#Cicada Sunrise

[tricornonthecob]

Guess who took a half dose instead of a quarter dose of her adhd meds and, after listening to too much late 90s pop, decided she was going to elaborate on this post and make a full-on sequence out of it?

I thought about releasing the whole thing when I finished it but I'm honestly kind of hype how I did the water so I wanted to share.

So I guess I'll be releasing it in parts as I work on it and then the full thing when I'm done.

pg1 pg2 pg3 pg4

[barbs-00]

I’m a summer lover .

The sun , the warm breeze, the river , occasional rain , the trees, the birds , butterflies , cicadas and the mangoes !!! Oh! The mangoes !! How can you just not love summer ?

[myfallenpoet]

݃ ☀️ 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎 '𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐒 𓈒 ❞

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ the sun , 4 of swords , strength , the magician , ace of wands , temperance , tarot card / s

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ random songs in your head

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ random ideas / art or writers block dissapears / sudden burst of creativity

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ always seeing sunrises or sunsets

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ random light or warmth

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ lavender or laurel plants

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ randomly smelling lavender or laurel

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ randomly hearing and writing songs , having a deeper connection to music

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ sudden pull to string instruments

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ seeing a flock of crows , hawks , ravens in random places / seeing ravens , hawks , or crows often or oddly

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ seeing mice in random places

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ seeing cicadas , snakes , swans

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ sudden pull to divination

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ lyre , sun , bow and arrow , symbols

݃ ☀️𓈒 ❞ hearing string instrument noises randomly

🎶 ; remember that signs are very personal and always listen to YOUR intuition and never base your entire practice off of tumblr and tumblr alone.. putting this here because so many pagans base everything off of shit on here. aswell as, you do NOT need to even see signs at all to work with a deity, most people do not even get a “calling”. this is simply just a little tip, but do not take anything I say as the main basis of your deity work.

[onepiecestarry]

Katsuki Bakugo Fluff Oneshot

I've had this bouncing around in my brain for a few days and just needed to get it down :) This is lowk based off of my life so I apologize since its a niche situation. But enjoy some Bk fluff and lmk if you want another part to this!

Katsuki x Reader

2.3k words

Most days you wake up, go to class, study, and train late into the night. You are a busy person, with many priorities, but this didn’t stop you from making many friends. You got particularly close to Mina and Sero, and along with that the rest of the bakusquad- besides Bakugo himself of course. You had tried many times to befriend him but to no avail. You decided to give up since you were already a part of his friend group. 

You tried your best to make time for your friends but most weeks you wouldn’t join the nightly hangouts. On any days off you went home to help your mom, only Mina truly knew why you were never in the dorms. 

-

“Alright class, today we are-” Aizawa started his long speech about your new upcoming project. You start to zone out, but quickly focus again to get the project details, jotting down any important notes you might need. 

“I am going to randomly assign partners for this, please do not ask to change because there will be no exceptions this time.” Mr. Aizawa says in his regular monotone voice. 

He starts to list off the groups and eventually says your name. “Y/n and Bakugo” 

“Not that fucking nerd!!” Bakugo yells slamming his fist onto his desk.

“Shut it Bakugo,” Mr. Aizawa says activating his quirk on the rowdy student. 

The rest of the day went by normally, you finished classes and began packing your stuff to study and train. 

Around 1 am you get a text.

Bakugo

“Where are you dipshit”

Y/n

“Training, why?”

Bakugo

“Tf you training so late for, gts”

Y/n

“Dude leave me alone, what do you want”

Bakugo

“Friday at 11 am common room”

Y/n

“The project?” 

He likes the message and the conversation ends. You look at the time and realize you should be going to bed soon, you do a few more reps before heading back to the dorm. 

It's a cool night, as you walk a chill runs up your spine from the cold. You shake it off and continue to your dorms. As quietly as you can, you open the door and make your way to your room. You fall asleep to the crickets and cicadas chirping outside your window. 

The week goes by quickly as the weekend approaches. You completely forgot about having Friday off, but Mina reminded you on Thursday to text your mom to remind her. 

What everyone in the class doesn’t know is that your mom moved with you when you came abroad to study at UA. She and your little sister rent a small house not too far from campus. Your step-father refused to move with them, so on any days you have off you go home to watch your 2-year-old sister while your mom works. The only person who knows about this arrangement is your best friend Mina. She covers for you whenever you are there. 

- 

You wake up to the loud beeping of your alarm, as you look at it to shut it off it displays “4:30 am”. You groan and move to get up. Your mom starts work at 6 on the days you have off so you have to get to the house early so your sister isn’t home alone. 

