Work Text:
A calloused hand, the grooves ink-stained.
You swirl your tea. (You look tired, my love.)
It's always been the same tea. Mobei-jun has never asked of the blend before. He should have asked.
If I ask now, will you at least laugh in my face?
You sit at your desk like it's a throne, war plans and domestic disputes alike presented before you. He has his orders.
You blink, the scent of tea in your lungs.
He pierces your heart with an icicle, an impersonal death so personal.
Calloused lips, warm blood trickling like ink.
I kiss them, my King.