Hey guys sorry for dying. I’ve been trying (unsuccessfully) to get a job, and today I found out a place I was interviewing at had canceled ON ME. WITHOUT TELLING ME.
So anyways have this bullshit I drew because of a post on Reddit.
I honestly aspire for the level of insanity the OG shipper has, because how the hell did they come up with Vee x The Spectre? What was the thought process? Is it just a silly haha? Is it a serious ship? I need to know.
What would this ship even be called?? VeeSpec? Sure let’s go with that.
Hot take maybe but I thought Dottore’s death was actually good.
We see in Linnea’s SQ that a cruel fate isn’t an excuse to hurt others, because you still have the power to choose the steps leading up to that fate. The end result may already be decided, but everything in between is very much up to the individual.
Dottore may have not had control over the ending, but he had control over what happened beforehand. He chose the path he went down, and that is nobodies fault but his own.
Him being dragged down by his segments is probably the perfect visualization of this: his downfall was HIS own making. Not fates, not the Travelers, not anyones, HIS.
Also I dislike the lizard theory.
My uterus is committing genocide rn, and I got a motherfucking owchie on my FINGER. But hey I finished my year with a 3.86gpa!!!!!
Y/N is very susceptible to suspiciously Imu-like car. This is because Y/N has a birth defect (that is why they look like that) and thus does not have eyes.
Imu can become cat through uhm idk classism. I didn’t think this through I just wanted to draw cat meow
Pls don’t mind 1x in the corner, I thought it was funny
Your work with shadows and highlights there is superb and sharp contrast really makes features and red eyes "pop" on the picture, for the lack of better way to phrase it!
Thank you! I’m practicing, and he is my silly muse
Hi! Just wanted to say that I have really enjoyed the current trilogy (?) of the stories about Imu and his gardener. In love with how the text flows, really enjoy the style and all.
And your writing of Imu is just so delightful, absolutely adore the horrifying eldritch blob (affectionate), the inner workings of his mind that lead to "the best time to voice my displeasure to my gardener about them talking to other human being is 3 AM after a bottle of wine" results are deeply fascinating.
Thank you for writing these!
Thank you!! I enjoy writing them, and I enjoy sharing them!
quick question, what very specific chain of events would have to happen in order for nerona imu to show something that vaguely is in the shape of "softness". like he's not soft at all, and the closest thing he'll be is like the same amount of distance as the distance between the maldives and kiribati, but i think it would be an interesting thought experiment.
I think that if Imu’s potential S/O had traits similar to Lili (whether it be visually or personality-wise), Imu may be a bit softer. Not kind or loving, just marginally less frigid, and marginally more likely to not have his S/O disposed of. Like, he already has a habit of just equating people in the present to past people, so if someone acted or looked similar to Lili, he’d equate them to Lili.
We don’t know what his relationship with Lili was, but you don’t keep a big ass portrait of a woman and stare at it for god knows how long if you don’t gaf about them.
Though the risk in this situation is that he takes out whatever anger he feels towards Lili on his S/O, or systematically erases his S/O’s identity in favor of acting like they actually ARE Lili.
In my personal writings, I usually alter canon to some extent—creative liberties and allat—but that is the most realistic scenario imo.
Note: Sorry for dying for so long, I lost my draft twice because my laptop updated. I ended up cranking this out in one night, because I'm locked in. I actually really like writing in this sort of style... which should be obvious, considering the final word count was 3.2k; longer than all my past fics by a pretty significant margin.
I am also dead tired. It is 7:44am, and I began writing this at midnight.
Synopsis: Imu binds reader with the Covenant. It is very, very painful.
Someone please tell Imu that he really needs to work on his rizz game. This is not how you flirt with a baddie smh :///
Everything hurt.
No, not even hurt; hurt was too small a word to approximate the blinding agony that ravaged every molecule of every atom of every cell that made up your body. What you were experiencing was beyond words; beyond even thoughts, because what string of letters could properly describe this? It was everything and nothing all at once. You felt everything—every time your bones shattered and reknit, every time your organs folded in on themselves and returned to normal, every single time your flesh was lit by a fire under your skin and extinguished just as quickly—and yet you also experienced nothing.
