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File 15443694987.jpg - (899.71KB, 1344x1600, parade_logo.jpg) [iqdb]
41501 No. 41501
“Platonic love is love from the neck up.”
—Thyra Samter Winslow

193posts omitted. Last 50 shown. Expand all images
>> No. 41869
(X) The (Dead) Live Tesla Coil, Tojiko.

Dank.
>> No. 41870
[x] The (Dank) Live Tesla Coil, Tojiko.
Never not.
>> No. 41871
>(x) The Sun, the Crown Prince.

>still stays hard after knowing it was all MURDERY sex, and presumably imagining such a thing
dang
our boy a stone freak
>> No. 41879
Futo a cute
>> No. 41881
File 155174292531.jpg - (191.11KB, 590x800, 23003222_p0.jpg) [iqdb]
41881
MU

When Futo came to shake him out of bed in the morning, he had half a mind to yank her down.

That was but thirty-percent true. Handai Mu had actually one full mind to yank his sister down, then another half to pull her under the sheets. The ten percent of truth left over were, in the main, things not thought by decent men and, certainly, never confessed to by clever ones. Altogether, it made for a lot of mind to have in the first moments of wakefulness. Having recourse to this, Futo squirmed, almost cat-like, out the way of Mu’s encroaching hands. The key difference being, she didn’t leave them in bloody shreds.

Ah-ah-ah,” she chided, slinking away. “Nay today.”

Mumbling a curse on all catkind and its dexterity, Mu jacked himself up to a sit. He did what men were wont to do after a night over too soon, and peeked around to confirm his whereabouts. Unlike many such men, Mu was pleased to find said whereabouts were, first of all, recognisable and, secondly, familiar. They were, in fact, his own quarters in Lord Taishi’s palace temple. He faked a lapse anyway, and peered about longer – every blink of his gummy eyes an extra split-second of sleep which, his brain maintained, he absolutely couldn’t go without. Mu blinked with interest.

His tiny square of privacy under his Master’s wing was, in a word, Spartan. Not in the least because he had any special fondness for huge men clad in nothing but loincloth and slathers of olive oil; it was, because Mu had never owned much of anything since his inadvertent expatriation to Gensokyo. The golden goddess of the Sen-kai lauded not frugality – but purpose; and the new additions to the temple were oft permitted to bring along whichever personal effects they desired – so, at any rate, long as they weren’t a distraction from training. Mu hadn’t had a lot to carry in beyond his shoes, a bundle of clothing and a magnesium-lined, fire-starter card he’d removed from his wallet ahead peddling it away for a quick yen. He’d hardly touched that card since using it, on one occasion, to amuse Futo.

All else within the room had been the Crown Prince’s gift; and it had been waiting him upon his move from the temple’s communal bedrooms, on receiving his greens. A set of bedding, a stumpy table and a few leather-bound trunks to hold his rhetorical wealth. Mu’s sole addition, the elevated frame for the bed’s mattress, had been commissioned from one of the temple’s more steady-handed acolytes. Less the volume of breathable air that fitted inside at once, there was scarce to this room, really, above the one where he’d lived before, on the second floor of a boarding house in the human town.

Well… except Futo. Mu’s previous room had no Futo – which, in hindsight, should have warranted a formal complaint. It had been a flagrant oversight. All the rooms in Gensokyo should, Mu thought now, by design include their own Futo.

This one, the one with him, was far and away the most arresting part of the décor. Though, to hear her tell it, her shikai-sen body had no need of sleep, Mu’s starburst of a tutor had still the sense to change her garments every successive dawn; and she knelt now, one the edge of his bed, barely halfway through that process. With her hair down, her hat tucked under one arm, and the vest of her hunting cloak only tugged loosely over her underwear, Futo made for a wonderfully dishevelled sight. Her feet were bare, and the smooth, uninterrupted stretch of her legs made it difficult to leg on any legs other than leggy leg legs.

Somewhere in the unused wastes of his mammalian brain, Handai Mu recognised her marching into (and soon, out of) his quarters in this state would do nothing and less for their reputation in the purview of anyone making their own morning rounds. His lizard brain, however, had him well-occupied counting the pores in Futo’s left thigh.

“Are you now awake?” said the thigh.

Handai Mu vied to turn his boat lengthwise this new, dangerous tide in the stream of consciousness. “… Wuh-huh,” he mumbled. Then dug a knuckle into one eye. “‘Wake.”

“Amain, I see,” returned Futo. “Mm. Heed me, natheless. Whenas you up to dress rise,” she advised, “do, pray, inconspicuous dress put on. Unlike for the youkai filth of Myouren-ji to me unchallenged their territory let roam. I’ll you to them distract a little need. To run… How did you say, that other time?”

Mu squelched his forehead. He rather couldn’t figure which time Futo’s thigh might have meant, but filed it with other, less pressing mysteries for the minute.

“… In’ference?” he guessed.

“Methinks ‘interference,’ it was,” corrected Futo. “Yes. I’ll you to run interference want. So, up you rise, get dressed, eat, and me in the main hall meet. I will with Okiku Miss convene and her aid beseech.”

“… Wan’ some luck?” offered Mu.

There was a pause. “… Some what?”

“Y’know—” he babbled on. “Luck? What I stole yesterday…?”

Futo made no reply; and an awkward impression of having let loose something dumb dragged the crosshairs of Mu’s attention up to his tutor’s face. Sensing this grand shift in the surrounding world, Futo, too, quit eyeing something off to the side, and met her brother’s – somewhat wobbly – challenge.

“… Have you,” she asked, after a moment, “any success last night had?”

Mu conceded, with a careful nod, “Uh. Yeah. I met with someone… um, helpful. She confirmed a… theory, for me.”

Aah,” Futo intoned, a foxy smile drawing her lips. “Then you’ve that luck right up used. Fie, piteous.”

Sooner than Mu may argue the person whom he’d met hadn’t required as much luck as an early tip-off, a ton of patience, and hours of Winding his body heat, Futo had patted his cheek and slid off the bed – trailing a faint scent of soap, Futo and disappointment. Smoothing herself down – to no effect, far as visuals – Mu’s adoptive sister tipped on naked toes for the exiting door.

At its threshold, her long, supple legs span her around.

“Hurry not,” she told her brother; “howbeit, nay tarry. Yon Myouren-ji devils mayen’t flee, but, Okiku Miss impatient gets. Speed, Mu.”

And, so having him wished, she left, gently shutting the door behind.

Handai Mu lay back, sighing and feeling a bit like the fabled elephant in a Chinese shop. Or was it just a china shop? That might have been an important difference, in an elephant situation.

Without much hope for what he might see, he squinted down the bed at the place Futo had been eyeing throughout their conversation. All at once, he understood where “amain” he had been awakened by Futo, and, perhaps, why – beside other reasons – her attractive bits had seemed even more attractive than usual.

He swung his feet down the side of the mattress – a lot less confident, someway, in his decision from months before to cut down on laundry by going to sleep buck-naked. He needed a punch of fresh air. Some rogue elements of him were begging for another punching altogether, but Mu delegated his self-disciplinary regimen for later. For now, he wanted something on his back, something in his stomach, and someone to talk to so far removed from earthly concerns, she would, through principles of magnetism, send him careening back to solid ground.

And that was what Futo’s ghostly daughter could be counted on to do every time.


>> No. 41894
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41894


As an ageing man, possessed of an array of time-ripened opinions, Reo, sovereign duke of the palace temple’s kitchens, had a certain Way with his cookery.

It was one of maximised efficiency. Any casual eater of Reo’s meals could have told they were made by someone who was both an expert on nutrition and embroiled in a civil war with the condiments rack. The cook – who had taken his greens (with his single, new name) by storm, and since worked from atop the cosy plateau – took these alternating allegations of tastelessness and weird-tasteness in stride. He would give the due attention to whoever was complaining at the time; then, he would suggest the daring critic – in a calm, no-nonsense tone – to acquire the missing spices for every single mouth in the temple. Or, better yet, to devise a method of producing them on-site, in the Sen-kai.

