Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hold still,” Maomao grumbles. 

Despite her thumb pressed to the underside of his jaw and the silvered blade glinting against his skin, Jinshi can’t help but smile. “I’m trying.”

With his eyes closed like this, his world narrows to the weight of her body in his lap, her hand curled around his neck, the soft scratch scratch scratch of the razor. When he grins, though, Maomao huffs and draws the blade away from his neck. Her hand retreats as well, and he mourns the loss immediately. “Talking is not holding still.” 

Jinshi cracks an eye open, takes her free hand in his and intertwines their fingers, and presses a kiss to the back of her hand. “Am I not allowed to respond to you?”

Maomao allows the touch but pulls her hand back as soon as he’s done, grabbing for a cloth sitting next to him. She focuses very intently on polishing out some non-existent smudge on the silvered blade, and very obviously ignores how his hands begin to wander, squeezing at her hips, the tops of her thighs. “Not when I have a blade to your neck.” 

“Don’t say that so loud,” he scolds as she raises the blade again. Her hand presses again to his neck, thumb against his jaw. He swallows hard and focuses on his next words: “If the guards hear you say that, they—ah—“

Her slim, practiced fingers curl around the side of his neck once more, urging him into the exact position she wants him. The base of her hand just grazes his Adam’s apple. Jinshi’s train of thought veers off for a dangerous few moments. 

At his silence, she replies, “I know, so I’m trying to make this quick.” Another brush of the razor against his jaw. He can feel the sharp edge of the blade against him and closes his eyes against the whole-body goosebumps that rise in the wake of her touch. “So don’t move.” 

Jinshi swallows hard and wonders if his wife can feel the heat pulsing against her fingers, blood-hot and demanding. Surely her astute, observant eyes catch how his throat bobs heavily at the contact; she must be able to feel how his hands squeeze greedily at her hips, and how temptation pulls at his fingers like puppet strings, urging them to flex, to grab, to squeeze. Her hands, those practiced fingers honed enough to wield a surgeon’s blade, curl expertly around his neck, urging his head to tilt just a bit higher, expose a bit more of his neck to her. 

With the way his jaw is tilted up, towards the ceiling, and her face so close, Jinshi wishes she would take the opportunity and press a kiss to the skin of his neck, right above the lifeblood that pounds through his veins. 

But he knows that look in her ink-dark gaze. Her eyes, so dark they seem to swallow the light, are narrowed, focused singularly on the task before her. When she is solely honed in on the task before her is when his wife does her best work, and she hates to be interrupted. 

Jinshi also has not forgotten that she does, indeed, have a blade inches from his jugular. 

With another heavy swallow, Jinshi closes his eyes and decides his wife can do whatever she pleases with him for the foreseeable future. 

It’ll be his turn when she’s done. 

(They both leave their bedroom one dual-hour later than usual and give each other one final kiss before going off to their respective tasks. Jinshi hopes the servants will assume that his wife's mussed hair is born from a late morning slept in, and that they will entirely ignore the purple-red marks just barely peeking out from beneath the collar of her robes.

If they choose to make assumptions about the state of his own neck, with a watercolor-like mark blooming just on the underside of his jaw, though—well, they can think of him whatever they want.) 

Chapter Text

There’s an oddly shaped lump of fabric on Jinshi’s bed. 

In the bedroom as grand as it is pristine, it seems out of place. The Moon Prince’s household is served by Suiren, who is second to none in keeping the palace tidy and everything in their place. Right now, in the late afternoon and after her cleaning, a loose garment atop his bed would never escape her notice. 

But it persists anyway, a pile of silk and embroidery that shivers every few moments. Jinshi has an idea of what it might be. 

Already smiling, Jinshi crosses the room, why he came here forgotten. The bed dips beneath him when he sits and places a hand on the lump of fabric. Its silk is smooth beneath his hand, which he expected. The lump says, “Mmmph,” which is not. 

“My love,” Jinshi begins, “I need that robe for the banquet.” 

“Mmmph,” protests the lump. 

Does Jinshi really need this particular robe that badly? Not really, no. Though it’s thick and heavy enough to keep out the chill of winter, he has plenty of others that will do the job just as well. His closet is full of countless options, and the banquet he’s going to does not require any outfit in particular. 

But the lump—his wife—is being adorable, and Jinshi would really like to kiss her once before he goes off to tolerate being fawned over for a few hours. Maybe he could kiss her more than once, even. Maybe he could spend his evening here, wrapped up in the sheets of their bed with her, and forget about the whole banquet thing. 

With a smile, Jinshi leans down and presses a kiss to where he suspects the lump’s cheek might be. His hands wander across it, fumbling for where the fabric ends and whatever lies beneath begins. Those edges are hard to find, though, made even more difficult when the lump begins squirming and, in an indignant, muffled voice, says, “Get your own.” 

“It’s mine already,” Jinshi argues. “And I need it for the banquet.”

The lump squirms in indignation. “I’m comfortable.”

This conversation is going nowhere, Jinshi quickly realizes. Drastic measures must be taken. 

Without further ado, Jinshi stands and scoops it into his arms, bundling it up against his chest. He cradles it like it’s something precious as it squawks and squirms in protest, and gives it one more kiss, right where he suspects its forehead might be. 

And then he holds it over the bed and gently shakes. 

With an indignant yelp, his wife tumbles from his arms onto the bed, landing softly with a quiet fwumph.

Maomao gives Jinshi a look that really reminds him of their days in the rear palace, all those years ago—and even after all these years, her glare at him like he was a worm still manages to make his heart skip a beat. It’s been a whole five days since he last saw it, so it’s a rare treat to sear into his memory. Maomao crosses her arms over her chest and says, “Can you not get another robe?”

Jinshi replies dumbly, “Why are you naked?” 

Maomao huffs, curling further around herself. His eyes are stuck on the bare skin of her stomach, the shadows of her collarbone, the love-bites still lingering on her thighs. He is so distracted that her protest barely registers: “It’s too hot to wear anything else.” 

Too hot indeed, Jinshi mentally agrees—his wife is gorgeous and bare in their bed, so sue him if his blood isn’t all going to his thinking head right now. But then he blinks very hard, summons all of his rapidly-dwindling brain power, and says, “It’s the middle of winter.” 

“This room’s heated, isn’t it?” Maomao protests. She is actively shivering now. “And your robes are nicer anyways. More fabric.” 

“Uh huh,” Jinshi agrees, because she could say anything to him right now and he’d believe her. Then he tosses the robe over his shoulder, where it lands with a fwumph on the floor, and is on her in the next moment. 

She’s not shivering anymore by the time they’re both breathing hard and satiated. He gives her one final kiss, drinking her in, and kisses her forehead too, once he pulls away. It’s not until they roll together onto their sides, bodies still joined and limbs tangled together, that she breathes, “Didn’t you have a banquet to go to?” 

“Hm?” he murmurs into her skin. It’s hard to kiss her properly when he’s smiling so much. “Did I?”