Private Atrisian Lunch Box Blues

[Niijima Izumi]

When he spoke about confidence being a choice, she didn’t answer right away. Her gaze followed him as he set the bottle and cup aside, the movement casual but deliberate. He stepped closer then, closing the distance until he stood within arm’s reach. The shift was subtle, but impossible to ignore.

Izumi watched him pull the glove free with his teeth, the casual motion revealing a brief glimpse of bare skin before the leather fell aside onto the table. There was something unguarded in that small act. Something human.

When his hand lifted toward her face, she did not step back.

His fingers were rough when they touched her chin, calloused in a way that spoke of weapons and long years of use. The warmth of his hand contrasted with the cool stillness she carried, guiding her gaze upward until it met the dark visor directly.

"That depends, how interested are you?"

The question lingered between them, quiet and deliberate. Before she could answer, the visor split apart with a soft mechanical hiss. The metal folded away, revealing the man behind it and for a moment Izumi said nothing.

Her eyes moved across his face slowly, taking in the sharp line of his features, the dark intensity in his gaze, and finally the scar that cut down along his cheek. She studied it the way one might read the final line of a novella;. There was an unspoken understanding that it had been earned. Up close, the alcohol that had softened his voice earlier seemed to have vanished from him entirely. What remained was focus. Watchfulness. The kind of presence that did not disappear simply because the night had grown quiet.

Her gaze returned to his eyes. For a brief moment she lifted her hand, not pushing him away, not breaking the touch at her chin. Instead her fingers moved upward, brushing lightly along the edge of the scar on his cheek. The contact was slow, deliberate, as if committing the detail to memory the same way he had with her. “You carry your battles on your face,” she murmured. “Most men would rather hide them.”

Her hand lingered there only a moment before lowering again, though she didn’t step away.

The distance between them remained small enough that she could feel the warmth of him now, steady and unmistakably real. The soft lantern light caught along the folds of her black and red silk kimono, the fabric shifting faintly as she breathed. Dark strands of her hair had loosened slightly from their pins over the course of the evening, though the delicate ornaments still held most of it in place, glinting faintly when she turned her head.

“You asked how interested I am,” she continued quietly, her gaze holding his without wavering. A faint smile appeared then, subtle but genuine. “Interested enough that I followed you here.”

For a moment the room held its breath around them. The bottle remained untouched on the table, the quiet of the inn settling like a veil over the night. Then Izumi’s eyes flicked briefly toward the sake bottle before returning to him again. “Where I come from,” she said softly, “a warrior who invites someone into a quiet room shares more than drink. It is a sign of trust… or of something greater.”

Her fingers rose slowly to one of the slender hairpins nestled in her dark hair. With a smooth, practiced motion she slid it free, letting a few more strands fall loose along her shoulder. The metal pin rested lightly between her fingers for a moment before she set it beside the bottle. She wondered if this was the right choice; if this was too bold a move for someone who was not seasoned at making such. Izumi was a samurai, and with the identity, she had learned to make bold moves at the forefront of spars and battles. But this was different....

This was a different kind of battlefield.

“So tell me, Drystan,” she said quietly, the faintest warmth touching her voice now, “which one was it meant to be tonight?” She held his eyes, composed and patient, though the subtle curve of her lips suggested she already intended to find out.
​

Drystan Creed​

 

[Drystan Creed]

ATRISIA

Drystan could have replied, matched her word for word. But he opted to answer with silence. His eyes scanned up to the hairpins, one removed by her, and the rest soon by him. Flicking his head, channeling the force, each pin lifted up, tugged by invisible strings as they pulled from the nest of raven tresses.

Each movement proved gentle, and once all were mid-air they followed the first onto the table, one tap after another marking a pin laid clean.

He wondered how her hair might fall, little now keeping it together. He wondered how she might react, when that hand on her chin, moved to the side of her face, capturing it in a warm caress, how his fingers flirted with the wayward strands of her hair, noting how smooth her skin felt against it.

How she looked, how she felt, how she smelled, like an orchid dipped in sake, everything she was only served to draw him closer.

Drystan leaned, his eyes stalwart in matching her gaze, the distance lessening as the spice of a warm bonfire drew closer. Lips pressed, lightly at first, kindling, carefully placed to ignite her passions and stoke the wildfire in her heart.

Niijima Izumi

 

[Niijima Izumi]

The pins slipped free one by one.

