#lest i conclude otherwise

[mothwingwritings]

WOW!!! I LOVED "The Innocent Act Of Dredging Up The Past", IT WAS VERY GOOD!

I wonder how Y/N reacted when she found out she was pregnant and how Fox allowed herself to keep the baby because he doesn't seem like someone who likes sharing attention.

Thank you so much darling!!! I am so glad you asked me this because I have been thinking about Ren as a father nonstop since that request. My brain has been full of many thoughts and opinions and I am happy to have an outlet for sharing lol. That being said, forgive my blathering. ^^;

(18+ and warnings for noncon, pregancy/baby birthing talk, incredibly unhealthy relationships, abuse, and being kidnapped/held against your will.)

Being impregnated by Ren would be absolutely dreadful for you, causing you to spiral into a pit of fear and despair the moment you miss a period or begin to feel queasy in the morning. With the signs starting to show, your brain comes to the instant conclusion that you are with child-his child, and it frightens you like nothing else before. At first you try and convince yourself nothing is wrong, that you are probably just late due to stress, and your upset stomach can be any number of things, it doesn’t necessarily mean you are pregnant. Any of your symptoms can be explained away by something else, so in an effort to try and maintain your sanity your brain churns out explanation after explanation, no matter how nonsensical they may be, in hopes of calming your rampant nerves by coming to some other resolution. A stream of constant lies and false reassurances play on repeat in your brain, forcing the thought that you may actually be a mother to the farthest reaches of your mind.

But the longer you wait and the more you dwell on it, the more you are faced with the inevitable. He never wears protection, you haven’t had access to birth control, and despite your warnings of it being a delicate time of month for you, his base instincts always won out in the end. There was nothing else this could be.

Faced with the reality of the situation, you were now tasked with the burden of sharing the news with Ren. You didn’t want to tell him, terrified of what his response would be, worried that he would somehow blame this all on you and hurt you because of it, quite possibly worse than he ever has before. But an even more horrifying concern than that is if the news actually pleases him. What if he wants to keep the baby? What if you were forced to carry this pregnancy to term while trapped in this grim environment, left to raise another human that shares half their dna with a man who has done nothing but cause you irrevocable damage?

No matter what the outcome, none of them are favorable.

But you didn’t have a choice, and you knew it was better to break it to Ren sooner rather than later, lest this whole nightmare become irreversible. In the event he saw things your way, you wanted this thing out of your body as soon as possible (though you loathed to consider what strings Ren would pull to achieve this, and what backwater procedure would be done to do so).

At first Ren brushes it off, not truly believing your concern. He’s had sex with you countless times without protection and just now you get pregnant? Seems suspicious, so he concludes you’re either overreacting or trying to get a rise out of him, potentially both, and that in and of itself riles him up. Are you telling him this as some kind of ploy? Are you using a false pregnancy as a means to get him to ease up on you a bit or as an attempt at escape? After all you had gone through together, after all the love he has lavished upon you by sharing his home, his life, his heart, with you… Would you really tell a lie like this?

He struggles with that possibility. Despite his inclination to feel otherwise, he has a hard time believing you would use a pregnancy scare for your own selfish benefit. You have always been a good girl, his good girl, and deep inside he knows this is not something that is within your nature to do, even if he does have some major doubts.

So, though he doesn’t truly believe your claims, he buys the pregnancy test more as a means to shut you up and prove a point than because he actually believes you. Needless to say, he ends up biting his tongue over that one.

When hit with the truth, his emotions are mixed. On one hand, he wants nothing to do with children or child rearing. He didn’t have to do much of a self-assessment to recognize he would be a shit father, and he never particularly wanted to be a father to begin with. His own upbringing wasn’t the best, he himself never really having a father figure that was worth a damn to guide him or show him any love or support. He had no parenting manual to go off of, and was sure that a culmination of having no positive family experience and maturing into the warped individual he had become led to no other conclusion than NOT being cut out for fatherhood in the slightest.

More than that however, the thought of sharing you, even with a life he helped create, really REALLY pissed him off. Thinking of all the nights you would be spending tending to the baby when you could instead be wrapped up in his arms, or all the attention and affection you will be giving some inept kid that could instead be going towards him, truly gets under his skin. He doesn’t WANT to share you. You’re HIS. And while a baby isn’t going to change that, he doesn’t want the needless competition to begin with.

But on the other hand, having a baby does have its appeal. It would be nice to bring a life into this world that loves him from the get-go, completely relying on him while being totally oblivious to all that has happened in the past. That sort of pure, blind love is hard to come by in this world, and the fact that he could obtain it so easily from a life he created with you, a human that has your blood running through its veins, is EXTREMELY appealing. And on top of that, you are sure to love the child whether its conception was wanted/planned or not. If you loved a child that was half his for the remainder of your life, would that not bind you to him for just as long? Though he didn’t doubt your loyalty (or his ability to keep you tied to him with no hope of escape), it would be a nice assurance to have in the rare event things did not end up going his way.

Once that thought enters his head, it’s over. No further thinking or future planning is required-he is going to be a father, and YOU are the beautiful mama! Congratulations! (Does he get off to you being pregnant? Did this pregnancy make Ren Hana realize he has a breeding kink??? Sources say yes and that’s your problem to deal with now. :))

♡

Holding his newborn for the first time, he has never been so nervous. Tears flood his eyes as he watches the small bundle squirming in his arms, his heart aching as they stare up at him with wide, pure, inquisitive eyes. He was no stranger to ending lives, but creating them? This was something entirely new, as exhilarating as it was scary. His smile grew as he stared at her small face, pleased that she looked so much like you. He could only hope that her personality would mirror yours as well.

♡

As time passes and the baby grows, you find out quick that Ren has a very ‘hands off’ way of parenting, which is to say he relies on you to do most of the work. And honestly, he feels that is fair. He’s the breadwinner who works hard to provide for you and the newborn, which leaves all other parental duties in your capable hands. You are left to be the child’s main caregiver, their guiding force to lead them through life, their teacher, confidante, and friend. It’s a daunting task, all residing solely on your shoulders.

Ren won’t readily admit it, but he much prefers it that way. All the abuse that he has suffered through from an early age, every heinous act of violence that has been carried out by his own hands (your wounds, included), all of it has turned him into something unrecognizable, something grotesque. Even if he wanted to have more of a presence in his child’s life, he knows he doesn’t deserve it. If he had too much sway in the kids development there’s a good chance they will grow up to be like him in some way or another, which would be a waste of all the love and hard work that you had put into raising them into being an upstanding person. Ren had made peace with who he had become, but that didn’t mean he wanted to keep a cycle that someone like Strade had begun going either.

So, the baby more or less becomes your soul responsibility, and god is that a burden for you. It’s bad enough that you have such little support from Ren to begin with, but the fact that this is YOUR first time being a parent as well makes it all so much worse. You have no idea what the hell you are doing, and with Ren making sure to keep you as isolated as possible you had no one else to turn to for help, either. It was just you and this brand new life with no one else to rely on, if you fucked up in even the smallest way it could be devastating to the baby. If your daughter got truly hurt, sick, or worse in your care, you didn’t know how you would live with the repercussions, let alone handle Ren’s reaction.

If your life with Ren hadn’t already made you a strung out, nervous, irritable wreck, being a mother certainly would. As she continues to grow, Ren refuses to discipline the child at all, not wanting in any way to appear like a ‘bad guy’ to your daughter. Given the circumstances, part of you is thankful for that (you honestly don’t know what you would do if he turned his ire towards her), but it also just makes things more difficult with you. You are already beyond stressed about trying to raise a child in this type of environment, having no united front and constantly butting heads makes raising her that much harder, especially when any kind of rule you attempt to establish can so easily be overridden by her father who has no remorse over the frustration this causes, nor care as to how his flippancy may affect your child’s development in the long run.

It’s also not lost on you that being the sole disciplinarian also paints you in a less than favorable manner in your child’s eyes, something you are sure Ren has thought about as well. Being the ‘strict’ parent means your child will be more likely to hide things from you, or seek out her father instead of you for support, approval, and advice. Given whom Ren was as a person, this thought didn’t sit particularly well with you.

All you can really hope and pray for is that somehow despite the lack of social interaction and outside influence she will grow up to be a decent human. Even maturing under the delusion that her father is a noble man, even if in some instances you have to make yourself the villain, as long as it helps her out in  the long run you’ll do everything you can to insure your daughter lives the best life she possibly can, whether her father helps you or not.

I think the REAL problems will begin when the child gets older. When she truly comes into herself and forms her own opinions, develops her own personality, and starts to forge her own way of life… It’s gonna be messy. :/ Your child’s autonomy is definitely going to be a point of contention for Ren in the future, and he won’t be so pleased if/when she catches on to his true nature and begins to rebel or straight up reject him. God forbid she tries and join forces with you or attempt to become your savior. It’s going to take a lot of cunning on her end to make it out unscathed.

Also, I kind of touched on it previously, but Ren would be incredibly horny the whole pregnancy. Not that he isn’t already incessantly slavering over you, something about seeing you round and full just makes him snap. Which is scary in its own right, Ren isn’t the most gentle of lovers to begin with and has a tendency to lose himself more often than naught, hurting you in the process. It’s a constant struggle to satiate him while protecting yourself and the unborn baby, best of luck to you! :D

(And he’ll definitely breastfeed from you. He’s gotta make sure you are producing enough for the baby, ya know? :))

[lilacxquartz]

Don't Make Me Feel Alive I Chapter 7

kenjaku x f!reader

chapter summary: as his own feelings for you become clear, the more he wants to keep you away from everything and everyone else.

warnings: threats of violence, dubcon

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7. Electrify

As the week continued to pass you by, you found yourself feeling all the more confused regarding his treatment towards you.

Kenjaku’s initially teasing personality managed to fade into something resembling cold indifference and just as you got used to that side, he once again settled back into something warmer again.

Leaving you completely and utterly confused.

And even while you remained alive just as he had promised, his actions left you feeling just a bit… uncertain?

As such, even despite what he had done to you—you started to develop feelings of something that you probably shouldn’t dare explore, finding that he played the role of a caretaker a little too well for your liking.

Was there something wrong with you for not hating him more than you did? It wasn’t that you were head over heels for him, since even just seeing his cold dead eyes watch over yours made your skin crawl and your senses dry heave, but… there was something beyond that sense that you couldn’t quite grasp.

Such masterful management and knowledge of your illness which otherwise threatened to consume you, proved surprisingly helpful and that was doing strange things to your head.

He hurt you but he also took the pain away.

With that, the week then finally slowly concluded while he continued to conduct experiments on you, testing the recovery times of your waning condition, leaving you feeling conflicted in your own building confusion.

(And his too.)

The experiments continued to reduce only to be replaced with subtle acts of affection, which left you feeling equal parts disgusted as well as strangely wanted. Things like his hand lightly brushing against your shoulder when he would pass you by or how he would gently move your hair out of your face while you rested. Things like ensuring you would stay warm, especially as your condition gradually worsened.

And as he noticed this—his hands so warm against your own, he couldn’t help but shake the feeling that this whole project of his was doomed to fail. Regardless of what he did, the battery only prolonged your life, doing nothing to actually stall the condition.

In short, you were alive but you shouldn’t have been. Realistically, you should have been dead by now if you didn’t have the pendant.

Such a realisation of what must have been a constant state of pain for you stopped him in his tracks momentarily, understanding that regardless of what he did, that you might not make it, after all.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t like that outcome, not wanting specifically you to die.

Making another decision, he decided to seldom complete the rest of the tasks leftover for the month, in turn leaving you behind for the remainder of it with only some occasional visits, testing to see if this would improve your condition.

(Maybe it was something to do with him, he thought, so what if he removed himself from the picture…?)

This decision of his left you feeling even more uncertain but at least this sort of life was one you were familiar with already; it was strangely similar to the same sort of routine that you had back at the hospital except this time your surroundings felt more personal.

Nobody else had access to the location he kept you so safely tucked away within so even while left alone, you would very unlikely meet with another soul—locking you away in what seemed to be the perfect prison, providing both optimal protection while allowing you to rest without any interruption.

Food, however, was taken care of by an associate, leaving you behind meals at the front door. Just one other person had access with a key and was given a specific instruction to do it discreetly and to never talk to you, lest their head end up served on a platter instead.

And as the month continued to close to an end, Kenjaku found that his own feelings towards you didn’t waver a single bit, the sense of emotional investment running abundantly strong.

Staring at your worsened state, he found himself feeling frustrated as your condition continued to deteriorate.

“Disappointing,” he muttered.

You didn’t reply to him as he continued to focus his sights over your body, hiding his concern quite well. He learned how to mask his feelings over the course of the past millennia; people come and go, after all.

(And all in the blink of an eye.)

But there was just something about you.

“I’d like to try something with you,” he spoke up again after a while, taking his hands off of you as he took a step back. He decided to actually go forward with the plan he had earlier in mind, refusing to admit defeat in your potential just yet.

“Try what…?” you asked, your tone laced with worry. He was being hurtful and your mind immediately jumped to something perverse.

He looked over at your body, noticing your lack of muscle mass (which only further fed into your unease), finding that while you did look better than you did at the hospital, you were nowhere near the usual standard of a fit sorcerer.

“You can’t fight, right?” he asked you.

“I can’t,” you confirmed, sounding slightly relieved that the direction of the conversation didn’t sound sexual after all.

Kenjaku simply nodded in response as he suspected as much, feeling disappointed even though his smile did not reveal his true feelings. He scrapped the plan in his mind to have you involved with any sort of combat, even if he did intend to keep you around as a trump card—deciding that he would only do so if all other options had run out, knowing that fully utilising your technique would very likely kill you.

So instead of involving you in direct combat, he chose to explore alternative uses of your technique instead, thinking back to when you had no issue during the time spent training bursts of it earlier on in the year. Electricity was versatile, after all, so he could simply tweak your technique to be supportive rather than offensive instead.

“Try to shock me using as little energy as you can,” he suggested, not wanting to damage his own body either while also wanting to see if you were capable of accomplishing what he had in mind.

You nodded in response, feeling him unlock the limitations of your technique. The sparks of it manifesting through what felt like your literal bloodstream as you focused your cursed energy. You continued to lock your hands into a sign, channelling a small surge that he chose to not intercept, instead assessing its potency.

His skin numbed briefly as a tingling sensation washed over his body, however only temporarily. This was enough to give him an idea with how to finalise your potential; still rendering you useful which will have meant that this whole experiment wasn’t a waste of time, at least not completely.

“Did that drain your energy at all?” Kenjaku asked you, his eyes locked on the stone.

“No,” you replied.

A smile returned onto Kenjaku’s lips as he finally relaxed, his curiosity peaking as he desired to hone your capabilities further, seeming to shift his mood into something playful at last.

“Could you channel the electricity a little higher then?” he asked, trying to push you past your boundaries in a safely conducted manner, ready to intercept your attack if you misinterpreted his request as an instruction to demonstrate, but you never did.

“I-I can,” you confirmed with a slightly shaky tone, “but no more than what we practised.”

“In the future, I’d like for you to try and see if you could focus the electricity to connect at a directed point, such as a hand or a leg rather than aiming for the core,” he explained, having an idea.

He spoke in a gentler tone with you that time, not wanting to subject you to mockery just yet. He was capable of kindness, but he was just… selective with who he showed it to.

There was fake kindness and then there was the real thing. Most of the people who crossed his path would get a taste of something fabricated, while maybe just a few would get something genuine.

(And you were one of the very few.)

“I could try,” you replied, however sceptical of its effectiveness, “would that be enough, though?”

“It might be,” he speculated, “from what I can understand about your technique’s use from before, you could only execute quick bursts on your opponents so the shock never lasted,” his volume increasing, excited to flesh out his plans, “so, if you could channel a slower, maybe more of a deliberate shock… then you could likely get away with causing some serious nerve damage.”

“So I’m basically a taser?” you asked, attempting to keep up to speed with his explanations.

“Something like it,” Kenjaku smiled, amused by your comparison, “if you could cause weakness or numbness in your opponents, if even temporarily, then you would be a huge help.”

“And this wouldn’t be stopped by my opponents?” you asked, not quite buying its effectiveness.

“We can work on the speed of your attacks later on,” he reassured, “as long as you can protect yourself from both a distance as well as up close, then you can still be quite powerful.”

��I-I see… so in the end the physical training was pointless…” you sighed.

“Ah-ah,” Kenjaku shook his head, “I taught you how to amplify your reflexes, rest assured that while you’re not fighting head on, that you will have a role. While knowing how to intercept physical danger.”

You nodded once again as you understood your involvement in his plans a little clearer now; your role essentially being a deterant.

Still, you remained uncomfortable with the prospect of helping him, knowing that he was likely up to something potentially devastating, unable to trust him at all after he had hurt you, even if he did fulfill his promise to keep you alive.

It wasn’t as though you had a choice with your involvement either way, so you tried your best to endure what you could manage while your mind pushed the remaining troubling reality away.

Kenjaku continued to swat away at the bursts of energy you kept feeding him, carefully observing your energy output as he did so. He mentally noted that these attacks, while small, were powerful and kept you still grounded on your feet—so that much was already a success.

Whether or not he would choose to have you take on a combative role in the future come autumn, he figured that you should keep practising maintaining control of your energy regardless. It didn’t matter how much rest you got as your condition would continue to develop either way, so you might as well strengthen yourself where you could. The battery would keep you alive in the process either way; just as long as you didn’t fully deplete it.

And as the energy from the pendant finally drained itself to its lowest limit, sleep followed suit, finding that you could last a surprisingly long time if you managed your technique efficiently. Just as he promised you. This proved to be a breakthrough, both to him as well as you because for the first time in years, you could control something that you had to give up so long ago.

Kenjaku meanwhile felt himself grow further attached to you, seeing you as his prized project and maybe even as his property, understanding that he didn’t quite see you as an equal, let alone as your own person because the achievements you had accomplished were forged from his own hand.

As such, that longing hunger seemed to return again, wanting nothing more than to claim your body as his own again and again, equal parts pride clouded by a desire that he once more couldn’t get enough of.

He continued to stare at you as you slept, that familiar returning. Kenjaku already knew fully well that you couldn’t stop him if he woke you up but at the same time, he longed for something slightly different.

This time he wanted to relieve tension.

Tension that you caused from being so unpredictable with your success.

And for that, he required your cooperation.

Gently, he nudged you awake; tracing circles around your skin with his lingering fingertips, slowly pushing you back into a waking state. He noticed that the amulet wasn’t completely dim just yet, so in his eyes that was just enough energy for you to spare.

Kenjaku moved himself closer as he sat by you. His palms moving over your shoulder and sweeping your hair out of the way. His fingers clasped around your scalp, getting a feel for how you felt completely in his grasp.

Locking your head into place, he guided you slowly over his lap. Bless your heart as you tried to resist, but he didn’t let you go.

Tightening his fingers around your skull, he lowered his voice, “Consider it as helping me.”

That particular feeling of dread returned and the guilt combined while he proceeded to pull you by the hair to meet with his inner lap. Your eyes widened into clear lucidity as he parted his robe, presenting you with his thickened length; the tip throbbing; leaking precum in its excited state.

You understood what he wanted for you to do right away as he drew you closer to meet with his twitching cock. You mentally recoiled as you felt it poke against your lips, not even daring to look up to face the look of contempt he was likely giving you.

Initially, you resisted by daring to pull away but he didn’t let you. His fists closed as he pulled at your hair, the strands burning your skull as he tugged tight. You reluctantly surrendered and opened up your mouth when the pain became unbearable, feeling the sickening sensation of his meat pushing against your tongue, sliding into your mouth.

Kenjaku leaned back as his legs widened; his head tilting back in pleasure. He bounced your head to suck at a preferred speed, his black eyes slowly following down to stare blankly at the sight before him. He never let you see it, but a slight smile tugged at his lips as he watched you gag on his dick; enjoying the sight you gave him.

You continued to reluctantly continued to give into his needs and he eased the pressure by continuing to guide you while rhymically thrusting upwards; feeling your throat envelop his shaft—your body began to however struggle; your eyes beginning to water as he rammed himself as far as he could to dominate you.

Through this whole thing, he remained silent on purpose. He wanted to hear you sing for him through the noises of your struggling gagging to fill out the otherwise silent room.

Eventually though, his grip on the bedsheets seemed to tighten as a violent release approached. It was a pity he couldn’t last longer, he thought, but this was from a spur of passion, he supposed. He did try to keep your mouth occupied for as long as he could help it though, not quite caring in the heat of the moment if you could properly breathe or not.

Quickening the pace a final time; a seething gasp followed by a strained grunt escaped his lips at last. His stomach tightened as he continued to force your head down a final time, burying his cock in you while keeping his hands trained on your neck, squeezing it ever so slightly before completely, emptying himself into before finally allowing you to rest.

His body reeled as electrified currents coursed through while thick loads shot out of him and into you. He helped dislodge you from his length as a trail of webbed cum, mixing with saliva followed, spilling even more from you coughing in the aftermath.

Feeling satisfied, he sat there for a moment longer to recover. His hands ran affectionately this time through your hair, the corners of his mouth anchoring into a frown when he felt you flinch away.

Keeping you close to him anyway even as the mess continued to cling onto your chin; something stirred within him as he slowly surrendered himself into deep thought. Pulling your hair slightly back so that he could look you in the eyes, his old barren pupils studied you, searching for something else.

Initially like before, you instinctively averted your gaze. Kenjaku took that however as a sign of submission, seeming to answer what he was seeking out from you.

A dangerous thought formed in his mind as a result.

“[Name],” he spoke, not asking you for your attention but instead directly demanding it.