You would’ve scoffed at the dichotomy if you didn’t feel as if you were dying and then undying a million times over.
Snap. Your bones—all 206 of them—had just shattered like a wine glass dropped from atop a balcony. You felt every one of them all at once; heard every groan and creak as the hard calcium warred against the oppressive force, before giving way with a sickening crunch. They must’ve bent like rotted wood, you supposed, eaten away by years of termites and water until it looked more akin to Swiss cheese than wood. That rotted wood was now inside you, fragmented and fine as the shards sliced into the soft tissue of your organs like a hot knife through butter.
Every inch of you wailed, but was it really you? Or was the world itself screaming, and you were simply the vessel for its unheard cacophony? Did it even matter? Your eyes were unseeing, and yet everything was too bright. Your ears were unhearing, and yet everything was too loud. Your mouth was unspeaking, and yet your throat was raw from screaming. You were here, and yet you were also not here. You were everywhere and everything, whilst also being nowhere and nothing.
Crack. Your bones were now reforming. The marrow pulsed like it had a heartbeat of its own—could marrow pulse? You weren’t certain—each fragment of the decrepit wood of your tree re-fusing with agonizing slowness. You’d read once that marrow looked like a sponge. How fitting, that your termite-infested wood look so akin to your bones. Every delicate thread pulling the shards back together felt like a needle being dragged through your innards, sharp and strangely cold as it strung the fibers together. The process was too slow for how quickly you had broken, as the soft and pliant new bone calcified. You were like the very plants you handled, you realized with a start; having a new growth forced into the weeping wound of your corpse. How cruel.
It was like the very energies of your being had entered a state that didn’t exist so much as simply… you didn’t know the word for it, if such a word even existed. All you knew is that you’d long since lost the ability to distinguish where the pain originated; your body no longer a body, but rather a mass of parts that your mind recognized and yet didn’t register beyond the overload of signals frying your mushy brain.
Squish. That was your organs, though you weren’t certain which one; there were 78 to choose from, after all. Was it your lungs caving in, the oxygen forced from your blue-tinged lips like a dog toy squeezed too hard? Was it your stomach eating itself, the enzymes failing to distinguish life from death as it devoured like a swarm of flies feasting upon a ripened cadaver? Was it your arteries, swelling with coagulated blood, before bursting like over-ripe watermelons?
Why?
Perhaps this was death.
Perhaps you’d grown stiff, as the ATP left your muscles and joints like sand through cupped hands. Your eyelids would go stiff first, concealing the milky white stare of death as potassium formed behind your cornea, alongside the other small muscles of your face, before marching on downwards with a single-minded determination. You’d be a stem, stiff and unyielding, before the plant fibers gave way.
The thought—singular, cold, like being dunked in an ice bath, cut through the searing agony. It was clarity that your fractured mind could do nothing but cling to, chanting that single syllable endlessly:
Why?
Perhaps your body had already grown cool to the touch; and your congealed blood, stagnant as it pooled with nothing left to pump it, had already stained your flesh a mottled purple. Would it look akin to marble, you pondered? Veiny and strangely beautiful? Or would it look more like a flower? You’d be a disgusting, fleshy, petal; brilliant, ghostly white contrasting with a hideous, vile violet.
Why was this happening to you? Why did it have to be you?
Perhaps you’d already bloated with gas, a cacophony of buzzing as fly larvae- or beetles- or whatever- devoured the softened tissue left behind by your stomach acid’s feast. Their pincers would chew through your foul-smelling carrion, gnashing and tearing mindlessly as they pillaged. They’d grow fat and happy on you, uncaring of whatever life you lived before becoming their meal; not unlike a flower, no? Nobody cares what life that flower lived beforehand, they merely care that it looks lovely in a vase.
You wanted to rage at the unfairness of it all. Wanted to kick and scream and thrash at the sheer cruelty that was inflicted upon you.
Perhaps you were already dry and decrepit, your bones picked clean and left to slowly become dust. You wouldn’t be like the famous skeletons kept in glass boxes, propped up for people to ooh and ahh at; no, you would be the quiet type of skeleton, nourishing the earth with what little you had left to give.