Since Mu’s maiden tenure, only one soul had been bold (or hungry) enough to actually take up the old cook’s challenge. A certain herbalist’s daughter, climbed of late to the equal rank.

As yet higher-ranked (or, at its root, better acquainted with the temple’s floor plan), Handai Mu gave a miss to dealing with whichever redsleeve had been assigned today’s mess hall duty, and strutted, with apt aplomb, straight into the temple’s kitchens. He exchanged terse nods with Reo (the cook’s, a shade bewildered – on account of Mu’s absence of uniform), ladled up a bowl of barley porridge from the giant cauldron on the woodstove, and burgled a strip of peeled sugarcane from the forbidden jar. Ahead caught by the kitchen’s apron-clad king, Mu did a bunk and fled its stuffy, humid confines. Then – those of the temple altogether.

Once out in the glow of Lord Taishi’s artificial Sun, the priest Damped his weight, hopped up to the roof, and reclined on the gently slanting, Sun-warmed tiles. While the porridge cooled in its bowl, Mu snapped off a piece of the sugarcane and popped it in his mouth. He pocketed the rest inside his undyed, woollen cloak, which, while he’d still cared to, he’d used to disguise in when sneaking out to the human town. It should do as well, Mu had supposed, for Futo’s undercover needs.

He chewed the sweet fibres in the side of his mouth. Futo. What could he tell her? That he hadn’t required luck to read up on, then ask around about this minor, light-consuming youkai who ranged the forests? Nor, then, to perch for hours up in a tree along the route she was (reportedly) inclined to take? Oh, she’d happened to support – and buttress, and rivet for a good measure – his hypothesis about some youkai enjoying, if not actively seeking, the odd bouts (and fashions) of human company. But, and here was the unlucky bit…

… He’d already, kind of, known that. And, while he’d have loved to pick apart this idiosyncrasy with his tutor’s input, Mu’d had ample sense to gather things between Futo and youkai were, to risk tiring a cliché, a little like a house on fire. Warm, mesmerising to look at – but, at the end of the day, either the fire or the house were out of commission. Mu could no more involve Futo than he was ready to unleash her on someone – some-youkai – too dear to him to trade for even the prettiest light show.

Yes, even now. Yes, even if he understood he’d never truly understood her. Yes, even if she’d booted him out to the street in the wee hours of the morning, bidding him never to speak to her, ever again.

Might be, mused Mu, swapping the sugarcane to the other cheek, that the luck Futo had shared with him had been fed, inadvertently, into something else. Say, getting the naïve youkai of darkness – who looked, outward, no older than twelve – to talk about her sexual encounters. How some lucky clever bastard of a man had gotten her to drop her panties and spread her legs. How the small, blond youkai had been screwed, come inside, finger-banged, then screwed again under a dumb pretext – yet, managed to orgasm no less than thrice throughout due to how good her partner had been at finding and molesting her G-spot.

In blunt, it had made Mu jealous.

Attaching physical age to a youkai from their appearance was, yes, not unlike dating a car you were pondering to buy by the state of its paintjob. It might smell fresh off the assembly line; inside, though, the milometer could be poised to run over the zeroes. Rumia’s age may well count in dozens, perhaps hundreds of human years. But, the sheer, immoral picture of that tiny body yielding to sexual pleasure had torn at Mu’s mental restraints. It’d made his neighbour down below remember, with a jolt and a kick, how long he’d been forced to lie idle. It had made Mu on up regret, for hours afterwards, that he hadn’t offered to teach the little youkai girl all about that special place the bad man had teased with his “thingie,” but never explained.

It’d made that same Mu realise, later in bed, that he’d had no downright issue separating cheating from a simple fling.

It was, in a comfortably non-specific phrase, a bit troubling. A bit more troubling was the knowledge that a night’s sleep hadn’t fully washed away the quiet hope to meet Rumia again… and complete the fantasy.

He spat the half-mulched sugarcane. Sweets and sex (or lack thereof) were doing the realm of Inner Mu no good. Something else would have to fill in the breaches in his diet. Something soft and green and white. Something in the sky.

Soga Tojiko proved as steady as… something that was a thousand years dead and not about to change. At the first limen of the Crown Prince’s Sun entering its zenith, the pear-shaped, legless form of Futo’s daughter coalesced above the temple. A wisp of smoke snaked out to become Tojiko’s arm, which grasped toward the midday Sun in a manner that may, were this another kind of story, have meant no one would ever need to wear sunglasses again.

Mu dumped the porridge down his gullet. Then placed the empty bowl atop the roof’s flat ridge. The temple kitchens, opposite to variety foods, had no shortage of crockery; and, when somebody did find the bowl one day, it would make them for a right decent headscratcher. Mu had worked physical labour; he knew the blessing of a good headscratcher to punt around the back of the mind. It’d been the thin, scratchy line dividing boredom from absolute, raving insanity.

He eyeballed the distance between himself and Tojiko. Then, converting this to some proprietary, internal unit, he Damped his weight – and jumped.

Seconds later, ahead Tojiko’s underside provided a sudden (if potentially nice) end to his flight, the priest Winded his weight back to its usual. At the apex of the jump – that vertigo-inducing stop between rising and falling – he shut it off altogether – turning no heavier than a puff of dandelion parachutes.

It was not a perfect hover. Not even with a margin of error the width of Tojiko’s hips. Mu’s timing had been human, thus faulty; and, the basic co-relation of physics – negligible weight, large surface area – meant the tiniest breeze could tumble him all across the Sen-kai.

Gratefully, wind was part of Futo’s domain – not Lord Taishi’s.

Queasy from the violent Damping, Mu sucked in a therapeutic gulp of air. Then, he craned his neck at the ghost lady overhead.

“Hail Soga,” he intoned.

Tojiko rolled around with the grace of an award-winning swimmer. Or, to be pedantic about it, award-winning fly girl.

“Handai,” she replied.

“Tojiko.”

Tojiko rolled her eyes. “… Mu,” she sighed.

Mu plied out a smile, capping off their unofficial routine. Soga Tojiko, who had refused to address him by any name until his second one had been bestowed by the Crown Prince, galled at the reminder that Mu had exceeded her expectation – and wormed up through the ranks into her ex-husband’s retinue. Mu made it, therefore – in the absence of higher ones – a point of pride to nudge that sore spot whenever they spoke. It was petty, futile and utterly blasted stupid.

And Tojiko went along with it every time.

Mu had run it through his mental faculty once, and the unanimous verdict of the assorted Mu-staff had been that Tojiko couldn’t have not taken this after her mother. Outward, there was nothing particularly Futo-like about Tojiko. Underneath the ghostly skin, however, there was no mistaking the genetic spill-over. The affinity for ribbing, the sharp wit, the quickness with which each resorted to their powers in a debate… even that sardonic eye-roll. Strip Tojiko’s assets, cut off her electricity supply, boil her down to bare bones, and – chances are – it might just look like if the same had been done to Futo.

“… Well?” prompted Tojiko, folding her arms under her generous (and un-Futo-like) bust. “What is it today that we shall… I want to say ‘verbally sodomise,’ but… What was the polite term, again?”

“‘Talk?’” ventured Mu.

Tojiko gave him the condescending stare of someone who didn’t “talk,” but “conversed.”

“‘Sodomise’ it is,” she decided.

“Would you take ‘lexically abuse?’”

Tojiko sniffed. “That is farther in Mononobe country than I’d have liked.”

Mu mirrored the arm fold – except, less breast. “‘Wordfully explore,’” he proposed.

“Now you are making words up.”

“Sodomising them, conceivably,” supposed Mu. He paused. Then cursed. “Confound you, Soga! You set this up!”

For the span of time it takes a Tojiko to smother an involuntary smile, Tojiko popped an involuntary smile. Then, not at all unpredictably, she smothered it under an ostentatious yawn. “You bore me already, Mu,” she told him. “Was that all? May I go back to contemplating existence, now? Hmm?”

Mu considered it. “… Before anything,” he said first of all, “could you steady me? I seem to be drifting.”

Tojiko gave him an incredulous look. “Were you ever planning on learning to fly properly?