You grab your prepacked bag and school backpack and start your walk home. The sunrise is barely a sliver when you get there. 

As you take care of your sister throughout the day, coloring, watching movies, and playing dress-up, it doesn’t matter what you do as long as she’s happy. Once you put her down for her nap, you throw yourself onto the couch half asleep. Then your phone starts going off over and over. You grumble something about a group chat and open your phone to see it’s Bakugo. 

Bakugo

“Where are you dipshit”

“If you aren’t here in the next 3 minutes I’m blowing your ass up in your dorm”

“Why aren’t you in your dorm”

“ANSWER ME”

Bakugo has requested your location. 

“Oh boy” You mumble to yourself

Y/n

“Chill dude, I’m sorry I forgot we were supposed to work on the project today, can we do it Monday?”

Bakugo

“NO, dumbass it's fucking due Monday”

“Where are you, answer the fucking phone now”

Y/n

“I can’t answer the phone rn”

Bakugo

“Well then SEND ME UR FUCKING LOCATION”

Y/n

“Will u chill tf out if I do?”

Bakugo likes the message.

Y/n started sharing their location with Bakugo

You huff and turn your phone off falling asleep on the couch. Not long after you wake up to three aggressive knocks on your front door. Knowing Bakugo you jump up to stop him from knocking more and waking your sister. 

“Chill tf out, I’m right here,” You say as you open the door. Bakugo pushes past you walking into your house and turning to look at you. 

“You are so fucking useless, we were supposed to have this project done today! I fucking should’ve done it myself” He says with his fingers on the bridge of his nose. 

“Look, I’m sorry but Aizawa would know if you pulled that shit AGAIN” 

“YOU FUCKING RATTED-”

You slam your palm on his mouth as he begins to yell. Shock is written across his face when he suddenly pushes you off him. 

“What the fuck” He spits at you.

“You have to be fucking quiet dipshit” You whisper.

“Why wou-” He gets interrupted by your sister crying and running to you. 

You pick her up gently and start to soothe her from her startling wake call as you glare daggers at Bakugo. He stands there in complete shock, this time not hiding it at all. You nod your head in the direction of your dining table and say, “Go set up there, we can work on it now.”

He doesn’t say a word while he gets his stuff out and sets up. You put your sister down to start making some lunch for her. 

“Did you eat?” You ask not looking at him.

“What?” He asks snapping back to reality.

“Did you eat lunch?”

“Oh um no”

“Ok,” You say, silently making another serving more. 

As you continue to cook and Bakugo silently sits there trying to think of what to say, he blurts out. 

“So, who’s the father?”

You turn around from the stove and stare at him blankly for a second processing what he asked, then you see how serious his face is. You burst out laughing- “BAHAHAHA, WAIT,” you say wiping a tear forming in your eye from laughter. Bakugo glares at you to stop laughing. After you take a second to compose yourself you answer, “Bakugo, meet my sister, y/s/n.” You say as y/s/n goes up to Bakugo and hugs him. He has a horrified look on his face realizing what he just asked you. 

He tries to jump away and get her off unsuccessfully. He accepts his fate and allows her to hug his leg. 

The next few hours went by awkwardly, you served lunch and while your sister was busy eating you spent your time working on the project, allowing Bakugo to have a break and eat too. But as soon as your sister was done you were up and taking care of her again. 

Hours go by and you realize you have to figure out dinner. 

“Fuck” You whisper so your sister can’t hear. “What do you want for dinner Bakugo?” You ask from your sister’s makeshift playroom in the living room. 

“I don’t know, don’t care.”

You look at him exasperated as you sigh and ask your sister.

“PIZZA!!!” Your sister says excitedly. You pick her up and gently whisper how you can’t afford to order pizza right now, and how you can make her something at home. She begins to sulk and goes back to her toys. You get up walk to the table and look at Bakugo to ask again. 

“Wha-” You begin.

“I already ordered it.” He says not looking up from his notes.

“What?” You ask baffled.

“The pizza, I already ordered it.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that, seriously.” 

“It's fine. She said she wanted pizza.”

“Okay, how much was it so I can pay you back.” You ask getting your wallet out.

“No.” He says not sparing you a look.

“What?” You ask again. 

“I said no. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Oh, okay, well thank you.”

Once the pizza arrives you all sit down to eat, but once again you don’t eat so you can work on the project. As you sit at your laptop across from Bakugo eating his pizza, your laptop suddenly shuts. 

“Wha- What the fuck man?!” You half-yell at Bakugo. 

“You haven’t eaten all day, so eat the pizza and then I’ll watch your sister so you can work.” 

