking his fingers clean again. He hums appreciatively. “Get off on being chased? Fuckin’ dripping, birdie.”

Your hole twitches at his teasing, and you know he must see it with the sneer he gives you alongside the abrupt plunge of two fingers. The hand on your thigh migrates to your ass, pulling you snug to the webbing.

“Simon!” A curse hisses out as he burrows his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, curling—not for your pleasure, no, but to keep you there, a crude hook. The rope strains as you squirm, impaled, and stretched too tight on his hand, clenching uncontrollably as if your cunt can’t make up its mind. A flurry of sensations meets head-on with reason, and logic’s never been your strong suit. Reduced to need and want in equal measure, a single twist of his fingers confirms you’re as desperate as the night you met him.

You don’t notice his other hand abandoning your backside for the rope. What squeaks first, you or the pulleys? It’s sudden, the way you slide off his fingers with a lewd pop, feet leaving the ground. He hoists you up and up, the movement practiced, tying you off like the boat secured around a cleat hook.

Some feet off the ground, naked and shivering in the dark, exposed—you should feel fear, but the other shoe, instinct or intuition, doesn’t drop. All the vulnerability does instead is send a white-hot pulse to your clit. A plea leaves your mouth before your brain considers anything else. Pelvis tilting. He awards your eagerness with a grind of a zipper and a gratified grunt. Simon tugs his jeans and boxers down, then bends slightly to hitch your legs.

Your legs settle around him, and though he huffs when you squeeze, trying to ease the pressure off your wrists, you think he likes it. The ropes above slack little, raised higher than he’s tied you. With a massive hand back on your hip, he uses the other to feed his cock into you, bringing the line taut once more as he pulls you down.

The steady shove and fullness push a low whine from your mouth, which Simon smothers with a toothy kiss. It stings some—you’re not nearly wet enough, only quieting with the faith he’ll make it better. However, the fact that he doesn’t give you time to adjust isn’t promising.

He ruts. Barges in. Takes what he needs in full strokes. Builds a pace that rattles the hardware and your insides. The pain steadily stressing your wrists and lower back is secondary. Third, probably, to pleasure and heat, though the former isn’t building as fast as the latter. Sweat beads in your hairline and neck, collecting under your breasts and in the creases of your belly. Makes your calves slick where they press into his sides, the cotton of his shirt sticking to his and your muscles.

“Simon, I can’t–” The words eke out, abdomen and thighs burning, friction in the wrong places.

His arms flex, boots shuffling over dirt and grass to further beneath you, cock dragging along your walls at a drastic angle, head jabbing into your cervix. More support, less comfort. A bitter trade-off, exchanging one hurt for another. The pinch of his brow makes the bursting stars at the edges of your vision worth it.

Each thrust shakes you in the rope, pulleys whining in solidarity. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes across the cabin’s yard, coupling with your gasps and Simon’s ragged breaths. After a particularly harsh snap of his hips, laughter, deep and gular, trickles out of his mouth. "You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?" he drawls, voice oozing sangfroid. “Y’like your award?”

That has you shuddering. His hands settle on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks. “Look at you, strung up so prettily. Pretty fucking ornament.”

Bambi’s poor mother.

Simon's voice and the image of a dangling deer carcass collide, punctuated with a thrust like a battering ram. It forces another string of needy sounds. Discomfort and desire coil in your stomach, twisting into a warm mass with a life of its own. You feel every inch as he withdraws and shoves in. The heat of him, the hardness. Nylon chafes your skin, each buck a reminder of your helplessness. Restraints are nothing new, but this is—

The air leaves your lungs in one big whoosh as Simon hits a sweet spot.

You slump a bit, legs close to jelly from bracing.

Finally, an adjustment. Simon slows to meld himself further into you, and it’s then, sucking in deep breaths, you marvel at how perfectly level you are to be fucked like this. He bands a single thick arm beneath your ass in a casual display of strength, the other snaking between you. Chin to chest, he spits, the glob hitting your clit like a bullseye. You’d cringe if his thumb didn’t chase after it, spreading his saliva. The sudden break, coupled with his attention, makes you quiver. Anticipation gaining on torment. His thumb’s rhythm quickens, alleviating the aches. You’ll be sore as hell come morning, but as you have before, you’ll forgive again.

With a new, albeit haphazard, focus on your clit, he rolls his hips at a more languid pace. The shift is a knife’s edge between torture and bliss.

“Still want me to take it down? Don’t know if I will, birdie, like the idea of keepin’ you up ‘ere, ‘anging for the takin’ whenever I want ya.” A chuckle vaporizes into a hiss. “Shit, you like the sound of that?

If you could manage speech, you’d say yes. Simon’s rewired your synapses in a matter of seconds with the rough pad of a finger. He’s backlit from this angle. Haloed. Suits him, you think. What you’re feeling is rapturous, however ruthless it may be. Animalistic, really. If you let him leave the beam—this is what you’ll remember. Not some fresh-killed doe staring into nothing. But you, Simon, and the orgasm he harvests.

It creeps up on you. You howl, jerking in the ropes, muscles spasming and weeping. Revived with a burst of adrenaline, your legs try to close automatically, only to press uselessly into his sides. There’s no stopping him and nowhere to go until he’s done. Your body sags in its ties like a puppet.

