Chapter Text
when is a monster not a monster?
oh, when you love it
“Brother,” Ayaka murmurs in every bit of gentleness expected of her, in every bit of coldness Ayato taught her. “Tell your men to cease.”
Ayato hears gurgling and a choked noise. It echoes with the cicadas in the distance, a reminder that no one can hear them this deep in the forest. Realistically, he knows his people in the Shuumatsuban would do a much quieter, cleaner job but really, this man needed to see his face personally.
She straightens her bangs with a sniff. She never likes the smell of blood. “It seems he’s had enough.”
Ayato nods. Ayaka is the more sensitive of the two, understandably enough. She’s young and only began joining Ayato’s duties to oversee recently. Her duties before usually consisted of public relations and even then, they were from behind a screen. The immaculate face and voice of reason of the Kamisato Clan.
“Stop,” Ayato’s voice is every bit as light and soothing as Ayaka’s, sounding like he’s requesting his attendant to cease pouring him tea rather than telling his subordinate to get his foot off a traitor’s jaw.
The subordinate, whose name always escapes him, lifts his foot and wipes it over the man’s haori.
“Okimoto,” Ayato sing-songs as he gets down on one knee to turn the man’s jaw with his hand. Pity, pity. What a strong-looking jaw it was, too. “We didn’t appreciate that tip you sent the Tenryou Commission very much. An inspection of our warehouses in broad daylight, can you imagine!”
Ayato tutted.
“To think, we even arranged for your family to leave for Liyue. Protected by our very own. Remember that?”
Okimoto’s eyes shut.
“You are a friend of the family,” Ayato says pleasantly. A hand runs over his jaw, soothing the teary-eyed man. “I hope to keep it that way. For our sake. Yours and mine.”
His first tear falls, mixing with the pool of his own spit and blood.
“No matter,” Ayato stands up, looking back at Ayaka, fan folded behind her. It seems as if she was bored already. He slips off his haori, leaving him in his kimono. He folds it, and all but tosses it on top of Okimoto’s heaving chest. “The inspection got me to meet with Kujou Sara once again. Suspicious but naïve as ever, that girl.”
Okimoto attempts to sit up, limbs shaking.
“There you go,” Ayato smiles. “An honorable man despite it all, getting up all by yourself.”
When Ayaka was a young girl, she often clung onto the hem of Ayato’s hakama like a lifeline, like she would fall like a puppet without strings if she didn’t.
She was dependent on her brother in a way that amused their parents and more often, annoyed Ayato. It was embarrassing to have your kid sister bawl when you shooed her away for your weekend calligraphy lessons.
All the more embarrassing when you wanted to kiss your tutor two years your senior, the closest to Ayato’s age anyone had been to set foot in the Kamisato estate.
He’d learned you could kiss with tongue, and that hands wandered, and that ink took forever to come off silk house clothes.
All the while Ayaka cried and cried on the other side of the house, wanting to play with her big brother.
So, he snuck candies in her hand before bed that night, all the while he stared at the ceiling, dazed from his futon.
Forgiveness from Ayaka came easy.
The swelling in his heart in remembering what this other boy’s lips tasted like was a whole other matter.
“I got that for you, if you’ll remember,” Ayaka mutters on their walk back to the estate.The common man wouldn’t have been able to catch the petulance as well as Ayato would. “Your birthday two years ago.”
“I wouldn’t let him go home in that state, we still own the land this forest is on,” Ayato says in return, a touch of annoyance in his voice. Sure, but what of his face? He half-expects her to ask.
No, really. She really couldn’t wait until they got home and for their subordinates to disperse for her to bring that up?
Realization grew on Ayaka’s face, ever innocent and pure as fresh snow as she sighs. I suppose you’re right, is wordless between them.
Ayaka was still learning, he rationalizes.
She saw violence and only ever saw violence now in these operations, but apparently not the fact it was all but a means to their clan’s peace, to their peace of mind if Ayato's quieter dealings were kept that way. The ships that docked by the estate were necessary for his dealings and to have to go through Ritou would raise far too much suspicion. The steady stream of weapons and supplies kept the Shuumatsuban happy, his benefactors happy, and kept the Yashiro Commission thriving in how they strengthened these ties.
