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[ikeromantic]

Ikesen Boys React to a Tattooed MC pt 3

Thank you again to @otomedad for this fantastic idea ^_^ This one has Sasuke, Yukimura, and Kanetsugu! Approx. 2900 words (yes, I know. They keep getting longer xD)

Sasuke

You glance at Sasuke, wondering what he’s thinking about. His eyes are trained on the night sky, his lips curling in a faint, barely there smile. He notices you looking and turns his head to regard you. 

“Are you cold? It’s colder tonight than I expected it to be.” 

“No. I’m good.” You feel warm anytime you’re around him. Your very own moderately-awesome ninja.  

He rubs his eyes before turning back to look up at the stars. “Alright.” His fingers curl over yours, a gentle caress he doesn’t even seem aware of. 

You feel an ache in your chest, sweet and sharp, as you regard his profile. Somehow, that face has become so precious to you, but you don’t know how to tell him or if you even should. Friendship is precious and fragile, you think, as you look back up to the sky. 

A sudden gust of chill night air tugs your hair from its messy bun. Strands blow around your face, and you can already feel the tangles forming. “Damn,” you sigh, trying to catch hold of them. 

Sasuke looks back at you with that same whisper of a smile. “Here, let me help.” He moves to sit behind you. “I’m not as good at this as Yoshimoto. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” you murmur, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. His legs are to either side of you, and if you were to lean back, you’d be flush against his broad chest. “Here,” you hand him your hair clip, “and, umm, thanks.”

His fingers comb through your hair, sending a shiver down your back. It feels intimate and sensual to have him touch you like this. He tugs your collar down as he corrals your unruly hair. Then you feel him pause, a slight inhale.

“You have a tattoo.”

“Oh. Mhmm.” You try to find words, so you don’t sound like an idiot. But his closeness is so distracting! “It’s, umm, it’s a lotus?”

You feel him lift your hair to get a better look. “Is it alright if I see it?” 

“Sure.” You hold very still as he pulls your kimono down a little further, fingertips brushing your inked skin. Just a friend, you remind yourself sternly, as your skin reacts to that light touch.

He is quiet for several moments. You can feel his gaze on your skin, and the faint trace of his fingers as he follows the intricate lines of the petals and leaves. “The lotus has a lot of meanings,” he says finally. “Divinity. Rebirth. It is an excellent choice for a tattoo.”

You smile, a flush of honeyed heat flooding through you at his words. “I liked the spiritualism of it. For me, it’s like a reminder to keep an open heart. And an open mind.” 

“A good thing to remember. Especially for a woman who finds herself transported via wormhole to the Sengoku.” 

You can hear the laughter in his words, though he doesn’t laugh. Sasuke’s emotions can be hard to read, though you find more and more that you can tell how he feels by the slight changes in his expression, his tone, the depths of his caramel brown eyes. “Ha, yeah. I never expected to have to be this open minded.” 

“I’d say you do exceptionally well. At everything.” Sasuke’s breath tickles the hair at the back of your neck, and you feel the slight press of his chest against you. “The detail on this flower is very good. The shading and color. I’d like to look at it in better light.”

Your skin dimples as his words send another little shiver through you. “O-okay. Sure. When we go inside. You can. Look.” Despite your best efforts to not sound affected by his touch, you stutter your response. 

“Are you sure you’re not cold?” He lets go of your hair, wrapping his arms around you. You are pulled up close against his chest, his chin rests on your shoulder. “You keep shivering.”

There is no way to reply at first. Your heartbeat is pounding loudly in your ears and you feel like you might not be able to breathe because he is hugging you and it feels - holy cats - it feels so good and so right and he’s just supposed to be a friend but isn’t this -

“Are you ok? You went very still. It reminds me of the prey response in rabbits. You know they freeze to blend in with the environment and can hold -”

“I’m fine.” And you almost manage to sound like it, if a little choked. “I definitely do not feel like a rabbit,” you add, your voice nearly normal. 

Sasuke nods. “Alright.” You aren’t sure, but you think he sounds a little breathy himself. “Does this . . . warm you up?” 

“Yep.” You feel very very warm in his arms. Hot, even. 

“I am warm too. Very warm.” He says nothing for a few breaths, then, “It’s what friends do for each other, right?”

“Right.” You can’t imagine him hugging Yukimura like this. Or Yuki allowing it. But you don’t say that, because you don’t want him to stop. 

“Good.” He pauses again, thinking. “I’ve never had a friend like you before.”

You smile at that. “Same. But you’re my best Sengoku buddy, and teacher. And a lot more.” You close your mouth on the almost-confession before it can bubble up and ruin everything. 

A slight shudder passes through him, one you can feel. Then, “We should probably go inside. It’s late and it will only get colder up here.” 

“You’re right. We can’t sit like this all night.” Part of you is very sure you absolutely could. 

He reluctantly lets go of you, taking a moment to pull your hair back into the clip at the back. Sasuke is quiet as he brushes his fingers over your tattoo again. “I don’t know how I didn’t notice it there before. Your lotus.”

“I try to keep it covered. Fewer questions that way. I don’t think many women in this time have them.”

“No, they don’t.” He stands. “But maybe they should. It is exceptional. You -” He wipes at his eyes again, taking his glasses off. “I think I got something in my eyes,” he says, blinking. 

You wonder what else he was going to say, but the moment passes and instead, he holds his hand out to help you up. His grip is strong and sure and comforting. “Thanks.” You aren’t sure if you’re thanking him for the hand up or the compliments, or for keeping you warm. All of it, you guess. 

Sasuke’s gaze travels over you slowly and you feel yourself tense at the unexpected inspection. Just as you’re about to ask what he’s looking for, he speaks up. “Do you have any other tattoos?”

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” you grin, teasing. You can’t help but notice a faint flush from the tips of his ears down to his neck as he looks away.

He clears his throat and nods, a little unsteady. “Y-yeah.” 

You catch him watching you from the corner of his eye and stealing secretive glances at you the whole way back to your room. You’re pretty sure he’s hunting for signs of another tattoo. This will be a fun game, you think, ignoring the little twinge in your heart.

Yukimura

“I don’t know why you wanted to come,” Yukimura huffs, walking at your side up the steep hill. “You’re so slow and your face is all red.”

You glare at him from the corner of your eye, wondering the same thing. It seemed like a great idea when the two of you set out from Kasugayama for the day, but after a few hours of walking, you were ready to strangle him. 

“Pfft. I’m holding back for your sake. You have uh, you have stubby legs!” You poke him in the ribs, only half joking. 

“I can’t have stubbier legs than you.” He pokes you back harder than you poked him.

“Oh really?” You take a breath and push off your back foot into a run. “Then why am I in front of you,” you call over your shoulder, taunting. This is a mistake you immediately regret as your foot catches on a rock and you tumble forward.

Yukimura tries to catch you, but he’s a little too far back and more than a little surprised. “Hey! Are you alright?” The teasing is gone from his voice, replaced with genuine worry as he kneels beside you on the path. 

You roll over and lay on your back, feeling embarrassed and a little bruised. “I’m fine,” you groan.

His eyes move slowly over you, looking for any sign of injury. “You can’t always charge forward like a bo- oh!” Yukimura’s hand darts forward, lifting the edge of your kimono. 

“Hey!” You smack his hand and the cloth flutters back down over your leg. “I’d expect that from, like, Shingen, but -”

“I wasn’t trying to peek. You have a mark. It looks like a bruise.” His lips form a precious pout and you feel your annoyance seep away at the genuine hurt in his expression.

With a little effort, you sit up and carefully tug the edge of your kimono back up your leg, looking for the injury. Only there’s nothing there, just your Totoro tatt. “I’m fine. See?” You start to stand but he puts a hand out.

“What is that? It looks like a really fat bear. Or maybe a squirrel.” Yukimura leans toward your leg, poking at the inked skin. 

You try to pull your kimono back down over it. You aren’t sure what would happen, but showing someone a Ghibli tattoo 500 years before movies exists is probably some sort of world ending time event. You wish Sasuke was here to intervene or at least give you some hint about how to answer, but he isn’t and Yukimura is poking your thigh. “It’s not a bear or a squirrel. It’s a forest spirit.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking incredulous. “It doesn’t look like one. Aren’t they supposed to be majestic? Or scary? This one looks funny.”

“Well. He kind of is. His name is Totoro and he’s my favo-ah, he’s the umm, the forest spirit for my home town. So you shouldn’t make fun of him.” You cross your arms, trying to regain some dignity after the fall and Yuki’s teasing.

“I wasn’t making fun of it,” Yukimura replies, his voice gentle and contrite. “He’s kinda cute. L-like you.” His cheeks turn bright red at the admission, and he looks away unable to meet your gaze.

You feel a little stunned yourself, and your own face feels as hot as a kitchen fire. “Thanks.” The word comes out almost a squeak. You clear your throat. “I’m glad you like him,” you add in a more normal voice. 

Yukimura finally turns back to you, his cheeks still plum-red. “So. Don’t get mad, but, why would you get your forest spirit inked into your skin?” He looks genuinely curious and a little nervous.

“I -” you can’t very well explain how much the film meant to you as a child, or how many times you watched it to cheer up after a rough day. How to explain the comfort of enjoying the same sad-sweetness of the anime without explaining animation and movies and so many things Yuki has no idea about? 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” He leans back from you, trying to hide the hurt look in his eyes by changing the subject. “Are you gonna watch where you’re going the rest of the way up, or am I gonna have to carry you?”

You nearly react to the taunt before you realize where it came from. “Yuki. I do want to tell you. It’s just hard to explain.” It takes another moment to consider, and then you begin. “So, Totoro - he was there for me when I was sad. He helped me feel better when my grandmother died, and when my best friend moved away. And when I was all alone at college - um, school for seamstresses I mean.”

“So, your forest spirit talked to you?” His eyes are wide now, but you don’t detect any disbelief. Only surprise.