Simon snarls something, and his palms return to your ass, abandoning all pretense. A haze rolls, thick as molasses, over you as he uses you to his end. He goes silent the few seconds before he comes, breathing harshly through his nose. One last snap of his hips, a deep grunt, and his cock floods your pussy. His chest heaves. Breaths heavy and stunted. Burrowing into your chest, he digs his nose into your sternum and rasps his teeth over your frantic heartbeat.

Your eyes droop along with the rest of your person. Everything disappears under a tenebrous wave.

Movement. The grind of the pulleys. The sawing of a knife. A sliver of lucidity buoys you, a headrush from popping to the surface after drowning. Your head throbs, the world spins, and by the time you make sense of it, you hear the familiar creak of the cabin steps.

Simon lays you out on the lumpy mattress, brushing his fingers over your hair and skin. He disappears, and you float in and out of consciousness. Thoroughly fucked.

You briefly wake when he tucks you in. The crux of your legs is damp, and a faint medicinal smell emanates under the blanket. Layers of gauze over aloe wrap your wrists where they lay beside your head on a flat pillow, and you wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“Sleep.” He says, poking your forehead.

Your throat hurts. “Stay.”

The bed dips when he obliges. He molds to your back, smushing your chest with an arm and cupping a tit. His breath fans over the shell over your ear, and when you’re on the edge of sleep, he murmurs something, but the words run together.

Somehow, he falls asleep before you. Sated. Ran out. You take care of him, and he takes.

An emaciated tick floats with its legs curled in on itself in a glass on the floor next to the bed. You stare at it for too long, then roll over.

Simon’s awake, though his eyes remain closed and body still. You wince, thighs rubbing together and interlacing your limbs over his. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t shove you off.

You trace a scar jutting across the meat of a shoulder and stare at his chest, pock-marked like besieged castle walls. Months ago, you asked about the stories behind the wounds. The question went unanswered, and it earned you a week of getting fucked face-down. So you simply drop a kiss to a crater on his pec and then his chin.

“You broken?” He mutters.

“No.”

“Then fix us some breakfast.”

It’s Herculean with how your flanks and thighs protest, but you hum through the kitchen and diligently rustle up the meal. Visions of a life dance through your head. An ivory lace curtain will suit the window over the sink. The smoke-damaged, yellowing cabinets need scrubbing. There’s hair stuck in the hoarfrost of the freezer, which makes you gag. Leftovers from one of Simon’s hunts.

No sooner than you plate the bacon does Simon emerge. No need to call. He’s trained.

The cell reception is terrible, one of the features that sold him on the property. Calls drop sporadically, and texts scrape by at the shed. His phone vibrates when he sets foot over the threshold—messages from his pet, all sent within a few hours. Poor thing’s bored at work. He wouldn’t know the feeling. His morning’s been productive. Enjoyable.

Simon’s lip curls, and he leans the fishing rod against the shed door. Sliding his phone into a pocket, he turns back to fetch the tackle box. He lumbers past the wriggling cunt strung up on the newly installed gambrel, the plastic crinkling underfoot. The steady drip of blood is barely audible over their whiny throes. Probably hurts. Hooks through the Achilles tendons will do that, but they’ll go quiet soon enough. If he times it right, they’ll be done when he returns for supper.

He nearly pricks his thumb, spearing the worm onto the hook. Watches it writhe. He huffs a laugh and spares a glance back at the cabin. The two trees that once held the beam. It’s a loss to no longer watch game struggle from the comfort of the deck. He surprised himself with how he complied with his girl’s request. She earned it, he supposed. Cried and begged and bled for it. Usually, that sort of response draws his knife, not his interest. But she’s an odd one. Different. A rare beast.

He casts the line.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She’d asked all those months ago, less than a minute after he threatened to hang her date by the balls. Blunt and to the point. Refreshing. He was unaccustomed to finding them so willing, but she fucking imprinted on him like a wobbly-kneed fawn. Nosed his open, reaching hand like a stray, hungry pup. She saw him for what he was—the bigger, meaner predator. Top of the food chain. Thinks some part of her knew she was better off bowing her head and licking his cock than running. She stuck her neck out, took him home, and gave him her pussy without a fuss.

It’s cute, the way she thinks she’s made him agreeable. How she works on him and his hygiene and manners. Doesn’t get that if it were up to him, he’d sleep on the floor, in the dirt, used to a lifetime of bunking down in shitholes. The cabin’s simply suitable for his hobbies. The fact it’s a decent vivarium for the sweet girl is a bonus, a place to keep her nice and soft so long as she’s good. ‘Course, the sight of her hanging by her hands made the idea of introducing her insides to the outside cross his mind, but he won’t cut her down just yet. Not when he’s got her leashed.

Hours later, the cooler packed with largemouth bass and walleye, he unpacks the dinghy and trudges toward the shed. It’s silent, save for the insects and the birds.

The nosy prick from the bait shop sways, unmoving. Coated with his own fluids and dripping. He chuckles. He should call her.

#ghost x reader #ghost x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #mind the tags #posting and skittering off

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autistic-shaiapouf · 1 year ago

Text

Snugglebug

7.2k words

It's a pouf × reader (gender neutral) fluff fic because I'm gay for a bug 💖

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It was essentially a date night. He didn't call it such, of course, but there was truly nothing else to call it. He wanted to watch a movie with you, a cheesy romcom you'd heard of in passing but never bothered to see, but upon seeing how his face lit up as he described it to you, you knew you couldn't say no to him.

