VatnaLilja

The ring glows as you slide it on, its warmth against your skin familiar and comfortable. As your world fades away, you envision your large, downy bed in your quarters. Moments later, you feel the duvet beneath as you appear in its center. The room glows with the diffused light of several candles, lit in the event you arrive late at night. You sniffle as you find Mu sleeping soundly at the foot of your bed and collapse on the covers with him, tears streaming from your eyes. He wakes with a confused mumble when you hug him tight against your chest.

"Lord, is that you?" he asks.

"Mu."

"What's wrong? Are you crying?" He wriggles in your arms and pats your face with his paws.

"Can you find Berrien?" you ask.

"Of course."

You release the little round black cat, and he looks you over where you lie in bed, your face streaked with tears. He bumps his head against yours with a loud purr, then jumps to the floor. You watch him bat at the door until he gets his paw in the crack and opens it wide enough to sneak through.

"Mu," you say.

"Yes?"

"If he's asleep, tell him to hurry. I don't care what he's wearing," you say. While you're sure Berrien could dress in his entire tailcoat ensemble in record time, you currently don't care about presentation or manners.

"Got it," Mu says before disappearing into the hallway.

You bury your face in the soft blankets and take several deep breaths, struggling to contain your sorrow and clear your mind. You're not sure how many minutes pass, but when your door opens again, you glance up to discover a concerned Berrien in the doorway. Mu must have conveyed the sense of urgency properly because he's only in trousers and a barely tucked-in dress shirt. His pink eyes widen as he hurries to your bed, and you crawl to him as he sits. When you fling yourself into his arms, he holds you close to his chest and runs his hand along your back.

"Lord, what is it?" he asks.

You shake your head as a heavy sob wracks your body. He asks no further questions and rocks you gently as he murmurs consolations. Your tears fade, and you quiet in his hold, soothed by his reassurances. You heave a tired sigh as you grip the fabric of his shirt and tuck your head under his chin.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asks.

"This is plenty."

He still smells like sleep, his scent not masked by his usual cologne. Without thinking, you push your face into his neck as you inhale deeply. The hand rubbing your back pauses. You pull away slightly to look up at him, and he meets your gaze, his expression tender. He cups your cheek and presses his mouth against your forehead.

"My Lord, I admit . . . it's difficult to think as a devoted servant should at this moment," he says.

"Then right now, let yourself be Berrien Cliane, the man. Not Berrien Cliane, the butler," you say.

He hesitates as he second-guesses himself, then relents to your permission and settles his lips against yours. Whatever sadness you felt evaporates instantly, and your heart leaps as he kisses you. His lips are delicate and sweet as they brush against yours, and his touch is light and slow. You wind your arms around his neck and close your eyes, savoring the moment you've fantasized about for so long.

He whispers your name and kisses your face, letting his lips trail over your features. You lift your chin, and he buries his face in your neck. You moan, and he clings to you in response as his breathing grows more rapid.

"The way I feel about you . . . I've never felt so strongly for someone before." He sighs his words onto your skin. "Never in my entire life."

His lips find yours, and you can tell he's tempering his desire. You pull his hands free, then fall back onto the bed and stare up at him, your chest rising and falling in excitement. The comfortable shirt you wore to bed rides high and reveals your stomach, distracting him completely. He blinks slowly, his long dark lashes mesmerizing with each sweep. Behind them, his eyes are black pools of anticipation.

"May I demonstrate those feelings for you?" he asks.

"As if you need to ask," you say.

He smiles affectionately as he rests his hand on your stomach, then leans over and locks his lips onto yours once again. He moves his touch to your waist and grips it as you tug his shirt from the tops of his trousers, then slip your hands beneath it once it hangs free. His abs contract as you graze your fingertips across them.

His own hands are less sure as he inches the hem of your shirt upward until he reveals your chest. He breaks the kiss to admire your body, and even in the low light, you can see the scarlet splashed across his face.

"You are beyond beautiful, my Lord." He shakes his head slightly, then calls you by your name instead. He dips his head, and you rumble with pleasure as he explores your nipple with his tongue, teasing its edges until it stands firm. He then draws it into his mouth and savors it while his hands skim your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps as they wander.

You pull at his shirt until he hastily unbuttons it with trembling hands and shakes it free. His slender body is warm with arousal, and when you touch him, he coos in delight. He returns his lips to yours and lowers himself, molding his chest to your own. You feel his heart hammer a reckless rhythm, which excites you more.

You thrust your body against his, groaning. In response, he lets out a small gasp as if having a realization and lifts his weight. When you open your eyes, you find him hovering over you, looking remorseful. You blink several times in confusion.

"What is it, Berrien?" you ask.

"This is reckless," he says.

"I don't mind! Be reckless!" You sit up and line his jaw with kisses.

He laughs, a sound filled with sadness. Knowing he's made up his mind, you fall back onto your elbows. Your face must convey your disappointment because he runs his hand through your hair with a whispered apology.

