#but the sun symbol on their kimono?

[konigbabe]

pearls before swine

DAY 6 ⇢ Monster-fucking Pairing: kitsune!Satoru Gojo x fem!reader Word count: 2.7k Tags/warnings: no y/n; smut; public sex; p-in-v; exhibitionism; dirty talk; hints of praise kink; manhandling; Gojo has a tale (nine of them altogether) and fangs; mention of blood/bleeding; Japanese mythology and folklore Summary: Visiting the Shinto shrine – somehow – leads to you getting wrecked by a mischievous trickster fox on an open balcony and with no shame. [Part of NSFW Gojo Week 2023]. Divider is mine. Art credit goes to 月刺啾 (@/x2MciyELLRZRhg1) on Twitter [source].

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kitsune 狐 /kɪtˈsuː.neɪ/ noun; a Japanese fox spirit capable of shapeshifting into human form and are known to be cunning and playful, mysterious and malevolent.

You've heard the stories. Read about them. Creatures that use their shape-shifting abilities to take on human form and fool people into doing whatever they want. Tricking their prey into surrendering their deepest emotions and desires – the very essence of life itself.

In the midst of the Azalea festival, when the flowers are in full bloom – teal, lilac, and violet hues painting a pastoral picture – it's hard to find a quiet place. Especially near the main sanctuary of the Shinto shrine. Moving near the offering hall, that was when you first spotted him, towering over everyone.

He was standing beside a fox statue, arm draping over the sculpture's head, fingers as slender and agile as a ballet dancer's tracing the contours of the fox's snout. Your senses felt as though they were playing tricks on you as you watched his eyes – so pale they seemed to shimmer like a frozen lake, its lightness bordering on translucence – glide across the courtyard until they reached your kimono-clad body.

But it wasn't his demeanor – dismissive and blasé, laced with a hint of curiosity – that rendered you speechless. No. Rather, it was his appearance – a fusion of the human and the surreal. Japanese have a word for that: ‘yūgen'.

A shock of silver hair framed his face, its strands made of liquid mercury, catching the faint light of the morning sun. Yet, what truly seized your gaze were the symbols on his face – three sapphire tear-shaped drops gracing the lower edges of his almond-shaped eyes, a matching azure line tracing his waterline, gently extending beyond the corners of his eyes. Two cobalt dots adorned each corner of his upturned mouth, while another trio of sapphire lines adorned his forehead, with the middle one flowing onto the bridge of his sharp nose – reminiscent of the wind's delicate patterns. His skin porcelain-smooth and pale, accentuating the ethereal quality of his appearance.

And for some inexplicable reason, you appeared to be the only one capable of seeing him – it. Coming to a halt beneath the torii gate, he turned his head slightly, a strand of silvery hair cascading down over his left eye. The world around you seemed to hush, a stillness setting in; time itself stilling when his eyes locked onto yours from afar, leaving your lips parted in both awe and intrigue.

"You look so pretty," he murmurs, lips gliding over your neck, "when you're at my mercy."

The sharp sting of his fangs gliding under your ear, tracing the probing vein, causes goosebumps to form and travel along the spines of your arms and legs. You feel the warm hiss of his breath, the hot roughness of his tongue against your neck. Toes curling, feet dirty from the ground as the fox pounds into you. Hands gripping the wooden railing of the small balcony that overlooks a pond with koi fish swimming peacefully in.

You're not sure if someone has seen you yet. Seen the lewd image of getting fucked by someone – something – not entirely humane.

The sharp edges of his claws dig into your hips, kimono long discarded on the floor. Naked body swaying in the rhythm to the sharp thrusts. Softness melting into hardness. Satoru – his name echoed in your mind when his hand first touched your skin; as if you were already familiar with the fox – pulls you back to meet his hips, bare body dressed only in his haori, the same sapphire shade as his eyes, draped over his shoulders, arms hidden underneath the silken jacket.

Each stroke of his cock massages your walls, spreading apart the tender flesh between your legs. The ridge of his head presses up against that sweet spot deep inside you. Your thighs press together so you can feel it again. Little sparks of pleasure shoot through your body, making you moan as he brushes over everything that feels good.

"Huh–," his nails, razor-sharp and dangerous, rake over your abdomen. The palm presses flat against the contour of your tummy – hard – as if he's trying to feel how the tip of his cock bruises the opening of your cervix with each thrust. "Eeaasy now," his voice silky smooth just like his skin, "shush, we don't want anyone seeing you like this, right?"

A particularly loud moan emanates from your chest; his words drawn out by the pleasure surging through your veins. Mind feeling too good to be inhibited by anything else.

"Or do you want your friends to see you getting fucked by the devil like me," Satoru's tone lingers in the back of your head. The hand on your abdomen moving downward, toying with your clit. Rubbing circles before pressing against its sides.

You can feel him smile against your neck as he continues to thrust deep into you, each movement harder and faster than the last. His claws dig into your hips, biting into the skin there in a way that's both abrasive and soothing.

"I can't," the breath rushes out of you, leaving your head spinning and the earth swimming as Satoru pulls back to watch you clutch the railing. You're sure you're going to collapse at any moment, but you can feel him watching as your knuckles grind into the wood. Until he’s leaning in again, lips exploring your shoudlerblades,, "I can't–Satoru–hngh."

He's warm. The skin of his chest presses flat against your arching back.He turns his hips into you; the pressure mounts at your core, building up to a burning coil. Lewd sounds of skin slapping skin heating up your cheeks, burning your ears as shame tickles at the edges of your mind.

It's blaring. Flashy.

Loud.

"Hehe," he chuckles against your shoulder and you feel his teeth sink into the flesh there, careful not to puncture the delicate skin, "what pretty sounds we make."

And for a moment, you allow yourself to drown. To have the fox ravage you. Cock thrusting deep inside and with each withdrawal, your slickness sloshing out of you. Messy and wet. Coating your thighs in it. And yet it urges Satoru to go harder. Deeper.

Leaning over your body, his hands press along your ribcage before coming to rest on the tops of your shoulders. The weight of him feels like it's anchoring you in place – even though all he’s doing is encircling you with his arms and keeping no distance between your two bodies.

Thick white lashes that frame his eyes hide his true feelings while the half-smile playing on his lips remains unchanged.

His thumbs make tiny circles beneath your breasts, brushing across their undersides. A whimper escapes your lips when he pulls away, pulls out. The sudden emptiness prompting a muffled sound from the back of your throat – which earns you a playful slap on the curve of your ass.

"You're very loud, you know that?"

Satoru turns you around, hands remaining on your ribcage as he lifts you up effortlessly. Legs reflectively wrapping around his narrow hips, feeling his hipbones dig into the fat of your thighs. His presence suffocating the air from your lungs with a humid heat.

Your arms strain as you grip the railing behind you, body in the air while Satoru's arm supports your back, the other hand gripping his slick cock.

"It's not–agh," he pats your aching nub before gliding the tip over your slit, collecting the leaking wetness, "not like that."

He grins at you, eyes staring into yours with twinkles of mischief – or lust? – while smearing prespend over your swollen, empty hole.

"So you're not enjoying this," bending over you, kisses your nerves awake, his cheek nudges your head to the side so his lips can nibble at the taut skin of your jawline. And your eyes widen in shock.

People. More than a dozen people walking towards the chōzuya, a water well adjacent to the worship hall right next to the small sightseeing open building on which's balcony you're currently are in. Naked, legs wrapped around a kitsune, body completely exposed.

Just one look to the left is all anyone needs to do.

"Your body's burning," Satoru's breath scorches your ear. His cock, hard and pulsing, teases your entrance until it aches sweetly, "heh–want me to stop, pretty?"

"Ngh–" you shake your head, "don't stop."

"Good, now–," his lips graze yours the moment he slides the tip of his cock inside. Chest rambling with a sound distinctively similar to purring, "be a good girl and let me fuck you."

With that, he snaps his hips until he's buried inside of your cunt, filling you to the brink. Lowering his mouth to your skin, his fangs once again graze your shoulder blade; move alongside your clavicles until he reaches your sternum. Every deep exhale through his nose leaves an imprint on your flesh. It makes you feel like you're burning. Hot coals pressed against your skin.

