#Edo AU

[sabraeal]

Get Up Eight, Chapter 11

[Read on AO3]

There are few memories of her earliest years left to Shirayuki, but there is always this: her, in no more than her fourth or fifth summer, small legs tucked beneath her on the tatami, following Oba-san’s reflection in the mirror. In those days, Kino-san’s mother could never have aspired to a glass so large nor so clear, but Oba-san had never spoken of where she had come by it. It would only be on those certain nights that emerged from its hiding place, small jars of cosmetic lined up like offerings on a kamidama.

There was always a wistfulness as she settled in front of it, a longing that Shirayuki no more understood than a mackerel might the shadow of a fisherman’s boat. But she watched anyway, riveted by the ritual of white powder and rouge, by the strong sweep that gave shape to Oba-san's brows. It had been said that her grandmother had been a handsome woman in her youth, as captivating as any of the women in the ochaya, even those who commanded a year’s salary to serve tea. Shirayuki never understood why they spoke of it in the past tense; Oba-san was beautiful now— her hair still thick and black, with only the barest threads of silver strung through it; the delicately tracery at the corner of her eyes only adding to their warmth. But as the powder went across her face, erasing even the smallest blemish, she sees it— the woman Oba-san might have once been. Not the warm grandmother she knew, but the flawless face more suited to a shrine than a sake house.

Why do you dress like that, she had asked, because she was too much a child still to know she meant, I like you better as my grandmother.

Perhaps Oba-san had known anyway, for her smile was as benevolent as a bodhisattva. It reminds me of my own mother. I liked to watch her through her mirror— the way you are now, thinking she was even more beautiful than the Benzaitan painted on the temple’s scrolls. And when I put on this face, I remember her— the way she used to play the biwa in our rooms. The way she played for the love of it.

But your kimono. Shirayuki eyed the exaggerated curve of her collar, baring the whole of her nape. Why are you wearing it like that? Won’t you get cold?

It would be years yet until she saw her first procession in the streets of Edo, until she glimpsed the enticingly bared necks of the most expensive oiran. Until she understood her grandmother’s giggle, hidden behind a hand.

I wonder. Her mouth curves coyly, the lurid red of the paint turning it from familiar to fearsome. Like a wolf wearing her grandmother’s face. Or perhaps more fittingly, a fox. But I have heard that men find a bare nape quite distracting.

Shirayuki may not have understood just what sort of distraction Oba-san implied, but even so, she had worn her collars even closer after that, fussing with the knot of her head scarf until it obscured what skin remained. Even the smallest child knew: distractions lead to accidents; surely it was her duty to make sure her neighbors did not come into misfortune or misadventure.

It wasn’t until later— much, much later— that Oba-san would take her aside and explain why grown men would turn their heads as she passed. Why even with her most modest kimono and hair entirely covered, their eyes would linger on her back. About the intricacies of the union of man and woman, and the complications that could arise from it. And by then, well—she had her own ways of discouraging wandering eyes.

Which hardly helps her now, when it’s her own that stray.

Her feet hurt, that’s all. It makes her mind desperate for an escape, for a distraction from the growing numbness in her toes. And Obi walks just in front of her, his kimono slung askew, as if he’d just come from the baths. As if it hardly concerned him who saw the skin stretched taut across his shoulders, collar lingering low enough to bare where the blades of them kiss.

He should be pale there. She is, at least. But stripped down to his fundoshi at the river’s edge, she’d seen every inch of him, bronze as if he had been personally sun-kissed by the kami themselves.  A pale scar cuts across his shoulder, like kintsugi in reverse, and her eyes are drawn to it, tracing down past where the fabric curls and wondering—

“Ojou-san.” Obi’s long fingers catch her elbow, searing through her juban. Her attention bobbles guiltily from his grip to his grin. “Here. Maybe that’s what you need for those feet of yours.”

Curiosity and confusion churns in her mind as she follows the tilt of his head, settling first on cloth spread over the packed earth, then on the cluster of offerings placed so purposefully across it. Slivers of dried licorice for the throat, a heap of clove buds for the stomach— even cinnamon dried and powdered, to ease a fever.

“A mendicant’s stall,” she murmurs, eyes wandering greedily over his wares. “Do you think he might have…?”

Her teeth clamp shut when she catches the sight of a slim little packet, the paper so thin she can make out the shape of small spheres beneath. Silver ones, she knows, since it has to be—

“Uiro!” the charlatan quacks, smile wide. “Good for anything that might ail you! Stomachache? Headache? Feeling a little light headed? One pill will have you back on your feet in no time!”

Shirayuki turns on her heel. It’s charm that these con artists rely on to hawk their wares, offering easy answers for a premium price; only the foolish choose to linger. Or rather, she tries to— but her ankles twist beneath her, the twine of her straw sandals doing little to help save keeping them on her feet. She stumbles once, twice, and on the third, her knees wobble, threatening to give—

But the firm grip on her elbow keeps her upright. “Not to your liking, eh, ojou-san?”

“It’s snake oil.” Each word strains through her teeth to remove the venom. She’s not foolish— nor stable— enough to shrug off his help, but she does hurry as much as her hobble allows.

Obi hums, humor curling beneath the thin veneer of deference. “Snake oil sounds like just what those feet of yours need right now.”

It’s right there, perched on the tip of her tongue— a whole lecture on the efficacy of these ‘local specialties’— but Obi casts her one of this sideways looks, the kind that makes her skin feel a size too tight, and, ah, he means oil. The kind that could be rubbed into the skin, the way he had with the salve last night. Her feet may be numb, but the arches of them tingle where his thumb had run along them, confident and gentle, a steady stroke from arch to toe. Thinking of him with oil in hand, her heels cradled between his thighs, those clever fingers digging deep into the places that ache—

It makes her far too breathless when she murmurs, “It’s not that kind of medicine. Just…pills to prey upon the most desperate.”

The sigh that saws from him would be more at home on the stage than the street, wistful and insincere all in one. “More’s the pity, ojou-san. I would have enjoyed being on my knees for you.”

*

There’s a curtain hung over the shop’s door, one Obi holds aside as she shuffles through. “You sure you don’t need to put your feet up first, ojou-san? The kimono aren’t going anywhere.”

She does— her feet hang at odd angles when she lifts them, as if everything below the ankle is simply dead weight. Every step is a gamble, a chance that she might roll instead of walk. But to stop now, well— Shirayuki knows that they will not hold her again. “A little longer won’t hurt,” she lies. “It’s not as if I can keep walking around like…”

This, she means to say, juban already pinched between her fingers. But it’s not simply that, not at all. It's already nicer than any of the ones she had stored away in the sake house; the cotton’s so fine it could be a kimono itself. If she to wrap an obi around it, she might pass for properly dressed for days before anyone noticed a lack of layers.

