⋆ .༺☾𖤓༻. ⋆ Michikatsu Tsugikuni

"𝒜𝓃𝓎𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝒿𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓁𝓊𝒸𝓀𝓎."

[moonslament]

Semi-selective (please don’t be afraid to interact)

Cannon-divergent at times

Crossover, OC, and AU friendly

Mun is 18+ (This blog may contain NSFW content such as violence/light gore)

Feel free to send in asks, RP prompts, or DM me

Before interacting please read the RULE page

Check out my OC Kagutsuchi if you’d like

OC info here

My main blog - Yoriichi - sunsblaze

I will follow back from my main

[fallesto]

Her fingers twitched once against the mattress, the final conscious signal from a body that had ultimately succumbed to the toxin that had slithered through her veins. The lazy rotations of the ceiling fan etched themselves into her fading vision, blurring, doubling, and then fading into darkness as her eyelids closed with the finality of a tomb. Her breath became shallow, her lips parting slightly around an unfinished syllable, the damp heat of the apartment enveloping her like a second skin.

She didn't dream. Not in the way that ordinary people did. Her unconsciousness was a black velvet void where memories emerged like corpses in a still pond, her father's bamboo sword cracking against her knuckles at the age of seven, the wet gurgle of a target's last breath in Osaka, the phantom weight of a flute she hadn't touched in decades. Tonight, the corpse drifting toward her bore Kagutsuchi's smile.

The first sensation she registered was the taste, coppery and something sickeningly sweet, clinging to her tongue like spoiled honey. Her eyelids peeled apart with the sticky reluctance of old tape, the morning light piercing through the gap in her curtains with the precision of a scalpel. She blinked against it, her lashes snagging on something crusted at the corners. The ceiling fan wobbled lazily above her, its uneven rotation casting distorted shadows across the water stain shaped like a screaming face that she had dubbed 'Landlord' last winter.

“Ugh.”

With a slow groan, she turned onto her side, her muscles protesting like rusty hinges. The sheets carried a faint scent of detergent, real detergent, not the stale remnants of vodka and sweat that typically lingered in her bedding. She squinted at the neatly arranged pile of clean clothes on the chair, the fabric crisp and devoid of wrinkles, as if it were mocking her very existence. What transpired last night was a mystery to her; did that idiot actually put her to bed, tidy up her place, and then leave? What a loser.

"Fucking hell."

The shower hissed to life even before she stood, steam curling around the bathroom door like a tempting invitation. She forced herself upright, her bare feet meeting floorboards that were suspiciously free of dirt. Every surface sparkled, no empty bottles lined up like tombstones, no cigarette butts drowning in old ramen cups. Even the damn spider had vanished. Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her with a mix of suspicion and fatigue, dark circles under her eyes resembling smudged ink.

Stepping under the scalding water with a hiss, she let it wash away the grime. The soap had a lemon scent, unlike the cheap drugstore bars she usually kept. She scrubbed until her skin turned pink, trying to ignore the phantom sensation of hands that weren’t hers, hands that had touched her while she slept, rearranging her life like a dollhouse.

Dressed in clean clothes that actually fit, she padded into the kitchen. The fridge hummed, filled with groceries she had no recollection of buying. The first sip of water hit her stomach like a jolt, cold and clear, a stark contrast to the usual burn of morning whiskey. She despised how good it felt. Had her sister been here? She was the only other person with a key to her apartment, always fussing, always worrying, always helping. This place was immaculate, perfect, as clean as could be; she liked it. Maybe her sister had been around, because all she remembered was drifting off last night.

[moonslament]

The night hadn’t gone quite as he anticipated, but it was pleasant all the same, he had only just gotten her to bed when he heard the gentle knock, followed by the jiggling of a key in the locks at the front door. Kagutsuchi knew that the woman lived alone, he knew that no one had visited the washed up assassin in months so the sudden visitor— one who apparently had a key to the place, made him exert caution as he slid his feet across the floor, using the navigation skills he had acquired over his weeks of nighttime visits to avoid creaky floorboards and piles of clothes that had been sitting for days.

He had been surprised when hr peeked out the entrance of the bedroom to see the familiar face of the woman he had only seen in pictures he had scraped from the internet. His beloved’s younger twin sister, a woman with a beauty who matched that of the woman he had been enthralled in, though seeing her now, unimpeded by the the lens of a camera made him tilt his head with a newfound curiosity as he stepped out of the room. Kagutsuchi had no reason to hide from her, he had been allowed inside, a fact backed by the dirty dished from a meal shared between neighbors.

She had made for pleasant company, she was polite, soft spoken but firm, he liked her, liked her enough to ask for her number under the guise that he would keep her informed should anything happen with her elder sister, but really he would use such a privilege to learn more about Yoriichi herself.

He stayed for a few hours, helping clean and do laundry, he had even been able to hold Michi in his arms and breathe in her sweet scent while the younger sister changed out the soiled sheets for the fresh ones they had just washed and dried together. It came as no surprise that his mind had begun working overtime, imaging another faux life for himself, imagining how life would be if he were able to have both women by his side. Two lovely women, one as sweet as ripe peaches in the summer, the other cool and grounding like a moonlit swim.

The man left before Yoriichi as to not linger and raise suspicion, his true intentions for his visit would have to be set aside for now— though he had made one small step towards his goal, he had met Michi’s sister, he had shared a meal with the woman he wanted, and he had strategically left his sweat shirt draped over the back of her couch and had stolen the one that had belonged to an ex boyfriend who had been out of the picture for months now. That particular jacket was now tossed in the bins behind the apartment complex, his Michi had no need for another man’s belongings.

[fallesto]

Slowly she exhaled, slowly and deeply, reminiscent of a tire losing air on a gravel roadside. She felt terrible. The kind of terrible that feels like something trodden on, scraped off, and left to harden under the sun for three workdays. Her fingers twitched towards the crumpled pack of cigarettes beside her thigh, but even that slight motion triggered a fresh wave of nausea. The room tilted a bit, the ceiling fan above them blurring into a lazy halo of off-white blades.

