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ikeromantic · 5 months ago

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The Final Thread pt 1

Kenshin (Red Thread of Fate AU) finds himself inexplicably drawn to a tavern-keeper in an enemy village. Though victory seems assured, strange happenings put Kenshin, his allies, and the woman in danger. Written for @scruffymctee featuring her lovely OC Tomoyo! Approx. 3200 words.

Previous: Crimson Thread, Another Skein

Kenshin wiped the sweat from his brow. The sun was merciless today, the air thick and humid. His arms ached from the effort of his work, but there was no time to rest. The fight wasn’t over. His sword was crusted with blood. Fresh runnels of scarlet carved paths through the hills of rusted remnants of his earlier opponents as it made its way to the tsuba.

They were finally at the village, with fields of dead at their backs and only a token force ahead. The battle would end soon, and Kenshin felt a mix of annoyance and satisfaction at that. He expected victory, but the day yielded no true opponent worth crossing blades with. And now the chance of such was gone.

The commander, a young warrior from the Sanada clan, called out orders from his seat atop a sinuous dragon, a beast of red and copper hue that watched the soldiers with a look of vast and strange intellect. The lines of troops rippled and surged into the village, while in the air hundreds of mounted warriors dove toward the remaining fortifications, their monstrous mounts a chorus of damnation for their enemies.

For the next several minutes, Kenshin ceased to think, his body moving with an unnatural grace. Flowing like water in a dance of violence and gore, he moved past his allies to pursue and destroy his opponents. He felt nothing as they fell.

An open doorway caught his attention, and he turned, blade ready. There was movement within. A coward, preparing an ambush? A damned spirit haunting an abandoned building? Or a frightened villager waiting for the end? He stepped forward.

The attack nearly caught him by surprise. Not a blade or a staff, but a colorful twist of fabric. It snapped out, the weighted end slamming the flat of his sword. He had to shift his grip to keep it in hand.

Kenshin lunged toward the attacker, but they moved as fast as he. In the dim interior of the shuttered building, he couldn’t make out their features. But he didn’t care what they looked like. Another body he would shortly add to the pile before this battle was ended. His blade flickered forward as he turned, but his enemy slammed it away with another sweep of silk.

He took advantage of the opening to aim a kick at the shifting figure, but he missed and his foot crashed into a shuttered window. The wood cracked and split, letting the warm afternoon light spill in. Kenshin didn’t notice the sparkling motes of dust as they danced in the golden light, or appreciate the way the sun painted the hanging scrolls. He might have spared a glance at the shelves of sake behind the counter for a heartbeat, but only that.

With a shout, Kenshin swung at his opponent but the attack stopped short as the light struck them first. Jade green eyes that reflected the afternoon sun, carmine lips, dark hair that hung in silken strands from an elaborate coif now undone. His heart thumped uneasily against the cage of his ribs. She was so familiar. So achingly familiar. He felt a smile curl on the edge of his lips, one he quickly smothered.

“Get out of my bar,” the woman demanded. She was fierce, a tigress in her domain. A kaiken gleamed in her grip, half-hidden by the sweep of her kimono.

“It’s not yours anymore, woman. Walk away.” Kenshin’s flat, cold voice sounded odd in his own ears.

She scoffed, a haughty expression turning her soft, kissable mouth to hard lines. “No? You think just because you march in here with your big sword, that makes it yours?” She shook her head. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Kenshin felt a rolling warmth in his chest as she said the last bit. He clenched his jaw against the unexpected betrayal of his body. Why should it matter to him if this woman feared him or no? If she did not fear him now, she would learn to. Because he was a creature of war, only alive in the midst of battle. “I would prefer not to fight a woman,” he muttered.

“And I’d prefer not to fight an idiot, but here we are.” She moved faster than seemed possible, her sleeves fluttering in the confined space, the weighted ends whistling as they swept past him. But that attack was a distraction. The real danger was her kaiken. The woman stepped close, brought the blade in a deadly slash.

He had only a heartbeat, less, to turn aside. The small knife cut into the lacquered leather of his dou. She was good, he thought. Using her smaller size and speed to advantage. Kenshin grabbed for her arm, his hand nearly closing over the silken sleeve. But she spun out of his reach and he almost took a weighted cuff to the face for his trouble.

