Mokou was rather bored out of her mind.

It’s been a few short weeks since she agreed to that truce Kaguya had come up with figuring why the hell not, you can only spend a few hundred years brutally killing each other before it got boring. Even before the truce, it was pretty rare to see her anyway as she had been mostly hiding away in Eientei.

And now that the truce was in effect it’s been two weeks since she has last seen her. Honestly, it was starting to drive Mokou insane, many parts of the bamboo forest had big clearing burnt to ash. Just without even the potential threat of Kaguya popping out of the bamboo for another of their classic deathmatches, everything seemed just… boring.

Yay, the first week of peace was quite nice but now it was maddening, hell, even the rabbits that usually kept track of her when she wandered through the forest was missing. And while she would hate to say this but in some twisted form of irony, she missed Kaguya company, as one of the few people in the world that could ever understand her, even if we had our ‘disagreements’ and not that she would ever be willing to admit to any living soul that she missed that smug bitch of a princess.

Hell, there hadn’t been even a single lost person in the forest these last two weeks, it’s as if the entire universe was mocking her decision!

Figuring it was like every other day and no one was going get their dumb asses lost she decided to head home early. Hands still in her pockets and slouched over as she meandered her way back home, a scowl firmly etched across her face. With her knowledge of the forest, it only took a few minutes to get to her little cottage. Arriving back her scowl only deepened when she saw her door ajar.

Mokou rushed up the door and slammed and open eye instantly locking on the only person in the room. “Kaguya! what the hell are you doing in my house.” She said.

Kaguya, who was sat at her table simply raised an eyebrow “Why Mokou, I’m simply enjoying a cup of some tea.”

“You are putting me in a difficult position Byakuren. You know I can’t agree to this”

Ibaraki Kasen drums her fingers across a table in the Moriya temple dining hall, the usually bustling room empty save for the oni-cum-hermit and one Buddhist monk sitting across for her with all the confidence in the world. If Byakuren is put off by the other hermit’s frank refusal, she does not show it.

“Come now Kasen, surely you are sympathetic toward guiding youkai into hermitage considering your own state of being. We can help you as well. Besides, you came quite quickly when I mentioned a free lunch didn’t you.”

A spot of color touches Kasen’s cheek, before she quickly suppresses it. “Even a hermit has to eat occasionally you know. I’m grateful for your hospitality, but that doesn’t mean I can easily accept joining your temple. And another thing…” Kasen’s features shift for an instant, an immense pressure encompassing the room in an instant and disappearing just as quickly as she turns to Byakuren with an unusually serious expression. “Don’t think I buy this charity act. You only want me to get a connection with the youkai sage council. I don’t believe for a second you’re approaching me with good will alone.”

Byakuren shrugs, unfazed. “It can be both, can’t it? But let’s not lose our appetites over such political matters. I think I hear Nazrin now with the food.”

Kasen gives a questioning glance towards the monk. I thought Ichirin was their cook. She was the last few times I was lured herecame here.

The door slides open as Nazrin enters, an oversized chefs hat on her head, large enough to cover even her ears. She balances a tray on two hands, teetering left and right precariously. Kasen almost moves to intercept and help her but stop halfway up, afraid that her distraction may tilt the mouse youkai’s delicate balance. Finally, Nazrin slides the tray down between the two hermits, and uncovers the dish. An array of pastries greets you, having survived the perilous journey from kitchen to table.

Nazrin brushes off her apron and clears her throat. “Fo

* * *

The basement flooded.

The fact of it was made known to the noble lady of the manse some twelve minutes into the new calendar day, or six minutes after Remilia’s wine-soaked head had made blessed contact with cool satin pillow, or two hours after the lady Scarlet had begun indulging in earnest in the privacy of her quarters for reasons she tried hard and presently was failing to keep secret: quarters which were summarily invaded by an indignant younger sister, who felled their arcane protections as if like Roman walls before Ottoman guns, and who marched in with the heavy footfalls of Ottoman Janissary troops, and who seized her in her bed like dared none other than Flandre Scarlet, sister to and only extant kin of the Scarlet Devil, and began to shake her.

“Wake up and get your wits about you you sorry drink-sotted excuse for an elder sister why here you lay crocked in bed like a jelly like a pickled fish in aspic like the refuse of decent society you can’t even keep your own self in order much less your own house well don’t you know the basement is flooding.”

“Flandre stop it I tell you to stop it here what’s the matter the basement is what.”

