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yymiya · 2 years

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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?”

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