You wanted to sob. You wanted to curl up into a ball and sob, because how could this have happened? What had you done to deserve it?
Shlick. Your organs were repairing themselves. You could feel the cells splitting apart and duplicating. Over. And over. And over. They pressed against one another, forcing their malleable bodies into every nook and crevice like an overpacked sardine can, as your collapsed lungs, and devoured stomach, and burst arteries, mended themselves. You were splitting apart at the seams with each perfect division, overfilled and simply too much for your own body.
Death was too kind a fate.
Again and again, your body broke and repaired itself. You died and were revived more times than you could count. You experienced everything in a split second, and then experienced it again—as if for the first time—in the next split second.
Everything and nothing, all at once.
Everywhere and nowhere, all at once.
The question that had pulled you in—your shining light of sanity in a mind of muddled sobs and curses and incomprehensible pain—repeated itself like a mantra. Why, you asked yourself. Why. You were a broken record on repeat, your nubs sanded down by countless uses until only that one word rose above all else; and in that repetition, wispy memories, ones that seemed so far away despite happening that day, clung to the edges of your crumbling psyche.
“Prithee, dost thou plan to seek employment elsewhere, (Y/N)?” The voice, so calm and deceptively polite, echoed in your mind, “Thou art far from home, after all.”
Yes… you recalled it. He’d been so polite about it; conversational, even, in a way he often wasn’t. You’d been trimming… a bush? A tree? The specifics eluded you, but you knew you’d been working; you could still feel the rough gloves on your hands, and the sweat on your brow as you worked.
But more than that, you’d felt his eyes. They’d bored into you with an intensity and weight that’d put you on edge, the hairs at the nape of your neck standing up; and when you’d looked back, he hadn’t flinched, simply continuing to stare at you unblinkingly. You’d always thought he had eyes like a fish; empty and glassy, as if staring right through you—as if the idea of seeing you was an inconvenience—but in that moment…
…It’d felt like you were the only thing in his entire world.
You’d shifted your weight, as if trying to shake off that blank, and yet all-devouring, stare, before looking away. The question had been sudden, sprung upon you with no preamble, but what were you to say? Yes? No? Something noncommittal? You yourself weren’t certain, really. Was dealing with this worth it? You’d wondered that more than you cared to admit.
…But considering his track record, you’d simply answered to the best of your ability.
“No, Imu-sama.”
He’d hummed at that, the sound strange and soft. You hadn’t been able to tell if he was pleased or not.
“Art thou only saying that to save thine own skin, (Y/N)?” Imu had asked then, your blood running cold, “do not lie to Mu.”
“No, Imu-sama.”
You’d doubted he believed you; though, had you even believed your own words? Even so, Imu hadn’t made whether or not he’d believed you apparent.
He’d been at your back, then; you couldn’t recall the exact moment he’d moved from a polite distance away to right next to you, just the way your throat closed up and your heart jackhammered against your chest when you’d heard him speak right next to your ear.
“Thou art Mu’s favorite, (Y/N).”
“Thank you, Imu-sama.” You’d choked out; even now, through your torture, you could recall how deeply unsettled you’d been.
“Thou are not like that traitor—” you recalled how he’d spat that word, as if disgusted even saying it, “—Lili, yes?”
“Yes, Imu-sama.”
“Thou shalt never leave Mu, yes?”
“Yes, Imu-sama.”
“Mu wouldst find thee if thou shouldst abandoned him, (Y/N).”
“Yes, Imu-sama.”
“Mu knows upon which island thine family lives. Dost thou care for thy family, (Y/N)?”
Had it been a test? You would never know. All you’d known was that those words carried weight. Your breath had caught, stomach dropping and shoulders tensing… and yet you continued.
“Yes, Imu-sama.”
How many times would you have to repeat that phrase, before he dropped it? He’d been growing more invasive up to that point; never anything as overt as the night he broke into your room whilst tipsy, thankfully… but you’d noticed. The quiet stares, the way you wouldn’t see someone anymore if they spoke to you in Imu’svicinity, the way he’d randomly refer to something about you that you knew you hadn’t told him… it’d all been slowly building.