Her foot remained in Kagutsuchi's lap, his fingers methodically working to relieve the tension coiled in her arch. Normally, she would have pulled away by now, would have snapped a warning about losing fingers if they ventured too high. But her limbs felt heavy, her thoughts thick and sluggish. The curry weighed heavily in her stomach, a leaden anchor dragging her deeper into the couch cushions. She blinked slowly, her lashes sticking together for a heartbeat too long.

Her toes flicked against Kagutsuchi's thigh, a lazy, unconscious twitch, like a cat's tail indicating bored amusement. Her foot arched, the tendons standing out sharply beneath skin that suddenly felt too thin, too sensitive. Every brush of his fingers sent electric tingles racing up her calf, pooling low in her abdomen with a warmth that had nothing to do with the cheap whiskey or the curry. She hummed softly in her throat, a sound that resonated through her chest and escaped between slightly parted lips. The back of her head sank deeper into the couch cushions as she leaned back, her tank top riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of stomach, pale and taut, the scar along her hipbone catching the dim light like a silver thread.

Then her eyelids hung heavily, resembling wet paper that was fraying at the edges. The soft hum of the ceiling fan blended into the distant thump of her own heartbeat, slow, syrupy pulses that seemed to struggle through her veins with a palpable effort. Even the act of blinking felt like a chore, her lashes clinging together with each attempt, as if her body had been filled with damp sand. She breathed out through her nose, observing Kagutsuchi's face distort and sway in her unsteady sight. His fingers resting on her ankle felt unbearably weighty, each press of his thumb sending sluggish ripples through muscles that felt foreign to her.

She fought to remain awake, she truly did. She blinked forcefully, trying to keep her eyes open until they teared up, but the room continued to tilt sideways. The blades of the ceiling fan merged into a single spinning disc of off-white, its hum intertwining with the slow thud of her heartbeat. Her fingers twitched towards her cigarettes, but the motion triggered a new wave of nausea that rolled through her, thick and suffocating like motor oil.

"Damn …" She mumbled, the word dragging from her throat as if it were burdened. Her foot slipped from Kagutsuchi's lap, hitting the floor with a dull thud that she barely registered. The ice cream bowl tipped over, its remnants spilling onto the coffee table in a slow, creamy cascade. She reached out to catch it, or at least thought she did, but her arm moved through molasses, fingers grasping at nothingness. As her eyes closed and she just, passed out, falling into a deep sleep right before him.

[moonslament]

It was only a matter of time before she was out, he knew this, so for the moment he would busy himself with sliding his fingertips over her skin, slowly sliding one of his hands from where his thumb stroked the pad of her foot to slide up and over her ankle, carving its way towards her calf, stopping just short of her knee before it retraced its steps back down, his fingers curling around her ankle for a moment, testing the circumference of the limb in his hand.

As her eyelashes fluttered he wondered if she was suspicious of him, if she had any inkling that her current state was his doing— or if, when she woke up later, she would remember this. Still, he sat, nibbling at his bottom lip, biting back a small grin as he watched her struggle to stay conscious— she really was so cute when she fought to keep her eyes open. She had nothing to worry about, he would take very good care of her while she was out, he would give her what he knew she wanted, even if she did not yet know it herself. One day she would be his wife, she would want to carry his children and she would be thanking him for this, for taking care of her, feeding her, and obliging to her more intimate needs.

He let her make her feeble attempt at catching the bowl, his hold on her legs loosening as her foot fell away from his lap, he could only smile as he leaned forward, catching her before she leaned too far and fell into the floor, his arms slowly shifting to cradle the dark haired woman in his arms.

“I’ve got you now, my little plum.”

Gently, he pressed his lips to the edge of her brow, taking the chance to breathe in her scent; sweat and stale perfume with the faint acrid tang of cigarette smoke, gods, the smell of her was so addictive, he wished he could wake up every morning to the scent of her neck nestled against his nose. Letting the thought slip from him, he would adjust her weight in his arms, navigating her apartment as of he himself had lived there as he would carry her to her bedroom and gingerly he would place her down upon the old bed, the worn springs creaking precariously under her weight.

For a moment he would stare down at her his charcoal gaze lingering upon her face for a few fleeting seconds before he lowered his hand, grazing her cheek with his knuckles, slowly easing the back of his hand down the delicate curve of her jaw.

“So beautiful,” he murmured softly as he thumbed a stray hair from her neck.

[fallesto]

"We will be alright." 

She murmured, applying rouge to her cheeks. "We merely need to endure one more night." The girl in front of the mirror exhaled softly before grasping the wooden comb that had been left behind by her older sister, her fingers weaving through her knotted hair before pulling it tight.

The rouge quivered in her grasp as she applied it to her cheekbone, the color reflecting the lamplight like fresh blood. Outside their fragile paper door, the sound of geta sandals and the raucous laughter of inebriated patrons began to filter in, another evening of guests arriving too soon, too eager. Her image in the tarnished bronze mirror flickered as Michikatsu's hands rested on her shoulders from behind, their warmth contrasting sharply with the coolness of the room. As her sister was reaching over to soften the harsh lines of the rouge with her thumb. The closeness of the action caused Yoriichi to catch her breath. They had not shared such a touch, devoid of intent, since their childhood days spent in a futon in their mother’s sickroom.

A sudden knock at the door caused them both to tense. "Ten minutes."

As she completed her lips with a final application of pigment, the waxy rouge formed a perfect bow shape that appeared almost too fragile for the demands that would soon be placed upon it. The mirror reflected her twin's hands lingering at her collarbone, Michikatsu's fingers tracing the hollow there as if committing the shape to memory.

Neither of them mentioned it.

Then she exhaled softly; she looked breathtaking, they both did. The rouge on her lips matched the exact hue of the camellias that had blossomed outside their childhood home the spring prior to the arrival of the soldiers. Michikatsu's fingers remained against her collarbone, her breath warm against the shell of Yoriichi's ear. The silence enveloping them was thick with unexpressed sentiments, the kind that soured like spoiled milk when left too long in the heat.

