Teaching the other something new for Denu'er and Fem!Sarizhu?
#28 Teaching the Other Something New
“L-like this...?”
Denu’er sighs, a faint smile on his lips as he shakes his head. “Your strokes are too light. You need more power to make it look dignified.”
The way you puff out your cheeks in frustration is adorable enough for him chuckle. “Why do I have to learn this style of calligraphy? I thought I already learnt the standard style.”
“You did, Mastress, but this style is for writing edicts.”
Your brows furrow. “But I’ve been writing them for my lord brother for the past year...”
“How is a regent comparable to a proper prince?”
“My lord brother hasn’t crossed to the other world yet.” There’s an edge to your voice. “I don’t want to jinx him like this.”
“Of course, of course.” Denu’er picks up his brush and dips it in the ink. “But you should know anyway, Mastress. It’s best to be prepared for the worst.”
You say nothing as you watch him write the sample he’d set for you. “I don’t think I can learn this,” you say at last, when he sets down his brush. His letters are strong, indicative of his character.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mastress.” Denu’er shuffles over to where you stand, taking your hands in his own. “I’ll help you, all right?”
It’s a bad idea from the start, but he can’t help himself. Being so close to you, practically pressed together, and in a room by yourselves is a dangerous idea. If people knew of the impure thoughts he had toward his mastress, what would they say? What would the late prince have said?
It’s even worse for you thought -- he can feel your slender frame trembling, and he knows you’re not focused on writing. It’s an all-around terrible idea, but Denu’er indulges in it anyway.
He tells himself not to indulge any further for he’d be delving into dangerous territories. Touching you like this is already a sin, but he wants more. He wants to touch, to caress every bit of your body, to teach you about more shameful matters, but he can’t.
So, he settles for memorizing the faint scent of your perfume, the warmth of your body... There’s no good that can come of this, he tells himself. You’re his mastress; he’s twice your age and a widower; you’re the daughter of his sworn brother; he’s watched you grow from a young child to a blossoming young lady; he’s had a hand in raising you.
But at least he can dream of it late at night, right?