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the12thnightproject · 3 hours

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My Dear Rag Doll

Chevalier x OC (OC Chart: Esther) Action ~2.4k

What was supposed to be a one-shot became a two-shot <3 My Dear Rag Doll is written to reflect the events as Chevalier would experience them -- I, Your Rag Doll is dedicated to that known to Esther.

Content Warnings: blood, violence

Chevalier stood up. He let his gaze sweep over the room again, although he did not think it likely that he had omitted anything. The dim light of the garden lanterns seeped inside, curtains stationed by the windows permitting its passage rather indifferently. Yet to be drawn shut for the night – or was it a “still” instead? – they billowed lightly with each gust, the sweetly bloody scent lifting from the ground…

The door to the foreign affair’s faction office cracked open with a knock, a silver tea cart merrily rattling inside, assisted by the metallic cackle of a chatelaine. A linen petticoat rustled underneath a woollen skirt, followed by a few sharp steps. Boots; low heel. Too light to belong to a maid. Crockery trembled as wheels trespassed over the carpet edge, shaken cups and plates muttering out their complaints, little spoons and forks plinking quietly. The tea was poured, liquid churning to then settle within porcelain bounds.

“Duplicate,” Chevalier spoke, eyes set firmly on the document underneath his pen. Imports, exports, actualisation to the pre-existing trading rights… Black ink lay in waiting, the thinnest trail of it stretching down the length of the nib – with one flick of his wrist, a signature appeared. Another page was summoned, indifferent towards the cart and its contents.

“No milk or sugar, as always,” Esther replied. She set the cup in front of him, the saucer near intruding on paper. “It’s… time for a break. Isn’t it?”

The beverage that went down his throat was subtly bitter, much unlike the timid smile curled up in the corners of Esther’s lips. Against all common sense and etiquette, she turned her back towards him unprompted and marched towards the sofa where she sat down, wrapping the cup tightly in her grip to seek out its warmth. Esther lowered her head and Chevalier watched on, not entirely understanding why yet not questioning it either. It was pointless to remember, even if retaining the events in perfect detail was not a voluntary act. Regardless, Esther corrected her posture and that too could not evade him. Her nose scrunched up and freckles rode up its bridge, a content murmur gurgling in her throat, eternally surprised by the smallest of things. Her nails tapped against the cup.

“Do gardeners drive away the birds?”

Pen in one hand and a piece of pastry in the other, Chevalier lowered his eyes to the papers in front of him. To engage with her chirping would be wasteful, he surmised, however —

“I’ve seen nightingales in the rose gardens. Their mating season is just around the corner… It’d be terrible if they settled here and were chased out of their nests.”

— he did not ignore her as completely as not to hear her either.

The registry closed with a soft thud, the tea cart rattling up a hiss as Chevalier set the volume between the plates. Her eyes latched onto him, although needlessly so. He had no intention to allow her to read him nor would he reveal the obvious.

“Familiarise yourself with the reports for the second quarter of last year by tomorrow.”

A smirk crept over his face at her shock. Esther forced herself to swallow; were she not as towheaded as she was, he’d expect her to go white on the spot. “What are they on?”

She mustn’t have expected an answer – a skittish ferret, she reached for the registry before even completing her inquiry, her lips quivering when presented with rows upon rows of numbers. “Volume of imported and exported items?” she murmured to herself.

“Indeed. Goods that passed through customs in Croix.”

“By tomorrow?”

“Provided you continue being resolved to become a suitable assistant. Otherwise you may return the dishes.”

“I will do it. I only don’t understand why tomorrow.” Esther clutched the book to her chest, as if his mere scoff could steal it away from her. “Is somebody expected to come? A merchant delegation?”

“In that vein.” Perhaps he was feeling generous.

The brief intermission came to a natural end, and so the work continued onwards as if it had never been interrupted to begin with. Petitions, reports, drafting and redrafting ordinances, still ongoing budget disputes, the idle stream of legislations occupied Chevalier’s attention until well into the afternoon. The pen dipped into the inkpot with a sense of finality, the last line of crisp letters emerging over the white. The doorknob remained unmoved. A sneer twisted his lips.

Chevalier pushed himself away from the desk and stood up. He glanced through the window, a nightingale speeding past it to then dive into the rose bushes right by the wall, early buds shivering politely at this intrusion. It hardly occupied his mind, however, his legs already carrying him away from the office and towards the library. For the first time in a while, Chevalier expected not to have any company. He could not mind.

The delegation from the Merchant Guild of Croix arrived shortly before the nightfall. Little different from a caravan, it consisted not merely of business representatives, but also of wagons filled to the very brim with ware samples, mountain worth of a variety of finely weighted silks and other muslins towering above hills of perfume, foreign-made cheeses, alcohol, exotic fruit, medicinal herbs, and… powder, although not one employed for the sake of personal vanity. Rather, mixed with specific compounds to produce different colours, it was meant to provide a soaring, uproarious kind of entertainment, or so it was presented as. The validity of said claim was yet to be determined, as not even Clavis who welcomed the guests seemed to be as curious as to deny them rest. Horses were led to stables, the merchandise – to an empty warehouse, the corridors of the palace quieting down hardly a moment after the initial influx of noise.

Just as Chevalier had foreseen.

All except for one thing.

Given the late hour, the residential wing of the palace was suitably silent, fading echoes of snores and drowsy murmurs just barely slipping through the gaps in the door frames lining the wall. Each a drop in the mizzling sound, they hardly existed when compared to the churning thunder of a footfall petrifying the corridor. Chevalier marched onwards, so very quietly loud, as if his presence itself was enough of a threat to warrant caution, the entire rank of portraits straightening in their honourable frames as he passed them by. Objectively, he did nothing of substance and nothing was amiss. The day was merely supposed to end, for another one of its kind to replace it come morning. And it would happen so without any disturbance. It would, was it not for the chilly evening breeze and the creaking hinge. Chevalier stood still, the familiar door behaving in the most unfamiliar of ways. It beckoned him closer, closer still, its shrill unpleasant voice the most alluring of songs…

Chevalier stepped into Esther’s room.

The window rattled, a newly unleashed draught pulling at what remained of the broken pane. The duvet was on the floor, as were the registry he had lent her and the contents of her desk. Doors of the disembowelled wardrobe hung open, linen chemises and petticoats lying scattered over the room together with shirts and a skirt, as if gutted out in a hurry. Chevalier stepped over the stockings submerged in a puddle of black ink, glass shrieking under the soles of his boots. Almost mechanically, Chevalier wrapped his cloak around his arm and swept shards off the top of the dresser, to then set his book down. Drawn to the crimson, his body crouched by itself. His eyes grew colder as they searched for something he himself could not define. The not yet coagulated ferrous stench clung to his teeth, however, undeniably real among intangible conjectures. Hers, not hers… Whichever the case, Esther was not there. Not in person, not in the body. The spirit he did not believe in.

There indeed was a “still” in the broader equation of the room, and a greater linear independence of clues.

Not hers, Chevalier was certain, although still certainly at a loss.

An explosion split the stationary air above the gardens.

A gunshot answered.

Found.

***

Whether Chevalier would make it in time was not the question of skill, but of luck – and as luck had it, the events at hand were largely aligned with his plan, irrespectively of their conclusion. It was senseless to hurry; however, his legs carried him on their own, each step rushing after the previous one as if it was all a race. Perhaps, indeed, it was.

The hallways had been changed. Buzzing with information, they now swarmed him with advice, their voice growing louder the further he was led from the garden, disinterested walls standing in his way. Shortcut, faster route, a less common path… The crumbling quiet of the snores, the yet to be disturbed somnolent gasps, still safely cocooned in their indecision and hopes of the commotion being a nothing.

Nobody else would make it in time.

Nobody could.

Chevalier took a sharp turn and entered one of the old servants’ passages, elderly floorboards bemoaning his arrival with an array of pained groans. A white flash or a phantom, he was there one moment to disappear the next – from a corridor, to a staircase, and then another one, barely a thunder, electricity zapping through air. Chevalier sought the path of least resistant, the gardens his ground. He didn’t cling to any hopes or such. The objective was, truthfully, the only thing he had.

The dewy evening enveloped him, a handful of stray lights rousing in various rooms at the second explosion, followed shortly by another one. Chevalier hadn’t answered her when she inquired about the birds. He didn’t need to now; were he to waste a word, he’d have claimed that yes, they would be driven away. As things stood, however, the gardeners would have their work cut short. Wings beat at the air as Chevalier strode past the rose bushes, buds near falling off their stems. Irrelevant, even if he could not simply cease seeing them, quit hearing the panicked chirping… Reject the faint glistening of broken glass among the gravel, omit the broken twigs and not follow in their path. A metallic screech clawed at the quiet of the night as Chevalier unsheathed his sword.

He didn’t make it in time to see her fight.

He was too late for her to still struggle.

Chevalier barely saw her at all; Esther lay on the ground, the hiked up skirt the sole sign of her ever having attempted to escape. It was her, undeniably – he could tell by the shoes. Shoes only. The brawny man straddling her hips obstructed her face.

His rush felt painfully slow.

If he could fly…

Ha.

Ridiculous.

Self-serving and unrealistic, so very ironic after decades of chasing the nightingales out.

Chavalier raised his arm as Esther’s hands fell, as limp as if made of rags and not of flesh. She was a doll with cut strings, and he too did cut – through muscle, tendons, cartilage, bone, the arms that had her strangled dropping lifelessly once separated from their owner. A life snuffed out exchanged for still boiling blood. Chevalier turned on his heel, face frozen in indifference as his boot sent the man flying to the ground. Broken teeth spilled from the assaulter’s mouth.