"This will consume me," he says. "My love for you is boundless--if I do not restrict myself to our most important task and instead allow myself this indulgence, then I'll be lost forever in my desire for you."

"Well . . . when you put it that way, I can't help but be charmed."

"Though, perhaps the Lord will occasionally indulge me in a secret kiss or two."

You grin with a wink, then adjust your clothes until you're presentable. He dons his shirt and stands to properly tuck it in. He then clears his throat as he combs his fingers through his ebony and ivory locks, pushing them into place.

"Some tea, perhaps?"

"That would be nice," you say. "If it takes you a little longer, I don't mind. In case there's something that needs your attention."

He coughs several times with his hand to his mouth and quickly heads for the hall. Before he closes the door behind him, he looks back at you with an embarrassed, guilty smile. "Perhaps that's best. For the both of us."

The door then latches shut, and you're alone. You fall into your pillows, swearing at how things have unfolded, but you've completely forgotten about the anguish that brought you here tonight. Your eyes flutter shut as you recall his scent and the sweet sounds he had made.

Restless, you get out of bed and wander the mansion's halls. This is a now-familiar ritual, one which you're bound to do again. Your mind often races at night, full of worry about life in your own world and what's to become of these men you've grown so fond of. Your heart aches for them since you have no easy solution to their problems. They carry so much pain—a pain so profound that it qualified them to be powerful angel hunters.

Your feet carry you to the first floor, where you flip through things in the kitchen for a while. A cup of hot herbal tea will be the perfect remedy for your insomnia. After putting the kettle on, you follow the halls to the staircase leading to Berrien's basement study. Through the cracks around the door, you can see light. He must be doing his research.

You return to the kitchen and steep enough for several cups, then return to the staircase and creep down the steps. If Berrien is in deep thought, it's impossible to interrupt him, but you prefer to be polite. You stop when you reach the bottom, your heart warming at the sight of him. He's fallen asleep on his desk with his head nestled in his arms atop his journal.

You clear away the empty teacup next to him and set down the pot, then lean your hip against his desk and admire his gentle features. Every man in the house is handsome, but Berrien has a graceful beauty unique to your two worlds. You sweep his bangs from his face and tuck a few strands of hair behind his ear.

"My Lord," he mumbles, still asleep.

This isn't new, though you were surprised when he admitted so openly he dreams of you at night and does everything he can to make you appear in those dreams. The revelation embarrassed you for a while, but the more time you spent in the mansion, the better you understood him. Besides, if you can bring him solace, you don't mind the form it takes.

After pulling another chair beside him, you sit and pluck the quill dangling in his fingers free. He stirs with a faint smile. Whatever dream he's having must be a nice one. You'd like to let him sleep, but he ought to do it in bed, not at his desk.

With your hand in his hair, you whisper his name, and he murmurs. You tuck your second hand into his and squeeze it as you caress his knuckles with your thumb. He stirs, and his soft pink eyes, obscured by long black eyelashes, drift open. He draws your hand to his face and nuzzles it.

"Berrien, you shouldn't sleep like this," you say.

"You're right, of course, but indulge me and let me stay this way for a moment longer," he says, pleasantly drowsy.

"I brought some herbal tea, but I don't think you need any," you say.

"I only need the presence of the Lord. Your hand is so warm, so calming."

"Hold it as long as you like," you say.

"I was lonely here in my study. I wanted to see your face, but . . . "

"I was asleep."

"My Lord appeared in my dreams to comfort me, and now you're here." He sits up and rests his back against his chair, still holding your hand. "I'm sorry for saying such things. I don't mean to burden you."

"Berrien."

You tug him by his hand into an embrace. He stiffens, and you feel his initial instinct to fight you, but after a beat, he relaxes into your arms with a sigh instead. His warm breath washes across your neck, tickling your skin as he leans heavily into you. You'd do anything to fill the emptiness inside him, to free him from the melancholy caused by the memories of lost comrades. He says your presence and affection help, but you can't undo all those years of loneliness in mere months. You tighten your hold on him.

"My Lord," he whispers.

"If seeing my face would make you feel better, you have my permission to let yourself in and hold my hand as I sleep," you say.

"I don't think that's appropriate—"

"I'm insisting."

"Then I can hardly argue," he says with a quiet laugh. "Let me pour that tea before it gets cold, since you went to the trouble of brewing it."

He releases you and turns his attention to the teapot. Once he finds a clean cup among his things, he wipes out his own and fills them both. He hands you the drink, and steam curls from the brim, bringing with it a grassy, lemony aroma. You relish the tea's flavor as the two of you settle into a comfortable silence.

Without asking, he retakes your free hand and closes his eyes as he drinks. Occasionally, he clutches your hand to make sure you're still there with him. The reassurance brings joy and relief to his face each time.

He breaks the silence, his eyes shining with emotion. "These are the happiest moments for me, when I can spend time with my Lord."

"You can have as much of my time as you want," you say.