“But-”

“No. I said what I said.” He stares at you, silently telling you that you won’t win any argument with him. 

He kept true to his word, he took care of your sister while you worked efficiently on your project. Around 11:30 you come back to reality and close your laptop, realizing that you should have put your sister to bed long ago. You walk into the living room to see Bakugo and y/s/n on the couch watching her favorite movie, Totoro. Y/s/n being asleep on Bakugo you decide to sit on the other side of him and continue the movie. 

“Everything is done, we just need to make the slides and practice.” You whisper. 

“Alright cool, that should be easy.” He says continuing to watch the movie. 

You look over and admire how calm he is. His arm wrapped around your sister, her head in his lap fast asleep. You had to admit, he was great with kids. While you were working he was playing dress up with her, you managed to snap a few photos of him with a tiara on before he noticed. He was so sweet and gentle with her all day, the opposite of his regular personality. He didn't call her a brat even once, not even one time?!?

He notices you staring and looks over, “What?” He says annoyed. 

“Nothing,” You say silent for a few seconds, “Just- thank you for today.” 

He lets out a scoff, showing you he was listening.

“Is this where you disappear every night?” He asks.

“What? Oh. no, I actually do train every night since I’m here on the weekends. I usually get up at 4:30 and either stay here or go back at 2 am.” You answer. 

“You do this only on two and a half hours of sleep?” He asks with confusion and shock hinting in his voice. 

“Yeah, I don’t have much of a choice. No one else can watch her.” 

The conversation fades as you both focus back on the movie. Eventually leading to you falling asleep on him as well. 

Bakugo sits there on your couch, with your sister asleep in his lap and you asleep on his shoulder. He quietly watches the movie until your mom returns from work. She opens the door and hears the T.V. on, so she goes to the living room to check and she sees all of you there. Bakugo’s head swings at the noise and sees her. 

“Oh my, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t know y/n had her boyfriend over!” She says quietly moving to sit on the adjacent couch. 

“Oh- um, I’m not-” He starts.

“Here let me move her to bed, they both sleep like rocks don’t worry.” She says with a wink, picking up your sister and taking her to her bed. She returns to see Bakugo hasn’t moved with you still asleep on him. 

“How long have you been here? I’m so sorry for any trouble they’ve caused.” Your mom laughs.

“I got here around noon. Me and y/n were supposed to work on a school project but she forgot so I came over to work on it.” He starts

“Oh! I’m so sorry about that dear.” 

“It's okay.”

“So how long have you two been together?” She asks excitedly. 

“We aren’t dating,” Bakugo says quietly still trying to not wake you up. 

“Really? Huh, I swear I’ve heard y/n talk about you before.” A light shade of pink finds its way to Bakugo’s cheeks.

“Well, thank you for helping take care of my girls, I really appreciate it. You should stay here tonight, it's too late for you to go back to school. Y/n’s room is there and there are blankets in the closet.” Your mom says getting up to go to bed. “And thank you again Katsuki Bakugo.” She finally says before disappearing into her room. 

Bakugo tightens up at the sound of his full name, knowing well that means y/n has talked about him enough for her mom to know who he is. 

He decides to stay on the couch, not wanting to disturb your peace. He pulls a blanket on the both of you and shuts his eyes. He thinks about all the times he couldn’t spot you at parties or hangouts. Or how you would vanish off the face of the earth on weekends. It all made sense now, you were working yourself to the bone to take care of your family. 

Bakugo always had a soft spot for you, which is why everyone would always make you ask him to hang out with them, even if you weren’t going to be there. He never knew why he was murder-y with you but it scared him so he pushed you away even more. Hence you trying to be friends with him but ‘failing’. 

But now he’s here, lying on your couch with you on top of him asleep, coming to the realization that maybe his soft spot for you isn’t all that bad. 

[rottenpumpkin13]

Sephiroth: quiet midnights, gleaming steel, faint incense smoke, the scrape of a whetstone, books lined perfectly on a bookshelf, cold rain against bare skin, polished black leather, bitter ginger tea at dawn, weighted blankets in winter, sharp ice crystals, scratched classical CDs, weathered angel statues with missing wings, sharpened pencils in neat rows, morning fog over empty streets, delicate frost patterns on windowpanes, steel-gray skies before snow, silent films in empty theaters, cat footprints on documents, mathematical equations, unopened mail, clean sword oil, abandoned chess pieces, mint tea leaves.