His hands grip your ass. Kneading the flesh as he sets a relentless pace. Sinking deep inside with each drive of his hips.

Pushing yourself off the railing, you carefully swing your arms over his shoulders. Chest flush against his, you moan when your sensitive nipples graze the hard muscle of his torso.

"Ahh, Satoru–," your face buries in the mop of his hair when you feel his lips encircle your nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue over the mound as he drives his cock in and out of your cunt; so slick and dripping that you feel almost no friction altogether, "feels so good."

His teeth nip at the soft meat of your breast, nipple glossy with saliva as he moves his attention to the other one. You feel it then – or maybe it's been there the whole time – a brush against your thigh; initially thinking it to be his hand. Only they both lay flat against your ass. It's soft. Thick. Bushy. And it wasn't there before, yet it moves around you, slithers until it rests along the length of your thigh.

"You're taking me so well, pretty," his pelvis rubs your clit each time he bottoms out, moving you to sit on the old, creaky wooden railing, allowing his heads to roam your body – which he takes full advantage of – and only tightening the band inside your abdomen, "makes me not wanna feed."

His words fly over your head. Mind fuzzy and empty. Instead, you gasp for breath, the need for air becoming desperate as you clutch onto Satoru, whose relentless thrusts show no signs of faltering.

Toes twitching, your legs tremble around his hips. Moan after moan escaping your throat as your hips grind against his, a pathetic attempt to meet his harsh thrust and grind on his pelvis – to feel at least a tiny slither of pressure against your swollen bud – to which Satoru takes notice. Hand moving to your hip, he squeezes the flesh before moving his thumb over your clit, toying with it.

You feel another bushy tail slither onto your other thigh; it makes your eyes open. That's when you finally take notice of his full nature. He doesn't have actual tails. Instead, something vaguely resembling tails slithers from behind his back. Translucent with blueish hue. You're capable of seeing through them all. The same hue radiates from his skin, from the patterns decorating his face–

Satoru's lips continue their assault on your nipples as curiosity floods your veins.

–it's almost like small clouds taking shape, flying over his body. It's –

"Beautiful," you whimper, feeling him stir underneath your palms. The fox looks up, hips stilling with his full cock warm inside you.

"What did you say," he asks. Eyes leaving the image before you, you cup his face with one hand, locking your gaze onto his – fire meeting ice.

"I said that you're beautiful," your lips trace his nose, the tear-shaped drops underneath his eyes. The dot on the corner of his lips before grazing the soft plumpness of his mouth. It sends tingles through you. A jolt. As if you were touching a sacred artifact, fingers cautiously exploring every curve and contour of his face left behind.

Satoru's breath catches, and he closes his eyes, allowing your exploration to continue for a while.

"Hah," his lips catch yours, an arm sneaking around your middle to bring you closer, the thumb on your clit rubbing and flicking against the nerve, making you whimper into his mouth, "you're the pretty one," he mumbles against your mouth.

Slowly moving his hips back, you feel every ridge and contour of his cock against your insides until only the head remains locked in. Then he snaps. Pushes forward with a newfound fervor.

Satoru's tongue flicks over yours. Sweetness tinges your senses. Like ripe berries on a warm summer day.

"The tasty one," he pulls away, forehead resting against yours as he feels your cunt flutter.

The tension inside your abdomen grows. Coiling around your insides like a tautly wound spring, ready to snap at any moment. Every deliberate movement from him tightens the invisible band.

With each flick of his thumb, your breath hitches, body quivers in response, cunt tightening around him. Each stroke of his cock. Sharp tongue tracing a searing path over your fevered skin, igniting your senses with each pass. Satoru's focus shifts – from your jaw to your neck, to your sternum, leaving no inch untouched by his maddening touch.

His hand squeezes the pliant flesh of your ass, giving it a gentle slap every once in a while when his cock brushes your cervix. You plead for release, voice a breathless whisper against his mouth. His response a flicker of dominance, fingers teasing your clit, pushing you closer to the edge.

"Satoru–mmph–so close," your lips seal over his marking, eyes squeezing shut to contain the overwhelming sensations, "m'gonna cum."

"Then cum," he encourages, his voice a seductive purr as he flicks your swollen clit, "wanna see the face you make, pretty."

The tension reaches its breaking point with the roll of his tongue over your lower lip. The invisible band stretched to its limit. Every sensation, every touch, and every word weaves together into a pool of desire. Making you teeter on the edge, held captive by his electrifying presence, until finally, with one last snap, the tension shatters like glass. The band snaps.

"Ah, Satoru–"

"Ugh–there we go," pain mixes with pleasure. Fangs sinking into your shoulder, his claws dig into the meat on your hips. It stings when your skin is raptured. Crimson beads trail down towards his pivoting hips, fucking you through the orgasm. Through the overwhelming pleasure. Through your body spasming, cunt contracting against his cock.

He doesn't stop.

Not until the world fades away.

(Guess you should have seen that coming. What is the saying? Never trust a fox.)

"Hey, c'mon. Wake up."

You sense hands on your shoulders, shaking you vigorously. As you reluctantly open your eyes, a familiar face hovers above you, bathed in a soft, afternoon light, accompanied by a group of others. Your friend gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, grounding you as you blink away the remnants of slumber.

Oh no.

Hastily lowering your gaze, relief washes over you when you realise you're fully dressed. But if you're fully dressed…

"What happened?" you croak, voice tinged with confusion, the world still hazy around the edges.

Nothing seems to add up right now.

"You tell me," your friend grins, their features coming into sharper focus as the surrounding crowd gradually dissolves. "You told me you were gonna buy some shinsen for the offering hall but you disappeared. An employee found you here," you scan your surroundings, recognizing the familiar balcony in front of you, "sleeping on a bench. Completely passed out. Out of it. She couldn't even wake you up."

Sleeping on a bench.

"Sorry," you mutter, fingers instinctively rubbing your eyes, senses now fully awakened.

Was it all a dream? "Guess I got tired."

It couldn't be a dream. Not when you push yourself to stand up and feel the strain in your legs. Stickiness. Slickness between your thighs.

"What's that?" your friend points towards your clenched fist. Opening your hand, palm up, both of you gaze at a small, iridescent bead with barely discernible sapphire swirls dancing across its smooth surface.

"Don't know."

"Looks like a fox's pearl. They sell those at the charm shop," your friend nods their head towards a nearby charm shop before both of you start walking. Time to go home.

[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. 

[damien-wolfram-art]

Ghost Can – and Will Dance at Weddings

A sequel to: “Ghosts Can’t Dance at Weddings”

Part of a collaboration with @flawlessstriker

Here it is!

@hashimada-week

It was a beautiful spring day in The Uchiha village. The warm golden midday sun dappled through the rows of cherry blossom trees, yuinou wedding gifts, and outdoor speakers that framed a massive promenade. There was a gentle breeze that rustled the pink petals and carried their lightly sweet scent over the hundreds of guests gathered before a brazier that was situated beneath an ornately crafted torii gate.

Even with all the beauty and the pleasantness of the season, Hashirama had never felt so tense. He was standing just behind his younger brother, Tobirama. His wife, Mito, his parents, and his three children were situated behind him, but his attention was centered dead ahead where he sensed a growing bitter iciness. Izuna Uchiha would be coming from there, but instinct told him that it wasn’t Izuna he was sensing.

The gruff voice of Fugaku Uchiha, one of the longest standing members of the Uchiha Clan, announced the start of the procession over the speakers, shocking Hashirama to attention, “Welcome, honored guests, to this momentous occasion! We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Izuna Uchiha and Tobirama Senju. Let us revel in the joy and love that fills the air!”

Ahead of his section, Hashirama sensed the chill growing closer. Izuna was approaching with a lit torch held close to his chest. He was positively radiant in its amber glow and Tobirama, who looked more exhausted than usual, even managed to perk up upon seeing him in his matching wedding kimono. Normally, seeing his brother light up this way would spark joy in Hashirama’s heart, but as the procession moved forward, Izuna and Tobirama turned to approach the torii gate together. Then, Hashirama saw him– Madara Uchiha.