He'd even dressed for the occasion, a pink sweater two sizes too large slipping over his hands and hanging well down his legs. You hadn't immediately put the pieces together, only thinking adoringly at the time that he'd taken an extra step to try to look cute for you, but realized partway into the film that the clothing had a real utility to it. He'd left the windows open to let in the cool night air - the sweater was meant to keep his cold blooded body warm enough to stay awake, while keeping the windows open to view the stars and let the breeze in to keep you comfortable as well.

He was thoughtful, for certain. He'd laid out a few snacks for the two of you to share; granted, it seemed as though he'd only realized late into his preparation that he wanted to provide some, seeing as he'd only given you an entire plate of fruits, but he'd taken time to finely chop and dice them into neat little squares. Diced apples, strawberries, mangoes, and a few local fruits you couldn't fully identify, all arranged artfully across a wooden serving platter. He'd placed it on a coffee table near the couch, moved almost too close to ensure neither of you would have to reach very far. You took a seat close to one of the ends of the couch, with Pouf picking a spot close nearby, as close as he could get without actively touching you.

He'd held the remote excitedly, fumbling with the buttons to turn the screen on. He'd spoken quickly while he worked, almost rambling as he discussed how glad he was that you wanted to see the movie, that you were sure to love it, that the central couple was absolutely perfect for the plot concept, which was absolutely brilliant, a work of fine cinema. He seemed to be stating anything and everything that came to his mind, and you knew he wasn't talking simply to hear himself speak - he found each thought he had to be worthwhile to share with you, even as they came to him rapid-fire. Sharing meant quite a lot to him - his music, his romcom, his room and food and thoughts, all of it privy to you. Though he was initially quite chatty, he quieted almost immediately as soon as the movie began, his excitement practically tangible as he shook his hands in front of himself, unable to contain his passion.

After some time passed, you estimated you were roughly one third into the movie, using Pouf's various synopses as a guideline. You glanced over at him to find him enraptured, seeming to hang on to every line of dialogue as though he were working to memorize the entire film. You knew you would hear the plot of the movie rehashed tens of times again over the next few weeks, with him asking you about every aspect of it and how it made you feel, reliving his excitement and joy of having shared something so close to his heart with you. That's all there was to it, really. It made him happy and he was hoping to make you happy as well. It was so simplistic, coming from someone who tied his own mind into knots on the daily.

And in the dimmed light of the room, of course you were happy. He loved you above all else, and he'd gone above and beyond to demonstrate. He'd restructured the entire social order of the palace to include you, read into even the smallest of details you'd expressed to him; the greatest difficulty had been breaking down his walls to perform the same for him, and this night marked a massive stride in progress. He was becoming less reserved, wanting to share his life with you after allowing you to become a part of it. It was just an allowance at first, then a welcome that became increasingly warmer, to the point where you weren't certain he could ever let you go. When he'd fallen, he'd fallen hard, beginning to offer his own affections in a flurry of words and gestures, still too nervous to accept your own. His gestures had still been quite shallow - a hand on your shoulder, a general comment on your appearance - but it seemed that, as soon as he'd gotten a positive response, he let the gestures become deeper and flow more freely. Still with an almost unhealthy amount of thought attached, but accomplishing them regardless. It was part of what had brought you to this night, with him hoping above all that you were happy with it.

Of course you were happy. You loved him.

His eyes flickered off the screen for a moment to observe you, likely trying to determine if you were enjoying the film as much as he was (a nearly impossible task), and he froze upon realizing you'd been looking, gazing, admiring him instead. He was already so close to you, but in that moment scooted himself towards you just a bit more, pressing your thighs together, keeping his eyes on your own as he closed the distance. He was smiling so wide you could swear he was about to burst into tears of joy. He balled his hands into fists and placed them in his lap, stiffening his arms and raising his shoulders, shyly glancing away before suddenly leaning into you.

It was as though he'd simply let gravity take over, his head at an odd angle on your shoulder, his entire body stiff in the unfamiliar gesture you could only imagine he was praying he'd performed correctly. He didn't speak or voice any nervousness, but you could practically feel his rapid pulse with the little contact he had established. The gesture was so clumsy, you couldn't suppress a small chuckle, feeling his head shift as he turned to see what could have made you laugh. Uncertainty shown in his eyes, everything had gone so well until he'd made a gesture that may have been too much too soon, and now he'd made a fool of himself in front of you-

You slid your hand onto the small of his back, slipping under his wings and gauging his reaction to your touch. His eyes widened further at your response to his advancement; he gave no indication of wanting you to stop. You moved just a bit further, settling your hand on his waist. He was grinning almost madly, seeming to try to suppress his excitement at the reciprocation of his affections. You inched your hand onto the top of his thigh, fully resting your arm around him. He still felt tense beyond belief, the unfamiliarity of all the sensations making him almost comically awkward in his posturing.

".. Are you okay?" You kept your voice low - in spite of the adrenaline spike, he still seemed to focus on the movie.

"Do you want me to stop-?"

"No-!" His whisper was almost a hiss - he'd tried to get the words out as fast as possible. "No. Please don't." The words tumbled out in an almost frantic exhale as he tried to reassure you.

"Are you sure?"

A beat of silence

"... Yes, I am."

You could feel some of the tension in his back begin to loosen as he confirmed he was comfortable, having sat with the sensations long enough to adjust to them. Beginning to settle down, he hummed in contentment and readjusted his head, fully leaning into you and snuggling closer. You felt his shoulders begin to lower as he finally began to relax, though you could swear you still felt him trembling, the adrenaline from the advancement still fresh in his body.