Genesis: spilled red wine on white papers, chipped maroon nail polish on piano keys, gold bangles clinking against wine glasses, vintage vinyl at dusk, steaming mulled cider with cinnamon sticks, smudged eyeliner after theater rehearsals, leather-bound books with gilded edges, dark chocolate with sea salt breaking under his teeth, dog-eared poetry collections, playing cards scattered across silk sheets, cherry candy staining his tongue red, cologne bottles on antique vanities, melted red candle wax on love letters, fresh ink bleeding through parchment, caramelized apple pie, packed jazz bars at 2am, velvet curtains, stage makeup, worn dance shoes, red leather gloves, theater tickets.

Angeal: petrichor on summer mornings, fresh ground coffee beans, sunrise training sessions, polaroid cameras with worn straps, mismatched lucky keychains, pencil sketches in margins, old photos in cracked leather wallets, soup simmering on stovetops, buzzing radio stations between cities, dappled sunlight through garden leaves, evening cicada songs, autumn leaves crushed underfoot, soft worn flannel shirts, pressed flowers, acoustic guitars, wrinkled maps with coffee stains, soil under fingernails, homemade bread, herb gardens, worn pottery, recipe books, wooden spoons, patched jeans, morning dew, pocket knives.

AGS: loud laughter, discarded pizza boxes, arguments dissolving into jokes, snorted milk, tangled legs under a blanket, whispers in a packed room, empty mugs littered around a table, quiet yawns, bitten apples, ring tones, a half-finished puzzle scattered across the floor, a messy kitchen, heads on each other's shoulders, rock-paper-scissors, scattered dice, sour candy, bumping elbows, the glow of a tv screen, borrowed hoodies, stolen phone chargers, dirty dishes, arms around shoulders, inside jokes.

[novlr]

How to write the heat?

Quick Tips on How to Write Heat

Heat can have many connotations in your stories beyond just temperature. It can be a sensation, an event, or even a metaphor for something else. The way a character internalises or experiences heat will also be unique to them, so here are some quick tips on how to use imagery to convey heat in a variety of ways.

In Nature

Use colours like red, yellow, or orange

Parched scenery, like cracked earth and dry leaves

Bright sunlight

Mirages

Blistering winds

Heat waves radiating from hot asphalt

Animals huddling in the shade

Wide and barren landscapes

Hot sand to contrast with cool water

Wilting vegetation and a change in colour

The sound of cicadas

Foods and Objects

Hot peppers with bright colours

Spicy dishes (and how characters handle them)

Melting ice cream and frozen drinks

The sizzling sound of food in a hot pan

The smell of a barbeque

Cold drinks that provide relief

Flip flops, shorts, and tank tops

Sunscreen and hats

Metal and leather that is too hot to touch

Salt or minerals left on surfaces after liquid evaporates

Faded colours on objects left in the sun

Peeling paint

The hiss of steam from a kettle

Character Moods

Short-tempered

Lazy

Discomfort

Easily frustrated

Disinterested

Relaxed

Energised

Joyful

Exhausted

Adventurous

Anxious

Fearful

Irritable

Lethargic

Contemplative

Restless

Overwhelmed

Rejuvenated

Impatient

Distracted

Apprehensive

Isolated

Embarrassed

Motivated

Character Body Language

Wiping sweat from their faces

Fanning themselves

Shifting uncomfortable

Sluggish movements

Licking lips and swallowing due to dehydration

Shedding layers of clothing

Unconsciously moving toward the shade

Constantly drinking

Breathing heavily

Squinting or shielding eyes

Flushed skin

Panting or shallow breathing

Avoiding physical contact

Actions and Events

Seeking shelter during a heatwave

Roadtrips in a hot car with the windows open

Swimming at a pool, lake, or a beach

Sharing drinks with friends at a cafe, bar, or beer garden

Planning holidays to cooler climates

Staying indoors to read to watch TV where it’s cool

Watching the sunset or sunrise when it’s cooler

Going out at night to avoid the heat of the day

Beach parties and barbeques

Wildfire warnings

Outdoor markets and garage sales

Camping trips

Positive Aspects

Heat can be a time of joy, where families and friends can enjoy time together doing outdoor activities not available to them the rest of the year. Food becomes lighter, the days are longer, and people tend to get more exercise. There are also positive ways to describe the juxtaposition of something hot after immediately experiencing the cold, like a hot drink on a cold day.

Negative Aspects

Not every association with heat is positive. Hot weather brings environmental damage like droughts and wildfires that affect agriculture and wildlife. It can also lead to physical discomfort, like heat rash, dehydration, sunburn, sleep disruption, or being forced to work or exercise in uncomfortable environments.