The squealing flutes and staccato drum beat of live gagaku music accompanied the procession. Hashirama was late to his queue- too busy staring at the undead man whose sharingan red eyes looked right through him, leaving him feeling frozen to his spot. Before he knew it, he was over a meter behind and his wife, who was equally surprised by the appearance of the ghost, had to nudge her husband to get him moving. By then, he had to jog past the ghost’s mother to catch up and walk alongside him.

To the left of the procession, past Madara, were the many eyes of the Uchiha village; their wonderfully crafted gifts of tapestries and iron works were scattered all around them. To the right, although Hashirama certainly wasn’t paying much attention there, were the guests from The Leaf. They brought gifts of trees symbolizing growth and stability in a relationship as well as fruitful love lives. They brought sake barrels full of both sake and mochi to break open. Many of The Leaf’s denizens also brought gifts of honey wine: a delicacy the Senju had come across in their time as nomadic forest dwellers. It was said that after some heavy rain, water laden bee hives were harvested and that was the start of a Senju tradition. A gift of honey wine was a gift of hope for the couple to go on to live their lives in sweetness though some had snakes in the bottles. This imparted a different meaning. Many believed that the snakes would bestow their strength, stamina, and most importantly virility to their drinkers.

When the procession reached its destination past all the standing guests and the generous gifts, Hashirama looked to Madara again. He wanted to say something, but whenever he thought about speaking to him, his chest ached, and his words were trapped in his throat. There was a quiet murmur from the crowd– especially on the Uchiha side, but no one dared to interrupt the ceremonies. Hashirama and his family sat to the right of the brazier. Izuna’s family, Obito, and Fugaku’s family sat to the left. Tobirama and Izuna stood on their respective families’ sides of the brazier.

Another staccato drumbeat silenced the music and signaled the end of the procession. Fugaku approached from behind the couple, gesturing openly toward Hashirama as he began an important address, “Before we commence this sacred ceremony, it is essential to express our deepest gratitude and acknowledge the unwavering support of a beloved brother, Hashirama Senju. As Tobirama's elder brother, Hashirama has not only played an integral role in his life, helping Tobirama thrive even amidst challenging times, but has also made a generous goshugi contribution, making this wedding possible.”

Hashirama bowed awkwardly at the acknowledgement. While it was true that he had provided the funding for most of the ceremonies and that he loved his younger brother dearly, given the Madara shaped elephant in the room, he was rightly uncomfortable with receiving such high praise. He couldn’t help but look in Madara’s direction to see how he was taking it all. To his surprise, Madara seemed to care very little about him. The dark suited man was simply looking forward with a pleasant smile on his face.

Another drumbeat brought Hashirama to attention once more. Fugaku had his head bowed in reverence. Tobirama and Izuna followed suit. Then, the crowd did the same. “During this momentous occasion, we also take a moment to honor the memory of a cherished father, Tajima Uchiha. As Izuna's father and a former leader of our clan, Tajima's spirit lives on in all of our hearts. We know he would be immensely proud of the remarkable example Izuna has set for the Uchiha clan. Though he may not physically be with us today, his presence is felt, reminding us of the significance of family and the enduring bonds that transcend time,” Fugaku said with a serious and prideful tone.

Though his head was bowed, Hashirama’s eyes kept wandering to his left. Madara was playing along and miraculously, no one was questioning his attendance despite his life being lost over a year ago. He couldn’t fathom how his younger brother had pulled it off.

He remembered warning Tobirama time and time again that the dead were not to be trifled with. He had scolded him endlessly for having a god complex. He’d told him that a jutsu to bring back the dead would never work, and that people would start asking questions. He was wrong. 

Everyone raised their heads and Fugaku’s voice took on a slightly more uplifting tone; this was difficult for him since he was usually a very serious man, but he did his best, “Today, Izuna and Tobirama stand before us ready to embark on a journey of love, commitment, and shared dreams. For the Uchiha, fire is a powerful force that can cause great destruction, but it can also warm us, bring us together, and shelter us.”

Hashirama’s dark eyes widened at the mention of fire and guilt rose up within him, making him suddenly nauseous. “To share your Flame with another– it is to wholeheartedly accept them for all their flaws and to cast aside all judgements. It is to love them unconditionally with every fiber of your being. Furthermore, it is a promise to forever learn and improve together,” said Fugaku; Hashirama swallowed– hard.

 “As The Flame is passed from Uchiha to Senju, let us join together to celebrate their union and offer them our blessings, support, and well-wishes. May their love grow stronger with each passing day. May they find happiness, success, and fulfillment in one another. With joy and anticipation, let us commence this blessed wedding ceremony!”

Izuna was smiling when he passed the torch to Tobirama. Tobirama took his duty very seriously. As the flutes rang out again, he took the torch that was marked with a white and red tipped uchiwa fan, the crest of the Uchiha. With the utmost of care, he then held it over the brazier between them and it burst alight.

There was a musical flare before some silence. Then, Fugaku led the applause and said, “so, The Flame is passed from Uchiha to Senju! With this Flame, we recognize Tobirama as Uchiha. May this blazing brazier serve as a symbol of his acceptance into our clan!”

From there, the ceremony moved on. Hashirama was left feeling shell shocked. He clapped for a little too long and his wife needed to correct him again. Feeling her small hand rest on his thick forearm he looked down at it; understanding her concern, he apologized profusely and quietly.

Next, the couple of the hour began the ritual of San San Kudo. As a koto player from the Uchiha began plucking some strings, Fugaku moved to be seated and his wife, Mikoto, took his place, quietly filling the first of three sakazuki cups with three splashes of sake. Izuna graciously accepted the cup with a bow, raising and lowering it twice before drinking. He then returned it to Mikoto respectfully. She filled it in the same way once more and then passed it to Tobirama, who mirrored Izuna’s movements perfectly. During this first drink, the couple thought of their parents and the bonds that were made leading up to their union. During the second cup, they thought of their human flaws of hatred, passion and ignorance. For hatred, funnily enough, they thought of each other and their troubled pasts. For passion, Izuna thought of his brother, Madara; his passion had proven fatal after all. Tobirama however, was still thinking of Izuna and feeling only a little guilty about it. For ignorance they both thought of Hashirama and with the third cup they were released from these flaws.

If only Hashirama could have been so lucky. Instead, he had to endure what was admittedly a beautifully crafted sado tea ceremony hosted by Mikoto with all of the important seated guests; this included Madara who was sat directly across from him and maintained the same stoic aloofness that he had throughout the other ceremonies. After that, came the hiroen reception party, where those seated maintained their positions and partook of a meal consisting of some of the wedding couple’s favorite foods.

There was a bountiful spread of river fish, prawns, pickled vegetables, white rice, miso soup, sekihan– red bean rice (for good luck), inarizushi, more tea, honey wine, and of course sake. It was a filling and delicious meal. Still, Hashirama couldn’t help but feel like he was the only one uncomfortable around an eating, drinking, and talking corpse.

He typically loved these sorts of events, but at this one he found himself drinking in excess to cope with his discomfort. He was also uncharacteristically quiet which garnered the attention of his younger brother. Naturally, Tobirama was quite busy making sure Izuna was happy so addressing his elder brother’s discomfort would have to wait, but this didn’t stop him from noticing the glazed over look in Hashirama’s eyes even when the cake cutting was announced.

There was music playing again. It was louder, more jovial, and less traditional. The formalities were finally coming to an end.

Hashirama was fixated on Madara– his right leg bouncing with anxiety. To him the reception party felt as if it were underwater. He watched as Madara was served a slice, bowed courteously, and began to eat– all with a smile. At some point he too was served a slice, but when he didn’t touch it, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Elder brother?”

The room suddenly got louder. Hashirama’s empty eyes turned to meet Tobirama’s compassionate red gaze. “Huh?”

“You haven’t touched the cake. Are you feeling well?” Asked Tobirama’s deeper voice quietly.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I must have just been lost in the moment.”

Tobirama rubbed at Hashirama’s larger shoulder and sighed, “I see. Care to join me for a walk then? I’d like the company and could use some freshening up. I’d hate to bother Izuna with such trifles when he’s having such a good time.”