“More like . . . I guess you could say I watched him? Yeah. And that made me feel better. Just seeing him do what he does.” You shrug, not sure what else to say. 

Yukimura nods as if this makes more sense to him, though he still looks faintly wide eyed. His calloused palm rests on your leg just below the tattoo, a pleasant warmth. His gaze drops back to it, eyes narrowing as he studies the image. “I didn’t expect you to have irezumi but I like it.” 

You feel yourself smile, a wide bright grin that makes your cheeks hurt. Sure, Yuki can be a brat, you think, but when he’s sweet, it just makes you want to kiss him. 

“What are you making that dumb face for?” Heat colors his cheeks and he can’t meet your gaze as he looks up. 

“I dunno. What are you making a dumb face for?” 

Yuki stands. “I’m not!” He holds out a hand to help you up.

You take the hand and stand, dusting yourself off. “Are too. Or wait, maybe that’s just your face?” You giggle when he scowls at you. 

He leans forward, and you think he’s probably wracking his brain for a good insult. Before he can come up with one, you plant a tiny kiss right on his lips. Yukimura’s mouth opens in a surprised, pleased sigh and for just a heartbeat, his eyes flutter shut. 

“It’s a good thing I really love your dumb face.” You grin and squeeze his hand.

“Yeah. Same.” He returns your smile, tenderness in his gaze. Then he lets go of your hand and launches himself up the trail. “But you still have stubby legs! Think you can catch up!” 

Kanetsugu

“What is this?” Kanetsugu’s finger lands on the back of your hand, gently but firmly pinning you in place. 

“What’s what?” You glance up at him in mild surprise. He was reading, but now he’s just over your shoulder, leaned down so that his chin is beside your cheek.

“The mark.” 

You glance down and realize he must mean your tattoo. Since they aren’t all that common, you try to keep it covered. Fewer questions that way. “Erm, nothing?” Your hopeful tone does not dissuade his keen gaze.

Kanetsugu nudges up the edge of your cuff with the tip of his finger until the heron in flight is exposed. The colors look soft in the lantern light, the delicate lines a bare delineation between ink and skin. “That is not nothing.”

You wince at the slight frown he gives you and try to pull your sleeve back down. “It isn’t any of your business.” You try for the villainess voice, but sound squeaky even to your own ears. 

He doesn’t move his hand, even after a moment of your struggling. 

“Fine.” You sigh. “It’s a tattoo.”

Kanetsugu leans closer. His hair brushes your neck, and the smell of him floods your senses. 

You can feel his gaze on your arm, and heat travels from there up through your heart and floods your cheeks. Your heart is pounding and you struggle to keep your expression serene. It is absolutely unfair that he is so attractive, you think. 

His eyes turn toward you, and he waits for more with an expression somewhere between impatience and mild curiosity. 

It takes you a moment to gather yourself under that relentless stare. “Erm. I mean, ah, it’s a heron?”

“I am waiting to hear why you’ve branded yourself like a criminal.” 

Your temper flares at that, and you give him a frown. “I seriously doubt any criminal has flash that looks this nice. Seriously.” You smooth a finger over the design, remembering the day you got it. “This represents blessings for me. A promise that things will always get better. And I - I think it looks really elegant.” 

“I did not say it wasn’t.” His voice drops, a glimpse of fang at the corner of his lip as it compresses. “It is . . . lovely.” Kanetusugu’s thumb brushes over the inked skin, though his eyes are still fixed on yours.

“Thanks for the compliment,” you murmur, suddenly feeling as if it’s hard to draw breath. He is still so close, and it’s doing things to your heart that are hard to ignore. 

“Beauty should be appreciated.” 

You hope he can’t feel your racing pulse under his hand.”I-if you’re done appreciating?” You wiggle your arm, hoping he’ll let go, and hoping he won’t. Get it together, you tell yourself sternly, and pull with a little more force. 

Too much, perhaps, as Kanetsugu, is tugged toward you. Only by a hair’s breadth, but then, that’s almost all that separates you. His lips brush your jaw, an accidental kiss. He lets go of you and steps back with a strangled breath. For a moment, his eyes are wide and there’s a slight flush to his cheek.

“K-kanetsugu?” You feel warmth slip through you from the spot his lips touched. 

He turns away and clears his throat. “Thank you for the explanation.” His voice is calm and by the time he’s seated again, there’s no trace of discomfiture in his expression.

You, on the other hand, are ruffled. Very ruffled. “I think I’m going to step, mmm, outside. For a minute.” You stand and try to shake off the feelings tangled around your heart. 

“Don’t go far,” he calls, not glancing up from the paperwork on his desk.

[ikeromantic]

Gilbert von Obsidian

Gilbert, Your Room, Hot Cocoa - Gil being caring and sweet

Gilbert, Library, Red Hots - some teasing Gilbert

Gilbert, Rooftop, Honey Cake - sweetness from Gil

Gilbert, Tavern, Gingerbread - Gil teases MC and himself

Gilbert, Kitchen, Red Hots - teasing and spiciness

[ikeromantic]

Jin Grandet

Run Away - Belle disappears and Jin must find her

Saving Emma - A bullied Emma attempts suicide and King Jin must save her

Jin, His Room, Eggnog - a sweet moment alone with Jin

[ikeromantic]

Keith Howell

Naughty

Wicked Keith, Rose Garden, Red Hots - very spicy smut!

Wicked Keith, Arboretum, Red Hots - lightly spicy, very wicked!

Nice

Keith, Kitchen, Sugar Cookie - sweet, shy Keith being adorable

Keith, Observatory, Red Hots - spicy smut with Kind Keith!

Keith, Observatory, Hot Cocoa - romantic, and a little jelly

[ikeromantic]

Licht Klein

His Fault - Licht rescues Belle

Licht Klein - Naughty - Ribbons

Licht, Alleyway, Black Licorice - love and angst

[ikeromantic]

Sariel Noir

Sariel, Horseback, Gingerbread - sweet and spicy Sariel

Sariel, Library, Red Hots - very spicy times with Sariel

Sariel, Party, Eggnog - Sariel finding time for love

[ikeromantic]

Silvio Ricci

Sea Spray and Silver - fluff as he is missing MC

Picking an Engagement Ring - fluff!

Silvio, Pit Trap, Fruit Cake - a little silliness with Silvio

[ikeromantic]

Ikesen Boys React to Tattooed MC - All

Nobunaga, Hideyoshi, and Masamune

Kenshin, Shingen, Yoshimoto

Mitsuhide, Keiji, Ieyasu - soooooon!

Sasuke, Yukimura, Kanetsugu

Mitsunari, Ranmaru, Kyubei - sooooon!

Kennyo, Motonari, Kicho - sooooooon!

[ikeromantic]

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.

[ikeromantic]

Ikesen Boys React to Tattooed MC pt 1

This was an ask from @otomedad that I just had to write. I did some reading up on the history of tattooing in Japan and there was so much that I found super interesting. So! Here goes, starting with Nobunaga, Hideyoshi, and Masamune! Approx. 1500 words.

Nobunaga

“What’s this, fireball?”

You feel Nobunaga’s breath tickle your shoulder blade, his lips so close they almost brush your skin. For a moment, you don’t know what he means. It’s hard to think when parts of you are being ‘claimed’, afterall. But you smile as the memory comes back to you. Sitting on a stool, arms braced on the counter in front of you, with the buzz of the tattoo gun in your ear. “You like my koi?”

His fingers brush the inked design, tracing the outline of the leaping fish. “It is very well done.” He does not sound pleased, though he’s trying to hide it.

“You don’t.” A slight pout draws your lips out and down. 

Nobunaga stills behind you, so motionless that you don’t even feel him breathing. Just as you are about to break the silence, he wraps his arms around you, pulling your back against his chest. “It is part of you, so it is beautiful.” His chin rests on your shoulder, just above the tattoo in question. “Why did you receive this mark?”

There is an unexpected tension in his voice, and you laugh to ease it before explaining. “I got it after I graduated from design. It represents my struggles, and my determination.” You turn your head to kiss his cheek. 

He regards you with a serious expression, tense despite your affection. 

“Do you really hate it?” You can’t help how vulnerable you feel as you meet his carnelian gaze.

“I told you. It is beautiful, as you are. But . . .” He pauses, a slight grimace crossing his expression. “I do not like that someone marked you. Someone else claimed this -” He leans back to spread his hand over the koi. “Every part of you is mine.”

“Are you jealous of my tattoo artist?” You grin, unable to hold back. “You know I picked the design and the colors and everything, right? He was just some guy with a good flash book . . .”

Nobunaga’s frown does not ease, though you know that he’s aware this is ridiculous. 

You snuggle back against him. “Alright, alright. I understand. If you could do tattoos, I’d get one from you, ok?”

Something mischievous flickers in his gaze and a slight smile turns up the corners of his mouth. “Yes. This is acceptable.”

You aren’t sure what he’s accepting. Nobunaga can’t do tattoos, right? Right? Whatever questions you have disappear as his lips find that sensitive spot at the back of your neck. 

Hideyoshi

You roll up your sleeves to start working on the kitchen’s herb garden. The day is warm and sunny, promising a hot afternoon. It’s a good thing you’re starting early. 

About an hour into the weeding, Hideyoshi stops by with a tray of cool water and a wide straw hat. He kneels beside you. “You know it’s bad for your skin to be exposed to sunlight for so long. Even in the morning, you can’t -” He stops midword, his mouth hanging open.

“Hm?” You look up, dusting your hands off. Before you can ask anything else, Hideyoshi grabs your elbow.

“What is this?” 

You realize he’s pointing at the serpent tattoo on your forearm. The snake curls over itself in a complex circle, with the head pointing at your wrist and the tale toward your elbow. “Oh! Erm,” you give an embarrassed laugh. “That.”

“I knew you couldn’t be trusted.” Hideyoshi holds your arm up, inspecting it. “A thief. I should have guessed. What prefecture is this? Where are you really from?” The questions come lightning fast, his usual gentle lecturing tone replaced with a hard, brittleness that does not suit him at all.