Helpful Synonyms

Scorching

Blistering

Temperate

Boiling

Fiery

Burning

Inferno

Glowing

Simmering

Sweltering

Torrid

Steaming

Tropical

Flaming

Feverish

Stifling

Roasting

Searing

Tropical

Radiant

Common metaphors

Passion or desire

Anger and conflict

Pressure or stress

Excitement and energy

Change or transformation

Danger or warning

Life and vitality

[rawgyu]

Picked this cicada up on my way of work thinking it was dead but it was very not dead. So we watched the sunrise together ^_^

[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. 

[capt-zjaybird]

Random concepts and ideas for pre-ODIN teen Walker brothers:

→ Riding in trolley carts and feeling the wind of the coast. The ride is bumpy but the air is filled with lighthearted laughter. Might get yelled at by the owner of the store, but they're making memories here.

→ Nursing small bruises after trying to learn how to use a skateboard. It was Hesh's idea to try out learning a few new moves, he dragged his lil bro into skating and got into a little incident. Constantly hushed Logan but tended to the scrapes with tender care.

→ evening walks by the boardwalk, smelling the salty air and listening to Elias's stories. He likes to talk about his experiences in the army, training by the beach, or how he first saw Mama Walker at a boardwalk carnival.

→ morning jogs with dad by the beach and taking breaks to admire the sunrise and its reflection.

→ keeping little silly secrets from Elias like injuries while outside or sneaking out. At least Logan is a quiet boy, but it doesn't stop Hesh from stifling his giggles and shushing him.

→ finding the prettiest shells in the sand, or the smoothest stones to skip on the water. Hesh was good at skipping stones far, Logan was good at finding the smoothest and flattest stones.

→ catching that stupid cicada outside the window.

→ Logan borrowing (stealing) Hesh's stuff and getting away with it. Hesh thought he lost his stuff and stopped mourning long ago, only to find them in Logan's possession.

→ swimming in lakes or in the beach without telling dad

→ lying out to sunbathe in the sun to dry up their wet hair so Elias won't even suspect a thing

→ Elias later finds out anyway.

→ Going on road trips in dad's truck and singing along to the songs on the radio. Screaming out the lyrics they know by heart as Elias chuckles, then hums along with his boys.

→ competitions to climb the tallest tree, judged by Elias. Logan is slower but Hesh lets him win most of the time.

→ Logan getting Hesh to win something he couldn't, may it be an arcade or a videogame level. Hesh does his best just so he could make Logan smile.

→ digging through boxes from Elias's youth, only to find old polaroids of Mama Walker when she dated Elias, all of the pictures in pristine condition and safely filed in a picture book.

→ There are also some old videotapes of the Walker boys as kids. Mama Walker liked to ask them, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

→ Rewatching the videos, they miss the future they could've had.

→ The brothers going through training by Elias, and once they're out of whatever obstacle course set up, he drives them back home and gets them a takeout treat of their choice.

→ The boys enjoy their snacks on the road, and fall asleep in the truck. When they wake up, they're home.

[bewaremirror-fr]

Couldn't sleep last night so I started working on a robot ancient suggestion! I did my best to mimic the fr style but I'm still not sure how to get the lines right. Eventually I want to make art for both poses and some unique genes. The color schemes are based on colors available on fr and are not my original design.

Would anyone be interested if I actually post this to the suggestions forum? I really want to see a robot dragon on fr but I don't know if it would fit into the lore. Let me know if you have any suggestions too!

[ID: Four images of the same drawing of a robot dragon in different colors. The style mimics flight rising dragons with flat shading and lineart. The dragon is sitting on it's hind legs with its wings raised and both sets of arms tucked near its chest. It has three robotic eyes under a mostly flat crest. Its design is reminiscent of a cat and a cicada. The first image is colored like dusty sandstone with blue shadows, its eyes are a vibrant cyan. The second image is colored with the standard copper colors on flight rising. Its body is a warm brown and it's underbelly is a warm grey with teal shadows. The third dragon is colored in cool greys that transition to pal yellow, like a cold sunrise. The dragon's eyes are bright ice white with dark scleras. The last dragon is colored in basic greys. end ID]

[karticatyt]

Next gen AU character roster!! This is mostly just an attempt to practice formatting posts and figure out how to use this app um ANYWAY

(heads up, this won’t be extremely in depth about lore or backstories, just simple introductions!)

This is the main roster in a row next to each other, along with their ages. Some of the art here is older than others… I’ll explain them in some more detail.