"Then stay here with us as long as possible. I know I can't keep you, but . . . when you're not here, I reflect on my inadequacies. No, you don't need to hear about that." He forces a smile.

You set down your tea and grasp his other hand. "We depend on each other, Berrien. You can share things with me."

A delicate flush of pink spreads across his porcelain cheeks. "I can't help but compare myself to the other butlers and wonder if I'm worthy of serving you. I must do more to protect those I love with my own hands."

"This place would fall apart without you. Give yourself more credit."

He takes a deep breath as he weaves his fingers with yours. "I will. Please watch over me."

The moment stretches on longer than you expect, and there's something more than warm gratitude and admiration in his eyes. His hands twitch as his hold on you tightens. It's easy to see he wants more. He's a man like any other, regardless of how many years he's been alive, but as long as there are angels in this world, he will constrain himself to his servant role.

"Always. My affection is yours. Be as greedy as you like, preferably before I get too old."

"My Lord . . . "

You release his hands as you stretch with a yawn. He stammers, beside himself with surprise. The faint blush in his cheeks turns crimson. You stand and pat his shoulder, enjoying his flustered state. You didn't mean to tease him—everything you said was true. If it gave him hope or encouraged him to be bolder, then all the better.

"Back to bed for me," you say.

"Yes, of course." He gets to his feet as he regains his composure.

As you reach the first step, you give him a pointed look.

"Yes, Lord?" he asks.

"Please don't sleep at your desk," you say. "It's bad for your back."

"Of course. I'll put my things away and go to bed myself," he says.

"Good." You grin, then climb the steps. When you reach the top, you call down to him. "I mean it."

The sound of his soothing laugh floats up to you. "Yes, my Lord. I hope you have pleasant dreams."

"You too, Berrien."

After your long, warm bath, you collapse in bed and stare at the dreary gray on the other side of the windows. The rainy season has come to the mansion and has had various effects on the inhabitants. Though stuck indoors, you enjoy the soft pitapat of raindrops on the glass panes and the flickering candlelight's cozy mood. You bunch a pillow under your chin and watch streaks of water trail down the window until your door creaks open behind you. You glance at your visitor, discovering Hanamaru holding two steaming teacups as he lets himself in.

"My Lord, I have some tea."

He pushes the door shut with his heel, then brings the cups to your bed with a shrewd look. Though he only brings you tea, he makes the act seem inappropriately decadent. You sit up with a smile, take a cup from him, and warm your hands on the ceramic. Without asking for permission, he sits on your bed and yawns.

"The rain has a way of making tasks difficult, doesn't it?" he asks.

"You're saying the rain makes you even lazier?" you ask.

"Perhaps, but I think the Lord might like to lie around as much as I do," he says.

You sip your tea. "It's true I've been feeling a little down lately."

"I wasn't judging you. I was merely observing that our interests . . . align."

"I haven't forgotten about what you said, you know."

He lifts his brow. "Oh, really?"

"About being the one to warm my bed. I can't believe you just said that out loud. In front of everyone."

He laughs in a way that conveys he has no regret over how he acted. It never truly bothered you; besides, he only articulated the desires of every man in the house. Crudely, but honestly. Perhaps that's why no one yelled at him.

"My Lord never objected," he says.

"Hanamaru."

"Days like today are meant for climbing under the covers and relaxing, don't you think?"

"And you'd be the perfect company for it?" you ask.

"Your words, Lord, not mine."

You tut your tongue and set your teacup on the nightstand. It's unclear why he developed such an instant affinity for you. He claimed to have a rude personality, but upon meeting, you felt no distance from him—a distinct difference from almost every other man in the mansion, most of whom took their time warming up to you. Perhaps the reason was that for the past several years, his only company had been children.

You crawl beneath your duvet and flip it over you until you disappear. After several moments, you feel his weight shift on your bed as he inches closer to its head. When he's at your side, you draw the bedding back and give him a grin devious enough to make him pause.

"What are you doing, Hanamaru?" you ask.

"Checking on my Lord," he says.

"Just doing your duties, then."

"Absolutely." He slips his hand under the duvet, and when you don't stop him, most of him follows, forcing you to the center of the bed. "Should I get comfortable?"

"Only if you want to stay," you say.

"How long will you be in bed?"

"If you're wondering whether you ought to get your sake—"

"I am."

"Then hurry and fetch it."

Pleased by your response, he stands and backs out of the room with a lopsided smirk. You occupy yourself with a book from the library while you wait for him to return, and when he does, he's barefoot and missing his tailcoat. His hair is wet, and he's holding a large bottle and two small cups, all proof of his run between the house and the villa.

"Where did your things go?" you ask with a laugh.

"I left them at the front door—they'd yell at me if I tracked water all through the mansion," he says.

He sets the sake down next to you, then turns away and shakes the water from his unruly hair. You're already pouring two cups when he lands heavily on your bed, causing you to splatter several drops.