“Flooding, damn you, taking in water, you must be deaf as a bat, Patchouli, make yourself of some use and transport us there, do catch your breath you matchstick woman, desist with that ghastly wheezing.”

It would be well to note that teleportation, performed under ideal conditions, by a well rested magician, in clement weather, over largely flat ground, with proper equipment and time ahead to prepare, might reach just shy of gentle.

Teleportation, conducted by Patchouli Knowledge plus two flights of stairs (upward, at forced march), passing through the floors of the Scarlet Devil Mansion (stately Queen Anne style, but if the Queen were the subject of an Ilya Repin painting, together with her son Ivan), was otherwise.

* * *









“We’re lost,” moaned Dahlia. “Utterly and hopelessly lost.” The garden fairy was soaked from head to toe, and her left side was spattered with red from one close call with a fish that she knew in her heart of hearts must have been fathered by an alligator. She had shot it through from tonsil to tail, just as its jaws were about to snap shut on her arm. Life was never fair to you, Gilliam the Bastard.

At least the lantern was still dry.

“That won’t do,” said Hortensia. The kitchen fairy sported a more even, primered, coat of blood. She was chirurgical with her poker, to a degree that almost frighten

* * *















The bell rang. Rather late for a customer, but they were so seldom that the human at the counter didn’t question this bit of serendipity.

He looked up and felt a flutter through his whole being. This wasn’t just any customer; a regular had come calling. Even if it was on the late side, he couldn’t help that little bit of joy he got from seeing a returning face. This one, a crow tengu named Hatate, had been in far more than a handful of times, a pitifully rare occurrence at this tiny shop.

“It’s been almost a week. I was beginning to get worried,” he chided.

Hatate greeted the human with a languid flap of her wings, bent with the weight of a long day as she steadied herself at the counter, swaying from side to side. “I’m touched. Can you do the usual, though? My feet are killing me.”

He wasted no time setting up the chair and the hot towels. When she was finally able to sit down, Hatate gave a blissful sigh, propping her stockinged feet up in the right spot without any prompting.

“Tough day of fact-finding?” the human asked, pulling the striped socks off carefully and draping them over the only other chair.

“I don’t know how those old-timers do it,” she groaned.

Testing the waters, he dug his thumbs in firmly next to the ball of her big toe. Hatate immediately winced and grimaced. She wasn’t kidding, then. This called for a slightly more careful approach. He reached for the bottle of oil, poured out a generous amount, and rubbed it all over her foot. The scent of lavender filled the tiny booth. Hatate leaned back in the seat, taking in the scent and letting her shoulders sag against the back of the chair.

Mid-day was often the busiest time of day for most. Not so at the little shop. The noonday sun shone brightly into the shop front, casting few shadows. When had the last customer been? The human behind the counter could hardly recall. It felt like ages, in any case.

The broom was just in his hands when a shadow did fall across the shop’s threshold. There was a familiarity about it. From the roof-like cap to the protrusion of wings, there were few known to the human that the caller could be. The way this one carried themselves narrowed it down. There was only one who swung her hips that way when she walked.

“Miss Shameimaru!” he called before turning to confirm his hunch.

Shameimaru Aya, truest of crows who had alighted here, stood at the shoe rack, wings still half-unfurled from flight. By way of greeting, she proffered a newspaper to the human, and he graciously accepted.

“At your service.” She paused, then smiled at the human, eyes half-lidded in jest. “Or I guess I have that backwards, don’t I? You’re at my service.”

“As long as your coin’s good.”

As Aya sidled up to the counter, the human set the ‘menu’ down in front of her. She hardly needed to glance at it, but it was the offer that mattered; she’d jokingly complain if he didn’t. From her pocket, she pulled a coin purse, unsnapped it, and dumped a few coins out. He already knew from the amount what she wanted.

She smirked. “This coin still good?”

Three turns cold, one and three-quarters turns hot. That was how she expected it, and I would hear no end of complaints if I didn't get it right. Something about her skin being 'sensitive'. I just thought she was a bit wimpy when it came to heat; it would certainly explain why her 'aircon' was always running.

Whatever the reason, it was my job to make sure the bath filled at just the right degree of lukewarm. She could just as well do it herself, but I was the one to do it, and that was that. So, I'd done as fine a job as my current motivation allowed. Just passable, in other words.

I popped my head out of the bathroom. "Hatate."

No answer. So she was in that sort of mood today.

"Miss Hatate," I tried.

Still nothing. I grumbled. If she was going to keep being this tart about a mild rebuke, gods forbid I ever see what a major disagreement would bring about.