This here is Amber Gleam and her sister, Comet Trail! Long story short, Amber’s ‘real’ name is Cicada, and she is actually an adopted changeling, raised by Princess Twilight and later on her stepdad, Sunburst. Comet is her younger sister. Comet is competing with their cousin, Flurry Heart for royal guard status. I’ll talk more about Flurry later. Amber has been raised in the shadows for most of her life to hide her identity, which has led to issues socializing as well as a harsh reputation among the public as opposed to her sister.

Racing Heart isn’t actually the offspring of any canon characters, but she is an old OC that I love too much to remove, so she’s a part of my AU because she can. She’s a hopeless romantic lesbian who constantly crushes on all kinds of characters, but her eye is primarily set on Cotton Bow, who I’ll talk about next. I accidentally made her with lesbian colors back in 5th grade… I didn’t even know the word lesbian… wow…

Cotton Bow is the daughter of Mayor Diamond Tiara and Pipsqueak. She is best friends with Amber and they both bond over the issues that come from being the daughters of well known political figures and just wanting to be average, normal ponies. Although, Cotton doesn’t know about Cicada’s secret. Cotton’s special talent is knitting/crocheting (to her parents’ dismay) and she’s an introvert who doesn’t want to follow her family’s legacy.

Koi Concord is the son of Discord and Fluttershy. He has some powers from his father but they mainly remain limited to nature. He obtained his mother’s ability to speak to animals, but his favorites are sea creatures. He spends majority of his time swimming in rivers and creeks with little fishy friends, and keeps to himself for the most part. (Amber doesn’t like him very much as she deems his introversion as a waste of his ability to coexist with ponies as a mix breed/foreign species unbothered, unlike her who has to stay a secret)

Marigold Peaberry! The daughter of Rarity and Joe, she actually was really difficult to make a solid design for because I made her before picking her parents and then I had to redesign her to make her look related… it was a whole mess. She still doesn’t really have any personality or official role in the story.

Now we’re getting into old art territory… Startrix have 2 kids! Epitome Dusk and her brother Jinx Nightfall. Jinx is magically disabled and cannot use his horn without causing any accidents.This made his family incredibly heartbroken, but they all love him nonetheless. I imagine that these two hang out with Concord the most, since he’s the youngest of my next gen main characters.

Now time for Flurry! In my next gen AU, they are actually nonbinary and are dating Luster Dawn! I had a little bit of a poll/vote among my friends over if Luster should have been with Flutty or Comet and Flurry won! They don’t have a large role.

You might be wondering why that purple one at the end of the roster hasn’t appeared, and that’s because they aren’t canon. at least, I haven’t decided if they should be or not. Sunrise is a next gen for pinkiedash, but they’re merely a design concept for now. I’ll probably answer any questions people have about these guys if i have any answers. i doubt i’ll be getting any for a WHILE.

[small-bug-in-the-woods]

hey i’ve been having a kinda rough time so i wanted to list a bunch of things that made me happy and im gonna make it a tags game so we can all list things that make us happy together

sunrises

sunsets

old growth forests

sunshowers

aurora borealis

when sunlight shines through leaves

hugs from friends that make you feel warm inside

hearing someone talk about something they love

fireplaces and fire pits

when large groups of people sing together and no one’s on key but it doesn’t matter because we’re all doing it together

laughing with your friends until your sides hurt

sitting outside at night in the summertime and hearing the cicadas

dancing with friends

when people applaud after a performance and you see they like something you were a part of

when you smile at someone you like but don’t know well and they smile back

when someone you like being around talks to you

musicals

thunderstorms when you get to be inside in your bed listening to music

watching a movie with your friends and none of you understand it because you were making up your own plot the whole time

when a cat trusts you

dungeons and dragons

bugs

orange slices in summertime

coming inside from the snow in winter and warming up your insides with hot tea or coco or coffee or cider

seeing people help each other

street art (approved and not approved)

when people make dumb jokes

staying up all night with friends

finding shiny objects on the ground

live music

my friends in general (irl and online)

@kai-in-the-korner @krevelaf @the-unlucky-trevor @littlesapphicraccoonguy @caterpillarinacave

@user0126 and anyone else who wants to

i’d really appreciate if y’all wanted to list some stuff that make you happy too <3

[otternalremnant]

“Honestly? I have no clue how long I’ve been down here. Without sunrise and sunset time just…disappears. I feel like I should be trying to find a way out, but every time I think about climbing upward, I end up digging deeper – there’s just too much down here to leave behind.

The place I woke up in felt safe enough, then I hit a whole new area that I’m calling “The Clay Caves” (I get naming rights for discovering it, right?). Things got dicey pretty quickly – it turns out Slimes and Shroomen are the least of my worries. I found myself being chased by HUGE larvae, drawn to the slightest flicker of torchlight. My little wooden sword barely leaves a mark on 'em.