But that's the problem: it’s too fine. All of it is. Miyoko-san had dressed her like a daughter— no, like Kino-san’s wife, with fabric so well-woven it might well be silk. Shirayuki had no eye for cloth, but even she could tell it was worth nearly a year of a working man’s wages. With every eye that lingered as they passed through each post station, the cost was becoming too dear.

Obi lingers in front of a rack, squinting at the robe stretched across it. “These are pretty fine, ojou-san. Good taste.”

“I’m not…” Looking for nice, she doesn’t say, not when the walls burst with color; not the simple stripes she has worn as the proprietor of the sake house, but bright waves of blue that crash into storms of swirling petals, giving way to ships that sail placid bays and flowers that burst into bloom. The sort of shop a real ojou-san might shop in, looking for her everyday wear. “…Hopefully they’ll have something that suits our needs.”

He hums, unconvinced, but she’s saved from his needling by an older woman, emerging from the back of the room with a smile warm enough to keep back the night. “Okyakusama, welcome, welcome. Come in. How is it that I may help you?”

Shirayuki’s attention skitters over the fabric, trying to land on something, anything she could buy ready-made, but—

But she must hesitate too long. Obi bows at her shoulder, far more deferential than any he’s shown her, and says, “We have been traveling a long ways, and my mistress finds herself in need of a new kimono. One that is fit to be worn on the road.”

The proprietor examines her with an appraiser’s eye, taking in her juban’s quality of weave and the brightness of its white. Two days of near constant wear do not display it to its best advantage, but the woman’s eyes crinkle regardless, the faintest curve lingering at the corners of her mouth.

“Yes. I think we can find something that will suit your needs.” She inclines her head, one arm sweeping out towards a room further back in the show. “If you would follow me?”

Shirayuki, in all fairness, tries. Her toes lift, sandal dragging after them, but though her plodding steps had worked fine on the hard-packed earth, tatami is another matter entirely. Her straw sole catches in the narrow gap between mats, and had it been any other day, it would have been nothing to right herself, to simply blush and live with the embarrassment of stumbling like a child. But today her ankles fold instead of standing firm, and she pitches forward, hands flying out to catch herself—

“Ojou-san.” Obi’s voice is as tight as the grip on her elbow, holding her upright. “You should sit down.”

“No, no, I’ll be fine.” She waves him off— or at least she tries. Instead, one flick of her wrist sets her wobbling, knees ready to give at the slightest inconvenience. “Just— just tripped over myself, that’s all.”

He stares down at her, the furrow between his brows implying both concern and incredulity as the proprietor asks, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Shirayuki starts, but it’s drowned out by Obi’s, “Would it be possible for my mistress to sit?”

The woman’s eyes round, glancing to where her feet lay just hidden in the shadow of her hem.

“It would be my pleasure, Okyakusama. I will have it brought out presently.” It would be impossible for her to see the stains on her tabi, not when Shirayuki had taken such pains to wash the blood from them only the night before, but still, she nods, too knowing. “The path to Odawara is hard, no matter whether you come from the pass or the paddies. It is best you do not strain yourself, ojou-sama.”

“Ah!” A flush burns at the tips of her ears. “There’s no need for you to—”

Whether she meant to protest the seat or the honorific, Shirayuki hardly knows, but she’s not given the chance to find out— an assistant hurries over, unfolding a stool right at her feet. Obi wastes no time maneuvering her onto the stretched hemp cloth, setting her bundle aside and tucking her feet so that no wayward apprentice or distracted customer might trip over them. It’s thoughtful, she’ll admit, but Shirayuki scowls at him anyway.

It only serves to pull his mouth wider. “Don’t worry, ojou-san,” he says, so solicitous, so insincere. “You can leave everything to me. I promise I’ll be responsible.”

With your money, he doesn’t say, but his smirk does in spades. “Obi—!”

When Obi turns, it is all charm, even his mended kimono seeming more rich for its humility. “My mistress says that she will leave the rest in my hands, okusama.”

“But—!”

“Please rest, ojou-san,” he hums, turning the force of that charm on her now. “Your humble servant will happily tend to all your desires.”

Ah, her protest had been perched so prettily on her lips, ready to be let loose— but now it stumbles instead, tongue tangling behind her teeth as his brows lift, a suggestion and a tease all in one. It’s impossible to look at him, not when she can still feel his teeth on her neck, phantom pins prickling all up and down her spine.

“A-all right,” she murmurs, cheeks so hot she must rival the color of some of these fabrics. “I’ll wait.”

The woman glances back at her with the faintest smile. “Come with me, okyakusama. I think I have something that will please you.”

*

Were Shirayuki able to pace, she would surely have worn a trench in the tatami. In her head, mon slip between her fingers, fluttering away like sakura petals on the wind. It should be her back there— she is the daughter of a sake house, used to dickering down to the very last coin, and Obi…

Well, she’s not quite sure where he’s from, but he can’t squeeze a sen like she can. Or at least, so she thinks until he emerges from the back with kimono in hand, grinning from ear to ear. The proprietor, though hardly unfriendly, appears distinctly less pleased.

“Come on, ojou-san,” he hums, sauntering across the tatami, an assistant just behind him. “Let’s get you dressed.”

*

“Well, ojou-san?” he croons from behind the curtain. “What do you think?”

It’s lovely. That’s her first thought, the one she’s had since the owner’s assistants had stretched it out between them. Bright blue cotton with a motif of white cranes in flight, a small flock chasing up one sleeve while a larger one soars over the waves that roll from waist to hem.

“You chose better for me than I would have myself,” she admits, smoothing her hand over the fine fabric. She would have gone for one the striped fabrics, humble yet fashionable, and yet—

Obi pokes his head through, grinning when her hand snaps away, as if the cotton burns. “I spent our money well, didn’t I, ojou-san? Got a nice price for it and everything.”

“You spent my money well.” His shoulder stiffen guiltily at her correction, and her eyes narrow. “Didn’t you?”

“I wonder,” he hums, crouching down in front of her, hands held out behind his back encouragingly. “Now come on. We better find some place to put our heads down before the inns all fill up. You don’t want to have a moss for a futon and a rock for a pillow before heading up that pass.”

She hesitates, the phantom slide of worn fabric beneath her palms, heat a lingering memory. “I could probably walk, if you wanted. You must be tired of carrying me around.”

“You, ojou-san? ” He casts her a sly look, and with barely more than a huff, he scoops her up, bundle and all, with all the grace of a servant accustomed to being well-used. “I told you, I’m happy to serve.”

“But…” It’s hard to tie words together when she can feel the stretch and release of his muscles against her thighs— or when the proprietor and her assistants look on with such bemused expressions.

He bows to them, dragging a yelp from Shirayuki’s throat. “Thank you, my mistress is pleased with our purchase.”

