#sunrise over the bay

[sheepwithspecs]

Limsa Lominsa at daybreak ⛅

[cyberneticdryad]

7:00 - helped my partner out the door for work, made eggs for breakfast, listening to my cracked up (fleet foxes) record for the first time since buying it in the fall while watching the monterey bay aquarium beach live cam

[thecupidwitch]

Sun Magick

What Is A Sun Magick?

The Sun (also called Sol) is the one and only star in our solar system. Throughout the time almost every culture has worshiped the Sun as either a God or Goddess. Ancient Shamans used the power of the sun to heal the mind. The Sun is associated with life, health and healing. The light of guidance and illumination is an important magickal symbol. Solar energy helps you center in your own power, like the center of the solar system. Planet Earth orbits around the Sun. Other bodies that orbit the Sun include other planets, asteroids, meteoroids, comets and dust. Generally, the primary stellar body around which an object orbits is called its "sun", and stars in a multiple star system are referred to as the "suns" of bodies in that system.

Correspondences:

Associated deities: Aditi, Ah Kinchil, Ama-Terasu, Apollo, Aten, Brighid, Dhatara, Frey, Helios/Sol, Itzamna, Lucifer, Mithra, Mystere, Nitten, Paiva, Ra, Savitar, Apollo

Colors: Orange, amber, gold, yellow, red

Animals: Lion, Sparrowhawk, Griffin, Hawk, Bees

Incense: Cinnamon, clove, pine, citrus, Benzoin, Pine, Frankincense, Labdanum, Olibanum

Crystals: Sunstone, Goldstone, Ruby, Carnelian, Amazonite, Citrine, Tiger's Eye, Golden Topaz, Fire Agate

Sun Associations: Success, Empowerment, Ambition, Enlightenment, Goals, Generosity, Spirituality, Male energy, Health, Vitality, The Gods, Joy, Freedom, Leadership, Matters of the heart, Creativity, Friendship, Growth, Personal fulfillment, Self confidence, Wealth, Individuality, Pride, Energy, Power

Plants and Herbs: Sunflower, calendula, marigold, daylily, orange, citron, saffron, pine, mistletoe, rosemary, buttercup, heliotrope, bay laurel, daisy, walnut, acorn, maize, wheat, hops, cloves, cinnamon

Sun Phases

Sunrise

when the sun wakes up and peers over the horizon. This phase is all about new beginnings, changes, health, employment, renewal, resurrection and finding the right direction.

The Morning

the sun is growing in strength, so it brings the magical power for growth, positive energy, resolutions, courage, harmony, happiness, strength, activity, building projects and plans, prosperity and expansion of ideas.

High Noon

When the sun reaches its peak in the sky at midday – work magic for health, physical energy, wisdom and knowledge. It is also a good time to pop your tools or crystals out that need charging. (Note: some crystals can fade in strong sunlight so check first before putting them out).

Afternoon

This is a time to work in your communication, clarity, travel, exploration and professional matters

Sunset

As the sun takes itself off down below the horizon, work magic for removing depression, stress and confusion, letting go, releasing or finding out the truth of a situation.

Sun Water

Sun water is very similar to moon water. But rather than being charged by the moon, it’s charged by the sun. Sun water can be especially useful for helping boost the energy of a spell, to help an intention grow, and to cleanse.

Instructions:

Get a glass bottle

Fill it with any type of water.

Leave the bottle with water out in the sunlight or shade (indirect sunlight) during any time of day and for your preferred amount of time.

Tip Jar

[fazedlight]

Flying (post-finale fluff)

It starts small.

Lena hates flying. Ironic, given her extensive aviation safety knowledge, given that she got a damn pilot’s license and designed her own jet. But being trapped inside a metal tube just never seemed appealing.

Then there was the time she was supposed to be on the Venture before it crashed, only for her helicopter to be shot down soon after. There was the time she really was trapped in a cargo bay and almost met her doom in National City’s reservoir. There was the time her engines failed flying into Kaznia, and she wasn’t certain she was within gliding distance of the runway. All the more reason to hate flying.

But Kara was there every time.

Kara was there to fly her away from Metallo, there to catch her as she was thrown over her own balcony. And once upon a time - in darker times - Lena had thrown herself off a cliff, knowing Kara would be there. Kara was always there.

So it started small. A few weeks after Alex and Kelly’s wedding, Lena found herself dozing off on Kara’s couch after a game night ran late. She forced herself off the couch, shrugging off Kara’s offer to sleep over - it was simply too intimate, when she was already secretly aching for her best friend.

So Kara offered to carry her home - and against Lena’s better judgment, she accepted. 

Her heart pounded, for more reasons than one. The brief flight, the snugness in Kara’s warmth, the dancing lights of the city. For once, there was no explosion to flee from, no attacker to escape. There was simply the cool night breeze, and Kara’s small breaths against Lena’s cheek. “Are you okay?” Kara asked, and Lena nodded.

It became more commonplace, the quick flights home.

It was late one morning - after enjoying scones from Dublin - that Lena quietly asked if she could see the city from above during the daytime. After all, there would be no engines, no altitude minimums - just a simple hover, taking in all there is to see.

Kara’s eyes widened briefly, and a soft smile crossed her lips, as the kryptonian realized what this was. Because there was no utility in this request - no danger, no transport - just a simple desire to fly.

Kara held Lena close as they raised into the sky, Lena surprised to find herself smiling wide. Her heart pounded. But the reasons were shifting - less dominated by fear when she placed in Kara complete trust, leaving only the excitement and a fleeting wish. Kara’s “Are you okay?” barely registered in Lena’s mind.

Lena wanted more. But she didn’t ask again.

One fateful morning, Lena entered her kitchen to find Kara on the balcony. Lena almost didn’t notice the kryptonian, not when it was still so dark outside, in the pre-dawn hours of the morning. Some habits of the former CEO never died.

Kara waved, and Lena smiled as she made her way out onto the balcony and gave the kryptonian a quiet hug.

“Can I show you the sunrise?” Kara said quietly.

Lena’s eyes widened, and she nodded. 

She would never admit it, of course. She would never admit to going out in her pajamas, barefoot as the kryptonian lifted her to the sky. She breathed in as they drifted through wispy cirrus clouds, noting the odd sensation of the humidity on her skin, until they emerged above.

The sky burned. Red struck everywhere as the sun glimmered in the distance, casting everything in its glow. Lena smiled, turning to Kara to express her astonishment, when she saw Kara gazing back at her.

Lena’s heart skipped a beat, as she recognized something ancient in Kara’s expression. Pain and joy, wrapped in an old world’s blessing on a new home, and Lena realized how precious the sunrise really was.

“Are you okay?” Kara asked quietly, and Lena felt something in her chest bloom. Because Lena realized she wasn’t scared to fly anymore. Not with Kara.

Lena reached out, touching Kara’s cheek. And Kara gazed back, her surprise sublimating to affection as she tilted her head into Lena’s hand, a small surrender of vulnerability.

And there was a moment in that, when Kara opened her eyes again, under Lena’s warm gaze. Recognition flared, as though something lost had finally been found, and Kara tilted her head shyly. Lena’s fingers drifted down Kara’s cheek, thumb brushing over Kara’s lips in a silent request. Kara tilted her head down further, capturing Lena’s lips.

And Lena felt she could fly.

[levispersonalslave]

Grumpy!Levi Ackerman × Sunshine!Reader, Any AU, Second Person POV, Fluff, SFW, Sun-gazing together, Enjoy ᡣ𐭩

His eyes fluttered open, before they instinctively squinted shut in exhaustion. He was quickly forced awake, however, as you shook him, your sweet and enthusiastic voice in his ear.

“Get up, Levi! The sunrise is so pretty today, the birds are chirping and the clouds are pink!!”

He groaned, speaking in a low and guttural voice, “You know what else is pretty? Sleep.”

With that, he rolled over onto his side, his toned back facing you. You looked at him with an over-exaggerated pout, “Woe is me!” You whined, before collapsing dramatically onto the shared bed, as though you were a dainty damsel.

He grunted in response and turned his head to look at you judgementally, the fatigue evident on his face, “Woe is not you. Get up.”

You let out a dramatic whine, reaching out to tug on the sheets draped over his hips, “Please? Just for today!”

“I love you, but please stop whatever it is you're doing.”

“Not until you get up and watch the sunrise with me. Hurry up, we'll miss it!” You urged him, nudging his back.

With an exasperated sigh, he turned around to face you, running his fingers through your hair. He had an irritated and sleepy look on his face, yet the fondness in his eyes was unmistakable, “Will you let me sleep if I watch it with you for a few minutes?”

You nodded eagerly, your lips spreading into a grin as you sensed his caving in. He pinched the bridge of his nose in that specific way that he always did whenever he was about to give in to your pleas. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him closer whilst you giggled gleefully and peppered his face with sweet kisses, “Thank you, baby~! I love you so much!”

He stayed silent as you smothered him in kisses, until he swatted you away like an insect. Despite his feigned annoyance, the soft pink that dusted his cheeks spoke otherwise. He reluctantly sat up, running a hand down his face. Before he could even fully wake up, you yanked him off the bed, causing him to stumble and give you a half-hearted glare, “I'm coming, I'm coming, God...”

You squealed excitedly, dragging him to the window where you had drawn the curtains. You had been right, the view was absolutely gorgeous. The entire sky was painted a coral-pink color, fading into a cerulean where the night was being pushed away by the sunlight. The sun was just peeking out over the horizon, casting a golden glow onto every building and object in sight. There were a few people who were already up and walking down the streets, beginning their day by going to work, or perhaps feeding their pets. A handful of puffs of clouds dotted the sky, dusted a pretty shade of pink. The pair of you watched in awe, yet, every time, he found his gaze being dragged back to your face.

You never failed to make his heart skip a beat. Your beautiful features, enhanced by the clear joy sparkling in your eyes, was a sight he would never tire of. He could care less about the sunrise. He only wanted to sit and admire you instead.

You crawled into the bay window bench, tugging him along so that he sat with you. Snuggling up to him, you watched the sunrise with that sweet smile he was always fond of.

“It's beautiful, isn't it, Levi?”

He pulled you closer, “Hm...”

//586 words, 3192 characters //

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Sleepless

a/n absolutely self indulgent because no joke I woke up last night from the most insane nightmare and the first thing I called out to was Simon so here's some fever dream goodness for you. ✨🫴🏼

summary: Simon comfort reader after a nightmare.

warning: nightmares lol

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It was a strange feeling to be the victim of your mind. You could go out there on the battlefield and turn it all off. You could be fearless and deadly. Many shivered when they walked by. You could turn it off. Could pull on a mask and be someone you failed to recognize. But at night, when you were back at the safety of the base and no specific tasks kept you awake, you felt so helpless that you wanted to weep.

Sure, almost everyone had nightmares. Yes, they weren't real. A mix of subconsciously selected images. But there was just something so specific about them. It was so painful, real, and raw that it had you waking up night after night with a rapidly beating heart. Or even worse, covered in sweat as you jolted up with a scream. Those nights were the hardest because you weren't able to find sleep again. Every shadow seemed to be hunting you. Every sound made you flinch as you counted the moments till sunrise.

"Sugar?", your name being called out made you blink a couple of times. Right, shit, a debrief. You quickly scanned the room. All eyes were on you. You needed to come up with something. Something that would land regardless. "We can always just try what most of the team believes is the right...", you started, "What most team believes about barbecue? Right boys, what's your thoughts on grilled sausages?" Price called out, earning a handful of chuckles. A barbecue? Had you been that out of it? This was supposed to be a debrief for the last mission...

"The only flaw was the way we entered. He wants to try to regroup". Ghost's low voice rang from beside you. "Price's wife is celebrating her birthday this weekend and wants us over for a barbecue." You turned your head toward him slightly. His arms were crossed over his chest, his head facing forward towards the team, but because of the mask, it was impossible to see him speaking. "Thank you," you muttered back, running a hand over your face. "You're sick or something?", Ghost asked once again. Maybe you were just imagining him speaking. A man never spoke that much. "Maybe you should go to the medical bay," he suggested, and you shook your head. "Nothing a couple of hours of sleep can't fix," you gave Simon a tight smile as you pulled back from the wall you two had been standing by. Just before you could fully step away from his reach, Ghost swiftly wrapped his palm around your upper arm. "You don't have to tell me, but at least talk to one of the boys. Johnny might...", but you cut him off by placing your hand over his chest, "I'm fine, Ghost, nothing happened." His eyes told you that he didn't believe a word you said but admitting that you struggled to sleep and even more so avoided sleeping because of the nightmares, no... That made you feel too childish.

But Simon wasn't stupid. He had an eye for little things. Little changes. Little energy waves, if you will. And everything about you has been screaming wrong for weeks now. You two weren't together, but he always treated you differently. Not because you were a female. No. Just because you respected his boundaries. Respected his privacy. Ghost still remembered that one night when he was enjoying his two-am tea and you stumbled into the kitchen. A long shirt was the only thing on your body. He had been in a particularly broody mood that night, so even when you asked him a couple of questions, he simply stared at you and said nothing. He was waiting for you to roll your eyes or call him an asshole. But instead, you smiled and started explaining to him how you enjoyed your instant ramen. Without realizing it, Simon found himself smiling beneath his mask. You were babbling about how Price would kill you if he saw the amount of cheese you put in your bowl. "You will not turn me in, right?", you had asked, a handful of shredded cheese in your hand. Simon had simply tilted his head to the side, and you had taken it as a yes, shoving the cheese in your mouth as you giggled.

That side of you had been long gone. Your face has grown slightly ashy. Your eyes were dull. You could barely keep up with a conversation. Yes, you still managed to perform amazingly during missions, but they chipped at the last bits of your strength, and it showed.

If Simon was being honest, he knew what this was about. Your room was next to his on the base, and the walls weren't particularly thick. So it was almost a nightly thing. He just laid there, listening to you whimper. Panting once you were lucky enough to claw yourself out of the nightmare.

He had wanted to come knocking more than once. He almost always found himself with a hand on the doorknob, but he always stopped. Because who was he to comfort someone? He wasn't a big teddy bear. No, Ghost was a man with a past just as brutal and controlling. One that also hunted him from time to time.

Just tonight, it all seemed ten times worse. Simon tried to occupy himself with a handful of paperwork and reports he had to finalize, but your bed was right by the wall where his desk was. Every turn. Every rustle of the sheets. The uneven breathing. Simon gripped his pen tighter. But then, as silent as a wind, a light, "Please," cut through the silence. Simon stared at the wall ahead of him. It was as if the words were engraved on it. Telling himself over and over that he didn't need to get involved. This wasn't his business. He didn't have the right to just walk in. That he...

Ghost pushed back, the chair scraped against the wooden floor. Three long strides, and he was out of his room. Another three to get to your door. It took him a heartbeat to press the door handle down. He wasn't prepared to see your sprawled-out form. The sheets were now mostly laying on the floor. Your scrunched-up face. Hands digging into the mattress. That broke something deep within Simon.

He moved quietly, not wanting to startle you, and just as much, hoping that you would wake up on your own. But your body twisted and turned. The skin growing clammy. It was one of the longest nightmares you had ever had. Not that he was counting, but from the nights he had heard you, this seemed one of the worst. Ghost's mind blanked as he sat on the edge of the bed. What had his mother once said? Shake to wake up, or try to gently pull someone back. No one played nice in the army. You either took it or you ate shit. But still, Simon's cracked and scared hands carefully moved to run up and down your hand.