Hashirama looked over at Izuna who was happily chatting with his mother and his revenant brother. He was beginning to feel sick again, so he opted to join Tobirama, “sounds good.”

The two walked some distance away from the reception party to a private spot amongst the cherry blossom trees before Tobirama stopped abruptly. “I know this is hard for you,” he began strictly, “but can you at least Try to consider how your behavior is being perceived?”

Hashirama was used to Tobirama getting frustrated with him, but after holding his tongue for so long he could no longer. “Tobirama,” he said in the tone he used when chastising him. “What did I say would come from this- this affront against nature? It’s no good. Can’t you see?”

“This “affront against nature” has made Izuna very happy. On this day he should have nothing but happiness! I see nothing wrong with that!”

“He’s a dead man Tobirama!”

Tobirama rubbed at the bridge of his nose and groaned, making quick rigid motions with his arms as he spoke, “I am very aware of that. I am aware that you were the one to make that happen. I am aware of his crimes against The Leaf, but right now none of that matters! Obito is here as well and so long as he disappears after the festivities are over, I have promised not to pursue him either! Both he and Madara share one thing in common: Izuna sees them as brothers. In the same way that Izuna has turned his eyes away from your transgressions, elder brother, so too must we!”

Hashirama went moon-eyed in surprise. He hadn’t realized that he himself had imposed so much discomfort on Izuna. In one way or another, Izuna must have been harboring the same feelings toward him as he had toward Madara.

Settling into the thought, he bowed apologetically. “I understand,” he said. “Please forgive me for being so selfish.”

Tobirama placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder again and looked him deep in the eyes. “It’s just one day,” he reassured him. 

The consolation was enough for Hashirama to return to the reception party and eat his cake as it was wrapping up. Fugaku announced over the speakers that there would be an after-party with drinks and music. The guests who stood watching over the ceremonies were invited and their cheers could be heard far and wide.

The music began to play loudly over the speakers and the important seated guests began to trickle their way into the crowd. Seeking comfort in familiarity, Hashirama stood and followed the newlyweds down the promenade. When he was offered some sake, he even began to relax a little. Mingling with the crowd, he’d all but forgotten about-

Madara was approaching him and with some strong intent. The jaunty music shifted. The koto players began a slow and pining waltz in minor key. Hashirama met Madara’s confident sharingan for the first time all day and he was captivated.

“Shall we dance?” Asked the voice of a dead man.

Before he could register what he was agreeing to, Hashirama nodded and was swept away from his family by a firm cold hand that felt dry like handmade washi paper. Then, hand in hand, he could only follow Madara’s lead. The sharingan could not only read movements but could cause them in the right circumstances. In that moment, Hashirama was grateful for that fact. They moved as one, pushing away and coming together three slow and agonizing times. When they were close, Hashirama felt safe and supported in Madara’s strong arms. When they pushed apart, he longed for Madara’s embrace.

Then, Hashirama found himself spinning– one two three times. The dizzying maneuver only made his light inebriation and confusion more evident. Still, he noticed a pattern– movements of three. It was the Uchiha battle tradition. His heart began to race. His hands met Madara’s again only to be rolled outward and get caught at the end of Madara’s reach. He made an involuntary open gesture to match his dance partner and from there he could feel the judgmental gazes of the people in the crowd around him. Madara was making an example of him.

It felt like an eternity before he was rolled back into Madara’s arms. He wanted to just hide there– away from all the guilt and pain, but Madara sent him away again. There, everyone could see the man in the brown patchwork suit for the foolish, self-indulgent, shameful, liar of a man he was. The heat in his already alcohol flushed face increased. The following embrace felt so short in comparison and when he was sent away again, he could hardly stand it. His eyes stung as he tried to fight the rush of his emotions, but then, he was rolled in for the third time; Madara allowed Hashirama's momentum to continue, but he released him from his control. Because of this, Hashirama lost his balance. He reflexively gasped as his center of gravity rapidly approached the ground, but he was promptly snatched by the waist into a deep awkward dip. Briefly, time froze, and he took in all that was that moment with Madara Uchiha. His skin was dull and dry. It cracked on his face and hands. His mane was still impressive and lustrous however– a stark contrast to Hashirama’s tired looking faded brown locks. In his dark suit, crimson colored vest, tie, and with the cherry blossoms falling around them, Hashirama dared to think he was beautiful.

Then he remembered the crowd– his wife, his children. Madara leaned over and pulled him close. “I still have one more move, Hashirama,” he said.

Hashirama felt his heart rate pick up even more. The dip, the lean, and then what? What was Madara intending to do in front of so many people? Would he really go so far as to make that kind of example of him? Was it wrong that he wanted him to?

Madara whispered five words to him. Then, his heart sank. He helped him stand and walked away, leaving him stunned in front of everyone.

What do you think he told him?

@anannua Still kickin'! ~

[eireanness]

Update! I have been struggling with the shiromuku and shadowing on it. Also the face. @__@:

I'm almost done. It's just such a slow wip. This month has been really busy, with visitors, work, community outreach.. Trying to be more involved in the community. Also getting sick. It's just been a roller coaster month!

I know I have a lot of parts missing. I have just been working with her outfit. Hopefully I can get some more time to refine lines and finish his hand!!!

A little history behind shiromuku(very condensed version)

"Originally worn at weddings in samurai families, the shiromuku has become one type of wedding kimono worn by brides in Japan. White has symbolized the sun's rays since ancient times, and from the Heian period, pure white bridal kimonos became prized." -kyotowedding.jp

[waddlehekk]

So, since Manga Goemon seems to not mind when his sword break, does it mean that his sword is really that expendable to him compared to anime Goemon who would end up depressed?

Though I wouldn't exactly call it expendable, his sword is not as important to him in the way that it would be to a traditional samurai, like Anime Goemon.

We can see earlier instances where Goemon's sword breaks, but Goemon simply moves on from it afterwards and it is treated as a joke rather than it being serious.

Though I think he is a bit attached to his sword in Shin Lupin, the Ryusei (he was totally bragging about it in the first chapter lol), I think it troubles him more to just lose because of his ability. When his supposed Ryusei breaks and he loses in the ending of the chapter "Goemon Star", his reaction is the same as when he loses in the chapter "A Girl Named He" against the machine, even though he doesn't break his sword there.

When he loses Ryusei he also does not panic either.

Throughout the manga series, he isn't even opposed to switching swords. In the original manga, he uses the Takemitsu, a bamboo sword passed down in his family.

In Shin Lupin, not only does he replace it for Ryusei, but he tries to attain a magic sword.

In New Adventures, we even learn that he has multiple weapons ready for use.

On top of all this, it's very common that Goemon throws his sword at enemies in the manga, sometimes attached to rope or chain, and other times not. It's almost as if it were a knife he is throwing.

The reason behind Goemon's different behavior towards his sword is because he is not a samurai, as not only is he never referred to as one (in Tokyopop's english translation he is), but he doesn't speak of Bushido either. If anything, he is more comparable to a ninja.

In the interview with Monkey Punch below (thank you Monkey Punch Art on twitter), he confirms that his image of Goemon was based off of the portrayal of the ninja Ishikawa Goemon in the film literally titled "The Ninja." He felt that giving Goemon ninja clothing would not work well in the modern age, and so he gave him instead a kasuri kimono and hakama, traditional Japanese clothing for a male.

https://jisin.jp/entertainment/interview/1615724/

There are many other details in the manga proving this. In the oneshot "Lupin III Part 3: Ore Ryuuha Nashi…!!", we see Goemon with ninja food.

Additionally, if we look at Goemon's other frequently used weapons, they also come off as more of that of a ninja's. He uses many techniques involving wire, rope, string, thread, chain, etc. along with throwing knives and shuriken, and using a bow and a blowgun.

Unlike in Part 1, Goemon's attempts at killing Lupin when they are first enemies often involve sneak attacks when Lupin would rather not fight. He leaps at his enemies before they can react and rests in high places like a ninja.

Additionally, he is very often depicted as a silhouette, lurking in the shadows and sometimes right behind someone.

I want to add that I think his symbolism with the moon and the coming of the night as the sun lowers is very fitting.