A scream? This, this Chevalier did need to record in his mind. Not that he needed to think about as much. He simply cut, a single merciful blow. Unprecedented mercy, given the crime, pulsing crimson like sunset escaping from the neck made lighter by the weight of the head. That should have been enough, and indeed, it was. By any measure, it was. Yet he still stepped forward and still swung his leg, and the bushes still trembled as something fell in and through them, another bony shard falling from its mouth. Brutality frigidly embraced, Chevalier looked towards Esther, or what remained of her. He slashed at the air, wiped the blade clean with a handkerchief to then return it to its sheathe. The fabric fell to the ground, together with his ruined gloves.

All that was left was to leave.

He wanted to.

He did begin to.

Yet he stayed to look.

At first, it was hardly there, so easy to be overlooked. Chevalier watched, the witness to the shallowest of breaths, followed by another and another one. Esther coughed. He should have assessed her then and there. He should have, but he merely stood and took in her sight. With lips more redder rather than purple, Esther shakily heaved onto her side. She coughed, coughed, coughed, her entire body trembling as she turned her head from side to side, unfocused eyes opened wide. Hands clutching at the moist grass for stability, she searched for something, just barely drawing in short gulps of air. Chevalier did not move any closer. He —

Hair was stuck to her face when Esther found him. It was brownish red, just as her clothes, and utterly soaked. Vivid where still wet, it marked her pale eyelashes, brows, clung to her bruised neck and slipped behind her collar. She was painted whole, entirely in his colours, defiled down to her fingertips. He had done that. He —

It was her, in that moment, who looked him in the eyes. Esther. Duplicate… Rag Doll that came back to life. Panic was swallowed by the darkness of her eyes, circulation returning to white knuckles as she entrusted him with a faint, fragile, smile. Chevalier took a step forward. Esther collapsed onto the ground, breathing, still breathing even if battered, and alive.

Everything had been said and done by the time the crowd gathered. Scarlet to scarlet, Chevalier walked past ashen faces with Esther in his arms, eyes set on the furrowed brow of his younger brother.

“Clean this up. I’m taking three of your maids.”

Clavis did not say a word as Chevalier resumed walking, stained cloak billowing slightly over the chilly evening breeze.

***

The morning came sooner than expected, although it was still hardly soon enough. Unable to sleep a wink, Clavis strode into Chevalier’s room. His brother wasn’t there, however.

Seated in the bed and wrapped tightly in the duvet, Esther looked up at Clavis, black-purple bruises clutching her neck.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, her voice grating at his ears like pumice. “I’m sorry.”

He was as well.

You've seen any typos? Let me know!

Tag List: @lancelotscloak @violettduchess @pathogenic @fang-and-feather @tele86

@rinaririr @keithsandwich @cheese-ception @bis-enti @claviscollections

@queengiuliettafirstlady @sh0jun @lucyw260 @solacedeer @bicayaya

@faustianfascination @m-mmiy

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the12thnightproject · 3 hours

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"Can we get the dog back?"' Love it!

HC: Beast - Silvio

x Reader Fantasy AU ~1.2k words

With special dedication for @echoes-in-the-forest . It took me a moment, so I hope it was worth the wait. <3

Content Warnings: none

Inherited curse, something he has done nothing to earn, but was much rather born into along his riches and regal fate. A headache passed from father to son, a secret kept from even their mothers… A reality of being a beast in both name and flesh, although the latter occurs only under specific set of circumstances. The crests are more than just pretty decorations.

Silvio

Silvio’s curse is the revenge of the turbulent seas, of lands unknown and unreachable that he so impertinently dared to trespass upon. A cue for scoffers to laugh at his expense, and with impunity at that, it eternally binds him to the docks… kind of.

A prince he may be, yet it is trade that runs through Silvio’s veins. Wherever there is gold to be made and deals to be acquired, he is there, his heart drumming a war march as his tongue sharpens itself for a battle of wits. Such he is, so truly, it has never occurred to you there may be anything more to it than pure, selfish desire for wealth.

Cursed be anti-capitalism when your lover is the predecessor of a CEO (squared).

The threat of being neglected on behalf of profit has crossed your mind in the past. Nevertheless, it has never been as real, as tangible, as it is now that the heels of your shoes are being sanded down on the road leading to the docks. Your arms coiled around Silvio’s waist, you hope for your glare to truly pierce the back of his head.

“Dammit, let go already!”

“It’s my birthday!” you hiss out and cling to him even tighter. You’d assume your lover to be out of breath, but his powerful legs do not slow down for even a step. No, no, if anything, Silvio picks up his pace… even if his face grows redder still, once a vivid representation of a ripe apple, once a distant cousin of a delicious borscht.

“I’ll take ya out later, so quit sulkin’!” he yells, thus demonstrating the monstrous capacity of his lungs. Silvio drags you along further, any of your complaints falling on deaf ears.

Unthinkable. How dare he assume you are sulking, let alone due to not being taken out for dinner? Well, yes, your stomach is empty, but that is entirely not the point! You are enraged! Furious! Incensed!

… PISSED!

How dare THAT scoundrel, sleazebag, sea rat, bastard, bitch…!

How dare HE, after all that you’ve been through, imply that YOU are with HIM for MONEY?! No amount of golden coins could make you love that filthy mouth of his if you hadn’t loved him already!

By all accounts, not even his own mother loved it. And THAT is WHY you are in THIS situation!

To insult you is one thing – a bitch, a whore, oh, you’ve heard worse while at the docks. (Editorial Note: Why you were at the docks, by yourself, and in alleys of dubious reputation – that the esteemed narrator does not know, regardless of how much money may be tossed at them. Your secret is perfectly safe… Although, if you do accept any advice, the esteemed narrator that has narrated many a love story suggests you communicate with your lover, lest a tragedy is to befall you. The art of espionage is honourable, truly, yet it does have its limitations.) But to insult your love?! You will not stand for that. Never! Never!

You dig your heels into the ground even firmer, squeeze Silvio even harder just below his ribs. Oh, you lean back, as ferocious as a sea serpent or the kraken itself. And you pull! And he jangles! And you both jingle, as yes, you have indeed dressed up for a date! Oh, what a struggle it is (and what a display you are)! But the docks are ruthless and they still appear out of the blue, blue ocean.

Silvio somehow manages to run with you still attached to him. (Perhaps that is the power acquired by those who have risked scurvy and emerged without golden dentures.) And you? In your last desperate effort, you cling to his pants, or much rather his belt, and perhaps not as much cling, as… uncling, or unbuckle, it.

However, it is not clothes that fall. (Of course. Bespoke garments do not rely on any accessories to be kept in place.)

A salty mist envelops you. It ruins your hair, the surprisingly wet winds from god-knows-where whipping your face and tearing your make-up off. Silvio curses, oh he curses up a storm – from damn-its, to fuck-s, to motherfuckers, Protestants, Catholics, and Azel the god himself. He yaps and he barks, and he howls and he… He actually barks.

Where your lover stood, now there is a Dalmatian dog. And was it not for the jewellery? You’d question your sanity. But there is absolutely no way in the entire world that anybody would dress their Bruno, Dolce or other Giuseppe in the very jewels worn by the prince of the nation. The rings do not appear exactly comfortable, but he doesn’t seem to be complaining.

You fall to your knees on the spot.

(The esteemed narrator would like to remind you of the advice they have given. Too late? Too late.)

You do not understand it fully, but it appears your lover had his true nature revealed in the most surprising of ways. However, you still love him, even if he may now belong in a kennel rather than the palace.

Your hands raise to your mouth, your lips twisting into a surprised “o”. Your eyes water.

“Oh, Silvio? Silvio. My poor Silvio,” you whisper urgently, his ears lying flat… although his tail does wag rather fervently. “Where should we go now? Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ll figure something out… I’ve read in a story that —”

Stories do not seem to be of interest to him, however.

Silvio takes your hand into his snout, passers-by turning their head towards the both of you as he leads you all the way back to the palace. The guards… They, somehow, seem to know what to do, and before long you are not only back in your room, but are sitting at the edge of a silken dog bed of monstrous size.

An ornamental collar has been brought out as well, benitoite gemstones shimmering in their golden casings. Your jaw drops. Apparently, fashion is important regardless of the form one may take.

For the following month, life continues on as per usual… Except certain documents may be signed with a paw print rather than names, but no matter. Wicked businessmen never rest.

Ocean breeze wafts over the salty streets of the Benitoitian capital, infused with the somnolent gasps and silver moonlight. It twists to then turn, to step over the drunkards sleeping in the narrow alleys and dead ends, scale the walls of various mansions and to eventually arrive at the palace. Silvio trots out onto the balcony, his tail wagging as you follow after him.

There, under the full moon, he howls. Clouds wrap around him. At once, your lover has been returned to his former self.

“I told ya to quit sulkin’, ehh…”

… Can you get the dog back? Perhaps next month.

When he was a dog, well. At least his tail was honest.

You’ve learnt not to mess with the man and his docks. The dog, on the other hand? That’s free game.

You'v seen a typo? Let me know!

Tag List: @lancelotscloak @violettduchess @pathogenic @fang-and-feather

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#silvio ricci #ikepri silvio #ikemen prince silvio #ikepri #ikemen prince #ikemen series

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the12thnightproject · 19 hours

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why write a story if no one's going to read it?

Sometimes you don't want to share a story with others. Sometimes you do want to share it, but no one clicks on the title. So why bother writing it down if the only person you can guarantee will read it is you?

You need to get it out of your head. It just keeps replaying in your imagination on a loop and the only way to get it unstuck is to pin it down on paper.

You need to figure out what the story is. You have a lot of disjointed scenes or lines that you know are connected but you can't quite figure out how.

There's something in the story that's important to you, and you don't want to lose that thing by forgetting it. Future you might find that thing important too.

You want to be able to go back to the story again and again. Maybe to make adjustments over time. Maybe just to revisit a story that gives you the emotional release you need in that moment.