Another cry slipped past your lips. Simon wished he could kill the person holding you hostage in your sleep. "It's okay," he muttered, trying to remember what comforting someone even felt like. The words felt strange on his lips. "Sug, wake up; it's just a dream," he muttered, pressing slightly deeper into your skin. But it was nothing. Your sweat-soaked face was now covered by stands of hair that had awkwardly stuck all over, but Simon didn't care. He had been in this same place way too many times.

"Y/N," he breathed, moving to clasp your face between his palms, stopping your movement. A breath. One. Two. Your eyes snapped open. A painful inhale pierces your lungs. Hands coming up to grasp Ghost's wrist as your nails dug into his skin. Yet in all of that, it was your frightened eyes that hurt Simon the most. Eyes that now looked so helpless. So desperate. So lost. So in need.

"Simon," you muttered as one wave of panic got overridden by another. "I mean, lieutenant," you muttered, and Ghost couldn't help but roll his eyes, "Seriously? Now of all times, you decide to call me lieutenant." You never addressed him like that. Unless you were pissed off at him and Simon highly doubted, that was the case now.

"I'm sorry," you muttered, brushing your hands through your damp hair. "Did I wake you? Fuck, I'm...", but Simon didn't seem to listen as he leaned over to unlace his boots. Your shivering frame unsettled him. And maybe it was his primal need to protect all women who had ever been in harm's way. Or maybe it was that stupid warm feeling that flared when he was next to you, but when Simon looked at you once again, he simply motioned for you to scoot over.

"What are you..." you muttered in confusion. "You are still shaking, and that looked like one fucked nightmare," Ghost said bluntly as he slowly got comfortable in your bed. You knew that he was a kindhearted person under that cold mask, but this. You were convinced you ground his gears, and now... "You don't fancy lying down?", he asked, almost in a teasing way, making you blink again. You could still feel the aftermath of your dream. Pumping through your veins.

Maybe this was a dream too. Was there a way to fall from one dream to another? But then the same flickering images of the dream you just had came flooding back. One breath . Another. Your hands instantly reached for the man lying not far from you. Were there rules? Things you shouldn't do? You didn't seem to care as you snaked your hands around his neck, pressing yourself closer to him. His warmth seeped through your skin. The rapid heart was now beating against a much steadier chest. "Simon," you muttered. And you knew that he hated it when people called out his name like that. He hated when they dug his identity to the surface, but you needed him. You needed Simon, not Ghost, not your LT.

"Right here, doll," he breathed. "Simon," you muttered once more. His hands had now matched yours; they had just found shelter against your hips. Rubbing slow circles there. "Please," you breathed out. Not sure as to what you were calling out for, but knowing real well that Simon was the realest thing in your universe now. "I've got you, ya? I'm holding you right now. Whoever chased you in your sleep won't get to you now", Ghost said firmly, "I won't let them."

You sighed again on his shoulders, holding him as tightly as you possibly could. "What do you need, Sug?", Simon asked in a much calmer tone now. "Talk to me," you muttered. "Just..."—you almost didn't know how to explain it. Your mind was still holding you hostage. You needed new images. New stories to fill your senses. Draw up new patterns. And Ghost surprisingly didn't miss a beat: "You know Johnny was trying to convince me today that microwaving water is a way of making tea." You lifted your head off Simon's shoulder, leaning back slightly to catch his gaze. "I know; I looked at him the way you are looking at me now," Ghost stated with a huff. "I told him that fuck his war crimes, his soul is going to hell for that alone," Simon added with a shake of his head, and you felt your lips tugging upwards slightly until a light chuckle slipped past them.

"I'm glad you find it funny because I saw it as a disgrace to England itself." His accent thickened, and you could almost hear the smile on his lips as he spoke. You chuckled slightly. "He is a disgrace to this team," you said with a serious look on your face, and Simon was quite the match. "I'll talk to Price in the morning. We'll send him to Neverland." Cackling, you leaned against Simon's chest; his much bigger palms quickly moved to run up and down your back.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" he asked after a moment of silence, but you quickly shook your head. The last thing you needed was to go back. You felt Ghost nodding slightly, "We can talk when you want," his fingers reaching up to comb your hair. "For now, you are safe. I will always keep you safe". The last word came out more like a whisper, but you still caught on to it.

"Simon," you muttered, earning a hum in return,"If you... could you stay?" You were so glad your room was only dimly lit because your cheeks felt as if they were on fire. Ghost let out a slight chuckle. "Does it look to you as if I'm about to go?", he questioned your statement in an almost self-explanatory manner, "Way too comfortable to move now, love." His arms held onto you just a bit tighter, and you didn't skip a beat to do the same. "Thank you," you said softly, knowing that this deserved way more and better words. "Say less; you know I've got you," Simon pressed a tender kiss on your hair, "Now sleep." Reaching to the side, he pulled the blanket over the two of you. "Can you play with my hair?", you said through a yawn. "Already so fucking demanding," Simon chuckled, yet his fingers threaded through your hair straight away.

[richardsgraysons]

touches

prompt — all the ways jason todd touches you / jason todd x reader

tags — some nsfw

A STORMY SEA AT BAY;

his fingers are harsh, and you wince when he grips at you like. that.he doesn't mean to hurt you, by god, no. he doesn't ever want to see you flinch. and as soon as you do, he stumbles back.

you realize what's happened. he's going to hate himself now. "jason, no—" you call out, reaching for him, but he stumbles back and runs into the darkness of the night where it'll shroud him. and in that night, he basks in his anger and self-loathing for a while before the boy in blue comes to calm him down. you sometimes wish you could, but he'd be too ashamed.

"i'm sorry," he mumbles when he's back in your arms. he holds you, tight, but not like when he was angry. there is a silver tear dancing on the edge of his eye but he never lets it drop. "i didn't mean to." and you know he doesn't so you hug him back and don't say a word.

EUPHORIA IN A SKY OF STARS;

he grips your thighs as tight as possible, and his face is buried between the valley of your thighs. he's letting out sighs of pleasure through quiet muffles as the only thing you can hear is the sound of your own whimpers and his comments—"fuck, pretty girl, you look so fuckin' good right now. give me another one, yeah?"

your thighs are shaking and you cannot even think properly, not when his eyes are hazy and he looks up at you like that. his fingers are digging so deep into your flesh that they draw out bruises, his tongue swirling around, and occasionally his teeth graze over your inner thighs. you forget that his helmet is to the side, that you're on a rooftop and anyone can appear in seconds and see you two like this. "best fuckin' thing i've tasted in my entire life," he croons, as he shoves two fingers in you.

SLEEPING IN AT SUNRISE;

his touches are gentle, soft. your hands run over the bruises he's collected from last night, and the blood that's dried on his hair or his head or back from last night's patrol and you worry about him. your fingers cup his jaw and you plant delicate butterfly kisses over his face in worry. "i worry about you, jay," you say when he whines at the touch but you know he adores it.

"i'm alive in one piece, aren't i?" he muffles as he flips over to the side so his back faces you. you pout and he knows you're pouting. he flips right back in a flash and he grabs you by the neck and pulls you close before pressing a kiss on your forehead and pushing. yourhead so it lies in the crook of his neck.

"i'm never leaving you," he murmurs, his eyes hooded and lazy. "it's gonna take everything in this universe and more for me to ever even think about not making it back to you." and those are just words, you know, but words have a lot of meaning.

I THINK ABOUT YOU EVEN IF I DON'T KNOW IT;

"so that's what i said to him that other day!" that blonde girl laughs, brushing her arm against jason. jason just nods at her, doesn't even mean to say anything ot her and just keeps his blank face. you've been scowling at her for the past five minutes, and for the past four minutes, she's pretended like you don't exist.

jason looks down at where she's touched him and then shrugs. "i have to go get a drink," he says blankly, his face neutral. the both of you turn around in near perfect sync and start walking down together. jason grits his teeth in anger, thinking about something else (maybe how that blonde girl has been treating you), and takes your hand and squeezes it. he squeezes it so hard it hurts a bit.

"jason," you wince, looking at your red hand. it's cutting off blood. he looks down at your hand in surprise and then his eyes widen for a few seconds before letting it go.

"i'm so sorry, i didn't know i was holding your hand, and with that grip—" you shush him peacefully.

RED IS JASON TODD'S COLOR

"fuck," jason snarls as he pushes you against the wall. there's something in his eyes. jealousy. red is always jason's best color to wear, you've known that for sure. his hand wraps around your throat and he kisses you hard.

"you liked making me jealous, didn't you?" he challenges, raising an eyebrow. there's a glimmer in his eyes as his lips bite down on your neck so hard that there's a faint sliver of blood. you let out a yelp. "seeing me all riled up for a guy whose cock is probably the tiniest fuckin' thing you've ever seen. tell me, did you like me jealous of a guy who can't even please you the way you know i can?"

you open your mouth to answer, but he clamps his hand. over before ou can speak. "don't even fucking answer," he snarls, before ripping your jeans off from your body. you didn't even know anybody could do that. "i'm about to teach you what the right answer is."

[redr0sewrites]

CONGRATULATIONS ON 2K!!! wooooo!!! Please may I request prompt 5 with Muzan? f or gn reader please and either sfw or nsfw is great! thank you so so much and congratulations again!

🥀A/n: AAA OFCC!!! hi flameyyy!!!!! ♥️♥️♥️

🥀Prompt: "i don't like you- i love you"

🥀Cw: fluff, a little bit of angst, sort of pre-established relationship, first "i love you", Muzan is dramatic and unsure

the rain was unrelenting, drumming against the roof of your small home, keeping you awake late into the night- nearly 'till morning. while the repetitive noise was usually calming, tonight it only fueled your anxiety. your bed was cold in the absence of your lover, and while it was quite normal for Muzan to travel out late, sunrise was approaching and he was nowhere to be found.

it was strange how attached you had become to him, given that the nature of your relationship was still uncertain. he tolerated you, sure, and prioritized you even over demons like himself, but did he love you? the uncertainty of it all was scarier than anything else, so you stayed quiet.

Muzan never harmed you, always treating you kindly (at least to a degree). he brought you trinkets from his travels that now littered your bedroom, and would occasionally hold you close while you slept, with his gaze trained on your face. he claimed that it was simply to keep watch over you to keep you safe, but you knew better that he, while he wouldn't admit it, enjoyed your company. and you couldn't deny that you enjoyed it too, you felt safer in his arms knowing he was watching over you, keeping any danger at bay.

a strike of lightning momentarily illuminated your abode, followed by a loud rumble from the sky above. the act brings you back to the present, while simultaneously invoking more worries.

normally he'd be back by now.

you begin to fear the worst, imagining all of the things that could've gone wrong. as anxiety begins to overcome you, the loud SLAM of your front door causes you to let out a shocked yelp. you reach for the candle to your left, hastily lighting it and taking a sigh of relief at the sight before you. Muzan stands looming in the doorway, and you can't help but compare his likeness to that of a wet kitten. his dark hair is plastered to his face, and his eyes are narrowed and squinty.

"what are you doing awake, beloved?" his coat was flung to the side, crumpling in a heap on the ground. within seconds, he approached you, and cradled your face in his hands. "a fragile human like yourself should be resting," he coo's, accentuating his words with a light flick to the tip of your nose, smirking as your face scrunches in disapproval.

"i was worried, you came back late."

"technically, it is early. the sun is almost rising- which is why you should be asleep."

"oh, fuck you," you grumble, turning your back towards him. Muzan huffs, and you soon hear the soft scuffles of him changing into more comfortable clothes.

"slide over," he purrs, and you oblige, melting into his embrace. his head tucks perfectly against the nape of your neck, and his strong arms pull your back flush against his chest. his claws tenderly trace over the bare skin of your arm, drawing swirls and makings onto your flesh that you aren't privy to. you should feel comforted by his presence, and yet...

"what's troubling you?" his voice isn't accusatory, but direct, and you let out a tired sigh.

"does it matter?"

"would i be asking if it didn't?"

you grit your teeth, struggling to voice your feelings.

"it's just- you know, im human.. and, you know, we're just so different..."

"your point being?" Muzan sounded slightly distressed, the circles he had been tracing against your arm increasing in pace. he was tense, maybe even irritated, and you know you can't drag this out.

"do you- love me? or even like me?" Muzan stills, and your heart drops. you take a breath, he takes a breath. your just about to pull away when he heaves out a heavy sigh. demons don't need to breathe, so the action must be fully intentional.

"why would you ask such a mundane question? i thought it was serious."

"just answer!"

Muzan growls, but ultimately complies.

"its complicated. nearly everything about my existence is. however i do know one thing. i don't like you.."

your heart stills.

"i love you."

Muzan immediately turns around, pulling away and leaving you staring at the wall. you turn towards his back, your heart caught in your throat at the rare confession.

"i- i think i love you too.." your voice is merely a whisper, but you know he heard you from the soft, responding grunt from his far side. tentatively, you slide closer to him on the bed, close enough for you to wrap your arm around his waist. you expect him to pull away, or reprimand you, but he doesn't. instead, he relaxes into your touch, and turns around to face you. his face is stern, but there's something soft in his eyes that you've never seen before.

"rest," he commands, gently pressing your eyelids shut with two kisses. "i'll be here until nightfall."

HAVENT WRITTEN FOR MUZAN IN A HOT MINUTE SO IM SORRY IF ITS OOC- THANK U SO SO SOO MUCH FOR REQUESTING!!!!!

[jokers-bat]

BatJokes Headcanons by Series:

Harley Quinn Show:

(This is my favorite Joker quote from this show! 😆)

- Complicated, long history. On again, off again boyfriends.

- Not together but still have feelings for each other.

- Bruce was legitimately happy for Joker having a new life and job…But he missed the old Joker too.

- Joker knows Batman/Bruce is a little crazy himself but he’s still shocked whenever he does something reckless and impulsive.

- They aren’t good for each other and they know it. Like they know each other’s vulnerable sides and their demons but neither are equipped to help them get better (with Joker not wanting to get better and Bruce turning to self-destruction rather than real help).

2004 Batman

- Night and day. Bruce is stability, peace, hope, and warmth while Joker is chaos, hate, destruction, and wacky.

- It’s rare, but there is a tenderness between them. Meeting on the roof at night, watching the sunrise, speaking freely and openly. Brief moments of peace and something more than just being enemies.

- Never said out loud, but Batman will come to save him if Joker was in danger. Similarly, Joker would protect Batman and his identity if he knew he was in trouble.

- ‘I love you’ is never said but they feel it.

Under The Red Hood

- Not good but ify. Depends on situation and/or circumstances (following canon versus fan fiction).

- They have a history together. Were a couple at one point but it’s complicated.

- All the ‘what could have been love songs’ mixed with the ‘not over you’ songs.

- Bruce is bitter, gloomy, and full of regret while Joker is crazy, out of control, and evil but both are violent and hate themselves more than anything else.

- Whatever is left of Joker’s former self deeply resents Batman for accidentally creating him but he’ll never show it. Bruce, meanwhile, wishes he could have known him before he became the Joker.

- If they were to get back together, it would require a decade’s worth of therapy.

- In an alternative universe where Batman and Joker were together and Joker continued to be a criminal (though not as deadly) and Jason still became the Red Hood, the bay family would be one heck of a complicated, dysfunctional, and kind of toxic family.

Lego Batman

- They got married and adopted Dick, the end!

- Fun dads. Bruce is the kickass, awesome dad with super cool cars and gadgets while Joker is the crazy and wild dad who knows all the best jokes and pranks.

- Pure wholesome love story. Just let it be!

- Joker was never really a criminal. Just a prankster who ultimately wanted to go out with Batman but didn’t know how to ask so he annoyed him instead. 😆

- Found family that makes each other better people!

- Very affectionate. Hand holding, fixing each other’s hair, hugs and kisses, Everyday is Valentine’s Day for them!