A small movement as she sighed and rose, the silk of her underrobe whispering against her thighs like a secret. The rouge on her cheeks suddenly felt burdensome, akin to war paint before a battle she had not chosen. Michikatsu's fingers withdrew from her collarbone as she moved, leaving a lingering warmth in their absence. Outside, the raucous laughter swelled, and someone was singing off-key about cherry blossoms while others clapped along in an uneven rhythm.

"We got a long night .."

[moonslament]

“Always one more night,” she muttered under her breath. It was always just “one more night” and it would always be “one more night” they had a debts to work off, debts that seemed to pile even higher with each passing day rather than diminish. It was a part of this life, it was a trap that was nearly impossible to escape unless one found a rich man to fall head over heels and buy out their debts, but even that entailed a new type of prison, like snagging a dog from a shelter. The thought of it all made her stomach clench around the meager supper they had been given, she detested the lack of free will, she cursed the looks of pity and lust from men as they looked down upon her.

She was already prepared for the night, her face painted in shades of white and scarlet that did not suit her- or at least she did not believe it did, not when it made her face feel smothered as if she were being suffocated with a wax pillow. The expanse of her body had been draped in elegantly embroidered violet silk, flowers and a bow adorning the fabric of her obi, as if she had been wrapped in gift paper, waiting to be unwrapped, though she supposed that was the appeal of it all. The men who came here only wished for what was concealed beneath silks.

What pained her most of all about their situation was not her own suffering, not her own discomfort, but the fact that she had been unable to shield her own baby sister from the horrors of this place, from the hungry eyes and hands of the worst of men. She had to be careful, she had already stirred up enough trouble when she had fractured the wrist of a man who had grabbed Yoriichi by the hair and called her a whore— Michikatsu had beaten the man to the ground before she even had time to think it over.

No one would speak ill of her sister, and most of all, no one would lay a hand upon her, even if Yoriichi could defend herself, it was Michikatsu’s duty as the eldest to keep her safe.

Long slender fingers reached forward, curling into the other woman’s hand for a moment, a small comfort that she awarded in a moment that caused a sense of doom to linger in the air like smoke.

“We shall bear through this…together.”

And just like that, the elder of the two slipped away, her tabi socks whispering against the worn tatami as she would extinguish two of the oils lanterns in the room, dimming the lights as if the dancing shadows would be enough to hide away the sins committed in this den of depravity. She could already hear the sound of footsteps down the corridor outside, their cadence starkly even and sober against the blooming atmosphere of drunkenness.

“I will not welcome him in until you are ready…”

[moonslament]

Time seemed to pass in a blur in the red light district, just like lipstick that smeared across from the lips of the disoriented patron’s lips and collars— much to the dismay of some of their wives who would have to later scrub the remnants of their infidelity from their yukata just as they had time and time again to avoid the shame of outside eyes peering at the bold shades of ruby that did not match the reserved tones of peach that they wore. This place, it was a constant exchange of coin and the bodies of destitute women, some sold off by their families to pay debts, others victims of circumstances, while others had been sent to atone for minor crimes committed.

The two sisters, twins, had been assigned to the same room, special quarters for a much desired rarity, for in a den of depravity such as this, twins were not seen as a symbol of misfortune, but instead a means for perverted men to live out their fantasies, for what was better than one beautiful woman? A second that matched her in beauty and grace. Within these walls, they were not human, they were the patrons’ walking fetish, objects to distract men for their mundane lives, tastes of something new.

They had been sentences to three years of labor, three years that they would earn no income for it would all go to paying for their meals, their clothes, and the room they occupied, the rest would line the pockets of the men who had brought them here, a better alternative to death— or at least that is what some would say.

It seemed as if they were bought out for the evening, a common occurrence, one that they had grown accustomed to by now, one they had to become accustomed to for in this place it was entertain or starve and even they had to break sometime between the first and second week of missing meals.

Still, fingers ran through inky strands, tucking flyaways neatly behind adorned ears, fingers nimbly painting lips with a bold shade of crimson meant to catch hungry eyes.

@fallesto

[fallesto]

Slowly she scraped the last traces of melted vanilla from her bowl with the spoon’s edge, the metal clinking against ceramic like a dull blade. The cold sweetness lingered on her tongue—fleeting, already forgotten. She set the bowl down too hard, the sound sharp against the hum of the fridge and the distant drip of a leaky faucet. Kagutsuchi’s gaze burned against her skin like sunlight through a magnifying glass, poised to ignite.

As she moved and put the owls in the sink. Two ceramic ones, their hollow bellies still slick with melted ice cream, their wide painted eyes staring up at her like judgmental witnesses. The left one had a chip on its wing—she remembered throwing it against a wall last winter when the landlord came knocking. The right one was pristine, save for the sticky spoon still wedged in its mouth. She turned the tap on too hard, water spraying up to fleck her tank top as she jammed a finger into the first owl’s gullet, swirling out the dregs of vanilla.

Turning she walked back and sat on the couch, the springs groaning under her weight like an old man complaining about the weather. She didn't sink into the cushions so much as collapse into them, her body folding at odd angles—one knee hooked over the armrest, the other foot planted firmly on the floor, toes curling against the sticky linoleum. The ice cream had settled in her stomach like a cold stone, doing nothing to quell the heat still simmering between her thighs.

“I never knew you to be head over heels for someone.”

As she looked at him and still felt odd—not the usual revulsion she reserved for leering men, but something stickier, like syrup clinging to the roof of her mouth. The ice cream had melted into a lukewarm puddle in her gut, but the heat between her thighs hadn’t subsided. It pulsed in time with the flickering kitchen light overhead, casting jagged shadows across Kagutsuchi’s face as he leaned forward, his fingers hovering near her bare foot like a supplicant awaiting permission to touch a relic.

“Fine, it hurts just a little, I’m just tired from the day, that is all.”

Slowly, she nodded and plopped her dainty foot onto his lap, the arch of it flexing slightly as if testing the weight of his attention. Her toes were painted a chipped black—the polish uneven where she’d applied it weeks ago while drunk, half-heartedly kicking at the coffee table to disperse the fumes. Now, those same toes curled reflexively when Kagutsuchi’s fingers brushed the sensitive hollow beneath her ankle. His touch was warm. Too warm. Like sunlight through a whiskey bottle.