He moved his hands deliberately over to your neck as he spoke, keeping his fingers wrapped right around your throat while he choked you with just a bit more pressure than before.

You gasped in response as your breath hitched, your words immediately silenced with how he held onto you. He smiled as he noticed that but then his expression turned vacant again.

“If you ever do this sort of thing with anyone else, ever again, just know that I won’t hesitate to kill you,” he lied, flashing a playful smile, although he would hurt you if you did so, wanting for you to understand exactly what your place with him now was.

You tried to reply but then his hands tightened, suppressing every little sound.

“Do you understand what I’m asking from you?” he added, wanting for you to express loyalty to him. For some reason, he felt disgusted at the prospect of sharing your body with others.

You tried nodding in agreement instead, even if this whole thing wasn’t consensual to begin with. Not the first time and certainly not the second time either.

Feeling you do just that, Kenjaku’s gaze then intensified, releasing you from his intense confinement.

“Correct choice,” he smiled, his demeanour thawing as the pressure wafted away, seeming almost playful again. He then let you go, encouraging you to go and get yourself cleaned up at last.

However, you were now completely exhausted as the pendant waned so you couldn’t really do anything other than just exist. You managed to wash up but your stride wobbled and your steps didn’t quite connect on the way back.

“Are you able to walk at all?” he asked you, grabbing onto your hand as he noticed you stumble, “I’m needed somewhere soon, so I’d like for you to come with me, if possible.”

“Not yet,” you warily replied, your voice shaking as you spoke.

“Sleep a bit then,” he said this time, offering you that same sort of confusing warmth despite what he just did to you, “I’ll wake you up in a bit.”

***

He kept to his promise as you felt a hand nudge at your shoulders, prompting you to awake a second time. Initially you flinched, backing away just in case he wanted something more from you before remembering the reason.

It was still dark outside, but he relented as he coaxed you out of bed and got you to look slightly more presentable before leading you right outside.

“I’m tired,” you mumbled to yourself, despite the pendant looking brighter than before. As long as it was glowing, you had no excuse, “where are we going…?”

“A meeting like before,” he replied, choosing to honour his promise of letting you know more about his plans if you really wanted to, “you don’t have to participate but you can listen in.”

“With the uh, group—the group that, the group that-“ you tried to reply, your mind still clouded with the remnants of sleep.

“Mahito’s group, yes, the cursed spirit alliance,” Kenjaku replied, confirming what you failed to say.

“Do I have to work with them?” you asked, seeking clarification because why else would he have you meet with them again. It felt weird talking to him as if nothing had happened earlier on, but you didn’t really have a choice.

“No,” he replied bluntly.

“Then why-“

“—to understand your place as well as to understand theirs,” he interjected.

You yawned again as the rest of the walk passed by in silence, Kenjaku finally slowing the pace as you had both reached your destination. The alliance loitered around in an abandoned factory this time with the patch-faced cursed spirit swinging around on what appeared to be broken machinery. The volcano-headed curse meanwhile simply sat idly by. The pale muscular curse was also present, seemingly mesmerised by a plant sprouting through the concrete while muttering in a language that you couldn’t understand.

Much like before, you had very little interest in participating in their meeting even if you did have an opportunity to listen in this time, choosing to wait in the shadows instead. This was the second time that you encountered the death painting who also seemed to be parked quite far as well.

Personally, Choso felt that his involvement in these talks wasn’t particularly needed as his role was to act on direction, not quite caring about either side’s ideals.

Kenjaku, on the other hand noticed this, not particularly enjoying seeing the two of you interact again, knowing how it made him feel the first time. He didn’t quite understand why you both seemed to get along and it irked him.

This was something you didn’t understand either, but you didn’t actually mind talking to Choso about his continued interest in humanity.

“What types of emotions do you feel daily?” the death painting continued to ask you, seeming genuinely curious to know what it meant to be truly human.

“It depends,” you replied in consideration, “most days it’s indifference, but that’s likely due to my illness. I think some people feel that way too even when they’re healthy though, or maybe just contentment. Maybe stress if they work or study. Maybe even anxiety to an extent.”

It felt strange explaining the fundamental concepts of emotions to someone who listened so intently, but you didn’t see any harm with letting him know such things.

Choso personally found that your answers carried a lot of weight for him, feeling more and more curious from each passing second that you spoke.

Then he caught onto a detail and his brows furrowed, his bruised complexion paling as he squinted his eyes, “Your illness?”

But then as he waited for your response, the meeting seemingly concluded and you were dragged away with Kenjaku before you could reply to him at all.

Choso watched with a hint of confusion as your company gradually disappeared from his sight, feeling frustrated that his questions were left unanswered once again.

Eventually returning back to where he kept you, Kenjaku felt that gnawing need to maintain your loyalty towards him surface again—invading a part of him that he refused to understand. To see you talk and even smile in the presence of someone else when you had never even warmed up to him the same way felt strangely… insulting?

As such, instead of reverting back to his cold demeanour, he chose to take a different approach with you instead. Even if this meant limiting your life even further, he didn’t care for the consequences as long as kept control of you.

“Don’t talk to them again,” Kenjaku spoke, pushing you down and watching you fall; your body meeting with the bed—not quite caring if you missed and hit the floor instead.

“To who…?” you asked in a state of confusion; the sudden anxiety draining the amulet sooner than you’d like. Suddenly you felt tired again. Weary, even and your eyelids dropped shut.

However, Kenjaku refused to let you sleep, forcing you to sit up as he loomed over you.

“Don’t even try to befriend any of them; their roles are too different from yours,” he continued to drill, keeping your attention focused on him, “you have their place and they have theirs, so don’t intervene.”

“I wasn’t intervening, though,” you replied.

“Then how do I put it lightly? Don’t even acknowledge their very existence.”

Internally, Kenjaku understood that what he was currently feeling was very likely a degree of jealousy, wondering yet again if this was fuelled by his vessel rather than his own mind, considering the notion of whether he would care or not if he inhabited anyone else.

Whatever it was, be it his own personality or the one intertwining with him, he stood by the belief of not wanting for you to interact with the cursed spirits, despite being the one who requested your attendance in the first place.

He seemed to take this issue more personally than he liked to admit, seeing any deviation as misunderstanding your role and mingling with his deceitful alliance as sabotage, even if it was an absurd conclusion.

This must have been your fault too, because if you actually listened to him and just did as he told without question (despite that being exactly what you were doing), then he wouldn’t be in this position with you to begin with.

Not thinking logically for a change, Kenjaku pushed your body even further into the mattress and kept your writhing body secured under his hand to deliver you a message instead; to ensure that you wouldn’t dare stray from what he brought you here to do so, even if he wasn’t quite sure himself what that truly meant anymore.

“Your only role is to stay and listen. You can understand that, right?” he asked you.

With an exasperated tone, you stuttered in a questioning voice, “Th-that’s what I’ve b-been doing…?”

“Incorrect, but you’ll learn,” he drilled, “don’t talk to anyone else.”

“But it wasn’t anything bad-“

Kenjaku interjected, his voice sharp as he cut you off, “—Did I stutter?”

“No…” you quietly replied in a sulk.

“Then use your ears for once and actually listen,” he spoke, his lips curving into a lighthearted smile which you felt was unsettling given the frightening context, “because if you continue to self-sabotage such an idiot-proof role, then I have no remaining use for you.”

You struggled to form a response while he now gently patted your head, smoothing your hair down your scalp.

“Don’t make me dispose of you just yet, because I absolutely would do so,” he warned you now, his voice deceptively playful, almost singing his words.

Finally, feeling the weight of what he was warning you with, you backed down and settled into agreement, nodding meekly as you took heed of his threat.

“But of course I’m just kidding, I wouldn’t do that to you just yet,” Kenjaku pushed at your cheeks, squishing your face together a little painfully, “because you’re going to behave… right?”

He nodded your head for you before you got a chance to respond; your eyes wide and staring at him, unsure how to keep up with his unpredictable nature.

“Right?” he asked you again, seeking reassurance as he pinched playfully at your skin.

“R-right,” you repeated as he continued to nod your head, ceasing in doing so after giving him the correct answer.

“Good… now, get some rest again,” he said, finally permitting for you to do so, letting go of your body and letting the pressure disperse.

You tried your best to fall asleep, finding that not even a minute had to pass for your body to finally give in. Was it fear? Nerves? You weren’t sure but you weren’t going to question your body giving you an out as you drifted off to sleep.

Kenjaku meanwhile stared straight down at you, feeling his stress finally subside while not fully understanding why he was still capable of feeling this way for people, given that he was otherwise content in idling his time spent on earth alone.

In fact, through his almost millennia of existence, he recalled that there were only very few people who ever had such an effect on him at all.

Thinking back to his insights earlier on, he speculated that his vessel didn’t even know you personally so there was no memory for him to be misinterpreting—so this must have been something genuine that had formed in the midst of his forced care for you. Finding that when you fulfilled his craving for power in the peak of your hyper-dependence, something else must have blossomed on his end.

(And whatever this feeling was, he enjoyed it, truth be told.)

It was then that it dawned on him that should the moment ever call for him to die, for whatever reason or cause, that he would take you down with him.

He thought this to be completely reasonable, finding chaotic logic under the understanding of if your life was only ongoing because you depended on him, then what right did you have to live without him?

In his mind he owned you, after all.

Your life was his own, not yours.

[resowrites]

Bora Bora - oneshot.

Summary: Henry and his wife contend with an unwelcome guest on their honeymoon…

Pairings: AU!Henry Cavill x Wife!OC

Warnings: fluff, banter/British humour, language, implied smut, dialogue heavy, nondescript OC body type/appearance, hastily written/lightly proofread.

WC: 2110

A/N: This was slightly rushed as I didn’t have much time, I’m also on a break from writing so the next post will be early May. Don’t worry, Henry and Ollie’s story will be concluded. Remember, this is pure fiction (as in completely made up) and not in any way meant to reflect reality. As ever, let me know your thoughts - R x

My work must not be copied, reposted, or translated elsewhere. Likes, follows, reblogs and comments are thoroughly welcome and appreciated! Gifs/pics not my own. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for visiting!

Bora Bora - oneshot.

A rising scream ripped through the room. By the time Henry's eyes had adjusted to the blackness, he could see his wife was out of bed and hopping from one foot to the other. "O-Ollie? What… what are you doing? Are you alright?" She began babbling a mile a minute. He fumbled for the lamp on the bedside table. The shock of light filling the villa caused them both to wince.

"It crawled across my shoulders! Where is it? WHERE IS IT?!"

"What the hell are you talking about? Come on, let's get back to sleep…" Henry made for the edge of the bed, leading her to cry out.

"No, don't! It's probably still in there!"

"What is? What are you talking about?!"

"The spider!" His eyes fell to their crumpled but otherwise empty bed.

"Darling you must have had a nightmare, come on, it's after three…" Henry motioned for her to lie down but instead, she began tentatively pulling back the covers. "What on earth are you doing now?"

"I'm not getting back into bed with that bloody thing—"

"Well I could say the same but luckily for you, I don't!" She grabbed her pillow and chucked it at him. Henry caught it midair and winged it back in her direction, though she'd already turned to run.

"Don't throw it at me! ARGHHHHHH GET IT AWAY!!!" The pillow hit her square on the backside, sending her soaring upwards. He was beside himself. "IS IT ON ME?! GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!!!"

"Calm down, it was only a joke! I don't know where it is but shush otherwise the hotel manager's gunna be banging on our door!" She finally stood still, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

"Good, I can ask him to evict you, you'll be stranded on the fucking beach for the rest of the night!"

"Well that's fine by me, at least I'll be able to get some sleep!" But she'd already started stripping the bed in search of the offending creature.

"Why do you need to change the sheets?!"

"Cos I don't want to sleep where it's been crawling about, the sodding thing was the size of a golf ball!" Henry laughed.

"Well don't worry, I'm sure you've scared it and every other creature off this island…" She bolted upright.

"Wait a minute, they don't have poisonous spiders in Bora Bora do they?" She dropped the sheets gathered in her hands back onto the bed and started frantically checking her arms.

"No you muppet, besides I'm sure they'd have better taste…"

"What's that supposed to mean? And where are you off to?"

"I'm going for a Jimmy riddle…"

"No you're bloody not, you're not leaving me alone in here with it!" She came around the side of the bed and blocked his path to the bathroom.

"So I'm meant to keep watch the rest of the night am I? Lest my lady should be unable to sleep?" But she wasn't listening, instead, she'd returned to the top of the bed and was trying to heave the frame towards her. "Oh that's a good idea, the headboard won't keep slamming into the wall now. Our next-door neighbours will be pleased—"

"Shut up and help me, you idiot!"

"… What's my reward if I do?" Henry looked at her suggestively.

"Listen, you either start searching or I'm never having sex with you again." He sighed.

"Already? We've been married less than a week!"

"Then I suggest you stop gobbing off and help me look for it!"

"Ollie, I can't see it anywhere, the lucky bugger's managed to escape…"

"Well I won't get a wink of sleep until I know for sure—"

"Can I at least get back into bed?"

"No!"

"What do I do then?!"

"I dunno, go sleep on the veranda—"

"You're being ridiculous!"

"And you're being unhelpful, you know I don't like spiders and you won't even help me find it!" Henry sighed again and rubbed his eyes.

"Well you've already searched everywhere, where else do you want me to look, up my arse?!" But she was crouching on the floor, trying to see under the bed.

"OLLIE WHAT'S THAT?!" He'd leaned over and flung a balled-up sock at her shin. She shot up and shrieked so loud it was a wonder the fire alarm didn't go off.

"YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER SHIT!" Thoroughly fed up, she grabbed the glass of water off her bedside table and chucked its contents straight at Henry.

"What did you do that for?! I'm bloody soaked!" He coughed and spluttered as he tried to rub the water from his eyes. Henry then lunged forwards and swept her into a fireman's lift.

"What are you doing?! Put me down you twat!!!" Even from her upturned position, she could see he was heading for the veranda.

"Nope, you've got to conquer this fear, Ollie. And at the very least, a night outside with French Polynesia's wildlife will give you a greater appreciation for your already long-suffering husband…"

"Henry you put me down right now or I'll file for divorce!"

"Oh well, that'll make a dent in my bank account now but in the long run, I'm sure it'll work out cheaper…" Henry came to a halt and unceremoniously dumped her back on the bed. The spider not forgotten, however, she bolted off it.

"Don't put me on the bloody bed!" He chuckled as he went to fetch a towel from the bathroom.

"Don't do this, don't do that, God what is it about marriage that turns women into such bloody nags?"

"Well for all we know the room's infested!"

"Oh God, how much seawater did you swallow yesterday?!"

"Henry, this isn't funny—"

"Ollie, the only pest I can see is the one in front of me, now let's get to bed it's late and we've probably woken up the whole of the South Pacific—" Henry was then interrupted by a loud knock. They looked at each other like two schoolchildren caught smoking during break time. He made his way to the door and opened it a fraction of an inch. "Oh, hi. Yeah, no, everything's fine. My wife just fell out of bed," she wanted to throttle him. "I'm really sorry. Yeah, no you'll have no more noise out of us. Okay, great, goodnight." When Henry closed the door and made eye contact with her again, they both burst out laughing. "Trust you to get us in trouble with the bloody management, if we get thrown out of this place it'll be your bloody fault!"

"Me?! You were the one threatening to dump me on the veranda at twenty past three in the morning. And how dare you tell the hotel manager I'm a clutz!"

"Are you kidding me?! Have you forgotten that on our first day here, you walked right into the sliding doors?"

"You promised you wouldn't keep bringing that up!"

"Well anyway, you were the one who threw water at me, even though it was you who woke me up—"

"Well it's not my fault a spider got in here, you're the one who keeps leaving the sliding doors open!"

"Oh excuse me for wanting to enjoy our ocean view rather than sitting in here listening to the ramblings of a madwoman!"

"How am I the mad one when you don't like spiders either? God help us if it had crawled over you instead, all hell would have broken loose!"

"Is that right?!"

"Yeah, you'd probably have requested another room—"

"Well carry on and I will!"

"Fine, you can leave right now, I wouldn't want you to sleep in and miss making a pig of yourself at breakfast again - two hours you had to lie down for afterward!"

"Well you wouldn't rub my belly! I hope that's not a preview of how you're going to treat me in our sunset years—"

"Oh and before you go, check the doors to make sure they're actually shut, or God knows what's going to find its way into our room next." He smirked at her exasperated look but otherwise did as he was told.

"… Wow."

What is it?"

"Come here…"

"Why?"

"Just come here!" She'd already plonked herself down on the bed exhausted and groaned as she got back up again.

"What?" Henry wrapped his arm around her and pointed up at the full, very large moon. For a moment, all she could do was look on in awe. "It's beautiful…"

"Just like you." They both smiled and shared a kiss. He then pushed back the sliding doors so he could lead them both onto the veranda. Once they were outside, he hugged her close to his chest, her head resting in the middle of it while they watched the waves lapping at the shore. Other than the rush of water and a steady hum of insects, the night was calm.

"Thank you for bringing me here…" Henry beamed down at her.

"And thank you for being here with me, there's not a single thing I'd change… well, spider's notwithstanding." She ignored his cheeky grin. "You're not cold, are you?"

"No, I'm fine. It's still pretty mild out." They stood silently, wrapped in each other's arms. She then felt something brush along the top of her arm and couldn't help but cry out. Henry had lightly traced her skin with the tips of his fingers and was bent over laughing. "Oh my God, you tool!"

"What?! Don't have a go at me, I can't help it if you felt the sea breeze!" She gave an annoyed huff.

"I can't believe I agreed to marry you…"

"I know, it feels good though, doesn't it?" She softened.

"Mm-hmm and we had a beautiful wedding, even if you did shove cake in my face…"

"I wanted you to check whether it had gone off! Anyway, what about what you said before we started reciting our vows?"

"What did I say?"

"I asked quietly if you were crying and you said no, they weren't tears you were just allergic to me!" She snorted.

"Well the minister found it funny… and I wasn't expecting to get so emotional! It's weird, I didn't think it was that big a deal but when we were standing there together…" He smiled as she trailed off. "Anyway, it's a bit rich to suggest I embarrassed you after that speech your brother gave." Henry bit his lip, trying not to laugh.

"Why, what was wrong with it?"

"No, you're right, what's wrong with telling a large group of our family and closest friends that he hoped no one had left their coats on our bed, what with walking in on us making out on everyone's stuff in the guest room at your parents house two Christmases back?"

"Aww he was just retelling a heartfelt moment—"

"It wasn't so heartfelt when he then said he recognised a couple of the jackets people had on!" He snickered.

"Well, what can I say?! You married a Cavill…"

"Oh God, I did, didn't I?"

"… Thank you though."

"The honour's all mine. Even though you let me be terrorised by a spider…" Henry tutted.

"Well you had no problem snorkelling with me the other day! How is a spider any scarier than jellyfish?" Her head snapped upwards.

"What do you mean? There wasn't any jellyfish was there?!" He broke down giggling and she thwacked his chest. "You're so bloody mean! I'm not meant to be this scared out of my wits on our honeymoon!" Henry tilted her chin so they were face to face.

"Listen, so long as I'm by your side, you'll always be protected. Alright?"

"… Do you mean it?"

"Of course! I took a vow to do so for the rest of my life. No matter how much of a big baby you are…" She rolled her eyes and sauntered back towards the bedroom. Just as she stepped inside, she spun around and quickly slid the doors closed. He rushed forwards.

"Hey! Let me back in!" Henry tried to bang on the glass as quietly as possible.

"Apologise and I'll consider it…"

"Apologise for what?!"

"You know what bloody for!"

"… Fine. Your reaction towards a small, nonvenomous insect was completely proportionate—"

"Henry, I will leave you out there all night—"

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry, now will you please let me back inside?" She didn't wish to did so anyway, figuring that he'd only be a bigger nuisance outside than in. But she soon found herself being dragged back onto the veranda and lifted onto his shoulders once more.

"Henry, don't you dare throw me in the hot tub!"

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@elizabetharegina @fanfictionaddiction99 @luclittlepond @caffeinatedfestivalsheep @summersong69 @ushijimbo

[anonymoushouseplantfan]

Spectator, "Is Prince Harry blackmailing his family?"

https://archive.ph/9LVIt

This appears to be, of course, nothing less than blackmail. Given that there are still questions swirling about how accurate Spare is – never did the phrase ‘recollections may vary’ seem more appropriate – then it would be easy to describe yet more scandalous revelations emerging as an attempt on Harry’s part to continue to convey his feelings of anger at his family in as public a fashion as possible. It also seems clear that the suggestion of further damaging revelations means that he is uninterested in any kind of behind-the-scenes peace settlement. He will not meet ‘the Firm’ halfway, or agree to anything other than a formal summit and a public apology.

The risk that Harry faces is that the Royal Family will call his bluff, and then the 400 pages of deleted revelations and scandal that he alludes to are nothing more than scuttlebutt and filler. Given the ridicule that many of the more lurid stories in Spare has attracted, not least the now-viral anecdote about his applying Elizabeth Arden cream to his frostbitten ‘todger’, one would not bet against more of the same emerging, which would reduce him to a laughing stock. Yet given the apparently insatiable public appetite for gossip, however absurd, one would not bet against a follow-up volume – quite literally, sparing nobody – being just as great a sensation. Lest we forget, Harry has signed a multi-book deal. This particular saga looks as if it shows no signs of being concluded, amicably or otherwise.

I agree. He’s not going to settle this one behind the scenes. He wants drama and attention.

[terrence-silver]

In your opinion, how does Terry incorporate religion/spirituality into his and Beloved’s lives?

I think he just does it; that simple.