[lynzishell]

The Past 💛 Atlas

I wake up a couple of hours later, the sunrise barely peeking through the curtains in my window. Ash is no longer spooning me, and I’m afraid he might have snuck out, that I’ll roll over and he’ll be gone, and I’ll be alone, and the room will suddenly feel cold and dark the way it always does. I close my eyes and prepare myself for the usual disappointment as I turn over. But when I open my eyes, he’s here, on his back, sleeping soundly, and I’m filled with gratitude once again.

I watch him for a moment, smiling to myself. I don’t want to disturb him, but I want to be closer, to feel his skin against mine. So, I reach over and rest my hand on his, running my thumb over his long fingers with their perpetually chipped black polish.

When he begins to stir and roll onto his side, I slip my arm around him to pull him close and he lets out a sleepy, yet peaceful, “hmm” sound as he kisses my shoulder and nuzzles into me.

That feeling I longed for so many times when waking from my nightmare. It was this. His arm draped across my stomach, his leg across my leg, his head resting in that spot between my shoulder and my chest. The spot that was meant only for him. I tilt my head slightly toward his, resisting the urge to kiss his forehead again. His hair is clean and soft and smells faintly of my shampoo. But beneath the subtle notes of coconut, I can smell him. That smell that feels like home. I close my eyes and breathe him in, feeling as though I’ve been reunited with a part of myself that’d been lost. I lay quietly, too tired to fight it or overthink it. Instead, I focus on the feeling of his body against mine, getting gradually heavier. His breathing becomes deep and even, and I let the rhythm of it lull me back to unconsciousness.

I sleep deeper than I think I ever have, and it’s hard to climb my way out of at first. I feel Ash sit up next to me, take a drink of water and reach over to get his phone from his pants pocket.

“Good morning,” I say when he leans back on the bed.

“Good afternoon,” he replies, scrolling through the notifications on his phone.

“What time is it?”

“A quarter after one.”

“Oh shit.”

He doesn’t respond, and I wonder to myself if I’m imagining the tension in the air between us.

“Thank you for staying,” I say.

“Yeah, of course, I’m glad you asked you me to.” His tone is light, but he doesn’t take his eyes off his phone, doesn’t look at me, and my stomach drops as my senses heighten. I want to ask him if we’re okay, to get some kind of reassurance, but the words won’t come out, so I lie there silently suffering in my own personal purgatory.

Finally, he sets his phone down and looks over at me, “I have to get going.”

Before I can respond, he jumps out of my bed and starts gathering his clothes from the floor. “Sorry, I don’t mean to rush out, but apparently, I have to go out to the Bay to help my sister. And, of course, she didn’t bother to tell me this until the last minute…”

I barely register his venting as he pulls on his pants and searches for a missing sock. There’s a desperation rising in me, and all I want is to grab him and pull him back into bed, beg him not to leave. I know I can’t do that, and I won’t, but there is a part of me deep inside that is screaming at him not to leave me.

It must be written all over my face too because as soon as he looks up at me, he stops. His shoulders slump and his eyebrows pull together in a worried expression. “Atlas, what is it?”

I shake my head, looking down as I try to shove my feelings aside.

When I look up, the worry on his face reaches his eyes as he chews at his lip, “Do you regret it?”

“No! No, of course not.” The words fly out of my mouth. I hate that he even considered it.

“Good,” he says, relieved, “good, me neither. We probably shouldn’t make a habit out of it, but it was really great.”

He resumes putting on his shirt and I feel the wave of desperation rising again, gripping my throat. I look away from him, trying to collect myself. I stare at the blanket on my bed, analyzing the pattern of the blue, white, and gray stripes, inspecting the stitching for flaws, anything to keep my mind busy until the feeling passes. Much like I used to do as a child sitting silently in my room staring at the wallpaper for hours.

The bed shifts slightly, disrupting my visual analysis and forcing me to look up. Ash is sliding onto the bed in front of me, “I’m sorry I have to leave so abruptly; I don’t want to.” I think he’s still trying to guess what’s wrong with me, not that I could tell him even if I wanted to. We’re clearly fine, I overreacted, so why don’t I feel better? When I don’t respond, he says, “Okay, well, you can call me or text me later if you want to talk. I’ll make time.”

I nod in acknowledgement. I don’t know why he’s so kind to me. I almost wish he wasn’t. It only makes everything harder.

“Can I, um, is it okay if I kiss you goodbye?”

“Yeah,” I tell him, as if I’d ever say no.

When he kisses me, he does so slowly and with intention, ensuring it will linger there long after he’s gone. He puts so much of himself into the way he kisses. I bet I could tell what he’s thinking or feeling just by the way he moves his lips against mine. Right now, he’s saying goodbye. Not just because he’s leaving, but because this might be the last time that we’re this close. It might be the last kiss we ever have.

This thought brings on such a heavy wave of sadness that I have to stop. I pull back only slightly to rest my forehead against his and take a deep breath, shoving the thought back.

“Hey,” he holds my face in his hand, turning it slightly so I have to look him in the eyes, his perfect soft gray eyes, “I really did have a great time with you last night. And not just the sex, I mean, that was great too, amazing actually, but…” he pauses and looks down for a moment, letting his hand fall from my face. When he looks back, his eyes are shining slightly, “but you make me feel cared for in a way no one else ever has, and that means something to me. Last night meant something to me. And I feel like it meant something to you too. So, why are we doing this? Why are we pretending we’re just friends when, clearly, we both want more? Why don’t we give it a shot?”

“Ash, I—” I barely say anything before he looks down, shaking his head slightly side to side, already knowing what I’m going to say. He’s nearly off the bed by the time I finish, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Why?”

There’s nothing I can say that will satisfy him, that won’t lead to more questions, questions I’m not prepared to answer. And it feels stupid to say, “you don’t want to date a guy like me, you deserve better, blah blah blah”. It sounds like a bad fucking movie, even if it’s true. So, I say the only thing I can think of, the only thing that sounds semi-logical, the same thing I told him before, “I don’t date people I work with.”

He scoffs, “Right. So, you just hook up with them at nightclubs?”

“No, I usually don’t do that either.” He looks away from me, and I suddenly realize how that sounds. I’ve basically told him he’s worth breaking my own rules to fuck, but not to date, and I feel like the biggest piece of shit. “Ash, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.” He cuts me off and stands, gathering the rest of his stuff. “You know what, I’m sorry. This is why I brought it up last night, so I wouldn’t do this, and I’m fucking doing it anyway, and that’s not fair. I get that. But listen, if a friend is what you need me to be right now, then I’ll be your friend, but then you can’t look at me like I’m breaking your heart when you’re the one who put the boundaries up in the first place. It’s too confusing. I don’t know what the fuck you want from me sometimes. Just…” he stops and sighs, “tell me what you want, Atlas, really.”

I hate this. I hate having to lie to him. “I want us to be friends.”

“Okay,” he replies, his lips pressed into a hard line, “Well, I guess I’ll see you at work tomorrow then.” There’s a bite of sarcasm in his tone that reveals his frustration and hurt at my continued rejection.

I hate myself for the pain that I cause him. I hate myself for being so broken.

As if I’m determined on some level to make things worse, I can’t even bring myself to respond. So, he just nods and walks out of the room. I hear the door close behind him as he leaves my apartment. And then he’s just… gone.

I’m left alone in my room, his words echoing in the empty space he left behind.

The pain rises up, quick and efficient, clenching my gut and filling my chest, tearing me apart from the inside until I fold in on myself. I want to scream, to rip my hair out, to punch holes in the walls until my fists are bleeding and bruised. But I don’t. Instead, I force myself to sit in silent agony because I know it’s exactly what I deserve.

Prev // Next

[brenayla]

fin - AO3

The end is anticlimactic. As soon as the clock strikes 4:50pm, Doggett leaves politely with a one-armed hug and well wishes for the little one.

And then it’s just them. Scully and Mulder in their secretive underground den.

Scully sits at his desk and he perches in front of her.

Of all things, Mulder says: “You remember that time we got food poisoning from Wendy’s?”

God, does she ever. She complains, “Mulder, do we have to go there?”

They were barely two years in, somewhere in rural Missouri. It might have been the only time Mulder stopped driving before 7PM and to her absolute horror, the first motel he found to pull into was fumigating or doing construction or something. Whatever. They shared a bathroom for 24 hours and mutually concluded that they would never discuss it again.

“Not if I have any say in it,” Mulder says, “I haven’t been there since.”

“Seriously, Mulder," she warns with a good glare. "I'd rather hear about the praying mantis man. My gag reflex isn't what it used to be.”

“Doesn’t seem any different to me.”

“Mulder,” she scolds him around a barely contained laugh, as if the walls have ears.

Mulder dodges and shifts topics expertly. “I got you something,” he says, free hand scouring around in his pocket.

He produces a stress ball painted to look like a little baseball. “Happy anniversary, Scully.”

They have never celebrated an anniversary and even if they were to take up the practice, it would be somewhere in the crisp dew days of spring, not today.

“Our other anniversary,” Mulder explains, “I’m a little late.”

“Ah,” Scully says, taking the gift and turning it in her hand. He is several months late, actually.

Their first time was not what she expected but it was what she needed. In her more creative moments, she’d imagined that when the dam broke, he would tear buttons from her blouse and pull her panties aside, no frills maneuvering her into position. And that is Mulder, but it is not first time Mulder. First time Mulder wanted to kiss her forehead and take her in. Before, he asked, can I and after, he fell asleep grasping her thumb like a newborn.

It seems like you two have an intense relationship, Scully's therapist once told her, accurately. Leg shaking, concussed sprinting after them intense; pre-sunrise giggling on his couch intense.

“Thank you,” she tells him, slipping it into her bag on the floor.

“It’s my contribution to your labor pain management plan.”

“Yeah. Thanks for that.”

“We can add it the hospital bag checklist.”

“Sure, Mulder.”

Mulder waits under the hum of the AC. “You’re welcome.”

A smoke detector is still hanging by a wire from when she took it apart to discover a bug. Sharpened yellow pencils that appeared in the ceiling – again – without explanation. The chunky patterned blanket from his couch, slouched over the back of the computer chair, brought in when she was sick and cold.

Nobody down here but the FBI’s most unwanted.

“Mulder, there have been periods where I spent more time here than at home,” she confesses.

“Me too. Probably too many times, actually.”

“I met you down here.”

“Yeah. You did.”

“And I– …we –” Her voice cracks, an all too common occurrence recently. We fell in love down here.

Or maybe not – maybe it was the rental cars or the autopsy bays – but she can’t quite remember because the where and when was never all that important. Now that she’s leaving this place behind, it feels like it happened here.

“I know.”

Mulder could say: This place isn’t going anywhere, Scully or you can always come back to visit, but it would be a sore consolation and they both know it. This is the wheezing death rattle of Special Agents Mulder And Scully. It’s such a Mulder thought, she would never dare voice it. It wriggles into her temporal lobe anyways.

She is leaving behind the birthplace of them, the first space they ever shared. Early Them live down here, with their shoulder pads and patterns and loose-fitting suits, stealing shy glances at each other over his whirring slideshows. And Middle Them survived the fire, too; floppy haired and caught in crackling tension and sopping with grief and fear and love that they don’t yet know what to do about. Even flirty, curious Right Before them are down here, testing out new boundaries; lighter, dreamier, sweet and sticky them.

Fudge the dates a little and their baby could have been conceived down here, and in the moment, that's the story she tells herself. It's a nice one. Maybe the fetus is a little bigger than typical, or maybe she misremembered the dates of her last menstrual cycle. Maybe she’s carrying a child made from dusty file cabinets, tacked up printouts, scrawled handwriting, crumpled up sticky notes left beside the trash can filled with takeout containers, and them; all the Thems.

Scully amends her last comment. “Well, I’m not sure that it happened down here. But I realized it down here.”

Mulder takes her hand. “Tell me?”

“It’s nothing crazy.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m good with nothing crazy these days.”

She smiles; damn, he’s got her. “Okay, well…it was a weekend. You had this dark blue jacket on. It was more casual than you’d typically wear.”

“I think I know the one. I can find it, if you ever need a reminder.”

She gives him a look and continues, unperturbed. “You were sitting here at your desk and I was over there working at the computer. You were eating Reese’s Pieces. Very loudly, I might add.”

“When are we gonna get to the flattering part?”

“Never, if you’re going to interrupt.” Scully gets her bearings again. “You were humming something, I’m not sure what but it was a short tune, over and over. And I looked over to tell you to quiet down so I could focus. You were leaning over your report – or whatever it was you were writing. You had a little cut here above your eyebrow. And I just…I just knew.”

He stares, disbelieving but still holding her hand. “That was it, Scully?” He asks. “I was being annoying and you looked over to tell me to knock it off, and that’s how you had this grand realization?”

She shrugs. “I think maybe it was the mundaneness of it.”

“You’re gonna have to elaborate on that one, Scully.”

“Well,” she tries, “how many times have we had very similar conversations? How many times have I probably been working at the computer and looked over to tell you something? Hundreds, maybe.”

“Maybe more.”

“Right. So, it was all of those…everyday things that made up our relationship, our partnership in the first place. It only makes sense that it would be one of those everyday things that...triggered something.”

Mulder takes that in.

“Huh,” he says, gently splaying out her fingers as he processes. “Did you ever tell me to knock off the noise?”

When she puts herself back in the moment, nothing breaches her memory but the all-consuming red sun dawn of the revelation that she knew she was not going to be able to ignore like she had with all the prior little stair step realizations.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think I said anything to you.”

“You might have saved us a lot of time if you had.”

“No, I don’t think so, Mulder. I don’t– maybe it’s all the hormones, but I don’t think we were ready then.”

Mulder takes a moment to digest that idea. He doesn’t necessarily agree, she can tell and it occurs to her to push it. But when he lapses into quietly dragging a fingertip across the lines in her palm, she decides against it.

A gush of self-consciousness rolls over her and she see it hit him like an aftershock. “Well,” she covers, “what about you?”

He presses his thumb against one of her nails, scanning his print into the keratin of her nailbed.

“When you came to my room in Bellefleur,” he says.

“You– …the first time?”

He smiles, covering. “Yeah.”

“No,” she insists, “Mulder.”

“Yes, Scully.”

In the moment of silence, Mulder fiddles with her fingers, their heads bowed over their joined hands. Then he kisses the middle of her palm like a stigmata and releases her, gauging her mood.

When he gets a reading, he stands and offers her a hand up. “You ready to go, Agent Scully?”

She takes it, shaking hands with this little death.

“I think I am, Agent Mulder.”

[humanpurposes]

We're Born At Night

Chapter 1

Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone travels to King's Landing to plead for her sister's life, though the King she must bow to is a kinslayer three times over, and the very man who slaughtered her father

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Rhaelle Targaryen (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, eventual smut, politics, mentions of death and war

Words: 4.3k

A/n: a self-indulgent post-dance fic and I'm excited about it :)

She rocks with the carriage as it rolls over the cobbled streets of King’s Landing. Bricks and tiles in dull shades of red, yellow and browns move past the window, and the air is thick with dust and all sorts of unpleasant smells. 

Her heart sinks at the absence of greenery, like the forests and fields that surround Runestone, the sounds of rivers and streams, the bright bursts of colour in the wildflowers. The Red Keep overlooks Blackwater Bay, she remembers that. She loved rising early to watch the sunrise, to see the waves glow red and gold. She loved going down to the beach below the castle to feel the warm summer sun on her face and dip her toes into the cold water.

It is autumn now. Grey clouds dull the sunlight and there is a chill in the air.

Daena sits opposite her, tugging at her sleeves and the collar of her travelling cloak. They are in matching gowns of dark green velvet, newly made for their visit to court; a cheap play for the King’s favour, but she needs all the help she can get. 