You want to be able to use text-to-speech to read the story aloud to you. Maybe it's a bedtime story. Maybe it's keeping you company while you do errands and chores.

You want to find out whether you can write a story (because not everyone can).

You want to be able to have almost the same story, but a little bit different, and you want to have it 15 times with slight variations. Then you can go through your own personal menu picking exactly the combination of beats that will satisfy you most on this reading.

You enjoy the process of finding just the right words or phrases or scenes to paint the pictures you want to shape the scene.

You want to find the exact rhythm and syllables and structure to make a sentence really sing.

You don't really have any particular reason, but you know you want to write that story down.

#1 and 4 and 8 and 10 #At some point the story wants out of my head

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the12thnightproject · 22 hours

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Chapter Two: Miss Congeniality - Katsuko meets many residents of Azuchi... but not her fake fiance.

Mitsunari x OC; Nobunaga x Mai

Previous Chapter

Logline - In order to protect a political alliance, Katusko and Mitsunari must pretend an engagement. But this “all business” arrangement is threatened by a coup against Nobunaga… and by feelings.

From the Military Notes of Ishida Mitsunari…

A good General will ensure that his soldiers are provided with not only food, but also appropriate armor for upcoming battles. It would be illogical to send warriors onto the battlefield on an empty stomach, but even more so for them not to have protection from the weapons of enemy forces. The initial cost of armoring soldiers will be far repaid in ensuring safety (as much as possible given a situation of war) and loyalty.

Personal comments: Lady Mai requested permission to help “re-design” the Oda soldier uniforms. It is difficult to refuse Lady Mai anything, however such a decision rests in the hands of Lord Nobunaga and Lord Hideyoshi – neither of whom find it easy to refuse Lady Mai either. However, Lord Mitsuhide has stated he has another task for Lady Mai… This prompted Lord Hideyoshi to use more words I am not comfortable writing down.

Two days after leaving the mountains, I arrived at Azuchi Castle. Kyubei left me waiting near the gate, while he alerted Mitsuhide to our arrival. Though I’d previously spent a couple weeks in the castle town, I’d never been inside Azuchi castle itself and I was happy enough to have some time within the gates to look around. Up close, the tenshu was impressive building, rising from a thick stone base, up seven stories to tower over the hillside. There was even a balcony surrounding the uppermost floor, and I wondered if Nobunaga spent much time up there. Must be nice to be able to see the entire countryside from your bedroom.

Feeling slightly like a gawking tourist, I took a step backward to get a better look, and –

WHAM!

I’d backed right into the path of a young man who’d been on his way inside, his arms loaded full of books and papers. The resulting collision sent the books to the ground and the papers into the air--

Where they were caught in a gust of wind and went flying toward the gates.

“I’m so sorry!” I helped him chase after the errant papers. We (actually I) caught most of them, but one got stuck in a tree, entangled in a branch about three meters off the ground. Without letting go of his armload of retrieved papers and books, the man tried to climb the tree, and ended up nearly dropping everything again.

Not wanting to repeat the whole chasing down experience, I piled the books, scrolls, and odd scraps of paper back in his hands and pointed to the one in the tree. “Don’t move. I’ll get that one,” I told him, and scampered up to retrieve the page. I jumped down and gave him the paper, which he accepted with a quick bow. “I hope you’ll be able to put them all back in order.”

“There was no order to it – although… that would make it easier to keep track of it all, wouldn’t it?” He shuffled everything into an untidy bundle and tucked it all under his arm. “Thank you for your assistance, and my apologies for walking into you.”

Now that I was no longer scrambling after his paperwork, I finally was able to get a good look at him – messy dark grey hair falling into distracted violet eyes and a lovely, but unfocussed smile. I’ve seen him before! The clumsy bookworm… Mitsuyori? No… Mitsunari. Well, how could I forget the booksellers’ most loyal customer (who never actually bought anything)? Of course, since I couldn’t admit to spending time in Azuchi disguised as an elderly bookseller, I kept my expression neutral and pretended this was our first encounter.

“Actually, I think I walked into you. I was looking up at the tenshu. It’s spectacular.” I turned my face to the top of the castle once more.

He nodded, then smiled at me again, this time at least seeming to register my presence. “I remember how I felt when I first came here two years ag- Oh no! Why am I here?”

He stared hard at the castle, as if some stray thought was eluding him the way the papers had nearly eluded me. Since I doubted the question was either rhetorical or existential, I stayed quiet while he continued to gaze at the castle walls. “I didn’t mean to come here today; I’m supposed to be -” His expression changed to panic when the guard on the towers called out the change in vigil. “I’m late! Please accept my apology for running you over.”

“Of course, but it was my fau-” I stopped because he had already turned around and rushed down the hill.

Huh.

I watched him until he disappeared from view.

Sweet.

But… possibly not tethered to reality.

“Katsu!” Kyubei tapped my arm to catch my attention. “We’re to meet Lord Nobunaga in the tenshu.”

Dismissing the young man from my thoughts, I followed Kyubei up (and up, and up) to the top of the tenshu, where Oda Nobunaga was waiting for us in his rooms. Without prompting from Kyubei, I bowed low, aware that this was a formal audience, and possibly the first test of my manners.

In return, Nobunaga lightly dipped his head. When I finally rose and met his eyes, there was a hint of amusement in them. As it turned out, Nobunaga remembered ‘Katsu’ from our encounter in Osaka earlier this year.

“Fortune works in interesting ways, for you’ve ended up working for me after all, Katsu.” He lounged on a dias in an indolent pose, but there was an aura of kinetic energy around him that suggested he could go from restful to predator in an instant. “However- did you not say that you worked for a merchant who is like a father to you? Mitsuhide left me with the understanding that he was reaching out to a man who has some dealings in espionage.”

I bowed again. “Is a spy not a merchant of information?” Then, because he seemed to be in limbo between trust and distrust,” I added. “My business in Osaka the day we met was personal. I was not there spying for my master, and indeed my work for him generally only involves delivering messages. I didn’t tell him that we’d met.” I might have done so otherwise had not so many other things not occurred that day. In fact, I was flattered Nobunaga remembered me at all given that someone had tried to kill him that night.

While he seemed to think that over, I took in my surroundings. Like Aki’s office, there was a western influence in Nobunaga’s rooms, although the European objects (huh, he had even had what looked like a child’s stuffed bear mixed in there) displayed amongst Japanese works were displayed with more taste and flair. It was like the difference between walking into an episode of hoarders, versus walking into a museum. Then again, Azuchi castle had only been completed a couple years ago – Nobunaga likely hadn’t had enough time to accumulate the volume of tchotchkes that necessitates a once-a-decade konmarie purge.

Politeness required that I stay quiet until spoken to, and in any case additional exploration would have to wait, as a pair of voices approached. The combatants were arguing so loudly that I could hear them long before they appeared in the doorway.

“- this must be the most ridiculous scheme you’ve ever dreamed up,” said one man, sounding like he had had it up to here with the other person. “You have yet to convince me that you have any chance of success.”

“My dear Hideyoshi, you don’t need to be convinced. You only need to stay out of the way,” came the reply in a cool, mocking tone of voice, as a silver haired man came into the room. At his heels was this ‘Hideyoshi’ – yet another man I recognized from the booksellers. If I thought he had looked frazzled back then, it was nothing compared to him now. He had the look of a man who woke up every day to discover that imps had rearranged his furniture and placed his desk directly in the path of his shin. Then again, the other man had the look of a person who would indeed rearrange furniture; then stand by to watch the fun. So perhaps Hideyoshi came by his frazzle honestly.

Both stopped talking when they saw me standing there. Both subjected me to long, assessing stares. Ok guys, dial it back a notch�� I’m not a used car you’re buying off the internet. “This is the young man you’re going to pass off as a Princess?” Hideyoshi crossed his arms and frowned as he turned to Nobunaga. “My lord, please, put a stop to this now. There are other ways we can handle this situation.”

Hm… should I feel insulted or complimented? While I was glad that my male disguise was so convincing, it was hurtful not to be deemed feminine enough to portray a girl. Although it was also possible that Hideyoshi was so against this plan that even someone like Miyahara Satoko would not be considered feminine enough.

Ignoring Hideyoshi, the other man (who I was certain had to be Mitsuhide) circled me, apparently mentally kicking my tires… and if he thinks he can open the hood and peek into the engine, my tires are going to kick him back. “I hate to admit you have a point. It may be impossible to turn this one into a convincing woman.”

I was seconds away from throwing myself a gender reveal party when I caught the teasing expression in Mitsuhide’s eyes. Ah ha ha… he knew I was female. This was a test. With an exaggerated eyelash flutter, I dropped into a graceful and dramatic bow, and said in my best boy-pretending-to-be-a-girl falsetto, “Why Lord Aketchi, that wasn’t what you said when you propositioned me in Kyoto last week.”

That earned me a smothered laugh from Kyubei and a long look from Mitsuhide. He turned to Nobunaga. “She’ll do.”

“Yes. I have prior acquaintance with Katsu and have judged him quick witted and resourceful. Your plan has merit.” Nobunaga didn’t exactly finish his statement with the words, ‘the great and powerful Oz has spoken,’ … but it was implied.

Hideyoshi stepped back as if he had been stung. I almost felt sorry for him, but my ego was still pouting from before.

I turned back to Nobunaga, figuring I’d better let him in on my current disguise. “Thank you. As it happens, I’m actually-”

“I’m sorry!” A pretty woman about my age hurried into the room. She was the epitome of femininity, even with (especially with?) a smear of rice flour across her face, and I wondered why she hadn’t been tapped to portray this Princess. “Masamune has been teaching me how to make dumplings.”

Nobunaga patted the cushion at his side. “Should I be jealous of the time you’re spending with the one-eyed dragon?” But his scolding was accompanied by a fond smile that transformed his fierce mien into something softer and more approachable.