“A thief? Are you serious right now?” You try to yank your arm back, going from bewildered to angry. 

Hideyoshi pulls you up to standing. “If you won’t answer my questions, maybe you’ll answer Mitsuhide’s.” He glares at you. “I can’t believe I - I called you my sister!” 

You take a breath, trying to hold in the tears suddenly threatening at the corners of your eyes. Sister. Why was this man so infuriating? First putting you in the sis-zone, and now accusing you. As if you hadn’t shared so many sweet moments. Almost-kisses. Holding hands. “Why are you freaking out about my tattoo?”

“It marks you as a criminal.” He sighs, looking away. “If you’ll come clean with me, maybe we can -”

“Come clean? Hideyoshi, I told you I’m not from here. In my ah, my village, people get tattoos because they like the way they look.” You wiggle your arm in his grasp. “This one means the cycle of life. Birth and death. Look at it!”

Hideyoshi slowly turns back to examine the mark on your arm. “It is . . . very finely done for a - a punishment.” He purses his lips. “And I do not know of a prefecture that uses a snake . . .”

You nod emphatically. “Exactly. And you know me. Hideyoshi?” Your tone brings his gaze to your face. 

He studies you for a moment. Then his grip loosens on your arm, the pad of his thumb stroking your inked flesh. “I may have, um, jumped to conclusions. My apologies.” A breath, then, “Sis.”

“Thanks.” You take your arm back, feelings still hurt. 

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. Then he drapes an arm over your shoulder, pulling you to his side. “Let me apologize properly, after work tonight. Stop by after your bath and I’ll rub some oil on your arms and legs.” Hideyoshi’s cheeks hold a faint heat. “A brother should care for his sister when she’s working so hard.”

You know he knows there’s nothing brotherly in the touches you share, but you nod in acquiescence. Then you pull away. “The garden won’t weed itself,” you say.

He grins. “I suppose not.” Hideyoshi’s hand takes yours before you can take a step. “It’s nice. Your tattoo. Once I really looked at it.”

“Thanks,” you smile back, feeling a little better. “I’m looking forward to my massage tonight.” You give him a cheeky wink. 

Masamune

You splash to the river’s surface, sputtering from the water in your mouth and nose. Masamune laughs beside you, his strong arm holding you up above the roiling surface of the water as the current pushes you both downstream.

“Maybe next time we should look for a bridge,” you shout to be heard over the river.

“Nah. Where’s the fun in that?” Masamune’s blue eye gleams with unfettered joy as he pulls you toward the opposite shore. 

Once you hit the bank and crawl out, you flop back onto the grassy hillside. “Fun? Not drowning is fun. And now I’m soaked.” You glance over to see Masamune already stripping down, laying his clothes out to dry. 

He grins when he sees your expression. “What’s the matter, kitten? Tiger got your tongue?”

“Pffft.” You sit up, ignoring the way your face heats. You shrug out of your kimono, very aware of how thin your linen underclothes are. Especially now that they are wet and clinging to your skin. 

Masamune’s appreciative look does not help. He grins unapologetically. “I should come out this way more often. Great view.”

You throw a clump of grass at him and jump up to run. He chases you, laughing, and catches you pretty quickly. 

His laughter stops with a sharp inhale. “Are you hurt?”

You realize that he’s noticed the ink on your side, a tiger in the midst of peonies. The red, pink, and orange probably look like a wound beneath the opaque cloth. “No, nothing like that.” You carefully tug the linen up to show him your tattoo. 

“Wow.” His eye is wide as he takes in the art piece. “Gorgeous.” His calloused finger brushes the skin on your side, sending a shiver across your belly and up your ribcage. “It’s like a painting.”

“Thanks.” You feel more than a little self conscious, but also gratified by his reaction. “It’s supposed to be, like, fragility and strength? Together?” You find yourself a little tongue tied, too focused on his warm hand touching you. 

Masamune finally looks up, catching your gaze. “It fits you, kitten. Strong and fragile.” His expression is more serious than you’re used to. A deeper emotion moves in the depths of his blue eye. 

The urge to kiss him is strong, but you resist. You tug the cloth back down and step away, heart beating frantically. Masamune likes to flirt, you think, that’s all. You wrack your brain for a witty comment and come up empty. 

He smiles, drops his hands. “Our clothes should dry out soon, and then we can continue on.”

“The temple better be awesome. You’ve talked it up too much to take anything less than.” Your destination is safer ground, you think, jumping right into the new topic.

Masamune laughs. “There’s not another like it anywhere.” Something about the way he says it makes you wonder if he means the temple you’re traveling to or something else. 

“Worth the trip then?”

He catches a bit of your damp hair and twirls it around a finger. “I’d say this trip is already worth it.”

[ikeromantic]

Distance

A Chevalier Michel fanfiction. Approx. 3000 words. This scene takes place in Chapter 14 of the main route and is told from Chevalier’s POV. Part 14 of a series.

Chapter List

Chevalier glared at the report as if his icy disdain might change the words there. 

“It’s an uprising in your own lands. Embarrassing, isn’t it?” Clavis almost seemed gleeful. “They’ve taken the border fort and set up blockades on the road. The villagers are supplying them with food and other resources.”

“Shut up.” Everything Clavis said was already clear on the page. He didn’t need to hear it spoken aloud. 

Clavis smiled thinly. “What are you going to do?”

“What I must.” Chevalier stood. “Make the arrangements.” 

“Already done.” 

Chev nodded. His brother was efficient at least. He left without another word, though his thoughts strayed. Emma.

His soldiers met him at the palace gates, their gazes as hard and cold as his own. They understood what would be needed. He gave them a grim smile. “We have a fort to retake.”

Another troop might have shouted with false bravado at his command, but not his men. There was no joy to be taken from this battle. Only duty. They saluted, silent as the grave, and then followed Chevalier as he rode through the dark streets toward the northwestern territories. His lands, his people. His fight.

He glanced back at the palace just once. Was she asleep? Was she dreaming? Chevalier felt an odd ache in his chest at the thought of not seeing her in the days ahead. But the Belle had no place on a battlefield. He did not want her to see . . . Chev shook off the foolish thought, the memory of her gazing at him in fear. Her wide eyes and tear soaked lashes. 

No.

There was bloody work to be done, and the opinions of one naive girl could not - would not - change that. It did not matter if the Belle saw the Brutal Beast or no. There was no place in duty for such considerations. And if it made her fear him again, well, perhaps that was for the best. He cloaked his heart with ice and rode on.

The village was in chaos when the knights arrived. Desperate attempts to fortify it against the inland road clashed with loyalists trying to dismantle the same barriers. The fort itself sat in the distance, all gates closed and barred. 

Chevalier knew Black would try to negotiate. Talk them down. Take weeks, perhaps months to determine who the guilty parties were. And such gentle tactics would leave traitors seeded in the midst of the citizens, cowards as well, waiting for the next moment a betrayal would be to their advantage. He would brook no such delays, nor imperfect results. 

“First secure the village,” he called. His knights slammed fist to shield and then split off into their separate companies, each led by a handpicked commander. Chev’s personal guards stayed close to him as he rode into the fray. 

As expected, the commoners put up little real fight. When presented with a professional soldier in opposition, most surrendered. Others tried to fight back, organizing badly equipped sorties. Those died fighting, their efforts more nuisance than dangerous. The real battle was with the traitor soldiers. Some hid in the houses, attacking when the knights least expected it. Chevalier’s troops spent days clearing the village building by building. Days of bloodshed and misery. 

Attempts to negotiate were met with failure. The traitors seemed to have no unified demands. Mostly, they were just angry. Angry at the sacrifices they’d made for their country. The loss of loved ones, dreams of hearth and family fading as duty claimed their youth, living through the pain of past wounds. An ache in their hearts that turned to poison. And the second prince had an idea of how deep that poison went.

Chevalier faced it with the unshakeable certainty that he was protecting Rhodolite. His life, the lives of his knights, and the life of any villager were forfeit to the greater good. Even if sometimes it was hard to hold to that vision when covered in the blood and filth of a battlefield. The peaceful future he worked toward felt distant and impossible. 

Grim resolve kept him advancing. The knowledge that any other action would only lead to more death and despair. But, he found an odd thought filling his mind in the midst of the chaos. Emma. Her gentle smile and playful gaze. The kindness in her, and the strength of her heart. 

Foolish. What was the value of one woman’s life that it should settle his soul in the midst of this slaughter? And yet. He did not chase her from his thoughts. 

Support arrived from the capitol just as the fortress broke. The traitors spilled from the gates, hungry and desperate. Chevalier’s knights met them just outside the village in another wave of carnage. The slaughter was less one-sided this time, as their enemies were well equipped. Professional soldiers with arms and armor, fighting with all the determination of cornered rats. 

The village would be in the Clown’s deft hands, leaving Chevalier free to focus on what mattered. He gazed out at the battle, the fort, and the border beyond. At the edge of the fighting, he noticed a familiar mop of unruly red hair. Jumbo. Why had he stirred himself to - “Oh.” The sound left him in a sudden exhalation. An irrational response he tamped down with a grimace.

“Stay here.” He motioned to the knights at his side as he rode toward his youngest brother. Jumbo stood beside the Belle, his usual lackadaisical smile missing. Chevalier scowled. He could not imagine what madness infected his brothers. To bring the Belle here, to a dangerous place. Her life - her duty  - was at risk. And while he cursed the Clown and Four Eyes for allowing this, he also cursed himself. This was a possibility he should have anticipated. 

“What are you doing in a place like this,” he growled. Chevalier dismounted with a leap and strode toward the two. 

The Belle was staring at him, he realized. Her eyes were wide with horror and disgust. Blood soaked the hem of her skirt and stained her hands and the slip of paper she clutched in them. 

It took Chevalier a moment to realize there was a body at her feet. A knight. And not just any of his troops. The fallen man was one of his scouts. “Ah . . . so he is dead.” He took the scrap of bloodied paper from Emma’s hand, knowing it was for this that his scout died. “He seems to have been of some use.”

