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sabraeal · 7 years ago

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Prompt! Historical Japan AU, Obi as a rounin who ends up protecting Shirayuki because she offered to pay for him to take her to Kyoto but he ends up sticking with her because he grows fond of her.

The girl is lying to him.

Obi settles back onto his heels, scratching at his chin. Stubble’s beginning to prickle there; he’ll have to decide soon if he’ll try to grow it or shave it. He’s been told it gives him a disreputable look; he likes that, it makes yoriki hesitant to talk to him, and offer more coin when they do.

Of course, it doesn’t seem to discourage little liar-girls.

“Well, samurai-dono?” she asks, plucking at at edges of her head covering. It’s the dead of summer, yet she’s bundled herself up like the winter winds have already started blowing across the bay. “Do you accept the terms?”

Her nose wrinkles when he tucks his arm back inside his kimono, staring at the cloth he leaves empty for a long moment before sipping at her tea. She’s been polite so far, with her samurai-dono; his hair is a thick bristle all over his head, there’s no mistaking he’s a man with no master, but she keeps up the ruse regardless.

But oh, how he likes those moments when her deference wavers, when she shows just how little she cares for his haphazard appearance and shows disgust. A grin lazily rucks up the corner of his mouth. She’d be a fun one to rile, if he cared to.

“Sorry to say, ojou-san,” he drawls, “but I’ll pass on this one.”

She’s been keeping her gaze lowered – a sign a deference in most, but he knows the difference between humility and deceit – but it darts upwards now, fixing him to his place. Her eyes pulse wide, and he sees finally – they are that strange cypress color, just as he suspected.

Now, if only he knew what she was hiding under that scarf.

“Is it the money?”

It isn’t, though he knows she has more than she’s paying. Maybe some men would have been put off by a woman haggling as she did, shrewd as a fishmonger’s wife, but it only made him more curious. If it weren’t for whatever she was hiding, he’d be willing to take her for that alone. It wasn’t often he got clients with nerve asking for an escort.

“No.” He takes a moment to sip at his sake. It’s not good; they don’t serve anything but swill in the foreign quarter. “It’s that you’re lying to me.”

Her eyes dart back to the table, pale cheeks flushing, and he knows he hasn’t read her wrong. “T-that’s not true. I’ll pay you half the ryo now, and half when we arrive in Kyoto.”

“Where did a girl like you even get so much money?” He makes a show of looking her over. “Can’t be in the brothels. Are you running away from a marriage?”

Outside the restaurant’s windows, there’s some sort of commotion – some men yelling loudly in English, common in this part of Yokohama. Foreigners are everywhere.

“Samurai-dono,” she says again, voice quivering. “Please. Take me to Kyoto.”

His eyes narrow. She’s afraid. “What’s in Kyoto, ojou-san?”

Her gaze shifts uneasily. “My – my cousin.”

Lover, more likely. Last thing he needs is to get mixed up with the daimyo again. “I don’t think –”

There’s a crash, right outside the windows. Some gaijin is kicking up a fuss, towering over the proprietor of the restaurant while he shouts him down. He’s just asking for one of those short-tempered samurais to waddle over the bridge to come get him, acting like that.

He turns back to the girl, already bored of rude gaijin, but she – she –

She flinches. Her hands are tucked in the sleeves of her kimono, but he knows if he saw them, they’d be bone-white in fear.

“Ojou-san –?”

“Please.” Her voice is so small, so terrified. “Please take me from here.”

The door swings open, and his path split in two: one where he walks away, and one, one –

One where he does not.

“Come here.” He seizes her wrist and yanks.

She stumbles over the table, sprawling into his lap. Her mouth gapes at his impropriety, working soundlessly as she tries to order her words. Over her shoulder he sees the gaijin duck in, sees his head swivel around, searching.

He hisses, “Play along!” and with no production at all, shoves his hand through the wrap of her kimono.

Her spine stiffens against his palm, but it’s hard to focus on that when the softness of her breast is only a thin wrapping of silk away. Ah, it’s clearly been too long, if he’s being distracted by so little.

Obi jostles her, just slightly, making her legs fall open and her body pitch forward, and it’s enough to be convincing when the gaijin’s gaze roams over them. He unwinds her scarf, baring her neck, and tucks his nose close to it.

“Sound like you’re having a good time,” he breathes against her skin. A breath rattles out from her lungs, and then –

Then it is followed by high, breathy giggles. It sounds more like she’s going mad than being driven out her mind.