“Might have knocked it into the wall, or twisted it.”

[moonslament]

One would generally pay no mind to actions so utterly mundane, there was nothing too significant or interesting about a woman washing out dishes in a dingy little apartment, but he did, he found every aspect of her to be significant, especially now as he tried to gauge the effects of the aphrodisiac that he had slipped in her dinner, he wanted to watch as she crumbled under the influence of the drugs— he wanted to see of she would be desperate enough to come to him.

Kagutsuchi’s fingers idly drew circles into the nicotine stained arm of the couch, his nails catching into the coarse weave of the fabric, only as she turned back to him would he avert his gaze, not because he was ashamed of his staring, but because he didn’t want her to catch on to his little scheme in fear that it would ruin this good thing he had going on for him. Before he had met her he had nothing to live for, life was passing him by, he was being left behind, approaching the end of his rope, but the moment he had laid eyes upon her he had found this new purpose for living. She had becoming his every thought, the root to his drive in all he did, without her he would find no reason to work, to eat, to wake up every morning, everything he did now was to see her, to hear her voice and he tried to reel her in.

“I suppose there us a few things you don’t know about me,” he mused, his charcoal gaze flickering over her form for a second as she sat beside him once again, the couch shifting as it strained under the weight of them both. What a ragged thing it was. He could give her better, better than anyone else could— better than the man who had given her the sweatshirt she wore.

The feeling might have been more along the lines of something deceptively predatory, not the kind that sought to see her demise, but the obsession of a man who had convinced himself that he was in love with her, that they were destines to be tighter, even if she had not yet come to realize. The man with dual-toned hair only wished to share his body and soul with her, he yearned for her company, her affections, everything HER, his means to do so were simply…unconventional…dangerous. Creepy.

He had violated her privacy time after time, hell, he had already violated her as she slept, this…what he was doing now was mere child’s play at this point, though he had to admit that maybe he should have played this a bit better, for he felt an unbearable heat begin to seep from his belly, leeching its way through his nerves and veins. Drugging the entire dish may have not been his brightest idea.

His breath caught in his throat as she plopped her foot upon his lap, his slender fingers twitching just an inch from the warmth of her skin as he felt his heart thud almost painfully in his chest as she granted him permission to touch. Slowly, the pads of his fingers splayed against the soft skin of her ankle, ghosting over the delicate bone that jutted out just beneath that soft skin. Pressing his own legs together, he made an attempt to hide his mounting excitement. He had never been this close to her while she was awake, he had never been able to touch her with her permission.

“You…should rest,” he breathed out, his voice wavering ever so slightly as he tried to restrain himself, a task that was difficult when his face was already flushed and his teeth were unconsciously nibbling at his bottom lip.

Still, he gentle massaged her sore ankle, working his thumb expertly against delicate muscles, his other hand abandoning its resting place on the armrest as he redirected his fingers to trace the elegant arch of the bottom of her foot. Her skin was so soft. If she allowed him to, he would have painted her nails, her feet would look pretty pressed against his cock with a fresh coat of paint on her toes.

[hide-and-seekrets]

[fallesto]

@moonslament

[fallesto]

“I would like that Atlas, but it seems, fate might have something else in store for us.”

He nodded and moved with the group, his sandals silent against the warped boards where others stumbled. The island hummed beneath them, not with music or laughter, but with something deeper, something that vibrated against his molars like the aftertaste of a struck bell. Kyosuke's hooves left shallow dents in the wood, each step punctuated by a wet, clicking sound as his tendons snapped taut beneath furred skin. Michikatsu walked just ahead, his shoulders rigid where they hadn't been before, his hakama straining over thighs that were no longer entirely human.

“It seems, whatever dark magic is here …”

He felt his tail flickering, an involuntary twitch that sent a ripple of unease up his spine. It wasn’t just the physical sensation, the way the unfamiliar appendage moved with a will of its own, brushing against the back of his knees like a persistent ghost. It was the knowledge of it. The way his body, once so familiar, now betrayed him in increments: the thickening of his nails into keratin, the slow fusion of his toes, the itch beneath his skin where fur pushed through like blades of grass through cracked pavement. He didn’t fear the transformation itself. He feared what it meant, the loss of control, the inevitability of becoming something else.

“Has no sway over you.”

As he glanced back, his sandals scraping against warped floorboards sticky with spilled syrup. Kyosuke was no longer walking, he plodded, his hooves landing heavy and uneven, head swinging low between hunched shoulders. The straw hat he'd worn earlier dangled around his neck by its fraying cord, now stretched tight against his elongated muzzle. His lips peeled back in what might have been a grin or a grimace, exposing flat yellow teeth grinding against nothing.

Then he saw them first.

The park workers in their moth-eaten uniforms, their wide grums stretched too tight across faces that never blinked. They moved in eerie unison, herding the newly transformed boys with long, hooked poles that glinted wetly under the lantern light. The donkeys went quietly, their hooves dragging splinters from the warped boards, their human eyes still bright with terror beneath coarse fur. One worker jabbed a pole into a smaller donkey's flank, producing a sound like a sack of wet grain hitting stone. The creature staggered but didn't bray. It couldn't.

“Move.”

He stopped walking when the first splinter dug into his hoof, not his foot, not anymore. The sandal strap had snapped an hour ago, frayed by the coarse fur sprouting around his ankles. He knelt, fingers pausing over the buckle. The leather was warm, pliant from the heat of his changing flesh beneath it. He undid the clasp. The sandal fell with a muted thud, revealing what he'd known was there: a hoof, dark and glossy as wet cherry wood, cleft down the middle where toes should be.

“We keep moving, they are starting to gather everyone who is too far gone.”