I had to make a run for it, and that’s when I found something incredible. An empty husk, massive, like it’d been shed by a giant cicada; way bigger than any of the bugs I’d run into before. I don’t know where the creature that shed it is hiding, or if it’s even still alive, but something has been bothering me. Don’t cicadas usually emerge in big groups to lay their eggs? Does that mean there are more of these things out there just waiting? Whatever the case, I should probably make a better sword.”

Comments in the margins read:

“Red = not friendly!” beside a drawing of a Red Slime. “Sword upgrade ideas…Tin? Copper? Slime??”

[solstices-dreams]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐠 𝐝𝐫.

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐫. ᝰ.ᐟ

i find writing helps me visualize better so i might be posting some stuff from my dr in this format !

It’s one of those early mornings, the type of season where you can still smell the cold of last night lingering in the sunrise. But it’s hot- not yet broiling but the sort of heat that creeps up on you if you’re out in the sun too long, the kind that warms dark clothes against your skin.

There’s the subtle sound of wheat brushing against each other, barely perceptible to someone who’s lived here for so long, but when you take a moment, to pause, breathe, you can hear bird song and trees and wind. The familiarity of it all is homey. Homey in an old faded t-shirt that still fits kind of way, rather than a warm fire after a walk in the snow.

Brittle grass prickles your bare feet, ditching work shoes for just your skin. It hasn’t rained in a few days, normal for the area, the grass responds by turning an ochre hue, protesting the lack of hydration in crispy stalks. 

Cattails and long grasses, interspersed with white flowers and blossoms trail along the edge of the rocks, a fence of sorts before the beach. The rocks that line the lakeshore are a sunbaked dusty color, molted with taupe and clay coloring. The dark colors no doubt would be warm underfoot, warm enough you wouldn’t want to be slow walking down them, lest you burn the underside of your feet and feel them prickle with heat.

The lake itself is calm and subdued, little rainfall has resulted in a lowered shore, more sand and pebbles stretch out before you before it meets the steady lap of lake against beach. Aquamarine and turquoise are bright across the surface of the water, deeper depths giving way to darker blues and greens. Sunlight ripples across the glassy surface of the lake, liquid white shimmering where the sun hits.

The whirring of cicadas is white noise to your ears as you step down the rocks, barely registering the sting of the hot smooth surface. The pebbles shift under your feet, unsteady almost before they cool, water soaking them moments earlier before the chill of the lake is teasing the tips of your toes. The kind of cold that makes you cramp up momentarily before it recedes, leaving you aching for more, a salvation from the heat of district 10.

It tickles at your ankles, receding and washing up, your skin shiny and slick from how far it’s reached, the wind blows the water to a brisk chill. Your skin is paler under the water, hazy like watercolor and not as defined by the ripples that shatter the image beneath you.

It’s peaceful… a quiet oasis away from expectations of family, of medicine bottles and bread needing to be kneaded, soup to be stirred… free of cameras… silence in a world of noise.

Just you.

[env0writes]

Cicada Sentences Vol. 2, 7.9.24 “Lunch Break"

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!   Photo by @env0

Call me up out of the blue (bedsheets) And exhale me with hello’s into the sky Dressed and impressed where sky and land meets Tear up the scene and a slice of pizza (and sigh)

Send me into your space, before any embrace How the fire holds the wood How the humidity endears sweat to your face Must that sweet moment, tender as it should

Glimmer like golden starlight on the blank canvas Hurried am I called to order (lunch) Is this sun-cancered-burnt flush or blush come to pass Reaching towards a bite–towards her

Speak to me and I will smile (brimming ear to ear enraptured) Against the blue sky, your sunrise sight, worth every while

[motelsnleatherseats]

There was something special about Kansas in the summer. The days seemed to last forever with late sunsets and early sunrises, vibrant strokes of rich tone that eventually faded into water colors of blue sky or deep blankets of black, bejeweled by stars like spilled glitter. The air sits heavy and thick with the sweltering heat and down dirt roads, if it wasn't for the hum of cicadas, one could swear they could hear the sound of the Earth rotating in the dead of night.

Sam and Dean love Kansas summer nights. It feels like home, mostly to Dean because he remembers those nights when Mary would let him stay up every now and again to show him how to catch fireflies in a jar, his own little moving constellation behind glass. Sam lives in Dean's nostalgia, in every fond smile as his shining emerald eyes relive those memories that he'll never have, but that's good enough for him, to bear witness to the recollection of a time when things were normal for at least one of them.