She bows over her hands as well, amusement tugging at her lips. “Thank you for your business.”

Shirayuki resists the urge to squirm until they step outside the shop; they barely make it a stall before she swings her legs, hoping the motion might make him release— but all it serves to do is make him hoist her higher, hands gripping hard at her thighs.

“Obi!” she gasps, too breathless for authority. “Really, you can put me down!”

“It’s no problem to carry you, ojou-san. You’re light as a feather.” He jostles her again, just to prove his point. Or to make her cling closer; whatever it is, he accomplishes it. “Besides, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of having your body—”

Her hand wraps over his mouth. “T-that’s enough!”

His mouth widens against her palm, teeth pressed against flesh, and really, that should be all the warning she needs. But instead she grips him more firmly, hoping to keep all those strange, terrible thoughts from tumbling across her mind, and—

And he licks her. Not a simple swipe across her palm, the way Kino-san had once, when they were just children, but— but wedging between her fingers, wrapping around—

“Jou-chan!” Her hand drops, as if his skin seared. “There you are.”

“O-oh, Mihaya-dono,” she gasps, Obi’s shoulders stiffening beneath her palms. “You found us!”

“Too bad,” Obi mutters, squeezing her closer as Mihaya and his men approach, their baggage slung across their shoulders.”

“We sure did, though you two didn’t make it easy!” There’s a strange look that passes between him and Obi, accusatory and smug on both sides, but Mihaya shakes it off with a smile. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get far without your clothes, but I see you handled that just fine.”

Obi huffs, hiking her higher. “Thought ojou-san might like something that didn’t have monkey’s paws all over it.”

If Mihaya hears him, the only sign is a the smallest twitch his his cheek. “Guess we’re not making it much further today, jou-chan. Better go see what’s available before it’s all taken up.”

Shirayuki would love to protest, to insist that she could make it just as far as them injured feet or no, but she takes one look at the sun sitting heavy on the horizon, and the steep climb of the mountains beyond the walls and simply nods. “I’ve heard we’ll want good rest before starting up the pass tomorrow.”

“That’s right. It’s hard going, but it’ll be worth it for the springs at the end.” He spares them both a measured glance, as if he’s counting inches— or perhaps mon. “Two rooms, right? One for jou-chan, and another for the rest of us.”

“Ah.” Her fingers knot in the shoulder of Obi’s kimono, uneasy. “I guess…?”

“My mistress shares a room with me,” Obi informs him coolly, as if they had been traveling together for ages, and not a single night. “On the second floor.”

“Oh, got preferences do we?” one of Mihaya’s men laughs, a scar tracing down his forehead and across a cheek. “Your mistress has some fancy tastes.”

“My preference, actually.” The tension melts from Obi’s shoulders, muscle long and languid beneath her palms. “A bit of a deterrent for anyone who gets ideas about making a midnight visit.”

Another one of the men chuckles, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Not much of one! I’ve climbed up the outside of one of these places plenty of times! Easier than taking the stairs.”

Obi’s mouth parts in a grin that’s more tooth than toothsome. “I’d love for someone to try it. Especially here, with all these dōshin hanging around, just looking for an excuse to gut a man.”

The man may pale, but his lips still flap, words trying to find purchase. "Well, I--"

“Hey.” Mihaya's elbow buries itself in the man's side, as sharp as his sneer. “Don’t run your mouth.”

Those broad shoulder hunch, bringing a mountain of a man down to hill-size. “Y-yes, sir.”

When Mihaya turns to her, he's all smiles; a sunny sky after a storm. "Sorry about that, jou-chan. Now why don't we go get all this sorted out?"

[salty-puppy]

Last one for tonight

I really love Edo period themes tbh

[bestdressedchuuya]

[indieyuugure]

They’ll take the Edo Period clothing, thank you ^v^

(I was gonna have Mikey wear something like Jinbei, but I decided that Mikey could rock a Hakama way better than Chris Bradford 🤣)

[queko]

finished srtuc 👍

[marsconer]

the traveller: okay, ringo star, you can stay

mizu: no he can’t

ringo: you think i’m a stAAAAAAR🥹🥹🥹🥹

[scrivenger-grimgar]

"well, the Uzumaki and Uchiha have around 25-ish members again, which would allow them to be reinstated as clans allied to the village by charter right," Tobirama stated, entirely unfazed by the eyes of the many clan heads watching him speak. Itama shifted his tiny (painfully tiny, was he always that small??) body in his hold, gripping on tighter to his mother's fur collar. both he, Kawarama, and Nawaki were heartbreakingly silent through the whole ordeal, even when the resurrection started by way of the lost Hatake boy, Orochimaru.

"but the Hatake and Senju still only have less than 10 and 15 members respectively, meaning that there would be a power imbalance between the four newly resuscitated clans. given the feud that is, arguably, still active to some of us revenant, it doesn't seem wise to leave it be."

and that was the crux of the matter. several members of both the Uchiha and Senju that had been resurrected had died when the Senju-Uchiha blood feud had been ongoing. both his brothers (his brothers!!) had died far before the village had even been a thought in Hashirama's wood cork of a brain, along with Madara's own siblings, like his older brother Hidehiko, Izuna, their younger brother Matsuri and his twin sister Shouko, and their youngest sister Choushi. thats not even mentioning the adult shinobi under the same circumstances; 22 year old Senju Yasuiro and 28 year old Senju Fuushinshi had attacked and injured Uchiha Kouga, and also injured the man's 12 year old niece Uchiha Rukia, before Tobirama, Madara, Hashirama, and Mito managed to tie them all down.

(if Fuushinshi was sporting a break in his arm, in the same place as young Rukia, well. That was between Tobirama and his cousin.)

"Thats not even mentioning the non-clan shinobi who were resurrected, who, in all likelihood, are probably related to one of the four clans in question. if they become affiliated with said clans is entirely by their own choice." he said, his tone brokering no room for argument. Tobirama was honestly surprised that he hadn't been interrupted yet, but it might be the shock of having so many once-dead shinobi in Konoha's meeting hall.

pursing his lips ever so slightly, he looked to Hashirama, holding Kawarama who was making faces at Itama, then to Touka who was standing behind Mito and holding Nawaki. his brother tilted his head and Touka nodded, flickering her chakra in code pattern for 'plan, question.'

Tobirama sighed, mostly as a visual sign of reluctance for the other clan heads present. 'contract, agreement. kill, home-clan; fade, wild-clan.'

Hashirama's eyes sparkled, his smile not fading from his face in the slightest.

"our agreed upon solution to both the power imbalance and the lacking size of the Senju and Hatake clans is to incite the charter's directory number fourteen."

only two of the clan heads seemed to recognize what he was referencing, tjose being the Nara clan head, as expected, and Madara, who literally co-wrote the damn thing with him. Madara threw his head back with thundering laughter, which Tobirama related to on a personal level.

it was extremely ironic that the ones to end the Senju way of life would be the very people who had been hurt by it the most.