“Men aren’t meant to live in the sky, Tojiko.”

The ghost lady raised her lush (and Futo-like) brows. Then compressed them into a silken frown. “… Was that a stab at my sex, or my state?”

Mu couldn’t wrestle back a grin. There were days in his life when he believed Tojiko was the one soul in the temple who understood him best. Then, there was the rest of the year. The ghost lady had the defined expression of someone who would precious rather their sex and state remain unstabbed – albeit did proffer a slim, pale hand, nonetheless. Mu gripped it – using the anchor to kill his stray movement.

He surprised, as always, at the distinct lack of deadness in Tojiko’s touch. Her skin was nowhere near corpselike. It wasn’t even cool. There was, at least above her waistline, nothing much about Futo’s late daughter that could be deemed especially ghostly. No bedsheet with jagged eyeholes. No dieting-Hollywood-actress-grade transparency. It had to be confessed Tojiko did pass through solid walls like nobody’s business, but… So did radio waves. And Mistress Seiga. The whole “dead for a millennium” thing more or less lost its gravitas once one gazed into Tojiko’s large, dark-green eyes – and saw nothing but life inside.

Marry to that the rest of her body exuding its own brand of vitality… and the earlier talk of sodomy… and Handai Mu had his question.

“… Are you human, Tojiko?”

A woman with a lesser content of Futo’s blood might have grabbed him and rolled him into an accordion. Tojiko only rolled her eyes. “I was human, once,” she allowed. “As was most every ghost, I should think. Or have you met a lot of dog ghosts? Horse ghosts? Flea ghosts, perhaps?”

“But are you human now?” Mu pushed on. “Yes, you were one, and you are a ghost now. Yet you look humanly enough. Are you, still?”

Futo’s daughter flicked her free hand, as if shooing off a ghost fly. “That would rest heavy on the definition we accept, would it not? What is a human, at its base? A furless beast that walks on two feet?” Tojiko scoffed. “Great many things we may qualify as human, then. Chicks, those miniature dragons from Jirando, Mononobe… You, however—” here she gave him a thin smile, “—would barely make the pass. Try though you fain might with these latest changes…”

Mu let that make its own pass. “Lord Taishi teaches,” he pointed out instead, “that our desires are what shapes our humanity.”

“That old precept,” scoffed Tojiko. “Yes… I do imagine humans comprise the only beasts who stick leaves in their water to make it taste better. Or murder their young for no good reason.”

“But that would make you human, too,” argued Mu. “This is why you are here. Your lingering attachments. Those desires that didn’t let you to—”

Ahead even the words left his lips, Mu knew he had made a poor prick.

All the muscles inside his arm – from the tips of his fingers to the ball of the shoulder – cramped all at once as Tojiko speared it with electricity. A lance of vicious, searing pain flashed in Mu’s brain… before the arm turned into a numb, stony weight hanging off the right side of his body.

Tongues of black smoke seeped from Tojiko’s contorted mouth. The air around her crackled.

I am here,” she hissed, “because Mononobe could not unlive her past mistakes. I am here, because Mononobe could not face down eternity with a reminder of her failures at her side! That is why!”

Mu prised open his jaw. The right slope of his neck prickled. “… When I let go… of what I am,” he quoted, “I become… what I might be.

“THAT OLD PRECEPT!” shrieked Tojiko, her resonant voice cracking like a sheet of ice.

And it was then, when Mu expected most to find out what Mystia’s yakitori felt like, that Tojiko’s thunderous mood swung around.

Futo’s beautiful, dead daughter snapped her eyes shut, and spat out the final wisp of ethereal smoke. Her anger bled; and Tojiko peered, longingly, skyward, at a point on the Sen-kai’s firmament.

Always the same point. Had he been more curious and less in pain, Mu would have wondered what it was she saw there.

Tojiko turned back to regard him with the same, blasé unconcern which had opened up their meeting. “… Tell me, better,” she sighed, “how your courtship is coming along.”

Mu hesitated. “… Which one do we refer to, here?”

And there it was once more. The Mononobe/Soga eye-roll. “Oh, please,” begged Tojiko. “All within the palace have seen you and Mononobe founder again and again to contain yourselves. Or do you not… aid each other in the baths? Or steal into each other’s chambers, half-clothed and a-blush? Tell me this, Handai Mu.”

“… Me and Futo aren’t courting,” said Mu, steadily.

“No?” Tojiko faked a gasp. “My word. But Mother dear is so skilled! What a terrible waste you are making. Are you positive you do not want a go?”

Handai Mu steeled his gaze. “Futo is my sister,” he said.

Tojiko returned it. “So?”

There was a discreet and keen impression that Futo’s daughter was alluding to something very specific. Mu chose not to follow.

“Had I to court anyone,” he said instead, “I’d sooner it were you, Tojiko.”

Tojiko laughed. It would have hurt – if it weren’t such a pleasing sound. “Me?” she said. “Oh, you and Mother are a match! Insane both. Why-ever me, Handai Mu?”

Mu forged out a smile. “I love how mannered you are.”

“Mannered? I should think I am everything except.”

“Ah—” said Mu, “but it takes especial manners to imply I’m screwing your mother and remain so very polite about it.”

Tojiko, actually, seemed taken aback for a blink.

Then, that was gone; and Futo’s provocative daughter shrugged her overburdened shoulders.

“Give in or hold out, Handai,” she told him; “I am but dead, and do not discriminate. It does not matter to me which way it goes. I win, one way or the other.”

“Win what?” asked Mu.

Soga Tojiko shaped an angelic smile. “My… How did you say? Lingering attachments? Those, of course. Speaking of, however—” She eyed their still-joined hands. “… Say, Handai Mu. How does one tell somebody to ‘bugger off’ in your father language?”

Mu brightened, sensing familiar country. “Oh,” he began, “it’s—”

“Shush,” Tojiko silenced him; “don’t say it. Imagine I did.”

And then, ahead Mu could explain that, no, for real, it was the damnedest thing, because the etymology had its radices in a folk story which no one remembered these days, but which visited on tongues anyway through sheer, blind perpetuation, Tojiko flung him at the ground.

Selfish thinking, and little else, saw him twist his feather-light body about to take the impact onto his deadened arm. Once it came, Mu Winded his weight, and rode it into something that may, from an oblique enough angle, be called a gymnastic roll.

The priest stood up in the palace temple’s courtyard, dust settling down around him, and peered up again where from he’d fallen. Tojiko had vanished from the Sen-kai’s sky. So had a bite out of Mu’s self-esteem. The feeling in his right arm hadn’t returned, but it would; and Mu wasn’t ready to wager he would at all enjoy that. His grey, outing cloak was dirty. His innards wanted out.

On balance, Handai Mu filed it as a gain.

There was a piece of wisdom, sooner or later acquired by intelligent people, which said never to let others recognise your mental landscape didn’t comprise nine parts butterflies and one part next meal. Tojiko wasn’t dumb; she hadn’t needed to spell out for Mu that he and Futo had been reckless, nor that she’d covertly checked whether his weight had still been Damped before she’d thrown him from the sky.

Most of all, Tojiko hadn’t needed to say out loud that death was a small thing – and that, wherever his Way took him, he could never meet a worse end than that which Futo’s daughter was locked in now. And, even if he did, and if Tojiko was there to tease him about it…

Then that, further, meant life was scarier by half than its inevitable sequel.

Cradling his insensate arm (and rather sensitive pride), Mu went inside to fetch Futo.


>> No. 41897
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41897


“Subtlety” was not a word which featured much in Mononobe Futo’s Great Book of Featured Words. “Subterfuge” was there, as was “subversion” and the odd “subtext;” yet, on the whole, Mu’s lovely tutor rode at the forefront of her little stratagems.

For Myouren-ji, there was to be no exception; and Futo’s plan, which she’d explained in the course of their short flight from the Sen-kai’s slip-gate, was simplicity itself. Mu, who would pose as a prospective supplicant, was to enter the rival temple’s grounds and distract one or more of the head priestess’s youkai lackeys. No more than three were capable of battling Futo on equal terms; and, with such diversion, Mu’s tutor, who very well may – but very well didn’t want to – combat all of Myouren-ji’s guardians at once, would be able to divide and conquer in her assault.