Countless hours on the road would afford them pit stops to stretch their legs, have a beer, enjoy the weather or whatever scenic view they happened to stumble upon across state to state, but with roots firmly replanted back in Kansas, Dean drags Sam out at night for an evening of stargazing down a lampless, dark dirt road on some long stretch of farmland far enough away from city lights that would obstruct their view of the universe above them. The flattened topography of the Sunflower State gives them miles of visibility, and somewhere far off, bright little flashes illuminate clouds they couldn't tell were there before, a telltale sign of a thunder storm so typical of the season.

The Impala's parked off to the side of the road, and Dean decides it's better to lay out a blanket instead of sitting on the heated hood of his car, especially with the way Sam sweats. They're close enough to the car on the outskirts of the field that they leave the passenger door open and let the radio play them a soundtrack of Zeppelin. They're sat side by side, Dean's legs laid out in front of him, one hand behind him, palm to blanket with his weight leaned against it with a beer in the other, and Sam's got one knee bent, using it as an arm rest as he holds his beer bottle by the neck between three fingers. His eyes are towards the horizon, watching the glimmer of stars and noting now many of them streak across the sky, but Dean's eyes are on him, wondering if he ever made wishes on the cosmic dust as it burned up and faded out.

Sam can feel Dean's stare, but it's not heavy, it's not judgmental or wrought with worry. It's reverent, a softness that's rare around his usual rough edges. Sam turned his head to meet his brother's unwavering gaze, the unspoken affection found there making his chest bloom with heat as his heart rate gave a small spike. A few moments pass that feel like a lifetime before Sam leaned over and kissed Dean, slow and sweet, the gesture appreciative more than anything. Dean responded in turn, eyes only falling half-closed as he tried to keep the vision of Sam's lashes in focus, wanting to savor their closeness.

Beer bottles were abandoned in exchange for skin on skin contact, Sam's hand on Dean's neck and Dean's buried in those soft locks. He could feel the faint dampness of sweat at base of Sam's skull, a mix of cool and warm between fingers. Their lips moved in no particular rush, pressing and barely parted until one of them, they couldn't tell who, had introduced the tender swipe of tongue. The lingering taste of beer gradually subsided until all they could taste was each other. Time slowed, the songs now fuzzy in the air went from one to the next until the tape eventually ended, leaving them with the low rumbles of thunder as the storm had gradually crept upon them.

It wasn't until the gentle tink tink tink of rain hitting the Impala could be heard that the kiss was broken and both of them turned their gaze to the sky, the stars no longer visible under the cover of clouds. The rain was quick, what started as a few sparse drops quickly turned to a downpour and Dean cursed under his breath as he scrambled to get up. Sam was on his feet as well as soon as his brother reached to pull up the blanket from underneath them, making quick strides to the car to shove it inside and close the door, ultimately worried about the interior getting soaked. He was about to tell Sam to hurry and get in before he heard him laugh. Not a chuckle, not a scoff at the fact that they were quickly drenched, but a genuine, happy laugh.

Dean's breath shallowed as his eyes fell upon his brother. Sam had his arms outstretched as if embracing the downpour, even spinning a few times with his head tipped back, welcoming the wash of cool. Suddenly it was 1996 again, Sam dancing in slow motion with his arms up in a shower of sparks from fireworks they should have never set off, a smile so rare that when caught etched itself in his heart as his idea of Heaven, to see his little brother so happy. That smile was there again as he looked back at Dean, hair flattened to the sides of his face by the weight of the water, soon smoothed back by long and deft fingers. The grey v-neck shirt was clinging to his broad chest, soaked and outlining the definition long since earned from years of hunting and dedication to his health. Dean's eyes locked in on him as if watching some cosmic event unfold, beautiful and breathtaking. They stared at each other for a few seconds longer before the weight of the moment overtook them and they made strides towards each other, coming together in a rush, gathering one another up.

Dean's arms wrapped around Sam's middle as Sam moved to cup Dean's face, their mouths meeting in a hungry fashion, chests filling with air and arching towards each other. Their hands held possessively, lips and tongues embracing fiercely as they shared the breaths from their lungs. It wasn't long before Dean curled his hands into the soaked material of Sam's shirt, dragging blunt nails over it, pulling his little brother as close as physically possible as he stepped back towards the Impala, blindly reaching for the door to the backseat. If he hadn't known that car like the back of his hand, he would have had to break the kiss to get them situated, but he knew the height and how far back he'd have to lean to grant them both the room to maintain their lip lock as they climbed inside.

Here, on this country road, miles away from the garish lights of the city and under the cover of darkness in the backseat of the Impala, they carved themselves another little piece of Heaven.