#buoy，life buoy; life ring

[plugincaro]

Saif Sea Electric Water Buoys

Amazing indeed… this can also be used during flood conditions… but for this to be effective it needs to be much bigger… so as to save 10 people at a time… wonder if this can be shaped in cylinder shape… like a banana boat…with gps capabilities for tracking… Saving 1 person at a time… with 1 device is too less… In India people’s lives have lesser value than in foreign countries… govt will not…

[anthonyspage]

🌥🏖⭐️🐚🏐🛟🧌

[fawnsflowerbed]

I feel like over time Leon developed a belief that he simply wasn't supposed to be loved. That after endless bloodshed, the lives he took, the mistakes he made and people he lost, it just wasn't meant to be. The last time he dated someone they broke up, and he drank himself stupid before heading to Raccoon City with the world's worst hangover.

So how is he supposed to trust this?

How is he supposed to trust you?

You're a knife through the back waiting to happen, a car crash, a cleanly lined sniper's shot through the windows of the home you both shared. Being with you is a risk to every party involved. What if he turns his back, he looks away, and he loses you?

You and your gentle words, your delicate hands that cradle him. You and that smile that envelops his mind, that presses a wax seal into the second-thoughts and what-ifs, that mails away his insecurity. You who cares for him, takes care of him, holds him. Who cooks bad meals with him and bans him from the stove, who fixes what he breaks. It shouldn't be right, sometimes it doesn't feel right. Sometimes he snaps or sinks like a shark without a dorsal fin, sometimes he hopes he drowns in his sorrow so you realise that he is not the one you should love.

But you come out like a buoy, and you pick him up. And you give him space when he needs it and closeness when he needs it, you familiarise him with the concept of love.

And one day he realises how much he truly craves it. How much he wants your hands and touch and love to feel right. He can't promise he'll put down the bottle immediately, or that gunshots won't ring through his mind to awaken him in the night. He can't promise you a white picket fence life with a stable job and a neighbourhood shrouded in sanctuary and safety.

But he can promise he loves you. And that scares him more than anything.

And really? It feels like it's worth it now.

[lvmoure]

The only exception CS55

Pairings: Carlos Sainz x lawstudent!reader

Summary: In which you were his only exception

Warning: none

whoomandiaries

Liked by carlossainz55, landonorris, maxverstappen1 and others

whoomandiaries life can be boring sometimes.

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The sun hung high in the sky, casting golden rays that shimmered across the azure waves of the Mediterranean. You leaned back against the plush cushions of the yacht, the soft hum of the engine mixing with the gentle lapping of water against the hull. Piñon, your playful golden retriever, sprawled lazily at your feet, occasionally lifting his head to watch the world pass by.

Carlos Sainz lounged beside you, his deep brown eyes reflecting the sunlight and warmth. He looked effortlessly handsome, dressed in a fitted white t-shirt and navy swim shorts. You couldn’t help but smile as he playfully flicked a drop of water in your direction from his half-full glass of lemonade.

“Careful! This is designer,” you teased, raising your hands in mock defense.

“Designer or not, it’s summer! You need to cool off!” he chuckled, his laughter infectious. He leaned over, his hair tousled by the wind, and whispered, “But not as much as I need to cool off after being in the sun all day.”

You shifted, turning to face him, your heart racing as you met his gaze. “And how do you plan to cool off, Carlos?”

With a playful grin, he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “I think I need to jump into the water. Care to join me?”

Before you could respond, he was up and diving into the sea, creating a splash that sent Piñon barking in excitement. You laughed, shaking your head, and stood up, preparing to join him. The water was refreshing as you leaped off the side of the yacht, the coolness enveloping you like a soft embrace.

“Race you to the buoy!” Carlos called out, his competitive spirit shining through as he swam with powerful strokes.

“Loser buys dinner!” you shouted back, pushing yourself to swim faster, your arms cutting through the water with determination. You could hear Piñon barking from the yacht, encouraging you both with his excitement.

As you reached the buoy, breathless but exhilarated, Carlos caught up beside you, panting lightly. He flashed you a victorious smile, his hair slicked back and glistening. “I always win, mi amor.”

“Only because you cheat!” you retorted, splashing him playfully. The sunlight danced around you, and you felt a deep sense of contentment, knowing these moments were rare and precious.

He pulled you close, the water lapping around you as he looked into your eyes. “And what’s the prize for winning, then?” His voice was low, teasing yet filled with sincerity.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “I’ll have to think of something… How about a kiss?”

Carlos chuckled, leaning in to meet you halfway, his lips brushing against yours. The world around you faded, leaving only the two of you and the water. It was a moment suspended in time, and you could feel the warmth radiating between you.

“Much better than any prize,” he murmured, pulling away slightly, his eyes still locked on yours.

With Piñon now swimming beside you, you both made your way back to the yacht. You climbed aboard first, shaking off droplets of water while Carlos followed suit, his grin widening as he ruffled Piñon’s fur.

“Let’s dry off and grab some snacks,” you suggested, settling down on the cushions again, where a spread of fresh fruits and pastries awaited.

“Only if you promise not to throw any more lemonade at me,” he replied, laughter ringing in his voice as he grabbed a slice of watermelon.

“Fine, but only if you promise to give me a back massage later,” you countered, leaning back against the cushions, allowing the sun to warm your skin.

“Deal,” he said, lying down next to you. “But you have to admit, I’m the best at massages.”

You chuckled, watching him with affection. “Fine, you’re the best, but don’t let it get to your head.”

With the sun setting on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you both enjoyed the serenity of the moment, the laughter, the simple joy of being together. This was your escape from the chaos of life—just you, Carlos, and Piñon, drifting away into a perfect day.

The evening was calm, the city lights twinkling outside your apartment as you sat at the dining table, law books sprawled in front of you. The pressure of the upcoming bar exam loomed over you, but Carlos’s presence was a comforting balm. He lounged on the couch, scrolling through his phone, but you could feel his eyes occasionally darting in your direction.

“Have you even looked at the notes I gave you so you can ask me?” you teased, glancing up from your book, trying to suppress a smile.

“Of course I have! Just checking on some updates,” he replied nonchalantly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

“Uh-huh. I bet you’re just looking at race highlights again,” you said, shaking your head. “You know, studying takes more than just looking at your phone.”

He laughed, rising from the couch and striding over to you, leaning over your shoulder to look at your notes. “I could help you study, you know. Just think of all the legal terms I could teach you about contracts.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress a grin. “What do you even know about law? Besides, contracts aren’t your strong suit, Carlos.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know I’ve signed quite a few!” he protested, crossing his arms playfully.

Just then, your phone buzzed with a notification, drawing your attention away. As you reached for it, Carlos leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “You know, I think it’s time we take a break from all this serious stuff,” he murmured.

“What do you suggest?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, suddenly aware of the tension in the air.

He smirked, tilting his head as he studied you. “How about a little kiss?”

You were taken aback but intrigued. “Now? Here?”

Carlos’s expression turned serious as he leaned closer, his lips almost touching yours. “Why not? No one’s here to see us.”

With a rush of excitement and mischief, you closed the distance, your lips meeting his. The kiss was soft and sweet, filled with the warmth of your affection. You felt his hands slip around your waist, drawing you closer as the world outside faded away.

But just as you deepened the kiss, the door swung open, and there stood Lando Norris, eyes wide in shock. “Whoa! Sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt!” he exclaimed, turning around quickly, his cheeks flushed.

You pulled away from Carlos, both of you caught off guard, laughter bubbling from your lips at the absurdity of the situation. “Uh, hey Lando! What brings you here?” you stammered, a mix of embarrassment and amusement coursing through you.

“I just came to drop off some papers! But, uh, I’ll just… let myself out,” Lando said, his voice a mixture of surprise and a hint of teasing. “You two can… carry o– What the actual fuck?!” Lando exclaimed the moment he realized that it was Carlos.

“Landito, calm down!” You stopped him.

“He is fucking devouring your lips, and don't even remind me on what I saw.” You rolled your eyes and Lando groaned.

“Wait till your brother hears about this!”

As he hurriedly retreated, you and Carlos exchanged wide-eyed glances, laughter spilling out again. “Well, that’s one way to make our relationship public,” you said, trying to catch your breath.

Carlos shook his head, still chuckling. “I can’t believe he just walked in on us like that. Do you think he’ll tell everyone?”

You shrugged, a playful smile on your lips. “Let him. I mean, it’s not like we were hiding it, right?”

“No, but I hate to hide you!” Carlos said, his tone suddenly serious, his eyes searching yours. “I want everyone to know how much you mean to me.”

Your heart swelled at his words, the sincerity evident in his gaze. “Then maybe we should just embrace it. If Lando saw, others will too.”

Carlos grinned, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “Then we’ll just have to give them something to talk about. Starting with this.”

He leaned in again, capturing your lips in another kiss, this one more fervent, filled with the promise of what was to come. As you kissed, the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you—tangled in passion, laughter, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

The day of your graduation was filled with excitement, anticipation, and a hint of nervousness. You adjusted your cap and gown, glancing in the mirror, a sense of pride swelling within you. You had worked tirelessly for this moment, and now it was finally here.

As you stepped out of your apartment, you spotted Carlos waiting outside, looking dashing in a tailored suit. His eyes lit up the moment he saw you, a wide smile spreading across his face. “You look incredible, mi amor!” he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground in a joyous embrace.

“Thanks! I can’t believe this day is finally here,” you said, feeling giddy as you returned his embrace.

“You’ve earned every bit of this moment. I’m so proud of you,” he said softly, his expression serious now. You could feel the weight of his admiration, and it filled your heart with warmth.

As you made your way to the venue, Carlos held your hand tightly, navigating through the bustling crowd of fellow graduates and their families. The atmosphere was electric with laughter and excitement, each moment a reminder of the journey you had taken.

When you finally entered the auditorium, your breath caught in your throat at the sight of your classmates and their families gathered, a sea of proud faces and cheerful chatter. You took your seat, Carlos sitting with the crowds, his presence grounding you amidst the chaos.

After what felt like an eternity, the ceremony began. As names were called, you felt the tension build, each announcement bringing you closer to your moment. And then, finally, it was your turn.

You stood up, your heart racing, and walked across the stage. The applause from the audience was deafening, but all you could focus on was the bright smile on Carlos’s face, his pride palpable. As you received your diploma, the moment felt surreal, a culmination of years of hard work and perseverance.

After the ceremony, you and Carlos stepped outside, the sun shining brightly as friends and family gathered around to celebrate. You were bombarded with hugs, congratulations, and well wishes, but amidst it all, you felt a sense of calm as Carlos slipped his arm around your waist.

“Can you believe it?” he asked, a hint of awe in his voice.

“Not at all. It feels like a dream,” you replied, your heart swelling with happiness.

As the celebrations continued, Carlos pulled you aside, leading you to a quieter corner. “I want to say something,” he began, his tone serious once more. “I know we’ve had our moments—hiding, sneaking around—but I don’t want to do that anymore. Not with you.”

You looked up at him, your heart racing. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I want to make this official. I want the world to know that you’re mine,” he declared, his eyes unwavering. “I want everyone to see how proud I am of you and how much I love you.”

Tears brimmed in your eyes at his declaration, the weight of his words crashing over you like a wave. “Carlos… I want that too,” you whispered, feeling overwhelmed with emotion.

“Then let’s make it happen. Starting right now,” he said, taking your hands in his and raising them between you, a silent promise of your commitment.

With that, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss that spoke volumes of your love and dedication. The world around you faded once more, the laughter and music becoming a distant echo as you lost yourselves in each other.

When you finally pulled away, the cheers from your friends and family surrounded you, but you barely registered them. You were in your own bubble, a cocoon of happiness and love, finally ready to embrace what you both had—openly, wholeheartedly.

As you stood together, hand in hand, the sun setting behind you, you knew this was just the beginning of a beautiful journey, one where you would no longer hide but shine together, side by side.

carlossainz55

Liked by whoomandiaries, landonorris, maxverstappen1 and others.

carlossainz55 so this is what it feels like to date your best friend's best friend for seven years. Mi amor, whoomandiaries, I love you so much 🫶🏻

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[merakiui]

his blueberry eyes (anagapesis in paradise).

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, death/murder of reader, obsession, codependency, emotional manipulation, psychological abuse, mentions of self-harm/suicide attempt, brief mention of pregnancy + loss of baby, vague mentions of binge-eating/disordered eating, angst, characters written as 18+ note - the color blue haunts azul. // loosely based on clingy, codependent bf azul.

the prelude - forever lost in cerulean paradise.

Azul Ashengrotto, a man forever bound in burdensome blue, surfaces from the numbing sweetness of an all-consuming slumber and finds the tops of his hands are littered with deep, dark, desperate scratches. They’re furious and distinct, standing out like pearly teeth on black tile, spotting his pale, paper-thin skin like a child’s poor attempt at proper handwriting. Carefully, he runs a trembling finger over the length of one as it travels from ring finger to the delicate bone of his wrist. A wet laugh bubbles out of him, ink-stained and heartbreakingly pained. He wipes tar-colored saliva from the edge of his mouth, smearing it, and shudders through another laugh. The sound wavers as if caught in his esophagus, pronounced choked and raw.

