Chapter Text
Kyoto, early May
“A warlord without a kingdom or village to his name. An army of down-trodden, misfit rejects.” Crystalline blue eyes, surrounded by snow white lashes, narrow and flesh crinkles at the corners of them as he reads the letter. “Amusing, but no match for the Gojo.” The letter is set aside to be forgotten, and long fingers wind into silken, loose tresses of the head in his lap.
Eyes of amber look up at the ethereal features of the Gojo clan leader through thick, dark lashes, lips parted enticingly.
“You’re very good at this,” the daimyo sighs, looking down to meet the flirtatious gaze of the concubine. “A pity I have to send you away.” There is firm regret in his voice, but it does not distract either of them from indulging in another night together.
–
This story begins in bloodshed, and it ends no differently. In a time of unrest, constant war, and conflict, beauty and peace are hard to find. Though they are there, if one is able to pause to search for them.
Your own part of this tale is not so entirely different from the men who seek the most power and land in the country through any means available. Born to lower class parents with barely enough income to support themselves, and sold off at the age of twelve to live at the palace with dozens of other girls and women, violence was all you knew from a young age. It molded and shaped what you would eventually become: hardened, ruthless, and ambitious.
When one had nothing left to lose, taking the biggest risks meant one would fall a very short distance if one did indeed fall.
But what nobody warned you about was the possibility that the distance you could fall would be greater than any you ever imagined if you took one wrong step and granted yourself peace in a time of chaos.
Still, the ladder beckons one to climb. So, climb we must.
A handful of disciplined mentors and violent men, unusually light brown eyes, and an anonymous gift of silver on your twentieth birthday set you up to operate a particular kind of business near the outskirts of the capital. For a night of entertainment, those willing to part with a significant amount of coin could visit one of the most reputable establishments in the city – your very own.
Set apart from the rest of the houses on the street by a wide alleyway, the Karasu House looms higher than its neighbors. Dark wood on the exterior lends a mysterious air, but once inside, the opulence of the décor reminds patrons that an evening spent here is not going to be cheap. Silk draperies in rich, bold colors, the best teas, finely made cups and saucers, plush cushions and beds, and exquisitely prepared food all ensure the reputation of the Karasu House spreads far and wide. The books are always full a month in advance; some of the women are even booked further out than that.
And the business has grown so much in recent years that young women looking for work are often turned away. There is no room, not until the top earners decide to retire or allow themselves to be bought out. Wages are fair at the Karasu House, and not many other houses can boast the same. Even those on the younger side, who are responsible only for keeping the house and its wares immaculately clean, come knocking on the door for a place to work. It is heartbreaking to send them away, especially since you know how cruel the world can be to a young girl who has no family and nothing left. Which is why everyone who works at Karasu House is treated like family, not wage-earners. They are protected in the same way you were, once, after escaping the clutches of a greedy, disturbed, soulless daimyo.
The Karasu House is also known for its lavish events, exclusive to those willing to pay top silver to be in the company of the women with the highest demand, yourself included. These are the only times you make yourself available to clients, preferring instead to run the business and hone other skills in the quiet hours of the early morning, when nobody else is around.
The art of seduction isn’t the only specialty you have. A well-kept secret, known only among those closest to you, is that you are also a trained assassin. Knowledgeable in poisonous plants and ingredients that, when combined become lethal, precariously hidden weapons, and how to push just right on a prostate, your various skills are unmatched inside and outside the capital. And the same goes for your companions, your chosen family: the women of the Karasu House.
Well-behaved patrons who pay their tabs seldom have anything to worry about within the walls of the Karasu House. Only those with little scruples, or those who believe they can cheat or exploit the women end up quietly removed from the premises wrapped in a shroud. Who knows what really happened? Perhaps too much alcohol caused him to trip down the stairs. Perhaps heart failure from too much merriment. What a pity, a shame, his poor family….