It wasn’t like you could’ve run.
“Good. Thou art loyal, unlike the rest of them. They only want Mu’s power; but you… you see Mu, nay? See… me?”
“Yes, Imu-sama.” That was all you could’ve said.
You’d felt his hand on your shoulder, then; digging through your clothing, indenting the flesh underneath with a grip as tight as death. Imu’s eyes were wide, somehow horrifically empty and manic at the same time, as he leaned over you. You’d wanted to push him away, to run as fast as you could until you no longer felt those damned eyes boring into you like a drill.
“Thou art lying, just like that harlot.” He’d began, voice low and dangerous, “just like everyone. Thou intend to abandon Mu!”
“No, Imu-sama.” You choked out.
“Liar.” Imu had hissed in your ear, eyes narrowing to slits, “Mu shouldst wipe thine pitiful home from history for your lies, so that thou may never think of leaving him again!”
You hadn’t been able to force a response at that. You’d merely frozen up, feeling the way he practically trembled with sheer hatred.
And just as quickly as his rage had set in, it had abated; or perhaps, merely hid itself. His grip loosened marginally, and you’d been aware that he’d been breathing heavily.
“Prove it.” Two simple words, torn from his mouth, guttural and forced. “Prove thy loyalty to Mu by allowing him to bind thee to the Covenant.”
And you, still recovering from the sheer whiplash of everything, had simply agreed. What choice had you had? What could you have possibly done? He hadn’t told you what the process would be, or what the Covenant even was, he’d simply made a demand and levied an impossible price against it. Your family—your home—or staying with him, bound under some… thing.
The answer was obvious at the time.
You’d allowed him to lead you to the middle of the room, silent as a mouse as he conjured some strange book out of seemingly nowhere. You’d allowed him to draw a pentagram beneath your feet, the heat licking your ankles and a strange sense of dread creeping up your back. You’d allowed him to mutter a few words, too quiet for you to hear, as your vision went dark.
And that was when the pain had started.
You were pulled out of the recollection of what led you to this moment in time, then. The memory dissipated like morning dew under the summer sun, whisked out of your fingers—though you knew not where your fingers were—as you watched on helplessly. With it, your only comfort in the question of why was also stolen from you; your lighthouse extinguished mere moments before you found your way through the storm. The thorny vines of this horrific ritual wound its way around you once again, piercing through your temporary reprieve, as if mocking your mere attempts at even a moment of peace.
And with it, the weight of your own actions. Your own compliance.
You’d done this to yourself. You spineless coward, unable to do anything for yourself.
How long had it been? You’d lost track a long time ago; though was time even important, in this instance? Perhaps it’d been more moments, and perhaps it’d been hours; you didn’t care anymore. You felt all too much and all too little to care about something as cruel and ruthless as time.
You deserve this.
But where time failed you, you had the feeling of being torn apart and put together, didn’t you? It thrummed underneath your skin, like bugs. A part of you wanted to tear yourself open once and for all, if only to rid yourself of those skittering bugs. They crawled and burrowed and made their little nests in your body. They had their little bug families in your body.
You could feel their eyes, itching to burst from your corpse like plague boils ready to erupt. They were feasting on you, weren’t they? Just as you had suspected earlier.
No. There are no bugs. There is only your own failure.
The hum was quieter now, you noted numbly. You simply told yourself there were no bugs, even if a part of you doubted your own words.
Why would you believe yourself? You are the architect of your own misery, after all.
Had the pain lessened, or were your nerve endings simply too overworked to fire anymore? You didn’t know. The experience was still harrowing, of course, but you felt a strange numbness wash over you; like when you press down on a headache long enough, and the pain becomes a mere hum, rather than ever-present. It was like being submerged in water, your limbs like lead and your head calm as stagnant water left out to sit. Perhaps you were drowning, but was drowning truly so bad?
No. The sounds were muffled, and the embrace of the water was comforting, in a sick way. You didn’t even know where this came from, but… it provided some level of comfort, now that you didn’t even have the question of why to soothe you. When you looked down beneath you, you saw only inky darkness… and a dot of light. Just a glimmer, hidden amongst the abyssal blanket of this metaphorical sea… but there, nonetheless.