Because, fact is, I don't think too many people really even figure Terry Silver has religion in any sense, and that includes enemies and acquaintances alike (especially individuals that don't see eye to eye with him), even though, judging by his surname alone, people more or less conclude he must be or is in some capacity ambiguously Jewish, except that in equal measure people possibly assume that he's not exactly a practicing one --- something I figure the New Age, Liberal environment of LA in almost any era is bound to conclude by default about nearly everyone unless proven otherwise. Yet, he is practicing. Very much so. I mean, it has pretty much been confirmed that the man goes to a Synagogue. But, this seems like one of those things that is so coveted, private and intimate for Terry that people simply widely don't know. That's exactly the way Terry likes it too. I think his religious and spiritual practices fall down into the category of most people not knowing he served in the military, for example. Or that he was in Vietnam. Or how much he was into martial arts until he pretty much springs it on the entirety of The Valley (and as he hoped, the World, at large). You know? One of those very personal pieces of information that aren't exactly hidden or secret but he doesn't figure are anyone's business either, precisely because these tid bits of intel reveal things that are near and dear to him.

And the things that are near and dear to you? It is best to tactically steer people's attention away from them lest they're utilized to hurt you later down the line.

So, for Terry to actually want to incorporate his religious beliefs into someone's life, namely beloved's, they must be a person of extreme importance to him first. Someone of trust. Reliability. Someone he's devoted to. Someone who is devoted to him. As attached and reliable as his own marrow. When he figures they are? He starts incorporating things into their life all on his own because he feels they're ready and worthy of it so they will participate, because he said so. Because he wants them to and think they should. Because they belong to him. One earns their stripes like one earns their belts, Terry's convinced. Beloved earns their stripes and their belts by being allowed into that inner sanctum part of Terry's life.

[itsclydebitches]

How do you feel about official retcons? RvB had its final season announced and with that retcons seasons 14-17 (which got increasingly poor reception with 17 being like the death nail in the show basically) Retcons those as simulations and really seems to be picking up after 13 where many fans said the series should have ended and has the perfect ending. Should poor seasons or moments be retconned or just seen as part of a imperfect story with some good and bad writing?

For me it's really a case-by-case situation. I greatly dislike smaller, internal retcons as they tend to make the viewer lose trust in the story, but retconning entire seasons? I suppose it would depend on just how bad the fandom considers those seasons to be. I mean, how many times has the RWBY fandom talked about wanting a reboot, a time travel reset, or more work akin to Ice Queendom? I do think poor seasons/moments should be embraced in the whole of an otherwise strong story, especially given the long runtimes of so many shows. It's inevitable that there will be at least one season that's the pits, so if we start rejecting that across the board, every show will have retcons as a matter of course—even if they don't really need it because the rest of the story is good. That's how I feel about Volume 5 prior to those mistakes getting exacerbated in 6-9: it's a poor season in many respects, but the annoyance of that is greatly lessened by my enjoyment of 1-4. However, I likewise think there is a threshold where fans go, "Nope. That's not salvageable anymore and it's been so bad for so long that it's tainting the story as a whole. Scrap it and start again, lest the whole thing stay ruined."

In RvB's case, it sounds like there's the added issue of fans already being satisfied with the 13 ending. It's maybe less about whether retcons themselves should be a thing and more about writers learning to conclude their stories when they've hit on a strong ending, rather than continuing for the sake of profit until, inevitably, fans become so disgusted with the show they don't want to support it anyway. But that aside, if the show has to continue... yeah, better in my opinion to backtrack, retcon, and start fresh, rather than continually digging the failure hole. RWBY's in the same position. At this point there are so many problems that have gone unaddressed for so long that I don't think it's possible to produce a Volume 10 that feels satisfying. So if they announced tomorrow, "We're insisting on continuing RWBY, but we're going to reveal that everything in Volume 6 onwards was a vision induced by the Apathy" at least we'd have the chance of a better story moving forward. Generally speaking, I'm not a big fan of "It's all a dream/vision/simulation." There are stories that have absolutely pulled it off, but the writers have to really know what they're doing and plan everything around that reveal, rather than using it as a, "Gotcha!" crutch. But if the show has faltered badly enough, I'd personally take that get-out-of-jail free card over continuing a bad story. Let Volume 10 start with Ruby jerking awake at home in Patch, the day before she heads to Beacon. "Damn, what a crazy dream I had in which the good portions may or may not prove to be prophetic" lol.

Of course, the other issue with retconning any series is that, presumably, the same people are still writing the revision. Unless they've taken a real hard look at what went wrong the first time around, back-tracking won't amount to much if it's just used as an opportunity to repeat those mistakes.

[revisionsong]

“Welcome back, my dear one.” I gazed up to the serene face above me, smiling happily. She floated through the sky, filling it with her radiance and the flow of robes become cloudy galaxies. The only skin of her visible was that face and her hands, all of which was covered in scars, each scar the fluid curve of the Arcanum Vesperi, the language of magic. “Hello, Lady. How do you find yourself today?” There was a soft, silverbell laugh. “I find myself today in new and unusual spirits, but that is not uncommon.” She winked, and the scars twisted and shifted, new words, new spells, writing themselves upon her being. It was said that any spell cast would trace over the skin of the Goddess of Magic, and that one must take care in what they create, lest she see it in her mirror and it offend her. “But I ask you the same question. How do you find yourself today?”

I thought for a moment before replying. “I find myself sad. I’m. Struggling. I’ve done all you suggested to follow my path, but I am still the weakest of my peers. I tried again to summon my familiar yesterday, but it…” My face burned with embarrassment at the memory of the failure, a failure in front of my entire class, and not my first failure at what should have been a routine task.It was practically unheard of for someone in my grade not to have a familiar. 

Again, she laughed, and I looked up to face her, angry and shaking. Her, too, then? She would also laugh at me? “Oh calm, dear one. I am not making light of your plight. If anything, what I find amusing is that you haven’t figured it out yet. But then, sometimes I think magic schools of this day and age are a bit… let’s say lacking. Histories so easily neglected, spells and hopes gathering dust. Ah well.” I calmed myself, but only enough to pull the flame of anger down to embers for the moment. 

“Then why are you laughing at me? I honestly had enough of that from my classmates. I wasn’t expecting it here.”

“Because, my dear one. It is not a matter of ability. It is a matter of direction. Modern schools are all about flashy magic, who can achieve the most the quickest. But what they forget is that not everyone has the same magic. Not to mention, not everyone has the same criteria for familiars.”

“What do you mean by that? About the familiars?” For a moment, the fire was replaced with a soft, sunny hope. It was small, but there, and I held to it tightly.

“You know that a familiar chooses a mage, yes? What you don’t know is how that works.

“Some mages are a dime a dozen. For those mages, familiars are easy to summon for they are little more than tools to one another, a partnership that will benefit both in the long run. A business deal. The familiars see these mages and fight over the best of that lot, eventually one coming out on top and taking up with their mage. A deal is struck, and the partnership begins.”

“So I’m… not worth fighting for?”

“I didn’t say that. Still your insecurities for a moment and let me finish.” She smiled, then continued. “Then there are the specialists. The people who might not be good at flashy, broad spells, but have a very potent magic in a specific ability. These mages are the ones who will make an impact on the world, for they can do no less. And it is these mages who are… let’s say reserved. Familiars do not fight blindly for these mages– though they would love to–  because they know these mages will overpower and outwit them. There is very little chance they will come out ahead on their deals, or even break even if they were to try to get anything more than their due. “No, it takes a special familiar to match the wit and power of a Reserve Mage. And negotiations among the upper echelon of familiars, well. Those in power take things slowly, methodically, for to do otherwise would potentially cost them dearly. But I have heard that one of those negotiations has just concluded.” She grinned and winked at me. “You mean… I’m going to get my familiar?” I wanted to ask a thousand other questions, questions about myself, about Reserve Mages, about these tiers of familiars, but they caught behind my teeth like thick taffy and refused to move. “I mean… you should wake up.” I snapped awake, blinking several times. I would have sat straight up but something told me not to, held me in stillness. Slowly, carefully, I started to move, quickly noticing the weight and warmth on my chest. I reached out, fingers gently seeking what sat upon me. Scales. More warmth. Softness. The soft, scaly warmth purred, and I looked down at it in the predawn to see two lavender eyes looking back at me, slitted like cat eyes but definitely not belonging to any feline. 

“Greetings,” I managed in a breathless whisper. “I’m Anemone. And you?” The dragon, for it was clear that is what this being was as it raised its head, more lavender light spilling out dimly from between scales as it stretched a long neck and stood, stretching more fore and aft before sitting primly on my chest and canting its head to one side, spoke softly.

“You can call me Fadrin, little mage. Now, let us eat, and then we shall set to rule our bargain.” “You’re my familiar?” A silent laugh. “Familiar. Partner. Liege. Call me what you will. But, so long as you accept me, we will be working together for a long time. So I suggest we have a nice meal together and find out what we want from each other. For I foresee a wonderful partnership ahead of us.” I paused, then nodded. Paused again. Finally:

“Why me? What’s so special about me?” “All things in time, Anemone. All things in time. For now, how about that breakfast?” I nodded, scrambling from bed and scooping the tiny dragon up in one arm. Fadrin quickly scurried up my arm, perching on my shoulder, still purring. Heart full of joy and excitement, I took my new familiar down for breakfast. 

You are the weakest mage of your academy, so weak that you even fail to summon a familiar. After another dreamed discussion with the goddess of magic, you’re surprised to find a tiny dragon curled up on your chest in the morning.

[speciosuspoematis]

ANONYMOUS ASKED : what would you do if the Imperial Prince were to kiss you?

Fluid was the movement of his quill 'pon parchment, words of a flowery source written in a slanted and beauteous font.' T was but the third editing of the poem he had conceived - of feelings of lost and not yet found, of heavy woe and uncertain direction. No matter how he edited it, not yet did it quite flow with his usual pacing and thus, he decided quietly that it was not yet ready for the pages of his private compendium.

The poised question diverted his train if thought so violently that the poet had no choice but to rest aside his quill and briefly rest his head in his hands: elbows upon the dark wood of his desk, flickering candles near to his person nigh forgotten.

"I dare say I would be intensely overwhelmed, in the least." He finds he had to clear his throat, and it is with a glance paid toward the hearth within his study that he attempts to hide the light flush to the heights of his cheeks. "I cannot recall what it is like to not be berated or cast aside at a mere glance, and thus aught over that is... A realm unexplored."

Cyvel tries to not think too deeply on the subject: it's a conversational topic better suited to the beauties of the capital, not a socially inept and disgraced being such as he. Belonging to the nobility or otherwise, Cyvel's father had made certain that he stood no chance in the public eye - he had lost that support the moment he had not followed in the glory of their households usual path.

He adverts his gaze, finally: resting it upon the view out of his window ere standing. Ink stains pepper pale fingers, the crevat around his neck resting untied. He's tired - in more ways than he care to admit and daydreaming on what ifs and I possibilities does the true melancholic loneliness of his heart no favours.

"Mayhap you ought redirect your question." He concludes, deep sorrow returning to his expression where it rests nigh permenantly. He is destined to be alone, this he has understood from a very young age. None could care for a coward such as he, who world's words in place of a blade, who can offer naught but rhymes to his country. He holds no worth, not in the eyes of Sanbreque and certainly not in the eyes of his family - so how could he ever hope or dream to be loved? Nay, 'T is folly to even imagine lest he only add to his deep woes. "I am... Ill suited. His imperial highness would deserve someone far more fitting than I, regardless. I bring only shame."

[thunderon]

hi tumblr user thunderon i have secured a life-size skeleton (fake) to keep in the back seat of my car for fun. i thought that titania or ulysses would be funny names but i’d like some suggestions from the greater tumblr tlt collective so i figured i’d send an ask your way. what are some good puns or tlt memes to name my new silent companion after?

that’s amazing lmaoooo. and because i love both puns and tlt i’ll posit:

marrow-hark bone-agesimus

but im sure there’s other, funnier alternatives lol. i’ll throw this out here to the cleverer fandom people. anyone have anything? cmon we gotta give this guy the name it deserves

[yymiya]

the more that you say, the less i know — ayato x gn!reader

Ayato always gets what he wants. Your will, however, is harder to shatter.

tags: gn!reader, angst, fluff, smut, enemies to lovers, master/servant, feeling realisation, sub ayato, masturbation, choking, hand jobs, blowjobs, edging, penetrative sex, nearly caught, ayato has issues tbh

wc: 19.6k

ao3 link

Throughout his lifetime, Kamisato Ayato discovers that with a few falsehoods and a strategic sleight of hand, all he desires will fall into his lap.

Although difficult to swallow, this comes to be known as an indisputable, inescapable fact across Inazuma. A necessary morsel of knowledge learned by bureaucrats before seeking an audience with the Yashiro Commissioner, lest their deplorable schemes and unwillingness to bend to his whims result in political upheaval.

It happens every so often—the discreet, unforeseen disposal of troublesome individuals. Having anything other than the public interest in mind is a transgression Ayato doesn’t take lightly, but his methods are lawful and just.

Still, earning a place in his good books is vital for all.

You’re no politician. Ayato’s shrewd judgments in matters of governance are of little concern to you. But as his attendant, you recognise that he could sweep the rug from beneath your feet at his earliest convenience, should you misstep.

To ingratiate yourself with him, as tedious as that is, is the safest option. Good manners go far—a polite smile, words of assurance that all tasks will be swiftly dealt with, unwavering allegiance.

It should be easy… but Ayato is nothing if not infuriating.

The steady rhythm of footsteps down the corridor causes you to bridle, seemingly drawing closer to the small room you’re tucked away in. Unfortunately, Ayato is not so easily avoided. He has a knack for locating you despite whichever obscure corner of the estate you’re— well, hiding in.

The door slides open and a heap of lavender silk drops into the tabletop, skewing the tableware Miss Kamisato requested that you polish an hour earlier. You lurch forward to steady them, but a camellia-engraved bowl clatters to the ground and loudly shatters.

“Clean this,” comes Ayato’s voice. Each beguiling inflection sparks white-hot anger within you. He gestures at the porcelain shards scattered across the floor with a disinterested tilt of his head. “That, too.”

Good books. Stay in his good books.

“Right away, my lord. However, might I suggest a gentler hand? To spare future accidents, of course. Miss Kamisato is rather fond of this set.”

Ayato bows his head in understanding. “My apologies. I wanted to deliver this to you before the ink dried. Wouldn’t it have been a nuisance to remove otherwise?”

You take the costly kimono into your hands to inspect its condition. The Kamisato Clan’s couturiers are talented, indeed. Even after sustaining near-daily wear, the silk has yet to fray and it’s still smooth to the touch, but there’s a horrid splotch of dark ink in the centre. What a shame for such impressive artistry to have been sullied by Ayato’s inattention.

You dab at the fabric. “I’m afraid it already has.”

The stain is too large to be a simple mishap with Ayato’s fude. A flick of coated bristles against silk would have a distinctive pattern, yet this is a clean, almost rectangular sharp. As though the kimono had been pressed against his inkstone.

You raise your head to address Ayato. Rather than disappointment, you find that smile again—closed-eyed and teeming with mischief.

Ayato hums disbelievingly. “Has it?”

Good books.

“Yes, my lord, but I’m sure it can be salvaged with the right care.”

“I will leave you to it, then,” he concludes, pivoting on his heel. “Have it returned by evening.”

With nothing offered in the way of a simple goodbye or thank you, Ayato steps into the hallway and leaves in the direction of his study.

Fixing his messes has become routine.

The porcelain fragments are brushed up and discarded, and polishing the rest of Ayaka’s tableware will have to wait, as will informing her of the broken bowl. You collect a few supplies and head elsewhere.

It’s sunny outdoors. The warm light bathes the courtyard in a comforting glow, nourishing the freshly clipped plants and gleaming in the water’s reflection. The pleasant weather is your first saving grace, the second being Thoma. He sits at the bottom of the steps with his beloved duster at his side, its wooden handle cracked with age.

You sidle closer. He’s snacking on tricolour dango and watching the slow crawl of clouds above in awe, unaware of your presence. Before the slosh of water in your basin can fracture his reverie, you jab his side with your shoe.

Thoma startles, cheeks puffed with food as he whips around. “Wh— oh, hey! You scared the life out of me.”

“Move over, I want company.”

There’s a light breeze drifting across the land as Thoma shuffles over. Being outside is working wonders for your sour mood, and you relax while settling in the space he makes.

Green eyes survey the wooden basin placed down and the kimono draped over your forearm. Thoma swallows the last of the dango. “Do I even want to know or is this going to hurt?”

With a wry laugh, you spread the ruined fabric across your lap to show the unnaturally shaped patch of ink. “Can you believe it?”

“...Hand it over,” Thoma says after a moment of quiet mourning. He’s grimacing. You appreciate the sympathy.

Thoma frees his hands, chewing on the dango’s bamboo stick rather than holding it, and takes the kimono. He examines it with a hilarious sort of curiosity, evidently sharing in your bewilderment. 

“So unlucky,” he sighs. “It’s soaked all the way through the silk.”

“Lord Kamisato must have fallen asleep at his desk and smothered his inkstone.” You uncap a bottle of white vinegar and pour it into the basin. “Now it’s my responsibility as of ten minutes ago.”

“He gave you this just then?”

“I was polishing Miss Kamisato’s tableware in peace, but that clearly didn’t last long because he barged in and knocked a bowl off the table,” you scoff. “Why do you ask?”

Thoma blinks slowly as though you’ve presented him with an impossible question, then passes back the kimono. “No reason in particular.”

“Thoma.”

“It’s just— I mean, I haven’t had a thing to do all morning! As you said, you were already busy. Couldn’t he have given it to me?”

A valid point. You work your jaw. “I see.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not slacking off on my duties,” Thoma pleads. “I’ve been cleaning to pass the time since seven o’clock, I swear. I’d kill to have something to do!”

Thoma’s words sound faraway as you ponder. He’s undoubtedly the most capable worker here, and your few months of work pale in comparison to his tried and true methods. Yet Ayato had sought you out specifically.

Still, you sense an opportunity.

“Such a pity. I had to leave all that polishing behind. Miss Kamisato’s tableware is coated in dust.”

The bamboo stick snaps between Thoma’s teeth. “Where?” he demands. “Come on, you know there’s nothing I love more than a bit of elbow grease…”

“Opposite the storage room. Have at it.”

“Thank you, thank you.” Thoma rises to his feet and stretches in the midday sun, twirling his feather duster. “I’ll have each piece as good as new within the hour, you have my word.”

You snort as he leaves. “Thanks, Thoma.”

Again, you sink into the calmness that drifts with the wind, a beautiful summer’s day aided by cheerful birdsong and the quiet chattering of nearby staff. The courtyard usually isn’t so lively, yet a dozen workers enjoy the weather at their leisure.

Strange. The Shogun’s favour must have fallen upon them, granting a momentary respite from the tiresome work Ayato delegates.

Your hard work will pay off in due time.

Behind you, Koharu sighs wistfully and nudges old lady Furata in the ribs. “How kind of the Commissioner to give us an extended rest break! Say, shall we grab some lunch?”

So it isn’t a stroke of luck.

You douse the stain. The mixture of water and white vinegar spills over the edge of the basin but it’s difficult to care, what with this heavy feeling pooling in your veins like lead.

There isn’t a known point of contention between Ayato and yourself. Although curt and petty, Ayato doles out acclaim where it’s due. It warms the faces of his staff, yet what he says to you feels distant.

His other aides are family. A close-knit bunch with strong bonds between themselves and the Kamisato siblings. 

You’re set apart from them.

With a soft brush, you remove the stain from the kimono.

You won’t kid yourself into believing Ayato deliberately stamped ink into his clothing to irk you, to saddle you with another menial job while the estate rests and rejoices in rare downtime.

This will soon pass.

Ayato keeps you busy. Be it delivering messages to and from the city, dispersing the finches that gather in the courtyard, or sorting the household’s mail, you have few moments to yourself. By the end of the week, your muscles are sore as you lie in bed and there’s the beginning of a long-lasting headache festering in your skull.

That isn’t the issue, though.

You would gladly manage the workload so long as your efforts are acknowledged. Just two words to reassure you that this isn’t for nought. Yet all you receive from Ayato is an offhand remark, and then he dismisses you.

You speak of this to Thoma. Despite the worry that he would claim this is ridiculous, that his lord wouldn’t dare forget his manners, he turns out to be an attentive listener. 

He suggests that you put your heads together, and after a long night of hushed arguments and stolen snacks, the only solution that arises is to swallow your pride and suck up to Ayato. It could work. Although humiliating, it isn’t a terrible idea. His opinion of you can’t possibly worsen because he hardly sings your praises as it is, so what’s one more bid to curry favour with him?

Granted, Ayato tends to aggravate the situation where you’re involved, but you’re willing to try.

Days later, Thoma rouses you from sleep hours earlier than he normally would. The sun has yet to rise, offering the opportune moment to witness the sky’s lurid colours shift and contort, but Thoma ushers you away from the window before you become mired in the view.

The following hours are a flurry of activity,  an attempt to complete a full day’s work in half the time. It’s a tedious job but Thoma is eager to help and assuage his newfound boredom

While you sweep twigs and leaves in the courtyard, Thoma shoos away the stray cats that gravitate towards the estate, seeking the treats hidden within his pockets. He uses the same fish-shaped biscuits to goad the strays into the bulk of Chinju Forest and hopefully back to the city.

Everything else falls into place. Ayato departs for the Grand Narukami Shrine before noon to discuss next year’s festivities with Guuji Yae, as determined by the schedule Thoma oversaw. If what he claims is correct, Ayato will decline sweet snacks offered by the shrine maidens and return hungry in the evening.