Emma’s expression crumpled as if she were about to cry. She didn’t understand what he meant - that this death had meaning and purpose. That this knight served a greater good, and this sacrifice mattered. She only heard the cold, flat tone of Chev’s voice. But she didn’t cry. Her jaw firmed and she looked the prince right in the eye. “This man was one of your knights, wasn’t he?”

“Indeed.” Chevalier watched her, curious whether or not she could see the death as he did. Or if she would fall to simple emotion.

“Th-then -”

“Don’t bother saying something foolish, like ‘You should mourn the dead’.” Chevalier interrupted. Grief was a pointless emotion. It could not return the dead to you, nor ease the sense of loss. What mattered was ensuring the death meant something. That this loss, and the loss of every soldier that died in this action, protected Rhodolite.

“I . . . I . . .” The Belle stammered, uncertainty taking the words from her lips.

Chevalier gripped the bloodied paper, his knuckles white beneath his gloves. “I have no use for the dead. And once someone is no longer useful, that is that.” 

Her eyes widened further, conflict playing out in her horrified expression. Emma’s mouth opened once. Twice. The third time, she managed to speak, her voice cracking under the weight of the tears she refused to shed. “Don’t you have a shred of humanity in your heart?”

Part of him wanted to reassure her, but that would be a lie. An unnecessary lie. It was better for her to understand what he was. A man that forsook his own heart, the right to his own feelings, and replaced them with the logic and reason needed to protect the country. Not individuals, as no one man or woman was Rhodolite. But the whole. He could not allow himself to mourn one dead man. Nor even a hundred. “I have no need of such a thing,” Chevalier replied with an icy calm.

Jumbo watched, his mouth pressed to a grimace of disapproval. Something hard and angry glinted in his gaze. 

“Take the simpleton and go home at once.” Chevalier gave the order without shifting his gaze from the Belle. She wilted, her shoulders falling. Soon she would cry, he thought. He finally looked up at the red head. “If you want to join the mountain of corpses, that’s a different story.” 

“Chevalier. You . . .” Jumbo’s fists clenched at his sides. 

Chev didn’t wait to see if his warning hit home nor whether his orders were followed. After this, she would leave. She had to. There was no reason for her to stay. He mounted his horse and rode back to the battle. This little detour took him long enough, though at least he’d gathered the report his scout brought in. He ignored the feel of the Belle’s eyes on his back, the hurt betrayal in their depths. She would fear him now.

His chest tightened at the thought and Chevalier snorted, mocking himself. He was no lovestruck princeling. If he felt anything in this moment, it was only the strain of battle and the need to quickly end this fight with the anti-war faction before it brought greater consequences. A truth, if not the whole truth. 

Pacifying the traitors in the fortress took days. The turn-coat soldiers fought well, but in the end, they could not stand against the Brutal Beast’s relentless assault. Days of violence, surrounded by blood and death. Chevalier felt no pride in the final moments of victory. The outcome was inevitable, delayed only by the number of bodies willing to throw themselves upon his blade. 

He was exhausted, though it did not show.

Chevalier left his camp, eager for a moment alone. The cool evening breeze was a welcome respite. There was a small lake nearby, and at this hour it would be empty and peaceful. It was there that he turned his steps. As Chev crested a small rise, the lake spread out before him. The water was still, and in it he could see the reflected glory of the sunset. But he wasn’t alone. A small figure knelt on the rocky shore. One he regarded with a certain degree of incredulity. She was supposed to be gone. Home. Safe.

His eyes traced the curve of her neck, the sweep of her hair. That little stubborn piece that always escaped her bun hung now beside her ear, brushing the slope of her shoulder. Chevalier walked slowly, letting himself savor her presence before she noticed him. He knew she would be angry, her eyes accusing.. The Belle was supposed to see into the hearts of men, and he hoped she might see . . .

Perhaps that was the problem though. He was a beast without a heart. The useless organ discarded for his duty. The Belle could not read a page that was not there, no matter how clearly she saw. 

“You’re very likely to be attacked if you wander alone in a place like this,” he said, finally drawing her attention to him. 

She didn’t look up from her handwashing. Blood stained her cuffs, rolled to the elbows as they were. “Prince Chevalier. Why are you -”

“Just taking a little breather,” he admitted. His gaze drifted to her partially submerged hands. A jagged cut marred her skin, seeping blood into the cool lake waters. Chev reached for her over her squawk of surprise. He pulled her arm close enough to evaluate the wound. “You’re hurt. Did a patient scratch you?”

“No!” The Belle jerked her arm away from him with such violence that he didn’t consider trying to keep his grip on her. She was trembling, he realized. 

A heavy weight pressed in on him as he held her gaze. “I was only examining the wound.” The explanation felt flat, pointless. Chevalier could still see the fear and revulsion in her eyes. A cloud of pain and anger over their clear depths. 

“I’m sorry . . .” Her breath was shallow, her words barely audible.

“That’s why I told you.” He paused and took a steadying breath. A familiar coldness settled over him. “I’m not a decent human being. I am the Brutal Beast.” Chev saw the way her fingers curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides. “If you’re afraid, then run away. You don’t need to force yourself to be in my presence.” 

For a moment, it seemed she would run. Her muscles tensed, a slight turn in her posture. And then she went still as her eyes filled with tears. Unable to hold back any longer, they slid wetly down her cheeks. 

“You’re an eyesore.” He sighed, irritation creeping into his tone. She should have run. It would be better for her. But instead, she stood there weeping. For what? “It makes me want to give you something to really cry about.” 

The Belle didn’t reply. Her hands shook as she wiped at the streaks on her face. 

Chevalier searched for something to say, but he had no comfort to give. There was only the numbing cold inside him. And that pressure in his chest. He felt as if he could not breathe. Chev turned and walked away. 

His steps led him to his tent, where he lay down on the uncomfortable cot. He could hear the sounds of his knights as they chatted beside their campfires. A quiet murmur, the crackle of the flames. Chevalier closed his eyes but he could not sleep. Emma surely hated him now. She understood what he was. Saw with her own eyes his unforgivable nature. Her tear-streaked face settled behind his eyelids.

Chevalier sat up and lit his lamp. A book would distract him. He pulled a book from his pack. The words washed over him, the characters taking life in the lines. But the unfolding drama of the enemies to lovers tale slipped away from him as his mind kept returning to Emma. He cursed himself for the foolishness of it. 

After several attempts at distraction, Chev finally got up. He decided he would go check on her. Because of her injury. Which was surely why she haunted his thoughts. She was too much a fool to care for herself and he . . . he needed to make sure the Belle was safe and healthy. His duty, as a prince. The rationale was solid, even if he didn’t fully believe it. 

Emma was settled in a village home for the night. Chevalier found her easily enough, the guards lounging outside her door were an easy giveaway. He nodded to them as he let himself in. A low fire burned in the kitchen hearth, giving the inside a dim red glow. He stepped into the open bedroom, his wintery gaze fixed on the bed along the far wall.

He could see her figure in the tangle of sheets, tossing and turning. Sweat-soaked and grimacing in the grip of nightmares, her sleep less than restful. Chevalier crossed the space with silent steps and knelt beside her bed. He took her arm with a careful grip, his touch gentle as he rolled up her nightgown sleeve. “As I expected. You didn’t even treat it.”

The jagged red wounds ran down her forearm, already swollen and warm to the touch. He took wound salve and bandages from his pocket. Chevalier didn’t note the small smile that lifted the corners of his lips as he applied the medicine with a tender touch and then bandaged her. 

“N-no! Don’t . . . touch . . . me . . .” Emma cried out in her sleep. 

The words hit Chev like a slap. He tied off the bandage and let go of her. Though he could not know what she dreamed of, he could well imagine. Sweat beaded her brow, her expression twisted with dismay as he watched in silence. Another heavy sigh left him. “You really are foolish.” 

He wasn’t sure if those words were meant for her, or for himself. Chevalier took her hand in his, unsure what to do. In books, the charming prince would kiss away the nightmare. But he was no charming prince. He gave her hand a squeeze, hoping the slight pressure would calm her. It seemed to, as her expression relaxed again.

“You wouldn’t be having nightmares if you hadn’t come to the battlefield.” 

Emma slept on, oblivious to his lecture. 

Chevalier said nothing more as he held her hand. He kept ahold of her until he was sure her night terror had passed. She was still, her breathing even. Chev carefully prised his hand from hers and tenderly stroked a hand through her hair. 

He wished . . . but wishes were meaningless. The prince left, closing the door quietly behind him.

“You’re sure kind to the Belle.” Clavis’ voice was teasing, his golden gaze full of barely leashed laughter. He raised an eyebrow, his smile widening as he glanced between the closed door and his brother. “Well well. What’s the meaning of this, hm?”

Chev regarded the third prince with icy disdain. “Not everything has to have meaning.”

Clavis nodded slowly as if thinking it over. “All right. Perhaps I misspoke. I thought surely you would have a reason though.” 

“There is not.” Chevalier hoped this would be the end of it, but with Clavis . . . A moment of silence passed between them. “You are the one who treated her wound.”

A pale brow rose. “Oh? Is that the story we’re telling then?”

It was clear Clavis would not go along with this without explanation. Chev felt his jaw clench and then he sighed. This was not a battle worth fighting. “I’m well aware that my actions are nonsensical.” He held his brother’s gaze, willing him to accept this vague answer.

Clavis stared at him, his smile faltering for a heartbeat. Something akin to surprise flickered in his eyes.

A slight dip of his chin was all the confirmation Chevalier needed to turn and leave. He didn’t want to say more. Not to himself, much less to his brother. He needed to escape that knowing smirk. He needed distance. His steps were quick, graceful. Out into the dark and quiet night. 

[ikeromantic]

Entwined, Ch. 11

Part 11 of a multipart series. Mai has been reborn in the modern age after a full life in the Sengoku. The warlords as spirit animals find her again after 500 years of searching for her soul. Approx. 4700 words.