The woman snuggled into his side with a smile. “Perhaps I am learning to cook something special for you.” He kissed her hand and for a moment the two of them might have been encased in their own personal bubble. I looked away, feeling like I was spying on a private moment.

Mitsuhide had no such restraint. “Mai, might I interest in you in a rather large sewing commission?”

She sat up straight and looked at him with excited interest. “Do tell.”

Hideyoshi gestured to me. “This is Katsu. Can you possibly-” he sighed. “Turn him into a girl?”

That earned me her intense scrutiny. She smiled. “You mean, back into a girl.”

I like her.

“Little Mouse, you’re always surprising me with your hidden depths.” Mitsuhide turned his attention to Kyubei. “Akihira determined that this person-.”

“Katsuko.” Kyubei supplied my true name. “She’s been my contact through Akihira for the past four years and I believe she is suitable for this task.”

“I trust your judgment.” Mitsuhide bowed respectfully to Kyubei. It was a bow of a friend to a friend, not a master to a servant, and my estimation of Mitsuhide rose slightly in due to the positive way he treated his subordinate.

“Now hold on!” Hideyoshi’s frown had intensified and his hair puffed out in kinetic disapproval. “The only reason I agreed to this in the first place was because you agreed to find a boy to play the princess… It’s too dangerous otherwise.” He directed his final objection to Mai, as if hoping for a female voice to help overrule Mitsuhide.

“I can handle myself in combat.” Well. I could defend myself, at least, then run like hell. I gave Hideyoshi my best scornful look. “If you’re not convinced, I can prove it in your dojo or on your archery grounds.” I could prove it here and now, but I sensed that Hideyoshi had a low tolerance for sharp objects too close to Nobunaga. Speaking of… he hadn’t said a word yet either for or against my participation. I glanced over to see if I could glean what he made of all this.

Although one of his hands was playing with Mai’s hair, he was obviously paying attention to and amused by the whole scene playing out before him. “No need for that, Katsuko. The task is to pretend to be the fiancée of one of Hideyoshi’s vassals. The only danger, and the only reason we hoped for a boy is that women have a habit of falling in love with him. Which would make our problem worse, not solve it.”

A boy might pose the same complications, but… details. “Why does he need a pretend fiancée?” If they had an incurable flirt on their hands, maybe they could just give him a good talking to?

“We’re,” Nobunaga gestured to himself, Hideyoshi, and Mai, “making a diplomatic visit to Kanamori Mozumi, a daimyo who has recently begun to mine silver in his territory, to discuss an alliance. As Genba castle is renowned for containing an expansive archive, I intend to bring our strategist along. However, Mozumi also has a seventeen-year-old daughter - Shohime, who visited here last summer, and … it appears our strategist left quite an impression on her.”

“According to my sources,” Mitsuhide added, “Mozumi has contracted a marriage between Shohime and a Daimyo from Tsuruga, and he would not be pleased if anything were to ruin his plans.”

“Understood. Tsuruga is on the coast, and Mozumi wants access to trade routes to export the silver to Korea and China. With income from the silver and alliance with you, Lord Nobunaga, Mozumi will triple his power and influence – as long as he can keep both the son-in-law and your alliance.” It also confirmed Aki’s take on the situation in Hida. Given the increasing demand for Japanese silver, and it was clear that Nobunaga would prefer to keep relations with Mozumi peaceful. Granted, with his armies and allies, he could also just take over Mozumi’s territory, but why waste the manpower and time if Mozumi was willing to treat with him?

My job, apparently, was to make sure that Hideyoshi’s vassal didn’t distract the Kanamori princess from her contracted fiancé.

“Yes, that’s an accurate summary of the issues involved.” Rather than sounding pleased at my knowledge, Hideyoshi continued to look skeptical. Maybe he wasn’t used to women having a grasp of politics?

“I get to make a wedding kimono?” Mai’s look of excitement could probably brighten a dark room.

“It won’t reach that point – Katsuko is simply a diversion. But...” Hideyoshi looked at me and heaved a pained sigh. “She needs clothing that would reflect positively on the Oda.”

She rubbed her hands together. “When do we start?” Ok, this girl really takes her sewing seriously.

Mitsuhide gestured toward the door. “Preferably last week, but since that’s not possible, now will be acceptable.”

Without another word, Mai jumped to her feet, grabbed my hand, and literally dragged me out before I realized I hadn’t even learned the name of my fake fiancée. I half turned back to ask, but Hideyoshi and Mitsuhide were already nose-to-nose in another argument. Eeek. Better to just let them wallow in their U.S.T.

Mai led me through the castle to a room filled with various fabrics, and what looked like multiple projects in progress. A couple nearly-finished kimonos were displayed on racks – lovely jewel-toned pieces with intricate patterns and embroidery. “Stand there, please.” She pointed to a box and took out a long string to measure me.

“Oh. Let me just get rid of-” I wiggled out of the leather corset-binder that was keeping me flat. “I won’t be sorry to put that away for a few weeks.”

“There’s got to be a better way.” Mai looked at the binder with disgust. The better way would have been my sports bra, but it died even before my still mourned hoodie. Unfortunately, it’s not like we had access to lycra here. “Do you have any preferences? Color? Style?” Mai went to a writing desk where there was a stack of paper and several different sized brushes.

Androgyny… but make it fashion.

“Something not terribly restrictive. And. Not pink.” I shot a look at a turquoise kimono on display – that one was more or less to my taste.

“I must overrule that.” Mitsuhide stood in the doorway flanked by Hideyoshi. Apparently, they kissed and made up. “Soft pastels – including pink.”

“Pink is certainly appropriate,” Hideyoshi agreed.

Great. Now they agree.

Mai quickly wrapped a yukata around me. She pointed to the men in the doorway. “Out!”

Right. I wasn’t very well dressed. It’s not that I have no modesty… more that neither of them were looking at me as if I were an object of desire, but rather a tool to be sharpened and polished. Ignoring her, Mitsuhide undid my braid.

He visibly flinched at my hair.

Hideyoshi actually recoiled.

Yeah, it’s not in any particular style and there are pieces that are much shorter than the rest, causing it to stick out in chunks everywhere.

“What happened? Were you in a fire?” Kyubei had joined us and looked at my hair with fascinated revulsion.

“Fume did it.” And then I tried to fix it with my dagger.

Hideyoshi turned to Mai. “We’re going to need more maids.”

Cue Jaws theme in head.

After that, the afternoon passed in a blur of discussions, haircut, fittings, hand cream, face cream, cream cream and…

Help, I’m trapped in a makeover montage!

By the end of the ordeal, I was buffed and shined and primped and folded, spindled and mutilated until I didn’t recognize my reflection in the mirror that Mai had unearthed. I’d taken on plenty of identities over the past seven years, but this one seemed even further away from Katsuko than my old man disguise.

Also… I had zero likelihood of being able to replicate this complicated hairstyle on my own.

Mai adjusted one of the folds on the kimono – one of her own that she was loaning to me until she and her team could finish my – for want of a better word- trousseau. Then she turned me around to face the men who were judging my transformation.

Category is: Sengoku Princess Excellence.

“I’m ashamed to admit I never realized you were a girl.” Kyubei bowed to the new me.

“Thank you.” That was a nice compliment on both levels. “I’m sorry I teased you about the mountain path.”

“An improvement.” Only the most charitable would call Mitsuhide’s expression a smile. Smirk. He smirked. “One would hope you can manage to also behave demurely and gracefully, Okatsu.”

‘Okatsu?’ Hm, alright. Disguises were always easier when I thought of myself as a new person. And ‘Katsuko,’ as Fume had stated repeatedly, was not a common name here. As for demure and graceful… well the first three responses I thought of were neither demure, nor graceful, so I settled for a faint smile, downcast eyes, and plans to get even with Mitsuhide later.

Apparently though, Mitsuhide’s not so subtle jab earned me sympathy points from Hideyoshi… which might have been his objective after all? If so, well played, sir. “You look lovely, Okatsu, and I am sure your manners are acceptable.”

There wasn’t much I could add to that, so I simply gave Hideyoshi another appropriately demure smile, while I crossed my fingers behind my back that I could remember everything about protocol that Aki had tried to teach me. When all else fails, smile and nod.

Anyway, I supposed I was ready to meet my so-called fiancé. Who was… where was he anyway? Maybe he was hiding? “Er, this man I’m pretending to be engaged to… he is ok with this, right?”

Mitsuhide and Hideyoshi looked at each other. Silently. Possibly communicating telepathically.

Well, that wasn’t a good sign.

“He does, at least know about this?” I had no doubts that I could squash the overtures of an unrepentant flirt, or, even have a bit of fun with one if I were in the right frame of mind – but it would be easier if he had at least agreed to this plan before I was foisted upon him.

“Did you?” Mitsuhide asked Hideyoshi.

“Of course I did!” In his annoyance Hideyoshi looked like a puffer fish, trying to make himself look bigger to broadcast his defense. “I informed him last night. I believe he heard me.” Then, more softly. “Hopefully, he’ll remember.”

After this ominous tidbit, Mitsuhide said with obviously false cheer, “Of course he will remember. I’m certain he’s looking forward to meeting Okatsu.”

The looks on everyone’s faces ranged from disbelief (Kyubei) to outright worry (Hideyoshi)… well, Mai, at least seemed convinced as she fanned her wet eyes and let out a happy sob. “I love weddings.”

Hm. Against all current evidence, I trusted Mitsuhide. Alright, I didn’t trust him specifically, but from everything Aki and Kyubei had ever told me about him, I trusted that Mitsuhide knew what he was doing. But I wasn’t sure that he cared as much about the people enmeshed in his schemes as he cared about the schemes themselves. Probably this plan would work, but it wasn’t likely to be easy.