He won’t turn down a meal.

Thoma recently learned a Liyuean recipe from a cookbook Miss Kamisato imported per his request, and Ayato has taken a keen liking to its robust flavour.

Not much of your time is spent in the estate’s extensive kitchen, but Thoma’s concise instructions are easily followed. You would prefer his direct assistance, yet he insists on keeping an eye out in the corridor because a disgruntled chef discovering the mess you make of their kitchen is far from flattering.

You toil away through the afternoon. Bored out of his mind again, Thoma begins a conversation through the partially cracked door, whispering to protect your secret endeavour. The distraction he provides sabotages your measurements, and you shut him out with a slide of the door before you end up confusing salt and sugar.

It takes three questionable trials and many hours before you emerge bearing the fruits of your labour: a steaming bowl of stir-fried fish noodles, made with an amount of effort that Ayato is, truthfully, undeserving of.

“Right, what do you think? Don’t hold back on me.”

Thoma hums pensively, a hand on his chin as he swivels around the dish and observes the neatly-plated noodles.

“I think you’ve done a wonderful job! It smells amazing, much better than the, uh… other attempts.”

“Those aside,” you dismiss, as though the scent of burnt sauce and charred fish isn’t seared into your memory, “is it enough?”

“To appease him, absolutely,” Thoma says confidently. “If there’s one thing my lord just can’t turn down, it’s good food. This is one of his favourites so it’s bound to go down a treat.”

Thoma’s approval puts your mind at ease. “I’ll take your word for it, then. Is he back?”

“I believe so,” Thoma hums and gestures down the hallway. “Hirano made a mad dash down here a half-hour ago, I assume to take the chief’s coat.”

“All right, thank you for your help. I’m sorry to trouble you with this.”

“Oh, it’s no bother at all,” he reassures you, laughing. “Let’s just say you owe me one, okay?”

With a nod of agreement, you bid farewell to Thoma and set off to find Ayato.

You peek your head into each room to no avail. With the Commissioner’s return, the halls are void of workers while they tend to business brought back from the Grand Narukami Shrine, so you can’t inquire about Ayato’s whereabouts. His ability to locate those who don’t want to be found is now an envied skill.

You find him sequestered in the spot where you polished Ayaka’s tableware days prior. He sits cross-legged with a mug of fragrant tea, his outerwear folded at his side. There’s a pang of guilt for disturbing his process of relaxation, but you draw closer regardless.

“My lord,” you call gently, opening the door the rest of the way. It must have been opened in an attempt to flush out the heavy scent of peppermint that lingers in the air. “There you are.” 

Ayato peeks open one lilac eye, its pale colour obscured by the steam rising from his cup. His expression gives little away as he sets down his tea, places his gloved hands on his knees and draws himself up. “Yes, what is it?”

“Welcome back. I trust business went well?” Ayato gives no indication. “You must be hungry.”

“Not particularly, otherwise I would have put in a request. I hope you haven’t undergone undue trouble on my behalf.”

You disguise an eye twitch as a reaction to the strong scent of peppermint. “Don’t you agree that returning home to a hot meal is comforting?”

“I suppose it has appeal.”

“Then please,” you begin, placing down the dish with chopsticks above the bowl, “I made an earnest attempt.”

“Ah, but there isn’t a way of telling if it’s safe.”

You grit your teeth. “Everything is thoroughly cooked and it has Thoma’s stamp of approval.”

“Let’s not run the risk,” he decides with a perfunctory wave of his hand, before reaching for his tea. “However, we shouldn’t be so inconsiderate as to waste food. Why don’t you sit and enjoy the dish yourself? I’m not opposed to having company while I rest.”

Good books.

“If you insist, my lord."

You settle opposite him. He’s too close. If not for your stillness and careful placement, your knees would bump his beneath the table.

This somehow amuses him. A wily grin is half-hidden by the rim of his cup.

You avert your eyes. The food would be appetising if Ayato wasn’t staring, waiting, but you had forgotten to eat lunch in your haste.

The chopsticks are loaded with noodles, generously coated in orange sauce and scattered with par-cooked chunks of white fish, and you push the food into your mouth. Objectively speaking, it’s good. It’s very good. You try not to feel too proud, chewing slowly to savour the taste while still being acutely aware that Ayato watches your every move.

Now, your appetite flares and you reach for another well-deserved bite—

“On second thought,” Ayato’s cup is placed on the table and you glance up, wide-eyed as though caught doing something prohibited. “That smells quite delicious. May I?”

You straighten up. “I’m sorry?”

“The dish, may I taste it?”

Irritation cleaves what’s left of your patience until your breathing punctuates the unspoken litany of good books, good books, good books that is beginning to wear itself out.

“I’ve already eaten from the bowl, my lord.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” he reassures, though his condescending tone does anything but. The chopsticks are, rather rudely, plucked from your hand and Ayato busies himself with sampling your food. He hums at its smooth flavour. “My goodness, have you found your true calling?”

You scowl, unsure of how he insults your housework and compliments your cooking in the same breath. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Yes, it’s excellent,” he says. Then, as an afterthought, “You may leave now.”

Miss Kamisato invites you to spar.

Sword art training is a daily affair for her. Without the time to linger in the courtyard and witness her mastered skill, you often overhear the raucous clash of wooden weapons through the walls of the estate, followed by an interminable moment of quiet before the clamour begins once more.

Your experience pales in comparison to Ayaka’s, yet she insists this is a wonderful and mutually beneficial idea. Thoma must have let slip that following your first week on Narukami Island and an unfortunate run-in with a band of Nobushi looking for trouble and riches, he demonstrated the basics of combat in a series of training sessions that stretched into the long nights and occasionally the mornings, too.

You can now hold your own. Only… Ayaka is something else entirely.

She’s too quick. There’s a streak of pale blue before you instinctively parry a blow. The bamboo training sword suffers the brunt of the hit, but the effort sends you reeling back and narrowly blocking another strike.

A wordless prayer is offered that Ayaka had proposed this, not Ayato. If he was on the other end of your sword, he wouldn’t be lenient.

You wonder how he fights. As elegant as his sister? Brisk and rugged like a crack of distant lightning, or smooth like morning birdsong? He’s a man who favours swiftness, definitely. However, you’ve learned that an individual’s disposition doesn’t necessarily correlate with style of fighting. Thoma is relaxed and welcoming, yet he fights to viciously protect. Ayaka values patience and compassion, but she’s cruelly methodical with each blow to your ribs.

And Ayato, he’s a meddlesome bastard, a thorn in your side. He would swipe your feet from beneath you before raising his weapon.

Can’t he just behave?

Your back hits the ground.

“Are you all right?” Ayaka worries, now crouched at your side and helping you to sit. Your spine isn’t too thrilled with the sudden movement, but you nod to conciliate her concern. “That’s good. I apologise for knocking you so brutally… but your mind was elsewhere.”

You glance around for your training sword. Ayaka had sent it halfway across the courtyard in one hit. You grin. “You’re hardly brutal, milady. Just efficient.”

Contemplative, Ayaka hums before sitting opposite you. It’s an oddly humble gesture for a woman of her stature, youthful in the way she beckons you closer as though about to divulge a secret. “My mother once told me that victory is seized in a single motion. If you wish to improve, you cannot afford to be so easily distracted. May I ask what weighs on your mind?”

“I— well, it would be inappropriate to ask now.”

“Not at all,” Ayaka insists, her eyes gleaming. Without her armour and sumptuous wear, you’re tempted to confide in her. She looks less like the Shirasagi Himegimi and more like herself. “If it’s not too much trouble, please tell me.”

“Can I request time away from the estate? I want to visit home.” It’s more an omission of truth rather than a lie—Ayaka needn’t know the reason behind your wish.

“Of course you may. However, see to it that Brother is reformed. He is responsible for your duties, after all, and it would be a shame to have made plans that cannot go ahead.”

You grimace. Ayaka chalks it up to the pain.

“Thank you, milady,” you say, before gesturing to the training sword in her hand. “Shall we go again?”

“A break?”

You don’t recall Ayato’s study feeling so small. You’ve cleaned it many times—organising discarded books, washing and drying his poorly-kept inkstone, clearing the floor of stray chess pieces and playing cards—and it had seemed spacious then, when you had been alone.

Now, you stand opposite his desk and despite the conversation you’re engaged in, which is more so Ayato questioning each statement you make, he doesn’t look up from his work for even a second.

A closer look reveals he’s practising calligraphy again, the large parchment spread across the table with an open book at his side. Archons forbid the perpetually busy Yashiro Commissioner ditches a hobby for a brief moment to listen to your request. He does so for Thoma, going as far as inviting him to join whichever activity he partakes in, whereas you aren’t given the time of day.

“Yes, my lord. With the most important annual festivals behind us, I feel now is as good a time as any to visit home.”

Ayato presses his lips together to stifle a weary sigh. He’s been doing that a lot lately, perhaps you should inform Miss Kamisato that he’s overworking himself again, to nobody’s surprise.

“You’re needed here,” he says. “A duty may very well emerge out of the blue and require your attention. However, if vacation time is truly what you’re after, I cannot stop you.”

Your eyes narrow. “It’s well within your power to do so.”

“Family is important, and you wish to visit yours, yes?” Finally, he sets aside his fude and meets your eyes. There are dark shadows beneath his own, his face gaunt in the flickering lantern light. “I will not deprive you of that.”

Ayato awaits an answer that doesn’t come, then returns to his work. He turns the page of his book and settles down a fresh sheet of parchment, and you watch each precise flick of his fude. He’s neat. You don’t believe for a second that the ink staining his kimono was accidental, not when each motion is impressively exact.

“I have your permission?” you ask at last.

“Indeed. Give my regards to your family and enjoy your time. These are important years, you shouldn’t waste them.”

He seems calmer today. Dull. There’s a twinge of pity in your chest as you say, “Thank you, my lord. I’ll keep that in mind. Goodbye.”

As you leave, Ayato doesn’t speak.

Ayato sends a bouquet to your family home. A lovely thing of camellias, peonies and sprigs of holly, and its arrival precedes yours, but in a corner, it sits unattended to in a cracked vase.

Ayato is, above all else, profoundly elusive.

In business, his true motivations are unearthed once he has already gotten what it is he desires, and only if he wants them to be. You can’t hazard a guess as to what he’s after.

If he finds you unagreeable or incompetent, you wouldn’t have been employed, nor would he trust you with such a degree of responsibility.

If he keeps you around for the sole purpose of torment, he would have refused your request and goaded you into staying at the estate. He wouldn’t have had a fellow feeling for your plight. He wouldn’t have sighed and frowned and offered advice. He wouldn’t have sent flowers, even as a nicety. 

He’s making it very difficult to relax. Even as you sit in the garden, nursing a glass of dandelion wine poured from the bottle Thoma gifted for your travels, and listen to the children playing at a nearby get-together, you’re strung tight.

If Ayato is in your head, time away won’t offer clarity. You were stupid to believe otherwise. 

With that, you drink the last of the wine and turn in.

What you return to is chaos. In your absence, the estate has fallen victim to the throes of an ill Commissioner obstinately refusing medicine like a child mid-tantrum.

Thoma has witnessed even Ayato’s least flattering moments, yet when you find him, there’s a crease in his brow as he emerges from Ayato’s personal quarters with lukewarm peppermint tea and an untouched bowl of broth.

“Thoma,” you call. “No luck?”

With a solemn headshake, he shifts the tray in his hands. “None. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s only fallen ill a handful of times so it’s always a big affair. However, he’s never quite acted this way.”

“How so?” you ask, which is met with a troubled sigh. 

“Maybe it’s better to see for yourself,” Thoma suggests. “Usually, he follows the physician’s recommendations without complaint, but he’s turning everyone away this time around. He can’t stop you if you walk in, though. He’s in no state.”

All things considered, barging into Ayato’s bedroom when he doesn’t want to be bothered won’t do you any favours in endearing yourself to him, but if Thoma is indirectly encouraging you to try your hand, the situation must be dire.

You take the stocked tray from Thoma, much to his relief, and walk the length of the corridor.

Ayato ignores the knocking at his door, but you aren’t so easily deterred.

“My lord,” you address quietly, stepping inside.

Even in bed, he sits with a straight back and several documents laid out across his lap. His lower half is swathed in thick quilts, but his shirt is creased and half unbuttoned like he’s been pulling at it to cool off.

There’s a slew of unopened cold remedies at his side. Thoma must have brought them before being forced out, and Ayato’s languished, pallid face and unkempt hair make it plausible that he doesn’t possess the energy to insist they be taken away.

You ask, “May I come in?”

“Keep your distance,” he croaks, and you believe he’s turning you away until he continues, “and close the door behind you.”

You do just that and cautiously draw closer to the bed. To your knowledge, Ayato has always been particular about which attendants are permitted to enter his bedroom, and only ever to clean or lay out the day’s wear. This is the first you see of its interior.

“You shouldn’t be working, my lord. Let your aides shoulder some of the burden, hm? Otherwise, a quick recovery is unlikely.”

“I’m fine to work—” Ayato turns and coughs into his fist, unable to hide the violent tremors wracking his shoulders. “There’s much to be done and sequestering me here wastes valuable time.”

The tray is placed on the nightstand, and you bring the vanity stool to his bedside and settle there. “You’re a smart man who knows his limits. You’ve long since passed them. Right now, work is your last priority.”

Ayato is quiet as you set aside the paperwork and adjust his blankets. The back of your hand presses to his forehead. He’s alarmingly warm, trembling beneath your touch.

He doesn’t stir until the bowl of broth is lifted from the tray. “I don’t need to be fed.”

“I’m just passing it to you. Please work with me, my lord.”

Ayato takes the bowl, though you keep a hand beneath his to support its weight. The sight of the broth is off-putting and there’s no knowing what in the world Thoma has packed into it, but Ayato’s unspoken criticisms crumble when you squeeze his hand in encouragement.

“No, I don’t want it.” He suddenly shoves it against your chest, turning up his nose. “It isn’t to my taste.”

“You haven’t even tried it.”

“Nor do I plan to.”

The broth is placed elsewhere with a sigh. “All right. How about the tea? At the very least, you have to have something to drink.”

Even at arm’s length, you feel the warmth radiating off his body. A sheen of sweat clings to him like a second skin, and his lips are cracked, almost bleeding. Chances are he’s been refusing water, too.

“Isn’t it your favourite? It can only make you feel better.”

Ayato is unconvinced. “Very well.”

Thankful, you nod and press the warm cup into Ayato’s outstretched palm. He fumbles, fingers not closing around the porcelain in time and it slips. Tea spills across his bedsheets and seeps through into his sleepwear.

“I— gods, I’m sorry. I should’ve made sure you had it before letting go,” you ramble, shooting to your feet and pushing the ruined quilt to the end of the bed. “Are you all right? Thankfully, it wasn’t hot enough to scald, but— my lord?”

An unsteady intake of breath catches on something pained and hushed, and Ayato tucks his chin into his shoulder to escape your eyes. “I’m quite all right, I assure you.”

Technically speaking, he is. The wet fabric clinging to his skin is uncomfortable but the tea hadn’t burnt him. Yet a moment before he turned away, you caught a glimpse of teary eyes and unease.

Perhaps this is too vulnerable to bear—not only being seen in such a state of uselessness, but not fitting the careful image of Kamisato Ayato that he has fabricated over the years. 

Like this, having done away with his hubris and austerity and sardonic smiles, he’s far from untouchable. 

“Move to the other side of the bed while I get you a change of pyjamas,” you say softly. “The sheets are unscathed, luckily. I’ll grab a clean quilt, too.”

With his last vestige of energy, Ayato drags himself over and slumps unceremoniously against the pillows. Meanwhile, you flit around the room and return to his side with an armful of items.

“I can fetch Thoma to dress you, if you’d prefer.”

“I doubt you would be so easily affected by such a thing,” Ayato muses with a small smile, though it’s rough around the edges and lasts a mere second. At the very least, he must feel a tad better. “I’m not partial to who dresses me.”

“Of course.”

He helps at the beginning with clumsy movements but is soon bested by a few tricky buttons. Once he’s undressed, you wipe him down with a wet cloth to clean the tea from his skin before it turns sticky. You pause at his ribs.

There’s a smattering of small scars across his chest and shoulders. They couldn’t have been sustained during battle because they’re dissimilar to his others—circular in shape and sunken into his skin, rather than mimicking the slash of a blade.

“I was often taken ill as a child,” he supplies, observing the curious draw of your face. You begin to clothe him, embarrassed to have been caught. “Very ill, once. Being confined to my bedroom dredged up memories of that time.”

“Unhappy ones?”

Ayato shakes his head. Blue hair slides over his shoulder and tickles your hand as you adjust his collar. “Fond memories, rather; I was well taken care of. Ayaka, on the other hand, was terribly disheartened that she wasn’t allowed to bound into my bedroom at her leisure. My mother pacified her by lifting her to the window to wave before she burst into tears. Always a crybaby, that one, though she wouldn’t dare show it nowadays.”

“That is rather cute, but don’t tell Miss Kamisato I said that.”

“We’ll see.”

You laugh, seating yourself on the edge of the mattress.  “Are you thirsty?”

“This time, don’t entrust me with the cup.”

“A wise idea, my lord.” You lift a glass of water to his lips and tilt his chin up. He’s docile, now, allowing you to manoeuvre him as necessary. “Childhood is a funny thing, isn’t it? I bet that in a decade, you’ll view this part of your life similarly.”

Ayato’s hand finds your wrist. His palm is warm and calloused, guiding the glass away once he’s had enough.

“Yes, I wasn’t provided with the luxury of a carefree childhood. Not through the fault of my parents, of course. They tried their hardest, but once my father was stricken with illness and my mother passed soon after, I feared the same fate would befall me and the clan’s responsibilities would become Ayaka’s to endure. I try to live freely now, but if I don’t focus on the warm memories, then— I’m sure you understand.”

You lapse into silence, soaking a cloth in a basin of cool water. Illness has made him delirious, Ayato would never willingly share these details with you, yet the weight of his words sits heavy in your chest. 

“Well,” he says, lying back and tugging a clean quilt up to his chest, “I suppose behaving as I have today undermines that. Forgive me.”

“Perhaps an apology would be better extended to the others? You have driven them up the wall, after all,” you remind him light-heartedly as a cold cloth is laid across his forehead.

Ayato hums in though, lips quirked up into his usual smile. “Another day.”

“Sleep for now. I’ll stay here in case you need something during the night.”

“No, I can’t have you falling ill—”

You shush him, pulling strands of hair away from his sweat-slicked neck. “Sleep, my lord.”

With your hand soothing his cheek and no room left for argument, he drifts off.

Scattered across the desk is an assortment of written documents that accumulated during Ayato’s forced period of absence. Ayato has never been one for keeping his workspace tidy, much to the exasperation of his attendants, so you doubt he will reprimand you for haphazardly casting down yet another stack of paperwork without care for where they land.

Moments before you had planned to prematurely turn in for the night, Ayato had sent for you, citing a matter of dire, grave importance as an excuse.

What is so important about heaps of menial documents concerning the estate’s upkeep is beyond your comprehension, yet Ayato has wrangled you into completing them on his behalf with the artful charm of a Commissioner, doing away with the mercy he showed while sick.

Maybe you should have expected this. A single moment of vulnerability couldn’t possibly be enough to dissuade Ayato from cursing you with inconvenient tasks, however it’s had some effect because he accompanies you in his study.

Pleasant, if not for his inquisitive expression and the even click click click of his shoes as he paces.

“I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head, my lord,” you observe, not glancing up from the desk. “You’ve been at it for a half-hour. What is it?”

Ayato halts in the centre of the room, his soles scuffing against the floor. His hands are folded behind his back. “Kujou Kamaji has been oddly quiet since taking office, don’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t know, my lord. I have no involvement in that half of things.”

“No, I suppose not,” he mutters, and then resumes his mindless amble around the room, dizzying you once more. “Then again, I heard through the grapevine that he fought in a duel against the Almighty Shogun to atone for his father’s transgressions… Perhaps he is not as deplorable as old man Kujou was.”

You blow out a puff of air. “Well, won’t sticking your nose in the business of others ruffle a few feathers?”

Ayato gives a smile. That mischievous, conniving grin that squints his eyes and dimples his cheeks, making him look disgustingly cute like a cat.

“Correct, it is not yet my business… but it serves as my entertainment,” he answers. Your writing pauses and you stare, unimpressed. “Goodness. What is that look for?”

“You’re nothing but trouble.”

Curious, Ayato stalks closer to the desk. “Ah, but this is purely hypothetical. Who is to know?”

“Do as you please,” you laugh. “Pay no mind to my opinion. I couldn’t even begin to understand the political situation.”

“I’m now rather interested in what you have to say.”

You hum, disinterestedly thumbing through a pile of purposely disorganised invoices. “Allow me to be crass for a moment, my lord, but if I were you, I’d stop behaving like a spoiled brat and sit this one out. I don’t believe anyone would take kindly to discovering that you’ve meddled with their affairs for your own entertainment.”

Ayato silently watches the scrawl of your pen across a document, then his head tilts and he regards you with a faux steely look, still donning that smile. “That tongue of yours is sharp, you ought to be careful. Some are less lenient than I.”

There’s a soft clink as Ayato fusses with the set of small glasses and removes the stopper from a decanter he keeps by his desk. You scowl—a drunk Commissioner is the last thing you need. Regardless, Ayato raises an empty glass as an offer, to which you shake your head. Worse than a drunk Commissioner is the prospect of attempting to finalise his paperwork yourself while tipsy.