Oh, it was oh so beautiful. The most beautiful thing you’d ever seen in your life—or unlife, you no longer knew—and you longed desperately to reach it.
You did this to yourself after all, didn’t you?
Your bones were shattering and reknitting again. Again, and again, and again. You pondered if maybe you were feeling someone else’s bones break.
Your limbs were not your own, and yet you reached towards it.
Your organs were dying and reviving again. They gave way to the relentlessness of their plight like a balloon slowly deflating, before swelling up again. Bile rose in your throat.
Your mind was not your own, and yet it screamed for you to give in.
Your flesh was burning and healing. You felt it in every shattered, broken, bruised part of your pitiful form. You could almost sell the sear of your skin, sizzling and extinguishing ad nauseam.
This husk of a body was not your own, and you ached to shed it.
You were dying, and you were being reborn.
All you had was the concept of you, though even that faltered under the agony.
But your beautiful light grew farther away. The current turned upon you, whirling you away until you could only watch in misery as your salvation was stolen from you.
And when the first breath of air, the first resurface you made from under the crashing waves, washed over you? You would’ve wept, had you any tears to cry. The water longed to pull you under—and the aching part of you wished to resubmerge—but the rest of you; the sensible part, what little of it remained at least, wanted to breathe. Your lungs screamed, and your eyes felt ready to burst free from your skull… and that cruel, cruel primitive part of your brain acted.
You breathed.
Your eyes shot open, chest heaving and heart jackhammering like never before. Thump, thump, thump. Were you happy to hear that unsteady rhythm? A part of you, yes… but another couldn’t help but despair at the sound. Was this truly better for you…? Why couldn’t you have just… rested?
You were coated in a thin layer of shimmering sweat, your skin tacky and mouth dry as a desert; dried bile coated your lips, foul and crusty as it cracked and flaked at the edges, and your throat burned with a prickling fire. Your gaze was bleary and swimming, eyelashes damp and heavy. The burning hellfire was waning, though your limbs still felt like lead, and ached. The pain pulsed in long, dull bursts, interspersed by periods of exhausted numbness.
You just wanted to rest.
Your head was propped upon something, you finally realized, though you simply couldn’t bother to find out what it was. The fabric was soft against your weary head, at least; and when your gaze dragged upwards, slow and gingerly, you saw him.
A shadow leaning over you, crimson depths devouring your reactions as you finally awoke. He looked like an angel of death, from this angle, or perhaps a devil. You didn’t care.
Your head was currently rested in Imu’s lap. He stared down at you, breathing steady and even, and eyes endlessly calm; though then again, you still didn’t know what he looked like beneath the veil. He seemed pleased, though; perhaps even giddy, as he brought one hand up and dug his thumb beneath your lower right eyelid just hard enough for you to feel it, before carefully dragging it away. He wiped one singular tear—you hadn’t even noticed you shed it—away, head tilting to the side in an almost bird-like manner.
“And now, thou art Mu’s.” Imu breathed, voice soft and shaky, “forever.”
Still getting used to Ibis Paint, since I had to switch over from procreate. Took me like ten minutes just to figure out how to do pen sensitivity. Also tried grayscale today, idk why. I think I just didn’t want to color lol.
I just wanna ask if you might maybe hopefully possibly could consider the idea of the notion that I perhaps would want you to doodle a small sakazuki?
I can absolutely do that, sure. Just give me some time, because I lost access to my procreate (purchase sharing), and need to get some moolah to buy it
hey sorry guys you’re gonna have to wait longer for my fic, because my laptop decided to update while I was sleeping and I lost the entire fucking thing, so I have to start from scratch.
I just wanna ask if you might maybe hopefully possibly could consider the idea of the notion that I perhaps would want you to doodle a small sakazuki?