“You should leave now,” she said, glancing toward the open window. “While you can.”

His gaze followed hers. He could see no sign of any threat, only the distant sounds of fighting as his forces met the few defenders remaining. “What do you know? Tell me, woman.” His mismatched glare moved to her face. The flicker of familiarity struck him again, but he ignored it.

“I have a name.” She frowned. “Tomoyo. So stop calling me woman.” Tomoyo let out a tired sigh, though her body stayed rigid and alert.

“I asked you a question.” One brow quirked up in annoyance.

Before she could answer, the door slammed open behind them as another soldier checked the building. He saw Kenshin and grinned. “Looks like you got here first. Good call securing the booze.”

Kenshin turned to regard his fellow with an icy glare. The soldier was Sanada clan, though not Akazonae. Only a mere footsoldier like himself, not someone he had to take orders from. “I did. So you can leave.”

“What? You want to keep the woman and the alcohol all to yourself?” The soldier’s gaze took in Tomoyo’s figure, though he winced away from her hot green gaze. “Looks like more than enough to share.”

Tomoyo grinned fiercely. “Try it. See what happens.”

Kenshin ignored her. “Find someplace else. This one is mine.” The scarlet edge of his blade wavered between him and the other soldier, a threat that needed no words.

For a breath, it looked as if the Sanada clan member might argue. Then he shrugged. “Fine. But if one of the commander catches you, it’s not my fault.” He smirked and then stepped back into the bruised light of late afternoon.

“Yours?” Tomoyo watched him with a haughty gaze. “Over my dead body.”

“If need be.” Kenshin turned to study her. She was fast, and stronger than she looked. In this space she had the advantage. He could take her though, of that he was certain. Only . . . he found that he did not want to fight her. She was a woman, but it was more than that. There was something about her that felt familiar, something that opened the wound in his heart and made his soul ache.

Tomoyo studied him back, her gaze still hot with anger. “Well?”

Kenshin righted one of the overturned chairs and sat. “Bring me some wine.” Before she could protest him as a thief, he pulled a table over and set some coins on it. “And pickled plums, if you have them.”

She snorted. “Of course I do.” The coin disappeared, replaced by a bowl of sake and a small plate of pickled plums. “So what? Now you plan to sulk and drink until you die?”

He looked at her, expecting to find more of her tart anger, but there was genuine curiosity in her jade gaze. “No.” Kenshin wasn’t sure what his end goal was. The Sanada would take the land and assets once conquest was complete. It wasn’t up to him what happened to Tomoyo or her bar. And yet. He felt he could not leave.

“Talkative, I see.” She pulled a chair over and sat across from him, pouring her own cup of sake from the bottle. “You look familiar,” she said after a pause. “Or, you feel familiar. But I don’t know . . . where?” Her voice trailed off, lost in thought.

Kenshin gave a slight shrug and didn’t reply. She didn’t seem to need one. They sat in companionable silence as the sun began to set, turning the light red, then violet.

Tomoyo stood and lit a small oil lamp. Then she began closing up. Kenshin watched as she blockaded the door and propped the shutters over the open window.

“What are you doing?” He set his hand on the hilt of his sword, a nervous energy sweeping through him.

“Closing.” She glanced over her shoulder and he was surprised to see worry in the tightness of her jaw, the line of her mouth.

Kenshin gave her a small half smile. “Habit?”

“Something like that.” Just as she spoke, the earth beneath them shivered. The building groaned as the wood bent and flexed with the sudden motion of the ground. Tomoyo did not look surprised, but she did look weary.

He stood, a nervous anxiety in him. Being buried alive in rubble would be an ignominious end. “We should go out -”

“Shhhh.” She held a finger to her lips. Kenshin might have argued, but then he heard it. A hissing sound, like a thousand serpents, rising and then falling in volume. “If we are quiet,” Tomoyo whispered, “they will leave us alone.”

“They?” It was a question he’d asked before, but now his tone was one of caution not interrogation.

“This is cursed land. We are all . . .” She trailed off, her eyes going to the smashed shutters propped over the open window.

Kenshin was about to laugh. He knew about curses. The kind that haunted your dreams and made life a bleak and empty hell. Curses did not shake the ground and hiss into the night. They were personal and silent and terrible punishments. But his laughter never came, dying in his throat as a chorus of screams echoed through the early evening.