[life-set-to-random]

Fan art I did of Tomoe, Chizu and Mariko.

Each flower, kimono pattern, and kimono color have symbolic meaning I associate with each of these ladies.

Mariko: Swallows represent fertility, marital fidelity, and good luck. Yellow is for the sun, good luck and cheerfulness. The plum blossoms (Ume) she’s holding are signs of endurance in adversity and hope.

Chizu: In ancient Japan Ravens were believed to carry the souls of the recently departed and are symbols of the will of the gods/heavenly intervention. Red means power in many forms, passion and when worn by a young woman it’s considered glamorous. She’s holding a Spider Lily which is associated with death, because “…a ninja’s business in life is death.”

Tomoe Ame: Koi fish for courage, perseverance, loyalty and love. Blue symbolizes many things but I choose it for dignity, calmness and stability. The flowers are Chrysanthemum (Kiku) for nobility because she serves a lord, and longevity because she’s done it her whole life, and Cherry blossoms (Sakura) which are symbols of Samurai because they represent the relationship between life and death, beauty and violence. Absolutely perfect for Tomoe.

Please don’t post elsewhere, reblog or otherwise steal without giving me credit for having made this. I put a lot of love and effort into this and it means a lot to me.

Medium is color pencils

[paroslineage]

I'm Home....

Satoru Gojo x Fem!Reader.

TW : Blood, Reader Death, Gore, Detailed descriptions of death, Mentions of death.

This is my own original idea and the characters of JJK do not belong to me but Gege Akutami. Do not steal :/

Genre : Angst To Comfort

××××××××××××××××××××××

Original Content do not steal or repost on other platform as your own material and this is the only platform I write so If you see anything on other platforms, immediately report.

××××××××××××××××××××××

It was almost in a blur, how quick it was.....

Satoru laid on the ground, waist cut in half as his legs remained standing, with his left arm cut off as he coughed up blood.

Fighting the King Of Curses wasn't a walk in the park. He gave it his all, yet was defeated by a Curse who merely even tried.

As he closed his eyes, and opens them, now he was in a field of dandelions, the most cherished flower of his Kikufuku, reminding him of what you had told what the flowers symbolized..

hope, healing, and resilience.

Qualities which you possessed before you were brutally killed off by the hands of Toji Fushiguro and forever ripped away from your dear husband Satoru.

And there on the other side is where you.

Y/N Gojo, his once beloved best Friend now Wife stood, smiling serenely, waiting for him.

You were dressed as ethereal as that night....

Wearing a mint green Kimono robe dress with an obi wrapped around your delicate,dainty waist worn with crystal mint green heels that glimmered in the refraction of the sun.

Subtle natural beautiful makeup,hair in a elegant low bun and decorated with a intricate hair stick.

It was your outfit of your wedding with the Satoru Gojo.

You wordlessly opened your dainty arms, long wide sleeves of the Kimono fluttering and swaying along with the Autumn winds and smiled widely and called out to him in a gentle timbre of voice

"Satoru..."

Satoru's heart fluttered as his beloved Kikufuku's calm and soothing voice filled the air gracing his ears, The one which he longed to hear after all that dreaded night.

...

He remembers mourning in anguish as he held your bloodied corpse cradled to his chest robbed away from him so suddenly his heart could not take it.

...

He remembers the sadistic laughter of Toji Fushiguro as it mocked him not being able to save his wife after he just got married.

...

He remembers swearing vengeance on your pitiful ,brutal death as he kissed your bloodied forehead.

...

You were robbed away from him on the night of your wedding.

and now...

He could finally rest in your arms...

Satoru closed his eyes once more, and opens them back up to make sure what he was seeing was not a hallucination, you still stood at your place looking as regal and majestic as ever.

The calm, peaceful, and kind smile on your face gave him solace, acting as a healing balm to his singed soul.

Satoru slowly rose from where he laid, to your level.

"Y/N..."

Satoru spoke waveringly and full of emotion, his clear blue gaze never wavering once from your form.

Your arms were still stretched out open for Satoru to run into and find solace.

Without hesitation, Satoru ran into your open arms like a madman, falling to his knees, burying his head into your stomach.

Both of you stood there for what seemed like forever not like neither of you minded.

Never once wanting this moment to end at all costs, before Satoru looks up at you to see your wide child-like smile still on your visage smiling down at him with nothing but fondness and love.

"Satoru ....you're finally home..."

You said with a emotional happy tone eyes becoming misty as you took in the man Satoru still looked as handsome as before and gently petted his soft alabaster hair from which Satoru teared up even more and sobbed wordlessly into your obi clad stomach.

His once and forever eternal flame was finally lost and found.

Satoru nods frantically, still with tears streaming down his pale cheeks.

Then, he got up and towered over your petite stature and kissed your forehead, cradling you firmly but lovingly in his strong muscular arms.

Nothing could hurt you, for now both of the lost, separated lovers now reunited in the realm of Tranquility and Serenity.

not now, not ever.

"My Kikufuku, I'm home..."

[tojisangrylittlething]

supernova - megumi fushiguro x fem!reader

chapter two: a new world

tw: cussing, two awkward idiots who can't stop gawking at the other

wc: 2.5k

a/n: chapter 2 gah!! things are building and i'm becoming more and more excited to write this! hope you all enjoy <3

you are sitting with your legs criss-crossed, hands resting comfortably on your thighs. you can feel the smooth, white fabric of the kimono resting beneath your fingertips. it's a nice day outside, the sun is shining and there's a slight breeze blowing through the ends of your hair.

you take in the beautiful scene around you. the raging waters of the river flowing in front of you, the birds singing their songs among the trees, the bright flowers swaying in the win.

you sit on a stone circle, intricate symbols carved in its foundations. five pillars made of stone surround the circle, like a protective barrier. a multitude of trinkets line the base of this circle. crystals, herbs, along with other items you've picked up along the way.

your eyes turn to the table directly in front of you. it's lined with candles that are all at varying degrees of use, all of them the color white. more symbols carved along the edges, a stone bowl directly in the middle, and even more white candles encircle yourself and the table.

looking to your right, there is a circular opening in the stone foundation. a pool of water, about the size of the hot tub you and your brother's neighbor had. it has beams of light dancing along the surface.

something compels you to approach this pool. you slowly crawl your way towards it, the light inside of it growing stronger the closer you get. you look over the edge and stare at the reflection looking back at you.

you expected to see yourself, your [color] eyes boring into yours.

but what you didn't expect to see, is another woman entirely.

"who...are you?" you find your voice quietly asking, afraid you would disturb the tranquillity of this place.

"come find me, y/n itadori, there is much more for you to see."

with that, she disappears.

"but wait! where do i find you?" you scream desperately.

you don't hear a response back, and the scene around you slowly fades to black, leaving only yourself in this now empty space.

you begin to panic, eyes darting around the vast nothingness frantically. you have no idea how you even got here. how were you supposed to get back to yuuji?

you grab your hair, pulling at it tightly. your breathing erratic and you can feel your figure rocking back and forth. you don't know what else to do, but to start screaming.

---

you awake with a start, eyes immediately looking madly around you. as an attempt to get your breathing under control, you take in the room.

this isn't where you just were.

it's a small room, different items decorate all of the walls with symbols carved into them. there are lanterns placed all over the floor around you, creating a soft glow.

who was that woman in that...dream? was it even a dream?

you move to stand up to inspect things further, but you discover that you can't.

pulling on your wrists, you look behind you. there are two ropes attached to the floor. following their trail upwards, you see they're attached to your wrists.

what the fuck you mumble to yourself.

you try to pull on your wrists again, hoping to try and break free of these restraints.

when you can't, you groan to yourself and slump over in the chair you are seated in.