Itama jerked in his arms at the noise, so he adjusted his grip to hold him tighter. several eyes landed on the still laughing Madara, who Tobirama knew was not going to explain anything. the Nara head didn't look any worse, so he either knew what the Senju used to be like, or he simply didn't care.

Tobirama had expected most of the clans to not have invested in that particular article after it was written, but... he was extremely unpleased with Hiruzen's puzzled, near silent question of "the what?"

Madara's laughter died off with the (to most) unexpected line of, "wonderful play, Senju." vicious smile almost mocking to anyone unfamiliar with him. which was everyone except him, Mito, Hashirama, and Izuna.

Tobirama simply inclined his head in acknowledgement. he ran one hand through his hair, carefully avoiding the carefully disguised braids he'd tied into it this morning with Hashirama, Touka, and Orocchi.

"to answer your question, Hiruzen, 'the what' is the clause in the village's Constitution that states, 'when a clan is no longer large enough to support itself and its members, an allied clan who is willing and able are to induct the clan into their own, allowing the continued survival of the bloodline. this can be enacted when a clan's number drops beneath the range of the clan's expected member count.'"

clearing his throat, he continues on, projecting his voice to call over the now disorganized shinobi.

"in essence, this means that the senju will join either the Uchiha, Uzumaki, or Hatake clans, as those three have priority over other clans in the village due to both personal and blood relations being closest. thus, to avoid further power imbalance in the number of members to each resurrected clan, the Senju will be hosted by the Hatake clan."

[tamavonpineapple]

"Leo, dear-- There would be more room if you didn't leave the house like a hovel!"

Splinter, probably.

Usagi doesn't get why it'll be a problem, but the rest can see through the glass closet... Gods end with their suffering--

[nimbasa-mars]

That one Tumblr post that said 'the wild west started around the same time that Edo Japan was coming to an end', thank you. You inspired me

[cyberdragoninfinity]

long time no heroship

[sabraeal]

Get Up Eight, Chapter 10

[Read on AO3]

There is little in his life of which Obi can be proud, and fewer still that he could call accomplishments, but he will admit: getting ojou-san so flustered is both.

“Here?” Her skin is already sun-flushed, blossom pink where it should be paper pale, but it’s hardly his imagination that licks crimson trails up her neck, pooling in the apples of her cheeks. “R-right now?”

Small toes curl into the sand, weight shifting as she scours the Sakawa’s shoreline, searching some reason to keep them planted instead of dangling over his shoulders. Obi hides his grin in the bend of his neck. “No place better, ojou-san.”

“But how would I, er...?” Stripped to her juban, she is not bare, but here, in the retreat of the sun, it is no trick to see that the skin beneath it flushes to a deeper shade. “Do I...? I mean, should I...?”

“Just throw your leg over my neck,” he suggests, bowing his head low in invitation. “There’s so little of you the rest will just sort itself out. If you trust me.”

She hesitates. Haah, of course she does; ojou-san may speak all the sweet words a mouth can make, but it was only three days ago that she whistled to him a man might to a cur and bade him follow. Three days since she sat across from him in a tea house and offered him a small fortune, and he fondled her for her troubles. He is less than a stranger to her, and she carries enough coin on her back to make even a monk feel the pull of worldly desires. It can come as no surprise that she would rather let time turn her to statue than let him--

“Just...over your neck?” The sand splashes over his hands as she steps toward him, even her ankles uncertain. “Ah, how...?”

Her feet dance just beyond his fingertips, so close he could reach out at grab one if he wanted to hear her shriek. “Like a samurai astride his war horse.”

“Oh!” The hand brushing his shoulder recoils, as if he burns. “I don’t think...”

He dares a glance up at her. “Though I hope you’ll use me more gently, ojou-san.”

She huffs, her jaw taking its most stubborn set. “Don’t be so-- so--!”

“Charming?” he offers, unable to keep his mouth from slanting into a smirk. “Tempting?”

They have only known each other three days, but it is long enough to know that ojou-san’s sunniness rarely gives want to storms. Still, there’s certainly one brewing in the scowl she sends his way. “Incorrigible.”

It is the perfect opening; it would be all too easy to let this grin of his hook into a leer, to inform her that reform required repentance, but instead--

Instead she presses both hands onto his shoulders, forcing his head down and his heart into a gallop as she swings one leg up and over. Or at least, that’s what she would have done, if her juban didn’t tangle around his head; she trips rather than sits on him, coming down hard-- and askew-- enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Ojou-san,” he wheezes, hands raising up to hook over her knees. His calluses barely brush the silk of her skin before she gasps, fingers knotting tight in his hair. “Haah...”

“Oh!” The pleasant shiver trembling down his spine quickly turns to pain. “My-- my bag! I have to--”

Even with two working feet and a functional relationship with balance, this sort of dismount would have amounted to little more than disaster. But ojou-san has neither; as soon as she slips too far to her left, leaving only one leg to hold her upright, that traitorous ankle buckles and spills her off his back.

Her knee hits the sand hard, a whimper hiccuping up from the depths of her chest. The other leg threatens to take him with her, hooking around his neck and squeezing with all the strength panic and pain can provide. It’s only reflex that gets a hand up in time to shift all that to his shoulder instead, grimacing as he unwinds the mess of his mistress from around him.

“Ojou-san,” he pants, staring down into the wide depths of her eyes, two jade pools that know no bottom. “I would have gotten it for you!”

Her mouth slackens, the slightest furrow bridging the gap between the narrow arches of her brows. Frustration wells up on his belly; not the cold anger he’s used to, but something wilder, warmer, hands clenching in the sand so that they do not grasp at her.

You are paying me, he does not say, do you even know what for?

“It’s...” Without the distraction of her hair, he can see every muscle tremble as she murmurs, “It’s mine--”

“To carry, I know, I know.” Sand scatters as he sits back on his heels, the long fingers of one hand working at the endless ache in his shoulder. He wouldn’t trust him with his money either in her place, but still, still. “Let’s try this again.”

Defying all expectation, her next attempt is worse.

The weight of her wealth sits heavy on her back, enough that even the most graceful of the emperor’s concubines would stagger beneath it. Ojou-san is hardly that; with both feet injured and only the skittish sands of the Sakawa to support her, there is but one possible outcome.

Still, it surprises him. Even as he watches her, one foot rising to swing over his neck, disaster never occurs to him. Not until the leg collapses beneath her, and she’s sent, squealing, into the scrub.

“Ojou-san.” It’s a miracle he keeps his voice so even, that none of his laugh escapes the tight clench of his chest. “I think it’s time we try something else.”