“Ah… I did it again.”

He sits back on his haunches, small and scared like the squishy thing he once was all those years ago, and inhales a steadying breath. His vision, once narrowed so scarily slim, widens to encapsulate the rest of the sitting room, which is cast in a cool glow from the crystalline cityscape beyond. He spies his haunted reflection in the glass, his hair mussed and matted. From sweat, most likely. It’s unsightly, his unkempt, ugly appearance, but it’s him staring back. 

Looking on with those bewitching blueberry eyes.

Swallowing thickly, he pushes a swoop of silver hair out of his face and whispers, “I fell asleep…again. Right. Again. That makes it—what is it now? Four times in a week? No, not quite… I fell asleep, but then I…”

His gaze slides from the windows to the floor. Lying sprawled and stiff, amidst shattered glass and crumpled, lemon-hued tulips, is the love of his life.

“Ah, I see now.” He runs two fingers over the injuries on his hand. His nose wrinkles once and then twice. His throat is set aflame, constricting like a python coiled around its prey. Blueberry eyes sink in a rising tide, overtaken by tears spotting a weary lash line. “My world… My angelfish…”

He forces himself to stand on rubbery legs. He stumbles once, reaches for the coffee table’s reliable support like a newborn grasping their mother’s outstretched finger, and peers at a shattered portrait splayed on the floor. It’s you on your wedding day, flashing a toothy grin at the camera, while he holds you close, an arm secured around your waist. Clinging to you like you were the only buoy in a rocky sea. Planting parasitic roots by way of attraction, and you were simply too blinded by the charms of shimmering, sparkling cheer to realize. So was he in that regard—struck dumb with a too-large love, unable to handle the full capacity of what it meant to fall into a sugary-sweet romance.

It’s a happy picture, one of many, but then the memories of the many elude him at this moment. He, the brilliant, benevolent actor, struggles to differentiate the real from the fake. What is a smile if not another foggy reflection of something far sadder? What is laughter if not the sounds of a hollowed sweetheart howling joyous tunes to placate?

His fingers curl around the wooden table. It’s too familiar and, as if having touched something hot, he jerks away. Azul turns his hands over, searching for imperfections he’s already found. Slowly, he pivots to confront the body.

“My darling angelfish, please wake up. It’s not… It’s not very nice of you to play pretend. We’ve been over this.” He shakes his head and steps around the overturned vase and puddle of flower-spotted water. He lowers to your height, offering a hand you don’t take. “Please, my love. I’m sorry for scaring you. I won’t do it again. I… I’m getting better, you see. I’m doing it for us. I want to get better. I promised I would, didn’t I? Aren’t I a man of my word?”

You remain there, eyes shut in blissful permanence. Azul sucks in a breath through grit teeth. You’re always so…difficult. Sometimes. Not always. And even when you act like this, he still cherishes you. But fighting is not something he loves, and he wants this feud to end sooner rather than later.

Azul Ashengrotto hates the sharp, bitter sides to his marriage.

“I can be patient,” he says, though it’s more of a consolation than a promise. “I’ll be patient. But, really, being vindictive will get you nowhere, my dear. Haven’t we been over this?”

Still, no matter what he says, you don’t stir.

He allows silence to fill the room to a suffocating degree.

One minute passes. Then two. He drums his fingers along a newly forming bruise on his arm.

Now it’s three.

Four.

Five.

It’s too quiet without your pretty voice filling the empty room, filling the hollow in his heart, filling the gaps in his brain to snuff any other self-destructive thoughts from pushing through.

“I love you,” he whispers, less forceful this time. “And… And I’m sorry. Truly, I mean it. I’ll never put my hands on you again. Never. And I’ll go back to therapy. I won’t skip my sessions. I’ll even take my meds!” A crooked smile stretches across his lips. “I promise. I won’t lie to you. I’ll leave the cooking to you. I won’t touch sharp objects. I’ll stop hiding knives from you. I’ll be honest from now on. So please…” His voice cracks, weak and raspy. “P-Please… Please don’t ignore me…”

Azul reaches out to you, fitting his trembling hand in yours. It’s cold. He brings it to his face, kisses the top of it, and then cradles it close. His shoulders shake, wracked with silent sobs.

It’s cold.

His breath hitches.

You’re cold.

“Angelfish, please…” He sniffles. The tears are already falling in thick, salty rivulets. He’s always been an ugly crier. “Please don’t leave me. Without you I…”

His untrimmed nails dig into your palm, and a great sob shudders through his body when he presses his thumb into your wrist to check your pulse.

It’s stopped.

He scrubs his face with his free hand. A fruitless effort. The tears won’t cease.

Without you, I’m nothing.

He gathers you, stiff, cold you, in his arms and holds you like you’re a treasured childhood plushy who’s lost its stuffing. His reflection blinks back at him, blueberry eyes awash in watery tragedy.

Without you, I’m all alone.

He spies the markings on your neck and his throat closes up. He grabs your face between both hands, searching it for any indication of life. A lie, surely. You’re just pretending. You’ve always done that, putting on acts to keep him and everyone else pleased. You, the best actor, knew him better than he knows himself. Because, in spite of the loose, fraying seams, you took them, poured remnants of your heart into each tear, and stitched them up until they were better again. You’ve sewn him anew when he thought all hope was lost.

So it’s impossible. A lie, definitely.

You’re a pretender, and he’s the captivated audience member. Soon you’ll open your beautiful eyes and shout, “I got you! You should have seen the look on your face!” And the cycle will repeat itself. He’ll pretend to be okay and you’ll follow along with a sweet smile, chopping vegetables with the same knife he used to threaten his own life days prior.

You can’t fool him.

Only you do. And you have.

He peels your eyelids open. Your listless stare pierces something in his brain, wires the circuitry correctly so that Point A and Point B can connect.

With a horrified gasp, Azul drops your limp corpse. Your head smacks against the floorboards, but you don’t groan in pain. Because there isn’t any pain to be felt. Because you’re not going to wake up. Because this is the final act and the curtain has closed on your skillful pretending.

Azul Ashengrotto, a man forever bound in burdensome blue, has lost the very person who once made him feel so whole.

the first vow - to have and to hold.

“We should make a baby.”

In the first month of being newlyweds, you’d told him that. He leaned over to nudge you with his hip while you painted swirling designs on a blank kitchen wall. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not opposed to it.”

You pulled away from your canvas and grinned. “Neither am I.”

“Sooo,” he encouraged, nodding, unable to curb the glee in his curling smile. “What? Should we make one?”

“Can we?”

“This conversation feels rather circular, my dear.”

“You’re circular.” You stuck your tongue out at him and dipped your brush in a bright blue. “I’m gonna paint an entire field of cornflowers on this wall.”

Azul hesitated at the sudden change in subject, considered the meaning of a cornflower, and snorted in amusement. He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. “If you want a baby, just say so and I’ll give you one.” He nosed your neck, humming into your skin. Sneaky hands slipped under your loose cotton T-shirt to cradle your stomach. “I once read a statistic that claimed marriage improves the outcome of a pregnancy. Shall we see if it’s true?”

You rested your free hand over his. “If you help me paint.”

“You know I’m no good at art.”

“Anyone can be an artist.”

“Angelfish—”

You shifted in his arms and held up a clean paintbrush. “Anyone, Zul. That includes you.”

He stared at the brush, frowning. “I’m nowhere near as good as you.”

“I’ll have none of that talk.” You rested your head against his chest and peered up at him through your lashes. A pleasant smile softened your face. “I don’t want this wall to be my masterpiece. I want it to be ours.”

“Yes… Yes, I’m aware. But even so—”

“The best things come in two, don’t they? Come on. You won’t know if you’ll enjoy something until you’ve tried it.”

“But I have, dear.”

“Not with me you haven’t.”

Azul laugh-scoffed. “Stubborn,” he chided, pinching your side and shaking his head in disbelief. One hand slid out from beneath your shirt to grasp the brush. “I suppose I can try. An entire field of cornflowers won’t paint itself now, will it?” He winked.

“That’s the spirit! I think blue suits this room, don’t you?”

“I’m struggling to see your vision, darling.”

“It’s a nice color. One of my favorites. And…” You turned in his arms to press your lips to his cheek. “Blue is you.”

He was smiling; he could feel it—the tug of toothy jubilance. “Is that right?”

“It is! I thought that the moment we met. If it weren’t for your pretty eyes, I don’t think I’d have approached you.”

“Ah, right. You thought they were rather lovely, didn’t you?” His hold on you tightened as he recalled the memory. “How did you say it? ‘Sir, I just had to come up to you to compliment your eyes! They’re the nicest shade of bewitching blueberry blue I’ve ever seen.’ You said it like that, yes? And it was the first time I’d ever heard such a strangely specific compliment. Normally, most go for the outfit or the hair.”

“But you liked it, didn’t you?” you say, singing the question like a pansophical siren.

“I did. I…really did. I still do, in fact.”

Your body shook with your laughter. “Then it’s not so strange after all.”

“Not in the slightest.”

His fingers brushed your navel, a fleeting touch that turned giggles into shivers. You put your brush to the wall, but no designs bloomed. He did much the same, meeting your brush halfway, bristles dipped in friendly yellow. Only after he’d marred the wall with it did he realize his error.

You always ruin everything, he thought, resenting his clumsy ways. Everything you’ve ever touched, you ruin.

“Ooh, yellow and blue. That’s pretty. Like sunflowers and cornflowers!”

“But I… Your blue—I completely tarnished it.” He couldn’t help it; the words rushed out.

“What? No way! I like it.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, it’s true. It adds something to the blue. Makes it come together, you know?”

Azul stared at the wall, his face scrunched with poorly veiled vitriol. “I fail to see how that logic tracks.”

You gathered both brushes and set them down on the countertop before turning fully in his arms. “Hey, it’s okay. We can paint over it if you want. But… Well, personally, I think we should keep it.”

“Why?” It came out hushed, a broken murmur.

“Because it’s like happiness amidst sadness.” Like the angel you’ve always been, you reached up to cradle his face between your warm, gentle hands. He melted in your hold, weak to the ways in which you often lifted him up. “Too much of anything in abnormal amounts is unhealthy, so we need happiness to balance the sadness. Plus, if this room was solely blue, I might go crazy.”

He wanted to reject your explanation, gripe and groan about how it was much too fluffy and foolish, but you were right. You have always been right with emotions, reading him well enough to pick apart his tells.

It’s your lips on his that brought him back to himself. He blinked when you separated.

“You’re not perfect. No one is. Not even me, and this wall definitely isn’t going to be perfect either. But it’ll be special because we made it. Because it’s a unique combination of us.”

Azul felt himself nodding along.

“So don’t worry. Sometimes mishaps like these are for the best. They help put things into perspective—to show us something we might not have seen before.”

“Like painting a new picture.”

“Exactly!” You squeezed his hand. “So no pity parties, got it? Not unless we’re going to throw one together and have snacks and tea.”

He exhaled shakily, reciprocating your affectionate touch. “Thank you, my love.”

You smiled so beautifully that he was compelled to enshroud you entirely and keep you with him in a cage of limbs. To ensure you’d never leave. To keep you backdropped by a work-in-progress wall forever.

And for the first two years of your new life with him, you remained in that cozy, quaint house, adding details to the wall when you could. The kitchen shaped itself nicely, embroidered in an array of blue hues, accompanied by sunny yellows and frilly whites. Every morning, you’d stand at the counter and cook, ever the early riser, and he’d drag himself in just after the sun had peaked in the sky; and together you would eat in front of that wall, tied together by the bright, beautiful wonders of young love.

Sometimes it was the yummy temptations of good food that brought you together. Other times it was each other, bodies pressed flush. Clothes wrinkling and coming off in heaps. Windows left open in the aftermath to bring in sweet spring breezes. Gathering each other and sitting in the bath, giggling about something silly. More kissing and touching; playful squeezing while washing the other. If Azul’s life had been a tragedy before, then this was certainly something far better. A new chapter in a new book with crisp, unturned pages, each one ripe and ready to receive love in loads.

You fell pregnant just as the changing winds ushered summer in, and suddenly that storybook blossomed considerably, pages stained with all things good. He had pinched himself before just to ensure this wasn’t a delusion or a dream, and finding that it was neither proved that there was indeed tenderness in his world. It was destiny that you two would meet by pure chance, fall for the other’s quirks and charms, and agree to a whirlwind marriage, so swept up in the authenticity of redamancy.

Azul thought his life couldn’t get any sweeter. A perfect wife, a perfect job, a perfect house, a perfect paradise built for two. It was a future he’d only ever fantasized about, an illusion he imagined to be forever out of his reach. But he had attained it, miraculously grasped it with both hands, and from here it would only be days and days of wonder and whimsy.