“Not that kind,” he grits out, and then latches his mouth right over her throat.

That is a sound he won’t soon be forgetting, his cock reminds him.

“You, ronin!” The gaijin stomps over to him, looking more like a frog than a soldier.

Obi ignores him, instead cupping her breast, using his other hand to bring her hips right over his crotch. The breath she lets out is annoyance more than amorous, but he doesn’t expect the man to notice.

“Excuse me, I’m talking you you!” The man stamps his foot.

He looks up, blank. His English is impeccable, but there’s no reason this gaijin needs to know.

“Have you seen…” At his continued stare, the man growls, resorting to shouting and gestures. “HAVE YOU SEEN. RED HAIR. WOMAN.”

He pointedly goes back to leaving a very noticeable mark on this woman’s neck.

“Why do I bother? Sakaki!” An older gaijin approaches the table, his uniform more decorated, but pips still indicating a lower rank. “Ask this man about Shirayuki.”

“Excuse me, samurai-dono,” the man says, taking in his unshorn hair and lack of top knot. How polite he is. “But have you seen a young woman with red hair?”

He pulls away from her with more reluctance than he knows he should feel. Ah, he needs to spend some coin on a proper yujo tonight.

“I haven’t seen any foreign women.”

“Not foreign,” the man assures him. “From Yokohama. Green eyes as well.”

The girl lets out a moan, all theatrics, but it caused both gaijin to stumble back. Her eyes aren’t closed, but her lashes are lowered, feigning arousal, and haah, he’ll be using some of that money before he leaves.

“No.” He flicks his thumb over the peak of her breast, and there’s…less theatrics in that whimper. “Tell him to look in a brothel. I’m busy.”

It doesn’t take long for them to leave after that, the proprietor spending an inordinate amount of time abasing himself to the gaijin outside.

“Come on,” he says, pushing her to her feet. “We’ll go out the back.”

“But the meal –”

He lets out a hiss of annoyance. “If it makes you feel better, that man would have sold you out if he knew what was under your scarf.”

She hesitates, but when he moves to the back, so does she.

“All right,” he breathes when they stand outside, taking a look around. “We should go over my terms –”

His thought is rudely interrupted by the pain that blossoms all down the side of his cheek. Damn, but she’s strong.

She winds up to do it again, but he grabs her wrist, giving her a long suffering look.

“Don’t – don’t do that again!” she stammers out, cheeks flushed. “I’m not – I’m no yujo –”

“I know, ojou-san.” His tone wavers between soothing and scolding, unsure of how to speak. “I was saving your life. Or maybe just your virtue.”

“I…know.” The fight goes out of her, and he loosens his grip. “Thank you. But…think of another way, next time. Samurai-dono.”

He lets out a harsh laugh, grabbing her hand as he moves. “I’m no samurai, ojou-san.”

“I know,” she says, impatience edging her words. “What else should I call you?”

He hesitates. “Obi.”

She nods. “Obi-dono.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Just Obi.”

#shxdowofclarines #obiyuki #edo AU #my fic #Holiday Promptathon #ans #this was VERY HASTILY RESEARCHED #but this is sometime at the end of the bakumatsu period #after Yokohama was opened as a port #but before the Meiji restoration #and before the british merchants were killed on the Tokaido #1860-ish?

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sabraeal · 7 years ago

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Okay I really want one more, Obi teaching Shirayuki archery but also saying cheesy lines "you got my heart with that shot!" while cheering her on XDD

Sensitive Negotiations, Chapter 3 (Shirayuki’s POV #2)

Feet braced apart. A little? A lot? Somewhere in between should be safe.

String pulled back. To the cheek? To the ear? All the way? To where her hand starts shaking, that’s as much as she can do.

Breath in. Breath out. Breath in? Release?

Her fingers slip. Release.

The arrow wobbles wide, arcing with little grace to dint the ground not ten feet from the firing line. There’s not even enough force behind it to stick; instead it bounces off the dirt, skittering across the yard into a snowbank.

“Good shot, Lady Shirayuki!” Lady Madoka calls out, a hand brought up to cover her smile. The other ladies hide their titters too, although poorly.

She ducks her head, face flushing with shame. Of all the houses they’ve stopped at, Lord Ryouta’s has been her least favorite by far.