The Karasu House is beautiful, and the women are stunning, but the violence lingers – especially in this business. You pity the warmongers and clansmen and their ways, their strict rules, and precarious nature of ruling lands and people. But on the other hand, you hold your head high as a businesswoman who is not beholden to any man, who understands the law most intimately, and controls a good portion of the violence that inevitably comes her way.
The self-sufficiency is freeing, in a manner of speaking. Marriage would mean that the business goes to the husband, and all the wealth and peace and beauty you’ve spent close to a decade accumulating would suddenly vanish. And the Karasu House is no place to raise a baby, with the focus being on the business first and foremost. Not that you’ve considered having children, at least not with anyone you’ve spent time with. The Karasu House is your life, has given you meaning, and brings you the happiness that is allowed a single woman in an age characterized by unrest.
And perhaps the unannounced visit on a chilly spring morning after one of the most exclusive parties of the year isn’t entirely unexpected, given the reputation of your house. The cherry blossoms are in full bloom; little bursts of pale pink stars against the deep, rich woodgrain of the Karasu House. The carriage tracks in the street are filled with water from rain the night before; the smell of damp earth with a hint of blossom fragrance envelops the front entryway. A light breeze threatens to take with it the most rain-battered of the cherry blossoms, but they remain strong as limbs sway. Paper lanterns, doused just before dawn, mimic the tree branches with each sturdy blow of wind. The sun’s warmth cannot slice through the chill of the air, even in the late morning.
When the visitor arrives, much of the Karasu house is still asleep, having been up late last night entertaining close to three dozen of the highest ranked officials in the region.
The only ones awake to receive the mysterious visitor, who wears a veil over his entire face and intricately embroidered robes that cost more than most make in one year, are the youngest of the household. The ones responsible for cleaning and readying the house for the steady stream of visitors and clients. Immediately, the young girls recognize this is no ordinary visitor and show him to the decadent, lavish tearoom, which is already spotless and sparkling thanks to their efforts.
The visitor takes in his surroundings in silence, his two most trusted generals on either side of him. Strands of unfashionably short white hair peek out from beneath his cap, and beneath the veil are sky-blue eyes that would give him away in an instant. Though the veil obscures some of the color in the room, he knows it is opulent and glittering, as befitting everything he’s heard of the Karasu House.
In your quarters, groggy and half-asleep, you attempt to shoo away the girls who insist on rousing you.
“My lady, we have a visitor! You must dress,” they urge, peeling back the bedcovers and flinging open a pair of shutters to let the sunlight in.
“He can wait,” you mumble, rolling away from the small hands and half-panicked mutterings that you awaken at once.
“He is a lord,” one of the younger girls blurts out. She is greeted with stern glances and pursed lips from the others. “A very wealthy one,” she continues, knowing you place money higher than most things.
“How wealthy?” You ask, still refusing to open your eyes more than a sliver.
The girls all exchange an unsure glance. It is then that the twins, Maki and Mai, burst into your room and exclaim at the same time, “Lord Gojo is here!”
Those four words spur your body out of bed like a horse suddenly kicked to gallop. Hurriedly, you dress in your finest kosode. There is no time to paint your face more than a few flicks of color on the highest parts of your cheeks and your lips. The rest of the house scurries to prepare tea and cakes befitting the daimyo. You will greet him alone until the women are fully dressed and prepared to be seen by someone of his status.
When you kneel outside the closed door to the tearoom, you don’t think twice about who’s on the other side of it. A daimyo is just another man; though he is unquestionably a man with enough money to single-handedly fund the entire Karasu House for the next year, if not more. And though he is but a man, he still commands the respect due his social status, and so you bow deeply enough that your nose grazes the floor as you slide the door open.
“Lord Gojo, I sincerely apologize for keeping you waiting. We did not expect you this morning.” Your voice is even and strong, though the tone is humble.
There is a pause, during which you slowly rise from the bowed position. “Your household is very adept at keeping things in order. I’m ashamed to say my invitation for the event last night must have gotten lost. I didn’t wish you to think I would slight your business on such a momentous occasion.”