Thirty-one weeks into a perfect, pretty pregnancy, you fell again. Down the stairs, crumpled in a heap of limbs and broken promises. He stood at the top of the stairs, his chest heaving with the remnants of some animalistic emotion. You shattered like porcelain, a marionette cut free from her strings. The baby fell with you.

Then came the darkness: creeping, encroaching, all-consuming.

Then came the lies.

Then came the obsession with omniscience.

And all throughout it, you’d continue to imprison yourself in his eyes.

the second vow - to love and to cherish.

“You shouldn’t work so much.”

By the fourth year, he had told you that.

You looked up from your plate, which you’d spent most of dinner pushing the food around rather than actually eating. Meals carried out in this fashion, a cyclical routine you dreaded. Ever since he’d purchased a penthouse suite and moved you to the city, abandoning the life you had built in the tiny, two-story house with its friendly neighborhood of faces, your world became the sky: sad and cloudy. Always rainy. It was empty up there, and the luxuries he provided did nothing to fill the holes in your shattering heart.

You couldn’t paint any walls here, for they had already been colored in boring monochromes.

“But I like the coffee shop. Everyone’s really nice to me, and the hours are reasonable. I’m paid well, too.”

“It’s minimum wage, (Name).”

“Still…”

“I make enough to support the both of us.”

And it was true. He’d just opened the first branch of the Mostro franchise, an elegant, high-end eatery stuck right in the heart of the city. Money has never been an issue, not when he was so determined to see each of his dreams through to the very end. You were dragged along through the wild currents of those ambitions. Simple luxuries were no longer sleeping in on weekends or watching the sun rise and set in the garden. Now it was extreme excess and opulence, devouring you with designer brands.

“I’d rather not be home all day. It’s lonely.”

“Jade or Floyd can provide company should you need it.”

You stared at him, your mouth agape. “I don’t need babysitters. I’m an adult, Azul.”

“They wouldn’t babysit—” He sighed, shook his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re welcome to accompany me to the office instead.”

“But I like my job. I like talking to customers and taking orders and making drinks. If I quit, I wouldn’t have anything else.”

“That’s not true. You’d have me.”

“The regulars would miss me. So would my coworkers.”

“Darling… Angelfish, I don’t quite care for them and I don’t think they care for you either. At the end of the day, all of you are working a dead-end job, putting up with nonsense from rude, impatient customers who never bother to tip despite having full pockets. You’re not working.” Azul smiled, his blueberry eyes ripe with a strange sort of light. “You’re surviving, and that’s not a quality of life you should shackle yourself to.”

You pushed food around on your plate, unconvinced. “I just don’t feel right about lazing around and doing nothing. It’s not very fair if you’re the one doing everything while I just sit back and reap the benefits.”

“Why not? I hardly mind. Besides, I enjoy spoiling you. You deserve this and so much more.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “If I could, I’d package the world in a little box and give it to you, my dear.”

“We had that once and you broke it.”

His body stiffened, eyes flicking to your mouth. He couldn’t meet your eyes. He’s never been able to—not since that day. Neither of you can figure out whether it was intentional or an accident, or maybe it was something more: an intentional accident.

“P-Pardon?”

“I had the world and you broke it.” You set your fork and knife on your plate, perfectly vertical in accordance with proper etiquette. “Back at the old house.”

“Darling, you know we couldn’t stay… We were due for a change of scenery.”

Furiously, you opened your mouth, tears springing forth, but no words came. Instead, you clamped your jaw and stood from your chair, turning away from the table in a hurry.

“(Name), sweetheart, please wait!” He stood as well, nearly stumbling over himself as he moved to intercept you. “My love, you know I never meant for that to happen. If I could, I’d go back and I’d fix everything so that we’d never have to experience such sorrow again.”

He reached for your hands, but you slapped them away and took a grand step back. “You knew we were at the top of the stairs. You knew, Azul. You knew it was wrong because you moved me away so no one could question it!”

His face contorted with offense, nose scrunching as if he had just smelled something foul. “I did not.”

“You did! You pushed me down those stairs and you watched me. Watched me cry and groan because it hurt and the baby was hurt. You watched and you waited because you knew.”

“I did not!” he said, louder this time, his face blue with rising frustration. “I was in shock, (Name). You can’t possibly expect me to jump into action when I was frozen stiff and horrified. And it was an accident. We’ve been over this before. I’ve apologized numerous times.”

“Sorry, but words aren’t gonna fix anything. See? I’ve said it and nothing’s changed. It’s not words that fix broken things, Azul. It’s action.”

You stomped out of the room in a huff, blinded with tears and rage. You weren’t sure if you were more frustrated with the circumstances or Azul himself, but it might have been the latter when he pursued, insistent like the worst kind of thorn. One that’s wedged itself so deep you couldn’t possibly pluck it free with your fingertips.

You’re not sure tweezers would work either, for the hold he has on you was and still is a nasty vise.

“I… (Name), love, darling, I’ll do better. I’m trying.”

Though he made these claims, he expressed them rather pathetically—his arms outstretched, palms up, as if to show you he was no longer a threat to your mental and physical well-being. His face was in poor shape; he was blue all over, flushed from the rush of emotions, his eyes much too small. He looked almost deranged in a desperate, animalistic way. As if someone was cutting him into meticulous slivers with a precision so painful it would leave him to bleed out for hours.

You inhaled a deep, shaky breath, freezing the red-hot anger for a moment. I have to be the bigger, better person. Fighting isn’t going to accomplish anything.

“Look, if you want to make a conscious effort to be better I’m all here for it. But you have to actually try, Azul.”

“I am—I… I will!”

“I’m serious.”

“As am I.”

“Then please let me do things for myself. Marriage is about fairness. It’s you and me. We have to work together. And if that’s you supporting us with your business and me working part-time for extra cash, then let it be that way. That’s togetherness, not forcing the twins to babysit me like I’m senile or convincing me to quit a job I enjoy doing. Money shouldn’t matter if we’re both making it and we both trust each other to be responsible about it. So, while I appreciate surprise purchases, I’d much rather we do things together like before. That’s more meaningful and priceless to me than materialistic ploys meant to win me over.”

He swallowed thickly. Blue bled into the rest of his scleras. You watched him gradually inflate with relief. “I… I understand. I’m sorry. Truly, I am…”

“Stop telling me that. Show me. Please. And mean it.” You held your hands out. Hesitating, he fidgeted on his feet before gingerly placing his palms in yours. They were ice-cold. “Every relationship has its faults. Ours is no different. I’m forgiving you for the past, but I’m not going to forget and I’m not giving you a free pass either. I want to trust you, Zul, and I want you to trust me.”

“I do…” he began, only to curb himself. “I… Well, you know I worry. I know you have good friends, but when you’re out so late… O-Or when you don’t text me back… I’m always worrying.”

“Don’t.” You smiled and squeezed his hands. “I can take care of myself.”

His face darkened at that, a slew of stormy emotions brewing behind blue eyes. “Still.”

“I don’t worry about you when you’re at work or flying out for business trips. I trust that you’ll be okay because you know what you’re doing.”

“That’s different… That’s—”

“I’m happy that you care so much, but I promise I’m always safe when I’m out. You know this.”

“Yes. But… Well…” He sighed and shook his head. “At the very least, please let one of the twins drive you to and from your destinations.”

You fixed your lips into a moue. “Azul.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, groaning softly. “Yes, I know how that sounds. I know.”

“I’m not asking you to change overnight. No one can. It takes time. Everything does. I understand that you worry, but I’ve proven to you more than once that I’m plenty capable on my own.”

“All right.” His eyes flicked open at that, and without warning he tugged you into his chest. The embrace was constrictive with an alarming tightness that seemed to mean: I can’t lose you, so I’ll never let go. He buried his face in your hair, clinging to you out of sheer need. “All right. From now on, let’s be together.”

You nodded, slow to reciprocate. “No more gloomy dinners?”

He shook with awkward laughter. “No more gloomy dinners.”

You thought you had it under control. You thought you could reel him in and sculpt him from the shards—take all of the hateful, broken parts he harbored and glue them whole. You thought it’d be safer to organize his medication with encouraging notes each morning in hopes that he wouldn’t neglect it. You thought you’d ease into discussions with a gentle approach, if only to avoid stoking the flames of something monstrous. If only to ensure neither of you would scream at each other until your voices were spent.

You thought you were making progress when he showed you all of the secret spaces in the penthouse, admitting to squirreling things away out of weakness, out of greed, out of some tangle of complicated feelings. The majority of his stash was comfort foods, each one more unhealthy than the last, accompanied with a tiny notebook he’d used to scribble calorie counts. The pages were brittle and stained when you flipped through them; he had been crying each time he documented the amounts. Pieces were beginning to fit themselves together. On days when he surpassed his recommended calorie intake, he hardly indulged in dinner, preferring to pick at his plate. Instead, he would feast on empty conversations with you and those would be enough to sustain him.

Throughout all of this, Azul kept his gaze firmly glued to the floor and tore at the skin near his nails. The tips of his ears were flushed blue with humiliation.

“I hate eating,” he muttered, tapping his foot in quick, anxious rhythms. “I hate it so much.”

“Azul,” you said, soft like linen, “do you really mean that?”

His eyes found yours, glossy and defeated. “I… I…” He shook his head, the truth spilling free like paint dripping from a slain canvas. His arms, trembling and twitching, rose to his face. “No, I don’t,” he wailed into his hands, the sound echoing in the hall. “I really, really don’t.”

You shut the diary. It’s because you love food so much that you hate it, you thought, pitying him and the self-deprecating notes he’d scribbled alongside columns of calculations. Because when you eat, you don’t want to stop. Because if you aren’t thinking about numbers, you enjoy it. It makes you happy. And you restrict yourself and this happiness because it hurts to have any more than the bare minimum. Because the bare minimum also hurts, but it feels better when you have less in your stomach so you can eat the rest in secret.

“Let’s start small,” you offered, placing your hand on his arm. He lowered it to reveal a snotty, teary face, blueberry eyes darting to and fro. “Let’s plan our meals together. If we know what we’re eating in advance, we can avoid falling into bad habits. And meal plans are a good way to budget.”

Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he sniffled. “I’m…not opposed to the idea.”

You had it under control.

But then the knives would go missing, later turning up when it was most convenient. When he needed a clever way to get you to stay.

You had it under control.

But then you would forsake plans with friends and family in order to help him through another spiral.

You had it under control.

But then it felt like he was breaking himself into pieces nearly every day, at every hour, over the smallest of inconveniences. Working a minute too late. Eating dinner before he could get home to join you at the table. Going out on your own without supervision from Jade or Floyd.

You had it under control.

But then his shadow was stretching too far and too wide, swallowing you in a portrait of possession.

You had it under control.

But then that was at the cost of your sanity.

the third vow - till death do us part.

“Hypothetically speaking, if I were to die tomorrow, would you grieve me forever? Or would you simply get over it and remarry?”

By the sixth year, just a few hours ago, he’d asked you that.

You looked up at him from the notebook in your lap, where you’d been aimlessly scribbling in circles. The lines overlapped, ink blotting together in manic patterns. Originally, you were going to write a grocery list. But now all you had were jagged lines and not-quite-right geometry.

As if you had rehearsed it prior, you answered smoothly, albeit with an edge to your voice, “But you’re not going to die tomorrow.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

Azul slumped back against the sofa and pulled his knees into his chest. “Maybe not. I have a clean bill of health.”

Not mentally, you thought, morbidly wry.

“You shouldn’t sound so disappointed. It’s good to be healthy.”

“You won’t care for me as much if I’m healthy,” he mumbled, gazing out the window at the sparkling cityscape with those dull, dreary blueberry eyes of his. “I wish I was sick. Then I could take a week off from work and just…exist.”

You frowned at him from where you sat opposite in a comfortable chair. It was the only piece of furniture he took from the old house. For sentimental reasons, of course. Sometimes you thought it still smelled like home, even if the scent of home was so warped and far-off now.

“You’re the boss, aren’t you? If you need to rest, take some time off and recuperate.”

“I want to, but my schedule can’t afford any interruptions. Not now.”

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

“I’m not.”

The conversation flatlined, only to soon breathe again when he suddenly added, “We should go on a trip.”

“A trip?”

“New scenery would do us a world of good.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Where should we go?”

“Anywhere.”

“Anywhere is too broad. Plus, we’d have to plan it in advance. Make sure everything’s covered. Expenses and whatnot.”

Azul’s expression soured. “Ah. Right.” He hummed his contemplation, drumming his fingers along the sofa’s armrest. “We could go somewhere nearby. Hospital food sounds good.”

You speared him with a sharp, stern look. “Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not!”

You set your notebook and pen on the coffee table, aware of his powdery hues tracking your every move. “Azul?”

“Mhm?”

Your heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Relentless, the sound skyrocketed into your eardrums and joined in chorus with rushing blood. But you had to tell him. You had to broach this subject. It had been gathering dust and cobwebs, aged by many tiresome years. You couldn’t do this anymore.