And when Ayaka only knew peace as a young girl, she never saw the undercurrent of violence between the stilted negotiations of clans, how the vestige of what was the Kamisato Clan's greatness faltered without the political upper hand. The honor that had to be shed in their toil to keep relations as immaculate as they were.
Ayato knows she’s sharp, and that’s why he lets her follow him around still, and to learn the uglier side of their affairs. He knows her kindness is an asset, and not a weakness. She carries with her a sweetness that Ayato only ever feigns.
And he loves her, solely.
“I apologize, Ayaka,” he begins. “I adored it. The embroidery you specially commissioned at the sleeves, especially. It was my favorite for quite a while.”
Her face perks up a bit, and she picks up her pace.
Ayato’s first time years ago was perfect.
His hole burned as Madarame’s fingers thrusted into him, his rim possibly too relaxed. Madarame doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t speak much but none of that matters because another man is inside him.
Years later, Ayato himself will promote him to a Commission Representative but as he twisted his fingers in the young master, he was but another attendant to an advisor of his father’s.
They were both yet to matter.
“Does it thrill you, Madarame?” Ayato grinned as he pulled his legs closer to his chest.
He was already nineteen and only wished he’d done all this sooner.
“Fucking the first son of Commissioner Kamisato,” Ayato clarified, as if Madarame didn’t know perfectly well what he meant. How perhaps Ayato just wanted to say dirty words his prim and proper upbringing slapped out of him. “Tainting him—”
“You asked for this, Ayato,” Madarame hissed as he began pumping. The spit had dried out, but the look on Ayato’s face seemed like he was only twice as enthralled. “I mean, my lord.”
“Call me a whore,” Ayato asked with a wicked grin on his face.
Madarame nearly jumped back.
“Now, now,” Ayato places his knees over the bespectacled man's shoulders. “I just think it would be thrilling for you to look down on me.”
Madarame stared suspiciously. “And you’ve never done this before.”
“None of it, Madarame.”
“Archons…” Madarame shook his head, and Ayato’s ankle tugs at him to pull him closer, legs limber from combat training.
“Are you trying to get all of them to hear me?” Ayato sighed and his hands found their way to the sides of his face.
“Young master,” Madarame mutters, almost like a warning. “We can stop anytime, if you do not wish to continue.”
Ayato’s laugh trilled in time with the sparrows chirping outside. “You speak so formally, so avoidant. I’ve asked you for one thing, haven’t I? The smarter ones of this estate know to do as they’re told.”
Madarame’s jaw sets, but Ayato knew he just got flustered too easily. He’s really much cuter without those glasses of his.
“Hurry now, I can feel how big you’re getting by my thigh.” Ayato tightened around his fingers like a dare. “Do the honor of breaking me open, why don’t you?”
“My lord,” Madarame bows as they enter the estate, clipboard in hand.
It’s all for show, and Ayato knows. Madarame knows every single affair under the household, much to his chagrin. What he does use it for is to hide the back of it. Behind the small compilation of timetables has a list of Ayato’s options of the sexual nature listed down by the hour they’re available, if needed. Spare him the inconvenience and headache of rifling through whoever is permitted to excuse themselves when Ayato gets bored.
“The new housekeeper is here, as requested,” Madarame says, but there’s something in his eyes that’s already chastising Ayato before Ayato knows exactly why.
Ayato yawns. The grime around his ankles and the blood at the sleeves of his kimono has him itching for a hot bath and his warm futon. Tea before he slept sounded divine right about now.
“Tell her I’ll see her in the morning,” Ayato calls out as he undoes the ribbon in his hair, leaving it in a trail behind him along with the sash of his kimono. “Someone run me a bath. A hot one, please.”
“My lord,” an unfamiliar voice says, dignified and accented.