But hopefully, a nice quiet meeting between myself and Faux Fiance would clear up any confusion and allow us to figure out how to play thi-

“Well, shall we join them in the meeting hall, where Masamune has prepared a meal in honor of your engagement celebration?” Mitsuhide bowed and gestured us to the door.

Celebration? Just how many people will be witnessing my first meeting with… and what the heck was this man’s name anyway?

@lorei-writes @lyds323 @bestbryn @katriniac @briars7

#TBTMND #ikemen sengoku #fanfic #mitsunari ishida #ikesen mitsunari #ikesen nobunaga #ikesen mitsuhide #ikesen hideyoshi #ikesen mai #a mitsunari night's dream #oc: katsuko #katsuverse

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the12thnightproject · 2 days

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Superwholock (+ guests) : Happy Birthday Doctor! - (2024)

"Hey, angel! Why are we even here? It's the fifth time we're celebrating the Doc's birthday this year! Being a time traveler, it doesn't even make sense anymore! He's so old, I'm sure he doesn't even remember how old he is anyway. And there are two of them today? Shall we celebrate this one's birthday too? How does this even WORK?

Can you behave for a minute? We are here because it's fun, because it's a great occasion to be together again, and because he's our FRIEND. We are enjoying ourselves!

Are we? I mean, is he going to regenerate and go PshHhiTt at the same time as the candles? *That* would be entertaining!"

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the12thnightproject · 2 days

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Talk Shop Tuesday

Talk Shop Tuesday: the day of the week where you send fan creators (fic writers, fan artists, anyone that creates things for your fandom) questions about what they do! It can be fic-specific or general but either way: send them a question talking "shop" about the things they create! You never know what you might learn!

Rules:

send asks to creators in your fandom

share this post

have fun

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the12thnightproject · 3 days

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Bruce: Peter is missing, can you find him?

Tony: What, do you think I have him microchipped or something?

Bruce: Well, do you?

Tony:

Tony: Yeah, hang on.

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the12thnightproject · 3 days

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Hi can I request that an mc that is mostly quiet and stoic around the chosen warlord who already feel in love with mc at this point but is quite talkative around the others the reason for that is that mc actually loves him and finds the warlord very attractive but she is too shy to express it. Honestly would like to see all warlords but especially requesting for Mitsuhide, shingen and kenshin (and masamune if you are up for it)

Hello! This is such a sweet scenario! Thank you for the request.

Shy MC that looks stoic to them.

Oda forces.

Mitsuhide Akechi.

To mitsuhide, it’s surprising to meet someone that doesn’t react that much to his teasing, something that motivates him to find out how to draw a reaction out of you. He will try anything to make you flustered, blush and have cute reactions. He doesn’t like the fact that you only ever show more of your personality around others.

At first he wondered if you hated him, which would make sense since a lot of people dislike him. Though it would hurt since he holds you dearly in his heart. It’s only after he noticed through your body language that you are nervous and anxious when talking to him. A bit more researched showed him that you were just shy next to him. Well… let’s just say this information gave him more reason to tease you.

Masamune Date.

Masamune is quite the expressive guy, and he can tell that you can be pretty talkative with the other guys, but for some reason you are always serious when next to him. He wondered if maybe you were like Hideyoshi, finding his stunts troublesome. However, that made him spent more time next to you, to get along better with you.

Little does he know that you like him more than he could imagine. Of course, he has began to like you as well, though it hurted to think that you might not feel the same way. It’s only through the other warlords that he finds out about how shy you get around him. That is enough to give him hope.

Uesugi-Takeda alliance.

Kenshin Uesugi.

Kenshin is used to people being afraid around him or becoming more serious as to not irritate him in any way possible. But it annoyed him that someone he has grown fond of was doing the same thing. Whenever you were around other people, you were always smiling beautiful, talking a lot with them, but whenever you were close to him, you would always become stoic and serious.

Something within him started to feel jealous of that, which would put him in a bad mood. Poor were his vassals and allies that had to calm him down by sparring with him. It takes both shingen and Yoshimoto to tell him the truth behind your change of mood whenever you were close to him to calm kenshin down.

Shingen Takeda.

Shingen is a master at knowing exactly how others feel or what they might be thinking, though you were a tough one, kind of like Sasuke. He was used to others falling for his flirting, getting clearly flattered by his words, but you always had a stoic expression near him. It hurted a bit since you would always show your beautiful expressions when talking to others.

It hurted even more when he grew fonder of you, admiring you from afar. He even thought about giving up going after you, though Sasuke came to the rescue and explained to shingen why your expression would change so much when you were near him. That gave him not only hope, but joy to know you felt the same way as him.

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the12thnightproject · 3 days

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For me, a comfort fic would include some great comedy and a happy ending. Friends to lovers is always a good trope for that. I have a soft spot for cinnamon roll heroes too.

Writing Wednesday Week #43

What’s your perfect comfort fic?

Event Details

#weekly writing wondering #writing wednesday question of the week #fandom #writing #writing wednesday #fanfiction writing #fanfic writing #fanfic writer #fanfiction #fanfic

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the12thnightproject · 3 days

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Day 14 - Friend - @capydoodle

Best friends forever <3

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the12thnightproject · 6 days

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In need of vacation? Would you consider... Creative Retreat [Discord Server]?

To create is lovely. To create together? Lovelier.

@the12thnightproject and @lorei-writes would like to invite you to the Creative Retreat. <3

What is Creative Retreat?

Creative Retreat discord server is a place dedicated to all creative spirits. As much as we enjoy making things, it sometimes can be hard to go on our own. So why not come together and support each other?

Genuine feedback, impromptu grammar support, beta-reading, crafting tips, a second pair of eyes to look at your artwork, sharing useful resources, discussing idea bunnies, talking about our goals and celebrating our accomplishments -- we hope to provide the environment for that and much more :)

Who can join?

We welcome all creative people, both fandom and original creators.

How to join?

Contact @lorei-writes or @the12thnightproject to get an invite link.

#timezone reblog

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the12thnightproject · 6 days

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A project from @lorei-writes and I. A place to be creative or to receive creative support. Encouragement in goal setting... a place to bounce ideas, or find a beta-buddy (or, several), or help tracking down resources... to find inspiration.

In need of vacation? Would you consider... Creative Retreat [Discord Server]?

To create is lovely. To create together? Lovelier.

@the12thnightproject and @lorei-writes would like to invite you to the Creative Retreat. <3

What is Creative Retreat?

Who can join?

We welcome all creative people, both fandom and original creators.

How to join?

Contact @lorei-writes or @the12thnightproject to get an invite link.

#fanfic #writing #crafts #art #drawing #sketch #digital art #traditional art #fanfiction #fanfiction writing

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the12thnightproject · 6 days

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Well this automatically became one of my favorite things on my dash...

Ikesen Boys React to a Tattooed MC pt 2

Thank you again to @otomedad for this idea!

Kenshin, Shingen, and Yoshimoto. Approx. 2400 words. Part 1 here!

Kenshin

Kenshin froze mid-step, his mismatched eyes going wide. You froze too, a shout of surprise caught behind your lips. Your kimono hung open, half undressed as you prepared for a bath.

The tub of steaming water sat behind a decorative screen, and you were wishing you were behind it too. “Umm. Hi?” You tug the fabric closed, your face hot.

He swallows, and turns his head to look down the empty corridor leading to your ‘room’. “You were not expecting me. I will go.”

“No, wait!” Your voice startles you as much as him. Kenshin turns his head to glance your direction expectantly. You pause, unsure what to say. “I was hoping you would come today.”

If anything, this seems to surprise him even more than seeing you unclothed.

“If you like, you can wait with me for the bathwater to cool down. It’s too hot to soak in right now.” You sit down on the small stool beside the bars of your well-appointed cell.

Kenshin says nothing for a long moment, then he nods. There is something unsettled about him as he pulls up a stool to sit across from you. “Is there anything you need?”

You shrug, glancing around at the stone walls and wooden bars. “Out? Other than that, no.”

He looks down, his lips twisting in a faint grimace. The frown turns to puzzlement. “What is that?”

You realize he’s noticed the cherry blossom petal on the top of your bare foot. “Oh. It’s part of my tattoo.” You carefully shift your kimono open a little bit to show the rest of your leg. Cherry blossoms and pink petals dance across your skin, as if floating on a forever breeze in some place where it is always spring.

Kenshin regards the ink with more curiosity than you expected. His hand drifts toward the bars that separate you. “Beautiful,” he breathes.

Your skin prickles and warms with expectation of his touch. The tip of his cool, calloused finger brushes your calf, setting your heart off at a gallop. You aren’t sure if the butterflies in your belly are from the compliment or the feel of his hand on your leg.

“It does not come off,” he states, rather than asks.

“Right. It’s ink under my skin so . . . I guess I’m stuck with it for life.” You try for a carefree smile, but miss the mark as his eyes flick up to meet yours.

Kenshin considers this for a moment, then nods. “It is like a scar, then.” His eyes narrow. “Why was this done to you?”

You do smile then, at the protective note in his voice. “I did it to me. Or, at least, I picked the design and the spot. I wanted something to remind me that life is short. To enjoy the beauty in it, as long as it lasts. Because, you know. It won’t last long.”

His fingers trace the edges of the petals and blossoms, moving up past your knee to the top of the flowers on your thigh. “The inevitability of loss,” he says, more to himself than to you. There is something warm in his eyes, something fragile.

“No,” you shake your head. “The celebration of beauty, however fleeting. Take joy where you can, right?”

“Take joy . . .” His gaze falls back to your leg, and he snatches his hand away as if suddenly scalded by your skin. Shutters of ice close him off from you again as he stands.

You stand as well, reaching for him through the cell bars. Your fingers brush his shoulder before he steps back.

“If there is nothing you need, I will go.”

“I do need something.” Your voice shakes a little as your hand drops to your side. “I wish you’d visit me more often. Stay for a little longer when you do. I like being around you.”