“You grow bolder by the day,” he states, pouring himself an amount of liquor. He swallows it in the next second, the residue coating the pink of his lips with a sheen. You avert your eyes. “Aren’t I tolerant for allowing such a thing? What a pity it is that I’m yet to be shown earnest gratitude.”

A dossier is knocked across the desk in your irritation. A place in Ayato’s good books is nice, but you crave those few seconds of satisfaction that follow telling the bleak truth more than you want his favour.

“Is my obedience not enough? My loyalty? I thank you plenty, but if that’s insufficient then tell me what would please you.”

Ayato’s voice lilts in amusement. “That’s not something to be told.”

“No, of course not,” you mutter. “You haven’t thanked me once , my lord. Not once in the several months I’ve worked myself to the bone on your behalf.”

That sickly feeling trickles into your blood again, tainting it with blistering anger that almost takes you whole. Your fingers tighten so tightly around the pen that it almost snaps, your knuckles aching with the force.

You take care to be polite. You say no more than what is required. You complete all work despite its absurdity. Yet—

Yet nothing is enough.

Ayato draws closer and stoops down until he’s at eye level. This close, you could count each eyelash and mole if time would allow, map out in your mind the different shades of blue threading through his hair. It calms you enough to listen.

“Allow me to thank you, then,” he says, and you feel him speak. “Your work is not unappreciated, nor is it discredited; that would be a gross disregard of your effort. Furthermore, not many would dare to fault me, but—”

What?

“—your tenacity in the name of honesty is respectable. Believe me when I say I much prefer you to some docile, frightened thing afraid of stepping on toes.”

Ayato is a man of trickery and careful manipulation, influenced by the unforgiving lesson to deceive others in order to protect all he has left. You’ve heard whisperings of Ayato's youth—how he had been thrust into a position unbefitting a young boy and scrambled to salvage the Kamisato Clan before it fell to ruins—so perhaps that is why you have confidence in him, still.

In spite of this, you refuse to yield to him. 

“I’ll take that drink, my lord.”

A smile. “Wonderful choice.”

While Ayato turns away, you dig the heels of your palms into your eyes in a feeble attempt to stave off the oncoming headache. What a handful he is. It’s a mercy that you put up with him at all.

You startle as long fingers slide around your throat. Your head is wrenched back and Ayato’s roguish expression flickers above you.

“What are y— mmh—”

The cold press of glass against your lips—the decanter, you realise—muffles your words. Bittersweet alcohol floods your mouth and you splutter, surprised. It forces liquid to spill down your chin, dripping down your neck and soaking into Ayato’s glove and the collar of your shirt.

“Stupid thing,” he chides. His eyes are narrowed, cruel, but a small part of you delights in seeing Ayato be so overtly mean. “This liquor was a generous appeasement gift delivered by the Kanjou Commission, but you’re wasting almost every drop.”

It seems patience has worn thin on both sides.

You choke on another mouthful, lungs and throat seared raw with pain and agitated by the alcohol you have little choice but to swallow.

Ayato sighs. “Nothing? Not a word? My, you truly do have an attitude problem, not to mention a loose tongue. Yet you insist I’m the spoiled brat between us.”

He’s only satisfied once tears burn your eyes.

The warmth of his palm withdraws from your throat and you slump forward, breaking into a coughing fit. Your rasping breaths crack into laughter. So this is an attempt at humiliating you for calling him a brat? He has a sense of humour, after all.

“The Kanjou Commission has no taste then,” you croak as Ayato places away the decanter and shucks off his soaked glove. “The flavour is awful.”

He hums in agreement. “Yes, I’m not overly fond of it myself.”

Ayato casts a sidelong glance and observes your dishevelled appearance with thinly-veiled gratification—mussed clothes, alcohol streaking your chin, and that wild and spiteful glint in your eyes that provokes a carnal urge.

Your throat aches terribly. Damn sadist.

“What a mess.” Ayato clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Put it right. Thoma will be fraught with disappointment that you fail to arrive at hotpot on time… I’ll be sure to make an excuse for your tardiness.”

You nod politely, tongue pushing against your cheek. “Yes, my lord.”

“Thank you,” he says, mocking. 

You glower as he leaves, wiping your chin on the back of your hand. The documents laid across the desk have been skewed and splattered with liquor and will have to be rewritten. 

Damn him.

It isn’t fair, really, that he has this effect on you.

Not an inch of your body is spared from this feeling—twisting, sizzling through veins and flesh until your skin prickles with heat and itches with the urge to do something, anything.

Your pants are hastily shoved further down, to mid-thigh, and your hips lift off the mattress and closer to your cramped hand. With each slick noise, shame burns your cheeks. You shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be thinking about him in such a perverse manner but—

Your fingers curl around your neck regardless, pressing tightly in a desperate imitation until your vision flickers and blurs at the edges.

It doesn’t compare, not much does. 

For the fourth or fifth time, your orgasm evades you and you frustratedly slump against the pillows with a defeated sigh, your frantic heart pulsing in your chest and throat.

You’re fucked.

“Ah, there you are.”

You almost jump out of your skin. Frantic, your attention is drawn away from the novel in your lap. It’s one of Miss Kamisato’s favourites, and she had lent it to you while claiming you looked hopelessly bored between duties. You accepted it gladly.

It’s a fascinating, albeit confusing, story about betrayal. You forget all knowledge of its plot when you see that it’s Ayato waiting to be acknowledged.

The morning sun blazes behind him and casts his rich robes in a warm, golden light. The garb has been haphazardly draped around his shoulders and one sleeve slips down his arm, exposing the soft-looking skin to your prying eyes.

“You’ve chosen a new hideaway,” Ayato remarks while you feign interest in the ornate bookmark you slot between the pages and not the dip of Ayato’s collarbones. “I must say, this one stumped me for longer than I’d care to admit. Hiding in plain sight is a smart move.”

The novel is set down on the cobblestones. “Who says I’m hiding? I came outdoors to enjoy the open air.”

It’s the truth. Waking early to watch the sunrise wasn’t with the intention of avoiding Ayato. Doing so is already a difficult task, but it would prove impossible now that Miss Kamisato has called almost all staff to Ritou for festival preparations, and the estate is empty as a result. It’s a small-scale and sudden event, but the Kamisato Clan cannot be accused of holding out on the general public.

“Am I needed, my lord?”

“Just for a moment,” he answers, smoothing out the loose fabric of his sash. “If I say please, will you tie this?”

“Depends how convincing it sounds.” A light sea breeze blows through the courtyard and shifts Ayato’s robes, exposing a large portion of his chest. Goosebumps rise across his skin. “Should you be in such a state of undress outside? That’s quite scandalous, you know.”

“Yes, I’m well aware but there’s no one here except you and me. A shame, really. The risk is rather thrilling,” he muses, turning away. “Please lend a hand?”

“Of cou— wait, what? My lord.”

As you scramble to your feet, Ayato laughs and glances over his shoulder to catch your flustered expression. You’re offered a glimpse of pretty eyes creased in amusement and a faint dimple in his cheek before he faces the sun again, relaxed.

“Typically, this is when people say they’re joking, my lord,” you comment breathlessly, fumbling to take his sash into your palm and grazing his bare fingers.

“Should I be offended that you categorise me as just people?”

“I hadn’t meant it as a slight against you.” You adjust his robes to fit properly before the sight of his skin steals away your tact. “I apologise regardless. I should know better than to put myself at risk of humiliation, don’t you agree?”

Ayato gasps as you pull the sash too tightly around his waist and force his back into an arch. He masks the undignified noise with a cough into his fist. “I don’t recall asking you to cleave me in two halves.”

“Of course not. I’m very sorry again.”

You relent and properly fix Ayato’s robes. If you had it your way, you would pull until an apology for each bout of torment is squeezed from him.

“Finished,” you announce, tweaking its positioning and then taking a step back. “May I return to my book?”

“I believe you forgot a word.”

“Please, my lord.”

“Ah,” he says softly, shading his pink cheeks from view. He hadn’t expected that to sound so sweet. “Read to me.”

“Do you not have someplace to be? You seemed in a rush to dress.”

Why else would he have sought you out, provided a glimpse of smooth skin and faint freckles before drawing back like the tease he is? He’s perfectly capable of sorting his own robes.

“No, there’s time to spare before the day begins.”

“Very well.”

You return to your previous spot and listen to the crashing waves as Ayato elegantly settles on your right, leaning his back against the wooden railing in a manner that can’t be comfortable.

“You can’t possibly relax while sitting so straight, my lord.”

“Well, how should I sit in such an awkward spot? We have plenty of cushions to make use of, in case you have forgotten.”

You tilt your head closer. “Are you too noble to sit on the grass?”

“Not at all."

You hum in disbelief, pulling him down until your shoulder bears most of his weight. The gentle wind flips the pages as you spread the book in your lap. “Should I start from the beginning?”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he says. His eyes close with a flutter of eyelashes as he indulges in the warmth of your body. “Continue where you left off. I’ve read this one many times before.”

It happens suddenly. There isn’t an elaborate build-up. No forewarning or final straw.

This must be what Ayato wanted. He has dangled you between his facets until your head spins trying to find a place to begin picking them apart. 

The reason is lost on you. Perhaps there isn’t one.

The possibility frightens you. This could go on, and on, and on until Ayato no longer finds it—finds you— entertaining.

You don’t knock. The abrupt entrance startles Ayato and he looks up from his desk with rounded eyes. If the circumstances were lighter, you would be glad to have surprised him but your mind is a whirlwind of contradictions and the desperate, aching need for an answer.

Ayato’s bewilderment mellows out into satisfaction.

“Finished so soon?” His chin rests on his folded hands. “How impressive. That wasn’t a simple task by any means—”

You stoop down, hands slamming against the desk and rattling the pens he has set out. His face is inches away. “What is this about?”

“Be a little clearer, would you? Though, I must admit that anger is dashing on you.”

“I’m not angry, I’m—”

“Indignant?” Ayato suggests with a wicked simper. “Indeed, you are. How else would this little display be described?”

“So you agree that this is unfair? That you are doing something?”

Ayato offers nothing in the way of an answer.

There’s a stab of pain behind your ribs, pulsating with each lurch of your heart. Stupid. Stupid.

This closeness warps your rationale. Looming over him like this, you can feel each brush of his eyelashes against your cheek. Each calm breath. Each sigh.

But there will always be a wedge between you regardless of how many vulnerable moments you witness, how many activities you share in.

And your heart hurts.

“Is this what you wanted? It is, isn’t it? You’ve driven me mad,” you admit quietly, a plea. “Yet there’s— there’s a part of me that wants you regardless. You’re a wretched man, Ayato, so why do I want you?”

A long moment of silence stretches on. Ayato readjusts his pens into their rightful positions, straightening the parchment before him. 

Then he meets your gaze with a hum. “I thought as much. It seems I’ve caused quite a stir in that head of yours.”

Another ignored question. Bitterly, you wonder if this amuses him. His last laugh before the veil is lifted and you’re cast aside.

“Tell me.”

There’s an unconscious twitch of your fingers. They move quicker than your addled mind can, inching around the curve of his throat, mapping out the dips of flesh beneath your fingertips. His skin is smooth to the touch, but there’s a thick scar through his jugular. 

It isn’t dissimilar to the slash you put through a training dummy just this morning.

In spite of how you hold him, your voice is weak. “Please, Ayato.”

“Press harder,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

An eye peeks open. Ayato lays his palm against the back of your hand, tightening his grip until your fingers push against either side of his neck. The gasp pulled from his chest is as abrupt as it is lewd.

“There,” he breathes. “Now you’re doing a decent job.”

You squeeze harder and his hand falls away. Without air, he flushes, blinking slowly to catch prolonged glimpses of the room’s unreal glow and your face as you watch him lose himself with a sick sort of fascination.

“This is what you wanted, then? To be treated like some whore?”

Something behind his glistening eyes snaps like an old, frayed rope. His pupils dilate and he leans into your hand, into this— the steady relinquishing of control. His head lolls back, inviting you closer.

Your hand drifts down and presses up against the seam of his trousers, feeling the hardness of his cock.

You laugh, “What a pity that is.”

With that, you release the pressure on Ayato’s throat. He slumps forward and catches himself on the edge of the desk, gasping for breath. His chest heaves.

“I don’t take sexual favours,” he pants, and then tilts his head to meet you head-on, “but I don’t believe you’re asking anything of me.”

“No, my lord. This wouldn’t be a favour, nor would it be for you.”

You kneel and take his face between your hands. The warmth of the room dizzies him, as does your palms and the thumb that soothes circles into his burning cheeks.

Your tone is hushed and sobering. “Tell me if this isn’t what you want. If you answer one thing, answer me this.”

Ayato pulls away from the hazy clutches of his retreating mind. He feels the table creak beneath his weight, hears each steady intake of breath. 

A smile flickers across his face. “Where did you get that absurd idea?”

You swallow. “Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“Good,” you murmur. “Sit back, my lord.”

Ayato goes without argument. Willing, not docile. He catches your wrist and pulls you against his body. A noise of complaint is silenced with a hand rubbing over your nape before it presses your face into the crook of his shoulder. You breathe him in, light and floral and something clean, remaining there for a long moment.

You pull away enough to regard him. “Undress. I won’t do it for you.”

His clothing is unduly complicated, what with each intertwined layer and intricate, golden accessories. Even Ayato’s expert hands fumble, unable to undo a knotted rope.

“Come on, you can manage it,” you say patiently, as if how eagerly he works to bare himself to you doesn’t send your mind into a tailspin, as if you aren’t itching to bruise his chest with your lips and teeth. “Can’t you?”

Ayato scowls at your condescension. Such a dour expression is enough to mar the features of anyone, but this is Ayato. He looks as beautiful as ever.

Finally, his coat is shrugged off. Open-mouthed kisses are laid against the marks your fingertips left, the thrum of his pulse tickling your lips. You bite at his skin until colour rises to the surface, soft pinks darkening into purple in the shape of your teeth.

He sighs, “Must you tease?”

He ought to be embarrassed by the desperation sweetening his tone, but it awards him with what he’s after when you pull off his top. 

“I’d hardly call this teasing. If you aren’t marked up, how are others to know you’re a whore beneath all that prestige?”

“Don’t be foolish. These will be covered.”

“Of course, though the same can’t be said for the robes you wear around the estate, my lord,” you whisper with a grin. “Don’t worry. It’ll stay a house secret, I’m sure.”

A retort crumbles on his tongue when your hand dips beneath his waistband and rubs his cock. The contact isn’t quite enough, yet his breath hitches and he leaks through his underwear, coating your fingertips in sticky precum.

How reactive. You lean forward, catching the corner of his mouth in a kiss. Ayato tilts into it but you draw back before your lips can press together, and he doesn’t try again. The last thing he deserves is a kiss befitting lovers.

“Hurry,” he mutters.

“I want to take my time,” you answer, yet you drag his underwear down his thighs.

Ayato couldn’t hope to prepare for the bliss of your palm engulfing his heavy cock, untempered by reality as it often is late at night, his wandering mind straying far out of reach. Your thumb glides through the slit, spreading his precum with quick, unforgiving strokes that have his head lolling back, his fingers pressed to his mouth in a perfunctory effort to stifle a groan.

The lanterns wash him with warm yellow and gold, and the saliva smeared across his lips shimmers when he pulls his hand away.

Ayato’s muscles twitch as your teeth drag across his shoulder, biting into the soft flesh. He reels forward, a hand holding your waist before you slide out of his lap. “Be careful,” he sighs.

“Would you prefer me to be gentle?” you ask, taking in his unfocused eyes. “It seems how I treat you makes little difference, given how wet you are.”

He glowers, but another bead of precum dribbles over your fingers and is spread over his cock with a wet noise. Your pace hasn’t slowed any. His skin is warm all over, blushing pink against the cool tones of his fallen attire.

You like him like this. All bundled, haphazard clothes and loose hair, flushed from the high points of his cheeks down to his chest.

“You’re still ignoring my questions,” you sigh.

You redouble your efforts, twisting your palm over his cockhead, and a grunt catches in his throat. He’s remarkably sensitive. But it doesn’t earn him a reprieve.

“You gonna come?” you coax, resting your forehead against his. The subsequent smile is deceptively alluring. Panting, Ayato glances down and watches the flushed head of his cock slide against your palm, peeking between your thumb and forefinger with each ruthless stroke.  “Well?”

His eyes flicker to yours. He grunts, “Mmh, yes, I’m—”

“You aren’t allowed.”

The noise he makes in response is obscene, filthy from the mouth of a well-established and revered clan head. Pride swells in your chest.

Still, you come off his cock with a playful smile. It curves against his stomach, flushed red and aching, and Ayato’s expression fills you with satisfaction—narrowed, stormy eyes and bitten lips that would be enticing if not for the pitiful gasps he struggles to regulate.

His hand twists in the back of your shirt as his mounting orgasm fades into a dull ache.

“Quite the mean one, aren’t you?” he breathes.

“I can’t let you have what you want all the time. My will isn’t so weak, my lord. You have to earn it.”

“There is work to be completed.”

“Right, work,” you mutter, sparing a glance at the desk pressed to your back. He’s been practising calligraphy again, translating love poems from an old-looking book into a different tongue. “Is that what you do while thinking of new ways to get on my nerves?”

Ayato smiles. “You believe me to be a sort of heathen.”

Another non-answer. “There’s more to you than that.”

You reach behind and swipe his fude from the desk. Its bristles are still wet with ink, and Ayato’s face morphs into the beginnings of a curious expression before you swipe lines and curves into the soft skin of his stomach, forming vulgar characters.

Beneath the cold touch, Ayato trembles. It’s only once he glances down that he makes sense of what you had written.

“Resorting to degradation, now? I see,” he hums, dabbing a finger in the drying ink. “I’m hardly a desperate slut. Do you truly view me as someone so dishonourable?”

“Why, of course.”

You spit into your palm, stroking him once more. 

“Am I allowed to finish this time?” he asks, unimpressed. Yet there’s a tinge of something in his voice, as though it’s something he needs, rather than merely desires. 

“Ask nicely.”

He flashes a winsome smile. “Will you let me come?”

“That isn’t what I asked for.”

“Can I— hah—” A throaty moan reverberates in his chest as you squeeze the base of his cock, dragging your fist to the top. “Can I please come?”

You hum pensively, picking up the pace.

“Please.”

“No.”

For the second time, you deny him with a laugh. His body is strung tight as his release dwindles, lost beneath the pulse of blood in his ears.

Ayato smiles like he isn’t tearing apart at the seams.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Your bitter words are muffled into his hair. “Your antics have scattered me, have made it impossible to get myself off. Do you know why?”

Ayato’s eyelashes flutter against your neck as he sighs, “Tell me.”

Your hand presses to his chest and he goes easily, lying back for you to leave kisses across his hip bones. “My imagination only goes so far. I knew nothing would compare to having you like this, my lord. It’s been somewhat of an obsession.”

“Ah, so this has been on your mind for quite some time.”

You pause. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“We shall see,” he chuckles.

You take him into your mouth, jaw pressing wider to accommodate his size. There’s a thud as Ayato’s head drops back against the floor, and his hips instinctively thrust into the warmth of your mouth. You force him back down, pinching his thigh in warning, though you doubt he’ll have the sense to heed it.

Your eyes flutter closed. He tastes better than you thought, heady and salty on your tongue. Ayato groans as you push his legs wider and slot between them, swallowing down his cock. You fist what you can’t fit, your other hand braced against his thigh.

Ayato gasps, his voice breaking into a whisper, “I won’t last long.”

Drawing back, you answer, “You can come, my lord. You’ve lasted long enough.”

“Suppose I should— ngh— thank you, then.”

“Suppose you should,” you reply, words smothered against his cock. You waste no time taking him again, pushing down until your nose nudges the pale hair trailing from his navel.

Like this, you feel all of him, choking around his cock as saliva drips onto his thighs. He rests a hand on your shoulder, prepared to ease you away if you find it to be too much but you swallow around him regardless and bob your head at a steady pace.

Your throat stings and tears prick the corners of your eyes, but his desperate, keening moans spur you on. Any soul wandering by their lord’s office is bound to be privy to this scene, but it seems Ayato doesn’t worry about the prospect of being overheard.

His body seizes up with a strangled moan, blunt nails digging into your shoulder, and you pull back so he can fuck into your mouth. Your cheek bulges with each thrust and Ayato curses at the sight. 

He feels a flicker of it, then, the heat that rushes his skin. He gasps as he comes, shaking as your mouth floods with his load. It drips out onto his cock and thighs, slipping down your chin.

It lasts for ages. The ebb of flow of colours contorting Ayato’s vision like a waterfall’s mist, only ceasing once his eyes close.

Only once his hiccupping gasps mellow into slow breathing does Ayato feel you somewhere, running his hair between your fingers, pushing strands away from his face. You rub his shoulders as he comes down, and there’s an absence of warmth on his thighs, and— where did you go?

“Don’t look so panicked,” your voice drifts. Above him, he realises.

Ayato opens his eyes, unaware he had closed them for any longer than a blink. You’ve placed his head somewhere soft, your lap, and are stroking his hair. It’s inexplicably soft like the silk he drapes himself in.

“You look sleepy, my lord. Is it rude to ask that you stay awake until I finish cleaning you up?”

Everything sounds as though his ears are stuffed with cotton, but the familiar timbre of your voice has his heart fretting dreadfully. This is the furthest thing from good.

“What in—” His voice is weak, body heavy like lead. “What in the world have you done with me?”

You snicker. “This is called relaxing, I’ll have you know. Now, answer the question.”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Be quick, though,” he sighs, clearing his throat. As an afterthought, he adds, “Please.”

You smile, shifting his head to rest on his folded coat. “Of course, my lord.”