Ayato turns his head at the voice, surprised to see a blond, every bit as pale as him if not for the seemingly permanently flushed tops of his cheeks that suggested he was not from here. From where he could see, he was dotted with freckles that surrounded forest green eyes.
Well, there’s a color I’ve never tasted.
“Thoma, from…” Thoma (apparently) hesitates, as he bows as any Inazuman would. “Mondstadt.”
Ayato raises an eyebrow. “And?”
Thoma maintains his bow. “Inazuma, my lord. My father was from here.”
A snort from a guard by the door is heard. “A mutt,” he whispers to the guard beside him.
Thoma remains unmoving, despite being in earshot. Ayato, however, does notice his ears turn red.
“Well, Thoma of Mondstadt,” Ayato calls out. “I have two things to ask of you already. If that is alright.”
The younger man stands, eyes fixed in obedience. “Yes, my lord.”
The words sound so sweet on his lips. So boyish and earnest. What lucky lovers he must have.
“One, strike that guard for speaking out of turn,” Ayato points to the guard who spoke. It couldn’t hurt to have a bit of excitement at the end of a long night, to have one more for the road. “And when it’s so late, and I’ve just been so exhausted from my work.”
“My lord! I-I apologize—”
Ayato clicks his tongue, as he cocks his head. “Take it with honor, Yamada.” He turns to Thoma. “As hard as you can.”
There’s an evident fear in Thoma’s eyes that replaces the guarded obedience he had seconds earlier, and Ayato thinks it’s well and truly adorable how seemingly new he is to all this.
Thoma looks strong, wide shoulders and a firm body underneath his tight yet practical black shirt. Yamada would likely bleed if Thoma really wanted him to.
But Thoma looking at him with the expression that questions whether or not he was serious makes him think he likely won’t. Oh well.
“Thoma, honor is held in high regard in this home,” Ayato says warmly, a gentle emphasis in home like a welcome. “I suggest you maintain yours from this early on.”
Ayato catches a glint in Thoma’s lush, lush green eyes before his fist collides with Yamada’s cheek.
And now, he thinks gleefully, Thoma belongs to him.
“Good boy,” Ayato says, watching Thoma’s quickened breathing with fascination.
His new puppy needed some breaking in, didn’t he?
“Two,” Ayato calls out, as he turns to the direction of the bathhouse. “Clean me up.”
Attendants quickly flit at the request but he raises a hand.
“Just you, Thoma of Mondstadt.”
Thoma turns when Ayato slips off his clothing. He faces a corner with his hands behind his back, obedient and patient like a child. The red of his ears are gone, and that puzzles Ayato more than anything.
Was he not embarrassed? Last he’d heard, the people of Mondstadt never often bathed in front of each other.
What a shame, as Ayato thought he was rather radiant, especially under the soft lighting around them like this. Perhaps a hot springs trip would do him some good.
Ayato slides into the bath, and it’s as if his sore muscles sigh out happily with him. Archons, what a day.
“You may proceed.”
Thoma belongs under Inazuma sky too, Ayato thinks, the way the blue-white moon casts over his hair. He’s interesting in a way that’s rare in these parts, with his pinkish skin and how he pronounces his vowels.
He feels the washcloth attentively scrub at his arms, using his own hands to clean underneath Ayato’s nails. Ayato lets the back of his head hit the edge of the tub, letting his mind still at the way Thoma scrubs his tired limbs up and down.
The circles on his chest elicit a soft sigh, cruel in how mindful he’s being with his skin. The elder attendants would tut at his skin and scrub deep, near painfully and mutter about how it was important to brighten his skin. But Thoma seemed almost hesitant in how he took care of his master, all the shakiness of a new face in the estate.
“What have you heard about me, Thoma of Mondstadt?”
Now there’s a fun question.
Thoma stiffens in response but he presses a hand right under Ayato’s nape. “My lord, if you could lean forward. I’d like to do your back.”
Ayato hums, but follows. Thoma is gentle when he pushes Ayato’s hair over to the front of his shoulder and moves to the back of the tub. A rougher sponge is taken out and rubbed over his shoulder blades in the same firm circles. His eyes close pleasantly before he hears his answer.