“Azul, I think—” You swallowed hard, your fingers curling up into tight fists. “I think we… I think we should get a divorce.”

His head snapped up from where it had previously rested on his knees. He stared at you for a long, silent time.

And then, sucking in a breath, he asked in a fragile, breathless whisper: “What?”

“Um… I… We…” Your chest heaved with your exhalation. “We’re not happy.”

“We are.” He blinked at you, owlish and unwilling to look past the gilded lie. Unable to stop playing pretend. “We’ve always been.”

“No… No, we haven’t. Azul, it’s—really, it’s so exhausting. I’m so tired.”

“Then let’s sleep.” He lowered his feet onto the floor, intending to stand.

“Mentally, Azul. I… Fuck, I’m so tired. I really can’t do this anymore.”

Color seeped from his eyes. His pupils widened and shrunk, and then a wobbly smile overtook his gaunt features. “Angelfish, that’s not a very pleasant joke…”

You could only offer him your most forlorn look, finally defeated after six years. Six years of pushing a stone up a hill, never to advance and never to succeed. This conversation was well overdue.

Azul rose to his feet, his apparent horror dawning. It molded his features into something wrong and fearsome. Something panicked and cornered. “Darling, you’re not serious about this, right? You… We’re just going through a bit of a rough patch, but we’re okay. I’m okay. Yesterday’s session went so well. I’m getting better. I… I’ve done all of this for you—for us! So we don’t need to do anything rash. We don’t need to get divorced. We just need to—”

“You’re not okay. Azul, I’ve tried so hard. I really have. I’ve done everything, but I just can’t keep exhausting the same tricks.” You heaved a dry, tearless sob. “I can’t keep doing this anymore. I want to go back to work, but I can’t because I never know if you’ll be okay on your own. I want to trust you, but I can’t. We’re not communicating. We’re just—we’re playing the same delusional game and it’s getting us nowhere. You and I both know we’re not working. We stopped working the day you pushed me down those stairs.”

He froze, his lip quivering. “Darling, please… Please don’t say that. You don’t mean that.”

“I want you to get better—genuinely get better—but I’m not the help you need.”

“That’s not true. You’re all I need—all I’ve ever needed. With you here, I’m whole. I’m happy. What was it you told me? That marriage is togetherness? That it’s you and me? So as long as we’re together—no matter what may come between us—we’ll always be happy. We have our disagreements, yes, but every relationship is like that. It’s normal, my dear. So please don’t say those things. I am better, and I’ll continue to be better until my final breath.”

“Azul, you’re not listening.” Now you were standing from your chair. “Togetherness is not this. This—” you gestured to yourself, to the way your clothes hung from your body, a size too large, before pointing at him— “isn’t healthy. We’re not healthy. Every day I’m with you is hell. I need a break as much as you do. We can’t keep doing this. Let’s save ourselves the insanity and misery, and let’s be sensible adults. A divorce is the only—”

“You’re wrong.”

The rest of your tirade stuck in your throat. “W-What?”

“Divorce is an expensive, lengthy process.” Azul stepped around the coffee table, his stare blank and haunted. Twin pools of the darkest ocean bored into your skull. “I can easily afford it, but it’s a price I’m not willing to pay.”

Despite what little confidence you had before, it’s all but diminished now. You shrunk away from him. “A-Azul, calm down. You… You’re scaring me.”

“Well, that’s nothing new now, is it?”

“Azul—”

“You want sensible adults? Very well. Let’s have an actual discussion instead of picking each other apart like this.” He peered down at you from where he stood, his head angled in such a way that his acknowledgement of you appeared contemptuous. “So sit back down in your chair and talk like a sensible, mature adult.”

Opening your mouth, you intended to respond. But the words wouldn’t come. They were lodged in your throat, coagulating with raw, rich fear.

“Well? I’m waiting.”

I can’t say anything, you thought, your body petrifying with every passing second. I’m scared…

“If you put just a little more thought into your brainless idea, you’ll find it’s quite…lacking. Divorce ruins our togetherness, splits us apart and condemns us to two different worlds. And if I’m no longer able to cross into your world—if you forbid it and leave my world—I’ll truly die. I refuse to let that happen. So, no, darling, we won’t be getting a divorce. I won’t agree to it.”

Perhaps it was the hopelessness in your heart that forced fresh tears from your ducts, or maybe it was the final straw in your weakening defenses, but the words came bursting out in a hurry.

“I don’t care anymore! I want you to die!”

You slapped your hands over your mouth. Azul stared at you, stupefied.

“I… I want to be rid of you,” you continued, your words muffled and distraught. “I’ve always thought… Always hoped you might just disappear one day and I’d finally know peace… Please, Azul. Let’s end this. I don’t want to be stuck in this cycle. I don’t even love you anymore. I’m just…done.”

“You don’t mean that…” He made a strange sound, a hybrid between a gasp and a laugh. “Y-You’re just saying that. You still love me. You don’t actually want me gone. You love me… R-Right? Please say you do. Please, angelfish. My love… Please…”

“You’re not well, Azul. I think… I think this is for the best.” You turned away from him. “I’m going to stay in a hotel tonight. Please take some time to calm down and then we’ll talk more in the morning. I… I’m sorry. I really do want you to get help, but I can’t be around you any longer than I already have. It’s draining. You’re draining.”

You took one step further and something inside him splintered.

His power was cut, a line between consciousness and reality severed.

You did not love him. You wanted a divorce. You did not love him. You wanted a divorce.

Did not love him. Divorce. Did not love him. Divorce.

Did not love did not love did not love did not love not love not love not love.

Divorce divorce divorce divorce divorce.

Not love not love not love.

All alone.

Alone like before.

Back to the disgusting creature he once was.

You were walking away, your back turned on him.

He was going to lose his world. It was slipping through his fingers, fleeting and frail.

He couldn’t lose his world, for it’s all he’s ever had.

Azul lunged, seizing your wrist and dragging you down.

Your scream was cut short when his hands clung to your throat.

From then on, everything was a blur.

Two blueberry eyes swallowed you whole, entrapping you in cerulean paradise.

the epilogue - there will never be two without you.

“They used to call me all manner of cruel things when I was a child,” Azul admits to the desolate quiet of his penthouse suite. “I was ridiculed every day. I couldn’t even recognize myself in the mirror. Isn’t that just terrible?” He leans against the sofa and exhales slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “But then you told me I was pretty and suddenly the mirrors blinked back at me. Suddenly the world looked just a little wider and…brighter. So bright! The sea swallows so much color, my dear, and so you’ll never know just how vibrant the surface is to us merfolk.”

He deflates with a wet, wheezing laugh. “No one’s ever told me I was pretty. No one’s ever loved me. Not in the way that you did.” Sighing, he runs a hand down his face. Tears track his cheeks; his blueberry eyes exist in a field of splotchy red. “You were such an angel. To love a filthy, hideous thing like me… Only an angel could do that. Only an angel could look beyond every flaw of mine and love so gently.”

Azul lowers his arm and peers at the knife clutched tightly in his other hand. “I never deserved you. I’ve treated you so horribly. I—” He chokes on a rising sob and shakily lifts the blade to his wrist. It presses against his skin for a moment before he’s yanking it away.

“Fuck,” he spits, his voice trembling. “I… I can’t do it.”

You’re a coward, his inner critic berates. A cowardly, clumsy fool of an octopus.

Gritting his teeth, he steels himself and tries again. The blade digs deeper into his flesh, enough to draw the tiniest pinprick of blood. Pain flashes through his nerves, prey instincts firing off commands. He attempts to push past the curtain veiling his thoughts—Stop before you hurt yourself! Stop before you kill yourself!—but then he spies the blue rising to the surface, pooling under the blade, and he retreats immediately. Horrified, he discards the knife at once. It soars across the room in an imperfect arc before settling on the floor with a clatter, just inches from your body.

“Fuck,” he whispers, closing his hand around his wrist to halt the bleeding. “Fuck. Fuck!”

I really can’t bring myself to do it…

He throws his head back against the cushions, eyeing the ceiling. “I’ve done such an unforgivable thing to you and yet I… I can’t do it to myself. I just can’t.” He shuts his eyes, inhales deeply, and opens them again. “I so selfishly took your life, but I’m clinging to mine like a spineless loser.”

Azul lowers himself onto the floor, curling into a fetal position. He grips his wrist in a tighter hold. His glasses are somewhere in the room, likely cracked or worse. He can’t be bothered to seek them out.

“Did you ever believe in soulmates? Ah, what am I saying? Stupid… But I truly think we were soulmates. Perhaps not in this lifetime. But somewhere on a distant horizon…” He smiles dreamily, pressing his cheek against the cool floorboards. “I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. It’s a matter of luck and fate. Sea Witch below, I hate those odds.” Another noisy sob bubbles up in his throat. He shakes with the force of it, his throat raw and ruined. Another onslaught of tears pours from his eyes. “I was r-really happy that day you approached me. I was so happy… More… More happy than you’ll ever know. Thank you for looking at me and seeing me and opening your heart to me. I’m sorry I couldn’t cherish you more than this.”

He forces himself up onto his arms and then, as if just learning how to walk again, rises to his feet on wobbling legs to cross the slim distance to arrive at your body. Like a sinner on trial, he drops to his knees and gathers you in his arms as if you are his Madonna della Pietà.

“Without you, there is no world,” he murmurs, holding you close for a moment longer before lowering you to the floor. His tears dot your cheeks like somber rainfall. He reaches for the knife next, his mind made up. “Thank you for loving me. Sincerely. Truly. You’re the only one I’ll ever love. For that, I’m grateful. Because of you, I was able to know the taste of romance. And…” He hiccups through his bawling. “And it’s so very sweet.”

Blue blood spatters the floor, spilling from a messy gash in his abdomen. The knife is sharper than he thought.

Azul flops onto his stomach beside you, reaching out to run his fingers over your cheek. He inhales a weary breath and agony fills his lungs.

The world is dyed a brilliant, burdensome blue.

Azul Ashengrotto wakes in captivity. Bandaged, dressed in a plain gown, and cuffed to the bed, he is alive.

He moves his wrist, each of his senses filtering in at once. His other arm is turned over and pierced with an IV. Groggily, he lifts his gaze to the machines humming around him. Blue blood sits heavy in a bag, and he watches the liquid travel down, down, down through the tube. He blinks. His eyes are crusty. Has he been crying?

Assessing the handcuff once more, he turns up empty.

Why is he here?

Why does it hurt to move?

Why are there so many bandages around his stomach?

Most of all, where is his world?

What is this place?

It’s a hospital, yes, but why is he here? He has a clean bill of health.

Where is his world?

It’s when he starts actively struggling against the restraint, his breath coming in terrified huffs, that the nurses file in to tend to him. They check his vitals, run some harmless tests, ask him a few questions—it’s a lot all at once. He goes through the process as if stuck in sludge.

“My… My wife,” he croaks, unable to think of anything else. His heart tightens in his chest. “Where is she? What happened? Is she okay?”

Nervously, the nurses skirt around his questions until, eventually, he loses patience and tries to tear himself free from the bed that confines him.

“Where is she?!” he’s screaming, thrashing on the bed like he’s Frankenstein’s monster—a haunted reanimation shocked with electricity. “Answer me! Where is she?! She has to be here. Please… Please tell me she’s safe. I need to see her—need her here right now.”

They hurry out just as he curses at them.

“You can’t keep her away from me! She’s my wife—mine! If you lay a hand on her—”

A new face appears in the doorway; it’s a man dressed in striking attire. A police officer. Azul stares at him, his nostrils flaring wildly. For a short beat, they simply watch one another. Eventually, the officer nods towards a chair.

“May I?”

“What do you want?” He narrows his blueberry eyes, immediately suspicious.

“I’m here to have a chat with you. It’s about your wife. Is that okay?”

At the mention of you, Azul’s thoughts stall out. “Do you know where she is? Is… Is everything okay?”

The officer lowers into the chair and casually crosses one leg over the other. Casual in the friendly sense, Azul realizes. He really doesn’t like this man. Any longer here and he’ll start trying to build rapport.

“We’ll get there in a second. First, I’d like to introduce myself.” He goes through the motions; Azul is only half-listening, replying when it’s beneficial.

(Name). She’s safe, right? She must be. She has to be. Everything’s okay.

(Name). (Name). (Name). (Name). (Name). (Name). (Name).

Where are you? Do you realize how worried I am? Oh, this must be my fault. I did something foolish again.

I must have tried to hurt myself. Angelfish, please wait for me. I’ll be okay. You’re safe and so am I.

Safe. Yes. Right. Safe. Safe. Safe.

Safe… Right?

Right.

Right?

“Had your friends not called in, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

That brings Azul back to the world. He blinks at the officer, one eye at a time. “What?”

“You were on the verge of bleeding out.”

“Friends?” He’s slow on the uptake. “Jade and Floyd?”