Stalking around the corner, I found her still prone on her perennially laid-out futon, rapid clicking the only sound audible over the cloying noise of a 'radio' set adjacent. Her outside clothes were left in a loose pile next to the futon, leaving her in an oversized shirt and little else. Perhaps some other man would be excited by such a sight. To me, it was merely an annoyance.

'Working,' she called it. All it ever seemed to me was her messing about on that 'phone' of hers. She'd sit there half the day punching buttons if no one interrupted her.

[x] This is not who I am.

[X] I can’t explain-
You would not understand-
this is not who I am.

Just go home and watch anime buddy.

I can’t explain why I feel this way. As I stand here, underneath the mo(u)rning sun, the old man’s blood on my hands-

You would not understand. I don’t know what you’ve been through but at least you have family, friends, a fucking life!

This is not who I am. And there’s nowhere left for me to run.

I sway on my feet before regaining my balance. Such a strange feeling, lightheadedness- but I still have things to do. I can’t be here when the police show up.

Reaching down to the ground, I pick up the Sword of Hisou. It’s running low on energy and its tassel is stained with blood.

It’s an inanimate object. But somehow I get the feeling that if it could feel, it would be sad right now- a thing of legends, reduced to a butcher’s knife.

I begin the long walk back through the mansion. The urge to pay my respects to the old man is there, but I don’t even know where I’d begin. Sorry I killed you and all your men for money. No, not just the money, I wanted to feel alive again…

It’s funny. He clearly accepted his own death. He knew how I’d feel about this. He even warned me, pretty fucking clearly, that nothing awaited me.

Back when I had only seen some art from, and possibly the first preview of, the "Hifuu Club Activity Record – The Sealed Esoteric History" animation, somebody reminded me of a romantic song I had not listened to for quite a while.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NIMAGhrVJ9k

The inspiration led me to a lot of sweat, but the end result was a tribute of sorts to the makers of "The Sealed Esoteric History". Since I did not yet know what the animation was all about, I drew inspiration mainly from the story of "Yumetagae Kagaku Seiki – Changeability of Strange Dream" by Zun.

https://en.touhouwiki.net/wiki/Changeability_of_Strange_Dream

The song I used is "She’s a Mystery to Me", written by Bono and The Edge, recorded by Roy Orbison shortly before his death, and published posthumously in 1989.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmMcHcRAtmU


❧❧❧

Mukyū returns.

Testing.

Art: Huángguā a.k.a. 黄瓜musci.

So... this time, I am going to share my very first Tōhō filk.

Like I told my fellow fans back in the days, the text is pretty mean. (»I’m just playin’, Suwako-chan! You know I love you!»)

The original song is "Pretty Fly (For a White Guy)" by The Offspring (1998). You will probably remember that IOSYS promotional videos were still dominating the scene when I wrote this one. I’m feeling retro all of a sudden.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZQ3FiKf09M


❧❧❧


Pretty Hot (For an Old God) (2011)

So originally i was gonna make a short story loosely connected to Watch Your Step.

Instead I ended up with this. Somehow,

Merry Christmas!

I found it charming. Thanks, OP

was cute. thank you, op. merry pissmas and a happy new queer!

XX


The Apollo 11 departs, and it won’t be coming again. In the end, it’s me, and seven other rabbits who survived. Did we even hurt those humans? Doesn’t matter. I got my helmet back at some point during all that... I take it off myself this time, shake out my ears, and fall down.

“That fighting reminded me of what I saw when we last went down to Earth,” says Keiun. “Humans... aren’t they just barbaric?”

I sigh and answer, “Never been, but yeah...” while picking myself up. It’s no time to rest, we’ve got comrades to bring back home and send off. I put my helmet on again, and with the others walk toward the dead I’d gathered while still fighting.

The next several hours are a blur, at the end of which I find myself seated behind a table before Lady Toyohime and Lady Yorihime inside the manor. They both look serious, for once.

“Those are the losses for certain, Ringo?” Lady Toyohime asks me.

“Yeah,” I say, looking at nothing in particular, “forty-one rabbits dead.”

>>2212
>>2213
musical accompaniments, if you'd like:
>I tune everyone out.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pIOOhj0wQE
"This Guy's In Love With You (orchestral)" by Burt Bacharach
"Ticket To Ride (instrumental)" by The Beatles.