“What’d you intend to do while I’m in there?” Mu had asked, once Futo had set them both down under some trees, a minute’s walk away from Myouren-ji’s front gates.

She’d swatted at him absently, straightening her hat, which had tipped askew after a kiss with an errant branch. “The field of battle reconnoitring,” she’d replied. “Iwis winter-time hath these environs from our previous duels changed. I’ll ill to be knocked down some sinkhole fancy. Shouldest you more than fifteen minutes need, Mu brother?”

Mu hadn’t raised the issue of her excitement colouring her language. “Twenty,” he’d rather said. His heat-Winded breath steamed in the frigid air. “Give me twenty, and I’ll have had chance aplenty to talk at least one to sleep.”

“So be it.”

All the loose points of the plan at last pinned, Futo had risen on her tiptoes and kissed her brother’s cheek. She’d smacked the kidney area of his back – let him smack hers in turn – and taken off again for the Winter sky. Mu had waited till the period of obtrusiveness was gone. Then, he tore out of the brush, and onto the road which ran from the human town, through its orchards and its grain fields, and came to a weary rest on Myouren-ji’s gates.

Myouren-ji. The place was baffling. For the town’s humans, it was said, the Buddhist temple was an alternative to the youkai-infested Shinto shrine of Hakurei and the expectation-heavy Sen-kai of Toyosatomimi Miko. Certainly, it was closer the town’s walls – in conventional terms, anyway – than either of the other two; and yet, to claim it was lesser on youkai threat or lower in requirements struck the discerning seeker of religion as nonsense.

Myouren-ji was just as dangerous – and just as demanding – as its competitors. But it was closer – which, Mu figured, was enough for some people. Of course, for some people, a spoon of sugar was enough to make any medicine go down.

Winter had chased even those chary souls indoors, and Mu had the whole width of the road to himself as he neared the Buddhist dwelling. Through the tree line, which sequestered the temple from the open fields, he might catch glimpses of the main building: a large, oblong hump, or dome, reminiscent of a beached boat, flipped around on its business side. Some, who had been in Gensokyo longer than Mu, spoke as if the temple was a boat – that it had been used to carry the Acharya, Hijiri, into the realm, then landed and repurposed to serve as her home.

The same storytellers could never explain how the ship had remained navigable inside after being turned upside-down. Or, for all that, why it had been at all.

Mu strode past the gate into the temple grounds; and here, too, the Winter lull was in harsh (lack of) evidence. A handful of black-robed supplicants was milling about the enclosure, yes. None had paid attention to his arrival, however; nor was the gatekeeper youkai, who should, reportedly, stand watch, there to protract his entrance. The priestess Hijiri was nowhere in a stone’s throw, which was to the good; and there were but two other figures present altogether that halted Mu’s surveying eye.

A woman in a long, navy habit danced in the middle of the yard. Her sandals scuffed across the cold sand, perfectly tracing a four-leaf mandala, even as her arms swished through a series of elaborate katas. In her hands, however, the woman wielded not blades – but a pair of polished, golden hoops, no wider than a large plate. Mu didn’t need to guesswork to realise the woman was a youkai; even if he hadn’t recognised her from the duels for the Mask of Hope, the fact she wore no socks in this, toe-snapping weather was a cold, dead giveaway. That, then, he noted inside, was one.

The second mark was seated on the veranda of a housing complex tucked away, along the fence, to the left of the main sanctuary. Were one to believe the trickle of rumours that had filtered into Miko’s Sen-kai, the complex had been commissioned by Hijiri near the end of the Summer, following another of Futo’s attacks, which had then left a section of the capsized-ship-building short of a roof. As for the youkai now keeping watch over its vacant flowerbeds, her short-sleeved naval rig, sailor’s cap and a skirt that shied of the middle of her thighs spoke volumes of how little the youkai of Myouren-ji cared not to make their human brethren feel vulnerable to the elements.

That, then, was two.

Out of usance, a dumb mannerism, Mu joined his sleeves on his stomach. He divorced them as soon as the next bright thought. Futo had sent him to infiltrate the Buddhist temple in the guise of an applicant; priestly gestures, like his, could quickly put a hole in the cover. Futo would have been put out.

… But there was something that Futo couldn’t know; and this something was that being sent among youkaiyoukai with regular human contact – aligned well with Handai Mu’s own, deeply personal goals. He would give Futo the distraction she wanted, no mistake. But he would give it in his own Way.

He but had to choose with whom to pave it.


( ) The busty nun.
( ) The leggy sailor.
>> No. 41898
[x] The leggy sailor.
Dreamin'
Don't give it up Futo
Dreamin'
Don't give it up Handai
Dreamin'
Don't give it up 'banki
etc.
>> No. 41901
(x) The leggy sailor

yar
>> No. 41904
(x) The leggy sailor.

Avast.
>> No. 41905
(x) The leggy sailor.
>> No. 41906
File 155233613621.jpg - (420.73KB, 1000x1440, __kumoi_ichirin_touhou_drawn_by_kapiten70__c70c636.jpg) [iqdb]
41906
>> No. 41915
(x) The busty nun.
Both of them should have interesting answers to Mu's interrogation, but interrupting Ichirin then possibly drawing Murasa's attention to the conversation would probably be best as a distraction. Might be harder to do that the other way around.
>> No. 41916
(x) The leggy sailor.

Gotta hit all the pirate Mu spin-off story flags.
>> No. 41923
Fuck it.

[X] The busty nun.
>> No. 41924
File 155303963950.jpg - (850.07KB, 1064x1300, 67297875_p0.jpg) [iqdb]
41924
(X) The leggy sailor.

And, what was useful on any Way, were well-functioning legs.

Whatever other reasons may have yanked his sails in that direction, Mu flushed them down a mental drain. Hood up over his (awkwardly) hatless head, the priest (incognito) edged along the fence for the housing complex, where the legs sailor youkai was idling the afternoon away.

His entire right flank crawled with goose-bumps when the dancing nun’s attention caught onto his passing. Mu marched on determinedly, nevertheless. He wasn’t about to be the doe that attempts to outstare the headlights of a speeding eighteen-wheeler with a caffeine-addled Parisian behind the wheel; if anything was his spirit animal at that moment, it was the boar that splits out of the roadside brush and causes a five-mile pileup that’ll take the rest of the week and the lives of the insurance firm’s stockholders to clear up. It redressed him, for once, to be bull-headed (or boar-headed, anyway); and the busty nun danced on with all the dispatch of religious performance.

No such success with the other youkai. Mu had no sooner come closer than the average length of an eighteen-wheeler than the sailor-capped head swung abeam, swathing him in the full attention of a pair of bright and sea-green eyes. The sailor youkai’s mouth slipped into an amiable smile as she uncrossed and re-crossed her legs.

“Hoy there, Commodore!” she called out to the hooded Mu. “What would you like?”

Handai Mu anchored himself short of admitting he’d quite like a number of things, and bore up into the teal stare.

That gave occurrence to two things. To bow, he realised this just about marked the extent of his nautical vocabulary (save, perhaps, the trans-oceanic “ahoy”). To stern, that the youkai on the veranda was rather pleasantly attractive. Not in the classical sense, say, Tojiko was. This one was a trifle strong in the tomboy department, and seemed to live by a calendar full of nothing but leg days. But her smile was a veritable trove of sociability. Most youkai which Mu had met had given him the feeling they were enormously new to this “having a conversation” thing – like an old Polynesian seeing a family of tourists and their pet dog for the first time. Instantly, Mu had a clear impression this Polynesian had seen dozens of families on vacation – and had it on very good experience their pet dogs weren’t, in fact, along as packed lunch. So, he didn’t ask.

Mu spread his arms, while he approached, in the universal gesture meant to display he wasn’t carrying any arms or small dogs anywhere on his person.

“Was wondering,” he made his call back, “whether someone could maybe give me a tour.”

The youkai regarded him with a faint hint of surprise. “Are you looking to sign up?”