"hey assholes, don't you know this is kidnapping in the first degree? that's at least a class 2 felony!" you shout out, hoping whoever did this is listening.

the door opens at that moment. at least someone heard you.

looking towards the door, you see that man with the blindfold from earlier. he walks toward you, taking a seat in the chair across from you, crossing one of his abnormally long legs over the other.

he looks at you for a moment, then asks "do you remember me?"

you squint at him, "yes, fushiguro said your name was gojo, right?"

he nods his head, "yes that's correct."

you look around the room once more, then back to him. "so where are we? where's my brother?"

gojo uncrosses his legs and smiles gently at you, "don't worry, yuuji is safe. you're currently beneath the grounds of tokyo metropolitan curse technical college."

you furrow your brows at that, a school? you respond with an aggressive tone, thoughts more preoccupied by yuuji's whereabouts. "well then where is he? i want to see him, now."

gojo shakes his head with that same smile on his face. your face contorts even more, "why can't i see him?"

gojo begins to explain that he has become a vessel to ryomen sukuna, the supposed king of curses. that the soul of sukuna now resides inside of yuuji.

he also reveals that the higher ups of jujutsu want him executed.

you gasp at that, eyes growing wide with fear. you begin to plead with gojo, feeling tears stinging at your eyes. "please, gojo, please don't let them kill my brother. please he's-"

you pause, now feeling the tears roll freely down your face, voice becoming quieter as you continue to speak.

"he's all i have left."

you hang your head low, feeling silent sobs rack your body. all of the emotions you've been holding in coming out.

"y/n."

you look up at gojo, sniffling slightly. he wears a soft smile on his face.

"i won't let them do that, but i do have to tell you. when the time comes, he must die. sukuna cannot remain inside of him, it will only create chaos." he pauses briefly, questioning what to say next, but continues "your brother has agreed to it, but wants it by his own terms."

you can only nod at him, trying to trust your brother knows what he's doing. trying to gather yourself, you sit straight up in your chair. "so what happens now?"

gojo leans back in his seat, head leaned backward "well, yuuji and yourself will enroll here at the school and train to become sorcerers. under my instruction of course." he finishes, with a slight smirk adorning his features.

he lifts his head from the back of the chair, looking at you "which reminds me, i have some questions for you."

you look a bit confused, but then you remembered.

how you threw sukuna backward with only the flick of your wrist. the power that overcame you, the rage, the voice seeping with venom for him.

gojo sees the realization wash over you and he leans forward, arms resting on his knees. "what exactly was that?"

you shake your head, looking away from him, "i-i don't exactly know either. that's the first time something like that has ever happened."

the scene replays behind your eyes, like you're reliving it all over again. "i remember being overcome with rage every time sukuna's name was mentioned, like somehow i was knew who he was. just seeing the finger was one thing, but seeing him physically come to life in yuuji was another thing entirely."

gojo nods, wanting you to continue on.

you speak again, "it's almost like a switch was flipped on inside of me. i could see everything, feel it, but it wasn't me." you pause, debating on telling gojo about these visions you've been experiencing. you sigh dejectedly, figuring he may be the only one who will be able to help you. "it had to have been her."

gojo sits up straight upon hearing that, now at full attention. "her? who's her?"

you finally look at him, he remained unphased, but you could feel his concern in the air. you close your eyes and sigh yet again, "i don't know who she is, but i've seen her, only in these sorts of...visions i suppose. whenever i see her, it's like i know her. which doesn't make sense because i've never seen her before."

gojo just looks at you blankly and it causes a bout of nervousness. "i know it sounds crazy but-"

he cuts you off with a reassuring smile, "i've seen and heard a lot of crazy, trust me, that's not the worst."

you let out a small sigh and close your eyes briefly. you're unsure how much comfort that should bring you, but it does ease the pit in your stomach ever so slightly.

"we'll figure this out together, okay?"

you nod slightly at what gojo said, the tension in your body beginning to dissipate.

you hear gojo stand up, causing you to open your eyes to look up at him.

"you ready to go see yuuji?"

your eyes brighten at that, nodding your head enthusiastically. gojo releases you from your restraints and leads you to where your brother is.

---

gojo brings you outside to a massive courtyard. trees and flowers adorning the perimeter and multiple buildings littering the school grounds.

you take a deep breath and stretch your aching limbs. closing your eyes for a moment, you enjoy the sunlight beaming down on you. it sure feels better than being locked in that room.

you open your eyes and see a familiar head of pink hair, he stands with his hands in his pockets, his back turned to you.

you gasp slightly, "yuuji!"

with that, your brother turns to face you. a smile finding its way onto his face.

"y/n!" he shouts back with the same enthusiasm.

you both run toward each other, enveloping each other in a warming embrace. your soul feels at peace being reunited with your brother.

you smile into the hold that yuuji has on you, squeezing just a bit too tight. you pull back from him slightly to assess the state he's in.

he looks healthy, except for the faint lines under his eyes where sukuna's once were.

"are you okay? nobody hurt you right?" you ask him.

he shakes his head with that same smile, "no, i'm fine sister. and you?"

you smile back at him, also shaking your head "i'm fine too, brother."

you hug him again, when you hear gojo behind you.

"awe a touching brother-sister reunion! i have to show the second years the new students!"

you both turn your attention to gojo just as he's snapping multiple pictures of the two of you.

you groan out, glaring at him slightly "do you ever just, you know, stop doing this?" you flail your hands around to accentuate your annoyance.

gojo lets out a loud laugh, and shakes his head "i've been unable to do so since i came out of the womb."

you roll your eyes at your new teacher and turn back to your brother.

yuuji also looks back at you, "well? i guess this is our new school."

you nod at him as you both look around the courtyard. "guess we need to go get our stuff." you say, adding a groan at the end.

you then turn back to gojo, "oi, sensei, you mind helping two students out?" you say with a slight smile.

gojo smiles brightly, "a request from a dear student? why of course!"

with that he turns around, heading back into the school. you and yuuji follow, smiles on your faces and arms linked with the other.

---

after grabbing all of your things and making your way back to the school, gojo shows you where your dorms will be.

"i took the liberty of getting you two dorms next to the other, since you'd be more comfortable that way." gojo says, turning to face you from where he was walking in front of the both of you.

yuuji smiles at him and bows his head, "thank you, gojo-sensei."

you nod smile and bow at him as well, "yeah thank you."

you take in the hallway, noticing other doors lining the walls. with a quizzical gaze, you ask "who else is over here?"

gojo points at the doors, stating who lives in what dorm. he then turns to the door directly across from yours and walks toward it.

pounding on the door with his fist, he begins to shout "oi! megumi! get out here and meet the new students!"

megumi? you wonder, who's megumi?

you and yuuji glance at each other briefly, and back to the door. you begin to hear shuffling and the door opens. the person practically falling out of the door.

you look up at his face and see...

"fushiguro?" yuuji says.

he looks at the both of you, rubbing the back of his neck, a slight blush adorning his features.

"itadori." megumi's gaze then fleets to you, you think you see a faint smile, but you're not sure. "itadori."

with the way he's looking at you, you feel your cheeks grow warm. seeing him fully now, not in the midst of a battle, but in the sunlight shining through the windows. his lounge clothes on and hair slightly messy, you begin to realize something.

okay, he's really cute.

you shake your head slightly, trying to shake the thoughts from your head. if you're like this over the second time meeting him, he might just be the death of you.

you smile at him slightly, "h-hi."

you cringe inwardly at how awkward you sound. a stuttering and flustered mess.

you look over at your brother, he seems to be oblivious to your thoughts. when you look over to gojo, however, his face tells an entirely different story.

he wears a shit-eating grin on his face. even though you can't see his eyes, you can feel the all-knowing look of them.

you clear your throat, trying to gain your composure. you look back at megumi, plastering your signature smirk back on your face.

"what were you doing in there? took you a minute." you say, adding a chuckle toward the end.

megumi feels his own face grow even warmer, eyes going wide at you.

he takes in your appearance. your hair is slightly messy, strands sticking out in various places. your cheeks are flushed with a mischievous gleam in your eyes.

megumi thinks you are absolutely beautiful. not that he didn't think so before, but now that he's seeing you in a more normal setting, it only adds to your allure.

he realizes he's staring too long, but he doesn't want to stop looking at you. your eyes drawing him in like some siren song.

megumi hears someone cough and looks over at the source of the noise.

gojo is just smirking at him, his entire face saying he knows.

well, shit, i'm never gonna live this down megumi thinks.

megumi turns back toward you, you're looking at him expectantly, waiting for his answer.