And so you sat.

You sat with your lover to - no, on - your side, keeping one eye on the screen and the other on the way he kept fidgeting with his hands, still held in his lap. Every few minutes, he seemed to feel the need to readjust his posture, using the motion as an excuse to nuzzle his face back into the crook of your neck, a small satisfied sigh audible each time, without fail. He was definitely cute, that you'd always known - his odd quirks and mannerisms had been part of what had captured your heart. The way his voice was nearly monotone until something caught his attention and he suddenly came to life, the way he spoke with hand (and, on occasion, full body) gestures, the way it was so obvious when his smiles were polite versus the almost over exaggerated grins he displayed when he was really, truly happy; all of it made your heart skip. But to see him here, melting into your touch, was unlike anything you'd seen prior.

To say he struck you as nervous was a frank understatement. Every advancement he'd made towards you, even the smallest of gestures like complimenting an outfit or passing you a wildflower, seemed like it would send him directly into cardiac arrest. The very first gift he'd given you had indeed been a wildflower - something of a weed really, but perfectly formed with all petals intact. He'd stiffly extended his entire arm to offer the flower, anxiety visible in his eyes and in the sweat dotting his brow. You later learned that he'd been considering every possible outcome of his gesture, hammering in on every negative, of every chance for you to say no, to be disgusted, to turn away for good. He'd thought of it every single time, thinking whatever he did would finally be it, that your love was simply too good to be true, that you were merely toying with him, that one day, the curtains would fall unannounced partway through the act, leaving him alone and in the dark.

Frankly, it broke your heart.

Of course you knew risks were incurred with every relationship - continuing to pursue one with a chimera ant royal guard told you that well enough. Seeing him, in all his glory and power, be reduced to having such human fears and anxieties struck a chord in you. At the end of the day, in spite of it all, he was still subject to the same trials you were. You shared even ground on that front, and it was almost calming - no matter how different he seemed, you were still able to intuitively connect with him on a familiar level. At least, that's how it felt for the things you knew how to comfort; him coming to you crying about his king or screaming in rage over board games was something else entirely. Though, it was also a reminder that you never quite knew what to expect from him. Something that still rang true even in this moment as he curled up to you.

What was presumably the climax of the film was playing in front of you - neither of you had been paying it much attention. The main couple was arguing over what appeared to be a miscommunication, seeming to split for good before their assuredly dramatic reunion. In spite of Pouf explaining the plot to you time and time again, you still weren't entirely sure what the fight was about. Not that it mattered, anyways.

"That could never be us."

He'd spoken for the first time since the film started. You humored his quip.

"How so?"

"We're close enough to not need to resort to airing petty grievances; we simply speak."

He wasn't entirely exaggerating. He seemed to have an almost uncanny knack for honing in on what your true emotions were, no matter how much you would try to suppress any upset if it happened to cross your mind. You eventually stopped trying, becoming more open about how you felt with him. You found that you needed to tread carefully as you did so - he was so easy to upset it felt like a hassle to try, but with the right assurances, he could take the information in. You still felt a few minor struggles when it came to truly reading him - there were minor instances where he definitely seemed as though he were trying to hide something, but he also didn't seem to be the best liar. Trying to get him to actually discuss those feelings could feel like pulling teeth with him, but you'd been able to coax it out of him time and time again.

The two of you had put in an exorbitant amount of effort to become as synchronized as you were, with him always monitoring you for signs of distress and you keeping an eye on his rampant anxiety. While it occasionally felt almost overbearing with the way he observed you so closely and so consistently, it made sense in your eyes. He was an ant. He had little idea of how humans functioned and when he'd be crossing a line with his behaviors; his sheer insistence was his way of ensuring he wasn't breaking the boundaries you implicitly had as a human. His fears about upsetting you were palpable; you knew he had a tendency to overthink, to map out the consequences of everything, stilling himself into paralysis. And that was where you came in, pulling him out of the trenches of his worries and reassuring him that yes, you were comfortable, you were happy, you were just as in love. Close indeed.

Your heart leapt at his words, simple as they were. His efforts had been some of the most arduous; watching him cry as he struggled to articulate himself had been painful beyond belief, and being able to see him gradually become better at it with practice had been a reward in and of itself. You beamed, adoration and pride on full display in a gaze you delivered to your partner. Keeping your arm wrapped around him, you moved your hand from his leg to his arm, pulling him closer and turning to kiss the crown of his head, picking up on the faint scent of lavender in his hair. He giggled, turning towards you and shifting to wrap his arms around you, hugging you close and once more nuzzling into your neck. You returned the gesture with enthusiasm, giving him a tight squeeze as you did; he was too nervous to do the same for you - in spite of his spindly frame, his strength far surpassed your own. He instead settled for a loose grasp, just enough for you to feel the warmth from the thick fleece sweater; it almost felt as though he were wrapping you in a blanket.

He began to subtly, gently sway side to side, still holding you. Even in the small moments, his proclivity towards dance and motion still shone through. The motion was relaxing, slow and repetitive. He kept his face buried in your shoulder, his breathing evening out, hinting that his heart may have finally begun to slow to a standard resting rate. He was finally calming down, blissfully relaxing in your arms. You began to loosen your grip, feeling some slight tension in your arms from having held him so tightly for so long.