I can absolutely do that, sure. Just give me some time, because I lost access to my procreate (purchase sharing), and need to get some moolah to buy it
that fic you made of jealous imu really made me realize that there's way more to that story because, like, imagine after that door click, the brain cogs start whirring and you realize that the secret ruler of the world, the man who is singlehandedly responsible for most, if not all, of human history, yearns for you like a lover would. idk i'd probably shit myself
Imu has zero regard for (Y/N)’s boundaries. He’s well aware that it’s creepy as fuck to break into someone’s room and interrogate them on an innocuous interaction, he just doesn’t care. It was his way of reminding them of their place, and of the fact that he could’ve done so much worse than what he did.
There is no shot he didn’t have that attendant executed just for daring to encroach—which, obviously, he has a very broad definition for—on what he sees as his.
My writing is always more on the non-serious side, but Imu really would be the worst possible person to have pining after you. I can’t even say run, because where could you run?
I'm not super pleased with this one. I just kinda wanted to be done with it. I'll try writing something filthy later, idk. It was supposed to be longer, but uhhh I didn't fucking feel like it hahahahha
“(Y/N).”
You cracked one sleep-heavy eye open, gaze bleary and the tendrils of blissful unconsciousness still tugging at your conscious insistently. Inertia clouded your mind like cotton, your limbs lead-like and your brain currently very-much in sleep mode; a sleep mode that your brain did not like being pulled from, even as you forced your eye to not fall shut again. The bed was warm, the room was quiet and dark, and it was the middle of the fucking night, of course your brain—which would actually prefer you to have a healthy sleep schedule, shockingly enough—didn’t enjoy being roused suddenly.
The room—your quarters, since you’d been expected to stay within the confines of Pangaea Castle due to your knowledge of Imu’s existence—was mostly engulfed in ebony darkness absolute, save for the sliver of warm yellow light that filtered through the slightly ajar door. It flickered and danced sporadically, the thin line of light it provided constantly retracting and surging forth, like the tides rolling against a cliff, or the sun peeking out from between the clouds. The light was weak, more-so the edges of whatever cast it rather than the core of the source; though even so, it was just strong enough to cut through the previously all-encompassing darkness; just strong enough to faintly illuminate the sparse furniture in the room, the seamlessly melded inky shadows falling away enough for you to make out your nightstand, and the edges of your covers.
Just enough to make out a dark, blurry shape standing next to your bed.
“Mmmph…?” You mumbled, voice gravelly and slurred, “mmm… wha’ ish’it…?”
Had you not fully closed the door when you retired for the night? You wondered idly. No, no, you were certain you had… you distinctly recall doing so, and locking the door at that. You were always pretty good at that, especially since this place wasn’t your home.
So why was there something- no, someone just… standing there…? Were you dreaming? Would this count as a dream? No, no, you’d say it leaned towards nightmare… but perhaps you were just having one of those strangely surreal dreams? That wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, you supposed numbly. The wrongness of this—and the realization that you were not, in fact, dreaming—didn’t register for that split second, your sleep-addled mind pleading to drag you back under.
“(Y/N). Wake up.”
The words registered more clearly now; and as they did, so too did the situation at hand. The sleepiness haunting you vanished immediately, adrenaline surging through your veins as your eyes shot open, wide as saucers. You scrambled back, wincing as the back of your head hit the wall with a dull thump, hand flying up to cradle the ouchie. The covers tangled around your limbs as you struggled to free yourself from their grasp; though all that flailing you were doing only made them more tangled, your eyes trained on the figure just loitering in your room like a fucking bum.
And then you met his eyes; red and ringed and weirdly visible even in the relative darkness, staring you down with the look you’d subconsciously labeled as his, “I’m trying to make you explode with my eyes,” look. Aka his default expression.
Oh great. Just great. Why in the four-fucking-seas was your creepy ass boss just loitering in your room!?
“The fuck-!?” You hissed, the words still slightly slurred, “Imu- er, uh, Imu-sama!?”
“Language.” Imu spoke dryly, the subtlest warning in his tone as his eyes narrowed. “Thy foul tongue shouldst be stayed; ‘tis improper.”
“Well, its just-“
“Didst Mu say thou could speak? Know thy place, (Y/N); Mu hast no interest in thy excuses.” A pause, before in a slightly less terse tone, “…simply hold thy tongue in the future.”