“My lord cousin!” Lady Hatsue calls up to the gallery. Shirayuki hazards a glance, and ah, yes, of course – Ryouta is standing with his male cousins, robed in the black of deep morning, watching the impromptu exhibition. “Did not our guest put on a good showing?”

He smiles, not unkindly, and lifts a hand to show he’s heard her. Ryouta himself is pleasant enough, though quiet; he’s a few scant years older than Izana, recently married – and just as recently widowed. Unlike some of the other lords they have met, he at least seems interested when she speak to him, if distracted. If she’s lucky, maybe she won’t have to lean on Obi’s post-dinner diplomacy here.

Her cheeks warm, thinking about it. His hands on her thighs, breath in her ear –

It would be best if that – that did not happen again. She’s sure of it.

“Come now, Lady Shirayuki,” Madoka cajoles, much to her ladies’ amusement. “Why not give our lord another show?”

They’ve been at this all morning, each of her shots only getting worse as their giggles and smirks get to her. The ladies have their own gear – finely tooled leather guards for chest and arms, proper gloves for shooting, bows hand-made and strung just for them. Ryouta’s lands are not so far from Sama, and his family prides themselves on being able to shoot from standing or horseback before they hit majority.

Shirayuki’s held a bow once before this, and at that, never loosed an arrow. She looks like a fool, and having Ryouta watch, having the lord she’s meant to impress see her act like she’s some clumsy adolescent, all limb –

Heat pricks at her eyes. How is he to take her seriously, after this?

“Ah, Miss!” From the gallery, Obi pushes his way forward, shoulders rubbing with Ryouta’s. It reminds her, almost too sharply, of Lyrias; of how he stood shoulder to shoulder with Makiri. “You’ve forgotten what I’ve taught you!”

She stares at him. He’s never taught her a single thing about the bow – now, now, Miss, he would say with a tight smile, I don’t think Master would approve – and they both know it.

“Here.” He hands the lord the drink in his hand – cider, she hopes, and not the hard kind – and hops over the rail, sauntering over to her with a swagger that makes her blood pressure spike. “Let me remind you.”

She has hardly a moment to object before he’s manhandling her, fitting just along her back and wrenching her shoulders square with his.

“You’re doing this all wrong,” he mutters, One foot guiding her legs apart, one just beneath each shoulder. “It’s like you’ve never watched me at all.”

“Well,” she snips a little sourly. “It’s not like I make a habit of it.”

He snorts, and well – she deserves that. He’s caught her and Yuzuri watching the yard often enough.

His hands settle on her hips, but he doesn’t yank at them like he has with everything else. Instead he hesitates, his breath growing shallow as she leans back into him, their thighs touching –

It’s vivid now, the feeling of his hands on her thighs. She remembers how he squeezed, kneading along tense muscles, heat flooding between her legs –

“Keep this square too,” he breathes. His fingers wrap around where hers rest on the bow, sorting her grip. “And you hold it like this. Now lift it up, straight line along your body. Don’t be afraid of the string.”

Easy for him to say, when he wears leather gauntlets as part of his everyday fashion. Her coat might absorb some of the impact, but she’s seen enough recruits to know what damage a bow can do even without an arrow.

“Now for your arrow.”

There’s no way to do this that isn’t awkward, that doesn’t send her bottom straight into his crotch – or, more accurately, the tops of his thighs, with the inches between them. She feels the muscles tense against her and its – distracting. Her breath pants out of her, mouth dry.

“No need to worry, Miss,” he murmurs into her hair, fingers looping around hers to nock the arrow, to hold her hand correctly over it. “You’ll hit this one, I swear.”

She doesn’t trust her voice, her face too flushed and her throat too tight, and so she just nods. It doesn’t help; his face is so close to hers, his nose runs down the length of the bone behind her ear and –

“Don’t let go.” His chest presses against her back, and she can feel how short his own breaths are. “Just hold on.”

He pulls back, her hand coming with his, and he grunts. “This isn’t weighted properly for you,” he says, not in that low, soothing murmur.

“It’s borrowed.” She tries not to think about how tense his body is behind hers. “They said it was the only one sized for a woman. Children use it to train.”

Obi lets out a laugh with none of his usual humor. “Oh, I’d love to see a kid pull this bow. Or any one of those ladies.”

She feels his grin against the back of her head, and she has no time to stop him before she says, too loud, “Now, Miss, just pretend it’s my heart. You’ll have no trouble hitting as easy a target as that.”