Kenshin does not reply. He studies you for a moment, before turning away. His steps echo down the empty corridor, making you feel somehow even more alone than before he came.

Shingen

Shingen’s hand trailed along the smooth silk of your kimono, the warmth of his touch soaking through to your back. He wasn’t technically supposed to be touching you, just watching the stars. But he had a hard time keeping his hands to himself, and you weren’t going to complain. Not tonight, anyway.

“Are you sore, angel,” he asked, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“No,” you shot back, then admitted, “a little.” The day’s hike through mountainous forest hadn’t been easy, especially carrying a pack. You regretted insisting on carrying it, but pride wouldn’t let you take it easy.

Shingen’s lips curled up in a subtle smile. “I see.” His hand stilled on your back. “You know what the best thing for sore muscles is?”

You turn your head to regard him, sensing a trap. “A hot bath?”

“Those are pretty good. But love is what makes the angel sing.” He grins at you, playful and teasing.

“Seriously, Shingen?” You huff and pull away from his touch.

He sighs. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. It’s not every day an actual goddess graces me with her presence.”

You glare at him, annoyed and flattered and annoyed with yourself for being flattered. “Whatever. I’m going inside.”

“Don’t leave, angel.” There’s a slight pleading tone to his voice. “As an apology, let me give you a shoulder rub. It will make us both feel better. I promise.” The sensual tilt of his lips and the appeal in his gaze give you pause. A massage would feel nice, but . . .

“No. I don’t trust you.” The words leave your mouth in a rushed exhalation, leaving so much unsaid. It wasn’t Shingen you didn’t trust, it was yourself.

He looked down, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim starlight. “I promise, I’m not trying to make you mine.” Shingen held his hands out as if in surrender. “Let me help?”

The silence between you expands, an almost physical thing pressing against your skin and making it hard to breathe. You give a curt nod, giving in to what you know you want, even if you can’t admit it.

Shingen settles behind you. His hands slide down your shoulders, gently tugging your kimono down to bare them. His breath catches and he goes still.

For a moment, you are confused, and then you realize he must have seen it. Your tattoo. Maple leaves drifting along your spine, from just below your neck to your hip. A riot of warm colors and fine lines etching your skin. You still remember the pain of having it done. But it was worth it. “Something wrong?” You try for a teasing tone, but your voice is too breathy to make that mark.

“Your back -” He pulls your kimono lower still, revealing more of the falling leaves. His calloused hand presses against the ink as if to wipe it away. “My angel is a work of art.”

A shiver runs through your skin at the feel of his hand on you. Your galloping heart speeds even more, racing uncontrollably as heat flushes your face. “You’re not supposed to be flirting,” you manage.

Shingen’s laugh sends a puff of warm breath across your neck. “That wasn’t flirting. I’m only stating the obvious.” His thumbs press into your tense, tired flesh, a gentle pressure to ease sore muscles. “Is the art something from your village? I have never seen anything like it painted into skin.”

You struggle for a moment to find words, distracted by his closeness and the intimacy of his touch. He clearly knows how to give a massage, and the sensation is short circuiting your brain. “Umm. It . . . mmmm . . . I got it to remind myself.”

“Of?” His lips are distressingly close to the leaf at the top of your spine, almost brushing the inked skin.

“Th-that I am carried. Forward. Even when life is tough. Like a leaf in the wind. Do what I can and leave what I can’t to fate. Or god. Or . . . chaos, I guess. Trust that life is - is pushing me to where I need to be.” You stutter through an explanation, leaving out all the context and emotion surrounding the decision on this image in this spot in those colors.

Shingen is quiet for a while, his skilled hands working out the knots in your shoulders and upper back. “My angel is a philosopher. Something holding us up in our worst moments.” He sounds more thoughtful than you expected when he finally speaks. Rather than blowing off the meaning of the design, he seems interested.

“I needed something to hang on to,” you say softly, self-consciously. His praise feels undeserved, but makes your heart feel full, your chest tight.

“We all do, sometimes.” You feel the press of a gentle kiss to the back of your neck.

Quiet descends between you again, a soft silence of connection and comfort.

Yoshimoto

You sit completely still, afraid to even breathe deeply. Yoshimoto’s fingers comb gently through your hair, coaxing it into position. He hums a tune you almost recognize as he works, styling you for the artists that will arrive soon.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I bet there are a lot of more qualified models in Kasugayama,” you say through stiff lips. This whole idea has you on edge. Art is wonderful, and you love making it - but being in it? Not so much.

Yoshimoto adjusts your necklace. “You are perfect. There is none more qualified.” He steps back, inspecting his work.

“I am so very not perfect,” you argue, thinking of all the parts of yourself you’d change if you could. “Surely Okuni would be better -”

“No. I want them to paint you.” The way he says it sends a thrill through you, as if he would value more your image than any other. Which can’t be true. Yoshimoto is just an appreciator of art. And you, as his friend and student, happened to be available for this painting session with some up and coming artists.

You take a shallow breath. The next part will be the hardest, even knowing it is coming. “Fine. I guess.” The blanket in your lap seems smaller by the moment and you feel heat rising in your cheeks as you take it in one hand.

Yoshimoto smiles and moves close again, his fingers hover at the edge of the decorative kimono draped over your shoulders. “I am honored by your trust in me.”

“Wait!” You take a deeper breath, a panicky feeling welling up in your chest. “I can’t model. I - I have a tattoo!” You feel a sudden certainty that, just like your parents, Yoshimoto will hate the ink on your skin, and the artists will refuse to paint you, and - and -

He settles a hand on your cheek, turning your head toward him. “Thank you for telling me. May I see it?” His eyes are wide and clear, empty of judgment or censure.

You study his face a moment longer, feeling self conscious. “Ok.”

He pulls the fabric down as you lift the blanket to your chest. Almost the pose you were meant to take for the artists.

Despite the white silk now covering your breasts, you feel exposed. Your entire back on display, bare shouldered and covered with almost nothing from the back of your neck to the top of your butt cheeks. Vulnerable. On display. You wait for Yoshimoto to say something, but he is silent.

“Well?” Your voice is sharp and anxious, and you resist the urge to tug the fabric up and hide behind it.

Yoshimoto takes a breath. His hands brush your sides, stopping at the edges of your tattoo. Chrysanthemums spread from the center of your back to your hips, delicate and colorful. He kneels to look at them more closely, close enough that his hair tickles against your skin.

You love the way they look, bright and playful. Accentuating the natural curves of your low back and hip. But you can’t tell what his reaction is. His quiet only wrenches your nerves tighter. “If you don’t say something, I think I’m going to cry.”

His soft touch brushes the inked flowers, as if painting the petals with his fingertips. “I . . . I did not expect . . .”

“It’s fine.” You reach for the kimono, ready to cover up and escape with a little dignity.

Yoshimoto’s hand catches yours. “Please. Let me look a little longer. It is beautiful.” His gaze meets yours, fey eyes almost aglow. “You are beautiful.”

Your breath catches, there is a tightness in your chest. A trembling, uncertain emotion that you cannot name. “Alright.”

His smile is tender and affectionate as his eyes drift back to your tattoo. “These colors are amazing. I have never seen such bright irezumi. And the way it follows the shape of your body -” His caress sends a pleasant shock up your back and sets your pulse pounding. “This was done by a master artist. Only fitting for such a canvas.”

“They were really good,” you nod, recalling the waitlist and the cost. “They designed it for me after I told them what I wanted. Something with meaning, memories and promises. I wanted to look at it the rest of my life and know it holds what is close to my heart.”

You gesture toward the flowers he is touching. “Red for the promise of love, yellow for what I’ve lost, white for loyalty. And all of it together for beauty, inside and out.” The words pour out as if from a broken dam. You’ve never told anyone all of this, never had the opportunity or the trust. But you want Yoshimoto to know you. To understand you.

“Did you know it is also a symbol of royalty?” His voice is soft, barely audible.

“I do. Not that I am. Royal. I mean, Nobunaga made me a princess but I’m just a normal person. Nothing special.” You shrug. “I just thought it was a really pretty flower.”

Yoshimoto’s arms wrap around you, and his cheek rests against your back. You feel the flutter of his eyelids as he closes them. “You are special. Talented and beautiful and kind. I can think of no other more deserving of such a mark.”

Bittersweet pleasure floods you. There is nothing you can say to that, and so you let yourself enjoy his embrace. The feel of him pressed close. If only it could last. If only you could speak the words that lie heavy in your heart. If, if, if.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikesen kenshin #ikesen shingen #ikesen yoshimoto #fanfiction #otome #fanfic #otome guys #fluff

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the12thnightproject · 8 days

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Chapter One: Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition - Katsuko accepts a mysterious mission that will take her to Azuchi.

Mitsunari x OC; Nobunaga x Mai

Logline - In order to protect a political alliance, Katusko and Mitsunari must pretend an engagement. But this "all business" arrangement is threatened by a coup against Nobunaga... and by feelings.

Notes - Takes place after the ending of Nobunaga's romantic route, but before the epilogue. Slow burn (very slow burn). Friends to lovers. Canon typical violence.

From the Military Notes of Ishida Mitsunari: A primary goal of military planning is to enable Generals to meet their manning objectives for force size, composition, and wartime capability. To attain these objectives, forces must be appropriately structured with motivated personnel who are deployed to jobs suitable for their talents, and given training to improve their skills, even when the country’s security goals evolve to meet new threats.

On occasion, it may be necessary to contract additional personnel, often mercenaries, who are specifically trained to carry out special projects.

Personal comments: Lord Hideyoshi read the above notes and reminded me that the hiring of additional persons should be performed by himself, and none other. He also said something that I am not certain I heard correctly, but it involved Lord Mitsuhide and a word that I am not comfortable writing down.