He also began to loosen what little grip he had on you, leaning back and gazing into your eyes. His own eyes shyly flickered away every few seconds, but the eye contact he briefly maintained was soft and dreamy. Still looking, eyes glinting in the light like gemstones, he moved. It was quite a subtle motion, but he had leaned in just a bit closer. A silent cue, you suspected. You tested the waters, beginning to close the space between the two of you. He smiled a bit wider, anticipation becoming visible in his expression, eyes shining even in the dim shifting lighting. You shifted your hands, moving them up to encircle his face, your fingertips dipping into his hair. His eyes fluttered shut, with your own following soon after. You leaned in and, after some slight hesitance to ensure he was still wanting, you closed the gap, gracing your lips against his own before finally settling into the kiss, the faint taste of strawberries still lingering on him.

His arms, initially wrapped around your waist, slipped away as he trailed his hands up your sides and over your shoulders, sliding them down and across your back as he encircled you by the shoulders. He melted into your touch, sinking into the kiss gradually, fluid as a drop of honey and just as sweet. Even with the thick sweater, his insect nature still shone through - he was still noticeably cold to the touch, as though he'd just been chewing on ice. It was just another draw towards him - part of an odd natural charm, alongside his wings and antennae.

He held you close, near and dear, drawing the act out as long as he could, a certain decadence present in his lips, soft and cool as silk, pressed to your own. He returned for more and more, almost afraid to stop, lest the magic vanish for good. As you began to feel yourself begin to become lightheaded, you felt him finally begin to break away, his chest rising against you with a sudden inhale; he slowly let the air out, his eyes fluttering open, batting his lashes at you as he met your eyes once more. Your lover regarded you with nothing short of adoration. You were responsible for the sun in the sky, for each individual star, radiating the very same warmth to him, the greatest need for his cold blooded body, the very thing waking him from stasis. He leaned back in, nuzzling your face.

"... You are everything I could have ever wished for..."

He delivered affection with no hesitation. That was almost never an issue for him; he definitely put a bit too much thought into how his larger gestures would be received, wanting them to be enacted with perfection and precision, but in the most general sense he loved nothing more than to dote over you. Still fairly early into your relationship, he had held some reservations, but after witnessing your positive reception, he moved without hesitation. Delivering was only a minor issue - it was the reception that always threw him into a tailspin.

The very first time you motioned to hold his hand, he seemed as though he was about to have a heart attack. You of course registered this as a large gesture as well - an open display of PDA between the two of you. He'd found it quite easy to sneak quick kisses to you, to lace your fingers between his own, to pull you into an impromptu waltz, but as soon as you returned the favor, he appeared to be left in shock. Being on the receiving end of love seemed to be something completely foreign to him.

You had made it your personal mission to habituate him.

It had taken time, but he was growing more accepting of it. His initial fluster and discomfort had been because he simply did not feel worth your time or love. It was something he had expressed to you quite explicitly, telling you as you returned kind words or gentle touches that someone like him simply wasn't deserving. You had a suspicion that he still didn't quite believe that he was worth all the time and effort you'd invested with him, but he no longer voiced objections and welcomed your gestures, so you'd felt that that constituted a great deal of progress in and of itself.

It was absolutely invaluable, seeing him become more comfortable not just with you, but with himself as well.

The room suddenly went dark. Both of you turned in unison to see that the movie had ended. Neither of you had actually caught the ending. Pouf seemed almost embarrassed - he'd praised it so highly for weeks on end, and then completely disregarded it in favor of you.

"Did you.. enjoy it?" He paused, knowing full you had also found yourself a little distracted.

".. I think we might have to watch it again." While you didn't find yourself all that drawn to it (from what you did remember seeing), you wanted to genuinely try to watch it for his sake.

Even in the dim light, you could faintly see him blush.

"Yes, we certainly should." He said it with certainty, making it sound more like a promise than a suggestion. At any and all costs, you would view this romcom in its entirety, distractions and all. He spoke again.

"Are you comfortable?" It was a general question - were you hungry? Tired? Cold? You'd gathered over time that it was his shorthand way of covering all questions pertaining to your needs, as to not irritate you by asking one thing after another.

"Maybe I'm a little cold."

In truth, you were quite comfortable - being wrapped in his sweater had staved off the worst of the drafts. You had said it as something of a joke, forgetting his tendency to take such statements seriously; the words had barely left you when he'd begun to shimmy out of the sweater, tucking his wings back in through the collar and slipping it over his head.

"Lift your arms." He looked at you quite seriously, holding the oversized pink sweater. You kept your arms close to yourself, lifting them enough to bring your hands even with your face. He held the bottom of the sweater open and gently pulled it down over you, a soft and warm smile lighting him up, even in the dim light of the rolling movie credits. You slid your hands through the sleeves, feeling your fingertips barely make it out of the sweater. You immediately felt yourself beginning to warm up, the open window and cooling desert air no longer presenting a concern.

"You look adorable."

His voice was drenched in saccharine; when he loved, he loved with his entire being, and it was plain to see that particular force at work. One could have called him a hopeless romantic, but with his relationship fully realized, he was nothing but hopeful, despair having fully become gratitude. For as nervous as being loved could make him feel, it was one of, if not the best thing to have ever happened to him. The security he felt with you was practically unparalleled - he knew he could come to you for comfort, for any solace at all from the obsessive thoughts that plagued him. As much as the feelings were new and nervewracking, they were exhilarating. You loved him, you *lloved him, you loved him. He very thought made him giddy and lightheaded, such simple joy!