The officer nods. Silence fills the space. Azul wonders when he’s going to open his mouth again.

“What about them?” he asks instead.

The officer frowns. “Do you not recall anything?”

Azul thinks long and hard about this. “I… I was having a discussion with my wife. It was something about a trip. No, not that. Um… Something…important. Something else, perhaps?” He shakes his head, unable to turn up anything useful. “I haven’t a clue. Why? Is something the matter? Where’s my wife?”

Silence is his only reply.

Somehow that tells him everything and nothing all at once.

Somehow he suspects it. His body knows. His fingers twitch with phantom spasms, curling inwards to cut off airflow. The puzzle is scrambled and the image is fuzzy, but he knows.

He knows because he’s already crying, and there’s only ever been one thing that can bring out the inner crybaby he despises so.

It’s always been you.

Azul Ashengrotto is the sole speck of blue in this white hospital room.

And he certainly feels it.

He’s right back where he began: alone and clumsy, an octopus out of water, viewing the cramped, compact, colorless world with his bewitching blueberry hues.

[shortnotsweet]

[ “PATIENCE” ]:

Give me one more sigh to the top of the mountain—baby, roll those eyes to the top of the mountain. Close your eyes, be patient, it's coming! All my dreams have been weighing me down, like an anchor to my bed.

— BAD SUNS

It’s only a second—a split second—but in that moment Jason wonders who has dreamt up Nico Di Angelo before.

It’s not strange for godly children to be granted prophetic visions, or omniscient images from a greater force not buoyed by themselves—Fate, a god, the recesses of their own trauma, what have you. But—no. Jason wonders who else has dreamt of Nico, not as a distant figure blotted out in the plotted landscape of some prospective quest, or as an omen of all things foreboding and unknown, but really dreamt. A real dream.

The Nico in front of him—for this split second, mind you, and isn’t this second stretching longer than any second before—has his face upturned to the wind, and his eyes closed to the sound below them. The city sprawl, honking and screaming and polluting the air with its babble. Jason can barely hear it now, can only observe with a sudden micro-awareness the thinness of his fingers and the delicate bones of his wrist as he extends them. The skull ring glints there, the darkness of the band cutting into the pale of his skin like a shadow cast, and Jason remembers, dumbly, Oh, yeah. Summoning the dead. There’s a lot of that in Chicago.

Jason doesn’t care about scrape of skeleton bones clawing themselves out of asphalt or the lingering of unresolved souls. Instead, it’s the feathering of Nico’s lashes against his own cheek, the downward slope of his mouth, sharp jut of his jaw belaying a quiet softness to his face that was easy to miss. For someone as unsubtle as Nico, it seems that it’s easy for a lot of people to miss crucial things such as this. By the time Jason had started noticing, he just couldn’t stop.

Nico exists, sometimes, as if he is not entirely of this world. It’s not a stretch for some godly children, a child of Death especially, but with Nico it has become increasingly more evident in the little moments, the subtle gestures. Maybe it’s Jason’s own godly genes—he can almost feel the texture of the wind against Nico’s skin as it kisses his cheek, the inhale of air—or maybe it’s just Jason. Freakishly detail oriented Jason, who stares at his ceiling at night, awake, but doesn’t dare toss and turn, who pours over blueprints and Lego models in his spare time and fixates on this kind of thing.

That’s the kind of thing Jason sees in his dreams, the image that flickers under his eyelids between memories of a life half lost to him and a visage of what comes next.

[featherandferns]

fascinating new thing : where are they now?

jj maybank x shy!kook!reader | see these inbox messages for points of inspiration: 1 2 3

word count: 2k.

read fascinating new thing | Thank you so so much for 1000 followers!!! Since starting this blog in May of 2023, I have written so many characters and storylines. I get so many lovely anon messages telling me about their favourite universes and wondering what happens next after my fics have ended. So, I thought to celebrate 1000 followers, I’d indulge. Here’s the (current) where are they now for all of my fics so far…

It’s times like these - standing on an obnoxiously over-sized stage, staring out at more people than you can count who have been screaming your name and your lyrics for the past two hours - when your life feels particularly surreal. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to the feeling of hearing your songs on the radio, or seeing someone break down in tears in the front row of your gig, or scrolling through Twitter and Instagram to find fan-edits galore. Maybe it would be the same as the anxiety, which shrunk just the smallest amount with every show.

Despite your crippling social skills, you never feared the stage. It was the only place where you felt truly comfortable in yourself. You were sure that it helped having Pansy by your side, even now. Whenever you feel yourself slipping away, you’d grapple at the microphone with one hand as if it were a buoy and you were floating helplessly in the middle of the sea, and then you’d look to Pansy. Her wildness from youth hasn't disappeared despite the years and fame. She grins at you just the same as always. Celebrates every concert and every milestone with the same fever that she did when you first played at the Wreck. 

As you neared your twenty-second birthday, you had three official albums released into the world. The latest had made the Billboard charts. Whilst the lyrics flourished, and the production improved, and the vocality developed, one thing stayed the same: JJ was almost always at the forefront of your mind. 

The fans were almost as obsessed with JJ as you. You were gobsmacked the first time you saw some ‘stalker pics’ of the two of you on a date. Whenever he’d make it to one of your shows (which he always tried to do), the fans would have eagle vision and try to spot him. Gauge his reactions and document his pride. And, boy, was he proud. He showed you off like a diamond ring; boasted about you at work and at the surf break. Brought you up in any and all conversations (at least according to the Pogues). One video in particular went viral. Some paparazzi guy had caught him in the street when he was running errands in Kildare. It still felt bizarre to have paparazzi chasing you and your loved ones down. They asked him what he thought of the songs on your latest album. In the video, JJ pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, smirking. They’re all about me, man: what’s not to like about it.  

After seeing the overwhelming positive reaction to you and your boyfriend, you’d started to acknowledge him openly at shows. It wasn’t that you hadn’t taken notice of him before. He was always there - calming you down before and grounding you after - and you always sought him out. Couldn’t settle until you knew where he was. But now, instead of a fleeting glance and a shy smile, you would point him out. Slyly giving a nod to him when announcing the next song: this one’s about a certain someone - you know who you are. The fans ate it up but more importantly, JJ loved it. 

And whilst having thousands of random strangers screaming your songs at you was an insurmountable feeling that you couldn’t ever place into words, it would never top the experience of singing your songs to JJ. He heard them first. Every single one. 

“Come on then,” JJ says, flopping beside you on the sofa. Despite all the money you’d garnered, the two of you stayed in the Cut on Kildare. You always preferred it over Figure Eight. “Let’s hear it.”

“It’s not done yet,” you tell him as you tune your acoustic guitar. 

JJ stuffs another one of your home baked cookies into his mouth with a roll of his eyes. “Like I’d care.”

You smile bashfully at that. You sometimes wondered if JJ was as happy for you as he seemed to be. The fame and money and attention on you hadn’t changed you - at least you didn’t think it had - but it had changed the world around you. That was out of your control. What people said about you, about him, about your relationship and your life together - you didn’t have any control over that. Your schedule became busy with studio sessions and meetings and practice and touring. Hell, there were already musings of doing a tour in Europe next year. You imagined it to be a lot for JJ; would be enough to build resentment in Mother Teresa. But he begged to hear your songs. Tagged along to rehearsals and snuck into the studio. Made it to as many concerts as his job allowed. 

Besides, it wasn’t like JJ was without fame. Himself and the Pogues had found El Do-freaking-rado whilst you and The Wallflowers had been gaining traction. Now he had his dream surf shop which kept him occupied. The financial stability that your combined enterprises allowed meant life was easy to enjoy. And enjoy it, you did. 

You take a tentative strum of the guitar strings, clearing your throat and mind. Glancing down to watch your fingers take placement for the first chord, you begin to play the melody. You could feel JJ’s gaze on you, steady and unwavering, and despite your long-standing relationship, it still made you feel as giddy as the first night at The Wreck. 

“We could leave the Christmas lights up ‘til January…”

You begin to sing. Hesitant at first (as if you’d never played for him before), then confident as the song went on. The lyrics which were still in the scaffolding stages were replaced with half-formed words in melodic hums. You could see JJ’s foot tapping along to the beat in your peripheral vision and it made you smile, serene and sweet, safe in the bubble the two of you had created in the two bedroomed house by the marsh. 

“Can I go where you go? Can we always be this close? Forever and ever. Take me out and take me home.”

Looking up at him, you find his smile mirrors yours. The emotion in his eyes is saved only for you. You get his wildness, his mood swings, his recklessness, his devotion and his love. You get all of him. 

“You’re my, my, my, my…Lover.”

JJ chuckles at that, clearly flustered. Again, after all these years, you can’t believe you of all people have that effect on him. You continue the song, giggling as you trip over a chord, lost in his gaze, heart thrumming happily. He plays into some lyrics, twisting the amorous moment into the most magical of lights. 

“You’ll save all your dirtiest jokes me for me.” 

JJ smiles proudly, crossing his heart as if making a promise. You manage the next line out through your laughter. 

“And at every table, I’ll save you a seat. Lover…”

You conclude the song with a final, definitive strum. JJ erupts into applause, whooping and hollering like he was at a Red Sox game or something. You laugh, bashful, and unhook your guitar from around you. 

“Best damn song you’ve ever written!”

“You say that about all the songs,” you reply, brushing off his compliment. Yes, it seems JJ’s so-called lifelong venture of getting you to accept a compliment was still underway. 

“That going on the new album?” JJ asks. He leans forward to the coffee table, passing your half-full glass of wine to you. 

You nod. “We’re working on the track-list now, actually.”

“You gonna sneak that song in there about Kiara and Pansy?”

“I think Pansy would kill me if I didn’t,” you reply back, making JJ laugh. He nods, making a face of ‘yeah, you’re probably right there’ and sips his beer.

Pansy and Kie hooking up didn’t catch anyone by surprise. It was sweet seeing them so loved up. So, you broke your tradition of writing songs purely about JJ for her. In fact, you’d been branching out more and more, writing about other people and other things. Mike and his now ex-girlfriend, and the world’s messiest break-up, were the basis to one of your best selling tracks: We Are Never Getting Back Together. The sudden rise to fame and all the prying eyes and ears that came with it was inspiration to another from the same album: Nothing New. And now Kie and Pansy, with It’s Nice to Have a Friend.  

Carefully leaning your guitar against the sofa, you place your wine down and shuffle to cuddle into JJ’s hold. His fingers leisurely stroke your hairline, teasing at your hair. No matter the money, he wore the same cologne. He’d tried fancier but after you admitted that it didn’t smell like him somehow, he went back to the old, cheap stuff. 

“I’m real proud of you, y’know?” 

“I know,” you mumble, smiling into his t-shirt. 

“And I’m always gonna be here for you, right? Through the good and the bad?”

“Yeah, I know,” you reply, a little worried as to where this was coming from. 

JJ takes in a breath. It sounds almost anxious and tense. Then, he’s shuffling around, digging for something in his back pocket, and you’re left with no choice but to move off him. Sitting back on your haunches, you watch him with furrowed brows. They knit tighter when he lowers himself onto the wooden floorboards. And then all of a sudden, in the cosy, lamp-lit living room of your shared home, you watch the literal man of your childhood dreams reveal a black velvet box. 

He swallows thickly. His fingers shake as he struggles to open the box. Looking up at you, anxiety swimming in his eyes (which were the inspiration to countless songs), JJ gives a mousy smile. He breathes out your name like reading an ancient, honourable scripture. Tears brim your eyes. A hand lifts to your gaping mouth. 

“I have been in love with you from the minute I saw you singing at The Wreck, back when we were sixteen. For whatever God damn reason, you gave me - a broke-ass idiot from the Cut with about two-dollars to my name and a pretty bad reputation - a chance. And you changed my life forever. Honestly, I don’t know what my life would feel like without you. I hope I never do, really, cause you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.  I mean, when you find a girl who writes songs about you, you kinda have to stick around, right?” 

You give a soggy laugh, sniffling and barely nodding. 

JJ grins, chuckling through his nerves. 

“So, I guess…Will you marry me?”

Tongue-tied like always, you struggle to find the words. No, not words. One word. One very important word. So, you nod frantically. And finally, it comes. 

“Yes,” you choke. “Yes! Yes!”

You’re worried you sound a little pushy, tentatively tagging on, “please.”

JJ barks out a laugh. He wipes at his eyes, mumbling about how he wasn’t going to be a sap, and takes the ring from its cushion. You hold out a quivering hand and let him slot it on. 

“Sorry. ‘M kinda clammy,” you mumble. 

JJ sniffs and laughs and nods. “S’fine, baby.”

You admire the ring in all its glory. Despite his El-Dorado success, the ring isn’t over the top. It’s exactly what you dreamed it to be. Beautiful in its simplicity. Understated and classy. You launch yourself at JJ. He catches you with a laugh, somehow keeping his balance, and embraces you like you might float away. God, you feel like you could. Everything in life is so perfect. Your band, your fame, your talent and your partner: it’s just perfect. 