The words sit heavily upon an empty stomach. You know, as well as he, that no such invitation was made nor sent directly to him. After all, what business would a daimyo have at the Karasu House when he could have his pick of women from the palace?
Your eyes quickly flick from one general to the other, not recognizing either from the night before.
“Yes, that truly is a shame,” you agree quietly, unwilling to admit the truth when it would only insult him. “As it is a shame that your impending arrival announcement must have gotten lost, also.”
Beneath his veil, Gojo’s lips tilt into an alluring half-smile. So, the owner of the Karasu House is not afraid to be clever, even in his presence. He is intrigued by the woman who gracefully crosses the threshold while still kneeling and slides the door shut; who unashamedly presents herself to the daimyo without an entirely painted face. He reaches up to unknot the ties of his mask, wishing more than anything to view this woman without the fabric barrier. When it falls away, his gaze fixes steadily on you, as yours does on him.
The rumors of his appearance are true, but it is breath-taking to view his ethereal visage in person. His hair is like the snowcapped mountains in winter, and his eyes are the color of a clear winter sky over Mount Hiei. He is impressive and intimidating. Surely, one of the most beautiful humans you have ever laid eyes on.
He is equally impressed and intimidated by the woman before him. Given the nickname Crow Mother by those who have frequented the Karasu House, he expected you to be much older. But the way your eyes assess both him and his generals remind him of a curious crow who has seen something shiny and is working out how to take it. The daimyo, though his veil is removed, wears a mask consisting of his ego and the power he wields, seemingly nonplussed by the beauty who now silently kneels opposite him.
The tea arrives in the next moment, and you slide into the role of hostess easily enough. It’s second nature, pouring your esteemed guests cups with flourish and grace expected of an establishment belonging to you, before pouring your own.
“The merriment seems to have quieted,” Gojo observes after taking a small sip of the steaming liquid.
“If you would prefer some entertainment,” you begin to offer, but he shakes his head. The only place you allow your confusion to show is in your eyes, but that is readily replaced by more curiosity as soon as one of the generals clears his throat.
Your eyes flick to the lighter-haired one, giving him your full attention.
Gojo feels a whisper of envy that your gaze has left him to settle upon another.
“My name is Nanami Kento. I serve Lord Gojo as his top-ranked general. We are here on business, not for,” he pauses, considering his wording, “bawdiness.”
A grin creeps slowly onto your face, beginning at the corners of your lips until it reaches your eyes in a mesmerizing manner. Nanami clears his throat again, softer this time, and averts his gaze under your direct, amused scrutiny.
“What a pity. I was going to invite a few of my women to dance for us.” It’s a mere glance back at Gojo, but in that split second his interest is clear.
“Okkotsu and I are not interes–” Nanami begins.
“That won’t be necessary.” Gojo interrupts, his voice quiet but authoritative. “Sadly, I’m not here for that particular skill set.” His tone is remorseful, almost self-pitying. His eyes, brilliant and captivating, remain locked on you. His gaze is heavy and knowing, though you refuse to give in so readily.
Coyly, an eyebrow arches in a silent way of communicating that you have no idea what he could possibly be referring to. Questioning a daimyo directly would be means for prison or perhaps even a beheading. Gojo’s level stare does not waiver. He returns the silent challenge easily, waiting for you to admit to the other skill sets you possess.
He is a patient man. Nanami, however, is not. He clears his throat again, waiting for your eyes to shift back to him before he speaks. “We believe we have use for some of your other, ah, specialties. There have been threats made towards Lord Gojo, and we believe more will arise.”
“The stability of this region rests on whether or not the Gojo can retain the lands,” you say with a bored tone. It’s not news, nor is it thrilling that the daimyo is being threatened – such is the way of politics and power. The tiniest twitch at the corner of your lips is duly suppressed. Mocking the lord in your presence is not a wise idea. “There will always be threats to the existing order. Am I to assume your men cannot handle them?” The patronizing tone cannot be helped, and the dark look from the younger man next to Gojo is nothing short of anticipated. “You seem quite able,” you purr, sending Okkotsu a flirtatious wink. His dark, tired gaze drops immediately to his lap, though his aura seems to darken further.