Such simple joy in seeing you in his clothes, calm in his presence. You'd kissed him. You'd kissed him and it was the closest he'd come to feeling real magic. This was all known to you - both from his own words and from a somewhat cruel prank his brothers played which had involved you seeing a rather fervent excerpt from his diary, all free space on the page dotted with hearts.

The kisses and holding him close had probably been enough to satisfy him for the night, but you felt just the slightest bit curious as to how he would respond if you gave him just a bit more.

He was still blushing at you, for certain. You couldn't see it now in the low light, but you felt absolutely certain that, if you cupped his face in your hands once more, your hands might actually be colder than him. He hadn't dressed any differently underneath the sweater - still the same high waisted dress pants, the same dress shirt with its collar evocative of a butterfly's wings. Still the same nervous-in-love man you'd fallen for.

He hadn't always been as sweet as he'd been this evening - he'd been quite cold and rude to you in the beginning, later confessing to you how unsure he had felt with his new feelings towards you, a human, of all things. Nerves, disgust, and above all else, domineering fear, had been the primary facets of his emotional landscape, and with you appearing to be responsible for them, he'd wanted you gone. He'd changed his mind just as quickly, confronting the depths of his affections and taking a massive risk - his own king kept a human he was quite fond of, surely this couldn't destroy his status, could it? He found that the only poor outcome of his pursuance was an entire new category of teasing from his siblings, about his increasingly poorly hidden crush, about how "in loooove" he was, the words always drawn out in a singsong voice. He'd deny it to them, of course, he had at least some dignity left to preserve, after all.

He couldn't deny to himself how you charmed him, how the mere mention of your name granted his full attention, oh you? Were you here? Did you want to see him? It was maddening, the way his heart had been tugged and yanked, the way it was threatened to be torn asunder if he never received an answer from you. He knew his pain was largely self inflicted, but had been powerless to stop it until you two began your waltz around one another. He was aware of courtship, idealized it to heaven and back, but the execution was nervewracking; were you enjoying the gifts or merely being polite? He cherished yours. He cherished you, of course fearing you may not feel the same. As the sun's heat lifts fog, his fears dissipated when that waltz had evolved into a slow dance, the warmth seeping into every area of his life.

Oh, how he adored you.

The room suddenly became darker. The credits had finished and the screen had shut off, leaving the two of you silently staring at each other in near darkness, dim silvery starlight trickling in with the breeze from the open window. Pouf suddenly seemed embarrassed.

"I completely lost track of the time..! You must be exhausted-"

"No!" You didn't want him to feel bad about such a good night. You also knew he would probably call you out for lying.

"... I'm just a little tired." You'd also lost track of the time. You fished your phone from your pocket and checked the clock as it flashed up. 1:37AM. Had the movie really been that long? Truthfully, you considered the most likely culprit: the excitement both of you had had for this evening, delaying the meet up for more time to prepare, not noticing the late start until it has brought both of you to this early hour.

"I think I'll stay over here for the night." He would've walked you home, flown you even. He would've viciously fought the desert cold to ensure your safety; you didn't want him to feel he had to. He also would have complained the entire time, his heart wrenching at the thought of having to let you go for a bit. You were finding yourself quite comfortable on the couch, in the sweater, with your partner at your side.

"I'll prepare a bed-" You reached out and took him by the shoulders.

"Actually, I'm comfortable right here."

"Don't be silly, it won't be long-"

"And where will you sleep?" You knew there wasn't an extra bed - the one he'd prepare for you would be his own.

"I don't mind this couch-"

"Well, neither do I."

He fell silent. Were you trying to shrug off his good will? Or was there something deeper being implied in your words that he was simply missing?

You took one of the throw pillows on the couch, something too plush to be a throw, and set it in the corner closest to you before leaning half your weight onto it. You smiled up at him, genuinely becoming quite settled and comfortable on the couch. He still didn't seem so certain; you considered taking a leap, feeling your heart start to pound as you pondered your words.

"I could.. show you how comfortable the couch is."

Nailed it.

He stared blankly back at you. "I've sat here before, I know what it feels like..?" His voice rose at the end of his sentence, genuinely confused by your statement.

"No, uh, let me. show you-" Your response was stilted, awkward pauses scattered throughout. Pouf wasn't dense. He was far from it. He was an incredibly intelligent man, a mind as quick and bright as a flash of lightning. It all fell apart as soon as social dynamics came into play. He struggled with subtext, with tone, with reading emotions without the use of his nen. You would have to be direct with him, stating your intention without hiding it behind your embarrassment of actually asking him for the innocent query that was on your mind.

"... I don't understand what you mean." You begged yourself to just speak up, to tell him what was on your mind. It wasn't even anything excessive - you'd already held him close during the movie. Just ask. Speak up.

"I want to show you that it's comfortable on the couch!" This was not your finest moment. You were stalling.

You took a deep breath.

"I want.. to ask you something." He straightened up immediately. You completely forgot how saying something so vague would set his anxieties alight.

"It's nothing bad," you quickly added. He didn't respond, confused by the barrage of vague words and unreadable signals.

"Are you okay? If you want to leave-"

"I don't!" Oh my god, you couldn't do this. You looked over him. His hands were folded in his lap, even in the low light it was still visible that he was digging his nails into his hands. His expression could be mistaken for vacant if you didn't know him as well as you did. He was in frantic thought, trying to find where he'd gone wrong after such a seemingly successful evening.