Her younger sister’s constant fussing is irritating, but Rhaelle cannot blame her.

“You look beautiful, my lady,” says Morra, Rhaelle’s handmaiden who sits beside her, a sharp and observant young woman.

Daena’s harshly violet eyes glare up at her. She gives a small huff and drops her arms into her lap. “I look better in red,” she says.

“Careless talk like that will cost you your tongue the moment we’re through the castle gates,” Rhaelle warns.

Daena tuts and turns her head towards the window. “What an awful place,” she says.

Rhaelle pulls back the thin curtain with the tip of her finger. Miserable faces, crowds of bodies, market stalls, bands of mummers, and an endless array of buildings pass her by. She has prayed to the old gods and the new that their visit to the Red Keep will be short, but that is wishful thinking and she has never been much of an optimist.

Ten years ago she had been hunting with her late mother’s cousin, Ser Gerold, when a raven appeared over the hills, headed for Runestone. It had filled her with an inexplicable dread and she could not understand why until she returned to the castle to learn of the death of Laena Velaryon, her step-mother. Daemon had summoned his eldest three daughters to Driftmark to see her laid to rest and mourn alongside two sisters they had never met. In a matter of days, Ser Laenor was dead too, Daemon had married Princess Rhaenyra on Dragonstone, and had plans for three more marriages.

Their oldest sister, Alyssa, and Prince Jacaerys were married at the Red Keep little more than a month later, she being sixteen and he a boy of ten. Baela was betrothed to Prince Lucerys, and Rhaelle was betrothed to Prince Joffrey, only a babe at the time.

While Rhaelle and Daera had returned to Runestone, Alyssa had remained at Dragonstone with her husband and so her fate had been sealed.

They come to a gatehouse made of red stone, where the banners of House Targaryen loom proudly over the walls and flutter in the breeze. The sight sparks a memory Rhaelle had forgotten she had, and suddenly it feels like she never left this place at all. Her family’s sigil, the three-headed dragon, should be more familiar to her than it really is. She finds more comfort in the colours of white and bronze, black pebbles and the ancient runes of her mother’s house.

She looks down at her own sleeves, at the runes embroidered into the cuffs with golden thread. The right reads the words of House Royce: We remember. On the left though, is a saying far older, so old that no one can truly say where it came from, only that it has been passed down in proverbs amongst those who carry the blood of the first men. Now they are written in books and scripture, carved onto tombs, whispered in prayers said before a weirwood, spoken to her by her mother: Learn to die.

Did those words pass the lips of Rhea Royce when she fell from her horse and cracked her head open on a rock? Did they echo through her mind when she lay in her bed, either unconscious or incoherent for nine days?

Does Alyssa utter them to herself in the darkness of the Black Cells?

The carriage comes to a stop. Rhaelle takes a deep breath, checks that her hair is neatly pinned back, that her gown sits right and that her boots are spotless. There can be no room for weakness here, not where people will judge every move she makes, note every word she says and stare into her eyes as if to read her very thoughts.

The door is opened for her and she steps out into the courtyard clutching the hand of one of her household guards.

Lord Corlys is waiting to greet them by the steps to the castle, dressed in fine robes of sea green and silver. On his collar she spots a gleam of gold, the pin that marks him as the Hand of the King. 

When she had last seen Lord Corlys he was the Seasnake, a naval hero who carved out his own legacy and built his seat of Hightide to fill with the trophies of his victories. Now Hightide is nothing more than ruins buried in ash and Lord Corlys is an old man leaning on a cane, with long silver locks, a thick white beard and a tired look in his eyes, the look of a man who has seen his last war. 

He offers her a small bow of his head. “Lady Rhaelle, what an honour it is to welcome you to the Red Keep.”

Daena follows her and greets Lord Corlys with a perfect curtsey. He smiles and notes how much they have changed since he last saw them, but they were girls then, young and sweet, only grieving their first loss.

Morra takes their travelling cloaks before Lord Corlys leads them inside, followed by their household guard. The halls are quiet and solemn, the colours she remembers from childhood somehow duller and she wonders if it is because she is older.

Eyes fall to the sisters easily and whispers echo wherever they walk. She hears a faint whisper of “traitor” as they come to the great stairwell in the very heart of the castle. She looks around her and above, up into the cavernous space overhead where faces peer down from balconies and galleries, made hazy by smoke and heat from the braziers.

Traitor, the accusation clings in her stomach and throat, until Daena’s hand gently wraps around her wrist and urges her to walk on. But perhaps the whispers are right. She is the daughter of a traitor, the sister of a traitor, perhaps it is in her blood and she cannot escape it.

They are shown to their chambers in the west wing of the castle. A small reception room joins two privy chambers and two bedchambers beyond that. It is a pity, she would have liked a room where she could see Blackwater Bay or the Kingswood to the south.

Her bedroom is a little smaller than her own bedchamber at Runestone, decorated with tapestries, furnishings and details in green, gold, red and black. She looks from the window, over the towering walls of Maegor’s Holdfast of her lavishly decorated prison, a thought which she immediately reprimands herself for. She will not allow herself such pity, not while her sister is a prisoner.

Alyssa had stayed by her husband’s side through the war, donned a widow’s veil when he fell in battle and decided that she would stay on Dragonstone when Rhaenyra took King’s Landing.

The war went on. Alyssa's letters stopped abruptly. Word came that the commonfolk had revolted against Rhaenyra, and her own betrothed, the boy Joffrey, was slain in the fighting.

Then came the raven from King Aegon. Rhaenyra was dead and their remaining siblings had been taken captive: Little Aegon, Baela, Rhaena, and Alyssa. She can still the words scrawled onto the parchment: “She has been treated with no unnecessary cruelty.”

Aegon wouldn’t have dared lay a hand on Baela and Rhaena, not with Lord Corlys on his small council. Alyssa had no such protection, not with their father rotting alongside the corpse of the dragon at the bottom of the God’s Eye.

And now the man who slaughtered him wears the crown.

Lord Corlys has invited her to dine with him, in his chambers in the Tower of the Hand. Daylight fades swiftly into twilight as she crosses the courtyard that her bedchamber overlooks, past the lowered drawbridge of the Holdfast. With winter approaching, the days are growing shorter.

A servant of Lord Corlys’ leads her up a single flight of stairs, through a reception room and into a small dining hall. The table is set with fine silverware and glass cups, lit by flickering flames of candles and a blazing hearth. Lord Corlys sits at the head of the table and rises to meet her. She offers him her hand, and he presses his lips to her knuckles.

“Is your sister not joining us, my lady?” he asks.

She smiles politely. Daena fears for Alyssa’s life as much as she does, but she is not meant for the delicacy of a negotiation.

Her place is set to his right and as she sits he pours her out a glass of wine. “From the Summer Isles,” he says. “I could never understand why anyone would bother with the stuff that comes from the Arbour.”

“We are lovers of ale and cider in the Vale,” Rhaelle says, “but I trust your taste, my Lord.”

They raise their glasses to each other and take small sips as two servants bring in plates of beef, bread and butter, and roasted vegetables. They move like shadows between the candlelight, their footsteps light, their movements gentle and unobtrusive. They are gone as quickly as they came.

When the door is shut, Lord Corlys leans forward with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped together. He says quietly, “I intend to put your matter to the King in the morning.”

Rhaelle places her glass down on the table, her hand lingering on the base. Sadness suddenly strikes her heart. “You mean you have not spoken to him at all?”

“I have told him you seek to improve your position, and the position of your younger sister, of which he has been supportive.”

“But what about the matters we have discussed?” she asks.

His eyes are distant, settled on nothing in particular. He reaches to take a roll of bread from the table, but he does not eat it, he simply places it on his plate. “Lady Alyssa is an admirable woman, truly. She reminds me much of Baela–”

“Not admirable enough for you to appeal on her behalf,” Rhaelle says sharply. “I only wish to see her returned to her home, to Runestone.”

“In the eyes of the King, she is a traitor to the realm. She challenged the true line of succession.”

“As did you,” she says, “at the start of the war, you pledged your support for Rhaenyra.”

“Aye, I did, for the good of my family, and the cost was great.”

“Greater than siding with those who killed your wife?”

Corlys looks to her with a grave expression. “And Aemond killed your father, but you have come to his court, in the hopes of lobbying him, to plead for his mercy and his favour.”

But that’s different, isn’t it? Her father was a rare presence at Runestone, his name hanging over her head like an unspoken secret. He did not come to lay his first wife to rest, but he had tried to claim her inheritance and had no difficulty condemning their daughter to a marriage that would tie her to a war.

“I just want my sister to be safe,” she utters.

“I want that too,” Lord Corlys says and she can almost believe him.

“When can I speak to him? When will he release her?”

He takes a slow breath. “We must approach this matter with caution,” he says, “and it will be worth your while. Many say Aemond is a far more reasonable man than his brother was.”

“You served them both. What do you have to say on Aemond’s reason?”

A sad look falls over his face. He looks the way he did the day his daughter was buried. “Aemond is just, in his own way, but the Targaryens have always ruled with fire and blood, and he is no exception.”

When she returns to her bedchamber, she finds Daena curled up on a chaise by the dying hearth. 

“She wished to see you after your dinner with Lord Corlys,” Morra mutters as Rhaelle fetches a blanket from the bed and drapes it over her sister. “It has been a tedious few months, and I do not doubt she is tired after the journey from Runestone.”

As a child, Rhaelle often wondered if she and her sisters had been born cursed. They had inherited nothing of their father’s looks save for his violet eyes; three Targaryen girls with dark curls and the stern face of their mother. Daena has always had a softness that she and Alyssa never had, a fuller face, a smaller nose, slight but pouted lips and large eyes. She looks like a doll, even in sleep.

She smooths her hand over Daena’s head, lightly so she will not disturb her, like she used to do when she was a babe. Daena makes a small humming noise in her chest but does not rouse.

She wishes her sister could rise from her sleep well rested, to a world where she would never know fear or uncertainty. Such a possibility seems close; in her heart she chases it like a hare, a flash of movement through a forest. She need only draw an arrow and strike her target.

Rhaelle is awake before dawn. By the time Daena will have started to stir, Morra has her bathed, skin scrubbed with sugar and honey then scented with lavender oil, dressed, then adds the finishing touches to her hair. She takes the top half and braids it around Rhaelle’s head like a crown, the rest falling freely down her back. With no Queen, the ladies of the court are said to follow the fashions of Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Helaena. If she is to be a lady of Aemond’s court, a Targaryen, she must appear the part.

She breaks her fast in her privy chamber. Servants bring in jugs of cherry juice, bowls of sweet stewed oats, platters of blackberry tarts and slices of apple dusted with sugar and cinnamon. The sun rises over the courtyard and a pale shade of red shines through the window where the light reflects from the red stone of the Holdfast.

Daena bounces into the room like an excitable child and takes a blackberry tart before she has even taken a seat. She will need to work on her table manners before she dines before the King and his court, Rhaelle notes. Her hair has been brought into one thick braid that falls over her shoulder and her gown is black, like Rhaelle’s, but detailed with silver rather than gold. 

“What did Lord Corlys say to you last night?” she asks, following her pastry with a sip of cherry juice.

“He said that he means to put our cause to the King, and that we must employ patience.”

Daena scoffs, “patience?”

Rhaelle shares a pointed look with Morra, standing by the table. “We have no other choice,” she says, “and you will mind what you say, even in private, even when you think we are alone.”

“I thought the Master of Whispers had been put to death, or does Larys Strong still manage to spy on the Kingdom without a head?”

“And will you continue to slander the King if I find a smith to wrench out your tongue?”

Daena glares at her, then pouts her lips to stifle a giggle.

They finish their meal in relative peace and when they are done, Rhaelle is left with a pleasantly sharp sweetness on her tongue from the fruit. Morra adorns her with jewellery, all gold and set with rubies, a chain about her waist, earrings and a necklace. For the final touch she dabs tinted rosewater on her cheeks and lips.

“They say he’s terribly dull,” Daena says, patiently waiting her turn.

Rhaelle frowns at her through the mirror. “The King?”

“Tyland fucking Lannister– yes, the King.” 

Prince Joffrey had been far too young to be her escort to the wedding of Alyssa and Prince Jacaerys. Aegon was already betrothed to Helaena, and so on the day of the festivities Rhaelle had been presented with a sombre looking, silver-haired Prince. He frowned constantly, which she did not doubt had something to do with the cut through his left eye. The wound and his skin was red, held together with stitches. He often had his hands balled into fists, breathing deeply through his nose as though he was in pain. He tried to talk to her about his studies, and asked her about the histories of Runestone and House Royce. He led her through one dance after dinner before he retreated to his chambers. She had despaired with Alyssa the next day that she hadn’t been allowed to be escorted by any other young man of the court. That boy is a man now, and a kinslayer thrice over.

“Better a dull King than a drunk King, I suppose,” she says quietly.

“Who’s a slanderer now?” Daena says with a wicked smile. 

There are less clouds in the sky this morning. Sunlight bleeds through tall windows and floods the halls of the castle. It is more lively now, servants hurry about with baskets of food and fresh linens, men and women in all their finery walk through courtyards and galleries, though most are gathering at the throne room.

Rhaelle and Daena stay arm in arm, until they reach the entrance hall and the great oak doors that lead into the great hall.

“These carvings are new,” Rhaelle wonders aloud. The stone is cleaner here than it is in the rest of the castle, images of dragons carved into walls, pillars and archways. 

She hears the ominous hum of voices on the other side of the doors. She can picture them, the staring faces like a pack of wolves eager to sink their teeth and claws into the daughters of Daemon Targaryen.

And she can picture the Iron Throne, where her uncle once sat with the golden crown of the Consolidator atop his head.

Daena leans in close to Rhaelle’s ear, tightening her hold on her arm. “But he was a dragonrider, and a warrior, surely he cannot be so dull.”

She tries to imagine that boy from the wedding feast, his serious expression, his round little face, a single sad blue eye darting around the hall. Then she imagines a killer, a bloodthirsty monster with fangs for teeth and talons for hands. She cannot place them in the same body.

“They say he has a sapphire set in the empty socket, but that he wears an eyepatch so as not to frighten the ladies at court.”

She has heard of this story, like Ser Symeon star eyes. “How considerate of him,” Rhaelle adds, glancing over her shoulder but no one seems to have heard them. She clenches her jaw and takes slow, steady breaths in the hopes that it will calm her nerves, just enough to get through this ordeal.

“I wonder if he is handsome?” Daena adds.

He’ll be wearing the Conqueror’s Crown, Valyrian steel and set with square rubies, the same worn by his brother, by Maegor the Cruel. She has only seen it in history books.

“There were awful rumours about Aegon, but he has his own now, doesn’t he?”

He will surely have Blackfyre by his side too, unless he managed to claim Dark Sister from their father’s hands once he was slain. Would he take it as a trophy of war? The thought makes her stomach churn.

“The Harrenhal whore,” Daena hisses.

This tale she is also familiar with. Aemond had marched to Harrenhal and left King’s Landing undefended. When he arrived at that cursed castle and heard the news that he had lost the capital, he slaughtered all of House Strong for treachery, save for a bastard woman, some kind of servant who he took as a bedmate. “He made her Lady of Harrenhal,” she adds, much to the ire of the realm’s Lords.

"A generous patron then," Daena chuckles, and then she falters. She lowers her voice even further till it is scarcely a breath against Rhaelle’s ear. “Will he kill Alyssa too?”

A familiar feeling of fear strikes her in her chest, squeezing on her heart and lungs. She can make no promises, not before she hears the sound of wood creaking as the doors are swung open and the voice of Ser Willis Fell calls, “Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone, and her sister, Lady Daena Targaryen!”