Chapter List

Mai couldn’t help but smile as she walked the last block to the theater. There was no guarantee she’d run into Mitsuhide but she had a good feeling. He’d be there, and she’d say something flirty and he’d . . . well, she wasn’t sure what he would do. Or what she wanted him to do. Flirt back, of course, but then what? And they’d been sending each other mixed messages from the first meeting. 

A sudden case of nerves hit her as the door came into view. The last time she’d seen Mitsuhide, he flirted outrageously. But then he hadn’t tried to kiss her goodbye. Buuuut he did call their outing a date . . . so . . . that had to mean something? Something good even. 

“He likes you. Come on, Mai. You know he does. And - and if not, well, we’ll just -” she swallowed. “Take some snaps of the stage and props. And go. No harm done.” Except, the flip-flop flutters in her belly told her there would absolutely be harm if he was there and brushed her off. 

She took one more steadying breath and went inside. The hall and back offices were dark and empty. That should be no surprise, considering the day and the time, but it felt off somehow. Mai passed the nest of cubicles and desks with an uneasy feeling brewing in the pit of her stomach. 

The hall ahead was lightless, save for the emergency exit sign which cast a dim red glow on the far side. This hall ran behind and slightly beneath the stage, a back-back-stage where costumes and props were carried up from storage. There were a few private office doors and dressing rooms, some of which were open. She paused at the first one to peer into the lightless gloom. 

Darker-than-dark silhouettes of desk furniture greeted her nervous curiosity. Mai swallowed, heart racing. She knew the shapes were just a desk, a chair, and perhaps a bookshelf? Or a coat rack? Some tall, dark shadow that took up one corner. Her hand reached for the light switch. The fluorescent ceiling light flickered into life, revealing exactly what should be here. Just a shelf. 

She breathed a sigh of relief and flipped the switch off again. I’ve got to stop being so jumpy, she thought. There was no one at the theater but her, which was disappointing, but no reason to be scared. Mai squared her shoulders. “Ok. So it’s just me and the ghosts of productions past. Let’s get our stage snaps and go.”

Just as she finished speaking, a sound came from one of the other darkened rooms. A soft whup, like a pile of cloth falling to the ground. Mai nearly jumped. “Hello?”

More sounds came from nearby, but she couldn’t tell from which doorway. A hissing scrape, the thud of a drawer closing. She backed up, scared to turn and run. One hand pawed at the wall reaching for a light switch she wasn’t close enough to hit. Her other hand rummaged in her small purse, trembling fingers failing to grip her phone. 

A dark figure stumbled into the hall. Though she couldn’t see the face, she could tell it was looking at her. Then it rushed forward, movements jerky and awkward. 

Mai screamed and turned to run. Terror burned through her veins, fear sped her up and slowed her down as she tripped over her own feet. A cold, hard grip caught her and pulled her up. 

“You.” Warm breath that stank of alcohol flooded her face. “This is your fault.”

“M-me?” She tried to pull away from the man, but he was stronger than her. Bigger framed. 

“You gotta fix it. I’m gonna make you.” 

Mai recognized the voice then. “Mr. Keiki?” She struggled even harder as the realization set in. He was here, and drunk. And she was alone with him. 

He laughed, a harsh barking sound that held no humor. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know. Stupid girl. Thought you’d get the better of me.” Keiki dragged her toward the office he’d come from. “No one . . . not some insignificant . . . worthless . . .” He was so angry and so wasted that his words turned into a garbled senseless noise. 

Keiki and Mai froze at a sudden bang. The lights in the cubicle area flickered to life and three uniformed officers rushed into the theater. They spotted Mai and Keiki in the same moment. Everything seemed to slow as the officers reached for their weapons, shouting orders to stop.

Mai felt a flare of hope. Somehow, they’d shown up just in time to save her. She opened her mouth to call out to them, but her jaw snapped painfully shut as Keiki jerked her into the nearest doorway. Something in her arm tore loose as he pulled her against his chest. “L-let me g-”

“Shut up.” Keiki pressed something cold and sharp to her throat. “Shut up and let me think.”

“Mr. Keiki. Please. I - I don’t know what’s happened. But you have to let me go.” She hated the pleading tone of her voice, the quaver of fear. Mai swallowed. “I - I’ll tell them this is a misunderstanding. Whatever has happened -”

A cold sharpness dug into the soft flesh of her throat. “I said shut up.” Keiki glanced wildly about the room. They were in a sidewing to the main stage, surrounded by boxes and costume racks. Behind them, the stage was screened from view by a heavy black velvet curtain. The lights here had come on as they stumbled in, signaling that the police found the master switch at the front of the hall. “You’re gonna tell them I paid you. All of it,” he growled. “The money . . .”

The police were moving around at the end of the hall, whispering. The faint clatter of their gear and the hum of low voices reached Mai. A reassurance that help was just a little ways away. She just needed to get loose. “I - I will. I’ll tell them whatever you want.”

A familiar voice rang out, one that made Mai’s heart speed for another reason entirely. “Mr. Keiki! What are you doing? Taking a hostage? Do you really think that’s going to help your case?” The sound of footsteps came closer. 

“I-I’ll kill her if you come in here!” Keiki pushed harder at her throat, the cold yielding to a sudden hot flash of pain. 

“I’m on your side. I want to help you sort this out.” Mitsuhide came into view. His eyes were burnished gold, a dangerous heat burning in their depths. He held out his hands to show they were empty. 

Keiki’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into Mai’s arm. “Tell him.”

Mai met Mitsuhide’s gaze, warmth and strength flowing into her. “He paid me? All of the money. I -” She glanced at Keiki. “I take the blame.”

“Of course you do.” Mitsuhide’s smile grew thinner, sharper. His eyes lit on her throat. “But it would be so much more believable if you weren’t bleeding.” He looked back up at Keiki. “Let her go. We both know she’s got nothing to do with this.”

“No.” There was fear in Keiki’s voice now. “She can fix this. If I let her go, I’ve got nothing.”

Mitsuhide tsked as if chiding a small and stupid child. “Holding her hostage won’t help. Just think about what happens next. I’m sure the penalty for kidnapping, assault, and murder is much worse than theft and embezzlement. Let her go.” Despite the silky persuasive tone of his voice, Mai could hear the steel beneath. A serpentine venom, the coiled tension of a snake about to strike. 

Keiki laughed. “It doesn’t matter what the penalty is. If I can’t clear these - these baseless accusations . . . no one will ever hire me after this. All my work . . . my contacts . . . everything . . . gone!” His laughter turned into a sob, the desperation of the guilty. 

Mai felt the pressure against her neck increase, the sharp tip of the letter opener parting her skin. Tearing it. He was going to kill her, she realized. Somehow, the reality of that hadn’t settled in - but it did now. She was going to die. The thought paralyzed her.

“Do you trust me?”

It took Mai a moment to realize Mitsuhide spoke to her and not to Mr. Keiki. Did she? He was still a mystery. Mitsuhide rarely answered her questions. He always seemed to be hiding something - something big. But . . . she did. She trusted him, even if she couldn’t explain why. Mai mouthed the word yes. 

Mitsuhide’s gaze warmed for a heartbeat, his smile almost gentle. 

“Why are you asking her that? What do you -” Keiki scrambled back, and for a moment they were both tangled in the thick, suffocating folds of the stage curtain. Then past it, standing on the darkened stage. The safety lights along the aisles painted the space with deep shadows, distorted shapes of rails and chairs. 

Mitsuhide followed, still smiling. “Do you know what my favorite thing about theater is?”

“What? No.” Keiki made a choked sounding laugh. “What do I care?”

“I love playing a role. Villain. Hero.” His gaze brushed Mai’s, “A lover or husband.” He advanced and Keiki moved back. “I can be all of those things. At once, or singularly. Farm boy and court schemer. Emperor and peasant.” 

As he spoke, he moved closer. Every step sent Keiki back two, dragging Mai with him. The sharp tip dug relentlessly into her throat, a fiery agony that pulsed with her lifeblood. A centimeter, perhaps two, separated her from a mortal wound. But Mitsuhide had a plan, she thought. He would get her out of this, somethow.

Keiki’s grip on her arm loosened the slightest bit. “So? Why are you telling me this? You should be negotiating! I want - I want the charges to go away. Make it happen, or I’ll kill her. I will.” 

“Negotiating?” Mitsuhide seemed to mull the word over. “I played that part a time or two.” He shrugged. “So you want to make a deal. The girl in exchange for a pardon? No. You want something to smooth it all away, like this never happened. Disappear the records of all the money you’ve siphoned out of the theater, hm?”

“Yes! Do it. Or I’ll-”

“Kill her. You said that.” He settled back on his heels. “Ok. I know some people. I can make that happen for you.” Mitsuhide’s eyes held a darkness deeper than the gloom. “Let her go and I can make that call.”

Keiki shook his head. “Make the call and then I let her go.” 

“Seems I can’t outmaneuver you,” Mitsuhide chuckled. He took his phone from his jacket pocket, moving slowly.

“Of course not. You’re just some jumped up actor.” Keiki snorted. He gestured at the phone with the letter opener. “Call the police off first.”

Mai saw Mitsuhide move the moment the sharp point moved away from her throat. He flowed forward, the motion fast and fluid, like water running downhill. He grabbed the letter opener with one hand, wrenching it away from Keiki, pushing him back with the other. 

For a heartbeat, Mai fell backward with Mr. Keiki. A heartbeat, suspended in the air, nothing supporting her, only Keiki’s grasping fingers as he flailed for purchase. Then Mitsuhide grabbed her arm. He caught her as Keiki fell down into one of the stage’s trapdoors. 

“Little one,” Mitsuhide breathed the words, his eyes revealing a mix of tangled emotions. He threw down the scarlet-smeared letter opener and wrapped his arm around her chest, pulling her up and onto the stage. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

Mai tried to calm herself. She felt like a leaf, trembling in the wind. Her hand fluttered at her throat, almost touching the seeping wound there. “I - I came to see you. I was . . . going to take pictures . . .” Her eyes skittered over the dark stage where impressive backdrops of the imperial palace were arranged. This all felt strangely familiar.