He prodded it experimentally. The sensation wasn't unpleasant, just different, like touching someone else's limb. Michikatsu made a choked noise behind him. "Your—" His brother's voice cracked. He didn't look up. He already knew what he'd see: Michikatsu's fingers clutching at his own hakama, the fabric straining over thighs that had thickened, the curve of his spine beginning its slow arch toward something quadrupedal.

“Atlas, if we change, keep us together, the only way out of here, might be all of us being gathered together, you might have to be a bit more braver, and hide.”

[moonslament]

Dark magic? Such thoughts brought him back to the nights that his nanny would read him fables and fairytales of evil witches luring in children just to gobble them up, his vivid imagination made him picture a nasty green witch covered in warts tearing their flesh from their bones after turning them into helpless little animals, it made him shiver in disgust. He didn’t want to be eaten by a witch, nor did he want his friends to be eaten by some nasty old hag, he would eat her if she tried.

Atlas took a moment to look at himself, his lips pursed slightly in thought as he then looked to the other boys around them and how far they had transformed already. The other boy was not wrong, it seemed as if he were relatively normal, save for a few new hairs here and there, though he did have his suspicions on why he hadn’t been affected like they had- he was not human, maybe human adjacent, but not human and his kind lived much longer lives than humans as they lived by the rules of cats, they lived with nine lives.

The boy was about to speak, about to try to help make some sense of why he had remained unchanged while all his friends were turning into donkeys, but he was unable to share, for he too stopped and turned to look at Kyosuke, the boy looked as if he were on the verge of giving in, the fire that once burned in his eyes had dimmed into flickering embers, his cherished bow had long been lost upon the uneven boards of their open air prison disguised as paradise.

Then he hissed, a growl clawing at the back of his throat as his fur stood on end- one look at the so called “workers” and his danger sense went off like an alarm. Something about them was uncanny, they weren’t right.

He wouldn’t need to be told to move again for his feet were moving before the words fully left the other boy’s lips, though he did glance back to ensure that Kyosuke was following as well- so far the youngest boy was, but his steps were much slower, as if he were in no rush to follow.

“I-I can try,” the boy half squeaked, though his voiced wavered slightly with fear. “I don’t want the witch to eat you guys,” he sniffled, his tail curling as tears welled in the corners of his eyes.

[fuxhi]

Yamada Asaemon Fuchi RP/ask blog Mun is 25+ Semi-selective crossover and OC friendly May contain 18+ themes Please read rules before interacting penned by suns (est. April 3, 2026)

[sunsblaze]

//I will be here for a while guy!

[moonslament]

^^^

[aeromantica]

[fallesto]

@moonslament

[fallesto]

“Maybe in another life, another time, I would have liked to have been an assistant in work such as what you take a strong passion in, but it was never meant to be, something else called out to me.”

His fingers flexed unconsciously at his sides as Fuchi's sleeve brushed against his wrist. That deliberate, familiar contact that always carried the unspoken question. The autopsy room's oppressive heat seemed to condense between them when Fuchi mentioned eel, that particular vendor whose stall smelled of caramelized soy and charred cedar. He exhaled through his nose, long and measured, as though steadying himself before stepping onto a tightrope.

"Kitchen duty." He repeated, voice drier than the sawdust clinging to Fuchi's hakama hem. His thumb traced the lacquered hilt of his katana, a habitual motion that betrayed nothing and everything. "You set fire to rice last time." Not an accusation. A fact delivered with the same detached precision as his blade parting vertebrae. Yet his lips twitched when Fuchi's face crumpled in mock indignation.

“Duty is duty, doing it with a friend, makes it easier.”

As he walked with him into the town, their footsteps falling into an uneven rhythm, Fuchi's sandals scuffing against the dirt road with every other step, his stride measured and silent as a blade being drawn. The midday sun pressed down on their shoulders, but the heat felt different here, away from the cloying scent of formaldehyde and iron. Instead, the air carried the tang of soy sauce simmering in vendor stalls, the earthy musk of sun-warmed wood, and beneath it all, the faint metallic whisper of blood from the butcher's stall two alleys over.

“Hm.”

The vendor's stall stood wedged between a blacksmith's billowing smoke and a laundress scrubbing linens in murky water. His nose twitched at the scent, charred cedar and caramelized soy, undercut by something darker, richer. The eel vendor himself was a hunched creature with skin like cured leather, his knuckles swollen around the bamboo skewers he turned over glowing coals.

"Two."

He said, fingertips brushing the coins in his sleeve. Not a request. A transaction. As he paid, he would never ask for Fuchi to pay for anything, this was his treat.

As he turned and he would move on with him. The thought of tonight and a thousand other tasks with him trailing like a bloodstain across his mind as he saw Fuchi's fingers curled around the vendor's bamboo skewer, grease glistening on his knuckles. The eel vendor's chuckle rasped like a dull blade against stone, but he heard none of it. Only the wet crunch of Fuchi biting into charred flesh, the way juice dribbled down his chin before he swiped it away with the back of his wrist. A droplet lingered near the corner of his mouth. His thumb twitched toward it instinctively before clenching into a fist at his side.

“What is a good spot then?”

[moonslament]

The notion of rebirth was not one he could prove, nor was it something he necessarily believed in, it was illogical, but if such a thing were indeed reality, he hoped that they would be reborn as friends once more, even if they walked different paths as they did now. “I would be content as long as we were reborn together,” the man hummed as he rolled his own skewer between his fingers, watching passively as the grease soaked between the creases of his fingers.

“At least we can present a proper meal, I have no clue what they were thinking having Senta and I on meal duty on the same night,” he chuckled as he took a hearty bite of eel, there was just something about the greasy food at these vendors stalls that just appealed to him, the flavors clung to the back of his tongue, the smokiness of hot coals that clung to the sweet glaze, there was something comforting about it. “It also helps that unlike me, you can prepare a fit meal. I believe I made Eizen and Genji fall ill, it amazes me that I am still allowed in the kitchen.”

It was a comical thing to see Fuchi’s solution to keep up with his friend’s longer stride, even now, with casual pace they were keeping the shorter male had to half skip to keep up, his woven sandals skittering across the packed earth. He had wanted to treat his friend, though he would not complain about the other man paying, he knew it was simply the type of person his Shu was, he would simply have to return the kindness in other ways, be it suturing the man’s wounds or preparing him medicines when he falls ill.