"O~to, careful with that." He takes the bottle and finishes pouring for you.

"Maru, are you allergic to buttoning your shirt up the entire way?" you ask.

"It's a lot of work, isn't it?" He hands you a cup.

"No, it's not."

You savor the flavor of the sake. It's much nicer than you expected, with a crisp taste of apples. It was meant to be enjoyed, not hammered at until drunk. You weren't sure what he'd bring, but it defied your expectations.

"Maybe I should take it off so I don't get your sheets wet." He works the bottom buttons free and lets the front of his shirt fall open to reveal the rest of his well-defined chest.

You finish your drink and reach out to set the cup next to the bottle, letting your arm brush against his bare abdomen. After peeling his shirt from his body, he drops it to the floor, then slides under the covers again. He brings a comfortable warmth with him. When you cozy up to his side, he curls his arm under your waist and tugs you into his side.

"Maru . . . "

He hums in response.

"You may be unsophisticated—your words, not mine—but you're a good man."

"Oh? What did I do to deserve such praise from the Lord?" he asks.

You huff and poke him square in the chest. "Just accept my compliment."

"Ah, cute." He snags your finger in his hand and squeezes it beneath the duvet. "Which is exactly why I want to protect you."

You try tugging your hand away as your ears burn, but it's useless. Instead, you push as much of your face into your pillow as possible, refusing to look at him. He chuckles as he moves his grasp to your wrist and shakes your arm.

"Come on, now. Show me your face. When you do that, I can't see the Lord's shy face very well, now can I?"

"I'm not being shy," you mumble into your pillow.

"Then what is it?"

"I'm being annoyed."

"In that case, I like it even more."

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and lets his weight sink into your bed as he rests your hand on his chest. You lift your head and watch him for several seconds, studying his facial features. Breathing a soft sigh through your nose, you rest your chin on his shoulder, then let your eyes flutter shut. Before long, the soothing sound of the rain lulls you into a peaceful state. His heart taps a slow, gentle rhythm beneath your palm that blends with the patter of the droplets on the window.

"I wish this could last forever," he whispers.

His long hair tumbles loose around his shoulders and falls between his wide-spread knees, where it pools on the wooden floor. Until recently, you rarely saw him with his hair down, and you savored those moments. Now that he comes to you occasionally for help with his hair when he can't find Ammon, you have the pleasure of seeing him this way far more often.

He hesitated to accept your help since he knew it wasn't the sort of thing a master of the house should do for the servants, but you wouldn't hear it. Thankfully, you hardly had to persuade him before he convinced himself it'd be fine—he'll be the first to admit he is a terrible butler. The faint, roguish grin he constantly casts your way is more than a hint at the unprofessional things that run through his mind.

You start the brush at his natural part and stroke it downward as you lift the locks with your hand and carefully undo any snarls that have dried into place. The fingers of his prosthetic hand tap on the arm of the chair as you detangle his hair, a sign the process stung, but he won't say anything. If only you could bring some proper conditioner from your world, it would solve his problems. You've already raided Lono's cupboards for various lightweight oils and have yet to find a satisfactory substitute.

"Am I hurting you?" you ask.

"Better you than Ammon." He smirks as he runs his good hand along your arm.

Once you've loosened the knot you've been working on, you run your brush through his hair and watch as the stiff bristles straighten the strands. He closes his eyes as you work and slumps toward your hand as his posture softens. His prosthetic hand drapes loosely over the edge of the armrest, the tension it once tapped out forgotten.

The brush's bristles sweep through his hair in a calm rhythm, and the repetitive motion is hypnotic. Before long, you've eased into a daze as you work through his hair meter by meter. He occasionally hums, and his good hand touches you wherever he finds you: your forearm, hip, thigh. It doesn't matter to him.

"Y/N." He opens his eyes and gazes up at you.

"Yes?" you ask.

He tugs you a step forward by the hips, between his wide-set knees, until your shins bump against the front of his chair, and you momentarily fumble the brush.

"Let me spend the night here. It's so much quieter," he says.

You wait for his follow-up clarification that he's joking. Of course, he's never actually joking—he always says what he truly wants and then pretends not to be serious before you become flustered. Moments go by, and he makes no excuse for himself. Instead, he wraps his arms around your waist and flirts his fingers under the hem of your shirt and across the small of your back.

"Next, you'll ask to sleep in my bed." You tuck some hair behind his ear. "Kidding, kidding."

"That's a nice idea. I'm glad you had it," he says.

"Boschi."

You trail your fingertips over his scalp, and his eyes drift shut again.

"Mu can't be the only butler in your bed."

He shifts your shirt several centimeters until he reveals your belly, then presses his lips to it. Your skin prickles with gooseflesh as his tongue glides across your navel, which sends an intense shiver down your spine. You let out a shaky breath as he clutches your hips with his gloved hands and pulls you closer. The brush falls from your hand and clatters on the floor while his kiss wanders across your skin.