“Obi!” she hisses, but it’s too late, he’s made them release, and –

And it hits the target, just off center.

“Ah!” he cries, staggering back with a grin. “A hit! A palpable hit!”

“Don’t –” She slaps a hand to her face, groaning. “You’re making a scene –”

“Ah, my lady!” a man from the gallery calls out. “Pretend the next is Ryouta’s heart! He could use an occupation!”

“Ah.” She feels her cheeks flush. “I don’t –”

“If that’s where Lady Shirayuki would like to aim,” Ryouta replies evenly. A small smile twitches at the corner of his serious mouth.

She looks down the field, trying to catch from the ladies’ expressions what she should do, but –

But none of them are smiling, not anymore.

Shirayuki dresses for dinner at Svarbjorn as if she is going into battle.

Ryouta seats her beside him every night, much to the displeasure of his cousins. She’d thought at first it was in deference to her position as Izana’s emissary, but the night before last he’d leaned in, had asked her with a smile if her mother was a huldra for her to have hair so red and skin so fair.

It’s clear why so many cousins have come from the woodwork to comfort Lord Ryouta in his trying time; Countess Sverborn may yet be waiting for the spring thaw to go to her last resting place, but her lord husband considers her dead and buried.

And she has shown up just in time to be a distraction and a common enemy both.

Shirayuki travels with four chests of clothes; the wardrobe Izana has deemed necessary for a woman of her position. She rarely strays from the first – full of casual gowns that require minimal restrictive undergarments and allow a full range of movement. They are dull, muted colors, as the Northern lords prefer, and are trimmed simply, with fur or lace or restrained embroidery.

The second is her where she picks her dinner dresses, more formal pieces that are somewhat humble nonetheless. Finer fabrics, decoration definitely not meant for pacing snow-covered gardens or climbing dusty shelves, but still befitting a girl of the merchant class.

The third she’s opened only since arriving in Svarbjorn, when the first night a cousin mentioned her shabby dinnerware. She’d thought, at the time, that it had been a friendly warning, a hint that Lord Ryouta kept a more modern court than the other lords.

When she throws open the lid of of the fourth chest, it is with blood on her mind. She knows better now.

And if there is anything a poor, defenseless merchant girl knows how to do, it’s how to get red out of her ledger.

She knows she’s chosen right when Obi practically trips over his tongue, only managing a tight, “Miss,” before escorting her down to dinner.

“You are sublime, tonight,” Lord Ryouta tells her, pulling out the chair to his right. Obi, on her left, snorts.

She’s not worried about either of them. She stares right down the table, to where Lady Madoka and her ilk look as if their venison stew disagrees with them, and says, “Oh, thank you, Lord Ryouta. I just found this at the bottom of my trunks and thought it needed an airing.”

The sound of tinkling crystal disrupts Ryouta’s next thought.

“Hatsue!” he gasps, staring at the shatter glass. “Are you all right?”

“She’s fine,” Madoka simpers with a smile that does not reach her eyes. “…Just a shock, is all.”

“I could look at her, if she’s injured,” Shirayuki offers, all innocence.

“No.” Madoka glowers. “You’ve done quite enough today, Lady Shirayuki.”

“Careful, Miss,” Obi warns with a low chuckle, “I think you’re about to find yourself at the end of a very pointed joke.”

“Oh good,” she says evenly. “You know how I love to laugh.”

He grins, turning his head away. “You’re trouble, Miss.”

Obi is not wrong. The course has hardly finished when one of the footmen appear beside her with a glass of red wine.

“Compliments of Lady Hatsue,” he tells her. She glances worriedly at Obi.

“It could hardly be poisoned,” he says with a shrug. “Not that I think you should drink it.”

Shirayuki grimaces. “I won’t.”

“It’ll be an insult if you don’t,” he remind her. “Still not saying you should, though.”

Her mouth pulls flat. “I’m sure Hatsue will survive it.”

Her curiosity gets the better of her not minutes later.

A darting glance, and suddenly the stem is in her hand, she’s taken a sip –

And she feels that slight rush, the fuzzy feeling of alcohol starting to seep into her blood.

“Oh,” she murmurs, setting the glass down carefully. “That’s not…that’s not wine.”

She doesn’t even see the glass leave the table before he’s setting it down.

“No,” Obi says tightly, “and I can tell you it’s not served in a glass that large.”