"i was sleeping since you're so curious."

you laugh at that and megumi thinks it's such a melodic sound. he could hear it for eternity and never grow tired of it.

gojo claps his hands, abruptly ending the conversation between you and megumi. "alright, yuuji and y/n, you two go finish setting up your dorms. bathroom and showers are down the hall. there's time to socialize later."

you and yuuji walk to your individual dorms, excited and nervous for the new journey ahead of you.

gojo gives megumi a pat on the back and says, "go get your rest, she's not going anywhere."

megumi looks at gojo when he says that, expecting to see that same shit-eating expression on his face.

he's shocked, however, that gojo is giving him an approving smile.

gojo then walks off, going to who knows where. megumi decides to stay and watch you for a moment longer. you're unpacking items out of your boxes and adding your own flair to the once dull, empty dorm room.

megumi smiles slightly and turns back to enter his own dorm. he thinks that you are definitely something special.

tags: @kasumitenbaz ik u didn't ask to be tagged but i thought u would want to be @ay0nha

[toxinellebug]

Kamikotized Hero Design

Working on writing the first Hero Shadybug and Claw Noir fought. It’s rather long so in order to save space, I wanted to describe the costume’s finer details here, along with reference pics. If anyone is a talented artist and is accepting commissions, I would be most grateful~

Mireille Caquet as kamikotized hero “Faerie Weather”

Her design is a combination of her weather powers and a korean “fairy” from folklore, a tribute to her korean heritage as well has a pun on “Fair weather” which is the opposite of the “Stormy Weather” akumatized villain that Hawkmoth created.

(In the universe of Shadybug and Claw Noir, Aurora became the weather girl instead of Mireille, but rather than being bitter about it, she is supportive of her friend but wishes there was something she could do when terrible weather conditions threaten to destroy a very important event)

Her hairstyle is the same but her hair is now a pale lavender and her eyes a golden sun yellow. Instead of her normal human ears, she has long, pointy, elf-like ears that stick out of her hair for a cute, pixie-ish effect.

She wears a korean hair band and the ornament in the middle of her forehead looks like the sun peeking out from behind a gray cloud and there are 3 strands of blue, raindrop shaped beads that hang down. (See reference photo for hair ornament placement)

Via make-up, her face is just slightly paler than her usual color and she has more pink peachy blush on her cheeks than usual, a bold, bright lucky red lipstick (to symbolize strength), and peachy-red and white eye make-up that is dramatic but modernly stylish rather than traditional. (See eye make-up reference photo)

Her costume is similar to hanbok (traditional korean wear) with the jeogori (top) being a bright sky blue with white trim and canary yellow ribbon bow. There is sparse embroidery on the blue section and it looks like fluffy white clouds with an occasional rainbow. Sleeves are traditional shape and length.

    The chima (skirt) is shorter than traditional length, like a casual modern hanbok style or that of a magical school-girl (but not pleated or ruffled) it comes to just above the knees but the majority of the upper thigh is still covered because while Mireille is a modern teen, she still dresses modestly because that is her comfort level.

The skirt is white, as is her leggings- not only because it symbolizes purity and innocence, but because white hanbok in korea represent resistance and petition against injustice and abuse of authority (it does not symbolize death like a white kimono does in japan).

     There is very little embroidery on the bottom edge of the skirt and it looks like golden outlines of shining suns. (Optional if you think it looks too busy)

          Her shoes are traditional unhye in canary yellow- to represent taking action.

         (These are to incorporate the 5 colors of korea which is found in most traditional wear, with the exception of black (death) which has been replaced with the pale lavender for a gentler look.)

Her item that contains the kamiko is a traditional rounded hand fan, dandeon.

The tasseled knot hanging from the bottom of the fan is rainbow. The picture painted on the paper part of the fan changes depending on the power she wishes to use- if she wanted to use the power of wind, she would spin the handle to flip the fan to the other side and you would see a picture of a gust of wind blowing away clouds. For rain, flip again and the picture changes to dark clouds with rain falling, etc. Then it is simply a matter of waving the fan in the direction she wishes the selected weather to go, just like how in canon, Stormy Weather/Climatika had to point her parasol to direct her powers. Please draw a weather symbol of your choice. It should be simple and cute- like the kind you would expect a teen weather girl to show the forecast on a map. 

She does not fly with wings, but like an asian dragon does not fly but rather grabs clouds to crawl across the sky, Fairy Weather steps on tiny blue balls of flame (no bigger than tennis balls) like stepping stones. (This is another nod to old Korean folklore).

 She still has Mireille’s gentle smile.

Unlike the garish/clownish villains that Hawkmoth creates, the kamikotized heroes that Betterfly creates are beautiful/handsome/cute and actually stylish.

[zoetica]

Chimeric Variable Mantle. Conceal, reveal, and stun with abandon – this polymorphous object’s limit is your imagination. Symbols and specimens from my Alien Botany series adorn your body and evolve into something of your own design. At nearly three metres of luxe, creaseproof chiffon, this might be the most extravagantly-proportioned scarf on Earth, guaranteed to impress the most discerning of interdimensional trend-setters. Shawl, dress, kimono, tapestry, sari, cape, sun cover… You decide.

[woodland-gremlin]

First Impressions

[Blank] assed the presence of the two new arrivals. One had a shock of bright, spikey, yellow hair tied up in a high ponytail with two locks of it resting by his face. He had blue eyes that seemingly cut through you, leaving your secrets bare. A crooked, playful grin rests on his tan, whiskered face.He wore an orange kimono shirt with detailed embroidery throughout and black shinobi pants.Most surprising was the symbol of that of an extinct clan on his back. All in all the young man had an aura of someone powerful and knew how to use that power. A fox.

The young woman next to him had the same tan, whiskered face, and blue eyes. Though instead of spikey blond hair she had a specific shade of red hair tied up in sea-faring braids and beads. She wore a choker with the same symbol as the man and a similar outfit as the blond but in a pastel yellow instead of orange. While the young man had a bright aura not unlike the sun, the woman’s was hidden but no less powerful. Like a prowling panther waiting to strike in the moonlight, holding a patient yet mischievous look.

The red hair and beads marked her as an Uzumaki and with the resemblance to the blond next her and the fact that they were both wearing the Uzumaki clan symbol made them wonder if they were truly Uzumaki. If some really survived the massacre. But before they continue their line of observation the one of the two seemingly siblings spoke.

[wanderxdusk]

Ooc: Oof

I had her flannel(? or kimono?) off her shoulder because her sun symbol tattoo was there, but I moved it to her chest. The placement on her chest means "Aba' Bini'li' lives inside me". Aba' Bini'li' is the Chickasaw name for the Creator. The sun is one of His symbols.

The line art is so gross but I just want this done x-x

[abjectimpulse]

details for sun and moon

why yes! the internal name for this one is 'sun and moon'.

it started out fairly simply. i wanted to do a piece with sun and moon imagery with dirk and hal. i always love sun and moon imagery, and i find dirk very sun coded, and hal very moon coded. (hal only being seen as a reflection of the light from dirk, etc, etc.)

i went to look through random images to get some inspiration on which direction to go with it, and i saw a picture of this absolutely beautiful kimono. which gave me the idea to give them sun and moon themed kimonos. i love drawing detailed beautiful clothes.

then i thought about how using blue for hal felt wrong, which led me to 'blood moon' hal, so he could still have his signature red. solar eclipse dirk just sounded cool. sometimes i just do things because they are cool and no other reason.

yes, i am aware they are both wearing women's kimonos, but let me tell you, men's kimonos are BORING and not pretty at all. i want the prettiest kimonos!

the idea of making them a pair of twin deities just came out of nowhere, i can't really pinpoint a certain thing that triggered it. but i wanted to cover them in pretty jewelry and tattoos and makeup and just go all out with it. originally hal was a robot, but it seemed to fit better to make him 'human', to match dirk. not human since they are deities, but you know what i mean.

am i going to get into the flower symbolism now? might as well, a piece with so many flowers for both of them seems like a good piece to get into the flower symbolism.