“We’re more than able to handle an uprising. Rumors of one swirl out of the Fukushima region, led by a ronin called Getou Suguru. The numbers of his forces are assumed to be in the thousands. He’s actively recruiting people from the remote villages, using their unhappiness and fear of instability to turn them against the daimyo. It’s significant threats-”
You hold up a hand, palm facing Nanami, and he abruptly stops speaking, as though he didn’t want to continue in the first place. Interesting.
“Threats from within the palace, you mean?” A nod answers your question. “Spies, then? Assassins?” Two more nods confirm it for you. A thin silence settles over the four of you as you mull over the implications of what the daimyo is asking of you.
The implications behind this visit lay heavy in your chest. The Karasu House will no longer be yours to run. Everything you’ve worked for will vanish. To accept the proposal you assume is coming, to become the Gojo clan leader’s bedfellow and protector, will take more convincing. You don’t intend on becoming a caged bird for a powerful man who can strip you of your freedom.
“Lord Gojo, if you intend to hire me for my extraneous services, I’d be delighted to discuss the terms in private, as I would any other client.” The last word falls from your lips a little like an insult, as he is much more than just a customer looking for entertainment. “Tsukumo-san sent you, I presume.”
Tsukumo Yuki, a good friend and a dedicated mentor with known ties to the Kamo clan, is the woman mostly responsible for your upbringing after the escape from the palace. If the threats coming from within the palace have gotten so perilous that Gojo went to her for help, well. He was right in coming to you so quickly.
Gojo sets his cup down, gently, and meets your gaze in full. “A private conversation is prudent. I see you are as smart as Tsukumo said, as well as beautiful. However, you will not interrupt my general when he is speaking.”
You bow your head slightly in deference, allow a moment to pass before changing the subject. “Shall we continue the conversation in my private quarters?”
Gojo rises to his feet, and he towers over his generals even as they stand beside him. He doesn’t bother to retie his mask over his face – the entire house surely is aware he is meeting with the Crow Mother.
“My generals will stand guard just outside,” he says plainly, “and will not allow interruptions until we are finished with our discussion.” Gojo’s lips curl slightly, giving him a devilish appearance, and you understand that he means to explore all of your skill sets.
As the host, you lead him and his men to the wide, luxurious staircase at the front of the house. The four of you ascend in silence as your eyes direct anyone you see to go back into their rooms or remain unseen.
Inside your expansive chambers, a young servant waits patiently in a respectfully low bow.
“Hanako,” you say sweetly, “Please bring us refreshments in a few hours. Do not disturb us until the sun is four fingers away from the roof of Neko House, understood?”
Hanako nods quickly, refuses to glance up at the man who stands behind her mistress. Your palm gently contacts the top of her head and then Hanako leaves the room in a hurry.
Gojo remains still, taking in the fore chamber. The tatami are pristine underfoot. In the middle of the room is a large, ornate kotatsu with a thick, feather-filled indigo drape. It is large enough to seat six people for a meal or tea service. Closer to the far wall is a smaller, higher table, with a go board carved on the surface. Two mahogany chairs sit at opposite sides, and the scene calls to him. Gojo imagines you sitting there, surrounded by faceless patrons who press their lips against your neck while you ponder your next move in go. He is curious to see what the bedchamber looks like, since the reception room is so gorgeous. Gojo’s feet carry him to a mahogany bench bedecked with plush pillows encased in silk and he sits in the middle of it, making himself right at home. His pale robes spill out around him like a waterfall of silk.
“Come here,” Gojo says quietly. “Sit next to me. I wish to have a closer look at you.”
It’s easy enough to obey the daimyo, especially when his eyes are filled with desire and he looks like he can pay you more money than you’ve ever dared to dream of. Silently, you pad over to him and sit next to him on the bench, your back straight and chin high.