She’s mid-conversation with Ryouta, trying to impress on him the safety of the hybrid, when she forgets what’s in her glass. Blindly, she reaches for it, bringing to to her lips –

It’s wine, well-watered. She blinks.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Obi lift his glass in salute.

“From Lady Madoka,” a footman tells her, when she’s finished her glass.

Obi takes one glance and downs the rest of his.

Shirayuki receives compliments of the same sort from Lady Saeko, Lady Asami, Lady Tokiyo, and Lady Misato before she catches the way Obi lists in his seat, the imprecise way he holds his knife. Or, more accurately, the way he is not holding his knife to cut beef flesh.

She says his name, and it takes nearly ten seconds for him to turn his head to her, eyes glassy.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers to Ryouta discreetly, and she urges Obi to his feet. “This rarely –”

He holds up a hand with a smile. “It’s all right, Lady Shirayuki,” he laughs, keeping his words pitched soft. “It happens to the best of us.”

She bites her lips and does not say, not Obi.

There is a part of her that expects him to right himself as they turn to corner, to turn to her with a smile and say, please, Miss, have a little more faith, but –

But as soon as they are safely down the corridors, away from the rowdiness of the dinner party, he slumps into her, nearly bowling her over.

“When did you gain so much weight?” she grouses, heaving him up the stairs, one arm wrapped around his waist.

“It’s muscle,” he slurs, pressing a scandalized hand to his chest. “I’m very svelte for a man my size – my height! My height.”

“I’m –” her foot catches as she mounts the landing, sending them twisting to the wall, her back banging painfully against ornate wainscotting – “sure.”

She forgets how much taller he is until moments like this, when he’s so close she can’t ignore the way her eyes only come up to his neck, and his mouth hovers wetly above her brow.

“Hmm,” he grunts, intrigued. His body leans into hers with purpose, their torsos aligned chest to hip.

“Obi –”

“You know, Miss,” he murmurs, breath curling far too close to her ear, the sweet odor of the wine washing over her. “If you wanted a scandalous tryst in the alcoves –”

“Don’t tease, Obi,” she huffs, putting her palms to his chest in heaving. She only succeeds in getting his hands under him, one planted just above each of her shoulders.

“Tease?” he rumbles, one corded thigh slotting between her own. She can’t help the flush that stains her cheeks, nor the way his eyes follow its spread as it works down to her decolletage. “You want me to hold you down with my thighs.”

She’s never – not quite like that – not how he means – “Obi!”

“Hmm?” His nose rubs against the top of her head, breathing her in. “I think this might be what you like. Someone being rough.”

“N-no! That’s not –” her chest heaves, and she does not dislike the way his eyes are riveted to it, how he looks like her body gives him ideas – “Obi!”

“Mm, you’re right.” He pulls back, gaze wandering up to her face. One hand lifts, tucking a loose slip of hair behind her ear. “Not rough. Maybe a little ruffled. Like they know you’re not glass.”

It’s the heat that coils between her legs that makes her bold, that makes her lift her gaze and say, “Maybe. If it’s the right person.”

Neither of them move, but oh, how she burns.

“Anyway!” she yelps, ducking out from under his arm. “Your room’s not far.”

It’s a small victory, getting him inside without either of them getting concussed. Whoever decided to put statuary in a dark hall will get a very stern note from her in the morning.

“Ah,” he sighs. “The bed.”

He pitches forward, flat as a plank, and it’s only by grabbing his sash that she keeps him upright.

“Obi,” she says, “you can’t go to sleep in your formal clothes.”

“Sure I can.” He stumbles. “Just watch.”

“You shouldn’t!” She watches him sway in front of her, and she sighs. “Here, I’ll – I’ll help you.”

It’s quick work to remove the cape and sash, but he is – distracting when she starts on the buttons of his tunic, humming appreciatively as her fingers part the first set of buttons.

“Behave,” she tells him, full of censure. Of at least, she tries, but it comes out breathier than she would like, and he merely grins, putting his hands on her waist to steady himself.

“I always behave, Miss.”

That, of course, is when she feels the cold air on her back, and realizes he’s unbuttoned nearly half the tiny seed pearls that have kept her dress clenched to her body. The low shoulders droop as she jerks away, decolletage gaping indecently as she tries to hold it together.

“Obi!”

“I was just helping, Miss,” he says, too-innocent, not enough gold in his gaze.

“Helping take off my dress?”