Countless nights have gone by where he's dozed by the side of your bed while you slept. Neither of you wanted to be alone. Though you've never told him, you've awoken to find him asleep with his head in his arm on your bed, his good hand loosely clung to yours. You've fantasized about him coming to and crawling under the blankets with you, something you know you both dream of.

His fingertips bring you back to the present as they dig into your hips, and he sucks air between his gritted teeth as he presses his face against your abdomen. You immediately recognize it as a sound of pain and brush his bangs to the side of his forehead. If you show too much sympathy while he's suffering, his pride will prevent him from accepting it.

"Boschi," you whisper.

"I'm fine." The strain in his voice indicates otherwise.

He draws your hand to his mouth, then covers every inch of it in kisses, from the tips of your fingers to your wrist. In an effort to further distract himself, he guides you onto his lap. When he sees your eyes widen, he chuckles with your palm to his mouth as he explores the delicate lines of your hand with his lips. He's at least diverted your attention.

"If you're safe and well, that's more important than a little pain," he says.

He is still warm from his bath, and a faint scent of soap clings to him, which lulls you back into relaxation. Each breath he takes as his chest rises and falls against you is a calm reminder of his devotion to you. It's easy to lose yourself in his presence—while he tends to be overly stoic, his company is always strong and comforting.

"None of it matters if you're not here by my side," you say.

He rests his cheek in your hand and looks at you. His cloudy eye reflexively finds you along with his good one, even though it can't see you. He tilts his head slightly, and your eyes follow his slender neck to the first few buttons of his shirt, which are undone and reveal his collarbones and hints of his chest.

"I'm incredibly lucky," he says.

"Oh?" you ask.

"Mm... thanks to my master, I'm a very happy man." The corners of his mouth turn upward in a smile that reveals his discomfort has subsided. "Why don't we take it easy for the rest of the evening?"

"I haven't put your hair up," you say.

"It can be done later. Let's rest for now," he says.

He hefts you from his lap as he stands and puts you on your feet. It would be romantic of him to carry you anywhere, but you know he lacks faith in his prosthetic arm, and for good reason. With his hand on your back, he steers you toward your bed, and you crawl into its center.

Before he joins you, he opens all of your windows to let in the cool night air, which rustles the curtains around him. He stretches with a loud yawn with his eyes squeezed shut, and his black hair flutters like ribbons in the breeze as he stands against the outside's darkness, the lines of his slender figure highlighted by the glow of the room's warm light. He then sits on the edge of your bed and kicks off his boots. By the time he lies down, you're nestled into the pillows with a grin as you wait for him.

"This smiling face..." He touches your cheek. "I can do my best because of it."

You curl up with him and close your eyes with a content sigh. You feel his arm slide around your waist, then his lips on your forehead. You're certain he had a different idea when you suggested he'd be sleeping in your bed, but he's fallen back into his nebulous position of something more than your butler, yet less than the companion he'd prefer to be.

The boundaries between you are irrelevant—no one could ever fill his role back in your world and make you feel so precious. As he holds you close, you know that no matter where life takes you, he will always remain at your side.

"Of course. How could I forget?" 

You close your book and focus all of your attention on him.

He curls his fist in front of him and leans toward you. As he does so, his glossy black and pink hair frames his small, exuberant face. The light of the fire dances in his eyes and casts a golden hue on his cheeks.

"Nyaa!"

"Oh my god," you mutter, feeling your whole body flush.

"I thought my Lord would be surprised if I suddenly turned into a cat!" he says.

You gesture to the spot on the floor in front of the fire. "Then, would you like to sit with me, kitty-cat?"

"L-lord," he says and stands straight.

You slide from your chair and make yourself comfortable on the rug by the fire, then pat your lap. He shifts his weight from foot to foot in embarrassment for a brief moment, faced with the very situation you know he had hoped for. When you pat your lap again, he collapses in front of you with a laugh and rests his head in the recess made by your crossed legs.

With a hum, you stroke his hair as he gazes up at you with admiration. You cup his left ear; metal meets your skin where the row of teal piercings lines his ear. You trail your finger across them, and he closes his eyes as he pushes the side of his face into your hand. He then reaches up, places his hands on your cheeks, and pulls your face forward until you peer down at him.

"It's terrible of me to do this," he says.

"To do what?" you ask.

"To rest my head in your lap."

"But I asked you."

You split his bangs down the middle of his forehead with your finger. The look on his face tells you he doesn't feel terrible about it at all—it's the sort of thing he's been told not to do by all the other men who also fail terribly at their jobs as so-called butlers. In the beginning, they could have insisted on some semblance of boundaries, but you know them better now, and those days are long since over.

"I guess that's true," he says.

He averts his gaze and refuses to meet your eyes as he glances around the room.

"There's something on your mind. What is it?" you ask.

"Would my Lord kiss me?" he asks.