The time was passing. You inhaled, gathered resolve, steeled yourself-

"Do you want to cuddle?"

The words didn't even seem to come from you with the way they had slurred together in your nervousness. He was no different - his response was a shrill sound, something almost like a squeak, as both his hands flew to his face, covering his mouth.

A heavy silence settled over you. Having to be so forward felt almost humiliating. Pouf seemed to also be embarrassed for having missed every cue you'd tried to put in front of him. Though, it was admittedly something you very much liked about him. He never made assumptions, always waiting for confirmation instead. It was quite polite, the way he would consistently wait for consent - to make an advancement, to enter an occupied room, to wait until you said you liked something before immediately snatching it up as a future gift. He was moving towards spontaneity - if anything, this evening had been proof of that - but his fear of accidentally making you uncomfortable kept that behavior largely in check. He almost seemed to refuse to read subtext as a result.

Granted, you didn't feel you had been giving off very clear cues.

His gaze fell to his hands. ".. How do you want to do this?"

You scooted to the side of the couch, closer to the edge, then lifted your hands to him, arms fully outstretched. You gave a sheepish smile, offering up the newly opened space to him. He still seemed unsure.

"You're so close to the edge, you'll fall if you lie there." The concern was evident in his voice.

"I think I'll be okay." Your voice was full of warmth as you coaxed him into lying down. He leaned over you, resting himself on his hands as he looked down over you; he was visibly beginning to shrink away as soon as he'd moved closer.

"Are you sure?" His voice had dropped to a whisper.

"Yes." You could see he was smiling as he asked the question, as shaky and tense as he seemed. He was glad you'd asked - you know he almost never would have worked up the courage to ask you himself. Too much to consider, too many variables to account for.

He clumsily lowered himself into the gap between yourself and the back of the couch, moving slowly to disturb you as little as possible. You brought your arms back down as he began to settle, lying on his side with his arms bent close to his chest. He kept his legs straight, trying to not make too much contact between himself and you, a difficult task with how almost comically long his legs were. You turned to your side as well, your head even with his. He was still grinning, almost a little too widely - he was still visibly nervous about being invited into much more intimate quarters with you.

You weren't going to pretend you weren't nervous either. You'd always returned to your own home to sleep, even as Pouf would protest and plead with you to stay; you suspected that he didn't actually know what he would've done if you'd said yes. He would make his bed for you and take the couch, not realizing you may have had a bit more on your mind if you had agreed to stay the night. It was almost odd, he was so close to you, but you couldn't feel any body heat coming from him. He would only cool further with the open window lulling him to sleep.

The two of you stared at one another in silence.

"So.. do you come here often?" You just needed the silence to break in any way possible. He let out a small amused exhale.

"Yes.. I may even live here."

You smiled almost a bit too much at him not missing the joke this time. He would claim that you never made it clear that you were joking, your delivery was too serious and genuine and he simply could never tell.

"I didn't think what I said was that funny.."

You spoke through soft laughter. "No, it's just that..." What were you going to say? It was just what? That he was being cute? That you loved him? That you'd gladly spend every night for the rest of your life with him, just like this?

"You're just... cute, is all."

He immediately shifted, angling his head to look above and away from you, bringing his hands just a bit closer to himself.

"You even moreso." He seemed to say it almost impulsively, as soon as the words had come to him. He'd glanced briefly back at you as he spoke before his eyes immediately darted off in the other direction. God, he was cute.

Your hands were rested next to your face, similar to where his initially had been when he'd first settled. Once he began to relax after his compliment, you could see his eyes shift from empty space, to your face, down to your hands. He stared quite hard, almost as if afraid you might move. He took a deep breath. He played it off, letting it out slowly. He inhaled again.

"...May I.. May I-" His eyes shifted back to your own, "-please.. hold your hand?" The words were awkwardly spaced and almost too quiet for you to hear, but the request was clear enough for you to understand.

"Of course." Your reply was in the same gentle lull he had spoken with. After your affirmation, he reached out, bridging the very short gap between the two of you, laying his fingertips on your hand first. You felt almost shocked at how cold his touch was. His hands were usually cool, but they felt nearly ice cold in that moment. He lowered the rest of his hand, sliding his fingers around the back of your hand, his thumb curling over from the opposite side. You folded your fingers inward, brushing them over his own.

He smiled in bliss. It took very little to make him feel truly happy; anything that demonstrated your love to him was prioritized in his mind above all else. Your affections were one of the few things his anxieties couldn't touch. For certain, he still held fears about the relationship as a whole, but many of them had eased with time. He felt certain you weren't going to leave him, that your affections were genuine, that you saw him, really saw him and loved what you saw. And in that moment, all of that broke upon like a wave breaking onto a shoreline.

You could see tears in his eyes, glistening in the starlight. He smiled just as widely as he had been, looking into your eyes as he loosely held your hand.

"I love you.." He was barely audible as he confessed. He had never said the words to you. It was clear and evident to anyone who saw the two of you that you loved each other deeply, and of course you'd shown each other that love in a variety of ways. Words weren't his strong suit - he struggled greatly with articulation when it came to emotions. To see him able to pull it all together, for even this brief moment, was absolutely priceless. It was a memory you would treasure long after the night was over.

You felt tears begin to sting your own eyes.

"I love you too."

His tears fell, quick streaks of shining silver down the side of his face. He'd summoned everything he'd had in himself to physically say the words to you, and you'd returned them with no hesitation. His vulnerability had been rewarded almost immediately with validation, he couldn't help but begin to cry in joy.