“She likes you better – it should come from you.” I eyed the missive in Aki’s hand as if it were an unexploded bomb. Ok, technically it was the match. The UXB was Fume. “She hates me. If I give her this, it will make it worse.” Yes, I am a messenger. Delivering messages is my job. At the same time, I’ve managed to do this job for years without becoming victim to the cliché, ‘kill the messenger.’ I had no desire to ruin this streak of not-being-killedness.

“I’ve been travelling for what feels like a thousand years.” There was wry twist to his mouth, as if those imaginary years had stolen not only time but also something incalculable.

It had felt like a thousand years to me too – I’d been here all summer, with only Fume’s dubious companionship. I was so happy to see a friendly face that I was almost willing to do as requested. Almost. “Well then, the time it takes for you to go into the kitchen and hand her the letter will feel like the blink of an eye, won’t it?”

“I cannot handle what is sure to be an unending spate of feminine histrionics.” He grabbed my hand and stuck the letter in it.

“Are you forgetting that I’m also female?” I shoved the letter back into his hands.

“You, my dear child, are never histrionic.” He waved the letter in the air. “Did I mention it’s in Portuguese?”

Dammit.

With a sigh I took the letter back, my fingers closing around the unfamiliar weight of the European vellum.

He patted my shoulder. “Good luck.” Shouldering his travel gear, he turned toward his quarters. “I’m off to sleep until tomorrow. Don’t bother me unless the world is ending. Don’t bother me then either.”

His footsteps trailed off, then I heard him pause at the doorway to the kitchen and tell Fume that he was under no circumstances to be disturbed. He was also probably telling her –

“Francisco sent me a letter?” Fume planted her squat body in front of me (had she teleported across the room?) and reached for the message. She must have been cooking when Aki stopped in to talk to her, because she still had a kitchen knife in her hand. The entrails of whatever she had been dismembering shone red and wet across the blade.

I felt less optimistic about that messenger not being killed thing.

Fume snatched the letter out of my hand, I had the dubious joy of watching her smell it, then clutch it to her cleavage. Finally, she opened it, sighed, and handed it back to me. “Translate this, Kaya.”

No ‘please.’ I considered requesting that she say it, but the letter was going to infuriate her anyway. No reason to push my luck. I opened the letter and skimmed through it, hoping Aki had been wrong about the contents… and-

Aki’s never wrong.

I wonder if Nobunaga’s job offer is still on the table.

“Don’t stand there like a witless idiot, what does he have to say?” Fume glared at me, and a bit of whatever she had been cutting slid to the edge of the knife and dangled. It was almost hypnotizing to watch that bit of intestine swing back and forth and back and –

“Kaya!”

Once, in a forest in Echigo, I encountered the God of War, and I was less scared of him than I am of Fume. I took a discreet step back, knowing that the knife would be flung at me once she heard what Francisco had to say. I opened the letter and read it to Fume. “My Dearest Little Squash Blossom.” (It absolutely did not begin that way, but my bedroom was close enough to Fume’s that I was aware of every pet name Francisco had ever called her. I unfortunately knew the pet name he used for his penis – which was not information I had ever expected or wanted to know).

“And?” She stomped her foot, and that bit of meat finally gave up and fell off the knife, landing on the floor with a loud, squelchy splat. Sigh. I was going to have to scrub that. “I swear Kaya, some days I wonder why Aki bothers to keep you.”

“Sorry Fume-sama. His handwriting is terrible.” I pretended to squint at the letter, rotating it as if to find a better angle. Mentally, I scrambled to find a diplomatic way to rephrase this ‘Dear John’ letter. “He had to travel to Goa for a family obligation.” I took another tiny step back.

“When will he come back to Japan?” When she was upset, Fume’s voice often rocketed through several octaves to reach a glass shattering pitch.

“That, he does not say.” Aside from what amounted to ‘don’t wait for me to return, have a nice life.’ Basically, it was the Sengoku version of break-up-via-text-message.

Fume’s screech of dismay would likely have all dogs in the district howling. The knife came flying, but though Fume has a terrible temper, she has worse aim, and I ducked it. While she was still raining curses upon Francisco, I escaped to the training grounds behind the manor.

During Aki’s absence, in whatever free time I could squeeze from the maid work Fume gave me, I had been working on my archery skills. My self-assigned task had been to become adept at hitting targets while I was on a moving horse. I’d gotten pretty good at this (it had been a really long summer) and could hit the target while seated in the saddle and while standing up in the stirrups.

Unfortunately, my current goal of hitting the target while hanging off the side of my horse was proving difficult. I either needed an extra hand or a better saddle, because my knee kept slipping off the pommel and I inevitably ended up thudding to the ground. Still, I continued to make the attempt. Falling off my horse was better than dealing with Fume when she was #MOOD.

After each fall, Moonlight would halt, trot back to my side, and nudge me with her nose. “What are you doing, you silly human?” At least, that was what I imagined she was saying. Fume might hate me, but my horse was my best buddy.

On my third attempt of the afternoon, I’d managed to get off a shot that landed at the edge of the target before thumping gracelessly to the turf.

Euuf. That one almost knocked the breath out of me.

Even with Moonlight nosing me, I spent a moment on the ground, staring at the puffy clouds in the sky, and pondering my life choices.

“Katsu, was there a purpose to this exercise other than practicing your falling skills?” The dry comment came from the gate to the yard, where a man with long dark hair looked down on me from his position on his own horse.

“Kyubei!” I got to my feet and dusted off my rear end. I couldn’t remember my Azuchi contact ever coming to this part of the country. I always travelled there, not the reverse. “Has something happened?”

“That was my question for you.” He climbed off his horse and glanced back over his shoulder at where the path angled steeply down the mountain. “We haven’t seen you in weeks, and Mitsuhide has an urgent request of your master.”

“Oh. Nothing’s wrong. Aki’s been away for some time. He finally returned this morning.” I glanced back toward the manor, wondering if ‘urgent business from Mitsuhide’ would meet his definition of the world ending. “I’ve been mired here all summer.”

I looped Moonlight’s reigns over the fence so she wouldn’t wander into the garden and eat something that would annoy Fume even more. “In any case, it’s good to see a friendly face. Welcome to The Mountain.” Aki had never actually named his manor, but given its location, most people referred to it this way.

“Mountain is rather an understatement. The path to here is vertical.” Once again, Kyubei looked over his shoulder at the view.

“You ought to see it in winter.” There were times when it was impassible for days. “It’s really an adventure coming and going then.”

He literally turned pale at that. “I will take your word for it.” His hand went to his waist where the edge of an oilskin pack peeped out from the vee of his kimono. “Do you know if Akihira is available to speak with me?”

“Um. Well, he did say he didn’t wish to be disturbed until tomorrow. Is there anything I can help you with in the meanwhile?” I directed Kyubei around to the front.

Kyubei paused and scrutinized me from toes to the top of my head, and I suddenly had the odd feeling he could see right into my soul. “Actually, I believe you can. Katsu, pardon me if this is an intrusive question, but are you a girl?”

Whoops! When I was here at home, I usually didn’t bother with the leather binder I used to flatten my figure, and my hair wasn’t neatly hidden away. Oh well. Too late now. “Not intrusive, and yes – though I am still Katsu. My birth name is Katsuko.”

He smiled. “You might be the perfect solution to our problem, Katsuko.”

Oh? Please. Let me be a solution to a problem, and not-

Just then the woman who generally considered me her problem blocked the front door of the manor. “Kaya stop flirting with this vagrant and come help me clean up.”

“Fume-sama, this man urgently needs to speak with Akihira.” I gestured to Kyubei, who bowed politely, but not with any particular deference.

“He isn’t to be disturbed until tomorrow, and I intend to make sure of that.” She eyed Kyubei with suspicion. “If he must speak with Akihira, then he can spend the night in the stable. Where, I might add, your horse also belongs, and not tied to the gate.”

I can’t win with this woman. “Play along,” I murmured to Kyubei before returning my attention to Fume. “This is Oda Nobunaga’s ally Akechi Mitsuhide. His message is extremely important.”

Kyubei instantly underwent a top to toes transformation – his posture straightened, his eyes took on a sharp gleam, and he flashed Fume a mocking smile. I appreciated how quickly he had done that. Although I was used to passing as a boy, and occasionally as an old man, I’d never tried to impersonate someone particular. “I’m given to understand that Yamaoka Akihira is in residence at present.”

A similar transformation affected Fume, who went from condescending to obsequious in the same amount of time. She bowed low and long. “He does not wish to be disturbed, but I am certain he would wish you treated as an honored guest. Kaya! Prepare a room for Lord Akechi.” She stepped aside and shooed me toward the guest quarters. “My apologies my lord. Akihira has treated this one as a pet.”

A pet would have people to play with, but… details.

When Fume is in a #MOOD, it’s easier to stand back and take it (while imagining a creative revenge to be named later). I turned to go inside, but Kyubei stopped me. “You do me honor, but it is, as I said, a matter of some urgency. Is there any way I can convince you to disturb him?”

“No need.” Aki padded down the hall, dressed in his nighttime robes. “It’s impossible to get any sleep with all this commotion.”

“Aki,” I said, hoping to clue him in before he broke Kyubei’s cover. “Mitsuhide – oof.” Fume had elbowed me, none to gently. “That is, Lord Aketchi travelled all the way from Azuchi to speak with you.”

With a conspiratorial smile, Aki turned to Kyubei. “He did, eh? Well, Mitsuhide, it’s a pleasure to see you… again. Shall we discuss this matter in my receiving room?”

Kyubei inclined his head and followed Aki into the house. I made to join them, but Fume grabbed my arm and yanked me back. “The floor, Kaya. There is something on it.” She pointed to the meat that had dripped from her knife earlier.

With a glance back to me, Kyubei paused. “This involves your messenger. Can she meet with us as well? It would save time.”

