Can you do a valerius and mc, who is always very tired, and so leans on him and stuff?
Sleepy Valerius Fluff pt.1
GN!MC 🍇
Sleepy Valerius: Part 1 | Part 2
~ 1.1k words
****
Your boss sucks. Making you haul this heavy-ass crate of sauvignon cabernet all the way over to the palatial district at midnight – what gives? You know there would be just enough time when you got back to help with closing, which until now, you thought would be your last headache of the day.
You arrive at the point of delivery. A noble estate belonging to one Consul Valerius.
You think you’ve seen him frequent the bistro a few times. Always flanked by a handful of other polished nobles. Though he seemed the most disinterested one in the party, he often diligently surveyed his environment, passing relaxed judgement over all that he could see.
You know your way around these sorts of estates, so you easily locate the servant’s quarters and find someone who can lead you to the wine cellar.
Like you expect, the underground cellar is dark and cavernous with probably enough room to hold a subterranean village. The servants trust that you know what you’re doing. They leave you alone to figure out where the wine goes, because damn it, it was late and they wanted to go to bed too.
You groan as you zig zag between corridors of lofty, dark shelving until you reach an open pocket where you can rest the crate. Gods be blessed, there were benches to sit. Any other day, you wouldn’t dream of relaxing on a noble’s furniture. But no one was around and your mounting exhaustion was starting to make you bid farewell to all sense of professionalism.
You make a note of the wall where the cabernet goes and set down the crate. Then you start to stretch all the ways you know how even though the soreness in your muscles would still be there tomorrow.
It’s when you’re folded completely over, using your arms as weights to tug at the muscles along your spine, you look between your knees and see an upside-down figure silently nursing a glass of red wine on the solitary pew behind you.
He doesn’t smile. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”
You pop upright and immediately regret it. Ouch.
“Consul Valerius! Sorry. I was –”
“Delivering the crate I ordered a half hour ago?” He says with a tilted brow. “I didn’t expect it to arrive until tomorrow morning. I had my attendants tell the barkeep as much.”
Though you don’t find this information surprising, it’s still a painful reminder of how unfairly your employer treats you. But in the presence of a noble, you would maintain some dignity.
Putting on some false cheer, you say, “Fulfilling our services to the nobles is a number one priority.”
Finally, the consul cracks a grin. “And at the expense of their charming barhands it would seem.”
Your face drops. “Oh. I –”
He interrupts you again. “Have a seat. You look tired.”
Never mind the consul’s relaxed, inviting body language. That damn bench was calling your name.
But you remember your place. “I need to unpack this crate and –”
“I’ll have my servants take care of it tomorrow . . . Sit.”
Feeling slightly dazed, you walk over to the pew and drop down beside the nobleman with a little less grace than you would have liked. You apologize for jostling him.
Valerius merely looks at you sideways and says before taking a swig, “Take as much time as you need . . . . I’ve seen you at the bistro before.”
You regard him warily.
He turns his profile to face you a bit more. “Why do you work so hard? You know, that employer of yours might be much less inclined to disproportionately assign tasks if you weren’t so eager to prove yourself the mule.”
You feel your cheeks burn. You are not about to defend yourself to this cavalier, albeit gorgeous noble on the necessity of hard work for people of your social class. Employers like the barkeep don’t need a reason to lay someone off. The only way to secure one’s job was to prove that their dry little establishment wouldn’t be able to function if it weren’t for you.
You stand up.
“I’ve said something to offend you?” Valerius looks up at you as if he doesn’t care one way or the other.
Flatly, you say, “You called me a mule.”
He passes his eyes over you once and it’s only then that you notice how their color reminds you of northern clover honey.
“I was speaking metaphorically.”
Still captivated by the reflection of his eyes in the dim lighting, you don’t have enough time to come up with a smart quip before he leans forward, takes your hand and guides you back onto the bench.
“What good is going back to that place if you can’t even stand up straight? Rest a while longer.”
You try to relax your muscles and surrender to the bench. Because . . . gods, your back.
Thankfully, Valerius doesn’t speak again. Though the silence with him is comforting and his close proximity is more than a little tolerable, your eyelids start to leaden and your body becomes determined to betray you by gravitating towards the consul.
Gods be damned if you didn’t want to lean on him and forget your responsibilities.
To stay awake, you start talking. “If I may ask, Consul. Why did you come down here?”
He throws you a look. “To drink.” After a beat, he adds, “And because it’s quiet.”
Too tired to care how he might respond, you ask, “So, how long do you plan on staying?”
“Why?”
You roll your eyes. “If I sit on this bench any longer, I’m going to pass out.”
He lifts an immaculate brow. “And?”
You gesture to the crowded pew. “And rest my head where? Your arm?”
Valerius maintains eye contact with you as he downs the rest of his glass.
“Would you prefer my lap?”
“You’re funny.” But you are not laughing as you loop your arm through his and sink against his shoulder. The tension in the consul’s body melts after only a few seconds.
***
(Valerius)
Valerius has never had someone lean on him. Ever.
He finds that the weight of the barhand’s unconscious form juxtaposed with the lightness of his own inebriated state is . . . rather favorable.
But they are heavier than they look and his arm is starting to ache, so he makes some adjustments. His hand rests on their knee. Absently, he drags his thumb over their warm skin. It activates the barhand, who, in lively slumber, draws their legs up under them and snuggles more aggressively into Valerius’ shoulder.
Hmph, he muses, this one is fairly strong for their size.
Moments later, a servant on duty finds the consul and blinks owlishly at who he is with.
“Pardon me, Consul. Shall I take care of the, uh –”
“No.” He waves him off. “That won’t be necessary.”
He doesn’t wait for the servant to leave before exhaling and slipping against the barhand’s cozy crown. He relies on their grounded, balanced breaths to lull him to a world of stillness and bliss.