True to your word, you’re gone for only a matter of minutes, yet upon your return, Ayato dozes on the floor. 

It leaves you to simply exist with him—devoid of bickering and snarky comments, of that smug smile and your attempts at pacifying him. You wonder whether it was hatred, or whether you’ve craved him since the beginning, sickened by the thought that he was untouchable, that he wasn’t yours.

Asleep, he’s relaxed. It’s what you see when he chats to Thoma, when he has the time to eat with his sister, or watch the waves from the courtyard. A stark contrast to his typical stern expression and the pinch between his eyebrows. Each time you see it, it takes the full extent of your willpower to refrain from leaning forward and smoothing it out with your thumb. 

But you don’t. You fill the time by wiping his skin clean, soothing a cold cloth across his warm cheeks and tidying his clothes.

He really is handsome. It’s difficult to believe he isn’t wedded yet.

The thought is ugly, the emotion it provokes uglier.

“If it isn’t too much trouble, may I ask you a question?”

Over the racket of the marketplace, it takes seconds longer for Ayaka’s voice to drift closer. You turn. She stands rigidly with her hands folded together, appearing rather overwhelmed despite her reticent expression.

“Is everything all right? We can step away for a moment if needed, milady.”

She decided recently that, in a scheme to further establish her connection with the city folk, she will begin to join you on errands that draw you away from the estate. Be it an hour of shopping or relaying messages to the Grand Narukami Shrine, Ayaka extends the offer of her company where her schedule permits.

You rather enjoy her presence.

Ayaka shakes her head. “This is about Brother.”

“Ask away,” you reply absently, half-listening to the thrum of conversation between a buyer and seller. Thoma should have come along, too. He has an impressive knack for haggling and his years in Inazuma have resulted in good relations with the vendors.

“Do you agree that his behaviour, as of late, has been strange?”

You pause, shifting the basket in your arms. “He amassed a staggering amount of work while he was sick, I can only imagine how busy he is.”

“Yes, but— hm…”

You understand Ayaka’s worry. Ayato has cloistered himself in his study, refusing all company and aid. Given his steadfast devotion to his duties, it isn’t an odd situation.

But a week without a word is bound to provoke anxiety.

“I might be putting too much thought into it,” Ayaka backpedals, her gaze cast downwards. “I tend to do so where his well-being is concerned. Forgive me for imposing this on you but please keep an eye on him. I asked the same of Thoma some time ago, though it was futile.”

You nod, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Of course, milady. I’ll be sure to keep you informed.”

In truth, Ayato hasn’t spoken to you since. 

You think of nothing else.

There aren’t a great deal of difficulties that wallowing will fix, but you do so anyway.

Ayaka’s concern is an unnerving reminder that dwells in the forefront of your mind, eclipsing that of your daily obligations and downtime.

By nightfall, it exhausts you. Retiring to bed hours earlier proves fruitless because the fact of the matter is clear.

Ayato regrets. You’ve misstepped. Blundered. Pushed too far in the name of pushing back, and now it can’t be salvaged.

You burrow further into the warmth of your bed, tugging the duvet over your head until you overheat. 

Acting was the wrong decision, wasn’t it? It should have been left alone. Dealing with his discontent is easier than this, certainly.

Sleep takes you, though not for long. 

By the time you wake, the sun hasn’t set but raindrops pour in through the open window and soak the corner of your mattress. It closes with a slam, and you sink into bed once more, set on edge by the eerie quiet that fills your room in the downpour’s place.

A torn scrap of parchment garners your attention, at your door as though it had been slipped through the gap beneath.

You shove the duvet to the end of your bed and snatch the note to inspect it.

Come find me.

Your throat burns. It’s unmistakably Ayato’s penmanship. You’ve seen it time and time again, know the flicks and bends like the back of your hand.

He must think this is hilarious, trying to get one over on you. Mocking you for hiding. You scoff.

The note is stuffed into your pocket as you hastily dress and leave the room, beginning the maddening walk down the corridors as you try to find him. It’s really no surprise that he failed to disclose where he has chosen to wait. It will be a bigger surprise if he’s here at all.

A sudden impact sends you reeling. When your head stops spinning, Thoma has descended into a litany of profuse apologies, his hands clasped tightly together with the reverence befitting a devotee.

“Thoma, it’s okay. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” you dismiss, pushing his hands down. “While you’re here, I have to ask. Have you seen Ayato?”

“Ayato, huh,” he slowly repeats, giving you a look. His fingers nudge his neck in a nervous scratch. “He wandered into the courtyard after his meeting concluded, even though it’s coming down pretty heavily. Uh, hey, did you—”

“I’m sorry. I need to catch him before he disappears again,” you interrupt. “I’ll see you in the morning, yes?”

His flustered expression is patched up with a bright, sunny grin. “Of course. Don’t forget an umbrella, otherwise you’ll get soaked through.”

“I won’t. Thanks, Thoma.”

You pat his shoulder as you move towards the main doors. There’s an umbrella propped up nearby, likely Thoma’s, that you take as you exit the estate.

Over the rain, Ayato doesn’t hear the doors close.

His forearms are folded atop the railing at which you had read to him. Now, he watches the sky drip into the sea and listens to the crackle of a storm brewing in the far distance.

The rain has drenched him, rendered his robes translucent in places, clinging to skin.

“My lord,” you say, remaining under the shelter. The deluge looks near-painful as though it would slice through the umbrella. “You’ll fall ill again if you stay out here for even a moment longer.”

He shows no indication of having heard you, remaining still. Even as a gust of wind carries the water off the leaves, he doesn’t shiver.

At last, he speaks. “Would it be so inconceivable if I were to tell you that I’m sorry?”

Dread sidles beneath your skin, dredged up by his solemn tone. Ayato doesn’t apologise. Not in earnest. Not like that. 

You extend the umbrella towards him despite knowing that he won’t turn to take it. “Please come indoors. There’s no use doing this here.”

“Everything can be explained,” he says. Wet hair clings to his neck. “If you will listen.”

Wood creaks in the wind. This was inevitable, wasn’t it? Your loyalty to the Kamisato Clan, to Ayato, was not supposed to stray beyond just master and servant, but it has, even if one-sided. You never meant to be so weak but all confines have fractured.

Ayato scrambles for his tact. “Allow me to explain myself thoroughly before you pass judgement. Then, you’re free to do as you see fit.”

“I’m listening.”

He rubs a hand over his weary face, his jaw clenched. 

You’ve been privy to plenty during your time here, but never Ayato on the cusp of crumbling apart like wet sand. But that’s what he is—a man in half, scattered by the chill of the wind.

“As you see it, what drives people forward?”

“I don’t know, my lord. A goal? Incentive?”

“Not quite. The answer is self-interest—that’s what largely pilots action. Being who I am, it has become a prerequisite that I can discern one’s intentions at a glance. Otherwise, I place myself in danger as it provides the equivalent of a blindspot that I cannot afford to overlook.”

Ayato chuckles, drawing himself up to full height as he cranes his neck. He looks tired.

“You proved to be quite the challenge, didn’t you?” he hums. “Typically, I have my fun with those but not where the safety of my family is concerned.”

Safety. Pain spikes in your chest, spreads outwards until your fingers twitch and your eyes burn. 

You have considered that he thinks little of you. But to insinuate that you could possibly harm anybody here, it’s—

“What are you implying?”

It’s fucking impossible, is what.

“I’m telling you that necessary measures were taken. Now, I wouldn’t be so foolish as to do a thing that would dishonour my clan, so I have been tame. Your reactions were all I sought after.”

“You just let it play out?”

“Yes. You see, people aren’t dissimilar to animals in the way they lay bare their secrets when backed into a corner. Don’t misunderstand me, though. Unwarranted pettiness is amusing at times, but I never intended to isolate you. For that, I apologise.”

Your chest flares with embarrassment. “Don’t be ridiculous, my lord. I’m surrounded by—”

“Thoma told me,” he says, “that I was taking it too far, though he hadn’t a clue he was speaking of.”

“Right, he believes you to be good. An honest man, though you’re the furthest thing from it. Of course he doesn’t know.”

“That isn’t what interests me. What do you think?”

You laugh. “Haven’t I already told you? I know you to be a wretched, selfish bastard.”

“Hm. In the past, I have never cared what became of me so long as my family was—” he interrupts himself with a scoff. “No one can be allowed to trample over my family.”

You lapse into silence.

“I cannot be safe enough,” he grits out, his fingertips pressing into the heel of his palm. “I am perfectly capable of doing away with a measly assassin, but if those close to me were to suffer in my place, I could never forgive myself.”

You recall the glassy ridge of a scar beneath your fingertips, smooth, torn flesh and a dip of skin. “The scar on your throat. That’s it, isn’t it?”

A smile pulls at his lips. “What a keen eye you have. Yes, there was an incident in the beginning when I was in the pursuit of support to stabilise the clan before it fell, and an opponent slipped under my radar, into the staff I kept at the time.”

Ayato traces his hand along the railing, feeling the grooves and splinters of wood.

“Their smear campaigns only succeeded while I was young. Once I came of age and found my footing, they turned to alternative means. I will spare you the details, but I trust that you understand my reluctance towards you, why a test of sorts was vital.”

“A test,” you repeat. “A fucking test.”

“Yes,” he says. You weren’t asking. “To see whether you would break an assumed pretence. It was a safety measure, and not to be taken personally.”

“Don’t tell me how to take it, you—”

“There are few people I trust entirely these days. Am I so wrong for wanting you among them?”

You go quiet. Ayato slumps against the railing.

It’s a long, stifling moment that passes. Ayato has said all that he wanted. His reason doesn’t satisfy you. You aren’t relieved or comforted by the fact there is one in the first place. There’s an anxious pit in your stomach, but your mind is still, your thoughts organised.

Ayato awaits your verdict. Yet, even now, there is little power in your hands. No decision you present will hold sway over him.

Still.

“Most people get to know others as a way of building trust,” you say. “They do all sorts of things, most of which you probably wouldn’t enjoy.”

He chuckles. “Haven’t I already told you off for considering me as such?”

“In this very spot.” Then, after a moment, “What happens now?”

“As I said, you may do as you please. I won’t interfere.”

“Guide me, my lord.”

“I could easily mislead you.”

“You won’t, though.”

Ayato sighs. “It’s as simple as leave or stay, isn’t it?”

“No,” you whisper. “To you, perhaps.”

After all, you’re nothing more than a face. Each time new staff are brought in, there will be another.

Ayato continues, “I can’t tell you what you want. If, by a cruel stroke of fate, you are here to make an attempt on my life, I encourage you to try your hand so long as you consider the abrupt drop to the coast and the fact that I’m ultimately much quicker than you are.”

“Is it not scandalous to threaten your employee? Gods, this is all so dramatic.”

The rain abates. Ayato glances up, expecting a clear, blue sky, but all he sees is the umbrella’s canopy. He traces the shape of the handle to see you beside him, transfixed with the approaching tide.

“You must be angry.”

“It’s too soon to tell.”

It’s the best, the only, answer you have. So little of what you feel towards Ayato is logical. Be it the spread of warmth or a chill that renders you senseless, you feel a fool regardless. 

How stupid, to reach for that which isn’t allowed. Not for you.

“Would you be?” 

Ayato taps a finger against his arm. “I can’t say.”

You hum in assent, closing your eyes as you listen to the steady beat of rain against the umbrella. Relaxing, if not for the howl of wind and his silence.

“As frustrating as you are, I won’t hold it against you. I can’t fault you for wanting to protect your family, I just—”

There’s a twinge in your chest. You’re choking up.

“I told you I wanted you, my lord,” you whisper. “That wasn’t a lie. I still do. But I don’t want you to have simply endured what we did together for the sake of discovering my intentions.”

“Ah,” he says softly. He’s caught onto your line of thinking, so it seems, his expression softening into one akin to pity. “When you burst into my study with that look in your eyes, I thought you were going to kiss me stupid.”

You scoff, tearful. “I did kiss you.”

“Pecking the corner of my mouth is hardly a kiss, now, is it?” he chuckles, nudging you. His wet robes dampen the arm of your shirt.

There isn’t much that can be said to that.

“Come inside, my lord,” you coax, stepping away from the railing. “You’re shaking.”

He doesn’t follow. He remains there, pressed up against the wood, staring out at sea while you hold the umbrella above his head.

“Please—”

“I want you to explain something to me now,” he demands, restless. “I have to know.”

You sigh. “What is it?”

“My mind has been overtaken. It’s infuriating. I cannot afford to spend my days thinking of you, yet— why is it that I only think of you?”

You’re getting wet in the rain, stricken. Ayato’s eyes are wide and pleading, and he trembles so violently that his hands shake. 

Your voice is thick, unsteady. “I don’t know.”

There’s a tense pause as Ayato stares, intractably lost as though the threads of time slip through his fingers.

He knows you don’t have the answer. Much of what there is between you is new and fragile. There are few explanations and no quick fixes.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs.

“Whatever for—“

Ayato’s lips are warm. It’s all your drifting mind latches onto as his hands find their place on either side of your face, drawing you closer until your bodies press together and the umbrella slips from your grip.

Each pass of his mouth is reassurance enough. You aren’t alone in this.

You can’t be, not with how Ayato tethers himself closer as though the wind, the rain, the very air itself is a threat. Yet, beneath his desperation, there’s something soft in the caress of his hand down your face. His gloves are cold and sodden, but it soothes you all the same.

Ayato licks into your mouth, your tongues messily pushing together, and you startle.

“My lord, someone will see.”

He draws back, all bleary eyes beneath long lashes and lips glistening with saliva. Gods, he’s beautiful. “Who?” he doubts. “The master of the house?”

Again, he presses forward to kiss you but two hands against his chest halt him. Your fingers pull at the neckline of his robes. “Weren’t you at a summit in the city this afternoon?”

“I’m trying to kiss you, yet your mind is occupied by business,” he comments, amused. “Yes, I was.”

He has that smirk again. He knows what he’s done.

“Yet you didn’t think to wear something that covers your neck?” you hiss, thumbing over the bruises you left. They’re faint, now. Yellowed. But from a close distance, they can be easily seen.

“Is that not what you intended? If my memory serves me well, you said something along the lines of, hm… being a whore beneath my prestige. Yes, that was it. How else is everyone to know?”

“Wh— my lord.” You grip his robes, tugging him closer. “I only said that for the sake of it!”

“You should know better than to speak anything other than the truth,” he chides.

“Archons’ sake. Thoma gave me the strangest look when I spoke to him last, I suppose this is why.”

Ayato grins, his eyes closed and his face lined with mischief. “Yes. He attended the summit, also.”

You thump his chest. “You foul man.”

He merely laughs, making a sympathetic noise as he takes your face into your palm and kisses across your cheeks. 

Having him be sweet on you is nicer than you care to admit.

Ayato lays another kiss on your lips, chuckling.

“You’re having me on, aren’t you? I bet you changed clothes once you arrived back.”

“Indeed,” he confirms. “However, I passed by Thoma on my way here. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had noticed, after all, but worry not. He’s far too bashful to speak a word of it.”

You press your burning cheek against his chest. 

You’re wet through with rain and the storm sidles closer with every passing second spent in his arms. 

“Come on,” you try again. Ayato listens this time, swiping the fallen umbrella from the floor. “We need to get dry.”

“Very well. Your room is closer, yes?”

“No,” you protest. “Take me to yours.”

Ayato fixes you with a suspicious look. “Do you believe my bed to be more comfortable?”

You don’t grace him with an answer, instead guiding his shaking body up the stairs and into the estate.

Ayato has manners, after all, ushering you into his bathroom to shower first, though that isn’t to say he does so without complaint. You don’t hear a word from him while you stand beneath the hot water, at least. Even if you do take a while longer.

Now, you aren’t sure what awaits you, sprawled across his bed in your towel. The bathroom door is closed and steam seeps beneath, and you can vaguely hear a low tune being hummed from within.

You smile. Leaving for the comfort of your room isn’t an idea you entertain.

In any case, your clothes are drenched and it would be indecent to scour his drawers for something to wear to bed. Chances are his clothing is much too fancy for your liking, anyway.

You press your face into his sheets. They don’t smell an awful lot like him, not with how little time he spends bundled in his duvet. The number of times he has been pried from his study in the early hours of morning, having not slept a wink, is staggering.

Thankfully, such a duty hasn’t befallen you. The memory of his study has been desecrated, eclipsed by the visage of his unkempt hair and fucked-out expression, how his moans drifted into the corridor for prying ears to hear.

Gods. He really is something.

Restlessly, you roll over and squeeze your thighs together. He’s taking fucking forever and there isn’t a thing here to busy yourself with. His shelves are stacked with books pertaining to politics and business, and the few novelties kept in their designated places have already been observed with a small smile.

Again, you breathe in his sheets. He needs to hurry.

It wouldn’t hurt. A bit of relief. 

Ayato surely won’t mind.

Your hand presses beneath the towel, drawing a gasp from your throat. Kissing him has gotten you hotter, more reactive than expected, and the sight of what he looks like when he comes is seared into your mind.

He would say yes if you asked to join, though you know from experience not to refrain from bothering Ayato when he’s in a spiteful mood.

No time is wasted being gentle or slow. Something about Ayato stirs you up like nothing else, and you’re soon stroking yourself until your wrist aches and there’s no choice but to burrow your face into his pillows, stifling lewd noises.

You pant, legs pressing together as you shiver.

Stupid, fucking Ayato. How dare he do these things to you. The mere thought of him brings you to the height of sensitivity until every brief touch is like a livewire being pressed to your skin.

“Goodness. How scandalous,” comes his voice, amused.

A hand clamps around your wrist, pulling it away before you can react. You whine as your orgasm fades away, and blindly kick a foot out in protest, catching his thigh. 

“You are such a bastard,” you complain breathlessly. “I hope you know that.”

“I believe this is called payback. Such a golden opportunity that has fallen into my lap, too,” he muses, turning your hand in his grip to admire the shine of your arousal in the low light. “Hm, you dirty thing.”

“This is cruelty. This is how you treat me after I tell you that you make it impossible to get off?”

“How long?”

Your body floods with heat. “I can’t remember.”

“Yes, you can.” 

Ayato looms over you, his grip tightening around your wrist. Having his full attention is almost daunting, if a little exhilarating. 

“A shame.” He simpers. “I won’t help you unless I’m told the truth.”

“You would help regardless.”

“Oh? Would I?”

You scowl and turn away, though a wet warmth surrounding your middle and forefinger makes your gaze snap to his. They slip past his lips and you push deeper, enraptured as he moans at your taste.

“You would because this can’t possibly be enough for you.” You press even deeper. Ayato gags and flushes pink, his towel falling away as you lay him back against the pillows. “Anything else is near impossible to believe.”

Your fingers retract from his mouth, slicked in arousal and spit, and trail a line of saliva down the curve of his throat. 

“Perhaps you’re difficult to resist,” he reasons, but you laugh in response.

“Do you want to fuck me, my lord?”

“That depends. Will you be nice?”

“I’m always nice.”

“We both know that to be untrue,” he whispers.

You shiver at his tone, spreading your hand over a lean shoulder. “Answer the question.”

“Of course. Good sluts deserve to be stuffed full of cock every once in a while, don’t they?”

You tut . “Who, you?”

“Come now.”

With a laugh, you dip down to fit your lips to his in a hungry kiss. You straddle his hips, groping his chest and arms, sliding a hand to the nape of his neck and tugging him closer. Your taste is on his tongue, still.

“Have it your way, then,” you murmur against him, playfully biting his cheek. “I’d like to see whether you can really do it, my lord.”

He hums, tilting until his lips catch your jaw. “Unfortunately, that meeting was rather tiring.”

“You are so full of it.”

Ayato chuckles because, regardless of your words, you yield to him. The Commissioner has long days and longer nights, and is therefore deserving of pity, even if his roguish smile alludes to something concerning.

“Do you have anything here?” you ask.

“Yes, to your right.”

You lean to the side and pry open his bedside drawer, locating a small vial of oil after a moment of rummaging, buried beneath pamphlets and poetry books. Your nail taps the glass once. “It’s almost empty.”

“Don’t get green-eyed on me, now.”

You give him a look. “That’s ridiculous. I know for certain that you fuck your fist more often than people, my lord.”

“You have quite the jealous streak, how cute,” he muses with a grin. “My apologies, I don’t intend to tease. Have your way with me.”

“Very well.”

Your weight settles across his thighs as the last of the oil is tipped into your palm, spread and warmed before your hand wraps around his cock and slicks it with the substance. Ayato’s teeth slice into the inside of his cheek with the effort of stifling his pathetic, keening noises.

“Stop that.” Your free hand fits beneath the curve of his jaw, seizing his chin and wrenching open his mouth. “Suck.”

Ayato complies, his lips plush against your thumb as he soaks your skin with spit, and his eyes close with a flutter of lashes as your hand constricts his cock. There’s a wet, sticky noise as your fingers slip from around him.

You bat away his hand when he tangles it with yours, oiling his fingers with what remains on your skin, reaching closer to stretch you open.

“There’s no need,” you tell him, pulling your thumb from his mouth. 

“It will hurt otherwise.”

“I used my fingers on myself this morning.”

Ayato’s lips twitch into a grin. “Ah, you have foresight, then.”

“No, my lord. The fact that you’ve made it difficult for me to finish myself off doesn’t deter me from trying,” you reason, shifting until your hips hover above his. “I have every day since.”

A noise snags in his throat as you take his cock into your palm and rub it against yourself. He sighs, “You say these things too casually.”

“I’ll warn you next time, then,” you mutter absently. His drooling cockhead is pressed snug against your entrance. “In truth, my lord, I— gods— I don’t see any reason to hold myself back. So, tell me, have all your attendants been given such special treatment?”