>“Listen up!” shouts Lady Yorihime.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tkJZVNC21Cw
SeeD, from Final Fantasy VIII

>This is Reisen, the vanguard is nearing the opposite shore of Tranquility.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DruLLOO6Vq0
Emil - Despair, from NieR: Automata

>>2213
that pic...
only now do I see its error

The boy awoke with a jolt and a yelp of surprise as something slapped him in the face. After a moment of confused fumbling, he found it to be his own clothes - clean, mended and toasty warm.

The fairy smiled at her sleepyheaded guest from the doorway, then floated serenely away.

The boy quickly changed. The warmth of the clothes helped keep the chill of the underground air at bay, at least for the time being. Carefully inspecting his bad leg, he found it to be almost entirely lacking in feeling still. It would be a while before he walked again, it seemed.

As he swung his legs, both good and bad, over the side of the bed, and pondered how he was going to proceed, he spied something leaning on the wall beside the bed. It was a cane of sorts, roughly fashioned of the same pale, bonelike substance he'd encountered twice already. It seemed tall for him at first, but as he rose and braced himself against it, he found the oddly-shaped top nestled perfectly under his shoulder.

Memory and a luminescent blush returned as he recalled that his hostess had a very good idea of his proportions - and he of hers.

With surprising ease once he got used to the odd arrangement, he made his way to the dining room, or at least the one he supposed to be it - the one with the table. He found it without difficulty, but it proved to be devoid of fairy. As if sensing his thoughts, however, she promptly appeared at one of the other doors, carrying another bowl of food.

"Good morning," they boy said automatically as he maneuvered awkardly into his chair.

"Good morning."

The boy quickly lost count of the days he spent in the fairy's care. It wasn't that they were many - he still woke confused by his strange surroundings - but here in the silent, gloomy underground world, 'day' held very little meaning. Whatever clock by which the residents of this strange little community rose and slept, if indeed there was one, was hidden from him.

Boredom, too, played a part. His hostess was clearly no idle hand and left him often to his own devices. During those times he had naught but books for company, for she would not hear of him leaving the house until his leg was mended and he could walk unaided. Of the times when she remained, she would occasionally entertain him with the board game she had purchased (so she said) especially for his sake; but just as often she would take it upon herself to further his understanding of the written word, or fill other gaps in his learning.

She was, the boy thought to himself, altogether too motherly. He resented none of it, though; for while she would occasionally mock his ignorance, when he all-too-frequently failed to keep it in check, she never belittled the boy himself. He was a guest in her house, no more and no less; though she clearly had the wisdom and responsibility, if not the appearance, of an adult, she never once treated him as a child.

It was a new and sobering experience. It was also very effective; he desired so much to earn the respect given him that he studied harder under her than he ever had in his life.

Though it had to be said that respect was perhaps not the only thing he desired: their continued shared bathing was driving him to levels of arousal he had no idea how to deal with. He certainly enjoyed these times, and eventually even overcame his embarassment about them, but her indifference left him floundering. He understood enough to know that she could not possibly have failed to notice, and yet she showed no sign of either reciprocation or rejection.

In this matter he was most certainly a child, and he knew it.

But then one morning - if indeed it was a morning - something finally happened to take his mind off things.

I actually finished these ages ago but forgot to fucking post them. I hate my life.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Hellooo~? This still works right?




　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Hearing you loud and clear.

　　　　　　　　You hear what they’re saying?
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　How couldn’t you? Nobody will shut up about it.

　　　　　All rabbits of the Partridge Unit, please respond.　　　　　　　　　Going to the sea tomorrow, should be fun.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　We still hidden?　　　　　　　We are.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Quit it with that. Yeah, you.　　　Present.
　　　　　　　　　Present.　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　I’m honestly...
　　　Yeah, I’m here. 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　Present.　　　　　　　　　　I’m honestly kinda scared.

XX


The Apollo 11 departs, and it won’t be coming again. In the end, it’s me, and seven other rabbits who survived. Did we even hurt those humans? Doesn’t matter. I got my helmet back at some point during all that... I take it off myself this time, shake out my ears, and fall down.

“That fighting reminded me of what I saw when we last went down to Earth,” says Keiun. “Humans... aren’t they just barbaric?”

I sigh and answer, “Never been, but yeah...” while picking myself up. It’s no time to rest, we’ve got comrades to bring back home and send off. I put my helmet on again, and with the others walk toward the dead I’d gathered while still fighting.

The next several hours are a blur, at the end of which I find myself seated behind a table before Lady Toyohime and Lady Yorihime inside the manor. They both look serious, for once.

“Those are the losses for certain, Ringo?” Lady Toyohime asks me.

“Yeah,” I say, looking at nothing in particular, “forty-one rabbits dead.”