When inquired about their perfect little spot the blond perked up, his eyes shining as he took Shugen’s hand into his own after tucking his book under his arm, his other hand clutching his skewer as he would guide him towards a small passage that cut between two buildings. “I found this spot the other week while out searching for leeches,” as he would guide his companion further, leading him into the small forest that bordered the southern edge of town. It would take them a few minutes, but oh, wasn’t the sight worth it.

Willows hung by the pond’s edge, their drooping branches dappled with fragrant blooms that fell like fresh snow when the breeze combed through them, the petals littered the water’s surface the water cool and clear, clear enough to see that the bottom was adorned with smooth pebbles and green water weeds. The sweetness of the flowers mingled perfectly with the scent of cool, freshwater and moss, all the while, birds sang to and fro, a song between two sparrows who longed to be closer, yet one wavered with a hesitation that could not be pinpointed. It truly was a scene described by some lover’s poem.

When he had first laid eyes upon this place, the first thing he could think of was the one who stood beside him, he had told no other of this place for he wished to have it for himself for the time being, just until he was able to enjoy it with Shu.

[fallesto]

He paused mid-stride, his black hakama whispering against the cobblestones. The words registered slowly, like a blade sinking into flesh rather than cutting clean. Laying on the floor. Yelled. Neither action matched the Fuchi he knew. The Fuchi who meticulously labeled her specimen jars, who could recite every tendon in the human hand by touch alone.

He didn't know what was wrong with Fuchi, but they would find out—even if it meant tearing apart every rule that bound them to the Yamada clan's cold doctrines. His sandals scuffed against gravel as he pivoted toward the medicine shed, the other scrambling to keep pace. The scent of dried herbs hit them first, mugwort and chrysanthemum—before he shouldered the sliding door open with a force that rattled the jars on their shelves.

"Hm .."

His gaze swept the medicine shed ... empty. The low worktable where Fuchi usually dissected specimens stood pristine, scalpels aligned like soldiers at attention. No bloodstains. No half-stitched cadavers. Just the lingering scent of formaldehyde undercut by something acrid—burnt herbs? His fingers brushed the teakettle on the brazier. Still warm.

The door slammed shut behind him with a finality that made the other with him flinch. Outside, the evening air was thick with the scent of cherry blossoms, too sweet, cloying, like syrup left to spoil in the sun. His sandals crushed fallen petals as he strode past the dojo's training yard, where the rhythmic shouts of apprentices drilling forms dissolved into murmurs at his passing.

"Fuchi!" He called, voice low but carrying. The word tasted wrong, not her name, but a plea wrapped in a command. No answer came from the shadowed alcoves between storehouses. Only the flutter of a crow's wings, disturbed from its perch atop the clan's records hall.

"Fuchi!"

As he vaulted the low garden wall in a single motion, landing silently between rows of medicinal herbs. The moon cast long fingers through the bamboo lattice, striping Fuchi's overturned watering can with silver. His fingers traced the damp earth where she'd knelt earlier, indentations too deep for casual tending. Kneeling here, she'd dug her nails into soil like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

"Fuchi!"

He found her hairpin wedged between two stones by the koi pond. The silver carp motif was bent at an unnatural angle, as if wrenched free during a struggle. His thumb brushed the twisted metal while his other hand unconsciously checked the tanto at his waist. Across the pond, disturbed reeds formed a broken trail toward the eastern wall where the clan's plum trees grew thickest.

"Fuchi!"

[moonslament]

The younger man stumbled along, though he was unsure of how much use he would be- Shugen knew Fuchi much better than he did, it was why he had come to the man about the odd behavior he had seen the woman display, he had come along simply because he still worried for his friend- and so Shugen could take whatever she would throw at him this time. He didn’t know one could throw an envelope so hard…

Shugen really knew how to make an entrance…he was almost surprised that he hadn’t simply knocked the door off its tracks, speaking of which, Tenza would linger at the door, though he would raise a brow seeing as Fuchi, who he had just seen, was now nowhere to be seen- she was a fast little thing. “She was just here,” he mused as his eyes scanned around, his spine straightening as he too began to worry just a fraction.

Still, he trailed behind, wiping a few stray beads of sweat from his temple, his fists clenched in a silent determination as for once he was able to use his brain, he was quite the opposite to Fuchi in regards to forming plans, but this one would be…well, better than nothing. “I’ll go see if any of the others have seen her, I’m sure she hasn’t gone far.” Before he could get an answer, he was already splitting off, his feet guiding him towards where he had previously seen Sagiri and Senta chatting away, he was sure one of them might have caught something.

The medicinal teas she had steeped hadn’t even touched upon the pain, it still twisted tightly in her abdomen like a rope tangled up in knots, fraying at the edges, a radiating thing it was, one that she could feel pulsing through her hips and up her spine. It was why she sought out this isolation, a place where no one would bother her with requests, just for a little while, just until the cramping eased off.

A soft groan spilled past her lips as she splayed out under the plum tree her sleeve draping over her face like a veil as she writhed uncomfortably against the cool, damp clover, not because of coolness of it, but because she felt as if she were being roasted on a spit. She heard her name being called in the distance just as she was shrugging her robes from her shoulders, though instead of responding she would let the fabric fall around her waist before falling back against the clover once more, the damp greenery felt rather pleasant against her flushed skin. She had already abandoned her hair pin, once more piece of clothing would not matter, nor did the voice calling her name, for she knew who it belonged to and she knew that he would find her, he always did.

She would just lay under the moon’s cool light, one of her arms thrown over her face while the other pressed firmly into the soft roll of flesh that adorned her belly, her breath spilling out in slow, steady puffs as the a few stray petals from the canopy above fluttered down, kissing her sternum like a butterfly landing on a fresh bloom.