She drops Daena’s hand on instinct and takes a step before her like a sworn shield. The hungry faces stare up at them but she looks ahead, to the Iron Throne, to the man who sits amongst the mass of swords.

He is too distant for her to make out the details of his face, but they become clearer as she walks through the hall. If there are any whispers of “traitor,” she does not hear them.

The crown sits proudly upon his head of silver hair, long enough to pass his shoulders and fall to his chest. He is dressed all in black with no other distinguishable colours other than the silver buckles on his jerkin, and wears an eyepatch over the left side of his face.

She stops at the base of the steps leading up to the throne, knowing Daena is lingering behind her. Now she sees more of him, the line of his scar, the sharp angles of his face, his jaw, his cheeks, his nose. Most of all her attention is drawn to his mouth, to the curve of his lips, the way they settle in an expression that could almost be amused, were it not for the look of fury and hunger in his remaining eye, which is violet, like her father’s, like hers.

Lord Corlys stands by his side, but she keeps her eyes on the King and curtseys as deeply as she can. She feels her legs trembling under her skirt, her hands shaking by her sides no matter how she wills them to stop. Aemond stares at her all the while, not sparing a glance for Daena who will be following her lead.

“My King,” she says, only to find her jaw is trembling too. She dare not take her eyes from Aemond, should he take it as a sign of weakness. 

She knows the words she must say, Lord Corlys had been very specific, but there’s a thick feeling in her throat, a reluctance that she never had before, now that Aemond’s one eye is boring into her very soul.

She allows herself a breath. “My King, my sister and I have come to renounce the pretender, Rhaenyra, and all those who supported her treason, including our late father–” her eyes fall to the ground before she can stop herself. 

“You have come to ask something of me, cousin?” Aemond says. His voice, hauntingly gentle, draws her eyes back up to him.

“We have come to beg your forgiveness, and pledge our undying love and fealty to you,” she bows her head once more, “the one true King.”

Relief lifts a weight from her body but fear creeps under her skin like a fever, burning and chilling all at once. Murmurs fill the air and she hears Daena let out an exhale of breath, further away than she had expected her to be.

She keeps her head down as she sees movement in front of her, as the murmurs die down and the sound of tauntingly slow footsteps approach her where she kneels.

“Rise, my Lady,” Aemond says. 

She does as she is instructed, straightens her body, her neck, and the last thing she lifts is her gaze.

There is something sinister in the intensity of his eye as it moves about her face, the care he takes in reaching for her hand and pressing an achingly light kiss to it that lingers on her skin, but then he does not let her go. He holds his hand firmly over hers as if to keep his kiss there. “You shall be an honoured guest in my court, Lady Rhaelle.”

She cannot tell if this is kindness or a butcher calming a lamb before the slaughter.

He goes to Daena and kisses her hand, but he does not hold her the way he did Rhaelle.

“Those of my blood who are loyal shall always have a place at my court,” he says to the hall and is met with a cautious applause. 

Rhaelle meets Daena’s eye as they turn to face the crowd. Her sister frowns innocently, wide eyes begging for an explanation. Why should they trust him? Why should they have to appeal to him when they played no part in the war, when they did not challenge his brother’s inheritance? Why should they beg for forgiveness from a kinslayer King?

Aemond looks over his subjects with his head held high and his hands behind his back. He carries no sword, just a knife tucked in on his right hip. He does not regard his people with the warmth of King Viserys, instead he watches them like he’s looking for fear, like he thrives in it.

And he is so utterly captivating.

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[rel124c41]

SUNDO. jade leech

This is the beginning: you walk into Osaka Bay, sound asleep.  This is the end: you are dragged into Osaka Bay, wide awake … and screaming.

tags: japanese mythology & folklore, religious imagery & symbolism, yokai AU, attempted rape/non-con, inspired by Den lille Havfrue by Hans Christian Andersen, sleepwalking, yandere, blood and gore, immortality, declaration of love, did andersen want to fuck fish? i think so!

word count: 9,114

Timid, you step into the water. 

Behind closed eyelids, the muscle and nerves of your eyeball flicker like insect wings. Your eyelashes may rest delicate in the closed oyster position but your eyeballs move alert underneath the thin skin. 

By closing your eyes, it allows you to see a new world. Sight often blocks and trumps other sensations. With purpose, you narrow yourself to reflect upon the touch of a breeze, the sound of cicadas, and the shape of water embracing your ankles. You spread yourself out, imaging yourself in the wind, and then your eyes pulse under your eyelid skin. 

You fly deeper into the lake with a yell of, “I see you!” And suddenly, you shrink down to the size of a six year old child from your adult body, missing your top left canine tooth and wearing a kimono pattern with abstract art of yellow squares and violet rectangles.

In the water, a boy laughs and says, “That can’t be true!”

“Yes it is!”

“But your eyes are closed!”

Eager hands squirm and dive through the water. Fingers reach out like hawk talons, squeezing unsqueezable water. In your hark of the earth, you hear the fierce splashes of you punching into the water to grab your friend. Laughing, you trip over yourself, falling breast first in water, managing to pick yourself up in time just as the lake licks at your throat. Three different voices laugh at you but you only hunt for one.

“I swear, I see you!”

“No way!”

In your attentiveness of your surroundings, you feel the smile that grows on your face. Water leaps up at your cheeks like sparks of a fire. When you laugh, salt slips in your mouth. Suddenly, you change angles and reach to your right instead of your left. The water there moves in a panic. Laughing, you bring up both your hands, readying to push them into the water. 

The sun is warm. The water is cool. From the tree, in the breeze, thousands of leaves say in one voice,  “My little Muyūbyō. My little sleepwalker. You are going too deep.”

“Mom?”

The hanging leaves are green and lush. “You’re going too deep, (Name).” 

You wake up. The rainbow of ways one can wake up is endless and numerous. However, no one really considers waking up to be a varying, changeable state of things. Each unique rise into the waking realm differs slightly.

Today, you wake up like a crab has pinched firmly the tendon running down your upper hamstring. Today, you wake up shin-deep in the lake. Your mother is right. You are going too deep. The water usually stays up to your ankles. The sight greatly disturbs you and your hamstring tendon drums with the full body pain.

That boy. You wonder on the identity of that young boy. Why could you not catch him if you had him right in your sight? Your seeing varies often; sometimes the world is as clear as newly polished glass and other times you are trying to look through a looking glass that is grime and sand stained. His voice – his voice was almost as familiar as your mother's warning. 

Eyes enucleated, you would always know your mother’s voice. 

Backpedaling, you move and watch until the embrace around your legs slides down goosebumped skin and lies quivering around your ankles.

You look at the sunrise peering over the lake. Hinode starts the upward ascend, pink and orange light falling over the world. Water almost shimmers around your ankles with the welcome benevolence of the rising sun. 

Yet with its welcome comes the banishment of the only company you have. Well, for the most part. Even the mischievous kappa, river spirits, will vanish with the sun. You look for them nonetheless, knowing you make sure to fall asleep with cucumbers in your nightwear; food for the yokai, just to certain their volatile hungers are quelled. 

You — 

You have always been able to see yokai. 

Your parents have called you blessed because of it. As a sleepwalker, you are closer to the spirit world than the normal, spirit-blind citizens of the island Kyushu. Despite being blessed, your parents kept your habit of sleepwalking out of the village’s hippocampus — as they would surely see it as a mark of possession. 

So much for parental precaution, you are already seen as the village’s resident boogeyman even without them knowing you move in nightly rest. 

Perhaps it is a fault of your own.

Perhaps the blame lies on your parents.

You can pinpoint where it went wrong though. Since the incident, you have known you would be kindred to the boogeyman. Despite all the piling up evidence, there is no clearly given perpetrator. Who does the blame of the crime go to for being a boogeyman against one’s will? The crime of that day and then the crime of being yourself. You: eldritch evil in human clothings.

Sekia (the walking world) and ikai (the ‘other’ world), you walk between those and that is a crime. 

You would never point the fingers at your God though. The very thought of it makes your stomach tighten like rope and you press your palms flat into your abdomen to resist the urge to puke. God, your last remaining parent.

Shinto is an indigenous faith in Japan but you are born of a time period far too back to even toy with the idea of calling it indigenous. Shinto believes that one is born fundamentally good but struggles with evil spirits. You are born with a mark of evil. Born bad, you defy the religion you preach, practice, and love as if it is an old friend. 

Despite that, where you live is in a Shinto shrine, atop a mountain, by a lake. 

And, with a frown blemishing your pretty face, you look behind, up at the mountain you have to climb to go home. 

Behind the Shinto shrine is a clothesline for drying cottons and silks. It stretches, a pinned butterfly wing, from tree to tree. All that hangs from them is only wet at the bottom. You squeeze the bottom of the nightwear you put there the previous day. Still damp. Ah, if only the elevation was not so high up. This would dry up quicker if I was living off the mountain. It is April and spring is ushering in. Still, it is mildly cold at the isolated point where you live.

You do not think you could stomach the air down in the village. Thin air is all you know. Adapting to glutinous air would be like drowning on land, a paradox regarding your lungs. You pull your nightwear off the skin covering your twin lungs, one hand on each tomoerio of the yogi.  

It gathers delicately around your hamstrings before you pull it around the crook of your elbow. Straightening it out, you add the damp fabric to the clothesline. One arm cupping your nude breasts, you compare the height of water to previous nightwear. There is slight discoloration, the bottom a dark gray and navy blue and the rest white and blue as cornflower. 

You tense when you look down the clothesline. Finding by one by one that the height of damp decreases in a staircase pattern. It would make sense. Ones that have been on the clothesline longer would be less soaked. But you know better.

You have been going deeper. You have no idea why but you have been walking deeper into the lake.

When you were very young – on the journey to turn two years old in a month or so – you were found in the lake. Above, in the mountaintop, horrified, mournful screams stabbed the air. Your name – screamed with tears and fright in each letter – soared like a tengu bird. Sleeping upright, you were unaware until a hand grabbed you and wrenched you back into the world. 

“(Name). Oh my, (Name), my baby!”

When your fretful mother realizes years later that you cannot stop sleepwalking, she only asks one thing of you: to not go deeper than your ankles. You claw at the softest on your chest to get your heart to stop pounding so fretful. Next time, you will reel yourself back before you disobey.

There are a hundred eyes peeking through the paper sliding doors and a trail of footsteps that are too petite to be yours trailing across the cypress wood floors of your home. These are curing images to your heart. 

With a smile and hum, you trail a finger across the wall. Multiple eyes blink at the motion like a herd of butterfly wings twitching at a breeze. Leaving behind wet, much larger footprints, you walk through the Shinto shrine to your bedroom. It is time to dress for the arising sun. The sticky smell of stale sulfur and sea trails after you. The yokai of your father’s Shino shrine welcome this familiar scent.

You never had any childhood friends. Quite a desolate thought, yes? Not entirely for you. Never having childhood friends, you cannot sensibly yearn for it with a desperate longing or be saddened by the statement. You never had any childhood friends.

For some reason, you have false snippets of a sekai, a waking world, with a childhood friend with one sun eye and one moon eye. Blended between the realities like you are. And an odd shattered dream made by your hippocampus made of yearning you do not have.

Origami is today’s shared activity. With slices of colored paper the boy has gifted you, you take to folding them into numerous animals. Creasing paper between your fingers and pinching edges with your nails. You work diligently on yours, spine facing the mountain. 

You squish down the snake-head-shape the paper has fallen into until you get the diamond you want. With a prideful smile, you continue, fold by fold. You pull bottom up and get an open mouth; when you push both edges inward, you get the squashed wings done, halfway there.

Spine facing the lake, your companion continues on with his. His nails are whetted like a cleaver so he gets preciser and cleaner edges with his origami. Despite the fact he could make something more challenging, his design is simpler and less complicated than yours. He is just finishing up the tail by folding the right corner of the tiny triangle into the middle. 

“Azul’s been making a lot of frogs. He says each frog he makes is another coin his future self will soon have.”

“There must be a whole army of them by now then!”

“A militia is more appropriate. I worry one day he will find himself lying down in the grave he has made, drowning under washi paper. The folly of his want.” The boy says this with a facade’s frown; there is really no concern in his mannerisms. 

“You say that like you aren’t greedy.”

“Hm … not for things like money, other things.” 

You miss the way his eyes burn and shine because you are working on modeling the paper body of your animal. You enjoy your time spent with Jade, this fabricated friend your hippocampus made of the clay of your brain, dearly. 

“Food?”

“Ah … well, I suppose that is one of the other things.”

“What else are you greedy for?” You cannot fathom that Jade wants anything more to eat. He is very gluttonous like his brother and octopus friend besides his lithe, feminine frame. 

“For one thing –”

“Aha! Finished!” 

Eager and proud, you hold up the origami animal. Your creases and folds are not too pristine but the product of effort is still majestic. A crane. The bird said to live a thousand years. “Pretty isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Let’s switch ours.” Your hands make a grab for the origami fish in Jade’s hands.

“But it is the first time you have been able to make a crane successfully. Most people want to keep milestones.” He cannot fathom why you are so eager to share. “The crane should stay with you.”

“But I want to share it with my best friend.”

You wake up like the clap of a baseball in a mitt. Your eyes fly open as the baseball is thrown with a resounding bark of fetch, soaring like an arrow and returning to the second glove. A consciousness thrown between two gloves. The left side of your face feels numb and medicated.The water is up to your shins again, disobedient. Backpedaling without hesitation, you scratch at the side of your face. It feels like a cluster of barnacles are weighing down west facing skin.

You yawn as the sun, the hinode, comes up. A thousand years. What a long time; you could never fathom living such an infinite amount of time. Salt and grime staining your nightwear, you step onto the shore. You would never want to live a thousand years like this. 

Another never of yours? You never had any childhood friends. 

There are no absolutes in Shinto.

“This is impossible,” you whisper.

“There are no absolutes,” a man replies.

Somehow and someway, you are being wedded. Done with your fruitless attempts to open your eyes, you resign to verbally negotiating your way out of this lucid dream. You have to get out of here but the water has hardened to cement around your legs. You are unsure if this is a fabricated dream, a fabricated memory of a fake world, or if this is the ‘other’ world. Unsure of where you tread, you desperately want the sun to break apart this nightmare.

That is impossible. I am a miko. A miko must be unmarried. I am my father’s helper and I cannot be wedded.

The man replies to your thoughts: That is not true. You are not a miko. The priest is dead. You can be wedded.

No. I cannot wed.

The white kosode kimono covers over your skin like a constant itch. Somehow and someway, without opening your eyes, you know that you are wearing wedding attire. You feel the distribution of another set of legs in the lake. There is an awful weight on your finger. 

There are vows being spoken by a siren’s voice. A trickling scale on a piano voice. It feels oddly like you cannot create new memories. Your dreams and thoughts evaporate like trickling sand, stolen. Everything dwindles and moves away like retreating waves. 

Do you relinquish your immortal soul to this man?

Do you?

Do you?

“Yes.”

“My love, a snake is coming.”

You wake up, off-kilter. You fall immediately due to that poor balancing board provided by uneven rocks. With a gasp, your hands go out to catch you, splashes resounding as you kneel down in the water. Another fierce splash follows. You scream as you watch a mamushi dive into the water where you were standing. 

“Aa-Agh,” you gasp as you scramble up. “AH!” The world feels like trickling sand, all cascading down around you. A stumbling body turns wildly as the snake attacks. It bites the air and jumps in the water.

Its venomous fangs however are directed at the rising sun. Protectively, it attacks air. The mamushi does not attack you or your retreating, repeatedly falling form. You do not remember what you had just dreamed, pink sunlight on your back. 