You lean over him further and press your lips to his, upside-down. You draw his bottom lip between yours, and he returns your kiss eagerly with a passion that overwhelms you. His hands move to the back of your head as he pulls you deeper into the kiss, his desire transparent as his fingers grasp your hair. You run your hands along the bottom of his jaw and caress his neck as his tongue slips into your mouth. His last cup of tea is on his breath, slightly sweet with floral notes.

The moments go by in a warm, hazy blur, and you eventually break the kiss to catch your breath. He peers up at you as you run your thumbs along his chin. It's too easy to be captivated by his large green eyes and delicate facial features—he's gorgeous, and you marvel at your fortune to have him at your side. If you could, you'd take a thousand photos of him and post them to SNS.

But as it stands, your only option is to enjoy him all on your own. Nobody back home will ever understand, but somehow, you think you'll find the strength to carry on. 

"I love you. I would do anything for you." He brushes his lips across yours, then drops his head into your lap.

"You can't say such things," you warn.

"Why?"

"You're adorable with those cat ears on. I might ask you to do something," you say.

"I'd do it! Anything! Do you want me to dance?" His face lights up.

You tug on the ends of the satin bow around his neck until it comes loose and roll the fabric in your hands. Far more untoward thoughts have already crossed your mind, but you're reluctant to simply say them out loud. He has spent hours entertaining you, so you can't hide anything from him, try as you might. He rolls out of your lap, sits on his knees in front of you, and grips the tops of your thighs.

"Should I use my hands on you again?" he whispers.

"Lamli," you say with a small smile as your cheeks grow warm.

He leans in further until he pushes his nose against yours. "My Lord hasn't said no."

"Your Lord also hasn't said yes."

He steals a quick kiss, then sits on his heels and moves his hands to your knees.

"You're lovely when you blush," he says.

"Oh?"

"You're lovely all the time!" he says. "But when you blush, it's as if we're sharing a secret."

"What sort of secret would you like to share?" you ask.

"Let me show you," he says.

He bounces to his feet and hurries to the door, which he locks. He then flattens his back against the solid piece of oak and flashes you his sharp grin with a quiet laugh. It'd be easy to dismiss him as jejune. Upon first meeting him, he comes off as naïve and a bit incompetent, but you know beneath that misleading façade is a young man who feels deeply. In your world, he'd struggle with society's expectations and be labeled with some sort of disorder, but here, he's found a purpose and a family. He dreams about joining you when you leave the mansion, but the wonderful memories you've made with him have only been possible because of this world. 

"Y/N?" he asks.

"Yes?" you reply.

"You're giving me a strange look," he says, his grin replaced with a far more flustered expression.

"Define 'strange,' " you say.

"It looks... a little dreamy," he says. 

"That's because I was thinking about how much I love you," you say.

He stammers your name before he rushes to you and flings his arms around your shoulders. You laugh as he knocks you back onto the ground, his body sprawls across yours, and you tug him into a tight hug at his waist. His hot tears stain your skin as he nuzzles your neck, and his raw flurry of emotions makes you prick with gooseflesh while your heart hammers in your chest.

"Why are you so kind?" he mumbles.

"Why wouldn't I be?" you ask.

"So many people in this world aren't," he sniffles.

He sits up and straddles you as he wipes his eyes on his long sleeves.

"Lucky for me, I met a whole mansion full of wonderful men as soon as I got here," you say.

"Some of us more wonderful than others," he says.

You chuckle as your fingers toy with the soft golden cords that fasten his tailcoat in the front. His hands graze yours as he slips each cord's loop over its turquoise button and lets his coat fall open. You slide your fingertip in the space between the buttons of his dress shirt, which is tucked into his trousers, and poke him in the navel.

As he tugs the hem of his shirt free and gives you a glimpse of his stomach, you hear a soft thud on your door. A quiet voice calls your name from the hallway. It's less of a knock and more of a persistent padding from a black cat's paw. Lamli swears under his breath as a flash of anger crosses his face, and you shake your head to let him know his behavior is inappropriate.

He masks his irritation with a cheerful laugh, but you're positive Mu's name is going in his book later tonight.

You open your bedroom door and peek inside. Having finished your obligations back home, you somehow managed to return to the mansion when everyone was out on business or otherwise busy. Even Lono had been absent from the kitchen.

Your room is quiet, and the late afternoon sun streams through your large windows. After closing the door behind you, you tip-toe to your bed, expecting to find Mu curled up in its center. You've only made it a few paces when you freeze, discovering that instead of a small, round black cat, you have a shirtless Lamli sprawled out on your duvet. His black hair is damp and flared in a wild mess around his calm, sleeping face. His nimble arms are cast haphazardly, and one of his legs is draped over the edge of the bed.

You know precisely what happened: he took a bath, then came to your room before fully dressing. His shirt and coat are piled on a nearby armchair, since forgotten. The butlers all shared rooms, and he had a habit of sneaking to your room to be alone when you weren't around, to avoid his work and to will you back to the mansion. And rather than finish dressing, he crawled onto your bed after deciding a nap was in order.