She is shy when he leads her to the water’s edge, just dipping her toes into the river’s cool current before she scurries back, a gasp caught between her teeth.

“I thought you grew up on the water, ojou-san?” he hums, crouching in the shallows. It’s pleasant enough at first, refreshing after a day’s walk in this heat, but there’s a chill eddying through it, one that says he’ll be longing for sweat and sun soon enough. “And you swam the Kawasaki...”

Her mouth purses into a temptation, a pout that just begs to be poked. “You know I only said that because...because...”

Because for all her pretty protests, there’s a part of her that knows the monkey and his men have only circled around them for the scent of coin. That they’ve only kept their sticky thief fingers out of her purse since there is the promise of a husband with a bigger one.

It’s always been Obi who tongues have been clucked at, who has always been on the short end of a scolding, but looking at her now, stripped to her juban and toes flirting with the water’s edge, well-- he understands why they did. Oh, what would her cousin think, seeing what his mistress has made of him?

“Come on,” he says instead, jerking his chin toward his shoulders. “Over here.”

“W-why?” For once, it’s not him that a young woman eyes askance, but the water. Ojou-san shuffles in the sand, wincing at each wave that laps at her toes. “Wouldn’t it be easier to do this on the shore...?”

“We’ve tried that. I like my neck at this angle.” Ojou-san is too kind to scowl, but the hint of it lingering around her lips only spurs him to add, “Come in, I don’t bite.”

Both her brows lift, the furrow between them as faint as her flush. “That’s not quite what I remember.”

“Ah...” His breath catches, and oh, how fortunate he is to be submerged to his shoulders so she cannot see how parts of him twitch at the thought of her in his arms, of the noise she made when he-- “You’ll find me much tamed now, ojou-san.”

There’s a playfulness to the way her chin lifts, to the dubious curl of her mouth. “Will I?”

“So long as you hold my lead tight,” he promises, smiling a wolf’s smile. “Which is hard, if you’re all the way over there.”

That gets a sigh out of those sweet lips, drawing her deep enough to soak the hem of her juban, even with it tucked up into the cord at her waist. “What do I do now?”

“Nothing.” He sinks lower still, moving like an eel in the shallows. “Just stay where you are...”

There is some yelping when he ducks between her legs, and a satisfying gasp when he rises from the water, but in the end, his ojou-san sits steady across his shoulders. There’s not much for her to grab onto, but she makes do with what she has, her slender fingers buried right to the root.

“Am I hurting you?” she murmurs, thighs squeezing tight at his neck as they sink further beneath the Sakawa’s waters. “Your head, I mean. I could...”

“Don’t worry yourself.” It’s a far better thing to say than, keep going. “It might be nice if you, er, eased up just a little.”

Or less distracting, he doesn’t add; this crossing will be hard enough without his mistress’s self-conscious squirming.

“Oh!” Her fingers flatten against his scalp, though her nails still scrape deliciously with every step. “Are you sure I’m not too heavy?”

“Heavy?” She could hardly weigh twelve kan soaking wet. “You think you’re too heavy for me?”

It takes a shrug of his shoulders to hike her further up, so close the cotton of her juban presses against his neck. Ojou-san squeals, curling around his head like a cat escaping a bath.

He parts her sleeves like curtains, peering up to ask, “Does it seem like you’re too much for me to handle, ojou-san?”

He’s paid good coin to see the smile a geisha hid behind her fan, but still, it pales in comparison to the frown this girl gives him, free of charge. “I only wanted to make sure...”

A laugh huffs out from his lips, too quick to catch. “I think that bag of yours weighs more than you do, ojou-san.”

This close, he can feel how her thighs tense, how every muscle from the tips of her toes to the set of her shoulders turns rigid as her mouth thins, gaze skittering away from his. “Maybe.”

“Either way.” His fingers wrap around the soft skin of her shins, fine hairs tickling his palms. “It’s not a problem for me.”

She doesn’t so much answer as hum, grip tightening as he takes his first step deeper. “You’ll let me know if it becomes one?”

The heat nestled between her legs radiates through the cotton at his neck, but still he smiles, giving one calf a reassuring squeeze as he sighs, “Oh, ojou-san, if there’s a problem, it won’t be your weight.”

For all their bullying and bluster, Obi has to admit: the porters had not exaggerated the Sakawa’s depth or the treacherous shifting of its shoals. The coarse sand gives way to finer stuff only a few shaku from shore, sucking stubbornly at him with every step. Still, he’s trudged through worse, though the current and the sudden shallows given him pause more than once. The real trial is, well--

“Ah, what’s that?” Ojou-san’s thighs flex around the slack muscles of his throat, straining to sit her higher, as if she could gain inches from will alone. “In the distance, that tower...?”

Her legs hook tighter around his shoulders, feet tucking against his sides to steady the shift of her body, and-- and Obi takes in a strained breath, readjusting his grip on her calves. If he pictures slipping them up, holding her steady as he sinks them into her thigh, well, the frigid waters of the Sakawa go a long way in helping him...not.

“Odawara-jō.” From here it’s no more than a flourish at the foot of the mountain, a brief hint of white above the squat roofs of the village. “The seat of Kaga no Kami.”

Unless this was his season to arrive at Edo on his knees, satisfying the shogun and his sankin-kōtai. He’d never kept track of things like that, only gawked at the spectacle like every other set of eyes on the road, watching as the daimyos and their hundred retainers crawled to the capital to kiss the tatami at Tokugawa’s feet. Maybe he should have, now that it’s the difference between a loyal daimyo paying homage to his lord, and well--

Well, it’d be something else entirely, if one of the fudai threw in with the emperor. Especially one with as prosperous a domain as Odawara. Ah, if only Ojou-san would allow him to pry this monkey from their back; then he might be able to spare a few hours learning what only a generous application of time and sake can turn over.

“It’s so...” Her small hands flex, as if she might find the words scrawled across his scalp, hidden beneath her palms. “Big.”

“Big?” It hiccups out of him, a laugh chasing its heels. “Surely Edo filled with a hundred more wonders than some tower.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

His head is half-turned, a question on his lips that dissolves as her thighs tense, skin close enough to skim the edges of them. A more telling twitch than any tight smile or tic of the cheek-- and more distracting one too. There’s no room for other thoughts when his only one is how easy it would be to open his mouth, to sink his teeth right into her soft flesh and smell just what that might do to--

His foot catches on the slight incline, not just sand but stone, the first shelf of a shoal, its start hidden beneath the Sakawa’s turbulent water. He stumbles, disoriented, nearly tipping both of them into the current.

“Oh!” The way she grips at him hardly helps; pleasure skipping down his spine as her hands clutch tight around his skull. “I’m sorry! Are you sure that I’m not too heavy for you?”