Izumi felt the gentle tug before she saw them move, the gentle sound each pin made as they landed neatly on the table beside the sake bottle. With every quiet sound, another strand fell loose. What had once been carefully arranged slowly unraveled, strands spilling down around her shoulders until they rested against the red and black silk of her kimono.

His hand shifted then, leaving her chin to rest lightly against the side of her face. The warmth of his palm lingered there as his fingers slipped into her loosened hair, brushing slowly through the strands as though feeling their weight. The movement was unhurried, as though thoughtful. She couldn’t remember when the last time she had allowed someone to do this; someone to come so close.

Izumi didn’t pull away, nor did she shy away from the closeness. Her dark brown pupils searched his, as though looking for answers to questions untold. The confidence that had compelled her to be here with him now, maintained yet softened as he closed the distance. She would feel him lean closer before their lips met, the warmth of his presence reaching her first.

Slowly her eyes closed.

And when the kiss came, it was measured, carrying a hint of gentleness, like the first snow settling on water; quiet, unexpected, and softer than she had anticipated. The hand that had touched his face now dropped instinctively, settling against his chest. Beneath the fabric she could feel the solid warmth of his body, her fingers rested against his chest just as lightly, as though afraid that any more pressure from them would somehow cause him pain.

Her lips answered his with quiet certainty, no longer testing but indulging the warm invitation. There was no need for words, or for useless fronts like the one she had carefully crafted for Drystan just moments ago. It was magnetic, pulling her in deeper akin to that of a black holes and for once she happily fell into it, her shoulders loosening enough that perhaps he would notice it too.

She would then shift her head slightly, in an attempt to break the kiss before it consumed all of her senses. Her hand remained where it was, her eyes now registering his face once more. And before she could even make sense of what was happening, impulse took over. The hand on his chest would tug at his shirt if he allowed it, her fingers wrapping around the fabric to pull him into yet another passionate kiss, this time initiated by her.

A dance begun, a rhythm discovered. He had taken the first step; and in him, she had found the partner she was willing to follow.
​

 

[Aten Karr]

Wrong account

 

[Drystan Creed]

ATRISIA

The precision in his words prior vanished with his movements, blurred by the influence of alcohol, fumbling as much as his thoughts, shifting strictly on instinct.

When she pulled away, a lingering tinge of surprise caught in Drystan's eye. But, quickly, it vanished as she pulled him into another. The tug of her hand, the grip on his shirt, an invitation he affirmed with his cooperation.

His hands kept from idleness, roaming against the red and black silk of her kimono, memorizing the shape of her beneath with touch. They moved, roamed, searching for the pick of her sash, the intent to untie and loosen. The kiss broke, leaving a short of breath, forehead resting against hers as his eyes scanned the silk and straps of her outfit.

He took back the initiative, his right hand moving to the back of her raven hair, tugging pulling it back, exposing her neck before abruptly obscuring it again beneath the warmth of his lips, intent on giving her a reason to wear a scarf after he was finished, cold or not.

Niijima Izumi

 

[Niijima Izumi]

What had once been measured slipped quietly out of her grasp, replaced by something far less deliberate. It wasn't reckless; but the careful restraint she had held onto all evening began to fray at the edges. When she pulled him back into the kiss, there was no calculation behind it this time, only instinct.

She felt the flicker of his surprise, brief, almost fragile in its honesty, and something in her chest tightened at the realization that she had caused it. But it didn't linger. Instead, it shifted, deepened, met her where she stood now, no longer held at a distance.

Her fingers tightened on his shirt, grounding herself in something tangible as the moment threatened to drift beyond her control. The fabric bunched beneath her grip, and she held onto it; not just to keep him close, but to steady the quiet unraveling within herself.

The world outside had faded so completely it almost felt unreal, as though it had never existed at all. There was only this…this small, fragile space they had carved out between them. The warmth and the closeness. The unspoken understanding that neither of them had named, but both had begun to follow.

When his hands moved against the silk of her kimono, she felt the contrast more sharply than she expected. The roughness of his touch against the smooth fabric sent a quiet awareness through her, one impossible to ignore. It wasn't just the contact. It was what it meant. The way he touched her as though he saw her, even without words.

Something in her posture gave way then, a tension she hadn't realized she was holding easing from her shoulders. The guarded composure she carried so easily, so instinctively…softened, leaving something quieter in its place. Something more honest and perhaps fragile.