The only evidence that the impossible happened are your fast, retreating footprints embedded into the shore. But even those washed away with the brine of water, trickling away, stolen.

Tiny footsteps litter the inside of your shrine. After so many years, the footprints have become an infestation comparable to cockroaches, a black sole and five dotting toes. Prints from a zashiki warashi, a ghost girl. They are only seen by children and the house’s owner, but they stay visible to you because you became the owner of the house when you stopped being a child.

Zashiki warashi are said to bring good fortune and be guardians of the house they inhabit. You have had no problems unlike the slight troubles you have had with the eyes in your home. However, a little otherworldly company does not bother you like human company.

Footprints unsourced from a tangible body and eyes unsourced from a tangible head. How odd that you have grown used to that.

You make sure to avoid stepping on the trails of footprints as you walk through the honden, the main sanctity. You notice that the ghost girl’s footprints seem to avoid the heart of the shrine. Behind a cupboard that is seldom opened lies your God, the heart, your last remaining parent. You pass the cupboard and make your way to a window. 

You watch the sunrise, contemplative. Sunlight intrudes in long rectangles and breaks the steady zig-zag lines of the zashiki warashi’s footprints. You kneel, clothed in wet nightwear, feet damp. 

You remember the day of your parents’ death. It was the only day you awoke in bed instead of ankle deep in water. Thinking you were cured, excitement fueled your feet to the entrance of your father and mother’s bedroom. Excitement skids and burns down to ash as you hold the paper sliding door open, looking upon an empty bed. 

It took only a few minutes to find them because even a fool could have guessed where this would end.

For some unlucky reason, you never slipped when walking down the mountain to the lake. Your mother worried it would happen so often. The image of your foot kissing and missing the ground. Like a ram miscalculating his step, you would plummet in her mind, body crunching and breaking as it ping-ponged down a dangerous slope.

Throat thick with salvia, you find them with a terrified cry. You press yourself tightly into a tree, weeping and screaming your miserable mind’s woes into the sekia.

Below you, they lie. Bodies bent like a cluster of twigs snapped for a fireplace and flesh smudged with blood and dirt. Bones point out elbows and knees, breaking the blanket of skin. Wrists and ankles are turned in unnatural positions. Their eyes stare up at the morning sky, the lilac pinks and blue amber of the sunrise like a colorful coffin above them. Up there, their God.

The incident made you the village’s boogeyman. Even if you were the good priest's daughter, their little blessing, the only suspect left for the crime was you.

“You were so wrong. I am not a blessing.” 

The window gives no reply. Done with the standoffish nature of the glass fixture, you stand up. The seaweed squishes under your feet, salt grinding into your soles. 

“And I am sorry that you were wrong.”

Lakes do not carry seaweed like this. 

There is a hand around my ankle.

You wake up. Not violently like the times where your dreams throw you and not softly like your dreams kiss your eyelids open. Instead, you wake up like you have already been awake. No disturbance. Miraculously, there is no disjoint between dreaming and waking. So there is no need to find your footing as you look down. 

You and a garappa stare at each other. His yellow eyes blink up at you, flicking water. Skin fern green and dotted with a dalmatian pattern of dark forest green is mostly submerged underwater. The only part of him that rises above the water is his snout and the webbed thumbnail around your right ankle.  

In your ribcage, your heart pounds hard like a frog moving to a lilypad before it settles completely. Your one heartbeat length terror came from a single thought: God, he is huge. 

Garappas and kappas can only be told apart by size. A garappa has limbs much longer than its twin, stretching out twice the typical size of a kappa. His entire arm is equivalent to your leg. Dizzy eyes track over his lengthy form. If he stood up, the estimated height would be about nine feet. 

Rocks may be under your feet but you feel like the ground is shifting sand, webbing itself through your reality. At least, the garappa seems to not be hostile right now. Who’s to say about later?

You look down at the hand embracing around your ankle. Distorted under the water, it looks like your ankle and his hand are off center from the goosebump flesh of your leg above water. Solid flesh, green contrasting to brown, ripples together in up and down motions. You are so dizzy.

Touch-taste senses are a peculiar faucet of aquatic life. Octopus can lay their suckers upon a prey and drink up the sweetness of fear like a butterfly with nectar. You wonder what kind of taste the garappa might be siphoning from cold pores.

“Foon foon foon.” The garappa says, mouth of his snout circling to form the soft Os. 

You do not fool yourself into thinking that is a friendly sound.

Garappas are elusive and cowards. This male might have been biding his time waiting for weeks of your sleepwalking to know if you were a threat or friend. To be caught by him and his inhuman strength means this was premedicated. Garappas are extremely fond of pranks and mischief, this you remember. 

But what are you forgetting?

“Foon foon foon,” he says again.

“Hoon, hoon, hoon,” you reply, trying to replicate the call of his. 

His eyes squint at you from behind the waving mass of black hair. It trails across his face like seaweed but his bright yellow irises are easy to spot among the ebony. His hold on you readjusts slightly at the sound of your voice, not tightening or loosening, just twisting around the indents of where your fibula and tibia met like someone using a pepper crusher.

There is definitely intelligence in those golden suns but that is not really the cause of unease. The unease comes from his size; the image you paint of him standing up and crowding over you. His legs would perhaps end where your collarbone starts.

Please do not stand up. Please do not stand up.

You wonder back to your taste. Would the spice of fear be hidden in the dish of your normal taste or would the spice of fear be an overpowering burn? The heart kept in your chest is very calm. It is tranquil as a sheep, resting in the dropped palpitations of sleep. Perhaps this is still a dream.

Then, the garappa starts to pull. It is a light, hesitant tug. When you hold firm, toes curling up to press tighter into the rocks underfoot, he lets up. His hold goes back to being concrete, unmoving even though the dilating ripples of water suggest different. You and him lock eyes again.

Then, the streamlined face vanishes and you are looking up at a sky of stars. You gasp as water hugs the back of your cotton yogi. A rock cushions your skull’s rapid descent and you wince. The hand on your ankle tugs and tugs.

As if the harsh kiss of the rock breaks a spell, you finally remember what you were trying to recount about the mischievous, prank-loving garappas. You look over the valley of your body, clothed in blue yogi nightwear, the supine side of you soaking wet, remembering. Garappas are known to be sexually aggressive. 

“DAMNIT!” 

Your arms move fast, grabbing at the sand and rock beside your chest, trying to lift yourself up. A fearful cry escapes you as the next tug disorients your arms and causes you to spill deeper into the lake. You watch wide-eyed as a webbed hand peels back the left side of your nightwear. 

“Cut it out! Get off me! Get off!”

Ripples of water jump around your struggling form. You were correct about his measurements. The entire arm is the size of your leg. He trails it up past the gray and blue camellia sewn on your garment. You scream as you feel the touch of soft tissue of webbed fingers on your inner thigh. 

A lucid part of you thinks the taste of your fear must be explosive.

You twist violently in the oppressing grip like a fish caught in a net. Chilled fingers grab at rocks around you, trying to pull yourself up onto shore. Your free leg kicks at the shoulder of the garrapa. Warmth blooms on your face when you are dragged again and a cut from ear to cheek is birthed. 

“Get the fuck off!” You scream as loud as a banshee. Around you, summer cicadas answer your cry with their own melody and you hear a foon foon foon, almost like a laugh bubbling under the water.

And, just as webbed fingers hover over the apple of your sex, the world falls still and silent. Even the everlasting cicadas stop for the only time in their life. In the bubble of unreal quiet, you stare over your body at the hand dug into the skull of the garrapa. 

The piscine hand is the color of tooth white. The knuckles are gradients of green bleeding off into an ebony black. You can tell because the only part of the hand that is not sunk into the garappa’s skull is a single thumb. The thumbnail is sharp as a knife, pressed in the mass of black hair. The arm trails down the neck and back of the garrapa and is indistinguishable under the black water.

You watch the garappa twitch. Still alive despite the four fingers bayonet through his head. His golden sun eyes stare at you as his hand moves down and wraps itself around your lower thigh. He squeezes hard as the four fingers press down, pull out, and press down once again, almost sensually erotic in their motions. 

“Fo-Fo-Fo-Fo-Fo.” 

You watch pleased as a trail of blood runs down the streamlined snout. Good. Die; never swim again; die-die-die!

Your respite is short lived as you are suddenly pulled down. A terrified cry rockets out of your throat. The hand burrow in the garrapa’s head stops in its descent back into black water, contemplative. The alive yet rigor-mortis grip is desperate and relentless on your thigh. 

“Fo-Fo-Fo-Fo-Fo.” The dying garrapa coos like the cicadas chirp. If I go down, I will take you with me.

His circular mouth falls still, an empty O. You watch as red rushes up in an inking squirt to the surface of the night lake. Then, with a breakneck speed, the garappa and pearl white hand disappear. The now blood-stained water rises and moves like scales as their interlocked bodies go under without another word.

The cicadas start to make noise again. The marble surface of the lake reshape back into its flat, glossy appearance. Just a different color. On trembling arms, you start to shift yourself to sit with your posture up straight. 

You glance down at the purling motions of your yogi. Under the cotton lies the amputated hand, torn at the shoulder, and now stuck on your thigh in true rigor-mortis. Mind blanking, you stand back up, ankle deep in red water. 

Latched garrapa arm swinging between your legs like a front facing tail, you walk out of the lake, soaking wet all over. 

You scrape yourself up the summit like a stubborn earthworm. Shaking hands grab familiar tree branches to hoist yourself. Frost-nibbled feet press hard into sediment to keep yourself up. At the top of the summit, just outside your home, the two lanterns of the entrance are lit. You shake harder and shiver harder with the cold. 

The lake is on the backside of the shrine, so you slowly round the building. Inch by inch, more of the entrance is revealed to you beyond the thumping glow of lanterns. Two stone lion-dogs, komainu, guard protectively under the gold. The long tongue entrance grows with each hesitant step you take. Resting your hand on the Shinto shrine, you look towards the offering hall. 

A man with silver hair kneels, hands clasped in prayer. His cheeks are tinted a pink from the chill of morning. 

“I am not taking prayers at this time, Sir. Please return another day.” 

The man does not startle at your voice in the same capacity that you startled at the sight of him. His words erode in his mouth before a smile pulls up his lips. You think his eyes are blue. It is hard to tell with glass obscuring them. He is wearing spectacles that look like the melted pattern of a tortoise shell.

“I did not know God was on a schedule. I suppose I can see why. The importance of transactions, why, those can keep someone quite occupied. I am a bit disheartened to see my deal is not worth His time.” The man’s smile is sympathetic like he knows you are suffering.

You grimace at your slip-up. Wanting to be inside, you round around the front porch area so you can meet with him at the entrance. You wonder what he must think of you, soaking wet, leaving behind puddles. “I’m terribly sorry, Sir. You may continue. I cannot offer the services of a Shinto shrine today however. My deepest apologies.” You bow.

“It is no worries. I just came to check if you were okay and make certain that you are.”

“If I’m,” your eyes flicker up in confusion. Straightening, you imagine your face must be the face of confusion like you are a spirit-blind person seeing yokai for the first time. Why would anyone? Does he not know you as the village boogeyman, someone that no one would dare check upon. “I’m quite fine, Sir.”

“Certain?”

“Certainly.”

The silver-haired man seems very pleased at that. Enough to the point where he stands up. Gratitude fills your lungs, almost relieving yourself of the chill. You hate that this is the first human interaction you have had in years and you are so happy to see it be gone.

Maybe you should try to be hospitable. That thought dies as you watch the man. Why, that is really curious – “Sir?”

“Yes?” His tone is acquiescent. 

“The direction to the village is that way.” You point past the torii gate and the two guardian lions. He had been rounding the front porch, walking in the damp footsteps you had left behind. The man blushes an even heavier pink at that. 

“Ah, my apologies,” he amends sheepishly. He stalks towards you and you wholeheartedly expect him to slip past. Instead, his presence surprises you for a second time. He grabs your salt encrusted hands and holds them dearly. “I am glad to see you in good health.”

You blank at the touch of his hands and go completely vacant at his sincere words. Like a stuttering fish, your lips move up and down wordlessly. Where did that even come from? “Do I know you?”

“I’m afraid not, godfather.”

He squeezes your hands and lets go. His spectacles are a beautiful pattern. The strange man walks off, towards the village, but his gait makes it look like he is walking in the wrong direction. You watch him until he vanishes into nothing. To make certain that he leaves.

Shaking and clenching your hands to get the blood-flow back to them, you enter the shrine. There are no armies of footprints waiting to greet you. You grow colder.

You are hot to the touch.

After such a grievous experience, you develop a fever as May births herself into the world, stabbing April to death. It lasts for a week longer than a normal fever should. Having to climb back up a mountain for an hour each morning is not any aid to the medicinal herbs you take. And now, when you want to rest, you cannot even do that. 

You have already taken the bath salts. Inhaling the cathinone crystals, you walk from one end of the shrine to the other end like the ghost of a sailor haunting/walking a shoreline. You sniffle each time you feel the tickle of the drugs in your nose. Walk. Walk. Walk. Do not fall asleep no matter what. 

Tonight is hyakki yagyo, because of course the night parade of one hundred demons falls upon the night you want to gain any semblance of rest after debilitating illness. The parades are inauspicious and untrackable. 

The hordes of eyes in your walls watch you walk, relatively close to make indents into the flooring by method of your repetitive pacing. Mokumokuren, that is what the eyes in your walls are, an infestation yokai. They take a fancy to inviting in other yokai instead of protecting as the little girl does … did. 

You can not risk going outside because of the yokai parade. Thus, due to your sleepwalking, you absolutely cannot fall asleep. People foolish enough to go outside during a hyakki yagyo or peek through their windows are killed or spirited away. It is considered divine punishment for looking upon that which must not be seen.

I have been looking upon yokai since my birth, would this parade really harm me? You never bother to test the floating theory, leaving it to trickle away until the next hyakki yagyo commences the following month. However —

“PLEASE! PLEASE HELP ME! SOMEONE LET ME IN!”

You have never had someone pleading at your door on a night like this. The horde of eyes watch as you consider the bottle of drugs in your nightwear pocket. You only inhale the crystals to stay alert and awake during night but they do cause hallucinations.

“One of your friends,” you ask the cluster of eyes peering through a Swiss cheese wall. One blinks a wet, sticky eye at your question. Then all of them blink when the stranger outside your door starts pounding on the front door.

You hold your hands over your breasts anxiously. Inside the bottle, your drugs gleam like coarse Himiylaian sea salt under the one eye made of light. The lantern is your only company, you remind yourself, not a human or a yokai.

You are alone and will remain alone until death. 

It is probably an onmoraki at the door. A bird-like monster who has a talent for mimicking human voices. Onmorkai appear near temples, particularly in the presence of neglectful priests. It is almost too predictable of the yokai. Impiety needs no originality as all the old tricks have always worked.

You wish someone was here but you cannot remember their name. But you have always been alone?

Before you know it, your hand is opening the door. You stare down at the flesh like it is a foreign parasite, like a person stares at a leech after removing a limb from black lake water. When did you even – Why is your memory like this – Before you know, a sun and moon eye are staring down at you.

“Godfather! Priest!” You blank at the stranger’s jovial voice, completely singing a different tone when compared to his previous fright. He is frighteningly tall. “Oh thank God, you are here.” The man laughs. And with a flourish, he steps inside your shrine. 

“I – I –”

“Good priest,” you blank when the man gets on his knees. He grabs your hands and squeezes them tightly, holding them over the ring of his teal hair. “I am indebted to you. I swear I was almost killed because of those yokai. A garrapa came from the lake and tried to –”

“A-A garrapa?”

