Shen Jiu (looking at the child clearly identical to him that Yue Qingyuan brought to the Sect one day without any explanation to anyone): ... being a flatterer won't get you anywhere
Shen Yuan (who flattered Yue Qingyuan with shining eyes to get an adoption, who flattered Mu Qingfang to get medicines that didn't taste bad, who flattered Qi Qingqi so that she would give him sweets, who flattered Liu Qingge to get a piggyback ride while hunting a not-so-dangerous beast, who flattered Shang Qinghua into writing bedtime stories for him): Are you sure about that? Because that's what brought me here :)
aka, Shen Qingqiu's unacknowledged son (according to the entire sect. Shen Jiu is VERY SURE that this is not his offspring, but no one believes him) becomes the favorite apple of his martial uncles' eyes, behaving like a sweet and adorable baby with pinchable cheeks and sweet little voice lisping from his growing tooth, but when he is alone with Shen Jiu (due to Yue Qingyuan's attempts to get Xiao Jiu to recognize his son) becomes the worst piece of shit, with the most cutting answers, intelligence and worthy cunning much older than his age— and even if Shen Qingqiu is VERY sure that he never put his seed in anyone, in fact, when that kid acts like a clever, manipulative little shit getting everything he wants from his martial uncles and making everyone in the sect worship and care for him, he might just accept that he's his kid without even asking where he came from.
@kittycatpaw11 made me this delicious drabble of Killer cuddles, so I made Dust cuddles in return!
No pronouns for the reader are used.
Enjoy! <3
Dust x Overworked!Reader
Words: 854
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The front door slams with such force that could've woken the dead with its earthquake-adjacent rumbling. Your hand lingers on the door knob as your eyes close, not even bothering to glance around at your home's interior.
Everything hurts.
You can't think.
Your head feels numb.
But how can something so numb throb with such agony?
You will yourself to summon what little scraps of strength you have left, taking a deep breath in through your nose. The aroma is familiar, home. But it fails to cut through the fog.
Then you breathe out.
You feel disorganized. Messy. Scattered.
Your body aches with a dull pain you can't understand. Tension builds wherever room allows, clogging your muscles with a deep-rooted exhaustion.
You hardly even register stumbling into your room, collapsing onto the bed sheets, hands rubbing your tired eyes.
The bed feels nice. Finally some familiarity.
Through your desolation, you fail to notice the newfound figure appear in your room until you hear a distinct and suspiciously purposeful shuffle near the bedroom door.
You turn over onto your side.
Ah, it's just Dust.
Hood obscuring his face, Dust takes in his surroundings, head snapping to face where you lay. His hands have a light coat of dust, but apart from that, he appears relatively clean. At least he had the decency to brush off his jacket this time before showing up; because you know he sure as hell didn't change clothes. He always wears the same jacket every day.
With a tired blink, you twist onto your back, eyes snapping shut once more. You'd usually throw him a smile, greeting, or some kind of acknowledgement, but... You're too tired to give your all right now.
Please, you just need some sleep.
...
A couple of quiet moments drift by. So quiet that you almost start to wonder if Dust is still here until—
Plop.
—a weight plops directly next to you, ruffling the sheets and dipping the mattress.
Okay, sure. Whatever.
As you readjust your body to accomodate for the dip, something prods your shoulder. A gloved, boney finger. Poking, testing.
Then it pokes again.
And again.
What's his problem? You usually acknowledge him when he comes home, sure, but come on. The dude's always got an attitude no matter the hour, but the second you go even a little quiet, it's a problem?
Your shoulder receives another poke. Then another.
And another.
Then your side is prodded.
You roll over, facing away from the increasingly-annoying skeleton, arm blocking your side. You're too ticklish for this shit. And you are not in the mood for tickles. You'd throw his bum-ass across the room in a heartbeat if the thought even dared cross his thick skull.
Aa soon as you roll over, the weight behind you suddenly leaves, disappearing out of thin air. As if it was never there in the first place.
Then the mattress dips. Right in front of your chest.
You can't help the slight jump that skips through your muscles, eyes fluttering open.
You're greeted by a rather flat-expressioned Dust, a mere foot away from your face.
You stare.
He stares back.
Then his hand comes up, squishing your cheek between his pointer and thumb.
Your eyebrows furrow.
"What's your problem?"
"you're ignoring me." Dust's voice is plain.
You roll your eyes.
"You never talk to me when you get home, anyway. I don't see the issue."
"that's different."
"Oh, is it now?" Your tone raises more than you intend it to.
Dust ticks a brow bone.
This is stupid. You shouldn't even be upset—but fuck, you're tired. You don't want to talk about anything. You just...
You just want to close your eyes in peace. For a few minutes.
Your eyes shift down to the bedsheets below, voice barely audible.
"...Sorry."
Dust just stares. Blankly.
His eyelights peek out from within the hood's darkness, locked onto your features unmovingly. They seem to pierce through your barriers like daggers, searching your face for answers to a question he doesn't ask aloud.
Dust slowly blinks. Once.
A quiet sigh leaves through his nose. Then an arm loops around your waist.
Before you can audibly question him, Dust scoots up a few inches, making space for your head as he brings you to his chest. His other hand comes to rest on the back of your head, gloved fingers tangling in your hair.
Your eyes widen. Dust never initiates cuddling.
Your body goes completely still, as if the slightest wrong move could scare him off. Like he's a fussy cat finally sitting in your lap; too much movement could piss it off, causing it to jump in an instant, the fur left behind the only proof of its presence.
You feel the outline of his ribs through his sweater as you're pulled in close, until their sharpness begins to fizzle. They lightly buzz from beneath the fabric, before that sharp edge softens, as if a body were forming overtop in real time.
This new surface possesses a strange warmth. It's softer. Cozier. Comforting.
The hand tangled in your hair gives your head a small pat.
"never play poker."
"What?" Your voice is muffled by reluctance and fabric.
A quiet chuckle shakes his chest as Dust closes his eyes, giving your body a gentle squeeze.