When the kiss broke, she didn't pull back. Their foreheads rested together, the space between them close enough to share breath, to feel the warmth of it linger. Her breathing remained steady, but there was a softness to it now, a subtle shift that betrayed more than she would have allowed before.

For a moment, she simply stayed there, suspended in it, aware of him in a way that felt almost too clear.

Then his hand moved into her hair.

The gentle pull drew her head back, and the motion sent a quiet, involuntary breath through her. It wasn't dramatic but she felt it, the way it slipped past her control before she could catch it. The exposure of her neck left her suddenly, acutely aware of herself in his presence.

Still, she didn't resist.

Her hand shifted, sliding upward from his chest to his shoulder, resting there with slight pressure. It wasn't to stop him. If anything, it was the opposite; a silent permission she wasn't ready to voice.

When his lips brushed against her neck, her eyes closed again, but this time it wasn't just acceptance. It was surrender, quiet and unspoken, to the moment unfolding between them.

Her fingers tightened slightly against him, not enough to pull him closer, but enough that he would feel it.

"Careful…" she murmured, her voice soft, laced with warmth; but lacking any real warning. If anything, it carried something closer to uncertainty, as though she wasn't entirely sure what she was asking him to be careful of.

The lantern light flickered gently across the room, catching in the loose strands of her hair and the shifting folds of silk that no longer sat quite the way they had before.

The quiet between them deepened, heavier now, filled with everything neither of them had said.

And this time, she didn't pull away.


​

Drystan Creed​

 

[Drystan Creed]

ATRISIA

The curtain dropped upon the night, rays of sunlight now crept into the room, piercing through the cervices and reflecting upon the silken sheets, tousled and clung upon.

Drystan stared into the ceiling, his focus a laser threatening to burn a hole into the rooftop, the silken sheets the only thing that provided partial cover from the daylight. Atop his chest, was a head full of raven strands. Izumi.

She was asleep, and he kept her from joining him in consciousness, the warmth of his right arm wrapping around her, a gentle grip on her shoulder to keep her close in embrace. He did not want to get up, doing his best to reason an excuse, to enjoy this momentary glimpse of peace that marked white the crimson threads of his livelihood.

Drystan rolled the memories of last night in his head, and how it got them here, what they did before falling asleep. He needed that, the last time having long been a memory. Still he found the peace afterwards, the gentle coaxing of the morning nudging him awake, to be more pleasing. Something that bothered him.

But he sealed those concerns shut, making little noise, staring, the glide of his thumb pressing against the skin of her shoulder every now and again.

Niijima Izumi

 

[Niijima Izumi]

Consciousness didn’t come back to Izumi all at once. It drifted in slowly: first the warmth, then the weight, then the steady, unfamiliar rhythm of someone else’s breathing beneath her cheek. For a brief second, instinct snapped into place, sharp and immediate. The old discipline rose in her like a blade half-drawn. She wasn’t in her quarters. She wasn’t alone.

She wasn’t in control.

That realization should have been enough to make her move. It had always been enough before; pulling her out of sleep, out of softness, out of anything that left her exposed. And yet… she didn’t move.

The tension slipped away almost as quickly as it came, replaced by something far more dangerous. Memory returned to her not in clear images, but in feeling, the feeling of heat and closeness.

Her body remembered in ways her mind tried to resist. It lingered in the subtle ache in her muscles, in the slow, even rhythm of her breath, in the unfamiliar sense of ease settling somewhere deeper than she liked. It wasn’t just indulgence. It wasn’t just a moment of weakness.

It was something softer than that. And that was what made it dangerous.

She stayed where she was, as if even acknowledging it too clearly might break it apart. Her fingers shifted slightly against him, grounding herself in something real. His arm still rested around her shoulder; firm, but not tight and not possessive.

She had known men who held on like they were afraid something would be taken from them, like possession was the only way to keep anything at all.

He held her like he already knew she would leave.

That thought settled deeper than she expected, quiet but sharp. It should have made things simpler, easier in fact. There should be no expectations, no complications; just a shared understanding.

So why didn’t it?

Izumi let her eyes open just a fraction, enough to catch the soft spill of morning light across the room. She didn’t lift her head. Instead, she listened; to the steady beat beneath her ear, to the quiet stillness around them, to the absence of pressure. Nothing asking her to be anything other than what she was in that moment.