You held back a sigh, posture still tense as you met his cold gaze. Right. Of course. Even when he broke into your room at some ungodly hour of the night and woke you up, you were still expected to be reverent and polite. You were simply a gardener, and he was the literal king of the world; to say there was a power imbalance there was probably the greatest understatement of the millennium, and he just loved to remind you of that fact. It wasn’t like you were stupid enough to say anything, though; after all, you’d seen him have attendants ‘dealt with’ for less than a slip of the tongue, and you’d prefer to not be next up on the chopping block.
Really, you’d already gotten away with more than you expected, considering how you were around him on a day-to-day basis with your work. He didn’t keep people around him for long, typically, since it posed a threat to the secrecy of his existence.
Today was especially rough, since you’d learned from Imu himself that he just outright killed one of the Five Elders recently—his name eluded you, since you’d never actually met the Gorosei—for some incident at Egghead. Apparently, some new Yonko crew were there, and just made everything a lot harder than it had to be for the World Government? Look dude, you play with fucking flowers all day, not… whatever old geezers in positions of power did. He’d spent half the morning ranting at you about, “incompetent fools,” and demanding to know how the Gorosei and an Admiral failed to kill—in his words—an, “idiot boy with a neuron deficiency,” before using some… choice words for the kid.
Meanwhile, you’d just been trying to prune the leaves on a tree.
Because that is your job.
He’d been in a positively foul mood since then, getting on you for every little thing, even if normally he wouldn’t care. It was like Imu had been itching for reasons to hound you and practically bite your head off, because you were an easy target due to his lack of a social life!
You’d spoken to one of his attendants? He pretty unsubtly threatened you and your family.
You’d left for like five minutes because you, unfortunately, are burdened by an excretory system? Ripped you a new one in the most condescending fancy-talk way possible.
You lacked mind-reading capabilities and didn’t know he wanted you to water the foxgloves (why did he have so many poisonous flowers)? If you guessed that he got angry at you, you’d be right!!! Ding ding ding!!
So on, so forth.
So, the fact that he was just chilling right next to your bed, and had been there for God knows how long, made you pretty uncomfortable. A very reasonable response, in your professional opinion.
You shifted in your bed; the sheets now pooled around your hips and a soft exhale escaping your nose. Despite everything, you supposed this could’ve turned out a lot worse if you’d decided clothes were overrated that night… that would’ve been awkward. You do not need your boss seeing your bare ass subtle foreshadowing.
“Why didst thou speak to one of Mu’s attendants?” Imu finally asked, the barest hint of some unacknowledged emotion laced within his words.
He was still on this…?
“We were discussing a shipment of flowers, Imu-sama.” You droned, your voice adopting some of its earlier exhaustion, “he was telling me that they’d be late.”
“Hn. Thou could’ve discussed that with Mu, nay?”
“He was simply relaying information, Imu-sama.”
“Mu is aware of that, (Y/N),” Imu snapped in strained annoyance, his eyes flicking in what you could’ve sworn was an eyeroll, “then why didst thine presence linger near him, hm?”
You blinked in confusion, eyes briefly squinting; surely, he wasn’t this hung up over this? “He was asking me if I was low on fertilizer, so he could request a new shipment, Imu-sama.”
“He was staring at thee.” That one came out as a borderline hiss. “Why?”
“Imu-sama-“
“Thou needeth only talk to me about such things, (Y/N).” The switch to the personal pronoun was sudden and jarring, “I am thy employer, not him.”
Imu practically spat the last word, as if even referring to this poor attendant was some great disgrace for the ruler. His eyes were narrowed, and you became acutely aware of the faint scent of wine on him, sharp and pungent. The smell wasn’t strong enough to where you assumed he was hammered, but he was pretty obviously buzzed, judging by the faint glassiness to his usually sharp eyes.
“…Understood, Imu-sama.” You finally mutter, since you were not going to try and be logical with someone who had been drinking.
A soft hum of approval escaped Imu, before he abruptly walked back towards the door, “good. I would hope thou dost not… fancy him.”
And then he left, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.
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