“Something like that,” granted Mu.

“… Huh,” she replied.

For a moment, the sailor girl considered Mu. For a moment, Mu considered her. At the end of this cross-examination, once Mu had reasoned out short hair and toned calves weren’t half bad either, he recognised also and over-late that the youkai had been sizing up his three dantians.

“… Pardon me, Skipper,” she said, her face a study in forbearance, “but you don’t feel in need of spiritual help.”

Mu, once more, did his earnest to be the boar and not the doe. “Wait—” He furrowed his brows. “Have I just been demoted?”

Another smile pulled at the edges of the sailor youkai’s lips. “Ah, no—” she chuckled, “—no, no, no. I didn’t reckon you for a maritime man, anyhow. Not enough surf in your voice. I’m merely throwing out terms. Seeing which sticks. It’s a pastime. Nothing deeper, on that assumption. My point, though, floats on.”

Mu scrunched up his wits. “I’ve, uh, dabbled,” he lied with priestly speed. “A trip up the ropeway to Moriya here, a few coppers to the Hakurei there. Helps for old age, they said.”

“Can’t speak for old age,” said the youkai, swimming under the jab; “never been there, never will. Soul-wise, though… That it would do. Well, I don’t mean to spit in sister Byakuren’s oatmeal—” here, she swapped her legs around again, “—but Myouren-ji will belike disappoint you, Captain. We aren’t for prepping for old age as much as we’re for foiling it altogether. Sister Byakuren won’t tell it in so many words, but that’s the long short. This is a temple for those with three sheets to the wind. You get? Those in deep six.”

“I think I get,” said Mu. “Well, see here, er… What was your name, again?”

“Ack, pooped—” The sailor youkai clicked her tongue. “Where’re my manners? Minamitsu. Murasa Minamitsu – as in the peach and the ship. Yes, I know. No need to tire it.”

Mu had to scoff. So, he did. “Oh, I wit that pain,” he assured her. “They called me Handai Mu.

Minamitsu positively chortled. “How appropriate! Mu. Sister Byakuren would go whole nine yards to hear this. Handai, though… That’s Chinese. Isn’t it? Mu of Han dynasty?”

“Afraid it’s less… grand than that,” explained Mu. “Dai as in where you stand; Han, as in…”

“… None,” interpreted Minamitsu. “Without, No Foundation…” She blew off a heavy whistle. “I don’t envy after your school years, Captain. That is a serial killer’s name.”

Mu roughed out a shrug. “Accurate, if anything,” he confessed, “in ways I’ve learned of late aren’t always beneficial to talk about straight away.”

“Ooh. Mysterious.” The sailor youkai grinned. “Tell me more.”

The easy camaraderie with which she said it sucked a return smile out of the priest without even consulting his brain along the way. His booted feet, also, shuffled him closer almost on their own. Minamitsu watched his automatics with the whimsical expression of someone who’d taken a study of the baser side of man and emerged with a whole, new degree of tolerance. The sight of her seaweed-black hair streaming in the breeze might have been more Titanic-esque if the hair had been longer – or the breeze more powerful – but it framed nicely around her honest face anyway. Some hair had it; some didn’t. Minamitsu’s did in spades. Stumpy ones.

Indeed; in that moment of unsubtle scrutiny, Handai Mu sensed that any other kind of hair atop the sailor youkai’s head would have been… false, someway. Wrong. A defection from the truth lying at the bottom of the ocean of history. Mu had never learned the word for “eerie” in Gensokyo’s warbling tongue, which was a shame – because it would have been the perfect descriptor.

It was also, and nonetheless, the perfect reminder of what it was he was – and wasn’t – there for.

“… Truthfully,” he said, “I’m not here to enrol.”

Somehow, Minamitsu wasn’t too shocked. “Oh?”

“Truthfully,” repeated Mu, “I wanted to ask you some questions.”

The sailor girl’s eyes went innocently wide. “Me? Ole, little me, specifically?”

“You are youkai,” noted Mu. “Aren’t you?”

“And where do you fancy you’ve landed, Handai Mu?” teased Minamitsu. “After a fashion, of a kind, everyone of importance in Myouren-ji is a youkai. Our Bishamon is a youkai tiger; our guardian priestess is half-nyuudou; our head monk is a magician. There are no humans here who haven’t at least a bitter end on youkai land.”

“And you?” Mu wanted to know. “Are you important?”

Minamitsu spread her hands in humility. Then, she laughed, and said, “Yes – every bit I can be. I ferried sister Byakuren out of Hell. I steered us to Gensokyo. I landed us in these parts, where we’ve now tied our moors. That counts for something around here, as you’ll imagine.”

Mu imagined. “A youkai, then,” he gathered.

“After a fashion, of a kind,” granted Minamitsu, “by dint of technicality, the scuttlebutt. Is that in any worth relevant to those questions?”

“Quite,” promised Mu.

“Then, Captain,” determined the sailor girl, “I might be able to humour you.” She propped her elbows on her knees, and her chin – in her hands. “Ask away.”

Ahead he could, a black-gowned supplicant turned out of a nearby door. He saw Mu, opened his mouth… then blinked in a relieved way as he caught Minamitsu sitting with him. A furtive nod to the fellow shaven-headed man, and the monk hurried on down the veranda to some urgent, monky business. Mu shook his coconut out of the distraction.

“What is it, then,” he asked the long-legged sailor, “that you youkai do here?”

All line officer’s patience, Minamitsu sighed, “What does, anyone in any temple, do, Captain? We pray, we fast, we listen when sister Byakuren proselytises. We say our mantras and observe the Noble Eightfold Path. We receive gifts and words from visitors, and give our wisdom in return. Myouren-ji is a temple first, a youkai haven later. In this, we aren’t far from the likes of Toyosatomimi or Moriya.”

“And afterwards? After the mantras and fasting?”

“Afterwards, everyone does what everyone likes. Sister Byakuren doesn’t slave us to the temple. Unlike some.”

Mu let that slide. “And you? What do you like to do?”

“Stories,” Minamitsu declared. “Stories are what I like to do. Telling, hearing – makes no matter. I’m always down for stories.”

Mu raised a mocking brow. “Stories?” he repeated. “Are those not for children?”

Minamitsu reached out to punch him in the side – once more stunning the priest with her easy-going fellowship. Then, she smiled. “So we would think, we adults,” she did admit. “Until, at least, we were made to sail on the flat, open sea for more than four weeks going with nothing else to pass the latest watches. Stories can fill out time when all else is far away but your boatswain and your mates. When the sails are down and the ship rests at anchor, and the lanterns are all doused, and you can hear naught but the creaking of the beams and the silence of the ruthless sea below… stories may well be the last thing that stays you from going mad. All drowning men dream of dry land; and a drowning man, we liked to say, is merely one who hasn’t yet breathed his last breath.”

“… Memento mori,” said Mu.

Minamitsu peeked up. “What’s that?”

Remember death,” the priest translated. “A rote greeting in religious communities in places around Europe. Means to live day-by-day and not to attach too close to past mistakes or earthly belongings – because death takes both in the end. Remember, you will die – but, also, live before then. Something like your ‘drowned man’ saying.”

“Mm. Yes. I suppose.” Minamitsu looked aside. Then, she gave a short, nostalgic chuckle. “Yes, they did tell me that for the first time after I’d got knocked overboard by an unmoored barrel. That stands to sense. Weird that I’d forgot… Or, maybe I’d had too much salt water in my ears. Any way you rope it, stories were my food then. They are my food now. All that’s changed is I hear them from visitors, rather than my crew. This fat tub—” she swung an arm vaguely toward the main sanctuary of Myouren-ji, “—has come to port. Who can say if she shall sail out again? That is why, Handai Mu, I’m biding my time. Standing watch. Listening to stories. Fearing inside,” she added, voice fading to a whisper, “that I may yet again have to take to the cruel sea…”

There was a long silence, which even Mu’s inner boar felt it would have been inadequate to break short. At its tail-end – or butt-end, or foot-end, or whatever silences had – Minamitsu breathed in, sharply – almost like a swimmer who’d been under for several minutes and finally broke the surface.