And that was what unsettled her the most.

Because it left space. Too much space to think…to feel, to question things she had spent years training herself not to question.

Her hand shifted again, more deliberately this time, resting where it had been before. A quiet attempt to regain some sense of balance, even as she chose not to move. She told herself this was simple. Two people, nothing binding them together. No past, no future. Just a moment, taken for what it was.

That was how it should stay. But the thought didn’t sit as cleanly as it should have.

She exhaled slowly, her breathing unconsciously falling in line with his. Leaving would be easy. She could slip away without a word, let the night remain exactly what it was meant to be: brief, self-contained, forgettable.

And still… she didn’t.

The decision lingered, caught somewhere between habit and something she didn’t quite want to name. Then, almost reluctantly, she shifted just enough to let him know she was awake, her voice quiet, still rough with sleep.

“…Do you always hold on to things you expect to lose?”

It sounded simple, perhaps even casual.

But there was weight behind it; more than she intended to show, and just enough to invite an answer she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to hear.​

Drystan Creed

 

[Drystan Creed]

ATRISIA

Usually quick to retort, Drystan remained silent, unresponsive in his words as his embrace tightened with her question. The uncertainty of what came next kept him hesitant to move more than he already did. The moment became complacency, instead of enjoyment, to stay rather than go. Her question tumbled in his mind. Was it that obvious.

He expected loss, that was the default. Self-sufficiency was how he operated, to the point of meddling with anything outside of it. A "please stay" was hard to draw out, unsure if it would be weakness that filled his words rather than warmth.

"I'm not so sure..." He trailed off, words barely above a whisper as his eyes shifted down to the top of her head.

"I've lost a lot of things in my life. Ended up becoming a habit." His brows furrowed. While he was precise with his body, his movements, the mind struggled in searching. He wanted to say something but couldn't. So used to the silence.

"I don't know." Another silent pause followed.

There usually wasn't this much talk after the fact, and he would've been up and fully clothed hours ago. But his body didn't budge, the one thing he had perfect control over, now moving on urges rather than command. So he decided to go with it, taking some strain to let the rest of the words flow into a whisper, low only for her ears only.

"I need you right now."

Niijima Izumi

 

[Niijima Izumi]

The words settled into her more heavily than she expected.

Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. It almost seemed unseasoned, as though he was not used to saying the words out loud. Izumi wondered if it could be even deeper that, where honesty was mixed with vulnerability. She didn’t move right away. His admission lingered between them. Loss as habit...expectation instead of fear. It was a language she understood far too well, even if she had learned to wear it differently. Where he had turned inward, she had sharpened herself outward through distance, control and ultimately, discipline. Different methods, same result.

Nothing to lose meant nothing to hold. Or at least… that was what she had always told herself. Her fingers shifted slightly where they rested against him, not pulling away, but not tightening either. Just there. Present in a way she usually avoided lingering in. His last words...I need you...echoed faintly in her mind, quieter than the rest, but far more difficult to ignore. For a moment, she considered saying nothing at all. It would have been easier. Let the silence close over it, let the moment dissolve into something undefined and therefore safe. That was how these things were meant to end; without weight, without consequence.

Izumi exhaled slowly, her breath steady, though something beneath it had shifted. It wasn’t a demand. That was what struck her first. It wasn’t possessive, wasn’t spoken like something meant to bind her there. If anything, it sounded like the opposite. Like something said knowing it might not be answered. “…That’s not the same thing,” she said quietly. Her voice had softened, though there was still that familiar steadiness beneath it. She shifted slightly, just enough to tilt her head back and look at him properly now, her gaze clearer despite the remnants of sleep still clinging to it.

“Needing someone isn’t the same as holding onto something you expect to lose. You say it like it’s a habit,” she continued, her eyes studying him in a way that wasn’t guarded, but not entirely open either. “Like it’s easier to assume the ending before anything has a chance to begin.” Izumi allowed another exhale before continuing, searching for the right words. “…I don’t stay because someone asks me to,” she admitted, quieter now. “And I don’t stay because I’m needed. I stay...because I choose to." The words lingered between them, softer than anything she had said before. She merely waited for the weight of her words to carry towards him...waited for him to show his hand, if he so choose to and mentally bracing herself for either one of two very obvious answers he could give.

Drystan Creed​

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