“Let me see your hands.”
Again, it’s easy enough. With your palms down, Gojo grasps both your hands in his larger ones. His skin is rougher, calloused from wielding weapons, and vastly different from the soft, supple skin of your hands. Your nails are neatly manicured, a pale shade of lacquer on them, whereas his are simply clean. Not a fleck of dirt to be seen along a cuticle or under the edge.
“I must say, I’m surprised you do not wear jewels. It appears as though you can certainly afford a few.”
The frown that tugs at your lips is small, though noticeable. “On the right occasion jewels are a complimentary addition, my lord. I do not wish for them to be the focus.”
“Is receiving your daimyo not such an occasion?” He teases, though his tone tiptoes the line of earnestness.
“I did not wish to keep you waiting longer.”
“Waiting can enhance an experience in a positive way. Especially with someone as beautiful as you. I would think you often keep clients waiting, anticipation building, all so they feel immense relief when you deign to grace them with your company.” Gojo guides one of your hands up towards his face and cradles your palm against his smooth cheek. He turns his face, as though he will kiss your flesh, and you feel goosebumps raise along your arm to your shoulder.
But his lips never touch your skin before he lowers your hand again.
“You flatter me immensely, Lord Gojo. The truth is, I do not entertain any longer. I merely run this house.”
“My heart breaks for those who see you and cannot touch you,” he murmurs. “You surely have broken hundreds of hearts.”
“Thousands,” you lightly correct him.
It earns you a chuckle and he lifts your hand again. This time, his lips graze the back of your hand. The feeling is like seeing lightning strike too close, and you fight the urge to pull out of his grasp.
In the next moment, Gojo makes his intentions crystal clear. He presses your palm low on his abdomen, and under his robes you feel his rigidity twitch. Your mouth waters at the size of him; it’s been too long since you indulged in this way.
“I should like to see you dripping in jewels. And nothing else.”
Leaning closer to him, your voice lowers seductively like it’s second nature. “I thought you weren’t here for this particular skill set, Lord Gojo.”
“Just Gojo, please, while we’re alone.” His lips are achingly close to yours, and it becomes readily apparent just how very long it’s been since you took a lover.
You nod but can’t bring yourself to say his name without the title affixed to it. Not yet.
“My services don’t come cheap.” A hairs’ breadth remains between your lips.
“You will be compensated handsomely.”
Finally, lips press together as if sealing a promise. Your hand presses firmer against his erection, eliciting a low groan from the daimyo that makes your entire body ache. His tongue slips into your mouth as his hands pull your body onto his lap.
--
When the sun is four fingers from the top of the Neko House, Hanako announces her presence at the reception room. Sleep blurs the edges of your peripherals, enticing and warm in the late afternoon. Skin is tacky with drying sweat, and Gojo, in bed beside you, alerts you to his wakefulness by slowly sliding his hand further down your abdomen while he presses kisses into the back of your neck and shoulder.
“You’re incorrigible.” The words leave your lips softly, no trace of disdain or anger behind them.
“And you’re everything they said you were.”
A smirk tugs at your lips, but you bite it back. So, you’re still living up to your reputation. It’s nice to be reminded.
“You can leave the tea, Hana-chan,” you call out. It will probably go cold and untouched if the press of Gojo against your back is any indication. The covers slide against smooth skin as you turn to face him. “Your generals may get suspicious if you stay in my bed much longer, Lord Gojo.”
The half smile he wears makes him look absolutely devious. “Then I guess you’ll just have to be louder.” His lips press against yours without the eagerness from earlier. The kiss is soft, like he knows you’ll pull away. And you do.
“As much as I’ve enjoyed our time together, I would like to discuss the real meaning behind your visit. Before I bleed your coffers dry.”
Gojo huffs a small laugh at that, ducks his head for a moment, and when he lifts his gaze again it’s like he’s a different person entirely. His blue eyes are serious, and his mouth no longer carries a boyish smile full of charm.
“I want you to assassinate Getou Suguru.”