Ayato’s shoulders slump as you lower yourself, pressing his cock from every angle, suffocating if not for how deeply his fingers dig into your sides in return. “Possessive, aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

A hand at the back of your head brings you down until his nose brushes yours, and there’s an awfully earnest downturn of his lips. “No one else. There’s your answer, hm?”

You still momentarily, feeling each light breath exhaled against your skin before your lips meld together, soft and chaste. It’s a strange feeling that sears every inch of your being.

“Okay,” you murmur. 

Despite your mid-morning efforts, the stretch burns, though the sting of tears and shaky muscles isn’t a far cry from satisfactory. It tethers you to reality, able to listen to the gruff rumble of his voice as he curses, his fingertips dimpling your flesh until the bruises twinge.

Ayato’s arms tremble with the strain of containing himself, to not pull you down and spill deep within you. You sink further down and the back of his skull meets the headboard with a thunk, near-painful if not for the bliss eclipsing the temporary ache.

Your skin presses to his, at last, his cock nestled inside and pressing up against your sweet spot.

“Ayato,” you gasp. 

It hurts, but there’s plenty of time to break you in, to mold you to the shape of him.

“Are you all right?” His palms soothe your hips in a reassuring gesture, one that has your heart lurching against your battered ribs. “Don’t push yourself. Please.”

“Fine,” you grit out, laughing. “Though, you don’t seem to be faring well yourself.”

“You’re so tight, I can hardly move.”

“You’re not supposed to be,” you chide, rolling your hips. Ayato muffles a moan into the crook of his elbow. “This has gotten you far too worked up, and it’s proving to be quite the show.”

“If you’re set on teasing, at least be doing something worthwhile in the meantime—”

Silence befalls him as your fingers crawl across his toned stomach, your hips slowing into a slow grind. The frustration creasing his brow is amusing—this isn’t nearly enough to assuage the ache in the pit of his stomach but you show no signs of stopping, not when you bend down and press your face into his neck.

“Good sluts deserved to be stuffed full, right?” you echo. “This is for me, then. Not you. By that logic, your logic, the thought of coming shouldn’t even cross your mind until I have. Isn’t that fair?”

Ayato fixes you with a sly smile. “Well.”

It’s all he says, drunk on the knowledge that it isn’t enough to please you. “Preferably a comprehensible answer, my lord.”

“I do think that’s fair.”

You hum, holding his shoulder as your hips continue their maddening torment. Ayato writhes beneath you with mussed hair, creasing the bed sheets in his palms as he grapples with his waning control. It must be peculiar to be subservient, even if in a single situation. Ayato enjoys it, his cock twitching against you.

Well. When he feels good, that is.

He will in the end. For now, your muscles jerk with each nudge against your sweet spot, spurring sparks along your skin with each shift in pressure, until the shine of sweat clings to your quivering body.

He must notice, a hand squeezing your hip and aiding your movements. Precise, as he often is.

“Kiss me again,” he murmurs softly, his brows drawn together in desperation. It’s a stunning look on him, albeit jarring in the way his sharp features have warmth sidling between your ribs, seeping into your chest and filling empty space with him.

There’s no choice but to fulfil his wish. The kiss is sweet. Easily, you lose yourself in his gentle lips, the slow, purposeful glide of his tongue across flesh and into your mouth.

Your voice sweetens. “Use your hands, too.”

After all, they’re perfect. Honest and warm, beautifully calloused as his deft fingers rub against you. Pressure builds in your lower stomach within a matter of seconds.

A strained gasp of his name would seize Ayato’s attention his eyes weren’t starry, enamoured of your changing expression as you grind against him, providing nothing more than a dull vestige of pleasure that’s eclipsed by the fact that you’re using him like some obedient, docile pet.

The thought is a heady one, though it doesn’t distract from the sight before him.

Ayato hushes you as you come, wiping the side of your face with the back of his hand until it’s void of sweat, his other steadily working you through your orgasm as you moan and tremble in his lap.

“There,” he whispers. “Just stunning.”

He expects you to still once overstimulation takes hold, but you do no such thing. Rather, you bat away his hands, bracing one of your own against the mattress as your hips raise before taking him fully.

“Ah—” Your shoulders heave as you struggle for breath, yet a look shared with Ayato encourages you to set a steady rhythm—one that feels good for him, this time. “My lord, you flatter me.”

Ayato tries. He tries to implore you to call him by another name, his name and not the one belonging to his dignified image, but his tongue is clumsy in his mouth, his body pulled against the bed by the bliss of being given a reward for his patience.

The realisation drives his cock deeper, a reflex. Your nails break the skin of his shoulder in response.

Ayato won’t ever tire of this.

“I have no issue with doling out praise where it is appropriate,” he gasps. “Though, if you wish to really earn it—”

There are three knocks on the door. Sharp and precise. There’s only one person it can be.

“My lord, I apologise for the intrusion but—”

The rush of blood in your ears engulfs his words. “That’s Thoma,” you hiss, thumping Ayato’s chest with your fist. The look on his face betrays the surprised noise he makes for your sake. “Answer him, you fool."

An opportunity, at last.

A yelp is forced from your throat as you’re flipped onto your front, pressed into the mattress with Ayato’s cock still buried inside of you.

“Not at the moment, Thoma,” he answers, composed. “What is it that you’re after? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

You’re going to smack him. Ayato’s weight on the back of your thighs prevents you from squirming, without need for restraints or words. The crisp linen does little to soothe your warm cheeks, and your fingers tremble with the force of the rabbit beat of your heart. Meanwhile, Ayato—

He doesn’t stop. Each deep roll of his hips coaxes a debauched noise from within your chest, so he slides a hand to the back of your head and presses your face into the quilt to quiet you, while he oh-so casually chats with Thoma, separated only by an unlocked door.

“I need to launder today’s clothes, my lord,” he explains, calm and dutiful. It provides no comfort. “Can I come and take them?”

Ayato grunts, trading slow thrusts for rutting desperately against you. He curses as you clench around him. Already, you’re close.

He simply ignores Thoma, allows his question to linger for several moments longer than what is comfortable as he dips down, hair tickling your neck and shoulders. “My mind has changed,” he says, each word strung together with haughtiness. “You aren’t a good slut, after all. No, you’re a filthy whore about to sully my sheets all because someone is listening.”

You whine, turning to catch a glimpse of him but he quickly disappears, a hand shifting to clamp over your mouth as he pounds into you.

“That’s quite all right,” he speaks over the creaking bed frame, the slap of skin and the humiliating squelch of his cock ravaging you. 

He’s nothing short of relentless. In every sense. You had been intent on taking your time, but Ayato has turned this into a desperate fuck.

Ayato continues, “When was the last time you rested, Thoma? My silks won’t miraculously stain themselves, I assure you.”

That was a jab at you. Disgruntled, you jerk your hips in an attempt to sabotage his balance but he merely presses deeper into you, and you’re crushed against the mattress by his weight.

Though, you suppose if riling him up is what it takes for him to fuck you within an inch of your life, the remainder of your days will pass with fleeting touches and low, coy words. Your pride is a necessary sacrifice.

“Are— are you sure, my lord?”

There it is. The flicker of nervousness that creeps into his tone, as though privy to something he wouldn’t dare even think of.

Gods. You come hard, biting the heel of Ayato’s palm to smother your desperate noises, and your vision wavers with the knowledge that he’s still there.

“Yes. Be on your way, now.”

There’s a flurry of footsteps descending the corridor before Ayato drops forward, his rhythm sloppy and frantic.

Mere seconds pass before warmth floods you. His hand finds yours amongst the crumpled sheets, gripping tightly onto it as he spills deep inside of you with a lewd, broken moan. You gasp, writhing in his hold as though trying to get away, but it’s the last thing you want to do.

“There you go,” he murmurs. His voice is indistinct, its sweet sound eclipsed by the trickle of cum escaping you, smearing across your thighs and dripping onto the sheets with each minute movement. He strokes a bleeding hand over your hair. “You came so well."

Fog rolls through your mind, thick and disorienting. Still, you feel his weight lift from your back, his cock slipping out and the dribble of cum that follows. 

“What a waste,” Ayato mutters.

You scoff, fisting the sheets. “Whose fault is that?”

He offers only a hum in response before stooping down and pressing his tongue flat against you. Your shoulders shake as he cruelly tortures you with that mouth of his, not a moment of pity spared for the pain-pleasure that has you sobbing into the quilt and pushing your hips against his face until you’re close.

He takes this one, too. 

“This can’t ever be enough,” he tells you, putting you on your back and pushing your legs together. 

Your eyes are blurry as his cock slips between the softness of your thighs, soaking the skin with the obscene amount of precum that drips from his slit.

He thrusts once, twice. A gruff moan has you clenching around nothing, your hands still helplessly balled in the smooth linen

“I doubt you mind, of course.” Ayato simpers, pressing a kiss to your shin. “All things considered, I believe a little retribution to be well within reason. Now, who’s to say whether you will come again tonight?”

He has that smile again. Even through the haze in your mind, you hear the imagined, slow ripping of a page, string pulled taut before the binding gives.

Ayato hums again, inquisitive.

You still must endear yourself to him. In another form.

“Very well.”

This is far from over.

Your head lolls back with the thud of hardwood as you laugh, though silence is still ushered in. Ayaka places a gentle hand on your shoulder—a reminder that this is covert, and discovery leads only to trouble.

“Please, you must remain calm,” she implores, her brow creased as she frowns. “Thoma would feel utterly betrayed if he were to find—”

“Milady, he baked those for you to enjoy.” Your ribs ache with laughter, and the feeling itself has giddiness rising in you. “If anything, this should be considered a compliment to his culinary skills. He’d be pleased."

“We ate so many, though,” she laments. You haven’t before witnessed her so dismayed, much less because of a batch of cupcakes Thoma had cooked to perfection in the early morning. “So quickly, too. We haven’t saved him a single morsel of his own treat.”

“He shouldn’t have left them unsupervised.”

Ayaka presses the back of her hand to her mouth, concealing an amused quirk of her lips as the last of the airy sponge is pushed into your mouth.

They really are delicious cupcakes. Sweet without breaching unpleasantly saccharine, dusted in powdered sugar and filled with whipped cream. How he does it is beyond you—a secret he ought to take to the grave.

“I suppose that what’s done is done.”

“Yes. However, he will soon catch on. If you hear angered stomping around the estate at any point today, growing closer, you should draw your blade before—”

“Do you think he will be that mad?”

“Absolutely,” you answer. Perhaps playing tricks is mean, but they really were her cupcakes. Thoma won’t mind one bit. “I can picture it, now—steam blowing out of his ears, and he would be so red in the fact that he blends into that jacket.”

You laugh at her rounded eyes. Too lively, perhaps. Your elbow slams into the door and you yelp in pain, muttering curses between breathless giggles.

Ayaka panics. “Are you all ri—”

“Goodness me. What do we have here?”

Your spine straightens at the sound of that voice. The chill of Ayaka’s Vision—its light now overpowered by that streaming through the open door—must have chilled your muscles to the point of stiffness. Your widened gaze meets hers.

“My lord,” you greet, clearing your throat. “Why are you here?”

It must be an unorthodox image—the lady of the clan and her attendant tucked away amongst stacked brooms, smeared with grains of powdered sugar and cake crumbs. An insulting one, even.

Though, it makes Ayato grin.

“The pair of you look a mess,” he sighs, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. His armour clinks against the wood. It’s almost casual, reminiscent of the time you caught him unwinding with a cup of tea, or when the rain bared his heart to you. “Like two children who have been let loose in the city confectionery.  Are those Thoma’s?”

Ayaka fusses with a handkerchief, turned away. “Indeed, they are. I’m afraid I can’t offer you one.”

He hums, amused. His head tilts. “Just as I thought. It’s understandable, then. I swear to not utter a word to him.”

“Thank you, Ayato,” she says politely. 

Her face is now devoid of powder, though the same cannot be said for yours. Judging by the look Ayato casts, you look to be in a right state.

“What am I going to do with you?” he sighs, dropping one knee and procuring his own handkerchief, its fabric complimenting that of his daily wear. A hand tilts your chin as he dabs at the corners of your mouth, wiping away flecks of sugar and the smear of sweet cream across your lips. 

He feels the heat radiate from your face. The memory of last night burns deep, if not ever-present in the soreness of your hips and thighs.

“There,” he concludes, standing. “I will leave you both to your fun. A word of advice, though: when he walks, Thoma skips a step every once in a while. You will know if he’s passing by.”

With that, the door quietly closes and the small space is plunged into near-darkness. You blink, adjusting to the muted glow of Ayaka’s Vision, and notice that it illuminates a smile frighteningly identical to the one belonging to her dear brother in his worst moments.

“He managed it, after all,” she says, soft.

“Milady?”

“He’s courting you, correct?”

Your mouth snaps shut with a click of teeth. “You— oh, of course you knew. I’ve been a fool to suspect otherwise.”

“Let me share with you a secret,” she laughs, leaning closer. “That book—he asked me to lend it to you. He thought its contents aligned with what he believed your motivations to be. A warning of sorts. He isn’t usually so… underhand. Had you been anyone else, you would have received a rather upfront threat in its place, and I almost couldn’t understand why he was behaving so curiously.”

Your teeth catch your lip, pensive. It’s strange to think that a genuine fear existed beneath Ayato’s attempts to annoy you, one that set him on edge for a number of months. 

It aches in many ways. 

Even now, your emotions are a tangled cluster. Each cross of thread is something new, urged by a realisation or a thought, all of which pertain to him.

Ayaka continues in a heavy, solemn voice, “I’ve never seen him quite so worried about the possibility of betrayal.”

She must remember. It’s evident in the fall of her gaze that now lingers on her fingers flexing before her.

How young she must have been. The scar is years old, sustained when Ayato had only just found his footing in politics. 

Ayaka would have been a mere child.

You ask, “Did you believe I would?” 

“No. The moment I bested you in our first sparring match, I knew Ayato’s concerns to be unfounded. I trust his judgement but I had presented you with a golden opportunity that, ultimately, went to waste."

That must be the very reason Ayato’s defence slipped after you tended to his illness. 

Opportunities.  

You hadn’t drawn a blade across his throat while he slept, thus earning a vestige of trust in return. It’s—

How can he live like that?

“I don’t mean to be so sombre,” she whispers apologetically. “I believe we owe Thoma a platter of apology snacks, if your afternoon is open?”

“Those look delightful!”

Thoma stands on the other end of the kitchen with an exuberant smile, having just rushed through the door a moment ago, a scrap of parchment clutched in his fist. You surmise that he’s about to run an errand, yet he stops to admire the decorated biscuits.

“That’s because those are Miss Kamisato’s,” you snort. “She left a while ago to attend to business. Mine are undecorated, so which would you prefer—puppies or kittens?”

Thoma’s eyes widen. “These are for me? Hm, in that case, would it be greedy to ask for both?”

“Terribly so.” You take one of the piping bags. “You ought to be very ashamed of yourself, mister.”

The kitchen lulls into a comfortable quiet as Thoma draws closer—he skips on the third step—and watches from over your shoulder as portraits of those strays he adores are piped in thin icing. It’s a shabby job, but he doesn’t comment.

You must be smiling to yourself again.

“You’re in a good mood,” he says.

“Is that so strange?”

Thoma catches a droplet of icing before it falls from the nozzle to the countertop, tasting it from his index with a surprised, pleased hum. “Not strange, no. I’m just curious as to whether it has something to do with my lord’s peculiar supply requests.”

You pause. A glob of white icing lands in the centre of a strange-looking cat’s forehead. “What?”

There’s a rustle of paper as Thoma’s hand unfurls and thrusts the paper he was holding into your line of sight. It’s a shopping list, nothing strange. Your eyes rove over the neatly-written words.

The piping bag is squeezed so suddenly that the frosting ruins your last three cookies.

“He needs how much?”

Thoma hums pensively, folding the list and slipping it into his jacket pocket. “I believe he’s taken a lover.”

“Wh— you’re mad. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It isn’t ridiculous. I mean, that amount of oil is a little excessive for one person, don’t you think? He’s never asked for it in that quantity before.”

“Should you even be discussing this with me?” you gripe, throwing down the piping bag. “Why in the world do you think that’s the reason for my good mood?”

Thoma’s head tilts, innocuous. “Because he’ll be out of your hair from now on, right?” He can’t pester you if he’s otherwise occupied and, clearly, he's somewhat busy.”

Your cheeks flame. This is news to you. You offer a wordless prayer to the Almighty Shogun that Ayato isn’t intent on strictly giving because you rather enjoy being able to get out of bed without your knees buckling beneath you. To think, he has other plans.

You half-expect that he’s throwing a hissy fit over your comment. Overcompensating for the oil he used alone by buying the same tenfold.

“Besides,” Thoma continues, his voice dropping low as he nudges your arm, “it isn’t like you’re quiet.”

That does it. 

Thoma catches your fist before it slams into his shoulder, and then the other that aims for his headband. He laughs—at you, no less—as you recite each swear you know as you kick and hit, even if it’s a futile endeavour while in his grip.

“I knew it, you bastard!” you shout. “I can’t believe you’re teasing me—”

“I can’t believe you bedded the Commissioner.”

“Thoma!”

“All right, I’m sorry— ow! Hey, I said that I’m sorry!”

Ayato’s eyes are narrowed, set aglow with pale moonlight that reflects in each saltwater drop that falls from his eyelashes. One catches his cheek and rolls down to his jaw. “Whatever was that for?”

“You should loosen up,” you tell him, sending another surge of seawater in his general direction. Your muscles burn with the effort, but it’s worthwhile to see how poorly he suppresses an amused smile. “See? Isn’t that much better?”

The waves lap at your shins. Shortly after nightfall, Ayato slid a short note beneath your bedroom door—his preferred method of communication nowadays, you reckon—requesting that you take a stroll with him along the coast. 

The moment you touched the sand, your shoes were abandoned and pants rolled to the knee, not a further second wasted before you waded through the ocean.

Ayato merely watches from a distance—strange, considering what he wields in battle. He mustn't want to dampen his trousers, though they’re now wet through.

“I should have suggested another location,” he comments, pressing a thoughtful hand to his chin. “One with less… ammunition would have sufficed.”

For that, you soak him again. Your arm aches terribly.

“Perhaps not,” he concludes smartly, sporting a winsome smile.

“Join me, my lord.”

You extend a hand for him to take. He won’t, otherwise. With this tenderness blossoming between you came the realisation that Ayato is hesitant with these sorts of things—having his way with you is one thing, but this casual, chaste intimacy is unfamiliar. 

The tips of his fingers nudge yours, and you cradle them in your palm.

Though, he doesn’t join you. A tug of your arm takes you away from the shifting water and you press up against him, clinging to his shoulders before you can trip.

“That isn’t what I meant,” you huff, yet your arms encircle his waist. He meets your gaze, smitten. “Can I have a kiss?”

“Of course.”

A hand smooths down the side of your face before Ayato presses his lips to the corner of yours, reminiscent of the first time you had. 

You scoff, tightening your arms. “Please?”

Ayato chuckles. It’s a warm, deep sound that you can feel imprint on every corner of your mind, though it fades when he brings you closer for a proper kiss. It takes effort to not be swept away by it all. Your hand tangles in his silken hair, tugging on the strands, their ends wet with seawater.

All he needs is reassurance.

His trust in you isn’t full, but it’s there.

You laugh against his mouth, your cheeks warm. “One of these days, I’ll fluster you as you fluster me.”

Ayato breathes. His lips are shiny with saliva, his tongue passing over them to savour your taste. “Who’s to say that you haven’t?”

“I merely say that to protect your pride, my lord. You blush often.”

“It isn’t good to tell lies.”

“It isn’t,” you agree. “That must apply to you, too. Will you answer a question I have? It’s a pressing matter, I swear to you.”

He tilts his head in disbelief. In truth, you have pried him with questions several times a day, but he very rarely graces you with a clear answer that isn’t concealed within riddles and double entendres. He claims that an air of mystery is beneficial to him. You think he’s having you on.

“What worries that mind of yours, hm?”

Your hand twists into the soft fabric of his robes, tugging him closer by the lapels. “That ink stain on your kimono—you did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

Ayato laughs. “Yes, I knew that would wind you up.”

You grumble nonsensical insults under your breath and release his robes. He doesn’t stumble back as suspected. “Honestly, it’s a miracle that I put up with you.”

“Yet, here you are, doing that very thing.”

“And I will continue to do so until I have you wrapped around my finger,” you whisper, your nose brushing his.

His eyes gleam with something sad. “Don’t you already have me?”

The answer crumbles into dust. There’s something else there beyond teasing, beyond the reluctance that he keeps beneath layers of playful indifference. 

You hear it. See it, too—the weary concern lining his features, the downwards tilt of his mouth.

There’s a reason it’s the moon high above and not the sun.

“You will have to marry somebody proper sooner or later, my lord,” you remind him. “It’s a simple fact.”

The crease in his brow deepens. “Then I won’t marry.”

“Ayato,” you say softly. Plead with him, rather. There’s no reason to continue as though this expectation isn’t set into stone, as though it wasn’t expected of him from a young age—too young. Always too young. “Please don’t pretend.”

He’s grown used to having all he wants, to meddling until each situation falls in his favour.

“Inazuma shifts with each new day,” he says. “The Kamisato Clan has its own strength, we needn’t borrow power from fake alliances. I ensured this.”

You give him a look, though his eyes, as sharp, as dismantling as ever, keep you quiet. Instead, he receives a nod. “Yes, all right. I trust that you have.”

“Come here.”