He pulled her close, arms wrapping around her shoulders, his face pressed against her hair. Mitsuhide took a shuddering breath, tension easing as he clung tightly to her. “I thought I was going to lose you again,” he murmured.

“I’m ok. I’m still here.” Mai hugged him back with one arm. The other hung useless at her side, a testament to how not-ok she was. 

Mitsuhide gave a choked laugh. “And now you are comforting me, when it is you that was hurt.” He kissed the top of her head. “What else? Will you offer kind words to Keiki?”

Mai glanced behind her at the trapdoor. The police were collecting Mr. Keiki from the floor. He glared up at them, sullen and angry, but silent. “No. I’m not that nice.”

“Good.” He stepped back, taking her in with a glance. His jaw clenched as his eyes landed on her arm. “How do you feel?”

“I - I don’t know? Numb. Everything is just . . .” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Thank you. I don’t know what might have happened if you weren’t here.”

“Don’t thank me, little mouse. This is my fault. I should have warned you to stay home tonight. I didn’t want you to be part of this. I wanted you safe.” Mitsuhide looked away and took a moment to master his emotions. When he looked back, he wore a familiar smile. “It seems no matter how much time passes, you end up in the middle of things.”

“Well, you can’t expect me to sit home and knit.” Mai frowned. Her arm was starting to hurt again now, and the cut in her neck stung. “Although, if I’d known I was going to get grabbed and stabbed, I would have given tonight a pass.”

He laughed wryly. “A choice I can agree with, but done is done.” His fingertips grazed her arm. “Let’s get your injuries seen to.”

Around them, the theater was coming alive with lights and the entrance of more police and other first responders. They checked Mitsuhide over as Mai was laid on a stretcher and carried out, despite her protests that she could walk just fine. She didn’t think she needed to be carried when it was her arm that hurt, and not her legs.

Mitsuhide ruffled her hair. “I’ll see you at the hospital. Don’t get into any more trouble.” 

“Pfft.” She grinned, despite the pain. There was just something about him that made her feel better. “If I get into trouble, it will be because someone carried me there.”

He might have replied, but two officers closed in and pulled Mitsuhide aside for his statement. Mai gave him a wave with her good arm as she was carried away.

***

The hospital was cold. Mai shivered under the thin blanket of her hospital bed. She felt tired in every way, and her eyes kept slipping shut in long, slow blinks. Even the uncomfortable sling on her arm and the sting of the stitches in her neck weren’t enough to keep her alert. She wanted to stay awake though, at least until Mitsuhide came. She wanted to . . . but her eyelids were so heavy.

Her eyes snapped open as she felt someone settle at the foot of her bed. Only, it wasn’t Mitsuhide sitting there. A peacock rested there, holding her in its obsidian regard. The bird was beautiful, feathers gleaming with sapphire and emerald hues. 

Mai tried to wake herself. She knew peacocks weren’t allowed in hospitals, ergo, there was no peacock on her bed. Which meant she was dreaming, and she might miss Mitsuhide when he stopped by. She pinched her earlobe hard enough that it sent a little shock of pain all the way to her cheek. 

The peacock tilted its head and blinked, as if asking what she was doing. 

“Look, you’re very pretty but I don’t want to be asleep right now. I need to wake up. So if you could just not look at me like that? I don’t know why I’m dreaming about a peacock anyway. I guess it’s better than a nightmare about Mr - well, about things I don’t want to think about.” She sighed. 

The bird leapt onto the floor, disappearing beyond the end of the bed. 

Mai tried to sit up, but her shoulder flared with pain at the movement. “Ugh. Why am I injured in my dream? I should just imagine myself healed up, right?” She looked at the vitals monitor next to her bed, and the IV drip. It was all so detailed and realistic. And outside, a nurse passed her doorway, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the tile floor. 

Everything looked very much the way it should in the waking world, she realized. Which meant - Mai sat up suddenly, despite the flare of hot agony in her arm. There was, in fact, a peacock sitting on the floor. In her hospital room. “Umm. Ok. So I’m not dreaming. You are really here. Staring at me.”

The peacock preened, and then leapt up to perch on the back of a chair. 

“Right. Ok. I guess that’s fine. Peacock in my hospital room. Are you an emotional support animal?” Mai got no response from the bird, of course. She took a breath and looked up at the bright ceiling lights. “I guess it could be weirder.”

“Weirder? How so?” 

The response made Mai jump, and sent another shooting pain through her body. She instinctively pulled the injured arm closer to her chest as she turned toward the voice. A man sat in the chair where the bird had been a moment ago. He was a stranger to her, and she should have been frightened - but there was something calming about his gentle smile. 

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The man tilted his head and blinked, the gesture reminiscent of the peacock.

He was gorgeous, she realized. His eyes were a pallid shade of honey, his skin like porcelain, and his long dark hair hung silkily over his shoulder. He looked like a man from a cologne commercial, she thought. Or one of those shampoo ads. Too pretty to be real. But he was sitting there, no filter, no photoshop. And waiting for her response. 

“You . . . it’s, umm, it’s fine. I thought there was a - a - you know what? It doesn’t matter.” Mai took a moment to focus. “Who are you, anyway? A mo-” She stopped herself before she said model. More likely, “A lawyer?” 

The man laughed softly, a sound as pretty as he was. “My thoughts have never been drawn to legal matters. No, I am a representative from the national theater program. You may call me Yoshimoto.”

Mai nodded. “Alright, Mr. Yoshimoto. Do I need to give you a statement or something?”

“Please, just Yoshimoto. And no. I am simply here to make sure you’re alright. We didn’t realize Keiki would take such a violent action.” His brow creased with concern. “Are you?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Her body had its hurts, and she felt a heavy anxiety as her mind touched on the memory of Keiki’s arms around her. The feel of cold metal against her throat. “I . . .”

Yoshimoto looked down, his whole posture evincing sorrow. “Of course. That was an inconsiderate question. Please forgive me.”

“No, Yoshimoto. It’s fine. I am ok. A - a little shaken up? And achy? But alright. Mitsuhide came just in time.”

When he looked up again, there was a slight smile lifting the edges of his perfect lips. Mai wondered what kind of lip gloss he wore. That satin sheen could not be all natural. “Thank you for being so kind. You have a tendency to put others first, but please, do not prioritize my comfort.” He reached out and took her hand. 

Mai felt like she was drowning in his wide gaze as he drew closer to her. 

“Allow me to apologize. When Mitsuhide came to me with his information, we should have taken more precautions in removing Keiki. I never would have moved forward, knowing you might be hurt.” Yoshimoto’s voice was melodic, almost hypnotic. 

“Cuz, even I know better than to seduce a woman in a hospital.” A low laugh came from the door and both Yoshimoto and Mai turned toward it. 

“Shingen?” Mai’s eyebrows shot up. This was the cheesy hot guy from the amusement park. The one with the rude friend. And the rude guy was right behind him. 

“I am flattered you remembered me.” He smiled and his grin made the room feel brighter.

“Yes, you and, um -” Mai stared at the rude boy, searching her mind for his name. “Yoshiki? No. Yusei?”

“Yuki.” His lower lip stuck out in a pout. “I can’t believe you remembered this guy and not me.”

Yoshimoto laughed. “I am sure it’s only due to the stress of the evening, Yukimura. You always leave quite an impression.”

This did not appear to mollify him, but he only huffed as he followed Shingen in. 

“I do remember you,” Mai insisted. “You called me a boar woman. So stop making that face.”

“I’ll make this face if I want to. And - and I’m not even making some kind of face! You are!” Yuki glared at her, but the expression softened as his gaze flitted to her bandaged neck. “I - look, I just came to make sure you were alright. Here.” He shoved a box of candy at her and then stormed out.

“Wait, what? Yuki?” She called after him, but he didn’t stop or turn. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Shingen told her with a sigh. “He’s still learning how to talk to girls.”

“Umm. Ok?” Mai looked at the box of candies. “Can you tell him thanks for me?”

“I would do any task for you, angel.” Shingen’s grey eyes shone. “Is there anything else you want me to do? I could be your nurse. Give you a very special sponge-”

“That is quite enough. We did not come here to make the girl uncomfortable.” Another man graced the entry. And graced was the right word. He was tall, though not as tall as Shingen, and his hair was almost the same light shade as Mitsuhide’s, with eyes that shone a deep violet blue. 

Mai blinked. Who was this guy? And why was her room filled with extremely attractive strangers. “Do you all work in theater?” The question popped out before she thought it through. But honestly, the only excuse for so many hot guys in one place had to be that they were actors. 

“No, Kanetsugu doesn’t work for the theater program in any capacity. But his boss is one of our patrons. As is Shingen.” Yoshimoto smiled gently and squeezed the hand he still held. 

“Correct.” Kanetsugu nodded. “I am here at Lord Uesugi’s request.” He held up a bunny. It was white, with long, floppy ears, and a delicate poof of a cotton-tail. It gazed at Mai with its odd eyes, one a brilliant green and the other, an icy blue. 

“Why . . . why are you carrying a rabbit?” Mai stared at the bunny. It was adorable, and she felt an urge to pet its soft fur. 

Kanetsugu arched an eyebrow. 

“Emotional support animal.” A familiar voice said from behind the violet-eyed man. Sasuke stepped out to stand beside him. “We brought Ke-, ah, the bunny to keep you company and make you feel better.”

“Sasuke! Hello again.” Mai smiled at the familiar face. Though she’d only really met him once, she felt like she knew him well. “Did Mitsuhide send you?”

“Afraid not. But since Yoshimoto and Shingen were helping him out, I’ve been in the loop.” His lips twitched in what might have been a smile. 

