#miyo projects her dreams to kiyoka unintentionally whoopsie 😇

[bubblesthemonsterartist]

my happy marraige, kiyoka/miyo, kiyoka has to inform miyo that her power to dream walk has become personally troublesome

For as long as she can remember, Miyo’s dreams have not been, well, dreams.

They’ve been sad places, nightmares full of regret and cruelty. More recently, they’ve become literal battlefields as Usuba-san helps her discover the hard boundaries of her gift and where it can be pounded and stretched like mochi.

Sleep has often been more exhausting than wakefulness.

The past few nights, however, her dreams have been unsettling for other reasons. Instead of waking in a cold sweat with tears staining her pillow, she’s… hot, her body filled with an unfamiliar ache. Her dreams, usually so clear, are indistinct and fuzzy: A flash of danna-sama’s jewel-like eyes, his breath stirring softly against the small of her throat, a firm body sheltering hers. Underneath his patient hands, her body blooms into a storm of sakura petals.

In the morning, she rouses late and so remarkably well-rested that she almost forgets to apologize to Yurie.

Miyo presses her palms against her cheeks to cool them. Such brazen dreams shame her. Her husband-to-be is an important man with a great deal of responsibility. It is her duty to keep the home ready for his return, not entertain such selfish reveries.

And yet-

Her heart gives a single, longing squeeze.

The truth is that she misses him. Their phone calls have been brief and sporadic the last week, and while she is assured at his eventual return and grateful that he makes the time for someone as lowly as her, his voice alone only makes her miss him more.

She’s truly unworthy to be such a man’s wife.

There’s a racket at the front door as it is violently thrown open, something heavy clattering in the entryway. Miyo follows the sound, startled. Yurie is off today, and danna-sama is not expected for several more days.

And yet, here he is. Panting like he ran here instead of driving his car, his traveling trunk haphazardly lain between them. Her husband-to-be is covered in a film of sweat, hair knot askew and uniform misbuttoned. In several places.

When his eyes land on her, he steps cleanly over his luggage, approaching her with intent until her back bumps the wall. His arms bracket her body, mouth so close to hers that that sweet ache from her dreams stirs.

“If you wanted me home so badly-” His eyes pin her in place-- “You could have just asked.”