It only takes a laugh to get his feet beneath him, shaking his head loose from her grip. “I already told you, the bag’s heavier than you are. How you carry it without tipping straight over, I’ll never know.”

Ojou-san does not so much stiffen as still, her hands hovering uncertainly beside his ears. “I could...I could get down and carry it myself. If that would be--”

“Ojou-san.” It is a trial to smother his snickers, swallowing down each hint that tries to sneak past his throat. “You would never touch the bottom.”

“That’s not...! I’m sure...” Her fingers stretch down, skimming at the water on her shins, and he can tell the precise moment she takes its measure. “Ah...oh...”

“There is no issue with your weight.” He shrugs his shoulders, earning a strangle shriek and the hard strike of gold against his back. “Either of you. But if you are worried, we can go back to shore, and I can carry--”

“No!”

Even used when used to a strike, the hit still stings. A laugh expels itself from his chest, straining through the grit teeth of his smile.

“You know, ojou-san,” he lilts, the melody of it stilted even to his own ears. “If we continue on together, some day you will have to let me bear some of your burden, too.”

It’s impossible for silence to fall between them, not when the river rushes pasts and bird’s cries break through the winds as often as those of the porters, but still--

He knows a denial when he hears it. Or when he doesn’t. It’s written in the slack of her fingers and the curl of her toes. In the way her breath catches between her teeth, none of her sweet words to follow.

“Ah, I can’t blame you, ojou-san.” It’s easy to play this part, to be the easy-going yojimbo, the man who expects little and gets less but plays it off with no more than a shrug. “I wouldn’t trust a face like mine either.”

The sun clings stubbornly to the horizon when his toes finally curl on the solid shores of Odawara, crouching down so that his mistress might dismount with more ease than she stumbled on. A fine intention quickly spoiled by reality; she no more than gets her sore feet under her than she shivers, knees nearly dropping her back into the much chillier shallows of the Sakawa until he catches her hands, laying them flat upon his shoulders.

“Ojou-san,” he huffs, mouth twitching. “Do I need to carry you to the hatago as well?”

“N-no!” There it is, that delicate flush blooming across her cheeks, a more delectable bite than mochi beneath the sakura. “I can make it just fine, so long as I have my, er...”

Her gaze skims over the Sakawa, scintillating in the sunset, and squints into the glare.

“Ah...” Obi scrubs a hand over the smirk that threatens to curl over his lips. “Right. We gave all your clothes to that mon-- er, Mihaya-dono.”

“They haven’t made it across yet.” She frowns, a worried crease bridging the gap between her brows. “Can you see them out there? I can’t...”

She pushes to up to the tips of her toes-- toes that are too swollen to hold her weight, even slight as it is. Ojou-san teeters, a gasp catching between her teeth, and she reaches out, grasping at his elbow as if she might catch his sleeve--

Only there is none, just the bare flesh of his arm.

Her grip is purposeful, meant to pinch cloth between her thumb and finger, but instead-- instead sparks zip up from his elbow, like flint on stone, setting him alight where she grips him, just above the crook. His skin tingles, both numb and too much at once, but there’s nothing he can do but just bear it, grinning down at her as he says, “Don’t hurt yourself, ojou-san.”

It’s too breathless, too much, but she only flushes, ducking her chin against her shoulder. “I just thought I might see them if...ah...”

Ah, right, the monkey and his merry band. He lifts a hand-- his other hand, the one attached to an arm that comes when he calls it, shading his eyes against the glare.

“There.” Two rafts float across the river, carried by four porters each, every last inch filled with scowling ronin.  All that time, and that idiot still couldn’t haggle himself out of a glorified crate. Obi stifles a smirk. Couldn’t have happened to a better ape. “Looks like he couldn’t talk his way around those naked worms after all.”

“Oh!” Ojou-san’s fingers shift, no longer pinching but wrapping gently around the bend of his arm. “Are they close? Should we...?”

Wait, he’s sure she means to say. He can’t think of a worse idea.

“No.” In all the time it took them to cross, the monkey is hardly at the first shoal. “It’ll be a while yet.”

Her mouth rumples, the way it does right before she says something stubborn, but-- but instead, she shivers, the pale shoots of her legs trembling where they’ve taken root in the sand.

“Plenty of time to take in the sights,” he tells her, voice pitched too loud and grin too wide. “It’s a bit of a walk, so if ojou-san needs me to carry her--”

“See...?” Her fingers slips from him, boneless. “I can’t possibly-- my clothes--”

With a quick flick at her waistline, the hem of her juban floats to her ankles, rumpled and wet, but serviceable. “Come now, ojou-san. A white yukata might be rare, but woven as finely as this...”

Her frown bows into a forbidding curve. “I’ll look as if I’m in mourning.”

“Ah, let’s not get ahead of ourselves!” His grin widens as the skeptical bent to her brows deepens. “At this time of day, they’ll think you’re a spirit, a pretty girl drowned in the river, and--”

A small hand claps over his mouth. “That’s quite enough.”

It’s with delicate fingers that he plucks his mistress’s palm from his lips, clucking, “Now, now, where’s your sense of fun?”

Her lips pull into a forbidding line. “I would prefer not to draw the wrong sort of attention.”

“Fine, fine, have it your way.” He shrugs, putting his back to her. “No hungry ghosts. But we should still go to town. That kimono of yours is fine enough, ojou-san, but when it comes to catching eyes...”

“Ah...” Her feet shuffle beneath the hem of her juban. “Yes, I suppose it would be better if I, er...found something less...um...”

“Expensive?” he offers.

“Elaborate,” she says instead. “More...everyday.”

“Oh, ojou-san,” he sighs, “there’s nothing everyday about you.”

This time, the silence is more complete, a hundred sentences smothered in their cradles.

“I know.” It’s barely more than a breath, more wish than reply. “But I can try.”

[le-roi-baleine]

Mikey and Senju in my Yakuza edo period AU !!!

[krakenshaped]

Do you guys think Judai just travels forever. Or like. Do you think sometime in his mid 20s-30s Judai actually has to get a real job.

Do you think a Dueling diploma is like an art degree? Do you think it's more difficult to get a job with a dueling diploma? Do you think Judai struggles to keep a job a la Jack Atlas? Do you think Judai ever has his Fionna Campbell era?

Idk adventure time has given me brainworms fionna and cake looks so good and the theme tune is a total vibe (<- hasn't finished the show yet)

[abijahfowler]

Just some notes on sum headcanons 🤗

[ginkgo-mist]

au where izuna gets resurrected (1/?)

[maya-no-more]

The Crane: Chapter One - Hiina

⚠️ Content warnings: Swearing, childhood trauma, abandonment, mentions of sex and death, violence, blood and emotional damage.

Definitions of Japanese words used throughout the chapter will be provided at the bottom of the page.