He moved toward the door, stopping as Tomoyo held up her hand. “If you go out there,” she said, “you will die.”

“I am a god of war. I don’t fear death. I welcome it.” Kenshin smiled at her, the sharp, cruel grin he wore when the joy of battle sang in his veins. “I am not going to hide here while my allies are fighting.”

Tomoyo took a long breath, then nodded. “Fine. Then let’s go.” One hand reached to pat her neck. The tension in her jaw eased as her palm rested against her throat. She gave a slight smile as she pulled the barricade away from the door and stepped out into the cool evening.

The early evening was stained grey with seeping fog. It swirled through the shadows and over the rooftops, illuminated by the wan light of a waning moon. The smells of ash and blood permeated the mist, a heavy scent that burned in the nose. Kenshin ignored it, focused instead on the faint movement at the edges of his vision.

There were figures in the mist, he thought. But when he tried to look at them directly, there was nothing. Just the motion of the fog as it eddied around the corners of buildings and the leaf-heavy branches of trees.

“Stay close,” Tomoyo said, her voice soft, a whisper in the murk.

When Kenshin looked to her, she was barely visible, a shape made ethereal in the night. Her brilliant green gaze, the only familiar part of her. “I don’t know why you came with me.” It troubled him, though he couldn’t say why.

She scoffed, but didn’t answer.

He might have asked more, but up ahead he saw a Sanada encampment, hung with the familiar red banner. There should have been soldiers up and moving around, or gathered by the low-burning fires. But there was no one.

Kenshin continued forward, his steps deliberate, a growing dread in his gut. At the first campfire, he found half eaten food on the ground, a half-cleaned sword lying beside its sheath, and an open jug of cheap alcohol. The nearby tents were empty of all but the heavy mist, though there were packs and sleeping mats, other personal items. Signs that someone was here, and only recently gone.

Tomoyo walked behind him, tense and wary. She didn’t seem surprised by the empty camp or the belongings lying scattered on the ground.

“What is this?” Kenshin turned to confront her, a roiling sensation in his gut.

She took a breath, shifting to her back foot as if getting ready to run or attack. “I told you. This town is cursed. We sent messages to the Sanada. We warned them.”

His mismatched gaze took in her expression, her posture, the bitter twist to her lips. He did not think she was lying. “Tell me what this curse is.”

Tomoyo opened her mouth to reply, but her words were swallowed up in a sudden shift of the fog.

If she spoke, Kenshin did not hear her. His ears were filled with the susurration of the mist, like dry leaves in an autumn wind or the creaking of old bones. A whistling scream, distant and muffled. He whirled, eyes searching for an enemy, something he could fight and cut and kill.

There was nothing. Only the endless eddying fog, pressing at his eyes, pushing into his nostrils and mouth. A thick, foul thing, cold and damp. Kenshin stumbled back, hands at his face as if to pull the mist away. He could not breathe; he could not see. His curled fingers caught nothing as they dragged against his skin.

“No.” The word rang in the heavy air like the clear tones of a bell.

Kenshin felt a hand on his arm, and through the cloying whiteness, he saw a faint glow. The mist slid away from him, melting into the evening air. He found himself leaning into Tomoyo’s touch, warmth seeping into him from her palm. It eased the tension in his body, the rattle of fight or flee fading. He shut his eyes, just for a heartbeat, allowing himself this moment to enjoy the sensation. Then he straightened, forcing his thoughts back to the danger around him.

“What was that?” His gaze snapped to Tomoyo, wary but grateful for her intervention.

“You could say thank you. I just saved your life.” She crossed her arms and watched him.

Kenshin felt a tug in his chest, an unexpected warmth at her indomitable attitude. Nothing, he thought, could conquer this woman. The notion made him feel oddly proud of her. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Mollified, she dropped her arms to her side. “Those were the spirits of the dead, and those they have taken.” Tomoyo looked grimly toward the heavy mist that still surrounded them. “Any caught out after dark may be taken by them. But they target those that live by violence.” Her jade eyes took on a glow of their own, fey and primal. “I told you this place is cursed.”