Kanetsugu sighed. “Yes. We’ve all been in the loop.” He walked to the other side of her bed and set the rabbit onto her blanket. “You must treat this bunny with proper respect and care. Do not let him jump as he likes, and be careful of what he eats. Rabbits have very sensitive stomachs. And when petting him, stroke in the direction the hair grows. But! Only if he initiates the contact. You cannot simply handle him like some petting zoo rabbit.”

“I think she gets it,” Shingen interrupted. He gazed balefully at the rabbit and murmured, “Some guys have all the luck.”

“Hm?” Mai glanced at him, though her attention was on the bunny as it made itself comfortable on her lap. 

“Nothing, angel. I was just thinking a rabbit is easier to sneak into a hospital than a bear.” 

Sasuke chuckled. “Not sure how you’d manage that.”

Yoshimoto only smiled. 

Mai nodded agreement. “Mmm. Yeah a bear is pretty big. You know, it’s so weird though. I thought there was a peacock in my room. Just before Yoshimoto came? But I bet it would be pretty hard to sneak one of those in too.” She laughed. “Maybe they gave me a stronger painkiller than I thought.”

Shingen and Yoshimoto shared a look. “You’re right about that, angel. Though I imagine all things in nature cried out when you were hurt, and would want to comfort you.”

“Eh, hahaha, no. I mean, that’s really sweet of you to say. But I’m no one important.” Mai felt her cheeks heat. This guy was an outrageous flatterer, she thought. 

“You are very important,” Yoshimoto told her, giving her hand another gentle squeeze. “The world would be a worse place without your artistry.”

Kanetsugu was still watching the bunny on Mai’s lap, ignoring the conversation completely. 

Thankfully, it gave Mai an easy out of this embarrassing praise. “Kanetsugu, do you want to take the rabbit back? It’s ok if you do. Just seeing him made me feel a little better.”

“No. He wishes to be where he is.” Kanetsugu gave her a slight smile. “I am pleased if his presence brought you some comfort.”

“I hope my attention also gave you some comfort, angel.” Shingen’s smooth voice brought Mai’s gaze back to him. He was giving her a dazzling smile, and there was unexpected warmth in the depths of his eyes. 

Mai felt her pulse speed, reacting to that look and his nearness. “I . . . ah . . .”

Sasuke cleared his throat. “I think we should let her rest now.”

Yoshimoto glanced at him and then nodded. “Yes, of course. How selfish of me. I only wanted to ensure you were recovering. Please rest and feel better.” He brought her hand to his lips, and placed an ephemeral kiss to the back of it. The touch was light but warm, and it sent a pleasant shiver up her arm. 

“We’ll check on you later.” Shingen agreed. “In the meantime, don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“That leaves a distressing number of options,” Kanetsugu commented. He smiled, and Mai couldn’t help but note he had little fangs. Sharp canines that looked a bit longer than the surrounding teeth. “I will return for Ke- the bunny. You will take good care of him until then.”

“Yes?” Mai nodded, her fingers brushing the soft fur on the rabbit’s head.

“Good.” Kanetsugu nodded. “Until then.” 

Yoshimoto released her hand and stood to leave. The others followed him out, and Mai was left again in the quiet, cold hospital room. But she felt warmer now, inside and out. “Those guys are so strange,” she sighed. “But nice. Don’t you think so, Mr. Bunny?” She stroked his soft ears. 

The rabbit gazed at her, its pink nose wiggling. The dichroic eyes held an unexpected weight of affection and a look Mai thought was a little sad. She cradled the rabbit to her chest in a gentle hug. “It’s just me and you now. Waiting for Mitsuhide.”

Mai let go of the bunny as it started wriggling. She could have sworn the look it gave her was an unhappy one as it hopped to the end of her bed and laid down. “Silly bunny.” She smiled. It was sitting right where the peacock had been. If there ever was a peacock in her room. Mai wasn’t sure anymore. And it didn’t matter. The rabbit wasn’t going to turn into a hot guy, afterall. She knew it was real and solid, and definitely just a bunny. Even if there was something hauntingly familiar about it.

[ikeromantic]

click this..

then click your blog(s)

scroll all the way down and click this..

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[ikeromantic]

Thank you and Updates!

I just wanted to say thank you to everyone that has put in asks, left comments, likes, reblogs, and messages. I cannot tell you how often I revisit your kind words and excited emojis when I am feeling down and unable to write. The otome fandom is full of kind and wonderful people and I am lucky to be a part of it. You all are the absolute best ^_^

For updates, I am getting back to posting Entwined (reincarnation AU with Mitsuhide) and Chevalier's POV route. I have been working on a Kyubei fic that I'm excited to share, and even more pending asks. I have some ideas for IkeVamp hanging out in my WIPS too! AND Ikemen Villains is due out this spring which I'm sure will inspire some new stories and ideas.

[ikeromantic]

The complete requests for my Ikemen Prince celebration ^_^

Follower Celebration Masterlist 4

IkePri 1K Follower Celebration Asks:

Chevalier, Rose Garden, Honey Cake - sweetness with Chev

Chevalier, Observatory, Gingerbread - Chev being spicy and sweet

Clavis, Pit Trap, Black Licorice - a little bitter, a little sweet

Cyran, Tavern, Eggnog - some warm sweetness with Cyran

Cyran, Battlefield, Gingerbread - Cyran being a hero

Gilbert, Your Room, Hot Cocoa - Gil being caring and sweet

Gilbert, Library, Red Hots - some teasing Gilbert

Gilbert, Rooftop, Honey Cake - sweetness from Gil

Gilbert, Tavern, Gingerbread - Gil teases MC and himself

Gilbert, Kitchen, Red Hots - teasing and spiciness

Jin, His Room, Eggnog - warm and sweet time with Jin

Keith, Kitchen, Sugar Cookie - sweet, shy Keith being adorable

Keith, Observatory, Red Hots - spicy smut with Kind Keith!

Keith, Observatory, Hot Cocoa - romantic, and a little jelly

Wicked Keith, Rose Garden, Red Hots - very spicy smut!

Wicked Keith, Arboretum, Red Hots - lightly spicy, very wicked!

Leon, Bookstore, Marshmallow - pure Leon fluffiness

Licht, Alleyway, Black Licorice - love and angst

Nokto, Townsquare, Eggnog - Nokto yearning and flirting

Sariel, Horseback, Gingerbread - sweet and spicy Sariel

Sariel, Library, Red Hots - very spicy times with Sariel

Sariel, Party, Eggnog - Sariel finding time for love

Silvio, Pit Trap, Fruit Cake - silliness with Silvio

Yves, Ballroom, Candy Cane - Evie being cool and sweet

[ikeromantic]

One more day!! Haha, thank you so much for doing these. Your writing is always so fun to read!

I always stop what I'm doing when I see a new post 😊

I would like to request something (maybe, hopefully?) Interesting with Cyran, battlefield, and gingerbread!

That is quite the compliment ^_^ I will be honest with you, this was one of my favorite asks nonnie! I saved it for last. I'm not sure it's quite gingerbread - maybe more eggnog? But I loved the prompt and I hope you'll enjoy the story. Approx. 1600 words of Cyran and the Belle on a battlefield. IkePri New Years Event story! TW for violence.

The air was thick with smoke and the scent of spilled blood. The distant clang of armor and the groans of the wounded sounded deceptively distant. Emma took a breath. She was exhausted and frightened. But there was more to be done. More she could do. Her chin lifted, lips firming. 

“Once more into the fray,” she whispered, and then stepped away from her hiding place in the lee of a fallen wall. She scurried from one hiding spot to another, getting closer to the sounds of battle. Emma came around a low, grassy hillock and with a step, she was back amidst the chaos.

Men in armor fought, clashing where opposing sides met. Emma couldn’t tell who fought for which army. The colors of their crests were smeared with mud and blood and ash. She tried to avoid them altogether. Darting past, hiding in the tall grass, and ducking behind the wreckage of what was once a bustling border town. 

Emma made her way through the battlefield, her progress slow. At each fallen soldier, she paused to check for signs of life. Kneeling in the muck, fingers to their throat or wrist, if their state was not clear. Her bag of supplies hung heavy across her back, full of bandages, waterskins, salves . . . 

She realized now what a naive idea it had been to come here. But staying behind, waiting in safety while people bled and died . . . There was no way she could sip tea and eat cakes while Cyran was out here, fighting. Her mind flitted to the red headed soldier. His easy smile, his kindness, the warmth of his touch. A sharp ache pierced her chest as she thought of him lying on the ground.

“No.” The word slipped through clenched teeth. That wasn’t going to happen. 

Emma paused as she spotted another soldier lying on his side in the mud. She didn’t see any knots of fighting men nearby, though they could appear at any moment. With a breath, she hurried to his side. 

The soldier’s eyes were closed, his face clenched in pain. Blood pooled beneath his hip, rust-hued and smelling of copper and salt. He was still breathing. 

With a silent prayer of thanks, she knelt. “Hey. I’m going to touch you, ok? I need to roll you over.”

He opened his eyes. “O-ok.” His words were strained, breathy. He tensed as Emma gently moved him onto his back. The soldier wore the colors of Obsidian on his armor. An enemy soldier. No wonder he was nervous. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she reassured him. “I don’t care where you’re from.”

The soldier nodded, relaxing a little as she examined him.

Emma could see the deep cut just above his pelvic bone. Just under the fauld, where the gap in metal was covered only by thick padding and leather. It was split wide open and soaked in blood. There wasn’t much she could do, but if she bandaged him, he might make it until real help could get to him. 

“Is it . . . is it bad?” He watched her face intently.

“Yes.” Emma’s voice didn’t shake as she told him the truth of his wounding. Not the way it had the first time today, or even the fifth. She’d lost count of the times she answered that question during this battle. “I’m going to clean and pack the wound. I need you to stay still and quiet, even if it hurts. That way -” she cleared her throat, fighting the tears that wanted to come, “that way you’ll make it to the medical tent where they can stitch you right up. You’ll be just fine. If - if you stay still. And quiet.”

When she looked up at him, she smiled. His narrow, pinched expression eased. “Are you an angel?”