“Is that not what we’re doing?” She doesn’t know how he can get his voice to sound like – like that, all rich and deep and – and – “Helping each other?”

The noise she makes is…not negative. In its entirety.

“You help me.”She squeaks, his finger tracing down her spine. “I help you.”

He’s far too close when he says, “We help each other. In mutually beneficial ways.”

Her hands shake on his clasps. “You say that now,” she warns, “but you’re far too drunk to help me out of this corset.”

“Oh, Miss, I have very dexterous fingers.” She feels a tug on one of the laces. “And if I didn’t…I could just cut it off.”

Her corset is definitely a shade too tight. She can hardly get a breath in.

“Mm, see,” he purrs. “You like that too. I have a few guesses about other –”

“There!” she shouts, a little too loud for the room, backing away. “Done. Now you just can…take off your pants.”

His teeth glint white in the dark. “Mm, but what if I don’t have anything on underneath?”

“T-then keep them on!” The kitchen staff could cook breakfast on her breast, at at this rate. “Just – I’ll help you into bed.”

He makes a disappointed cluck, but climbs under the covers with a dexterity she envies. If only she had the same level of grace sober as he did thoroughly sauced, her dresses might stay neater.

On his back, he stares down at his undershirt, plucking at it with a pouty jut to his lip. “But Miss, I hate sleeping with my shirt on.”

She’s glad he can’t see how red she is in this light. “Then take it off!”

He doesn’t need anymore encouragement than that, whipping it to the floor. She lets out a long, long breath, averting her eyes. He’s gotten paler on their progress, but he’s still – still –

Nice to look at. Yes. That.

“Miss,” he says, so serious. “You should stay with me.”

“Obi –”

He bats the long fringe of his lashes. “What if I’m…sick?”

“You don’t get sick.” Obi honestly has far more luck that he deserves with his habits.

“But what if I do?” he whines, incorrigible. “Shouldn’t you be right here to take care of me.”

She sighs, straightening. “I’m going to be now.”

He makes an interested noise, sitting up a little on the pillows.

“In my own room!”

His disappointed groan follows her as she slips through their adjoining door, into the safety of her own room.

She’s grateful, ultimately, for Obi’s clever hands; she could have never gotten the dress off all by herself, and at this hour she’s loath to disturb a maid.

Still, but the time she’s in her nightgown, tucked snugly in the giant bed Ryouta has given her, Shirayuki’s fuming. She doesn’t – he doesn’t –

She doesn’t like being manhandled. That’s not – that’s not right at all.

Shirayuki rolls up to her side, trying to forget the way he felt against her, the way she shivered when he murmured in her ear, the way he’d looked at her as he’d asked her to come to bed –

Guilt starts to seep in.

He doesn’t get sick, she knows this, but – but she’s never seen him drink so much, and so quickly. It was for her, to save her reputation, to make sure she showed no weakness in front of the vultures Ryouta called cousins, and –

And she kicks back the covers. It’s not as if – they’ve shared before. There’s nothing different about this, no matter…no matter what was said between them.

Heat prickles in her core, and oh, how she wishes she could make herself believe it.

Obi is normally silent when he sleeps, just the even lull of his breath and occasional soft noises to let her know when he’s succumbed to the warmth between them on cold nights in Lyrias.

Tonight, he sleeps the sleep of the drunk. The walls practically rattle with his snores. It’s a miracle she didn’t hear him in her own room.

With a sigh, she crawls into the bed, one knee causing the mattress to dip, and then –

The snores stop. In the thin moonlight cutting through his windows, she makes out a sliver of gold, a flash of teeth.

“You came,” he sighs, in a voice she’s never heard him use. She’s never seen this look on him either, save – save –

When he lifted her, after Sereg. The hooded eyes, the soft mouth. Her heart flutters, feeling it on her again.

“Go to sleep,” she tells him, sliding beneath the covers.That’s all it takes. his eyes close, and –

And he starts up that awful racket.

“Ughhh,” she groans, rolling over. It takes pushing with both her hands and feet to get him on his belly, where at least the sound is muffled.

She huffs, turning her back on him. “Men.”

#shxdowofclarines #obiyuki #sensitive negotiations #my fic #Holiday Promptathon #ans #i really didn't think i'd get a chapter of this out until after january #BUT this prompt happened to fit with it nicely #SORRY IT DID NOT HAVE MORE FLIRTY ARCHERY #only UST charged archery #I HOPE IT SERVES

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