You yawned.

You didn't mean to break up such a deeply tender moment, but sleep had been creeping up to you since the movie had finished. Pouf's demeanor immediately changed.

"I'm sorry, I forgot how late it was-"

"Oh, hush."

The tears were still bright on his face. Of course he was concerned for you, it was what he did best. He didn't need as much sleep, as much food, could withstand heavier hits. He treated you as though you were made of glass, constantly checking in to make sure you've eaten enough, that you've slept enough, that him putting a hand on your shoulder hadn't been too rough. He struggled to understand human needs, but he'd be damned if he didn't do his best to try to meet them. You knew his mood would start to fall again if you let him think he was depriving you of a basic need.

"I am getting a little tired.. goodnight?" You deliberately phrased it as a question, giving him a chance to give his own thoughts.

His eyes softened.

"Goodnight."

You could tell that didn't seem to be all.

He was searching for words again, loosening his grip on your hand.

"I would like to.." He stopped entirely. "May I.." He paused again. He seemed to he struggling with the same embarrassment you had confronted earlier. You knew whatever he wanted was innocuous. You two had already gotten handsy an hour ago, it wasn't as though there was anything more nervewrackingly intimate he could look you in the eyes to ask for.

"... Goodnight kiss?" He said the words to put them on the table, dropping the entire first half of the sentence. You flashed him a dreamy smile.

"Of course."

You moved your hand, with him immediately letting go as you brought it to rest on his cheek, leaning in, lifting your head and resting it closer to him, softly pressing your lips to his, feeling him reciprocate. The moment was wrapped in a haze from your exhaustion, yet it stood out like a vivid dream you didn't want to end. You pulled away, a silly thought forming in the back of your mind.

"Hold on, I don't think I did that right, let me try again." You immediately went back in for a second kiss, hearing him softly laugh before he sank back into your touch.

"Hm.. maybe one more, just to make sure."

You felt his hand slide onto your own cheek, mimicking the position you held your own on his face. Your hand slid up, just enough to tangle your fingers in his hair, feeling the way the soft locks parted with your touch. You could dimly feel him move his legs over and between your own, tangling them together. He broke away for a brief moment, mumbling against your lips a small statement, an almost inaudible, "I want to hold you", to which you happily obliged, moving just enough for him to slip his other hand beneath you, wrapping his arm around your torso. For as intimate as the two of you were in that moment, it wasn't particularly heated - both of you were beginning to succumb to your exhaustions. You felt yourself beginning to drop off as he slowed, pressing a few more lazy kisses to your mouth; you smiled against his lips as he finally broke away, nuzzling your face as a final loving gesture.

You spoke first, "I love you."

He smiled, full of warmth in spite of the cold room.

"I love you too." The way he worded it was almost unlike him. You would've expected to hear "as well" or "also", but he kept the phrasing conventional, exactly as he would have read about it. Exactly as you would've expected to hear. Perfect, just for you.

He removed his hand from your cheek, moving it along your back as he wrapped you in his other arm as well, pulling you closer. You grinned as you had one last thought about making the night unforgettable for him.

You yawned once more, asking, "Hey, do you still want to cuddle?" You took your hand off of his face and gently tapped your own chest. He hummed in confusion, not understanding the gesture. You shifted your posture as he loosened his grip enough to allow you to move, scooting yourself a bit farther up the couch, bringing your head near the top of the pillow. He watched you with a dim, drowsy curiosity. When you settled, you lazily lifted your arms to him.

"Come here."

His eyes widened enough for him to appear fully alert once more.

"Are you certain?"

Always the gentleman.

"Mm-hm."

He let go of the awkward grip he had on you, repositioning his hands as he moved to lay his head on your chest, hesitating for a moment but replaying your reassurance in the back of his mind. He rested his head against you, motioning to hug you again, snuggling into you as you also pulled him close. You bowed your head, picking up that faint lavender scent again, kissing him one final time.

"Goodnight lovebug."

A lovestruck giggle.

"Goodnight... Goodnight." You had been able to immediately seize the low hanging fruit for a pet name; he hadn't gotten quite so far yet.

You could feel his breathing already beginning to level out as he fell asleep in your arms, feeling yourself about to do the same. His heart had beaten so fast when he cuddled up to you, and now it had calmed in his respite. You'd seen his bed and the multitude of pillows and stuffed animals he kept on it (he swore he wasn't attached to the animals - you swore he was a terrible liar). He seemed just as comfortable using you as a pillow. You weren't going to keep awake for much longer, using your last handful of spare minutes to imagine the scene, the way he fully curled into you, arms wrapped and legs tangled, wings trailing behind him down the length of the couch, his head positioned just so that his antennae were kept aloft. An unbelievably powerful insect, fueled by loyalty and devotion, the depths of which you could scarecely even begin to imagine, an absolutely fearsome creature indeed - on a couch, snuggled up with his favorite human, already lapsing into a dream. In spite of it all, you two seemed to make the impossible a reality. It was what you got for dating an artist, a dreamer.

A dream that would carry on long after the morning sun arose.

#putting this on my main blog let's go skdhksk #yes pouf is weird and obsessive but consider. consider the above. consider: he is pretty #hxh #hunter x hunter #shaiapouf #i dont really write on main so i dont have a personal tag for this lmao #anyways. no one look at me ksjdkdkd

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