“Afraid not. I’m a book seller, among other things.” Emma couldn’t meet his gaze for long. She got to work. Keeping her hands and mind busy, focusing on the litany of tasks. Clear the space. Clean the wound. Apply the salve. Pack the opening. Wrap and bind it. One step at a time. 

She was so focused that she didn’t note the approach of two men, one chasing the other. They rushed her tiny clearing, trampling the grass. The fleeing man tripped on the wounded soldier’s leg and came crashing to the ground. Emma noticed him then, and nearly lost her head as she jerked upright in surprise. 

The pursuer swung his sword wildly, lunging toward his fallen opponent. It was only luck that his blade parted the air and not Emma’s neck. A bit of her hair fluttered to the ground, following the sword’s passage. 

Despite their proximity, the battling soldiers barely seemed to notice her or the fallen man as they fought on. The one on the ground scrambled to his feet, barely getting a blade up to defend himself. 

Emma scooted out of the way. She had a dagger strapped to her leg, but that was a last-ditch weapon if she were attacked. There wasn’t much she could do with it against armed and armored knights. 

The fight didn’t take long. In mere heartbeats, one of the men was on the ground, his last breath bubbling between his lips while the other gave a shout of victory. Emma thought he would move on to another target, but instead, the remaining soldier looked down at the wounded man. And stabbed him.

His sudden act of irrational violence brought a shout to Emma’s lips. The sound burst out of her before she could stop it. A wordless sound of horror, a primal negation of what she was seeing. Her hand lifted, reaching. As if she might stop the blood that gushed now from the wounded man’s neck. 

Her shout brought the soldier’s attention to her. His face was hidden beneath his helm. Only his eyes were visible through the slit. Hard green eyes, like stone. He raised his sword. 

Emma closed her eyes. She knew what was coming. Tense, breathless, she waited. But instead of a sharp blade, there was only a sudden clang, followed by a heavy thud. Her eyes sprang open. 

“You never like to stay where I put you.” Cyran pushed his hair back from his face with a sigh, but he was smiling even so. “Are you alright?”

Seeing him like this, as if he’d stepped straight from her thoughts and into the battlefield, made her heart do strange things. Beating too fast and off-rhythm, a bruised ache thrumming through it and down into her limbs. She gave him a silent nod. 

He held out a hand to help her up and then pulled her against him in a tight hug. She could feel the uneasy thud of his heart, giving the lie to his calm demeanor. Cyran pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

Emma let herself be held, taking strength from his warm embrace. She didn’t even mind the press of metal buckles or the hard finish of his armor against her cheek. He was alright. Alive and well. And he’d saved her life. “Thank you.” Her words were muffled against his chest. 

“Don’t thank me for that. Thank me when I get you back to someplace safe.” He let go and took a step back, his gaze roving over her and then the clearing. “Dare I ask what you were doing out here? I hope you weren’t looking for me.”

She had been, of course. But not just that. “I was . . . trying to help. Bandaging wounds and - and giving them water. I sent some that could walk toward the medical tents but -” Her eyes dropped to the body of the soldier she’d been trying to help. His death felt so senseless. All of this death did. 

Cyran’s gloved thumb wiped away a tear before it could fall. 

“Please don’t make me go back. I can’t just . . . especially now and -” Emma felt the words tangling in her throat. All of the suffering, the lost lives, the awfulness of it. She couldn’t walk away. 

“You know, Clavis might actually kill me for this but, I understand.” He took a breath. “I don’t suppose you want some help? I’m not bad with a medical kit and I’ve got this big sword here. Pretty good with it, if I do say so myself.” 

Emma laughed despite everything. Or perhaps, because of it. His cocky smile, and that mischievous gleam to his eye. As if they were about to steal some pastries from Yves’ garden party instead of trying to save lives in the middle of a bloody border war. He was ridiculous, but so was she. “I’d say so too, so it must be true.”

Cyran grinned, his cheeks heating. He cleared his throat. “Alright, well let’s get to work then.” 

“Thank you.” She reached for his cheek, cupping it gently. He was so strong for her, but fragile too. Emma felt a rush of love, her whole chest tight and warm and full to overflowing. 

He leaned close. “Don’t thank me yet, remember?” His kiss surprised her, even as she responded. His warm lips were firm and silky soft, and his mouth tasted of whiskey and blood and smoke. What passed between them was a promise, an oath to survive this day. Their lips sealed a vow to hold each other when this was all over, no matter what came. His touch was hot with the undercurrent of passion held in abeyance, gentle with the sweetness of pure love, trembling with the bitter tang of sorrow, and the salt of tears not yet shed. 

When he pulled back, his warmth stayed with her. “I remember.” Emma smiled at him. 

“Good.” He grinned back. “Now, let’s get moving.”

[ikeromantic]

Nokto, Townsquare, Eggnog

A sweet ache from the teasing twin. Approx. 1000 words of Nokto and a night he'll remember. IkePri New Years Event story!

Nokto spun the Belle and caught her, drawing her along to the rhythm of fiddles and hand drums. This was no courtly dance with elaborate footwork and orchestral tones. Tonight was a raucous party of masked nobility and commoners, ringing in the new year with a round of drunk merriment. 

He felt the thick sweetness of rose liquor on his tongue, and the beads of sweat beading on his forehead beneath the blue fox mask he wore. Despite the cold night air, he was warm. Warm inside and out, and it had little to do with the activity and more with the company.

The Belle laughed in his arms, holding tight to him as he lifted her up. He could see her smiling beneath the white rabbit mask that covered most of her face. “Ahhh, Nokto! Put me down!” 

“I’m not Nokto tonight,” he reminded her with a smirk. “And you’ll need to ask nicely . . .”

She giggled and adjusted her mask. “Right. Let’s see . . .” Her lips parted, the pink tip of her tongue poked out for a heartbeat - just long enough to give Nokto some wicked ideas. “Oh, prince of foxes, would you kindly please set me down? I need to fetch a drink and sit for a moment. Please.”

“On one condition, my little bunny.” His smirk widened into a grin. “You drink with me.”

He could almost hear the unseen rise of an eyebrow, and the sudden tension in her frame. “I . . . ok, but don’t think I’m going to end up in your bed.”

“Again.” Nokto chuckled. “Would that be so terrible a way to start this year?” He set her on her feet, his hands skimming lightly over her hips. There were hundreds of women at the celebration tonight. How was it that he only wanted this one, the one that said no? He felt a tightening in his chest, an strange and unfamiliar heaviness. 

Her fingertips brushed his cheek. “Are you alright?”

“Hm? Yes. Of course I am.” He forced his smile to return. “Ridiculous question.”

“Ok. It’s just . . .” She bit her lip, continuing only when he said nothing into the silence between them. “You looked pained. For a moment.” The Belle gave a slight, uneasy shrug. 

Nokto ruffled the hair at the nape of her neck. “Your imagination is impressive.” His hand lingered for several heartbeats. She felt warm, and her hair was soft as sin. He realized he wanted to kiss her. To lean close and taste her lips. But if he did, she would leave and he . . . he swallowed the desire, forcing it down. “Come on. Let’s find something good.”

He grabbed her hand and led her through the throng to one of the market stalls. He bought her a hot cider and for himself, mulled wine. Then they sat at a low bench nearby, where they could see the town square fountain. 

The spray of falling water caught the lamp light, glistening like flecks of gold in the night air. Heatless embers that hung for a moment in the dark before disappearing into the pool below. “It’s really beautiful.” The Belle leaned against him, her mouth curved in a sweet, gentle smile.

Nokto looked at her, feeling that tightness again. His heart strained, too fast, too hard, his blood felt thick and too warm. Heat radiating from every part of him that touched her. “Beautiful,” he echoed, the word catching in his throat. He struggled to find the suave and self assured gallant he presented himself as, but that prince was nowhere in evidence. He felt laid bare, exposed, his emotions bubbling to the surface no matter how he tried to push them back. 

Her fingers brushed the edge of his chin as she reached to fix his hair. “Your bangs,” she said by way of explanation. He could feel her light touch against his scalp, the edge of his ear, as she tucked the hair into place. And then, unexpectedly, the drift of her fingertips trailing down his cheek. Her thumb skimmed the edge of his bottom lip. 

He froze, unable - unwilling - to move. If he said anything, if he reacted, he knew she would flee. Even his breath stilled, crystalized in that moment of unhoped for touch. 

The Belle’s breath was shallow, her expression impossible to read behind her mask. “S-sorry.” She dropped her hand to her lap. “I thought you had a - a bit of wine. On your lip.”

“I haven’t taken a sip yet.” His voice was rougher than normal, a predatory edge to it. 

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Must have been a shadow.”

“Must have been.” His lips curved into a teasing smile. “Perhaps I should look for a little shadow on your face as well?” He leaned closer, pretending to inspect her lips. He curled a finger beneath her chin, brushing his fingertips against her throat. This was more like it, he thought. The game of seduction, moves he knew all too well. Want without the ache for more. 

All he wanted was a kiss, he told himself. His pulse beat wildly in his throat as he felt her breath on his cheek. 

“Nokto.” Her voice was as warm and sweet as summer honey. An invitation and a warning. 

“No. Tonight I’m the prince of foxes and you are the bunny queen. Noone will care if we . . . if we kiss.” His lips were almost touching hers, the air between them thick with tension. 

The Belle’s lips quirked in a small, half smile he felt rather than saw. “No one?”

The bands in his chest burned, knotted around his heart. A tangle of emotion. Nokto knew she was right. He knew, and yet. His lips met hers, a crush of soft flesh that tasted of apples and spice. His tongue parted her lips, delving deeper, teasing. 

There was nothing but her, his Belle. The feel of her hands gripping his shoulders, her lips moving hungrily against his. The scent of her, the taste of her, the feel of her body pressed tight to him. A thousand kisses, and there was never one like this. One that set his blood on fire and his heart ablaze. One that eased the aching emptiness and filled the dark places in him with light.