Wow!” the sailor youkai gasped, with raw self-deprecation, “would you listen to this old sea-hog ramble! ‘Course, I’m an outlier,” she resumed; “that is, in terms of youkai and their pastimes. I’ve been at this one very, very long. Most others you might ask, Captain… I dare say you would hear simpler answers. Take Ichirin, there, for an instance.”

Mu followed Minamitsu’s index finger to the nun dancing on the mandala out in the yard. Her habit had slipped off her head; and a modest ponytail was now whipping in the wake of the dancer’s flowing steps.

“What do you reckon?” asked Minamitsu.

Mu quit thinking back to someone else’s ponytail. “… She looks very skilled,” he opined.

“How long, in estimate, she’s been at this? To your eye?”

“There’s months of practice in there,” he guessed. “At least.”

But the sailor youkai lowered her hand. “A week,” she said. “That’s how long. This is her eighth day. You get?”

“But that’s—” Handai Mu frowned. He glanced again at the dancing nun. Her moves were smooth and with no ready flaws… despite the hefty ballast. “… She’s crazy skilled, then.”

“Outrageously,” agreed Minamitsu. “I’m the seaman here – and my footwork isn’t half that steady. But did you know the plagueyest thing? This won’t last till the next moon. No wherry’s chance in a storm.”

“How do you figure?”

A trace of distaste… or some other, secret loathing… curled the edges of Minamitsu’s lips. “… Because, see,” she said, gloomily, “our dear Ichirin is only doing this for a human. There’s been this… girl. You get? Coming here from that there town, putting a fire under Ichirin’s stove about this jigging business. Oh, I’ll warrant you, they look like the time of their lives when they’re together, prancing about, swapping notes and such. When this girl stops coming, though… which she will; there’s an ugly shift in the wind… Once she stops coming, it won’t be sooner another week than Ichirin will have thrown it all overboard. Then, it’ll all be back to old sails. Old tat. Old habits. Hah.

Minamitsu snorted at her own joke, without any real mirth.

Handai Mu peered sidelong at the top of the sailor girl’s head, which, earmarks were, contained a whole ocean of feelings and opinions the rest of Myouren-ji’s staff, Mu rather suspected, was unlike to condone. Quaintly – and somewhat counter to his immediate goals – he found himself astride the beginnings of a less than innocent interest. Minamitsu wasn’t instantly magnetic; at least, not polarised in such a way that kick-started his turbines, like one some other youkai he had met were. But her outspokenness – combined with the devil-may-care attitude for showing off huge swathes of skin – accounted for the exact brand of idiosyncratic attractiveness which reminded Mu of those women of whom he was already deeply fond. By association, it seemed, Minamitsu was getting towed along.

He shelved the implications of that thought for later never. Then cleared his throat.

“… Is that,” he asked, “an Ichirin thing, or…?”

Minamitsu laughed again – with enough outspokenness to make a turbine do a half-turn. “Still answering your question, Captain,” she said. “It’s not just an Ichirin thing; it’s a youkai thing. Ichirin isn’t the sole afflicted. We’re all… like that. Look anywhere in Gensokyo; you’ll belike find any number of youkai playing at being human. Myouren-ji… We are no different. So, in short,” she concluded, “and to give you an oar-straight answer. We do whatever happens on our hands. Or, whatever the humans mire us in. Ichirin wants to dance; I want to have meandering conversations. Shou has hankered after baubles and trinkets as long as we’ve taken them in offerings; even sister Byakuren had a brief voyage with masonry while those earth spiders were here last Summer.”

“But when that wind peters out—” said Mu, casting once more at the swishing nun.

“—Then,” picked up Minamitsu, “it’s easy to forget. To revert.”

“And when that happens…” Mu swam on.

“There are always fall-backs. When those fail, we lapse back to our purpose. And when a youkai forgets even that…”

Then, they die went unsaid.

Mu paddled around this conversational whirlpool. “… What are those fall-backs, then?” he asked, instead.

“And what do humans fall back on,” Minamitsu bounced the question around, “when they aren’t braining themselves on how better to copper-bottom their boats?”

“Surviving, most often,” said Mu. “It’s kind of reverse for humans. It is when we’re done being busy surviving that we go on to copper-bottom things.”

“So? What is it that you do, for that end?”

“We build homes for warmth.” Mu shrugged. “We hunt, or plant fields, for food. If we can do neither… we find ways to mooch off of those who can.”

Minamitsu gave a knowing nod. “Animal instincts.” She said it without derision, rather as a base reality. “Warmth and feed, water and comfort. But it goes a few yards farther once you’ve settled down, does it not? Once your existence is ensured? You begin to seek tastes, impressions… or how to avoid them. But, even those are your animal roots. Have you heard of Bossou?”

“A youkai?”

Minamitsu smiled. “An island. But close. It was someplace west of Africa, last I heard of it. It’s a worn anecdote; it might have gone elsewhere in the meanwhile. At any rate, stories would have it, there is a tribe of monkeys native to the island that has, for generations and generations now, been drinking a specially fermented sort of palm sap. Some might venture, they even use an odd leaf off a local plant as a spoon. And they get roaring drunk on the stuff.”

Mu saluted his respect. “Cheeky monkeys.”

“Cheeky indeed,” Minamitsu agreed. “But, Captain, this is my point. This goes to show. There are things you humans are all, inside, inclined to do. You took it after monkeys. And we, youkai, took it after you. Warmth and feed are fine. That yard farther, though, there are even better things. Alcohol, stories, more intricate foods, music, games…”

“… Sex?” suggested Mu.

Minamitsu’s head snapped up to give him a look that, the priest fancied, must have been the same he had worn near the start of their heart-to-heart. The look of a young rabbit caught out in the middle of a four-lane at rush hour. Contrary to his madcap escape, however, her youkai’s instincts swiftly recognised the safest place to be in such straits would usually be right down the middle, on the stripes – which the whirring, metal boxes didn’t seem to dare cross.

“… Wow, Captain,” the sailor youkai whistled, nevertheless. “No beating around the bush with you, huh?”

Mu slid a hand along his shaven skull. “Bushes and I are on war terms, which you see.”

Minamitsu graced the lame (and probably unshod) joke with a small chuckle. Then – distractedly and without an overt effect – she drew a lock of her oil-black hair behind an ear. “Mm. Yes, well… That isn’t wrong. Sex happens, too. It is a basic vice; any youkai with enough self-awareness can belike enjoy it. Some might have more difficulty finding it, is everything.”

“Not you, though?”

With a sailor’s honesty, Minamitsu sighed, “This is a Buddhist temple. It’s a home of youkai. You’d be shocked at how much sex I don’t get out here. We do crew a number of very nice men… but they are very nice Buddhist men. Stiffer than ironwood, those – and not in a good way, either. And, if sister Byakuren heard I was sharing a bunk with one of her devotees…” She hugged her bare stomach and shuddered. “I love sister Byakuren as I loved my shipmates. I do, on my name. But she must learn from this mistake, soon or late. When you parade all these humans before so many youkai… Accidents hang upon the red string.”

Mu considered his next question very carefully. Then didn’t.

“… What would it take to have sex with you?” he wanted to know. “For someone not from here?”

Minamitsu blinked up at him. “… No bushes?” she asked. “Not even one?”

The priest jogged his shoulders. To which the sailor youkai issued a plaintive sound.

“Oh, Captain…” she moaned. Then, she switched her legs around. Mu let his attention have a short break – until her slightly pained voice jostled it back upright. “… A nice dinner and a decent drink,” she resolved. “I’m no hygiene freak – nor stranger to a bit of sweat – but I should also prefer there was a bath somewhen in your week. And you had best know how to use your fingers if you can’t go a second round. Also-also, not a peep about my legs. You get?”

Handai Mu peeked again at Minamitsu’s thighs, which contained enough sinew for an all-string orchestra, and forbore to comment.

“That’s… simple,” he noted, instead, inwardly congratulating himself on the rather diplomatic synonym for “easy.” “A dinner date. I’ve found women to have… taller hurdles.”