Pressing your lips to his, you can't keep the joyful tears from falling. JJ cradles your face when you break apart, staring deeply into your eyes in a way that would have fifteen-year-old you crippled and crying on the floor. 

“I’ll marry you, JJ Maybank.”

[calaisreno]

Imagine

1024 words / Prompt: Empty

Let’s say it didn’t happen that way. Instead, let’s say John looks up a moment sooner, and sees Sherlock approaching. He has a minute to process what he sees instead of realising it later, when the waiter is rambling on about vintages and stranger’s gazes….

Maybe he’s just had a thought about Sherlock, about how he wouldn’t be sitting here with a ring box if Sherlock hadn’t died. He might be a bit sad, trying to buoy himself up to smile when Mary returns, and he looks up to check whether she’s on the stairs yet— and he sees Sherlock instead.

And Sherlock— let’s say he’s had a giddy thought about pretending to be a waiter, but now he’s seen John’s face and isn’t sure what to do. He’s come through the door, and the headwaiter’s phone is buzzing, and he’s just staring at John. 

Maybe John thinks it’s an hallucination. Maybe he’s seen Sherlock (ghost? Vision? Hallucination?) before now— across a crowded street, disappearing into a Tesco or coming up from the underground. Maybe he’s heard that voice. (Sitting in his chair one evening, a voice drifts up from the street below— he can’t even make out words, but he knows. By the time he’s out the front door, looking around, wild-eyed, there is no Sherlock in sight.)

He listens, always.

He’s not good at deducing things like this, but when he sees Sherlock, he might notice something, a detail he wouldn’t have imagined. He looks tired, thin, sad. Not the way John usually remembers him. 

If John tries to remember him, it’s always with his coat swirling, his collar popped, his hair a bit windblown. It’s the Sherlock who gives him that smile, the one he reserves for John, who has no idea what it means. But he knows that it’s only for him. 

Let’s say that here and now, on the edge of this knife, about to change his whole life, giving it to a woman who has been good to him, saved him from drowning in grief— let’s say that when he sees Sherlock, he realises that he’s not certain. 

Maybe he doesn’t really love her. They could get married and he’d learn to love her. But she might grow tired of him, impatient if he keeps talking about Sherlock, or even silently missing him. He should be over that by now. 

Maybe she isn’t who she seems to be. He wonders what Sherlock would deduce if he got a look at her. 

He wonders if he wants to know.

Let’s say that Sherlock, when he sees John’s awful moustache, realises that it’s too late, that John has moved on. He’s had this thought before, if he’s honest with himself. He got careless in Serbia because he kept thinking two years, two years, too long... 

He’s looking at John and he’s suddenly ashamed. Never ashamed that he loves John, but ashamed that he never said, that it was always something he put off saying because he had calculated the possibility of John loving Sherlock at nil. Even if he once might have been open to that (unattached, like me…), how could John love Sherlock now, when he’s grieved for two years, believing a lie that Sherlock orchestrated? John is alive, and that’s all he wanted. What he wants now, he sees he can’t have, and he’s ashamed. 

His face flushing, he turns back the way he came in, pushes past several people waiting to be seated. He flees the look on John’s face. He’s mortified that he came here, thinking he’d make John laugh, see him smile, and sweep him away, back to Baker Street. 

He’s got on with his life.

Outside, he stands on the pavement, deleting the happy scene he’d imagined. 

Is that sentiment talking?

Everything will be different now from what he’s imagined. He might hail a taxi and go home— 

But it isn’t home now. It’s an empty house, without John. 

Imagine John now, seeing the hallucination turn away, exit the restaurant. He doesn’t think about Mary or the ring or what he’s going to say to her. He stands, stumbles away from the table, then runs towards the door. 

He sees him from the back— a tall man wearing a dark coat, the collar up, curly dark hair. His head is bowed, his shoulders slumped. 

It can’t be. 

But at this moment, before he takes another step into a new life, he’d rather make a fool of himself than dismiss the possibility that it could be him. 

One more miracle, for me.

If anyone could be that clever, fake his own death, and return—

Sherlock raises his head, gathering himself for what’s next. There is no solution. He can’t go back, so he must go forward. He’ll see John at some point, and he’ll apologise. If he’s lucky, John will accept his explanation. But they’re in different timelines now: John moving into the future, Sherlock stuck in the past. 

He raises his hand to hail a cab. 

Imagine: a hand on his back, tentative, trembling.“Sherlock?”

Imagine: the face he always looks for, the voice he still hears. “John?”

Let’s say it happens this way. 

John doesn’t hit Sherlock. He falls into the arms that are already open to receive him. He weeps. He curses. He laughs. And weeps some more. 

Sherlock doesn’t make fun of John’s moustache. He doesn’t make a joke about tuxedos, or say, short version, not dead. Instead, he reaches for John, saying, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… 

John forgets about Mary. He hugs Sherlock.

When Sherlock asks, “Your date?” John hits his forehead, pulls out his phone and sends a text. Something’s come up. I’m sorry. We’ll talk tomorrow.

John forgets about Mary, again. He looks up at Sherlock, who is smiling now, giving him that look, the one that’s only for him. 

Sherlock can’t let go. He’s not sure what comes next, but he’s less afraid now, and maybe he can finally say it. 

John remembers every time he went to Sherlock’s grave, never able to say it. 

“I love you.”

Let’s say it happens like that. 

[the-devil-less-known]

For someone who was supposed to be the King of Hell, Lord of Unholy Legions, Demon of Demons, Strongest of All in Hellfire... Lucifer appeared mildly out of place in the hotel foyer, still trying to decide how he wanted to approach this. Approach that thorn in his side the size of a prong on an antler.

Saying that he was grateful would be a step too far, not for someone so.... dubious at best. How could Lucifer be anything but suspicious of this sinner?

Maybe if Alastor was a little more stupid, maybe if he did anything but wear that mask of a smile, maybe if he made mistakes Lucifer could pick at, then the King wouldn't feel so uneasy having someone like that so close to his heart: Charlie.

His little light could preach a real convincing argument, a good story that made you want to sit up and listen. Once she stopped speaking at you but to you personally, that is. A gift of the mind and heart nurtured by her mother, taught by the very best on compelling performances... Except to the Princess, it was all in truth, sincere vulnerability and hope for all on display.

With Charlie, it was everything but the very soul itself, leaving the likes of Alastor the Radio Demon to attach themselves to that.

Lucifer had shared his reservations in the past with her life's mission; his deep unease, about all the implications and truths involving their "people". Both before and after Lilith stopped touring. Even finally explained the unique circumstances of the Pride Ring sinners and the Exterminations... All for naught.

It's easy to be "supportive", to buoy her up and bolster that red-hot passionate fire to give out good to the world, encourage her to continue breaking out into song and showmanship flare, make the soul thump and feet stamp in tune... all to the beat of unsustainable naïvety. Get the Princess attached to gain her implicit trust and gain that "love" that makes a person do anything for their "friend". Their enabler.

Lucifer knows well the precarious position he stands in, how easily he could be sidelined as a distant observer in her self destructive life again... and be replaced from being father and guidance to follow. Left only in formality, the King of Hell she could always call on and bend the ear to. That was all.

So, here he was, in the midst of this lion's pit, with only his wits about Himself, knowing very well how he must tread in Charlie's "territory" with one of her "people". No killing, no maiming, no real overt "threats"; Alastor untouchable — for the moment.

But just like anything in this life, including Lucifer Himself, this sinner was replaceable. And in battles of words and riddles, threading the thin line between truth and misdirection, he could maintain the veneer of polite civility with the best of them. Heaven knew well the path unspoken and the smiles that hid strife underneath...

Alastor wouldn't be making any deals anytime soon with that ghastly chain around his neck, but Lucifer didn't need that. Only a few chats, a few answers, a few insights on Charlie's left hand man, and how his... indispensable assistance could be outshown and made redundant.

“Ah, look, it's our local neighborhood friendly hotelier ! You look unoccupied. And it seems you now have a guest... You'll indulge me, of course?”

@radioiaci

[msbigredmachine]

New To This - Chapter 3

NEW TO THIS MASTERLIST

--------------------

Unbelievable. Truly unbelievable.

It’s been three hours since her first-ever official wrestling match, and Delilah couldn’t stop smiling. It had lasted all of eight minutes, and although she lost, no one could deny that both she and her opponent, Faye, had pulled a showstopper out of thin air. Delilah had only ever attempted a moonsault once in her life, one evening at training when she was feeling adventurous, but tonight, the burst of adrenaline had buoyed her, and it felt so natural being poised on the top rope. To her shock and delight, the crowd had given them a standing ovation when it was over. It was, as far as she could remember, the happiest day of her life. After Andre’s proposal, of course.

She hadn’t been this confident at first, though. She remembered being alone in the tiny, dingy locker room, on the verge of throwing up about fifteen minutes before the match. She remembered the loud cheers as the announcer geared the fans up for the upcoming match. She remembered forcing herself out, walking numbly towards the ring, then looking into the crowd and almost tripping on her own feet in shock at the sight of Jey up in the VIP area with Tank, unable to believe he’d actually showed up to watch her. HER! How she worked through the bundle of nerves and emotions, she would never know. But she did. And it was enough to convince her that she could still pursue her dream. That she wasn’t walking away from this just yet, because there was hope that she was finally going somewhere with wrestling.

Tank and Jey – she still wasn’t comfortable enough to call him Josh – had taken her out to celebrate afterwards. Even after leaving the bar well after midnight, both men didn’t seem willing to go home just yet. And Delilah didn’t mind.

“Your garden’s really nice, uce,” Jey observed the small but neat bed of flowers gracing the sides of the front door.

“Thanks! Andre worked hard on it,” Delilah beamed on behalf of her fiancé, “Dre’s the greatest landscaper in allll of Pensacola, so if you got a lawn that needs spicin’ up, hit him up.” Stepping over the threshold into her home, she winced at the mini warzone that greeted her. “Sorry for the mess,” she murmured sheepishly.

Tank looked around the trailer house and shrugged. “It ain’t that bad today. I’ve seen it in far worse shape,” he commented, lowering his huge self onto the old, worn couch in the center of the small living area.

“Damn, thanks Tank,” Delilah replied with a roll of her eyes. Way to embarrass her in front of Jey.

The man in question had been silent as he looked around the new environment. “Ignore him, Delilah. I like it,” he commented, finally facing her.

The trainee blushed profusely and dumped the bags of takeout they’d bought on the way home on the coffee table. She knew he was only being nice. “Could be better, I know you’re not used to tiny spaces like this,” she rushed defensively, retreating to the kitchen to grab three Bud Lights from the refrigerator. Surely Jey lived in a far more lavish abode, with all the money he was raking in at WWE. The Bentley Continental GT he drove her and Tank around with tonight was solid evidence. He lived large and her place was no doubt shameful compared to his, wherever that was.

Settling down next to Tank, the huge smile was still glued to her face, her right leg bouncing up and down in excitement. “Oh my god, I’m not sure I’m gonna get any sleep tonight! I still can’t believe I wrestled my first real match!”

“Yeah, and we predict it’s gonna be the first of many,” Tank drank from his beer as Delilah nodded enthusiastically, and he jerked his thumb in Jey’s direction. “At least, he thinks so. Right, Uce?”

"Heck yeah," said Jey, observing her over the rim of the silver can of alcohol in his grasp.

Delilah was still in awe that he was here, sitting in her home. It was tough to pretend she wasn’t thoroughly enjoying the attention she’d been getting from him the past two days. “You ain’t sayin’ that just to fuck with me, right?” she asked him blatantly, then cringed at her unwise choice of words.

Something flickered in his eyes. Then, with a low chuckle, he responded, “Baby girl, I ain’t never said shit I don’t mean,” Licking his lips briefly, he stared at the lone female in the room. “Look, we both see how talented you are. It’s about time you did too. That’s probably what’s holding you back. You should believe in yourself more.”

Delilah tilted her head at the use of that inappropriate nickname yet again, and she was torn as to whether she should voice her objection. Before she could make up her mind, a loud ‘thud’ sounded from the direction of the bedroom she shared with her fiancé.

Oh. Shit.

"Aw, shit, someone’s awake,” Tank chuckled and winked at Delilah, propping his feet on top of the coffee table. “Girl, you in troubleee,” he sang teasingly.

Casting her gaze to the amused smirk on Jey’s face, she refocused on the annoyed grumbles and shuffling feet. “Gimme a sec, guys,” she said softly, getting up and hurrying towards her angry fiancé in the hallway. “Hey babe,” she greeted him, forcing a wide smile as she rested a hand on his bare chest.

“What’s with all the fuckin’ racket?” Andre cut her off sharply, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm.

Looking up into his dark eyes, she rubbed his arm placatingly. “We’ll be more quiet. I promise,” she whispered, “Just go back to bed, okay?”