His lips fit yours. Despite its chastity, his desperation catches you off-guard. Many of his kisses teeter on the edge of what he wishes to convey, but cannot do so in words. 

It continues for a moment longer, and then his warmth has relocated to your shoulder, his palms squeezing firmly. It comforts you.

“The future of the clan’s image is not of concern to you. Wouldn’t I be a lousy partner if my beloved worried incessantly about matters out of their control? Now, let’s walk further out. Come.”

“Wh— Ayato!” 

In a few, long strides, he’s crossed several metres and the moonlight engulfs the closest side of his lithe body. You scramble for your shoes, running across wet sand to catch up with him.

You echo, disbelieving, “Partner?”

[dragon-clan-and-company]

"Hmm... I suppose until I have the magic of this world more properly figured out, I won't have access to some of my vaults, containing larger stores of coin and gems... Yeah, I should probably be a bit more careful for the time being..." Layle muses aloud, casually putting the precious minerals away. Just who was this man for that much wealth to seem like a paltry sum?

"As for getting back home, I do have magics I could access that could potentially do the trick, but until I get a grasp on the magic here, I am stuck... Hence why learning all I can takes the top of my priorities at the moment." Layle, rather 'Drake Layton' grins at Gyrfalcon.

"I do hope I'll be accepted at this academy... Who knows where I could wind up turning to otherwise to get the knowledge I need? Perhaps I should meet with the headmistress sooner rather than later, lest I wander off... Maybe she'll be able to tell how good of an idea it would be to keep tabs on a clever man such as myself." Layle laughs, somewhat jokingly as he jabs a thumb in his chest.

"Of course, I can wait with you, until your lesson is concluded, teach!" The crimson eyed man gives a playful, seemingly carefree wink.

Layle's crimson eyes widened as he hears the name of a country entirely alien to him! He would also agree that his ability to smell the difference in magic in the air was... Unique, to say the least.

"I guess that settles it, miss Gyrfalcon... I've never heard of a country called Gleidal. Between that, and the weave of magic here feeling fairly different, I can only guess that I've one again stumbled upon a different world." Layle mulled over his thoughts a bit, before he looks back to Gyrfalcon's gold eyes.

"If I am in a new land, I'll need as much information as I can learn... Would Kaenine Academy be accepting new applicants? I've plenty of coin and precious gems to cover an entry fee..." With those words, he dips a hand into the bag at his side, producing a heaping handful of glittering platinum and gold coins, as well as a few small shimmering gemstones!

[dreamrecorder]

What are their heartbeats like..?

I can’t remember what I was watching, but the girl sat on the guys lap, and just leaned her head on his chest and listened— he asked her what she was doing and she replied with “listening to your heartbeat” and I thought that was really cute dndndjznsxj and then proceeded to think about it w a y too much— so- what do you think the genshin boys’ heartbeats are like? And how would they respond to their s/o doing fhat? Idk if you only do specific characters,, but I would really love it if you did Diluc, Albedo, Xiao, and Venti 🥺 I mean I would be very happy to read the rest~ but idk if you have character limits 😳- umm hc’s or drabbles would be super cool! You can pick (: and thank you for even reading this!! Have a stellar day !!

Listening to the beating of his heart

The moment i read the question i got the gist of the req -but my college head be like //// :0 am i supposed to describe systoles and diastoles :0 -- anYwaY ksksks hope youd enjoy this

Includes: Venti | Diluc | Kaeya | Albedo | Zhongli | Xiao | Childe

Fluuuuuuuff and some angst for kaeya albedo and xiao cause i cant stop myself hahaha

Venti

At first it was hard to discern his heartbeat as the bard was humming

but with concentration, you finally hear the soft thumping of his heart

the rhythm- it was so soft and gentle just like him

As you continued listening to his heart, you can’t help but giggle a bit for his heart was beating along with the tune your bard was humming

Just like Venti- even his heart sings~

The laughter made the bard stop his tune and asked, “What is it that my beloved finds funny?”

You giggled some more, “Your heart, it sings with you~”

Your answer made the bard soft, “Then I shall sing some more for my heart only sings to you.”

Diluc

You always loved the night time. Why?

because it’s the time when Diluc would hold you close to his chest and you get to listen to the deep and calm beating of his heart

His heart was so calming, it made you really appreciate and love him more

“I love you,” you whispered

The man did not speak at first- he simply he took your hand and placed it on his chest, “I love you, too.”

Kaeya

Kaeya’s heartbeats are slow and prominent 

Slow and prominent in a way that it means he feels safe enough for him to relax in your arms and not from the past that plagues him

to anyone else, Kaeya was quick to build his walls around his heart lest his weaknesses will be known. He will hide it until he feels safe in your embrace

Albedo

You were already made aware that your lover is no human and that he firmly believes that he truly will never be human

but that doesn’t mean that you’re going to love him any less

his heartbeat- it was more of a pulsation that you can feel under your fingertips rather than a rhythmical beating

the pulses you felt were strong and powerful- indicating that the alchemist really is far stronger than an ordinary human

but still- despite the strength his artificial heart holds, the way he holds you right now in his embrace just proves that he is, in every essence and aspect, a human that your dearly love

Sensing your fingers caress the area above his artificial heart, he asks what you are doing

“Appreciating your heart”

Albedo sighs, “It’s not a real heart.”

His reply made you pout. So what you did next was to place a gentle kiss above the pulsation. “But it tells me otherwise, Albedo.”

and the way your words held conviction made him love you even more

Zhongli

His heartbeat was steady and firm. The rhythm of his heart brought you a sense of familiarity and stability. It was so him and you loved it. As you listened to the repetitive thump thump thump, soon enough- you started tapping your fingers at your lover’s arm to the beat.

The tapping was subtle, but Zhongli doesn’t miss the sensation of your fingers on his skin, “What are you doing?”

You hummed a bit, “Listening to your heart.” was all you said and just simply cuddled into his embrace more as the man placed a lithe kiss on your hair- you felt the smile gracing his lips

Xiao

his heart spoke volumes about the feelings he refuses to show to anyone but you

his heartbeats are sorrowful and loud

Sorrowful for he only wanted peace from the demons that scream within him

Loud because he desperately needs- wants someone to hear him and save him from the pain he had endured for so long

Xiao was asleep in your arms, but there was enough space for you to maneuver yourself

Once his head has been laid on your chest, you only wished that your heart can be heard for him to follow out of the darkness

Childe

His heartbeat- you concluded with glee- was energetic and lively

You have no idea why but those two words really fit him, too

it was like- it was like resonating with his conviction of his want to become stronger and his want for a battle

the positivity his heart emanates, it was so infectious- you smiled at the thought of his lively heart

Feeling your lips smile against his skin, Childe gave you a questioning hum

“Your heartbeats are really lively.” You said while offering a smile to his way.

“Of course~ With me holding you close, my heart is sure to burst for you any time.”

A/N: my adjectives were challenged wtf hahahahahaha

[ivorydragoness44]

Murtagh Morzansson x Reader: Leaves

Word Count: 389

Summary: The Reader just wants to push Murtagh into a pile of leaves, but it’s not going as well as they had hoped.

Notes: It started out as an imagine...but now it’s an insert reader

~~~~ ~~~~

  Raking and sweeping leaves off of well-used pathways was not your ideal activity for the day,  but there were positives. For one, it was a task that did not need your full attention. Your mind was free to wander. Overtime, you had also concluded that such a task was doing wonders to your arms. You just did not appreciate the soreness.

  Completing another plentiful pile of leaves, a soft voice graced your ears. A smile swept over your face and you spun around. “Hello, Murtagh.” The smile on his face made your heart sing.

  “I had no idea you were being put to something so laborious,” he said, his smile faltering.

  “I volunteered,” you shrugged. “I was kicking the leaves aside anyhow.”

  He glanced around at the piles and rows of leaves within the vicinity. “You’ve done a great job. I haven’t stepped on a single leaf all morning. Just don’t overwork yourself.”

  “I have been taking breaks, lest my arms scream and fall off.”

  As Murtagh chuckled, a humorous image formed in your mind. With a small smirk peeking out, you stepped closer to him. From the simple action, he only looked at you curiously, expecting you to further the conversation. You, however, had something else in mind.

  With a mischievous smile growing more noticeable on your face, you took another step forward. Despite your close proximity, he did not back away.

  Murtagh looked at you quizzically, but otherwise said nothing.

  Deciding to further your attempt, you placed your palms to his chest in an extra small effort to shove him into the pile of leaves behind him.

  You let out a quiet defeated huff when he hardly leaned back.

  “What are you doing?” He finally asked, eyeing your hand placement.

  “Failing spectacularly,” you said. Dropping your arms to your sides, you stepped over toward another pile of leaves and turned your back to it.

  Murtagh hesitated, a look of concern washing over his face. “At what, exactly?”

  “Being playful.”

  No sooner the words left your mouth, you allowed yourself to fall backward into the leaves with a crunchy thud. The next thing that you heard was Murtagh’s own laughter.

  “Is that why you were pushing me?”

  “Trying to.”

  “Hahah…alright…I’ll join you.”

  You barely registered his words before he dropped down beside you.

  “Better?”

  “Yes.”

~~~~ ~~~~

Thank you for reading!

Reblogs are appreciated

[sundayswiththeilluminati]

The unplanned fourth part to my apparently-a-series on Essek Thelyss in the context of real-world espionage (parts 1, 2, and 3), today we look at an aspect of his story that doesn’t always apply in a D&D world: how do you prosecute espionage? 

Psych! That’s not the real question. The real question is: do you prosecute espionage? The answer is a) not as obvious as it might seem; and b) going to differ between D&D and the real world, because D&D governments are storytelling tools and IRL governments are...not.

The benefits of prosecuting espionage are obvious: the interests of justice are served, the person responsible can be punished appropriately and in accordance with the law, the full extent of their crimes are revealed (including potentially exonerating other suspects), counterintelligence gets to chalk up a win, and other people thinking about committing espionage themselves are hopefully discouraged. But there are a surprising number of arguments in the “against” column.

Some agencies that identify enemy assets want to leave them in place for their own purposes. For about 20 years during the Cold War CIA reserved the right to just plain not tell the Department of Justice if they had proof someone was engaged in espionage because they wanted the opportunity to turn them as double agents, feed them misinformation, etc. rather than outing and punishing them (President Gerald Ford ended this arrangement by executive order in 1976). This isn’t necessarily a good idea IRL, but it forms the bread and butter of RPG espionage storylines and is definitely something to think about in a D&D context.

In the real world, ideally someone can only be found guilty of a crime and punished accordingly after a trial, and an agency often finds itself with sufficient evidence to doubt a person’s trustworthiness but not enough hard proof to take to court. In those cases agencies may decide to leave that person in place but cut off their access to classified info. Ironically, sometimes this means promoting them - moving the person into a higher-ranking job in a different area that just so happens not to deal in secrets. Sometimes the asset realizes they’re close to being rumbled and goes along with the effort, maybe taking retirement early or changing jobs before they can be pushed, and the whole matter will quietly lapse without anything so formal as a trial. Sometimes someone makes a mistake and sidelines a loyal, competent employee. That’s a judgement call.

In the real world, ideally someone can only be found guilty of a crime and punished accordingly after an open trial. Given how severe the punishments are for espionage, civilized countries do try to stick to that even though holding such a trial carries risks. Providing proof that someone stole secrets generally requires talking about said secrets, which means revealing classified info in court, which may negate trying to keep the information secret in the first place. They may also not want to reveal in court how they figured out that person was a spy, especially if it was a double agent or cryptographic source that fingered them. In D&D-land where monarchs are common and still wield judicial power, fantasy rulers may hand down whatever punishment they please based on whatever evidence they (or the DM) will accept, so this isn’t as much of a concern.

Even a D&D monarchy that doesn’t have to worry about revealing secrets in court might think twice before publicly punishing a high-ranking spy, though, because the only thing more embarrassing than failing to convict a major spy is succeeding. A government having to admit that its people were compromised, especially high-ranking people, is a body-blow to its standing both at home and abroad. It damages trust in the government, makes the public feel unsafe, and makes allies hesitant to share information lest their secrets be leaked as well. Lower-ranking government employees may think, “My boss is selling secrets, why not me too?” or “Why bother to follow security protocol when some mole will give it all away?” Every decision and contribution made by the asset becomes retroactively suspect, even those that had nothing to do with whatever secrets they leaked. The foreign nation to whom they passed information inevitably gets drawn in as well, negatively affecting those relations. And of course everyone involved looks very, very bad.

All of which leads me to say I think there’s a chance - maybe not a good chance, but a chance - that Essek could privately confess the affair to the Bright Queen without major public repercussions. Leylas Kryn could simply declare him a traitor and order his public execution without justifying herself, but it would raise a lot of questions and none of the answers would help her or the ruling dens; Den Thelyss allowing Den Kryn to unilaterally execute a high-profile member - a child of the umavi - without explanation would stoke ferocious rumors about what Essek might have done and cast a major shadow over the entire den. But publicly declaring what Essek had done also doesn’t do the Dynasty any favors. It makes everyone involved look very bad - how could they miss a spy at the highest level? so close to the Bright Queen herself?? who can be trusted??? - especially Den Thelyss, which might lose its place among the ruling three as a result. Publicly outing such a high-ranking Kryn official as compromised might set off the Dynasty equivalent of a Red Scare, too, since the Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount mentions the constant and well-justified Dynasty fear of agents sent by Lolth to destabilize the Kryn out of sheer spite that they got away from her.

By the time Campaign 2 ended the latest clash between Empire and Dynasty had been settled and neither side seemed to want to stir it up again right away. The fact that both stolen beacons have been returned also bolsters the case for letting the matter lie. A confession from Essek clears up remaining doubt on the Bright Queen’s end - while he doesn’t know every Empire agent in the Dynasty, he can tell her exactly how the beacons were stolen and who else was involved, probably clearing the names of many currently under suspicion. Essek would have to resign as Shadowhand, of course, and leave the Dynasty (at least for a couple centuries), but he never seemed interested in being Shadowhand and he wants to go exploring anyway. Den Thelyss definitely wants the whole affair swept under the rug and would go along with whatever story made that happen. Other than Verin I don’t get the impression many people would miss Essek except as a lost opportunity. I hope they’d give him long enough before leaving Rosohna to pack up his cool leyline-weathervane though. He could totally mount that on Yussa’s tower. Or Allura’s!

And that concludes this particular train of thought re: Essek Thelyss in the context of IRL spies and espionage. Again, all of this is only as relevant to the campaign as the players decide it is, so don’t go giving people crap for being “unrealistic” about their versions of how the beacon trade went down. Frankly the last thing you should want here is realism, because “realistic” espionage is a callous world of deception, manipulation, and general human pettiness with no sense of narrative flow.

None of what I’ve talked about is an excuse for Essek’s actions. But it is a reason. It’s why and how a person entrusted with precious national assets could get into a headspace where it seems reasonable, even necessary, to trade them away to foreign enemies. It’s how a person of otherwise decent character & beliefs can end up committing terrible crimes. It’s why that person might sincerely regret what they’ve done, and not just because they fear punishment. The Warmind Rasputin paraphrases Octavia E. Butler saying, “Misdirected by accident or intent, intelligence can foster its own ecstasies of growth and decay.” In other words: sometimes you get too far into your own head. Without an anchor to reality, without perspective, your own mind gets twisted up. Sometimes you just need a friend (or seven) to grab your arm and say, “Breathe.”

(This accidentally turned into a series on Essek & IRL espionage: Parts 1, 2, 3, 4)

[terrence-silver]

oooh how about “I’m a man, I would know!” and “They were basically undressing you with their eyes.” for poly! John and Terry?

Sometimes, there's such a thing as an outfit being too flattering.

Terry never wanted to fire his stylists for being too good at their job.

But, hey --- first time for everything.

Johnny was never a fan of these events anyway, even though he looked more ravishing in a tuxedo than any of these Beverly Hills bigshots in tailored suits with a stick in their asses, but this time around, Terry finds him brooding more so than usually. He knows the reason. You're the reason, of course. You and your delectable dress on an otherwise mundane gathering they had to soldier through, is all. Terry was brooding too, silent, from the balcony. Actually, quietly enraged fit the bill better as he signalled for one of the servers to usher you upstairs lest Terry go down personally. If he went down personally it would be a scene. He needed to stay in control. The owner of General Motors was sizing up your derrière, clinging to the outline of your dress and you didn't even realize. Your posterior practically sparkled in the clinging tight gown riddled with sequins, inviting attention like moth to a flame. Was, literally speaking, impossible not to look at. You didn't have eyes on your back unfortunately, so you couldn't see the onslaught of stares lingering and following your every move in that bit of snake skin called a dress you put on. You're embarrassed and shocked when he tells you, in the company of a surly John who seemed like he was pondering of scaling the wall and showing himself out. Resourceful, impatient John. You shake your head. How would he know, you inquire. How would he know it wasn't an accidentally wandering gaze.

There was no such thing as an accident, in his experience.

-“I’m a man, I would know!”-

Terry shoots back, seething, pointing his finger into the crowd downstairs.

He doesn't really care who hears the altercation.

They're lucky he doesn't have the whole venue evicted.

-“They were basically undressing you with their eyes.”-

John interjects, gruff, looking off into the distance, leaning unto the balcony fence, tie undone, sleeves rolled up, champagne glass in his hands, slightly disheveled, effortlessly every bit a man --- statuesque and build beneath his suit --- he didn't realize he too was being eyed up the whole evening even though he stubbornly kept to himself and Terry didn't like that either. Didn't enjoy his beloveds leered at. Well, maybe he enjoyed it a little, gleefully --- a way to flaunt what is his and nobody being able to do a damn thing about it. The residents of West Hollywood and The Hills knew he was with two people, for lack of a better word. That Terry Silver famously, or rather infamously, had two close, intimate paramours he was very, very, very territorial of. It was common knowledge, even though it was often relegated to a hush-hush piece of high profile gossip. it was common knowledge State-side too. Terry didn't care. Terry was power. Terry could do whatever the fuck he wanted. He was the maker of social conventions. He employs said attitude by leaving the event prematurely and not sticking around for the aperitif. Nothing for him here, he concludes. Packing beloved one and beloved two into the limo promptly and entirely post-haste, Johnny under the weather, you, draped into the mercifully oversized overcoat of Terry's blazer to hide your body as he orders the chauffeur to drive back home.

Back home where he could have you two all to himself.

[traumacatholic]

On Devotion After Communion by Rev. Richard Challoner Consider first, that as the soul must prepare herself to go to receive Jesus Christ, by proper devotion before communion, so she must also take care to entertain Him in a proper manner, after she has received Him; and to make good use of that favourable time (most happy to her above all times, if well employed) during which she has Him really present with her, both in His divine and human nature; that is, both as God and man. it would be a gross alfront after being favoured with a visit from he King of Heaven, desiring to feast Himself with us, and bringing All His treasures with Him to enrich our souls. if we should turn our back immediately upon Him, and take no farther notice of Him. The meanest of our friends would have reason to resent so contemptuous a usage; how much more so a great Lord! See my soul, if the little care thou hast taken, to manage to the best advantage those happy minutes in which thou hast Jesus Christ with thee, by a proper devotion after communion, be not the true cause why thou has reaped so little fruit from thy repeated communions, which otherwise might long since have made thee a saint. O repent and amend. Consider secondly, what this devotion is, with which we are to entertain our Lord, after receiving him. First, we are to welcome him by faith, hope, and love: by a lively faith of all His mysteries; but in particular, that we have really with us, in this blessed Sacrament, Him who is our Maker, and our Redeemer; infinite in majesty, and infinite in mercy; and who brings with Him all the treasures of heaven to enrich us; by a firm hope, that He will now, by this blood of the covenant, take full possession of our souls, and make them His, both for time and eternity; by an ardent love, aspiring with all our power, and affection, to an eternal union with our beloved; whom we here receive: "I have found him whom my soul loveth, I will hold him fast, and will never let him go." In the next place, we ought to cast ourselves down at His feet and to pay Him the best homage and adoration we are capable of; bringing all the powers of our soul before Him, and obliging them all to bow down to Him and worship Him. But as all this ought to be accompanied with a lively sense of our unworthiness and sins; we must also take this opportunity of making an humble confession, like Magdalene, of all our treasons, at His feet, craving His mercy for what is past, and the grace of a change of heart and life, for the time to come. Consider thirdly, that, after these first homages, the soul must for some time following her communion, keep close to our Lord, and give space for His grace to penetrate more and more into His interior, and to bring forth there its proper fruit. For this end, she must entertain him with praise and thanksgiving; inviting all Heaven and earth, all angels and saints, together with the whole creation, to join with her in his praises, and wishing she had the hearts and tongues of all his creatures, that she might employ them all in loving and glorifying him in return for all the wonders of His love and goodness to her. She must also offer herself, and all that she has, without reserve, into his hands, that she may be for ever His, and that her whole being may be made as an holocaust or whole burnt-offering, to evaporate to His glory. In line, she must remember that she is now before the throne of grace, and that the Lord, whom she has with her, carries about with Him all the treasures of divine grace, and therefore, she must lay before him all her wants and spiritual necessities, and beg of Him by this opportunity, plentiful supplies of grace, both for herself, and f0r the whole church. Conclude, O my soul, to entertain thy Saviour in this manner, as often as thou shalt receive him in the divine mysteries. Take care also to be more than ordinarily recollected, on the whole day following thy communion, and to keep a great guard upon thyself, lest the enemy, who knows what a treasure thou hast received, and is therefore most busy about thee on this occasion, in hopes of robbing thee of it, should fling some stumbling-block in thy way, to make thee fall into sin, either by passion or concupiscence; that so by this means, he may drive Christ away from thee and get possession of thy soul.