“Then we must find the commander’s tent.” He took a breath and tried to imagine the map, overlaid now atop mist and death. “We should head this way -” Kenshin gestured in the direction of the hill where the Sanada encampment should be. It was obscured completed by the darkness and fog, and he wasn’t certain of the direction, but any direction was better than standing still and waiting to die.

Tomoyo nodded. “Alright. What happens if we get to your commanders?”

Her question surprised him. He paused, an odd feeling moving through him. “I don’t know. I am only a soldier. They will point me at what they want to conquer and I will kill it.”

“And if it can’t be killed? Conquered?” Her gaze was so intent on him that Kenshin felt himself taken by it. Held in place, if that place was the green fire of her eyes.

He knew the answer. He would die trying, his honor worth more than his life. “I -”

She interrupted. “We should move. I can only hold them off for so long.” Tomoyo began walking in the direction he’d gestured. “You should stay close.”

Kenshin fell into step with her, close enough that their arms brushed against each other. The sensation was strangely intimate and familiar. As if she’d always been right there at his side. He pushed the thought away. “How do you keep them back,” he asked, remembering the moment she’d touched him and driven back the dead.

Tomoyo shrugged. “A bit of magic. I . . . protected you with a charm of life. It has the essence of the living in it, but it can’t protect us from everything.”

“You are . . . Onmyōji?”

She laughed, the joyful sound at odds with the terrifying night. “No. I run a tavern. But I’ve picked some things up along the way.”

Kenshin felt himself smiling. “Like fighting?”

“Yes, that too.” She nudged his arm playfully. “What about you? Any skills besides beauty and murder?”

“A few,” he muttered, feeling heat creep into his cheeks. “I keep rabbits.”

Tomoyo laughed again, and the sound squeezed Kenshin’s heart. “Rabbits? I wouldn’t have guessed that.” She tapped her lips with a delicate fingertip. “You clearly have a taste for good sake too.”

He shrugged, hoping she wouldn’t notice the warmth in his face. “I wouldn’t call that a skill.”

“Mmm. You’d be surprised. Some will drink anything as long as it gets them drunk. But learning to truly appreciate your liquor and wine? That counts.”

“Does it? I’ll have to remember that.” Kenshin paused, taking in her profile. She was so beautiful, he thought. Not in the way of an innocent maiden with all the benefits of youth. No. Tomoyo was a woman, with laugh lines around her mouth and creases beside her eyes from her smile. Her gaze held wisdom, and her heart, scars.

He felt drawn to her in a way he’d never experienced. There was lust, of course. The desire to see her, to trace the curves hinted at beneath her kimono. But more, he felt as if he could spend weeks listening to her voice. That he could tell her anything, even the secrets he could not admit to himself. It was as if he already knew her.

“ . . . just seems silly to me.”

Kenshin realized he missed what she said just as she looked to him expectantly. “Silly?”

“The idea of one warlord conquering everything. I don’t understand why the great families can’t simply live in harmony.” Tomoyo sighed. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Your commander should be just up this hill, yes?”

He tried to see some sign of the Sanada camp, but there was only the mist spinning and shifting in the darkness. “Perhaps.”

They began to hear the shouts of men and the roar of monstrous mounts as they ascended the hill. The fog lightened with nearby campfires, and sudden, sharp bursts of unnatural lightning. Kenshin launched into a run, and Tomoyo followed closely behind.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen au #oc tag #ikesen kenshin #kenshin uesugi #fanfiction #otome #fanfic #otome guys

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revasserium · 1 year ago

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I'm being a rebel and requesting Ikesen Masamune and barefoot 💜

send me one and a character u__u

hurricane (prompt: barefoot)

masamune; 1,813; fluff and... that's it; @violettduchess is quite possibly one of the only ppl who can get me to write for a fandom that i had no plans in joining BUT HERE I AM FOLKS. here the fuCK i am.

he has always been a hurricane.

there are moments in a person’s life big enough for a single choice to put them on a completely different path, and then — there are those moments, much smaller moments, adding up to that one, bigger, monumental, life-changing moment. this is one of the latter.

the moon is heaven bright, swinging low in a full-bellied sky, and insomnia had plagued you till you’d come into the inner gardens for refuge. at least here, it felt like you were stuck between the pages of a waking dream. so… sleep-adjacent, right? right.

you swing your feet off the edge of the pristinely mopped wooden walkways, your sketchbook propped in your lap, a charcoal pencil gliding over the smooth, moon-bleached pages. you let your hand take the drawing where it wants, and these days, there’s only one place that your hand (and, subsequently the rest of your mind and body) seems to want to go.

masamune.

he appears as fish-tail flicks of your wrist bring him to life on the pages, each sketch fluid and overlapping with the next, almost like the depiction of dance — the crinkle at the edge of his eye, the curve of his hand as he rests it on the hilt of one of his blades, the strong, graceful slope of his shoulders and back, the crescent moon curve of his lips as he smiles, ever light, ever teasing, in your direction.