i always use orange lilies to represent dirk, and black roses to represent hal. those black roses with a bit of red in the middle, you know the ones?

for dirk: orange lilies symbolize strength, courage, confidence, warmth, energy - and on the negative side, they symbolize hatred and disdain.

for hal: black roses can signify obsessive love, death, danger, hatred, rebirth or a major change in life. and black roses in the wild are never truly black - they are always some dark shade of red or purple. pure, real black roses are always artificially made. plus the symbolism of the red fading to black.

i gave them both weapons because i wanted the vibe to be a sort of mischievous, malicious sort of deal. like, these are deities that you don't want to cross. i gave dirk his katana of course, but i prefer giving hal daggers. don't really have a reason for that other than i like daggers.

i wanted the vibe of this piece to be as if they both noticed you there at the same time and they aren't sure if they want to play with you or eat you alive.

the chain connecting them is to symbolize how the sun and moon are linked inextricably together, you cannot separate the two. each of their collars has the others sign on it, another sign of how intertwined they are.

that shrine behind them is their shared shrine, as you can tell with both their symbols adorning it. it's based off a real shrine in japan, i referenced a photo i took while i was there. the real one in japan is a small, out of the way shrine, i think it was part of the suwa taisha network? i'm not sure.

i made dirks skin more tan than i usually do to emphasize the difference between them. the bright paleness of hal and the golden tan on dirk.

i think that's all for this piece. tl;dr i just really love pretty kimonos and shinto aesthetics. i had fun with this one.

(just realizing now looking at the piece in more detail that i forgot the rings on hal. god damn it.)

song for this piece is:

twin flame - EMM

[toxic-potions-productions]

The sun, the moon, & the eclipse (Demon slayer fanmade cover/redraw) (Moonlit reuinions arc)

So, I saw the total eclipse today, & I wanted to draw something to celebrate the occasion

Not only that, but I want an excuse to do more moonlit reunions arc stuff, since that folder has been pretty dry lately due to only having one thing in it

Thank god I was smart enough to save the title card for this arc I made, it makes it so much easier for me qwp

Fun fact: My original idea for Zakiko was to have her old pink kimono robe blow open & reveal her uniform to symbolize where she started to where she is now, but it took me now to realize I picked way too bright of a color for that thing, so expect the color of it to be different next time you see Sengoku Zakiko =w='

FTR, this is technically a redraw of the introduction to the manga chapter 163 overflowing heart, but isn't at the same time. I took inspiration from it, but I'm just gonna give credit now here & in the title since I don't always wanna do redraws

So, it's got redraw in the title but it's inspired from it & not an official redraw. I'm probably just talking out of my ass, but whatever

Yes, I'm aware I didn't add Yoriichi & Michi's red highlights like I always do, I actually wanted to try something different. & I think it actually looks better! So, I might just do that from now on, since I'm just lazy Anyways, let me know if I should redraw Kotoha & Inosuke's part of this intro panel, & who you think I should redraw it with

Happy eclipse viewing! Stay safe <3 ----------------------------------------------------------

Zakiko Shibata by: Me

Yoriichi & Michikatsu Tsugikuni from: Demon slayer

Demon slayer by: Koyoharu Gotouge

Do not steal, trace or copy.

[zecretsanta]

To: @heypilot

From: @juricha-art​

Notes on piece #1:

This one was possibly the hardest to work around, since there is a pretty small chronological window where they would be able to spend some quality time together, so I'm sorry if this isn't exactly "growing up". I knew I had to include Akane though, since she was such an influential figure in K(yle)'s life. I imagine that all three of them would enjoy spending the time in the Biotope Garden. Akane would teach them a lot of things, read aloud or tell stories about her life. She was probably telling them about the meaning of different flowers and of love, and that would inspire Luna to make those flower wreaths for everyone (that one she's making is for Sigma) while Akane would take a nap on K's shoulder - she's just an old woman, after all. Considering the calla lily's symbolism, I'd say it is rather fitting for the place - purity, faithfulness, death. I tried to make it sweet and a bit melancholic. Materials used: watercolors, watercolor pencils, Faber-Castell Pitt pens.

Notes on piece #2:

This one really stuck with me, because I love those two and that timeline still gives me the feels. At first, I'd wanted to make it into just a makeshift wedding. Then - bam! - I remembered the famous painting by Gustav Klimt, "The Kiss". Thus, this one artwork was born. The story is that Sigma wanted to make something to cheer Diana up after they find out that she is expecting, and to prove his love to her, so at least if something happens, they would be together. And so he secretly prepared all those elements and clothes and rings (he's so skilled on tech stuff - and most likely chemistry as well - that it wouldn't be a problem at all to do even with scarce supplies. My headcanon is that he would also be good at sewing and such, with his fine motor skills). The environment is the mix of the Healing Room elements and also that official artwork where Diana is holding a skull and a bouquet of daisies. You can tell that I've got just a little bit carried away, lol. I've specifically left it up to the viewer's interpretation, so it could be both happy and angsty at the same time. Remember: Memento mori if the nineth lion ate the sun. Materials used: gouache, Faber-Castell Pitt pens, Sakura Pen-Touch gold marker.

Notes on piece #3:

This was the first out of the three I'd finished actually. I didn't want to repeat myself, so I've made them don the traditional Japanese kimonos and make Carlos go and visit Kurashiki family in Japan instead. Uchikoshi did say that Akane is an ideal Japanese woman, after all, and she certainly lives up to the title here, hehe. Guess who got drunk and is about to get an earful from his sis because of  photobombing: "It wasn't THAT finger!". Carlos is very excited to be celebrating the holidays with the crew (Maria is the one taking the photo), and Junpei is just very proud of his wife and children (Rei is holding a temari ball and Quark a kagami mochi. Nova is just there being cute) . I aimed for a very light-hearted vibe here. Materials used: alcohol markers, pigment liner, Uni Posca pen, Sakura Pen-Touch gold marker and several types of washi tape (which were a major headache to work with, and I had to use tracing paper to stick them on and then cut them out. I hope it was worth it).

[tsunael]

I never liked Tsuna's mother's name to be Orihime since it's both a little on the nose, (and not canon compliant) so I've been considering Suzume (sparrow) for her. Her maiden name would be 'Suzume Sui' which has a good ring to it imo.

I suppose if she was banished from Sui-no-Sato for leaving then she would change her surname to distance herself from it… in which case it would be Wasaishi (Kimono tailor) so that I can keep her 'weaving girl' reference.

I'm pretty sure citizens were only ever banished for engaging in conflict, but uhhhhhhhhhhh we'll build that bridge when we get there.

As for Tsuna's dad man… More information came out on Thavnairian naming conventions and tuns out they're based on Ottoman Turkish and not Persian 🥴 So I think I'll change Akvila's name to Kartal. If my sources are correct this should mean 'eagle' so my altair constellation ref can also be intact.

It just leaves Tsuna's real name, which is becoming the most difficult.

Originally it was Elhaym, (which admittedly was not even in the ballpark for Thavnairian names but I was shoehorning it for the xenogears reference) but now I have to think of a Turkish name for her and uhhh it's hard.

side note I am down for constructive critique if any of these meanings are incorrect because I Do Not Go Here and would rather hear it from a person who speaks the language.

Anyway!

Yildiz (yul-DUZ) - Means "star"  Zahide - Pious, devout. Zehra - From Arabic زهراء (zahra), the feminine form of أزهر (azhar) meaning "shining, brilliant, bright". This is an epithet of the Prophet Muhammad's daughter Fatimah. It can also be an alternate transcription of Arabic زهرة (see Zahrah), a name derived from a related root. Mihri - meaning "sun". Mihrimah - Means "sun and moon" in Farsi from the word مهر (mehr) meaning "sun" and ماه (mah) meaning "moon". A famous bearer is the daughter of the Ottoman Empire's Sultan Suleiman I The Magnificent. Both names Mehr and Mah are also tied with Ancient Persian deities. Refia - Lofty or above

I think I'm leaning towards Mihrimah because 'Mihri' sounds very cute. Refia is a very close second because of the FF3 reference but the symbolism isn't quite there for me.

Feel free to weigh in if you read this far. I can't choose anything to save my life.