“I’m a youkai, Captain,” Minamitsu said, exasperated. “Those things go a long way for me. I can’t cook; I can’t go traipsing into the Human Village without undue spectatorship. I make a mean cider, but apples from the fields go either to Winter stocks or to presses in town. I’d do nigh-on anything for a bottle of plum wine or whisky. Same for food. I’d give a lap dance for a side of beef. I’ll leave my porthole open at night if you get me a pig and a barrel of salt. You own a farm? I’ll dodgasted marry you.”

It was a discriminating moment ahead Mu had inferred this wasn’t a vivid daydream, but a real, human (well, youkai) voice propositioning him with sexual favours in exchange for food. It turned quite incriminating once Mu remembered he’d been the one to bring topic about. There were some serious ethical and theological ramifications in there, which the priest was seriously glad to sidestep altogether – on account of his purely scientific persuasion.

Unnn—” he drawled his reply, “—fortunately… I’m no landed lord.” Might become, if I ever wed the Crown Prince, filled in his imagination. “And, I haven’t any meat on me.” This time, anyway, added his conscience. Then, so as not to leave the sailor girl completely dry, his stupidity chimed in, “Although, I do have this.”

And his hand dug into his grey cloak, out producing the stick of sugarcane he’d not had the appetite to finish at breakfast. With natural ease, Minamitsu readjusted the focal angle of her eyes to the object in Mu’s hand, which enabled said eyes to interpret the particles/waves of light rebounded off its surface and transfer the information, through electro-conductive tissue, into the fluffy folds of her brain. Nature had gone to a lot of evolutionary trouble to let the sailor girl know the object was, in fact, a stick of sugarcane.

She said as much. “Sugarcane?”

Mu gave a smile, which he hoped was more encouraging than villainous, and Minamitsu took the sweet. Her superbly evolved eyes lit up with a primal spark when she put the end between her lips.

“Good?” asked Mu.

“Wow,” she said.

“It’s Chikusha cane,” explained the priest. “Or, it might have been Chikusho,” he speculated; “the guy what I nicked it from told me both words. Well—” He scoffed. “Screamed, really.”

Minamitsu gave him a nasty look. “Jolly,” she obliged. “No, but it is good. Sweeter than sugar itself.”

“Ah, they do make this into sugar,” recalled Mu. “Wasabon, methinks the variety was called. Something of a delicacy, I am told. And blasted expensive.”

“Hum.”

For another minute, Minamitsu sucked contentedly on the treat, holding onto it with the fingers of one hand, while her other was squeezed between her stacked thighs. The sight roused Mu’s hindbrain from its power nap, prompting it to suggest that, had the hand been his, then he and Minamitsu could enjoy a much nicer conversation. It rode the ensuing aftershock all the way to its upper counterpart’s speech centres, and ahead Handai Mu may catch and summarily execute the traitorous presence within his skull, it hijacked his tongue.

“… So,” he heard himself saying. “What would this earn me?”

And the rabbit called Minamitsu got almost run over. Mu wrested for control of his face while a brief (and, he felt, not wholly voluntary) once-over startled the sailor’s eyes down his front. When he did, finally, regain the commander’s seat behind his forehead, Minamitsu was bolt upright on her feet.

“Captain?” she said to him. “Can we talk indoors, please let’s?”

And then, rather than wait, she took off along the veranda for the door the Buddhist supplicant had exited earlier. Mu followed, while he put out the small fires on his mental pulpit.

Indoors turned out shaded, warm, and smelled of candlewax smoke. Minamitsu shut the door closed behind them, and the priest and the youkai found themselves in a silent, wood-lined hallway. At either side, rows of other doors led into separate rooms. No one was padding down the hallway with their head full of ears and their mouth full of water, which was just as well. For then, Minamitsu said,

“I’ll blow you.”

Handai Mu rounded on the sailor girl with a mask for a face. Which all faces were, when Mu thought about it, in a way; only, this one had grown particularly rigid. When he saw Minamitsu leaning with her butt against the door, tipped forward, a creamy abyss for a neckline, something else mistook the same impulse and began to draw in blood.

Mu tilted his head with priestly self-discipline. “You’ll…?” he started – not quite decided how to end.

Minamitsu let go of a giggle that could have put a blush on a lesser man’s cheeks. “Come, now,” she complained. “Going to make me explain?”

“… I am not the quickest horse,” said Mu. “More of a mule, actually.” Which was not far from the truth.

Minamitsu gave him a long, scalding, and not at all innocent stare. “… Cheeky monkey,” she whispered, borrowing that term. “I’ll blow you. Scrub your mast. Mouth-stuff, you get? Sink me, you’re lucky I’ve a weakness for bold boys like you.”

“You do?”

Minamitsu licked her lips. “… Yeah. You remind me.”

“Of?”

“Life. Before.”

Mu moved his jaw to drive the question on. Wisely, he clamped it closed just as soon.

A furtive smile was hovering around the edges of the sailor’s mouth. It was the sort of smile that sits on the edge when you are talking, feigning the minimum polite interest, and then, once you finish the thought, throws you down on said couch and takes its impatience and frustrations out on your helpless body. Minamitsu must have scented his apprehension, because she used the sugarcane stick to peel down her lower lip, hinting that if they could substitute the treat with his “mast” then they could really enjoy themselves.

“So-o?” the shameless sailor wanted to know. “Ought we to find a room, Captain?”

Mu—


( ) Wanted the lewd sailor’s mouth around his mast.
( ) Was asking for a friend. Because of a friend. A very close friend.
>> No. 41925
[x] Wanted the lewd sailor’s mouth around his mast.
Already plumbed the depths this far, might as well go all the way down to Davy Jones' Locker. See just how filthy a sailor's mouth is, savvy?
>> No. 41926
(x) Wanted the lewd sailor’s mouth around his mast.

No breaks on the lewd train.
>> No. 41927
(x) Wanted the lewd sailor’s mouth around his mast.

I hope she plays the meat flute as well as the bosun's pipe.
>> No. 41929
(x) Wanted the lewd sailor’s mouth around his mast.

She can be my Red Sky at Night any day of the week.
>> No. 41930
(x) Was asking for a friend. Because of a friend. A very close friend.
>> No. 41932
[x] Was asking for a friend. Because of a friend. A very close friend.

>banki edging
>futo edging
>dude gets to fuck random women
not cool & unfair, friends
>> No. 41934
Y'all act like Mu is some blushing bride. It's just a blow job...jeez.
>> No. 41935
(x) Wanted the lewd sailor’s mouth around his mast.
>> No. 41936
(x) Wanted the lewd sailor’s mouth around his mast.

The best distraction
>> No. 41939
(X) Was asking for a friend. Because of a friend. A very close friend.

I dunno, going full sail ahead with this seems like the best way to find himself in a very, very awkward situation when Futo finds them while she's burning the temple down doing her own thing.
>> No. 41940
>implying the flames won’t just get her hotter
>> No. 41942
(x) Agreed to dock his prow in her northern harbor.

Probably best we didn't pick Ichirin for this part, then. Unzan likes to watch.
>> No. 41944
(x) Wanted the lewd sailor’s mouth around his mast.
>> No. 41946
(x) Wanted the lewd sailor’s mouth around his mast.

we're going to fucking Pearl this Harbor
>> No. 41950
>>41939

That seems like a gross overreaction. What about her character/interactions suggests she would do such a thing?
>> No. 41951
>>41950
What about Futo's character DOESN'T suggest she'd burn down a Buddhist temple?
>> No. 41953
File 155321653565.png - (327.01KB, 700x990, __murasa_minamitsu_touhou_drawn_by_iromeki_overdri.png) [iqdb]
41953
(X) Wanted the lewd sailor’s mouth around his mast.

Mu, candidly, could envisage smarter places to be than a youkai’s mouth. Japan, for example. The difference was, when he’d ultimately left Japan, he’d ended up by far more tired. That aside, Minamitsu was waiting his land ho – at first blush nibbling on the sugarcane, but also watching him from behind slightly upturned eyes. The stare must have gotten its figurative hands on Mu’s equally rhetorical bivouac field, because someone was pitching a very literal tent down in the area.