[kosmicallie]

[fallesto]

@moonslament

[moonslament]

The grounds of the dojo were bustling with activity, it had been a busy month for everyone between demand for more medications due to an illness that had spread across the land and the sharp spike in crime that had sent them lopping head off by the dozens, though it was only natural that times of strife brought an increase of crime, even when times were tough people had to eat, people had needs, but the cost of being caught was a steep one indeed. In the courtyard, Sagiri and Senta chatted away while Shion and Eizen kept themselves busy in the in the dojo with some of the clan’s younglings, repeating basic sword forms for hours on end, drilling posture and technique into the upcoming generation.

The others were somewhere around, be it running errands or out on a summons or simply taking a moment of leisure to chat with their comrades. Though a certain Asaemon had yet to make their appearance- it was rare indeed, but at least twice a day Fuchi could be caught skittering along the grounds, be it for a snack or a break from whatever she was doing to chat or brush up on her swordsmanship, despite the work she did in the secluded shed, she was still an executioner and sword tester just as the others.

“Hey, Shugen, sir!” A familiar voice called out as footsteps approached the dark-haired man, the stride seemed hurried, but not necessarily urgent in nature. Behind him approached the tenth raked Asaemon, Yamada Asaemon Tenza, a young man that had been pulled off the streets and brought into the clan years ago by Shion, a boy that had once been described as troubled. As he caught up with the older man he let out an exasperated sigh, though it wasn’t directed at the man, more at just the general direction this day had brought him.

“Hey, do you know what’s up with Fuchi,” he asked, haphazardly flapping his arm from the direction he had just come from. “I came to see about getting something for a headache, after- well, thats not important…anyways, when I came in she was laying on the floor and yelled at me.” Maybe the yelling part was a little exaggerated, but she was snappy- but he did get his medicine, that was apparent by the small pouch shaped imprint on the side of his face.

“Figured you’d know since she is your gir- since she is your friend,” he corrected himself, clearing his throat a bit- truth be told, there had been a bot of a rumor going around that the two were dating, though that was only because they spent so many nights studying and picking apart corpses together.

@fallesto

[mangassc]

[fallesto]

@moonslament

[fallesto]

“I am not sure, I don’t know what is happening.”

Slowly his fingers curled around the scrap of cloth, Barnaby's torn leg as he knelt beside Kyosuke. The boy was no longer a boy. Not entirely. His spine arched unnaturally, vertebrae pressing against the fabric of his shirt like knotted rope beneath a sheet. As he had seen this with others, he did not expect it to happen to someone in this new group, but it had. He saw that  Kyosuke's breaths came in wet snorts, his nostrils flaring wide with each exhale. When he lifted his head, the whites of his eyes had yellowed, the pupils oblong and black as tar pits.

"Shh."

He pressed the fabric into Atlas's waiting claws before turning back to Kyosuke. His hand settled between the boy's twitching ears, fingers splaying over the coarse fur sprouting along his scalp. The touch was neither hesitant nor pitying, just present. He felt that  Kyosuke shuddered, a full-body tremor that started at his hunched shoulders and traveled down his spine to the stiffening tail flicking at his heels. His fingers .. no, his hooves scrabbled against the warped wood, splinters embedding themselves in keratin that hadn't been there yesterday.

Then he turned, and saw it first in the way Michikatsu's fingers curled too stiffly, the knuckles bulging under skin that had darkened to the color of old bruises. His brother's hands, once deft enough to pluck fireflies from the air without crushing their wings, now ended in blunt keratin where fingernails should be. They twitched at his sides like restless animals, scraping against the fabric of his hakama with a sound like dried reeds rustling.

“Time is against all of us.”

Michikatsu hadn't noticed yet. He was too busy glaring at Kyosuke's hunched form, his own thickened tail lashing behind him in sharp, irritated arcs. The lantern light caught the sweat sheening his forehead, the way his breaths came just a fraction too fast. When he took a step forward to snap at Atlas about something trivial, his sandal slipped not from the warped wood, but because his foot no longer bent the way human feet should.

“For the others, I fear they might be too far gone, but we can try.”

The words came out quieter than intended, almost lost beneath the Ferris wheel’s metallic groan overhead. “We need to leave. To be able to help anyone” His fingers lingered on Kyosuke’s twitching ear, feeling the pulse beneath too-warm fur. He saw Atlas’s grip tightened around Barnaby’s repaired leg, his claws snagging on loose threads. The lion boy opened his mouth to protest, to agree, he  couldn’t tell, but Michikatsu moved first.

The Ferris wheel's shadow stretched long and skeletal across the path as he led them deeper into the park, where the lanterns flickered less frequently, their light pooling in erratic patches like spilled ink. Michikatsu lagged half a step behind, his gait uneven not from hesitation, but from the way his sandals no longer flexed properly around his changing feet. Kyosuke stumbled between them, his hooves catching on warped floorboards with every third step, while Atlas clutched Barnaby to his chest, his lion's tail twitching in tight arcs as if counting down to something inevitable.

“Stick close, whatever happens stick close and if there is trouble, run.”

[moonslament]

The boy who stood hunched on all fours was desperately trying to cling to the last bits of himself as whatever curse that was trying to take him was fighting to pull his mind into the wilds, trying to turn him into a beast, not only physically, but mentally as well. Even now, the words of the other boys sounded warbled, as if he were trying to listen to them through water, no words made sense and yet a part of him somehow understood what he was to do.

Kyosuke would press the top of his head further into the other boy’s palm, the touch was grounding, comforting, enough to help ease his uneven breaths and the pain that shot through his spine like lightning, a pain that he could not even express for his cries came out in a series of whinnies and snorts, a fate that not only washed over him, but now it reached out for Michikatsu, threatening to drag him under just as it had the other boys who had stepped foot upon this island.

At least they could try.

It wasn’t much, but it was better than to sit by and completely forget about those other boys, to flee and leave them to suffer alone, even just a small kindness was better than nothing, even if all they could do was leave this place and alert the adults of what was going on, though the main problem would be finding an adult that would believe a story so ridiculous. His knew his papa had punished him severely for making up stories…what if the adults didn’t believe them?