—

I dip the brush into the beni¹ dish, pouting my lips as though going in for a kiss before painting on the red pigment. More. I lather another layer of oshirui² onto my face, masking my reddened cheeks and the dark rings below my eyes under a cast of white. More. With each brush stroke, I cover a bit more of my humanness and transform into that porcelain doll once again. The men like that. They don't want a woman. Smudged mirror in hand, I stare into those eyes I barely recognize. They are my own, yes, the same ones that have always been there. Those same eyes that looked down and saw my little feet take their first steps, propelling me off the ground and into this new world that was mine to discover. Those same eyes that scanned every stroke of every character of every book that I could find. Those same eyes that would glance up at those of my parents as they looked back down at me, filled with nothing but love and pride. Those same eyes that watched that pale, slender hand extend from the darkness, dropping three gold coins into my father's outstretched palm. Those same eyes that looked back into my mother's as I was pushed toward this stranger before the door was swiftly shut. I searched my mother's eyes that night, as I'm doing with mine now. There was no love, no kindness reflected in them, just my own tear-stained face. I apply another layer of oshirui.

The doors to the readying chambers slide open, and the recognizable clip-clopping of geta³ sounds the arrival of Madame Kaji. I catch her gaze in the reflection of my mirror, staring disapprovingly, as always, at my back as though it had just grown a pair of lips and cursed her. Raising her bony hands, she claps them twice together in a manner that could almost be considered delicate. Almost. The shrill sound slices through any lighthearted conversation that had existed among the women in the chambers before Madame Kaji's arrival. All eyes turn to her. "Alright, girls. Finish preening and get out there. There's a line of men with their pants still up and their purses full. Chop, chop!" Madame Kaji's voice is cold and demanding - demanding of labor and demanding of respect.

A quiet chatter returns to the room as the women apply a final touch of beni, pack up their makeup, and shuffle out toward the expectant customers. I am the last to leave. Returning my makeup to my satchel and smoothing my obi ⁴, I begin making my way to the door. "Wait, Hiina." Madame Kaji's arm shoots forward, blocking my path. She doesn't even turn her head in my direction. No, that would be too much effort for somebody like me. Instead, her eyes simply turn to glare at me through the corner of their sockets, the candlelight flickering menacingly in her pupils. The crimson beni is barely visible with the way her lips are pressed. So tight, so straight. That is what is expected of us: an army of perfect little porcelain dolls. Her nostrils flare with unspoken rage, and the image of her growing a pair of horns and spewing flames from her nose emerges in my mind, almost making me laugh. "I expect we won't be having any of yesterday's… behavior again today?" Beneath the folds of my sleeve’s fabric, I run my fingertips over the fresh fan-inflicted welds running like serpents across the flesh of my palms. The humor of Madame Kaji as some hideous beast immediately evaporates as memories of last night repeat behind my eyes. That man. He asked me to do things - told me to do things. I said no. I shouldn't have said no. I try to swallow, but it gets caught at the top of my throat. "Yes," I mumble, unable to raise my gaze to Madame Kaji's level. Her eyes narrow impossibly smaller. "What was that?" Her tongue is like a snake, lashing a spitting venom at anyone who dares breathe incorrectly. "Yes, Madame Kaji." She is satisfied… For now. "Very well."

—

Stinking of kiseru⁵ smoke and adultery, the central area of Madame Kaji's brothel was already filled with the usual rotation of lust-blinded men. Like every other day, I glide into the room, a peaceful smile plastered to my face. My hands are to be held in front of me, lifting the fabric of my kimono⁶ just slightly so that the customers can catch glimpses of my ankles as I walk by. "Passive stimulation," as Madame Kaji calls it. Everything is carefully calculated, from where we place our hands when we walk to how we hand a teacup to a customer after pouring his tea. I smile gently at a twenty-year-old man who is already beginning to bald. His eyes widen, and an excited smile spreads on his face, putting his rainbow of stained teeth on full display. I could tell that this was his first time at a brothel. Suddenly, a pale finger attached to an even paler hand pulls me from my thoughts with a firm tap on my shoulder. Turning, I am met, once again, with Madame Kaji's menacing eyes. Except, this time, there is something else in them. I can't quite decipher what it is… Mischief? Excitement? I'm not sure, but it certainly isn't good. "You've been requested." Her voice takes its usual sour tone, but the playful lilt in her words curls my stomach into a twist. Danger. "Go on, Hiina. You wouldn't want to keep a customer waiting, would you?" Phrased more like an accusation than a question, Madame Kaji's words send me off with an uneasiness so intense that I think I'm going to puke.

My mind feels disconnected from my body as a tray with a kyusu⁷ and two teacups is placed in my hands. I've carried trays like these countless times before, but this time, I almost double over from the weight. It isn't heavier, no. Rather, the weight of sheer, unbridled fear is pressing down on me, forcing the air from my lungs and buckling my knees. I can't get Madame Kaji's eyes out of my head. There was something in them like I'd never seen before. It screamed danger, and she'd enjoyed it. Mentally shaking myself, I desperately collect my thoughts, force another smile, balance the tray on one hand, and slide open the door to the private room with my other.

My stomach drops. My heart leaps into my throat. I think I'm going to faint.

But then I remember the welds on my palms and the look in Madame Kaji's eyes. I step forward. "Good morning, sir." I smile gently at the man sitting at the other end of the room. His grey eyes are shrouded in a mist of lust as they watch me slide the door shut, their corners creasing like the soggy pages of a book left in the rain. From the floor, he commands the room. The man's bulbous nose twitches as his paper-thin lips pull into an unsettling grin. Long, dirt-caked fingernails projecting from sausage-like fingers drum impatiently on his crossed arms. The room reeks of stale smoke and sweat. The man pulls something from between the folds of his coat. I've never seen anything like it before. It's made of brown paper and has a thin ring of gold near the end. He sticks the end in his mouth, bites down, and spits a chunk onto the tatami floorboards, sending a dull splat sound into the otherwise silent air. He lifts the strange thing to a candle beside him, and I watch as the end of it catches the flame. Finally, the man places the brown tube between his lips and fills his lungs, closing his eyes with grim satisfaction. Chapped lips part, allowing a thick gray serpent of smoke to slither out and cloud around the man's long, orange hair and tomato-like face. "So." The man begins, his Scottish accent as thick as the curtain of smoke now shrouding his head. He waves the cloud of putrid air away. "You're one of the pretty ones." He chuckles, sending a breath of smoky air my way. "Would you like some tea, sir?" I ask, setting down the tray between us like a barricade and trying to ignore the bile climbing up my throat. "No, I don't want any of that shite. You know what I came here for, sweetie." That word, "sweetie," alone is almost enough to send me barreling in the other direction, but I hold my ground. "I've got money and a dick. I trust I don't need to explain the rest." He smirks cruelly, pushing the tray of tea aside with his foot, sending the kyusu tumbling to the floor. The fresh tea trickles away from the pot and toward my feet as though it, too, was trying to get away from the disgusting man.