But Andre was already wide awake and very unhappy about that fact. “For fuck’s sake, Dee, I gotta go to work in…” Pausing, he squinted at the clock in the kitchen. “What time is it?”

“One a.m.,” she answered quietly, her cheeks burning as she lowered her eyes to the floor. “Baby, I’m sorry we woke you. Please go back to bed,” she pleaded.

Shaking his head, Andre glared at his fiancée and gestured towards the two men in the living room. “Hell no. Not until you get ‘em the fuck outta here,” he insisted. When she huffed disbelievingly, he shook his head again. “Woman, I gotta be up in four hours. One of us has to work. Who else gon’ pay for these damn lights you got on?” he spat.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Delilah bit back, crossing her arms angrily, “I made two hundred dollars tonight, F.Y.I.”

When his eyes swept over her wrestling gear, Andre scoffed. “How? Working the pole?” he taunted.

Delilah’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Look whatchu wearin’. You couldn’t find more modest attire? Dress like a future wife should dress?”

Watching the entire argument from his seat in the living room, Josh felt his hands ball into fists. He understood the dude being mad for being woken up so late – after all, he’d done some bitching of his own at colleagues who rolled into the hotel at all hours of the morning causing a racket when he was trying to sleep. But he certainly didn’t appreciate the way he was disrespecting Delilah, especially while she was trying to apologize. As much as he wanted to say something to the punk, he did not think it wise to try to step in between the rowing couple. Yet.

“Look, tonight was the most thrilling night of my life, okay?” Delilah was saying, “I got a standing ovation after my match! Unfortunately you couldn’t see it, cuz you weren’t there even though you promised you would,” she made sure to add. “And if I wanna celebrate with my friends for doing so awesome, I’ll do it. God knows you and your friends have kept me up at night enough times in the past!”

“Nah, you not gon’ pull that bullshit on me right now,” Andre rolled his shoulders angrily and glared over her head at the two huge men who had now risen to their feet. “And if you don’t wanna kick your so-called friends out of my house, then I fuckin’ will.” Brushing past his fiancée, he stomped down the hall. He didn’t quite care if they were both built like brick walls and could probably kill him with their bare hands. This was his house and he was the one in charge here. “Ay, Tank, I let you have my girl for the night. It’s time I got her back,” he said.

Acutely aware that both Tank and Jey were about to give Andre a piece of their minds, Delilah quickly stepped between them before anything could go down. “Thank y’all so much for tonight, guys,” she cut in, meeting Tank’s eyes, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she added, giving him a look that told him how sorry she was for Andre’s unbecoming behavior.

With a nod, Tank patted her shoulder. “You know what, Parrish? Why don’t you take tomorrow night off. You’ll need your rest after tonight, trust me.”

She nodded gratefully and turned toward Jey, totally embarrassed to look at him after he’d borne witness to her humiliation at the hands of her fiancé. Honestly, she’d desperately wanted him to think she was a tough chick, that she wasn’t just putting on a show for his benefit. And Andre had ruined it all with his antics tonight.

Following the men outside, she was taken by surprise when Josh stopped midway to his car and suddenly turned to face her. Instantly, she avoided his stare again, pushing her hair behind her ear.

“Gimme your phone,” he told her, holding out his hand. 

“What?”

“Trust me. Give it here,” he repeated, waiting until she placed the device in his hand. He tapped in a number of digits and made a call, smiling when his iPhone rang in his back pocket. “We got each other’s numbers now,” he announced, handing her phone back to her. “If you wanna talk about wrestling, life, whatever…Don’t hesitate to call me anytime.”

Staring at the phone, and then back at him, she raised an eyebrow. “Anytime?”

“Anytime,” he repeated, looking her in her striking hazel eyes which he noticed were filled with the unmistakable shine of tears. “For real. A'ight?”

Delilah gave a small smile and tucked her phone back in her pocket. “Okay. Thanks, Jey, I really appreciate it,” she said sincerely. 

“My friends call me Josh,” he insisted.

“Is that what we are? I've only known you a couple of days,” she responded.

“Sometimes, a couple of days is more than enough," he explained, watching her for one long moment before cupping her chin and tilting her face up to meet his. “Keep your head up, baby girl. You a queen. Don’t let nobody make you hide your pretty face.” And with one final wink, he let go of her, turned and made his way towards his car.

Watching them drive off, she willed away the flutter that was filling her insides and trudged back into the house, taking a deep, shaky breath. She had been filled with so much happiness and pride only a few minutes earlier, filled with hope for the future she was trying to create. But the confrontation with her fiancé, in front of Jey Uso for that matter, had snuffed it all out in a heartbeat. She was tempted to abandon Andre and sleep on the couch for the night, not wanting to be anywhere near him. But knowing the aches and pains that would descend on her in the morning, she thought it wiser to be in a bed tonight, no matter how angry she was with him.

Walking slowly to her bedroom, she pushed the door open tentatively, both relieved and annoyed to see that he was back in bed and out like a light. He always was a quick sleeper, unlike her. Shaking her head, she shed her ring gear, showered and found one of Andre’s big t-shirts to wear. She slid into the bed, ensuring to keep her back to him. She didn’t react when Andre’s strong arms wrapped around her a few moments later, didn’t flinch when his hard body pressed against hers from behind, only stared blankly through the darkness at the wall in front of her.

For as long as she had known her husband-to-be, she had been head over heels in love with him. After their first date, she had told her sister that she was going to marry him one day. She would never forget the twinkle in his beautiful dark eyes, or her unbridled joy, on the day he proposed. Back then, both had only harbored the glamorized fairytale version of the idea of marriage. Back then they’d been inseparable; hardly argued, hardly did anything without the other. Neither of them were weighed down by the strain of responsibility or ambition. Things were so different now. For one, she had far more ambition, and she found herself realizing that it was big enough to want to leave his side and do her own thing for the first time in a decade.

Her personal dream and the dream she and Andre had shared for so long hung in the balance, and right now, one was looking far more possible to achieve than the other.

-------------

Thoughts?

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[1d-trashcan]

It's so incredibly hard to fit what this loss means into a few paragraphs. Liam is someone I have always associated with the happiest moments of my life, someone I have hugged, someone I have looked up at on stage, listened to; a safe space when everything else seemed uncertain.

Finding One Direction in 2011 was like having a life ring tossed towards me in a stormy sea hellbent on pulling me under. Something to hold on to, something to pull me back to safety. And in that safety I found a community, I found so many friends. I found so much more than just a will to live.

Throughout these past 13 years, the memories I have made with the boys, with the fanbase and with my friends have saved me time and time again. Countless concerts I will never forget, times outside of their studio, late nights on tumblr with a shoddy livestream of a red carpet event, a concert or an awards show. Every concert ticket bought, every whisper of a tour became a buoy I could focus on, if need be. A buoy that represented something so positive and safe that nothing else in the world could match it.

On Wednesday, I lost a few of those buoys, and we lost someone who meant so much to so many people. Someone inherently irreplaceable, and it is incredibly hard to grieve.

Rest in peace, Leeyum. Payno. I hope the crowds are still loud where you ended up ❤️🕊️

Disclaimer: The first picture is not my edit. If anyone knows the artist, please let me know so I can credit them properly🫶🏻

[somefoxwithahat]

"... Wait like- Soot? Wilbur Soot?" He asked, slowly pulling out a life buoy from an abandoned lifeguard post thing and throwing it somewhere near Schlatt.

".. Just like- Grab onto that- Or.. somethin'.." He muttered, pulling out his phone to call the police or at least an ambulance, since he doesn't know how long the person's been drowning or whatever.

As you we're walking near the lake you could hear something.. weird not knowing what it is you curiously tried to see under the waves, only for a large hand to come out of the water as if asking to be grabbed for help [Respond if you like whoever can[

[alexlwrites]

From my notes app: grieving over your ex lover

Tw: sad as fuck

Based on this request from @morningglory18 : "Hey I just want to request you a fic where the fl had a dead first love , whom she always chases after but it is always Namjoon who catches her when he realised she is really gonna fly away"

***

It was April 29th again.

How long had it been since the last one? A couple weeks? 365 days? A lifetime? You weren't sure, but the earth had once more completed a circle without you even assimilating the last one.

Your body still ached from phantom pains - a non-existent weight in your left ring finger, the impact of a car crash you never lived, shards of a still broken heart and loss, dear lord, so much loss. How could someone even lose something that they already no longer have?

But every April 29th reopened a wound barely stitched together and you felt the burden of another year lost, a multitude of days that could've been lived as someone's wife but instead barely could be called a widow - after all, there was no wedding. There was only a white dress, a pair of rings and a call from the hospital that sent you into a spiral of unfortunate events and ripped your soul from your body.

Every April 29th brought a slew of what-ifs and if-onlys that buried you under the avalanche of painful possibilities. If that driver had never been drinking, if he had left earlier, if the wedding had been scheduled to the next saturday... Every minimal detail added to insurmountable strands - different paths and roads that could've been taken in a different life.

In a different life, you could've been Yoongi's wife.

In a different life, you could've kissed him on an altar and went on to start a new chapter written together. You could've watched him put together your shared furniture, made him coffee and kissed his pink tinted knucles. In a different world, you could've built a family together, slanted eyed babied and fluffy brown dogs, maybe even a black cat. In another universe, you would've watched someone's first steps guided by his long fingers wrapped around a tiny chubby wrist. In a separate world...

"Love" someone called snapping you out of your morbid fantasies and you turned to see Namjoon offering his hand.

You took it and stood up from the ground, interlacing your fingers with his and bringing them to your lips as you walked away from the forget-me-not adorned grave, silent and contemplative. In another life, things could've been different, but in this one you were given catastrophic grief by fate and its antidote by the same hand. The same prophecy that had taken away Yoongi from your sobbing grip had gifted you Namjoon.

Namjoon who also lost his best friend and had been the first one to reach for you as crumbled to the floor in a white gown; who had been forever patient and understanding, a buoy in the storm as disgrace had rained from the skies ; who stood back to back with you as you leaned on each other to stand up once more ; Namjoon who bought the forget-me-nots and took you where you needed every April 29th.

"I miss him" you said.

Namjoon nodded "Me too. Everyday."

Namjoon helped you into the car and drove away softly, his hand never leaving yours, tethering you to this lifetime where you were now his, six years after being someone else's.

***

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[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let's spread the self-love 💞

Kei, thank you for thinking of me!! 🥰 Picking five out of 102 was hard, bc all of them are special somehow, but here goes!

🐉 Hic sunt dracones 

15 chapters / 99,705 words / Fantasy AU / Dragon!Eddie, Royal!Steve / rated E 

The day that Prince Steven Harrington turns twenty is the first sunny spring day after a seemingly endless spell of heavy rain that left the castle grounds drowning in mud and its inhabitants freezing and miserable in the inescapable dampness of everything.

But that is not why he will remember it so vividly for the rest of his life.

It is also the day that his father, King Richard, chooses to ride off into war with great fanfare, to strengthen the glory of Hawkins and expand its wealth and territory.

But this also isn’t why the day will be forever ingrained in his memory.

No, the actual reason Steve knows that he will not forget his twentieth birthday until the moment his heart stops beating and his eyes close forever is an entirely different one.

It is the day he finds the dragon.

👪 Someone who cares

14 chapters / 83,986 words / Modern AU / Single dad!Steve, Nanny!Eddie / rated E

Hey, babe …

It takes Robin only a minute to respond, and apparently she can read his mood even through text message.

Hey, love! What’s wrong?

The terrace seems weirdly quiet and empty without Eddie’s presence. Eddie, who is all loud and wild on the outside, but kind and considerate on the inside. Who will gladly reopen the scars of his own past to make a sad little boy feel better. Who calls Steve cute, and a softie, and thinks his son is the greatest kid in the world.

Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He digs his fingers into the bridge of his nose so hard his nails leave little indents in the sensitive skin there. Then, he lets out a heavy breath, types and hits send before he can overthink it for too long.

I think I’m fucked.

----------

Or:

The one in which Steve Harrington, overtired and over-stressed businessman and single dad, hires Eddie Munson as a nanny.

🧜‍♂️ Just add water

5 chapters / 21,382 words / Summer Camp AU / mer!Steve, human!Eddie / rated E

It's one of the unwritten laws of Camp Lovers' Lake, as solid and immovable as the official rules. Curfew is at nine. No swimmers or boats are allowed past the buoys.

And Steve Harrington does not go in the water.

---

Or: Three times Eddie wonders what Steve's secret is, one time he learns, and one time he finds out a lot more.

🔥 Whatever you want it to be

5 chapters / 18,683 words / omegaverse / Omega!Eddie, Alpha!Steve / rated E

Steve, who has just ripped through the tape binding his wrists in an impressive feat of strength, freezes mid movement. His nostrils flare and Eddie can practically see the moment it clicks for him, even before his eyes flick down.