His blue gaze flicked from Kyosuke to some of the other boys who ran around of newly formed hooves, he still didn’t feel right about leaving them, though there was little to be done. The boy with the lion’s tail could only tuck his nose against his stuffed dog’s head as he took hesitant steps as he followed along with Kyosuke and the other two boys, though he stuck right beside his original companion for the time being, not because he didn’t like the other two boys, but because he was worried about his friend.

“Mhmm,” he boy hummed quietly, the hairs on his neck standing on end, though unbeknownst to him, the hairs on his neck standing arms and back had begun to grow thicker beneath his coat, his claws imperceptibly growing longer.

It seemed the odd change didn’t yield to his already animalistic form.

Atlas did however keep glancing at the elder of the twins, he could smell the scent of fur damp with sweat growing stronger, he could see the subtle shifts of the other boy’s body as his toes slowly fused into something more hoof than foot. It worried him enough that he was willing to part from his friend’s side to catch up to Yoriichi, his clawed hand clinging to the younger boy’s sleeve. “I hope that…if we don’t make it in time, that we can still be friends…”

[fallesto]

He found him to be odd, but then, everyone did.

The way Fuchi hummed while peeling back layers of flesh as casually as one might shuck an orange. The reverence in his voice when describing the latticework of veins beneath skin, as though reciting poetry. Yet where others saw morbidity, he saw devotion. Where they recoiled, he leaned closer. It wasn’t tolerance; it was kinship. A bond forged in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, their sleeves brushing as they bent over cadavers, their hands equally stained.

"Mm. I would adore that."

He admitted, softer than intended. The confession hovered between them like incense smoke, fragile, dissipating too quickly. He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the corpse cooling beside them. "But first—" With deliberate care, he lifted the severed leg from the table, its weight slick in his palms. He saw that he watched, amused, as he deposited it into a brine-filled vat with the solemnity of a priest offering libations. The limb sank with a thick plop.

"There. Now it won’t spoil."

The brine sloshed against the vat's sides as he wiped his hands on a rag already stiff with old blood. Fuchi's laughter, bright and incongruous in the dissection room, made something tighten in his chest. It wasn't discomfort. It was the same sensation as catching a child before they stumbled into a busy street, that split-second lurch of protective instinct. Fuchi wasn't a child, of course. But he had long since accepted that his affection for the man manifested as the urge to stand between him and the world's sharp edges.

"Your technique with the rib spreaders has improved, I am impressed."

He observed, nudging a gleaming instrument on the tray. The compliment was genuine, though he'd sooner chew glass than admit how often he'd lingered outside the autopsy room just to listen to Fuchi's cheerful humming between bone cracks.

"Grab the book, and let us go then."

As his fingers lingered on Fuchi's cheekbone longer than necessary, the calloused pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to leave a temporary pale mark against flushed skin. The gesture was absurd, unbecoming of an executioner who'd carved through thirty-seven spinal columns this month alone. Yet here he was, pinching flesh still warm with life instead of peeling it cold from bone.

"You deserve to have a day to enjoy."

[moonslament]

The views he held when it came to the bodies of the deceased were definitely odd for most in this era, most viewed the vessels of the dead as impure and foul things, but to him they were nothing more than human, just as he was, just as the man before him was, they all had hearts in their chests, lungs beneath their ribs, though he would argue about them all having brains with some he had met over the years. Maybe that was why he valued the man’s companionship, even knowing of the carnage that trailed behind him like a mourning shroud, the like mindedness, the kindness, the integrity, those nights had chased away the insecurity that had lingered deep within his mind, chased away the feeling that he did not belong.

Those nights together had always been something he looked forward to, even if he would not admit it aloud, he would always get stuck with that same dorky grin and he blabbered on and on about something he had read or something odd he had found in their latest cadaver.

The tenderness of the man’s words had stilled him for a moment, his breath catching in the back of his throat for just a fraction of a second. Adore. He liked the word, he liked how it spilled past the other man’s lips like sinner whispering their admissions in confessional. However, he perked up as the dark-haired man broke the silence, his gaze snapping to the man’s hands as he picked up the severed limb, it was touching that even now Shu-kun was thoughtful of him and his work.

“Thank you, you know, you would make an excellent assistant, Shu,” he mused, laughing a bit to himself as he shifted, his feet shuffling along the floor as he made his way to a small closet in to the side- he always kept a change of clothes on hand, while the blood did not bother him, he didn’t exactly wish to go out soaked in gore, especially if he was needed for more official matters. The man was quick to shed the outer layers of his robes, though before he redressed he took the time to neatly fold the soiled linens, only pausing a second as he was complimented. The man had a sparkle in his eye as he turned his gaze towards his dear friend, a shit eating grin pulling at the corners of his lips, his attitude was not one of arrogance, but of a genuine warmth that bloomed in his chest as a result of the kind words.

“Repetition and some encouragement were key, there is always room for one to improve ones skills…speaking of,” the blond straightened his posture as he finished adjusting the fresh set of robes, his slender fingers, scarred from slipped scalpels and misplaced needles, slid over his kataginu, adjusting the fabric. “It seems as if we are both stuck on kitchen duty tonight, the others say my culinary skills could use some improvement,” he huffed, pursing his lips as he half snatched his book up from one of the tabled that adorned the wall opposite to the entrance.

His cooking was…horrendous, even more so than the human-briny concoction that the second ranked Asaemon stood beside, it seemed his knack for medicines did not translate well into food.

Fuchi was quick to take his place at the other’s side, one hand clutched his prized book to his chest, one that was bound with fresh leather, and the other ghosted along the sleeve of his companion. He swore that he would still feel the warm, lingering touch of fingers on his skin, though all his other senses told his heart otherwise, it was simply a result of sentiment.

“A break is welcomed so long as it is with you.”

His words were somewhat bold, though he was never the type to dance around pretty words, he had always been upfront or simply did not speak if he felt what he had to say would not be appropriate for the moment, but this moment felt right as he enjoyed the time they spent together.

“There is a vendor on the way, he sells the best eel, my treat,” he offered, though he would not look up at the other- he may or may not have planned this little escapade ahead of time.