“I was told to be careful around you, my lord.”
Ayato barks out a laugh, lean shoulders shaking. “What do they take me for? A lady of the shrine? Guuji Yae would have a field day if she heard you say such a thing.”
Ayato doesn’t see the surprise in Thoma’s eyes, as if he were wondering why he didn’t ask who told him that. It was rather clear — who else but the fussy Madarame?
“They meant it…differently,” Thoma says like a whisper, picking up wet strands of hair to place over Ayato’s shoulder. “How you…take your companions when you’re alone.”
“Where do I take my companions, Thoma?” Ayato questions.
“To-To bed.”
Ayato laughs openly now, and Thoma’s hand doesn’t seem to stop carrying out his duties, scrubbing down his spine like he’s doing ordinary cleaning as opposed to bathing a fully grown man ten years his senior.
“That Madarame,” Ayato rubs the side of his face, a grin still intact as he shakes his head. “Discretion is not a concept he’s familiar with.”
Thoma is silent as he moves to massage shampoo into Ayato’s scalp.
“Only to those who come close to me this way, so I hope you don’t get too jealous.”
“I’m not, my lord.”
Another laugh. “Too honest. It’s cute.”
Ayato steps out of the tub and onto a stool, where Thoma kneels rather prettily in front of him as his legs are scrubbed the same way. Too kind, too gentle. How very …Mondstadt of him.
Thoma starts at his ankle, because of course he does. Ayato doesn’t suppress the giggle when he scrubs the soles of his feet, before he switches washcloths to scrub over the length of toned calves, and over his long thighs. Thoma doesn’t hesitate in the way he gently cleans the underside of his half-hard cock, eyes trained on nothing but his own hand.
“Are you waiting for me to take you to bed, Thoma?”
The washcloth is lifted away from his body and Thoma looks up at him. “No, my lord.”
There’s a tilt of his head, hair falling clumsily to one side of his face. “Do you find me unattractive?” Is there some standard your home nation brings to mine?
“I find you beautiful, my lord.”
“Is this honesty or flattery?”
Thoma blinks once. “I swear to you, nothing but honesty.”
It’s endearing, if a little naïve. “You swear, you say.”
Ayato’s foot finds itself on Thoma’s lap. Thoma doesn’t move it away.
The wind whistles outside.
Ayato knows this silence between him and his treat for the night well. It’s hesitance, as if they don’t believe the Lord Commissioner himself is propositioning them. It was silly and a waste of time in his opinion.
Ayato was but a man, after all. So what if he preferred his hole stretched till he couldn’t take it, till their nails dug into near ivory skin? It was always worth seeing the looks on their faces. The horror, almost.
This is why Ayato never asks them to use him in his own words. He delights in the awkward fumbling, the shaky touching, the apprehensive circling around his wrists. Let them think they own his body.
“Shall I dry you, my lord?” Thoma asks, cheeks bathing in the moonlight and it takes everything in Ayato not to lean over, run his own hand across it like a taunt. At this rate, he might as well have slapped the young man.
“Thoma, are you a virgin?” Ayato nearly snaps. Thoma flinches as if he did.
“Pardon?”
Ayato would’ve forgiven him if he stuttered, but infuriatingly, he didn't. It’s polite.
“I’m not, my lord,” Thoma says matter-of-factly, as if Ayato simply asked what was for breakfast tomorrow.
Thoma gently sets down his foot before he stands up to grab Ayato’s yukata wordlessly.
Ayato decides it would be (further) impolite if he pressed on, so he spreads his arms for Thoma to clothe him and tie the sash around his waist. Like a good puppy.
“Shall I see you to bed, my lord?” Thoma asks, hands behind his back. He even smiles.
Ayato raises a hand. “No need, Thoma. This will be all.”
Thoma bows.
Ayato finds himself in his futon, dreaming of green as he drifts off to sleep.
He wonders what Mondstadt is like this time of year.