It's almost a shame to wake him.

Yet, the temptation of being close to him was too strong to ignore. You gently sit on the bed and tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear. He stirs slightly at the motion, and you lean closer, brushing your fingertips against his forehead.

As your fingertips glide over his lips, his chartreuse eyes flutter open and he looks up at you. Reaching up, he takes your hand and entwines his fingers with yours, his eyes still full of sleep. Your cheeks flush at having been caught as Lamli's lips curl into a smile. He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a tender kiss against your knuckles.

"You're back," he mumbles, still too drowsy to exhibit his usual enthusiasm.

"You didn't dry your hair before you fell asleep," you say.

His eyes widen, and he clutches your hand as he remembers the state in which he curled up for a nap. You chuckle and shake your head, combing the fingers of your other hand through his hair, parting the pink strands from the wavy dark ones. His panic evaporates once he sees your calm attitude, and his expression rapidly changes from relief to something more impish, his own cheeks turning pink.

"Nac would be so mad if he knew about this," Lamli says.

"It'd be another lecture," you say.

"But there's no reason he needs to know. Right?" he asks.

"Who's telling him? I'm not," you say.

"My l-lord," he stammers. "Lie here with me for a little longer, please."

You can't bring yourself to deny him. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and he looks at you as if you are the only other person in the world.  You smile, placing your hand against his cheek, and you both sink into the soft bedding. Lamli wraps his arm around you, drawing you closer to his chest. You settle against him, and he takes a deep breath as he holds you, as if breathing might ruin the fantasy he's somehow found himself in.

You forget about the worries and responsibilities of your everyday life. For now, there is only Lamli, his warmth, and the peaceful beat of his heart. He smells like the garden, like freshly cut grass and lavender carried on a summer breeze.

Slowly, he moves his face closer to yours again and brushes his lips against your cheek. You feel the heat of his breath on your skin, sending shivers down your spine, and you can't resist the urge to lean into him further. His lips meet yours in a slow, sweet kiss that grows more passionate with each passing second. He murmurs breathlessly into the kiss, fumbling but undeterred by his lack of experience. The blankets rustle beneath you as your bodies shift, and you fall deeper into each other.

When the kiss finally breaks, Lamli rests his forehead against yours and stares into your eyes, the flush in his cheeks growing deeper. He runs his fingers through your hair, then trails them along your cheek and down your neck. You know he wants more but doesn't know how to proceed.

"I love you so much," he whispers.

In the year you've known him, he's professed his love for you hundreds of times, and he'll do it a thousand times more. But you've never told him how you feel. Of course, you love him, but the barrier between you--your relationship as lord and servant--has made it difficult to be forthright. You can't bring yourself to say the words. Every time you try, you hesitate and find a less resolute alternative.

"C-can I use your name while we're like this?" he asks.

"Yes, of course," you say.

His mouth meets yours once more, almost desperately. He parts your lips with his own, silently begging you to open up to him. His hands explore your body, tracing the curves of your hips as your tongue finds his. Everywhere he touches you sparks a warmth that spreads throughout your body, melting away your inhibitions.

He pulls back slightly, his lips hovering just above yours as he looks into your eyes with an expression of vulnerability. You know he's unsure but willing to take this chance to be close to you in a way he never thought possible. He squeaks quietly when you grip his narrow waist and draw his weight on top of you, then buries his face in your neck, where he mumbles your name.

You feel his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing against your stomach. His lips are on your earlobe as his hands push your shirt up inch by inch until you can feel his skin against yours. He pauses and sits up, looking into your eyes as if to ask permission. You give him a small nod, and he continues until he peels your shirt over your head. His brow furrows as he stares at your bra, noting the clasps in the front--they're much smaller and finer than anything Flure uses on his pieces.

He grips the center of your bra and works the small clasps until they're undone, then hesitates as he frees your breasts from their garment. His eyes glimmer at the sight of you half-undressed beneath him, and he takes another deep breath. He releases it slowly as he rests his hands on the sides of your chest, just beneath your underarms.

"Can I touch you?" he asks.

"As much as you like," you say.

He grazes his fingertips along the tops of your nipples, and they raise to his touch as he traces their outlines. His hands shake ever so slightly as he continues to explore, growing bolder as you mewl in pleasure. With more confidence, he cups your breasts in his hands, squeezing them gently. Unable to resist, he leans down and kisses you again as he caresses you.

His hands wander lower until he reaches the waistband of your skirt. He pauses again, seeking approval. You give him another nod, and he slides your skirt down your legs. His eager eyes rest on your panties, and you feel your body heat rise in anticipation of his next move.

Biting his lip, he slips his fingers beneath the fabric, making you shiver with delight. His touch is clumsy but purposed as he traces the folds between your legs. You moan as he massages you, and encouraged by your pleased response, he quickens his pace. His brilliant green eyes are locked on your face, observing your reactions as he strokes you.