At length, Mu lapped up the necessary air, and – with the weight of responsibility such an admission licensed – said, “… I like rooms. Very private.”

Which was, from the I to the E, precisely the type of Insipid Joke that would have netted Mu a rendezvous with Futo’s foot and randez-worse from the other woman he’d used to Insipidly Joke at. There was a tittering laugh that attested it was the manner of joke Minamitsu had no grudge against and even wanted to hear.

The sailor youkai had a glint in her eyes generally displayed by those girls who have persuaded a man to conform with their whimsies, but who haven’t yet learned that a lot of men master the seemingly impossible skill of keeping a look-out for a girl’s eyes at the same time as her child-rearing bits.

“All right,” she said. Her lips sucked in in the remaining sugarcane and shaped a coy U. She pushed herself off the door, and began to walk, one foot firmly before the other – like someone who knew with microscope-lens clarity where it was they were bound. Minamitsu, in this case, was for that square of space in front of Mu which he would normally have called “personal,” but which – once he looked down – he was happy to lend to Minamitsu. Her slim, cool-fingered hands walked up the priest’s chest to rest atop his shoulders. “So…” she asked, in a conspirative whisper, “… Want to kiss? Ahead we get my mouth all filthy?”

Mu couldn’t help ribbing. “Would you like that?”

Minamitsu kneed him – in a friendly sort of way. “I’m not about to fellate a guy I haven’t even kissed, Captain.”

“That, I can empathise,” agreed Mu.

And then, having set his unexpended scruples adrift, the priest gripped around the sailor’s scantily-clad hips, and pressed them to his own.

Minamitsu tensed in mild surprise when the overcrowded front of Mu’s trousers was squished against her nude belly. A great wealth of her tension escaped, together with an inadvertent sigh, when Mu leaned down to brush his nose and lips along her exposed collarbones. Minamitsu’s skin was smooth, cool and dry, and stoked underneath with a body warmth that worked, even now, to reheat its exterior after the Winter chill outside. It did not, to Mu’s vague wonder, smell or taste of sea-salt. Neither did her neck – or her jaw, or even cheek, all along which he pecked tiny, suckling kisses, on his great journey toward Minamitsu’s lips. Those were ajar and damp from anticipation when he, at last, found them; and the knowledge of the imminent future, where they would be sliding wetly up and down his raring manhood, urged Mu on to pre-test their capacity with his tongue.

Minamitsu squirmed, moaning, under his hands when he slipped said tongue between her lips. And yet, once in the wake of the initial shock, the sailor girl seized on the gap Mu had left between their mouths – and closed it with noisy, messy, slurping relish. Her tongue wrapped half around his, and her arms looped behind his neck. Mu, forced to stoop, prised open his eyes, which – by geometric happenstance – were by then directly in front of Minamitsu’s.

Suddenly, Handai Mu felt a right humble priest indeed. Minamitsu’s sea-green eyes were shimmering with excitement. Her mouth was an engine room after hours of full speed ahead. Her tongue was as pushy as a cat after full-body rub-downs. Somewhere, in a less hot-wired part of his head, Handai Mu recognised that, as a youkai with an apparently lax approach to sex, Minamitsu’s chances of being less experienced than he were rather on the far side of remote. So, the thought told upon expansion, were Rumia’s. And, plausibly, Miss Cook’s. Handai Mu could about name one youkai excepting the rule… except, the risk of being woefully wrong drew him up short.

The thought shed its early casualties and journeyed onwards. Minamitsu might be fast and loose, but her body had its own, ineffable rigging. That included, plainly evidenced, startling when Mu slipped one of his hands down onto her thigh, then up and under her skirt. He squeezed the firm, ample buttock – half his fingers on bare skin and half – over the fabric of her panties. Minamitsu moaned around his tongue and into his mouth. She pulled away, managing to just about mumble, “Cheeky—” when Mu grabbed the other hemisphere of her butt and pinched both at once. With a vexed sound, but not about to give the lead, Minamitsu mashed their mouths back together. Mu gripped both her cheeks and spread them apart – then squished them against each other. He rubbed them together. He pushed them up, then let them fall, weightily, back into position. He let them eat up the back of the panties. Minamitsu didn’t cease coddling and sucking on his tongue – even while her ass was being toyed with under her skirt.

And then, emboldened (and aroused) past all restraints, Handai Mu began to pine after the next prize. He removed one hand from the sailor girl’s bullied rear, and brought it around, past her athletic thigh, to her groin. The front of Minamitsu’s panties was hot and pliant under his fingertips. Minamitsu herself was too absorbed, demonstrably, in the frantic Frenching to notice when the priest pinched and tugged the fabric of her underwear to the side. Her privates did, all the same, quiver in response when he slid his hand underneath them – dragging his longest finger down the sticky crevasse in the middle. It wasn’t at all difficult to feel out the slot between Minamitsu’s frilly lower lips. Mu enjoyed the sensation for a moment longer – then, he slipped the finger up between her hot, unresisting walls.

He’d just passed in the second knuckle and been about to start working out her G-spot (or pretend to) when Minamitsu’s own hand shot down and snapped around his wrist.

The lewd sailor youkai pulled her tongue out of his mouth, and his middle finger – out of herself.

“None of that,” she rebuked him – forcibly lifting the finger up to her face and licking it clean. “Just a blowjob! You get? And, for Byakuren’s sake, Captain,” she chided, “for real. Not here.

Mu squared his brain and racked his shoulders for a reply; but, being low on oxygen and even lower on rationale, things mixed up for him somewhere halfway. And then, there was Minamitsu’s face. She wasn’t angry; if her eyes were manifesting anything, overtly, it was the lie beneath her words. Minamitsu did want to continue. The trouble part, of course, would come once they were discovered by Byakuren or one of her stiff-backed supplicants. And then, a fine couple of perverts they would look.

What was done to perverts caught in Myouren-ji was told by the other part of Minamitsu’s expression; and, by the warning flare, it could be something that features in a cheap, two-word-title horror film that goes on to amass an irrationally large following and gets seventwentysixteen sequels across the next few years. Then fades to obscurity.

Handai Mu didn’t want obscurity to be his final destination. He gave, therefore, a somewhat numb nod, and allowed Minamitsu – whose skirt was still hitched up on one side – to trawl him off to the first vacant room down the hallway.



For the next block:
( ) Futo
( ) Mu
( ) Minamitsu
>> No. 41954
[x] Minamitsu
Maximum overbald.
>> No. 41955
(x) Futo

Of course.
>> No. 41956
(x) Futo

why is there only one option?
>> No. 41957
(x) Futo
>> No. 41958
(x) Minamitsu
>> No. 41959
(x) Minamitsu
>> No. 41960
(X) Minamitsu
>> No. 41962
File 15532424137.webm - (18.14KB, __mononobe_no_futo_and_murasa_minamitsu_touhou_dra.webm) [iqdb]
41962
Just in case this needs clarification – the vote is for perspective switch (or none) only, not… Well, anything else.
>> No. 41963
(x) Futo
you don't get to see
>> No. 41964
(X) Minamitsu

>>41951

Because all signs point to this Futo being and horny little minx. I feel like she'd be more likely to join in rather than get upset.
>> No. 41965
(x) Futo

Plus, as long as we're putting the Porn™ in a separate thread from this one (and there aren't any unfortunate interruptions from the above), it could be interesting to show both perspectives at once, with a post here describing the fruits of Futo's reconnaissance, and a separate post on /at/ detailing Murasa's exploits.
>> No. 41966
Proof that waifu wars generates the most votes.
>> No. 41967
Waifu wars more like bald wars.
>> No. 41968
File 155346727923.jpg - (968.80KB, 1290x1720, sailor futo.jpg) [iqdb]
41968
Are you really going to make me write both?
>> No. 41969
>>41968
yep
>> No. 41970
>>41968
Hey, you did ask for somebody to vote for Futo...
>> No. 41971
File 155350158966.jpg - (27.87KB, 217x172, fuck.jpg) [iqdb]
41971
>>41969
fuck
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