“Yes, good priest, but thanks to –”

You slam the door shut, wrenching your hands from the man. Slamming the door with the man now inside the shrine. Quickly, you turn and start to look for the materials to make a protective talisman. 

You miss the grin curling on your guest’s lips.“Not a fan of yokai, godfather?” 

The tone used this time is soft and worrying. You turn at the volatile changes of his voice. The man still kneels on the ground, downturned eyes following your movements. He is frowning sympathetically at you.

“Yokai – why I –”

“I’m not. Awful spirits. Killed my twin.”

“I can’t –” you trail off as you search the wooden box in the honden frantically. An honorific fuda should be in here — and — and you have bottles of ink inside your bedroom right! Just a simple protective ward to keep yokai out. You might miss the company of the eyes but you will make those sacrifices. A human hand wraps around your wrist, pulling it up from the mouth of the wooden box before you can grasp the card plate. 

“Ya didn’t answer my question. Not a big fan of yokai?” There he goes, switching his tone again. This time is deadly like he is barely concealing a thousand years of bottled up rage. 

“I –” You fumble with your words, feeling akin to a child being scolded. Is it psychosis from the bath salts or are you losing your mind – this feeling is so – his eyes are so familiar but also completely alien. “Just garrapas. I can’t with garrapas.”

My best friend’s a yokai. You think but do not vocalize it. Because it is a false thought caused by the bath salts and a faulty memory. 

He brightens up. “That’s good! That’s really good, priest. I just wanna check.”

“I’m so-sorry about being so erratic. I just —“

“A talisman. Don’t worry, I’ll help! My name’s Floyd, godfather!”

Your new acquaintance seems eager to leave minutes before the first fingers of pink and orange peer over the horizon. After calming down, the two of you shared tea and refused to look out the windows due to the parade. He is an eager talker, not letting conversation fall still at all. He talks like he has been wanting to talk to you forever. You are glad he wants to leave early despite the parade. A good priest would advise against it but you want him gone. 

Something about interacting with him is familiar yet alien. 

Cobalt skies turning more cerulean, you and Floyd take to walking outside. As he busies himself with petting your stone lion-dogs smugly, you carry a torch. Dark still lingers with hesitation. You banish a bit of it by lighting the torches by the torii gate. Orange dances on the ground like a wagging wave. 

Blanketed by shadows, you turn to look up at Floyd, standing behind you as you lit the last lantern. He is staring up at the gate. 

“Are you sure you will be alright leaving a whole hour before sunrise,” you contradict your own agenda with your words.

“Yeah, got to go check on my brother. Make sure he ain’t messin’ anything up.”

Wasn’t his brother killed? The orange from the second lantern dances like a snake. “Sir,” you hesitate when his eyes descend from the gate to you. “Do we know each other?”

“Course, little priest, I just spent all hyakki yagyo talkin’ with ya! Ahehe!” Then happily, the man walks off, down past the torii gate.

Inside the two lanterns, the fire stirs with his departure, locked in a swaying dance. 

The fire goes up like a mountain-climber. Wall to wall, it ascends like a sticky hand falling in reverse. In amber and scarlet waves, it weasels through the holes in the sliding doors and eats up the structure like a caterpillar on a leaf. Hypnotic and great, the fire acids through more and more of the Shinto shrine’s stomach.

You cannot live here anymore. You have known for a while these religious bowels held you in a painful kidney stone. 

Raising up the torch, you kiss it to the main scanatary’s wall and watch all the wood smolder. Man-made clouds of gray lie heavy on the ceiling, the finely tuned acoustics of the building rumbling with the crackles and pops. Onward, you move until you reach the heart of this system. The cupboard where the sacred object, cloaked in cloth like a newborn, represents your God.

You have no idea what the object could be. Your parents died before you turned sixteen and thus you never got to learn what the yorishiro, the sacred object, is. It could be a single comb or a paper crane or a child’s shoe. 

It does not matter when you raise up the torch, holding the flames so they may embrace the cupboard’s two doors. You hold it until fire successfully transfers. Then, as destruction curls over the piety, you leave the heart, walking down the vertebrates, until you reach the anus. 

Behind you, the Shinto shrine burns. In front of you, you see nothing as your eyes are as blind as two spider-eggs, glossed and webbed over. You feel the earth distinctively however, water undertows and rough sediment. 

The fire, blindingly bright and energetic, speaks. “Good priest, you have done well. The night is near its end.”

You wake up. You wake up like someone has driven a knife into your heart.

Coupled with a pained groan, your eyelashes flutter open. The pain in your chest is defibrillating and runs over your shoulders with a hot white electric current. It feels so unique and so awful. Rapidly, you shove your hand into your yogi and touch over the layer of skin. Your heart hammers against the skin like a woodpecker. 

“Oh my God,” you groan, spit running off your lips from the excruciating pain. Coughing around the phlegm, you press your hand hard into your skin, hoping pressure would mimic the job of a tourniquet. Your heart remains relentless. 

More spit runs off your bottom lip like a long, opaque slug. He stretches and plops into the lake around your waist. Bile will not be summoned so you settle with fruitlessly spitting into the lake, groaning in pain. Phlegm hangs like snot on your lip as you look up, expecting to see golden sun-rays that will cure you.

Before you stand a man. 

Those features seem too feminine to make him a man. His thin, cupid bow lips are just a bit too delicate to be a man’s. It looks like his skin is breathing marble and pearl. Monolids and upturned, his eyes are alluring as a concubine. A sun and a moon eye, shining with something indescribable when the two of you make eye contact. Is that genuine love in his womanly eyes?

“Who … Who are you? Why do I?” His eyes are distantly familiar yet juxtaposingly alien to you. Your vision blurs and his face shrinks and distorts, causing his eyes to overlap into an eclipse. Blinking and spitting, you clear your head. “Why do I know your face?”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” For a second, you think him narcissistic until he says, “The omagatoki tonight is beautiful.”

A sudden chill causes your hairs to stand on end. Those dueling eyes seem to brighten in the pitch black dark. If he were any further from you, it would be impossible to see him. He too stands waist deep in the lake with you, many inches taller than yourself.

The sudden acknowledgement of existing as prey washes over you. “It’s omagatoki already?” Of course it is. The moon lies behind the man like a dot engulfing a canvas. You blink your eyes thrice as if there is a plastic filter cutting into them. 

How did you not notice the telltale signs: cold wind blowing, the strange scent in the air like fish or blood, a sudden chill that causes one’s hairs to stand on end. It is as dark as if you were an explorer in the deep sea. It is omagatoki; how have you not noticed? 

The spirit realm is so active around you. 

“Who are you,” you ask again, full of questions. 

“Me? Why, I am wounded that you do not recognize me. That would be like if I asked you: who are you? Who are you, (Name)?” You stay silent. “A niiyomjei perhaps?” A newlywed bride, he coos. 

“I am no yamahime.” 

A filthy yamahime is a mountain princess, but they are alternatively called mountain woman or newlywed bride. In a rare pleasure of luck, you have only encountered a yamahime once despite spending your entire life sharing the same home as them: the mountains.

You remember standing guard in front of the Shinto shrine, on the cusp of your thirteenth birthday, arms folded as the yamahime laughed and laughed. The laugh of a mountain princess is a lethal poison, those who hear are either dead or driven mad. Blood snailing down your ears, you stood her down for a sleepless night, refusing to let harm to befall either mother or father.

“Do not call me such a word.” You spit like a cobra at the man. 

“My apologies, I misjudged that such a pretty woman as yourself would be honored at the comparison. I would never think to lessen your humanity down to a yokai. Though, why, I have always thought of you as the mountain princess you are.”

The moon backdrops on his body like a halo. All his features are dark besides his eyes and the outline of him pressed tight to the glowing night sun. “And, a newlywed bride? That is a true statement by all measures.”

“I am no bride. I am my father’s shrine maiden – a miko.” Mikos must remain unmarried to help out in a Shinto shrine. Coupled by your isolation, that question seems world-breaking insanity. This man is ridiculous. 

But you are no longer a miko. You graduated when you made two graves; you are a priest. A Shinto priest – man or woman – is allowed to marry and have children. This is all insanity. 

The man puts his hand to his mouth, closing his eyes and frowning delicately into his fist as if that statement is a physical injury to him. “Come now, (Name),” his moon and sun eyes shine like beetles when he opens them, “the priest is dead. Your father is dead. And you will find that your own priesthood is no longer required.” 

“As long as there is a shrine, I’m needed.” The water around you is wrong and peculiar. Weightless and nebulous water clings up your thighs, ending an inch below your belly-button. You have to get back to your ankles. You do not want to cause anyone to worry that you have gone too far in.

“There are guests up there. You really should not disturb their prayers,” the man says as you start to turn, barely making it ninety degrees.

“I am the shrine’s priest, it will be fine.”

“They should go undisturbed; it will only take a moment. They want to explore the shrine inside too. Talk with me some more, bride.”

You ignore that word, unpausing your body. Your yogi floats around like a giant jellyfish cape and you must leave. “No one can get into the shrine, even if it is omagatoki. They would be banished. The yokai of the shrine would recognize a stranger.”

“Only by scent. And you smell like salt water every morning. It is safe to say my brother and boss can continue their prayers unaided and uninterrupted.” 

The man, padding through water as he walks over to you, gently takes your left face in the cradle of his webbed hand. His features may be human but you can feel the slime as it sticks. The bone white of his palm almost glows under moonlight. With soft eyebrows, he looks upon you with idolization.

“Why do I know your face?”

As serious as a grave, he says, “I was there. In your dreams. And even when they weren’t dreams, I was still there.”

Each innard organ of yours stirs like a bed of worms at his exigent tone. “Yo .. You’re a umi nyobo … no, a umi no otto.” A sea wife, but then you correct yourself, a sea husband. His features might be delicate but his voice is entirely a man’s. You remember two things about them. Very strong. Very dangerous. 

You jerk your head away from the hold of a piscine hand. Frantic, you twist your body away to get back up shore, to lower the embrace the lake has over your body back down to your ankles. You make it only one step before you stop. Eyes facing the mountain, you stare in horror. 

Beyond the summit, between the armies of trees, a thick plume of smoke rises up and points it black fingers up to the twilight hours. 

Fumbling with your mind, you are drawn back to the present as the man attacks you. He wraps his arms like chains around your waist, pinning your arms. Water stirs around the bottom of the contact. The world tilts as he suddenly pushes you down. Water floods into the front of your yogi, spilling down between your breasts. You fight to be upward and he allows it, leaning his body over you in an acute angle. Water comes to a respite. 

Both of you fall still, your chest heaving heavy. He presses his flat chest to your spine. The left side of his face lands on top of the crown of your head. For a minute, you two stay statue-like. 

“If you can remember my face and species then you must know my name.”

“I do not,” clenched teeth grit together. “I do not know you,” you deny.

“Yes, you do. We grew up together. You were my only friend. I was your only friend. I gave you a fish to keep you in good health and you gave me a crane in the promise of our life together. As a child, we do things unclouded by hesitation. Don’t you remember that?”

“I was only a child. I had no way to understand that,” you bargain. 

“But you participated in our wedlock as an adult. Just a month ago, at night, didn’t you?”

“I can’t remember.”

“I will help you remember. All your dreams and all your thoughts, they will be ours.” A piscine hand carefully picks up wet tendrils of hair from the humid skin of your body. He tucks it behind your ear where cold sweat accumulates. “I’ve only thought and dreamed of you, (Name). I only ever wanted to share an eternal life with you by my side.”

“That’s impossible,” you shiver when he draws a claw over the bridge of the bone in your ear, down to the lobe. “Yokai and humans live in different worlds. The sekai and ikai can’t –”

“I know. I know but you promised. You promised to share that immortal soul humans have with me; the immortal soul that yokai lack. I will be turning you into an umi bozu.”

Umi bōzu … a sea priest. 

You have never seen one; you never want to see and much less want to become one. They may look humanoid but they are truly a monstrous sight. Shoulders and a head rising and appearing from rough, killing waves. Giants. Umi bōzu are as tall as a coastal redwood tree, incomprehensible in size. More fearsome than a whale to a sailor and more dangerous than a plague to a newborn. Black as shadow with bulbous, white-blue eyes, umi bōzu are titans of mystery. 

Some believe they are the progenitors of the sea and others … believe they come from drowned priests. You watch the smoke move serpentine into the skies. You are almost grateful for the rough, constituting grip because you feel you are going to pass out with the thought of becoming one of those behemoth sea monks. 

“I’ll – I’ll wake up. The sun isn’t up. I still have time to wake up.”

There is no way that fire is real. And even if it is real, it is not made by your hands – his brother and his boss –

“You say that the yokai of your shrine would vanish my brother and boss, but you forgot that those eyes are a sign of infestation. Mokumokumen invite other yokai in. You knew that and left them alone to watch you. It is almost like you were waiting for this … the consummation of our marriage. How duplicitous you are.”

“Jade. Jade, wake me up right now.”

His face splits apart in a smile unseen. He knew you remembered. 

“You are awake, my wife. You are.”

It is almost disorienting how calm the water is. You feel like a riptide is tearing you up and throwing you left and right. Around your sandwiched waists, you and Jade stand in completely still waters. The current fluidly pushes at your legs but it is like a docile comfort. All is calming and accepting except for yourself. In the air, the scent of blood and fish swims with the breeze. 

“Don’t you see that I love you? That I have only cared and protected you. That one garrapa, you must remember that,” you jolt at the reminder. “Though I am a bit sad to learn you remember him so well, you must remember the end of it too. I even sent my boss to make sure you would be in good health. (Name)?”

You see it clearly: your body distorted into a giant as tall as the Great Wall of China is long, a nebulous black form of head and shoulders surrounded by turbulent waves as a tiny ship is thrown left and right with the force of your existence. A ship carrying twenty plus men comparable to a rubber duck in a child’s tub. 

You cannot become that monster. You cannot become an umi bōzu. Please God please.

Feverish, you chant Norito, a Shinto prayer only said by Shinto priests. It is a prayer to God to prevent bad things from happening. The words fly off your lips like a flight of birds taking off. You feel like your mind is an empty cavern. 

Lord, give me one more chance. 

“I really wish this could precede differently; your tender disposition is something I do not wish to upset.”

“God, help me,” you cry. 

Jade listens to your tongue wag like it is the sound of a babbling brook. “The shrine is ash, dear.” 

Waiting a minute longer, the sea husband grabs your face with his webbed hand. The last of your prayer is whispered as he tilts you to look at him, backdropped by the mammoth moon. His sun and moon eyes shine. “I have waited long enough. Let us start our honeymoon. Let us say goodbye to the sun.” 

Then, Jade’s nails cut into you, making gill-shaped marks in the breast of your chest, just over the space where your lungs sit. 

And as he drags you down, you scream the last scream of your mortal life. 

[liillyliilly]

The Ties That Bind Us

sakusa kiyoomi x reader words; 2126 synopsis; Prince Sakusa is tired of royalty, it prevents him from having the only thing he has ever wanted. Her.

The kingdom was silent in the early morning. Birds chirping and the sounds of leaves crunching underfoot echoed in the palace garden. The brilliant colors of the sunrise moved across the sky with shades of red and yellows, and vibrant oranges. But even with all the beautiful sights to observe around the land, Crown Prince Sakusa Kiyoomi was only gazing at her.

She always woke up early to tend to the garden. Sakusa knew this because he asked his night guard to wake him up when it was time for the palace servants to begin work. That way he could crawl into his grandiose bay window and watch her as she walked about taking care of the plants. He would toy with the green velvet curtains as he watched her delicately rub the rose petals between her thumb and pointer finger, mimicking her motions.