His fingers drive you closer to the edge of ecstasy. You pant, grabbing the duvet beneath you as you feel the orgasm build until it crashes through your body, sending wave after wave of delight through your nerves. He watches eagerly as you are wracked by blissful shudders, his eyes filled with a hungry wonder as he smiles in mischievous delight.

"Lamli," you groan.

"I like it when you say my name that way," he says.

You both freeze and exchange startled glances when you hear voices and the stamp of feet on the first floor. He wants to do more--you want him to do more--but others have returned home. You hear Nac call for Lamli, and he practically falls out of your bed. He snatches his things from the chair and dresses as fast as he can, almost doing his buttons wrong several times.

"I'll tell them you're napping," he says.

With a lazy hum, you pull the covers over your body. Before he departs, he rushes to your side, gives you one last playful kiss, and hugs you. You laugh softly and respond to his kiss by adding several more of your own.

"Let me stay by your side while you sleep tonight," he says. "Not anyone else."

"Only you, nobody else," you say.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I love you, too," you whisper back.

He beams as he squeezes you, then slips through the door. The warmth of his embrace lingers after he leaves, and you can't help but smile to yourself. You curl into the sheets and close your eyes, your body still tingling from his touch. Your duvet still smells like him, so you pull it to your face and inhale, clutching it to your nose as you drift off into a satisfied sleep.

You brace yourself for the impact of his hug, which you make no effort to stop, laughing as he overshoots you. He rings his arms around you on the way past and forces you backward several steps. Had you not prepared yourself, he would have bowled you over completely, but you've learned to accommodate for his overeagerness. A tumble with him wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but you'd like to spare him the lecture on etiquette.

"Lamli, don't get yourself in trouble!" Ammon calls as he continues watering the roses.

"You've been gone so long!" Lamli says as he pulls at your hand.

"Just three days," you say.

"I've been so bored. How long are you going to stay?" he asks.

"I can stay overnight," you say.

His vivid green eyes light up and he hugs you again, then leads you from the main garden and away from Ammon's prying eyes. You stroll down the trail for a minute before he veers off path and pushes some branches out of the way, holding them for you as you follow, and heads through a thicket along a narrow deer trail. You finally break free into a small clearing that makes for a nice place to hide if, say, one is trying to hide from their chores.

He sits, still holding your hand, and you join him on the ground. With your other hand, you pat your legs—he doesn't need an explanation or to be told twice. He lets go of you, lies down, and rests his head in your lap. When you run your hand through his soft black hair, he pushes his head into your palm as he beams, his big eyes staring up at you.

"How much trouble did you get into while I was gone?" you ask.

"I did my work, I swear!" he says.

"Oh?" you ask.

"Most of it. I dusted your room!"

"Thank you," you say as you brush his freshly trimmed bangs from his forehead.

"It's hard when you're gone," he says

"You have friends here with you," you say.

"It's not the same. I know you have your own life, but every day you're gone, I wish for you to hurry back," he says in a quiet voice.

His sunny disposition falters, but he does his best to mask his anxieties with another laugh. You shake your head and lean down to pull him into a hug. He wraps his arms around your shoulders as he falls silent.

All these men put on their best act for you, but over the months, you've learned that each of them is wounded. You might not know all the details of their pasts, but they could also use a few reminders to take care of themselves. It's been a struggle, but they're starting to realize they can come to you when they need help, too.

"I'm here now," you say.

"I love seeing your smile so much."

"Yours was the first one I wanted to see when I arrived today," you say.

"I love you so much," he sniffles.

One of the reasons you grew to prefer Lamli's company is because he communicates his emotions so freely. You never need to guess how he's feeling. He may be prone to sudden mood swings, but you've never been the subject of his anger. Talking him down from his bizarre rages when you're in public together can be an ordeal, but as the object of his affection, he listens to you.

"Why do I always look so terrible in front of my master?" he mumbles.

"Like when you passed out on the beach?" you ask, mussing his hair.

"Ugh," he says, burying his face in your stomach.

"Or when you brought us that ceremonial wine to drink?" you tease.

"Master!" His voice is muffled by your body.

"I know you're embarrassed by those moments, but I remember them fondly because they allowed me to see the Lamli who tries his hardest. Besides, if you came to my world, you'd see me mess up, too," you say, combing your fingers through the back of his hair. "Say, do you still have the clothes we wore when we worked for the Portrea family?"

"Yes..."

He rolls back, resting his head in your lap again.

"Why?" he asks.

"Oh, I was just thinking," you say.

"I’ll put it on and dance for you tonight!"

He sits up at your side, excitement completely replacing all of his anguish. His cheeks are flushed, but now that the idea is planted in his head, it'll be impossible to stop him. You'd feel a twinge of guilt for encouraging him, but who's here to chastise you? Not too long ago, all of them pulled their clothes off to show you their seals. Some were more eager than others, but none of them hesitated.

"I'd like that," you say. "And bring a bottle of wine if you have one."

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