"Stop being a fucking prude and come here, girl." He spits the words out as though they taste like vinegar on his tongue. Suddenly, the man springs to his feet in a fashion much faster than I anticipated, given his build. As though he couldn’t get more terrifying, he more than doubles in height. Unconsciously lurching backward, it takes every fiber of my will to keep my expression sweet. But, plagued by memories of Madame Kaji's fan flying down to meet the soft skin of my palm, sending jolts of seething pain through my hand, I stand my ground. "Shindo, that fucking fairy. Every one of you bitches is the same. Fuck, it's almost like I can hear his voice now." The man disappears into his thoughts for a moment, a terrifying new anger flashing in his eyes as he impersonates the subject of his aggression. “ ‘Mr. Fowler, I've arranged various entertainments for you to enjoy. I assure you.' What a fucking joke. I've had enough of that man and the whole rest of his lot." His eyes glaze over, and a far-away look casts over his features as he continues. "I can't be rid of them quite yet, however. No, I still need them. After that, I'll shit in a pot of gold, wipe my ass with silk and fuck every whore from here to Edo.”

I feel as though I can’t breathe. My heart has swollen into a mallet and is pounding ruthlessly against my rib cage, deafening me. I've heard too much. As though emerging from a trance with the snap of a finger, the man returns to himself. His brow returns to its furrowed position, and his menacing glare settles back on me. As if it couldn't sink any further, my stomach drops to my toes as the man's thin, pink lips curl up into a devilish smirk. "Tut, tut, tut, it appears as though I forgot the bitch was here. Whatever should I do?" Slowly, he picks up his giant feet and places them, one in front of another, each step sending a tremble through the floor. You could hear a blade of grass drop. Before I can take another breath, he is inches from me; my eyes level with the small crimson spot on the collar of his coat. I dare not imagine what it is. "What should I do with you, little birdie?" I force myself not to pinch my nose against the wave of warm, rancid breath blowing in my face. "Should I… tell you to forget what you heard?" He raises a hand as though about to strike me, but instead runs one of his fat fingers across my cheek, tracing a line down my jaw. In any other context, the gesture could be considered sweet, but here, the sensation of the man's touch makes me want to set my skin on fire. I'd rather be struck. As though to himself, the man considers his options. "No. Her pretty little mouth wouldn't be able to keep shut… Maybe I should cut out her tongue? No, that would make a mess, wouldn't it?" His finger continues tracing down my neck, landing at my exposed collarbone. I can't control it anymore. My lips begin to tremble, my whole body does, but no tears fall. Instead, my attention is drawn elsewhere. In my peripheral, I catch the man shifting his coat aside, revealing the engraved gold handle of one of those western weapons I'd overheard the other women describing. The realization dawns on me in an instant. I am going to die. Unfazed by the evident panic on my face, the man continues, his voice assuming an indescribably dark character.

"Should I fuck it out of her?" He pushes me back, pressing my back to the wall behind me and crushing my ribs with his own. His hand drops, landing on my thigh and running up my side. I am going to die. "Bah, scared women make for a bad fuck." He thinks for a moment. "Or… I could put a bullet between those pretty eyes of hers." His hand curls around the handle of the weapon, pulling back the gold piece at the top with a little click.

Time seems to freeze around me. I stare into the man's gray eyes. They harbor furious storm clouds filled with crackling lightning, a sea with dark, razor-like waves crashing furiously onto one another, moonlight flashing off the slices in the water's surface. These are the eyes of an animal. Inhuman and deadly. These can't be the last eyes I see before I die. I am not going to die. I won't. In a split-second decision, I inhale sharply and send my knee flying into the man's crotch with every ounce of strength I have. The man wheezes out, his eyelids shooting open in agony as the hand previously clutching my waist shoots up to grasp the space beside my head instead. He doubles over, almost crushing me, but not before I duck down and jump out from the gap between him and the wall. Without a backward glance, I pull open the sliding door, sending it flying into the frame with a crash. My feet send me darting across the room, or at least as fast as my kimono will allow. What direction I go is unimportant; all that matters is that I get the fuck away from that man. 

"OOMPH!" I collide with one of the other women who still has a feather in hand, and now one very confused customer. "HE- THAT MAN-" My thoughts are racing faster than a hummingbird's wings, but not a single one seems to leave my lips in a coherent manner. "Hiina! Breathe. What happ-" The woman grabs my hand, but before she can offer any comfort, a deafening voice booms out over the room, making every person and object in it shudder. "WHERE THE FUCK DID THAT BITCH GO?!" I turn to see the man standing in front of the room I was trapped in just moments earlier, his massive frame taking up the entire doorway. Murder is in his eyes. A second longer, and they would have been cleaning my blood from the walls.

"Mr. Fowler." A mousy voice suddenly sounds behind me, and a much smaller man with a bald spot and a navy blue kimono appears. "Shindo." The white man growls as his smaller counterpart approaches him, somehow without fear. Though faint, the room is just quiet enough for me to decipher what the man named Shindo whispers. "Mr. Fowler, if I may, it would be unwise to create… a scene here. It could jeopardize your plans. I implore you to leave with me now." He lowers his voice further. "I also come bearing an update on the shipment." His eyes dart around nervously before landing again on the man before him. Seemingly appeased, the monster of a man straightens his jacket, brushes a hair from his face, and strides from the room with not so much as a glance in my direction. I've already been forgotten. The moment the brothel doors close after him, all the air seems to return to the room, and the women and their customers slowly return to their previous activities. It isn't that simple for me. Leaving my friend to her feather, my feet take me back to the readying chambers I had been in a mere fifteen minutes earlier. I sit back down at my table, hands placed in my lap, eyes looking directly ahead. Not a sound leaves my lips. My skin feels nothing. I can't sense the welds on my hands, or the splinter on one of my geta, or my hairpin that had been poking my neck.

Suddenly, tears begin to form in my eyes, and for the first time since that night sixteen years ago, I cry.

—

Definitions:

¹ beni: Traditional Japanese red lipstick. Was applied by mixing water with the red pigment on the inside of a clay beni dish.

² oshirui: Traditional Japanese white face powder. Was either made of ground rice, or in the case of the wealthy, mercury or lead.

³ geta: Wooden Japanese shoes typically worn with a kimono.

⁴ obi: The wide piece of fabric worn as a belt over a kimono.

⁵ kiseru: Traditional Japanese tobacco smoking pipe.

⁶ kimono: Traditional Japanese dress worn by all classes of Japanese society. Comes with many different versions, such as a yukata, which is used for everyday wear and is typically more comfortable.

⁷ kyusu: Traditional Japanese teapot.