“ah… is that what i look like?”

his voice makes you jump, and even now after all this time, it sets your heart racing in your chest as you whirl around to find his nose inches from yours, that self-same smile hinged across his damnably gorgeous lips.

“w-wh — why aren’t you sleeping?” is your stumbling, cobbled together response to being jump-scared in the middle of his castle pagoda, but it’s the best you could come up with. he only leans back, chuckling, his arms tucked into the long thin sleeves of his kosode as he casts his eye up towards the full moon, his expression for once devoid if mischief or calculation. it’s strange, seeing him like this, so still and so quiet, and something about it makes you go still too, wondering if this is what its like to be caught in the eye of the storm, where the quiet is only ever momentary and destruction dances just beyond where your mind can reach.

“i could ask the same of you, kitten. so tell me… why aren’t you sleeping?” he grins as he joins you, propping one arm on a bent knee, watching as you gather yourself, palms pressing to the pages of your sketchbook.

“i… i couldn’t sleep.” you look down at your own knees, and it strikes you then that your feet are still bare. you can’t help glancing at masamune, and sure enough, his feet are bare too. no wonder i hadn’t heard him coming.

but something about this sets you off, the sight of his bare feet next to yours, and even though it shouldn’t be so tantalizing a thing — the flicker of bare flesh, the hint of skin unseen— you feel like one of those ancient victorian maidens, blushing at the sight of bare ankles.

you can’t help it; you start to laugh.

and masamune, sitting beside you, finds himself transfixed, held still by the sound of your laughter, pouring from you like rainwater from a stream. so clear and beautiful it sets his body arrack with shivers.

“what?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow, “is there something on my face?”

at this, you pause, stifling your giggles with a hand pressed to your lips, and you look at him. your eyes meet, and not for the first time, you feel yourself falling into them — into him. even like this, his one blue eye is something of a miracle, a thing of celestial majesty. it wasn’t until you’d met him that you’d realized what blue eyes look like up close — up close, they are the shattered light of a millions stars, fractured and reformed and singing through a universe of endless dark to end up here, shining out from him and landing on you, and god — he’s looking at you like all those million, billion years of starlight had traveled the expanse of every galaxy just to look at you.

just to see you like he does now.

“no… there isn’t,” you say, whisper, more like, reaching out a hand to trace your thumb over the lid of his closed eye. he doesn’t push you away. instead, he leans in closer.

“then, what’s so funny, kitten?”

you simply shake your head, trying to swallow down your belly-full of laughter, your mind showing you a strobe-quick flash-forward of you trying to explain the concept of foot kinks and websites that cater to such 500 years in the future before deciding — no. alas, tonight is not the night you try to educate one date masamune on the intricacies of body part kinks. though no doubt he’d take it in stride. no — that thought too, you tamp down before you’ve the mind to follow it down into a deep, dark rabbit hole from whence you might never recover or be recovered.

“tell me, please…” he grins, a grin that is simultaneously plea and pleasure, and in it, you can hear the knife-sharp promise of desire, “i’d like to know if something other than me has the power to make you laugh so much.”

“it’s just —” you bite your lips, fighting for the words, “we’re both barefoot.”

he blinks. and you can tell that whatever he was expecting the answer to be, this is clearly not it.

you track the flitter of emotions as they dance in quicksilver steps across the planes of his face — surprise, confusion, amusement, all painted porcelain perfect on the dark of his brows, the faint twitch of his lips. finally, he settles on a sorted of muted bemusement as he cocks his head at you.

“and… do people of your time tend to sleep with socks on?”

“no, it’s just…” you blush again, unable to help yourself.