The “she” pronoun caused Aki’s eyebrow to raise, but he simply nodded and motioned me along. I resisted the impulse to give Fume a look of triumph.

I hurried after Kyubei into Aki’s office, skidding to a halt to avoid running into him. He’d stopped just inside the door and was looking around. I tried to imagine how the office would look to an outsider: an eye-searing jumble of odds and ends, Western trinkets and Chinese artwork culled from his dealings with the Portuguese traders, a mismatch of both Japanese style and European furnishings, and of course two shogi boards – one of which consisted of his ongoing long-distance game with Mitsuhide. I was used to it… but it could definitely be sensory overload to a stranger.

Kyubei looked down at shogi game-in-process. “This at least, is a familiar sight.”

“One would hope that this visit isn’t simply because Mitsuhide is impatient for my next move.” Aki paused by the firepit to put the tea water on to boil.

“No, of course not. Although, I will admit to being tired of losing to him every night while we wait for your message.” Kyubei glanced back and forth between the chairs that were facing a large European crafted desk, and the cushions around a traditional writing desk.

Aki gestured to the larger desk and chairs, which he preferred to use, claiming height was better on his knees. In all the years I had known him, he had not shown any evidence of knee pain. Once I had pointed that out to him, he’d told me it was because he sat in Nanban chairs. I think he chooses to sit there because it makes him look like a king facing his subjects.

Once we were seated at the desk, with cups of te- wait. Was Aki drinking… coffee? I sniffed the air and glanced at his cup.

“My latest find from a Nanban merchant.” He took a long sip. “Who, I believe, purchased it from a Dutch trader. Do you wish to taste it?” He pushed the cup toward me.

I knew what coffee tasted like, but ‘Katsu’ would not, so I took a sip then made a face that was not entirely fake. “It’s rather strong. Slightly bitter.” I don’t mind bitter. But I like my tea.

I passed the cup to Kyubei who also took a taste. “I imagine it could be an acquired taste but…hm.” He tapped his fingers on the cup. “I wonder if I might have some of this to take back to my master to see if he can taste it.”

That was an odd turn of phrase, but Aki simply nodded. “I’ll send a package with instructions on how to prepare it back with you. Meanwhile, I understand you have an important message from him?”

Kyubei handed over the message. Aki unfolded it and read through it with a few absent-minded hmmms of his own, a chin rub, and sidelong glances at me. “Mitsuhide asks if I have an apprentice or messenger who can pass as a woman. It appears to me that having Katsuko pretend to be a boy pretending to be a girl would be unnecessarily complicated.”

I imagine Julie Andrews would have something to say about that.

“Indeed.” Kyubei glanced at me critically. “However, we can do as well with Katsuko as herself. True, there would still be a bit of a disguise involved, but no one expects there to be any danger.”

No one expects the Spanish inquisition either.

I’m not really bothered by the idea of danger. After the past couple of months, I’d gladly take a change of scenery and would welcome. The denizens of Azuchi couldn’t be any worse than Fume, and even if there was some danger, it wasn’t likely to throw a bloody kitchen knife at me.

Aki rubbed his chin. “Kyubei, do you mind giving us a moment of privacy to discuss the matter?”

Kyubei bowed. “Not in the least. I’ll find your, er, kind, chatelaine and ask for a place where I can wash the mountain off me.” It sounded like he and the mountain were not fond of one another.

Once Kyubei had whisked himself away with all the discretion and attitude of an upper crust British butler (or at least a Netflix version of same), Aki turned to me. “I suppose the first question is, do you wish to do this?”

“My first preference would be to go with you on your next mission.” Aki often took me with him on short jobs, but not the long journeys where he went away, only to return looking as if the fate of the world rested on his shoulders… I would like to share that burden with him, if he would let me. Somewhere along the line, I’d stopped being just an apprentice to him, but he still shielded me from much of his work.

Aki smiled at me, but he looked … sad. Sad? Not an emotion that I usually associated with him. “That’s very … kind of you Katsuko. But these are missions that I must do on my own.”

“If that is the case then yes, please send me to Azuchi.” Not wanting to sound too overeager to be gone from home, I added, “If Fume and I spend much more time together, the next time you return, I cannot promise we’d both be alive to greet you.”

He laughed and ruffled my hair. “Alright my fierce… apprentice. Bear in mind you’ll be working for Mitsuhide who will not have as much tolerance for your brand of cheekiness as I do.”

I stole another sip of his coffee just to tease him. “You did teach me manners, remember?”

He groaned. “I do remember. That’s why I’m worried.” He looked out the window, but I had a feeling he wasn’t seeing lush summer greenery in the yard, but something less friendly… something that weighed on him. Then he seemed to shake it off and looked back to me with that familiar professorial tone. “As it happens, you’ll also be spending time in the Hida region, and it suits me very much to have someone in that area, so I’m inclined to send you with Kyubei.”

I sat up straighter. Aside from the couple of weeks I had spent in the booksellers in Azuchi, I’d never had a solo mission. “What needs doing in Hida?”

Aki rustled around with the papers on his desk and pulled out a map. “There’s a great deal of mining in the area – many parties are very interested in those mines as the desire for Japanese silver exports increases. It goes without saying that Nobunaga wants control, but there may be people not happy for him to have that. I don’t expect that the area will destabilize – at least not quickly, but when you return, I would like to know your impression of the situation.”

Thrilled that he trusted me with this, I lifted my chin and fought back the urge to smile. Professionals don’t smile. “I won’t let you down.” Again though, there was part of my brain that had on repeat, nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.

“I know you won’t.” He took a large sip of coffee, savoring it as if it were the best beverage on the planet. “Or you’ll spend the next year solely under Fume’s authority.” He softened that threat with a smile. “I trust you know how to take care of yourself, but it goes without saying that I hope you’ll be careful and stay safe.”

Maybe it went without saying, but he had never before said it to me, especially not in that tone of voice that almost made me want to hug him.

And, so, I did hug him, and after a startled moment, he held onto me tightly, his palms pressed firmly into my back.

Although Aki encouraged Kyubei to spend the night and get an early and well-rested start in the morning, he preferred to leave right away, claiming that time was of the essence. Kyubei advised me not to bother packing any of “Kaya’s” clothing – advice that cheered me immensely, as Kaya’s clothing was a dreary pile of ugly kimonos in varying shades of mud. “Nobunaga will see that an appropriate wardrobe is provided for you. The Lady Mai is a talented seamstress and will be happy to outfit you.”

That didn’t provide much of a clue to what I would be doing, or what I should pack, but I simply threw together everything I would have brought along were I going on a trip with Aki, as well as my (sadly fraying) portrait of Toshiie, and the portable shogi set that Aki had given me on my most recent birthday. Though I knew I’d be dressing as a female, I chose to travel as Katsu – it was safer. Moreover, ‘Katsu’ was familiar, and I’d learned to keep as many familiar things close to me as possible, lest they disappear forever.

“I’m glad you were quick,” Kyubei said once we were on our way. “I do not want to make this descent after dark.”

“It’s actually easier if you can’t see where you are going,” I said, just for the fun of seeing him turn pale again. “At least if you fall off the mountain, you won’t see the rocks before you hit them.”

“I can’t wait for Mitsuhide to meet you,” he muttered as we led our horses along the steep path. Riding would have been faster, but I didn’t know how surefooted his horse was. Also, I doubted Kyubei even wanted to add another four feet of height to the equation.

“Why?” In truth, after delivering so many messages to him via Kyubei over the past four years, I was surprised that our paths hadn’t crossed.

“No reason… Katsu, can we stop talking until we reach flatter territory? I’d prefer to concentrate on not plunging to my death.” Kyubei sounded out of breath.

I glanced over my shoulder and felt bad for teasing him. I mean, put me in front of a tunnel, a cave or even a tiny windowless room, and I’d be a sobbing mess. “Alright, but to be honest, it looks worse than it is. Nobody’s ever fallen off the mountain in the summer. Well, not anyone who wasn’t drunk first.”

He grumbled something along the lines of about needing to be drunk to take this path.

It wasn’t until we made our way to flatter terrain that he regained his normal distantly friendly attitude. By the time we had camped for the night, he had relaxed enough to entertain me with some of his exploits.

“How did you manage to pretend to be Mitsuhide so quickly?” I set a copper tea kettle over the fire. “Oh, I wouldn’t eat those if I were you,” I added as Kyubei shook some of the coffee beans into his hand.

He ignored my advice and bit into one but managed to keep a straight face while what I imagined was very bitter coffee attacked his taste buds. “Some of it is training – but I’ve also had a lot of practice. He and I have exchanged identities in the past.”

“Really? I thought Mitsuhide was… older?” I’d once seen the back of his head – in fact that was the only glance I had ever seen of him – and his hair was silver-white.

“No, we’re of the same age.” Kyubei poured the coffee beans back into their metal tin. “Put me in a silver wig and anyone who doesn’t know him well would be fooled.”

Wow – I bet that made them fun at Halloween. “Will I be in disguise too?” Please don’t say housemaid.

“We’ll be presenting you Oda Princess.” Kyubei had a faint smile on his face.

“A wha-” I paused, realizing I had spoken with an unprincesslike mouthful. I swallowed, the tried… and failed… to come up with an appropriately regal reply. “Er, not that I’m not flattered, but you could have gotten an actress and done just as well.”

Kyubei inclined his head. “Indeed. Our Princess might have some additional duties more generally assigned to personal guards. But truly, as I said, we don’t expect this to be very dangerous.”

In other words, Princess-slash-bodyguard. On one hand, that sounded pretty awesome… aside from that voice in my head had that had swelled to an eight-part chorale: Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.

@lorei-writes @bestbryn @lyds323 @katriniac @briars7

#TBTMND #A Mitsunari Night's Dream #Ikemen Sengoku #fanfic #mitsunari ishida #ikesen mitsunari #oc katsuko #katsuverse

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