He wanted to feel what she felt. He would ideally be cutting off thorns, grafting new plants, or even just bask in your love for flowers than be stuck in his room. King Sakusa demanded Kiyoomi sleep for 9 hours, but what his dad didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Not when this precious hour of observation cemented fulfillment and love into Prince Sakusa's life.

When she cut a single luculia and tucked it into the front pocket of her dress, he smiled as he went back to bed. When she knocked on his door using the gold knocker, he ruffled his hair to ensure he looked like he had just woken up, and not indeed had been awake for little over an hour. She tapped the door slightly with her knuckle, asking if he was awake yet.

“You may come in.” You are always welcome in my room.

“Good morning Prince Sakusa, are you ready for today?” Y/N went about opening the curtains, letting the light shine in and blind Sakusa slightly. Sakusa furrowed his eyebrows as he rinsed his hands in the bowl of water she had brought in, splashing some on his face before drying off with a rag.

He remembered the first time they had met. Young 10 year old Prince Sakusa and his personal handmaiden Y/N, just one year younger. He felt the injustice of having a child take care of another child. But he wouldn't ignore the way he wanted to practically jump on his bed when the King told him all the things they would do together. She would wake him, help him study, brush his hair and pick his clothes. It was all so domestic. The hierarchical power imbalance be damned, he would get to spend every hour he could manage with her.

She was a meek girl, but one that loved to read. Sakusa could've cared less for the literature of royal history, but if she wanted to sit and read for hours, then he would ask for more literature classes. After a particularly long week of reading classes, he figured he would check in on her. He asked her in private if she wouldn't mind sitting in the foyer while he took a fencing class instead. She blanched rapidly. Asking him why he would take all those classes he didn't want them. It was easy to tell her that he wanted her to be happy before he considered his own happiness.

She almost fainted.

So he scheduled a good balance of fencing classes and reading classes from then on.

As they got older, fencing class turned from a chore for her into a way to appraise how Sakusa was becoming athletic and bold. How his sweat dripped from his dark curls to the marble floor, how his blade would attack any opponent with ease. How he would bow to her first at the end of a match before bowing to his opponent. And reading class remained as a way for Sakusa to rest his head on his hand, only invading the silence to brush hair behind her ear or offer a chaste kiss on the cheek before running away to a different section of the library.

He wanted his life to be stagnant, only if it meant it could be with her for the rest of his life like this.

Y/n practically glided across his bedroom floor, tidying small things and making his bed. Picking out a simple yellow and black outfit for him to wear. It didn’t go unnoticed when she slipped the luculia into the empty vase on his bedside table.

“What exactly is planned for today?” He picked up the clothes as he went behind the changing screen. Y/n quickly turned around, even though he was standing behind the folding bamboo and cotton screen.

Sometimes he wished she didn't turn around when he changed. Sometimes he wished he could be the one waking her up in the morning. Sometimes he wished he could be the one picking out clothes for her, not to control her but to make her match him in color and in status.

She cleared her throat before the words croaked out in a hurried attempt to avoid any displeasure on his part. “The king has prepared several possible matches for an arranged marriage.” Sakusa had finished getting dressed as he went to sit down on his vanity chair. Letting Y/n come close enough to start brushing his hair. Her flowery and soapy smell flooded his senses.

“But I told him that I wouldn’t be getting married until my twenty second birthday.” He didn’t intend to raise his voice in anger, but that’s what happened. Y/n brushed his hair slower, but with more pressure to get out more of the knots.

“Sakusa.” She offered gently. He turned around so he could face her.

“You can’t even call me my first name?” His voice breaking as he stood up to cup her face in his hands. “Not even when we’re alone?” When he moves in to kiss her, she breaks away.

“Prince Sakusa.” She sets the brush down, and reaches to hold his hand in a resigned manner.

“Call me Kiyoomi. Please?” His bottom lip quivers slightly as he tries to hold back all of the emotional build-up. But the build-up reaches its climax when he continues. “You love me yet you don’t even call me by my given name?”

Even when we're alone I can't have you?

She lets go of his hand as she goes to the door, trying to escape him, trying to escape the situation they are seemingly stuck in. “I shouldn’t love you. That is the problem Sakusa. I’m engaged to the man the King wishes me to be with, and you are meant to be with one of the hundreds of Princesses lined up awaiting your affections.”

“You know that you are the only one who holds my affections.”

“I can’t receive them Sakusa.”

When he moves to hold her, she doesn’t break away again. He rests his head on top of hers as his arms retreat around her so that holding her can provide at least a miniscule amount of comfort. She takes a step back, before kissing his cheek and walking out the door. Providing a single statement.

“The king is waiting for you in the throne room.”

It was easier to be in love when they weren’t nineteen and wrapped up in the ties of royalty. When they were ten and Sakusa offered a small flower to Y/n after following her around in the garden. When they were thirteen and running around in the leaves. When they were sixteen and walking around a hidden farmer’s market to buy pastries. When they were seventeen and stealing kisses in the hidden corners of the castle. When they were eighteen and walked under the cherry blossom trees as Sakusa confessed his love and Y/n wrapped her arms around him and said that she loved him as well.

But then nineteen rolled around. And the King forced Y/n to get engaged to one of his personal knights. And Sakusa had to take lessons on battle strategy and foreign relations, which stole away his time to be with Y/n as she cleaned the castle.

That was the biggest betrayal Sakusa experienced from his King. The engagement of Y/N to Knight Akaashi.

Sakusa remembered how he had slid his arm along the dining table, shoving glass chalices and fine china to the floor with a resounding crash when his King told him that he had made a match for Sakusa's maid. He remembered how he yelled, and how the King slapped him. Grabbing a hold of his face with one hand and pushing him down to the ground, making him kneel before the King. How the King moved Sakusa's face to inspect it, mumbling about how love made him weak. How Sakusa was just a prince. How Y/N was just a maid. How her marriage should mean nothing to Sakusa.

That night, when Y/N came to make sure Sakusa was sleeping, he took her into his arms and just held her. He inspected the blood diamond on her ring finger, before taking it off of her. Setting it on the bedside table.

"Sakusa. My ring." She mumbled, keeping her face hidden.

"It's not a real ring. It's not real unless you love him back." Sakusa freezes, "You don't love him do you?"

"Absolutely not. Akaashi loves his knight companion Bokuto, clearer than the sky after rain."

"And you? Who do you love?" Sakusa held her face in his hands, using his thumb to gently trace her lips.

"Prince Sakusa Kiyoomi"

His name was sealed to her with a deep kiss. One where he was sure to make her remember him forever.

Y/N clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth, before reminding Sakusa where he was supposed to be heading, removing him from his memories.

The walk to the throne room was a long one. Each of Sakusa’s steps weighed his soul down more and more. Until the weight of his heart was threatening his feet to just run away from whatever was awaiting him in the room that was causing his utter damnation. What he was met with was worse than he could have ever imagined.

All of the women his father had chosen mirrored Y/n. They all either had one or two features in common with her. When he stood next to his father, he put a hand on Sakusa’s shoulder and whispered into his ear. “I know. I know everything. So just pick one and get it over with.” His father laughed and patted his shoulder, playing the part of an adoring father and a vicious ruler all too well.

But Sakusa has more pride than that.

“No. I’m sorry, but you are all dismissed.” He waves the women off, and his father gapes at him. Sakusa goes over to where Y/n’s fiancé stands and Sakusa stares him down before holding out his hand. “Your ring.” The guard lets out a relieved sigh as he rushes to take the engagement band off of his ring finger. Sakusa opens a window and looks down at the well below him, he stares at his father while he drops the ring down the well in an act of defiance.

Sakusa storms over to his father, keeping an aura of composure and intelligence while doing so. Sakusa puts a hand on his father’s shoulder and whispers into his ear. “I know everything too. The illegitimate child, the mistress, I know everything. Let me be with her and I’ll forget it all.”

The King never loved Sakusa's mother. That's why he barely even called for a physician when she fell ill.

The king looks scandalized. But he responds, “The kingdom will never accept it.”

“How do you think they’ll respond to an illegitimate child? A true love sounds much more bearable than a bastard.” The king scowls, before waving the women off.

Sakusa knew everything was on the line. But he had spent more than enough time to find ways to leverage against the king. He supposes some of his tactical classes came in handy, leverage against a King was rare but if utilized properly, then it could guarantee freedom.

“Fine.”

Sakusa exits the throne room, running to the gardens. He drops the prince act and runs. The weight of the kingdom off his shoulders for just a moment as he scopes out the gardens. He stops running when he sees her. She is standing amongst the flowers. She is holding a hydrangea. And when she turns her head to smile at him, Sakusa knows that the ties that had previously bound him had finally been broken.

[scotianostra]

Good Morning from Scotland and Happy New Year 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Sunrise over the cliffs of Staffin Bay, Isle of Skye

📸luca_gino_photographyon Instagram.

[ebongawk]

hii !! i hope you’re well - number 6 and hellcheer for the kissing thing when you have the time please 🫶🫶

6. A Kiss of Relief

Look. He hadn't gone into this whole thing with the expectation of dying. To say he had any expectations at all would be an absolutely asinine claim of which he'd never take ownership.

And yet, as he looked up at Dustin through the portal in the ceiling of the boys' locker room, all he could think was, it has to be me.

There isn't enough time. I won't let her die.

The knifepoint of his spear sliced so easily through the climbing rope they'd dug out of the school's storage locker. Dustin's shout of disdain mostly lost in the screaming bats that had broken through the gymnasium windows.

He'd ask himself when he became the sacrificial beacon of the group, but that, too, would be a stupid question.

Eddie remembered the exact fucking moment.

The group had poured in through the trailer door, exhausted not even beginning to encompass the weight of the entire world that rested on their weary shoulders. Everyone had all but collapsed onto the nearest soft surface, and Eddie gave up his bed so Nancy, Max and Chrissy might have somewhere to sleep. Promising to take first shift, to make sure the music kept playing.

Because it was music that kept Max and Chrissy from literally floating to their deaths.

He'd accidentally discovered that with his ass.

Mere days before, when Chrissy had come over to buy special K and had instead fallen under the lich's spell. When she'd risen off the ground, his pleading screams of her name lost to the impossible trance inflicted by her attempted murderer.

When he'd bumped into Wayne's shitty old record player in his retreat, the needle scratching against Rumours and Fleetwood Mac's Songbird starting up.

Rumours had a home now in Chrissy's Walkman, and Eddie offered to make sure Stevie Nicks kept up her soft lullaby for the first few hours.

He didn't wake anyone else. Instead, sat on the floor beside his bed, he absorbed the way Chrissy's hair spilled across his pillow like a sunrise. A firestorm quieted in the night, softness punctuated by the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest as notes and lyrics kept the nightmares at bay. She let out these tiny little sounds every now and then, a song pulled from the back of her throat as much needed rest finally fell through her bones. Maybe the thought shouldn't have felt so insane. But still, he took himself aback when he gazed at her and a new realization dawned across the horizon of his consciousness.

I would die for her.

Shocking, yeah. But, as it settled like creeping fog across the forest floor of his brain, it felt right, too. And Eddie, terrified of that ridiculous fucking implication, had written it off as exhaustion.

As he pedaled away from the school as quickly as he possibly could on that blackened bike, though, he realized just how true it was.

Goddamn it.

The bats swarmed, screeching their ear-splitting song as they dove and gnashed their nasty little teeth. They dove, sending the bike flying, and Eddie didn't remember the tumble. Only that he was on his feet again, spear and shield gripped in sweaty hands as he turned toward his reckoning.

He didn't even feel the first bite. Heart pumping adrenaline through his veins, time slowed down as he pushed his body to the limit. Spear swiping and stabbing, shield held aloft and flung.

But there were so many of them. And he was so fucking tired.

All it took was one slip. One wrong step of his boot. Suddenly, he was down on one knee, and the bats saw his partial collapse as the opening it was. Raining down on him like the most ridiculous fucking storm he had never known to expect experiencing.

Every subsequent bite after the first wasn't as easy to ignore. They dug into his ribs, his arms, his legs, tiny teeth like razor blades slipping past flesh. Eddie ripped them off of him, but for every one he managed to tear away, it seemed three more took their place.

Over the screeching victory of his tiny assassins, though, he heard another scream. Just before a firestorm erupted overhead, it pierced that rolling red thunder nearly close enough to touch. Sunrise. A fireball tore the sky asunder, the bats all shrieking in agony. Gross, paper-thin wings catching the flames and spreading like they'd been doused in kerosene, the little fucking monsters ran away from the heat pouring overhead. Eddie rolled to his knees, nearly gagging on pain as he looked up at his savior. Divinity in human form, Chrissy rushed to his side, a can of hairspray in one hand and his lighter in the other as she scorched his attackers with her homemade flamethrower. Finding some reserve of strength buried beneath his stomach, Eddie took his spear in hand again, standing at Chrissy's back and guarding her from anything that might get close enough to rip her weapon away. Throwing himself back into the fray, because now he needed to protect her as she protected him. It felt like a lifetime but was likely only a few seconds later when all of the bats squealed in unison, lifting up a dozen feet in the air before they all came falling like rocks to the ground. Eddie tucked Chrissy into his body, holding his shield above them to keep anything from hitting her.

Panting, it was as though, as soon as he stopped moving for longer than a moment, all of the pain rushed in at once, and Eddie collapsed to the ground. Barely catching himself on his hands and knees.

"Eddie!" Chrissy shouted, falling with him. Further dirtying the grimy pink pants she'd borrowed from Nancy as she carefully pulled him up to a kneeling position. "Oh my God, are you okay? You're-- You're bleeding, God, Eddie, why did you do that? Why didn't you run, you said you would run!"

Hardly able to breathe around the pain - Christ, it felt like his entire body was covered in fucking paper cuts - Eddie still managed a grin.

"You needed more time," he answered, groaning as he sat back on his heels. Jesus, it felt like those bastards had taken a chunk out of his ribs, but, after carefully poking around the area, he deduced that it wasn't as bad as it felt. "What, Cunningham, were you worried about me or something?"

"Yes!" she cried, cupping his jaw in her hands and forcing him to meet those insanely gorgeous storm cloud eyes. "God, Eddie, I-I came rushing back here because I had this insane feeling that you were going to do something stupid. And you did! Why would you do that?"

Did she really have to ask?

"Because you needed more time," he stressed, wrapping his hands loosely around her wrists. Holding her in place, holding the heat of her palms against his face like she alone was the balm to all those scrapes and bruises now littering his body. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and begged her to see. "And I wasn't gonna let him take you, Chrissy. I wasn't gonna let him kill you."

Not when I am fucking desperate to see you live.

Eyes searching his gaze, they danced over his face, his hands, his body, as though trying to find some hidden wound that would unravel him bit by bit beneath her fingers. Her lips parted, a single tear escaping from a duct, but Eddie didn't have a chance to wipe it away before her lips were on his.

Oh. Oh.

She pulled back way too fucking quickly, his name barely having a chance to drip off the tip of her tongue before he was yanking her back in. Swallowing down her little mewl of surprised appreciation, her tongue drifted along the swell of his bottom lip, and Eddie greeted her eagerly.

She tasted of hope. Of fucking belonging and sunrise and relief above all else. Eddie felt all of his pain fading away, and he realized that maybe they called it relief because it was so goddamn close to relive that he would've sworn he was coming back to life in her arms.

God. He needed her more than he needed air.

"Eddie," she whispered after finally pulling away with a gasp. His name spoken like she was tasting it for the first time, rolling it around on her tongue, before a smile broke from her cheeks to let him know how much she liked it.

"Chrissy," he responded with his favorite flavor.

Nothing more was said for a moment. Nothing more needed to be.

He just kissed her again.

kiss prompt!