“just what?” his voice is light, and he is still.

you swallow, hard,

“just… it’s weird — i mean — it’s not like i haven’t seen anyone else barefoot before just… this was — you’re just — and i —” you trip over your words in a hurry and end up tumbling through into incoherence so fast all you can do to styme the flood is to clamp your mouth shut and pray.

oh god please… tell me this is a bad dream.

but when you open your eyes, masamune is still there, watching you with that singular eye of his, expression inscrutable. and still, he doesn’t move.

“so…” and finally, finally, the stillness breaks — he cracks it open like an eggshell, stretching himself out as he leans back, propping himself up on his elbows, lengthening till he’s splayed out over the gleaming wooden boards of the walkway, his face bathed in ghostly moonlight.

“i’m not the first man you’ve seen barefoot, hm? that is a problem.”

your mouth drops open and for a moment, you gape at him wordless and fish-like, and he laughs as he turns to look at you.

“tell me his name — i’ll have his head in the morning,” he says, in a voice so casually serious that for a moment you think he might actually mean it.

“masamune!”

and then, he’s laughing too, a big, bright, uproarious thing that shakes his entire body like the foundations of the earth. it is deep and rich and lovely, warm and sweet as sun-kissed honey. you let yourself be swept up in his laughter, dropping into silent giggles, and then something louder, letting your shoulder bump into his, your bodies finally touching and then —

there’s a flurry of clothing, a shifting of weights. you find yourself pulled into him, tipping towards him like inevitability.

your sketchbook lays forgotten on the walkway next to you as masamune holds you close against his chest.

“ah… i really don’t like that…”

an entourage of tingles frissons through your body at his words.

“don’t like what?”

“the fact that you’ve seen someone else barefoot before. it bugs me.”

you peer up at him, lifting your head ever so slightly from his chest. he’s looking at you, and the sunrise-blue of his eyes are shadowed with something darker now, something decidedly less innocent than just the thought of bare feet.

“then… what will you do about it?” you ask, feeling the heat of his body, the solidness of him, the rightness of you between his arms.

“hm… are you teasing me, kitten?” his voice is gravel and earthquake and you’re emboldened by the sound, by the way his pupil dilates, the black hole at the center of every galaxy — gravity made solid, made real.

“yes,” you breathe, leaning up like a dare and he meets you gloriously, his lips hard and pressing and soft and pulling. there’s a fire unspooling at the base of your spine, stoked by the heat and truth of him, so close, too close — you break apart gasping. he grins, lynx-like and wolfish as he grazes his teeth along the column of your throat.

“good,” he says, sighing into your flesh as you arch up into him, your fingers curling into his hair as he flips the pair of you over. he pulls you beneath him and he is storm and thunder, he is rain and wonder — he is water to your desert skies, the sunlit days to all your moonless nights.

and as he makes to rend you into pleasure, into nothing more than ache and belonging, he pulls back with a bone-deep growl, a sliver of hesitation, of self-preservation.

“are… are you sure you want this?” that you want me? the echo is not lost on you.

and it’s not the first time he’s asked you the question, and you have a feeling that it wouldn’t be the last. but you reply as you had, once upon a time, in a distant, sun-drenched afternoon, when you’d been telling him about one of your favorite poems from your time.

you smile, tug him down for a kiss.

“yes,” you say, like you’d done on that long-ago afternoon, “i want you — i want this, masamune. because… I love you.”

“i will love you when you are a still day… i will love you when you are a hurricane.”

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikemen series #date masamune #ikemen sengoku x reader #ikesen masamune #date masamune x reader #ikemen sengoku imagines #ikemen sengoku headcanons #ikesen imagines #ikesen headcanons #floofy floof floof #OKAY but the feeling of tagging a REAL HISTORICAL FIGURE LFMAO #vi i blame u for all the bullshit im about to rain on this damn fandom LOL i havent played these games in YEARS i tell u #is this IC? IDK WHO KNO WHO CARE lol #i hope u liked it u_u #ALL CREDIT WHRE CREDIT IS DUE that last line comes from clementine von radics #i love her poetry pls go read it; this one comes from her collection called 'mouthful of forevers' its SO GOOD GO READ IT #doNT tease me with humans as metaphors for natural disasters man i will fucking GOBBLE that shit up #i love it almost as much as i love sky/star/sun/moon/ocean/general astronomy anaologies

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