“Wait a second,” he mutters, and then his eyes are back on Eddie’s face, wide and panicked and disbelieving. “You are-”

“Pretty fucking hot when tied up?” Eddie rasps around an aching jaw, voice still hoarse with misuse. “Why, gee, who knew you were into that kinda stuff, Harrington?”

“Stop joking, that’s not what I meant!”

The command is sharp, and Eddie finds his jaw clenching shut against his conscious will. A red-hot flush is crawling up Steve's neck, but his face is full of serious concern.

“You're in heat,” he murmurs.

---

Or: The one where Eddie goes into a drug-enduced heat courtesy of Jason Carver and his goons and Steve saves him. (And then they fuck about it.)

🌹 Kiss that ring (mini series)

6 parts / 5,926 words / Mafia AU / hitman!Eddie, Mob baby!Steve / rated E

The boy tries to shy away from his touch, but he doesn’t get far, bound in place as he is. Eddie chuckles.

“Shhh, honey,” he scolds, cradling that pretty face with both hands. “It's okay. The name's Eddie, I work for your dad. Well, worked.”

The boy blinks at him, hazel eyes large and confused. Eddie laughs softly.

“See, the firm’s under new management. My management, to be more specific. I’m trying to keep it minimum bloodshed, so your old man’s gonna make himself scarce and I’ve agreed not to bother him. In return, I get to keep this fine house … and everything in it.”

[heroes-of-the-new-world]

Illustration by Apoloniodraws

Gordon made his way through the storeroom, past the rolled-up rugs and the stacked saddles. At the other end was a door, which creaked as he opened it. Beyond lay a smaller room, with a wooden table in the middle. As Gordon stepped closer, he saw a map on the table; a map of Elegia, with the Grand Concert Venue, Castle Mozar, the manor all circled.

There was also a Transponder Snail, nibbling on a large and fresh-looking bundle of celery; and beside it a handwritten note.

Courtesy from the Chief. Hope you find these ribbit-ing!

Gerotini of the Puddle Pirates.

Gordon looked around, holding up his candle. The light revealed half-opened crates, filled with packs of vegetable seeds, flour, and barley. There were even wine bottles, covered with dust to maintain the illusion.

He looked again at the snail. There was a Jolly Roger on its shell; a skull with a small red line through the left eye, and sabers crossed behind. The same sign was emblazoned on the buoys surrounding Elegia; warning any visitor to heave away, or face the wrath of the Red Hair Pirates.

But those two hadn't seen them. They had flown in from the sky, without the slightest inkling of where they were, or what had happened here.

And they had given Uta hope of leaving this place.

Gordon's old soul ached worse than his knees. He hated this. He had always hated it. He hated keeping Uta trapped in this place of death and ruin; with nothing to do but help him with chores and sing songs no one would ever hear. He yearned to set her free, to see her sail away with her new friends, to live the life she should have known.

But he could not. Uta could never leave. And it was all his fault. He'd kept that damned lyrical score; in turn allowing it to find its way into Uta's hands who'd unwillingly set that…thing free.

Gordon clenched his fists in rage, again cursing himself for not simply burning those accursed pages years ago like any sane man would've. Yet, even now, no matter how much he wished too and how easy it would be, he couldn't summon the strength to do it.

His very passion for music was the chain that tied his hands.

The sin was his, and his alone. But Uta had to bear it; for her own sake, and for the whole world. If she left this place, and her power became known, it would make her a target; for the Emperors, and the World Government. Elegia was her sanctuary, and her prison.

Gordon took the snail and dialed the number.

"Ring Ring Ring Ring. Ring Ring Ring Ring. Ring Ring Ring Ring… Click."

The Snail's face changed.

"Gordon. It's been a while. What's up?"

"Red Hair." Gordon spoke. "We've had visitors."

[Chapter 39, Heroes of the New World by Zaru]

[rageprufrock]

Sneak Peak: Untitled Mysterious Lotus Casebook Fan Fic Because I Make Bad Decisions And Don't Sleep Enough

Instead of sleeping last week, I watched Mysterious Lotus Casebook. And instead of sleeping next week, I expect I will be working on this Mysterious Lotus Casebook fan fic.

It takes Li Lianhua almost an hour to claw his way out of his own grave. 

It’s another shichen before Li Lianhua manages to drag himself out of the yawning arms of the earth. His legs shake, his arms shake; the air that expands his lungs hurts going in and breathing out. But no matter how meticulously he catalogs his suffering, each revelation is disquietingly ordinary: he’s thirsty, he’s tired, his body hurts from immobility–from very recent death. He feels staggeringly, unfathomably alive.

Gasping, dizzy with some sizzle of power still shivering out of his bones, he props himself up against his own funeral stele and realizes that he can no longer feel the necrotic, rotting hunger of the Bicha poison, and–when he looks around, across the sweeping mountains, toward the misted pink of dawn–that he had been buried, lavish, in the private family cemetery of Tianji Manor. 

When he’d died, when he’d discarded the last of his worries, cut all the vermillion silks and half-formed hopes that had buoyed him, Li Lianhua had given himself to the sea. He remembers the bitter bracing salt of the water, the forgiving lap of frozen waves, how he’d buckled—left, then right knee—the jade colored water closing over him, absolving. He remembers the searing ice of the ocean, the swirl of his worn linen clothes, the weight of his cloak at first suffocating and then nothing, nothing at all.

Now, Li Lianhua takes one step after another through a greener sea, a canopy of late summer leaves, marveling at his robes of emerald silk brocade, embroidered gold with gold and silver threads–flawless on the right and wrong sides of the fabric, as soft as new grass under his fingertips. Now, he listens to the trilling of magpies, spies the velvet ears of half-hidden rabbits, the fleeting russet flanks of swift-moving deer, feels the soft veil of summer light, smells honeysuckle and the petrichor of recent rain. 

He crosses a brook, through the forest as it thins to a glade and in the distance now, Li Lianhua can see the curled-up roofs of a home he barely knows, and that is at once as familiar and well-loved as its young master. 

“Xiaobao-ah,” he says, the first words he’s said out loud, his voice a startling rasp, rattling out of his chest, “what on earth have you done?” 

A little while later, when he’s being thrown ass over elbow into the street by a full phalanx of Tianji Hall’s most ferocious enforcers, Li Lianhua realizes the answer to his question is, ‘plague me in my second life, just as he did the first.’ 

***

Getting from Tianji Manor to the headquarters of the Bai Chuan Court takes more than a week, a journey funded by strategically pawning off a jade thumb ring he’d acquired sometime between dying at the shore and waking up buried in a fucking mountainside. 

Along the way, he buys a set of less ostentatious robes so that people stop trying to rob him like a guileless fop and hears no fewer than two dozen stories–each more absurd than the last, which is frankly astonishing given the truth–of his death and resurrection and death again. At least three of them include morally questionable methods of yang energy application, and a woman who sells him a skewer of tanghulu assures Li Lianhua that a friend of a cousin heard from a reliable source that Li Xianyi had managed his miraculous revival as a result of a profound bond with his martial rival and marital match, Di Feisheng. It leaves him speechless with horror for a full 30 seconds before he implores her to stop spreading the story, because sooner or later Di Feisheng will hear about it and raze her entire village to ashes. 

“Now, everyone knows the heroic story of Li Xiangyi’s death and resurrection and death again,” says an old storyteller at an inn the next night. 

Around him, the crowd gathered close and eager to hear over the sound of a roaring storm outdoors, the wind and sleeting rain too dire for any more travel that night. Li Lianhua is hiding in a back corner on his second jug of wine, still far too sober for another, ever more fabulist recounting of his so-called adventures. 

“But tonight,” the storyteller goes on, “I want to tell another story, one of a legend in the making: a most tragic romance–” 

“Thank God,” Li Lianhua murmurs to himself.

“–For while the story of Li Xianyi is well known,” the old man says, “that of his second love with the young master of Tianji Hall is not.”

Li Lianhua chokes on his wine. “What.” 

“Now listen as I tell you of a remarkable young man, a brilliant scholar, a refined gentleman, and a generational martial arts talent,” the storyteller invites. “And so passionate in his devotion to Li Xiangyi that he turned down the hand of a princess to wander the jianghu in mourning, as faithful as a widow.” 

“What?” Li Lianhua asks again. 

By the end of his tale of woe, there’s not a dry eye in the inn and Li Lianhua has progressed through two further jugs of wine, too mortified and then too drunk to go anywhere or do anything about the abject slander he’s hearing. 

At no point during any of the cases he’d investigated with Fang Duobing had anybody made any stoic declarations of unwavering devotion during any driving snowstorms, and they were both far too skilled with their weapons for any cutting of sleeves, accidental or otherwise. There had been an extended interlude on how–as they were both dutiful men, and having honorably severed any other previous betrothals–they’d engaged one another in a match of swords that had progressed into a dance of the clouds and rain. It speaks well on the miraculous nature of whatever sorcery had revived him that Li Lianhua does not immediately vomit blood and expire again. 

It’s dawn by the time the storm lets up enough for the storyteller’s captive audience to disperse into the city, and Li Lianhua staggers out of the inn a shattered ghost of himself. He hitches a ride with a farmer traveling two cities over, toward the place where where the provincial border is drawn by a fast-moving river, and along the way he reflects that with this additional information, it makes much more sense that all the loyal attendants and members of Tianji Hall had taken one look at him, threatened his life, and violently chased him off property. Nevermind Di Feisheng–He Xiaohui will kill him first for allegedly dishonoring her precious son, and Fang Duobing will be stuck with the tedious work of burying Li Lianhua all over again, which feels churlish given how thoughtfully Xiaobao appears to have done it the first time. 

In another life, with the privilege and the right to such sentiments, Li Lianhua would be outraged with anybody at the root of such defamations against his lone disciple. In this one, where Li Lianhua is only–with extraordinary reluctance–willing to admit to another living soul he has any sort of affection or sense of responsibility toward Fan Duobing, it is of course fitting and just that he is the source of said defamations, and will likely suffer untold tortures for his part in sullying Fang Duobing’s reputation. 

At the river, he buys passage on a boat and stares out at the steamy gray-green of the fog over the banks, the way that the sun paints the surface of the water a blushing pink. It is, just as he remembers from his final walk to the sea, all so very, very beautiful. He closes his eyes to focus on the susurration of water against the flanks of the boat, to feel the damp wind against his face, the way it blows the loose strands of hair back from his face, how it catches in the rough-spun collar of his hastily purchased robes. He can hear the other passengers telling stories, exchanging gossip, the sound of someone snoring as their journey brings them from the chill of morning into the hot sun of high noon. 

A shichen later, the boat is being pulled in toward a little cluster of docks, and Li Lianhua disembarks into the a marketplace transitioning from its daytime of vegetable sellers and grain merchants to its nightly amusements of street food stalls and performers setting up their stages. And by the time it takes for him to navigate the dozen li to the front gates of Bai Chuan Court, it’s nearly full dark, lanterns orange-bright against the midnight blue evening. 

Li Lianhua is sweaty, filthy from travel, and ravenous, and it is only the certainty that if he evades the guards and arrives unannounced in the receiving room, someone will think he is a ghost that has him bothering with the heavy brass knocker at all. 

When the terrified guards bring him to Ji, Yun, and Bai, they think he’s a ghost anyway. 

“Sect Leader Li, I’m sure you can understand that we must investigate your miraculous return. Again,” Shi Shui tells him, at once peerlessly respectful and with absolute disapproval. “Although this certainly contextualizes some recent events in the Capital.”

Li Lianhua smiles ruefully. “I have a theory that useless disciple of mine may have overreached.” 

Shi Shui scowls, not at the words or even at the thought of Fan Duobing, but very clearly and directly at Li Lianhua. It’s absolutely terrifying. 

“Well, if overreach was what brought you back to us, then Fang-gongzhi’s seven days of fasting at your funeral would have had you here three years ago,” she tells him, matter-of-fact and utterly gutting, before she waves for one of the junior disciples. “Ye’er, send a runner to Fang Manor–I’m sure the investigators and doctors there will need to know of this latest development.”

Li Lianhua tenses. “Doctors? Investigators?” 

Shi Shui slants a look toward him, watchful. “According to our network, seven days ago, Fang-gongzhi was grievously injured, and hasn’t regained consciousness since–seven days, that’s when you say you escaped death once more, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes,” Lianhua croaks, remembering all the hundreds and thousands of small and seismic ways that Fang Duobing had tried to save him in their months together, imagining Xiaobao in roughspun mourning, honoring a ghost in a way so intimate and harrowing it shames Li Lianhua to acknowledge it, to know how well he was loved. 

“Quite a coincidence,” Shi Shui says, acid, and tells the doctors, “You had better do some painful, invasive testing on him–just to ensure it’s really Sect Leader Li, of course.”

Li Lianhua gets about as far as saying, “Ah–that’s–” before the doctors, clearly reading the room, swarm him armed with bitter medicines, silver needles, and accompanied by a shaman who’d been summoned in a cacophony of shrieking that should have been beneath three of the four hallowed directors of the almighty Bai Chuan Court.