#patterned tiles in shimmering grace

[scp095]

part one of the art i made for @t4per3c0rder this summer <333

[iwaoiness]

Oikawa leans his head against the wall against which the bathtub is recessed. The golden rays of the afternoon sun cascading through the open window above him, spilling across the bluish tiles of the room, turning them into shimmering mirrors that reflect the dance of light, transforming the bathroom almost into a sanctuary. With his long legs dangling over the edge, Oikawa gently swings them as he hums, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He thinks about how long it will take to forget the patterns that decorate it.

Then, the tranquillity is interrupted by the sound of wet footsteps approaching, accompanied by the gentle spill of water from the tub as another body joins him. Oikawa smiles and looks down as a darker, more pronounced leg, submerged up to the knee, rests on his thigh. He likes the contrast of their skins, the warmth they share each time they connect.

"And you have the audacity to complain about me when I take too long to rinse" He playfully taunts, lifting his gaze to meet Iwaizumi's. He too leans against the wall, his head tilted towards him, a soft smile gracing his lips.

Hajime has always been handsome. But now, with damp hair falling over his forehead like when he was a kid, cheeks kissed by the warmth of the bath and August sun and emerald green eyes sweetened by sunlight, he is ethereal.

Tooru thinks about how long it will take before he misses Iwa-chan's gaze.

"Do you forget that you came in ten minutes before me?" He gently taps Oikawa’s knee with his and Oikawa rolls his eyes amusedly.

"Details, Iwa-chan."

And silence opens up between them, soft and comfortable. Oikawa hums again, taking Iwaizumi's hand as he gently places it on his thigh, palm up. Tooru's smile widens as he slowly intertwines their fingers, fascinated by the way they fit together.

Oikawa thinks about how long it will take to forget the warmth of Iwa-chan's skin.

They stay like that a little longer, listening to the echo of birds in the distance and the trickle of water. Years ago, when they were so small that the bathtub looked like a swimming pool, the silences had been filled by childish laughter between the "Oh, no, Hajime-chan, Zilla-chan sinking, Alien-chan to the rescue!", "Code 1-4, flying saucer sunk!", "Put the bang-bang down, Hajime-chan, I have a rubber duck and I'm not afraid to use it!" and the "Water volleyball bomb, everyone take cover, Tooru!", "Ha, a duck is no match for my water bang-bang!", "No, Tooru, watch out for the Aliens, they're the traitors!", by brute splashes of water that tried to simulate tsunamis, by the volleyball hitting the tiles, by the shrill quack, quack of the rubber ducks.

And it’s fine, because now they know how to control the volleyball as an extension of themselves, the rubber duckies are safe with Takeru and Godzilla is safe too from the water on Hajime's shelf next to the toy aliens. But there are moments when Tooru would give his soul not to grow up, to halt the march of time.

Because sometimes it is not easy. Because it’s frightening to be an adult. Because it's scary to know that the weight of responsibility now rests squarely on your shoulders, and that future you thought was unreachable is already there, about to collide with your present.

Oikawa thinks about how long it will take him to get used to Argentina without his parents, without his sister, without his nephew, without his Hajime.

"Do you... Do you think we can handle this?" He whispers, too weak for his liking.

Two days left until Hajime flies to California. Four for Tooru to fly to Argentina.

Oikawa thinks about how long it will take for his heart to break, whether it will be when Hajime leaves or when he does.

Iwaizumi doesn't respond immediately, but instead, he tenderly squeezes their clasped hands and lets out a sigh. Though they've broached this topic countless times before, the lingering fear still hovers, a constant presence breathing down their necks with a cold breath.

"Yes" He says, with no trace of doubt in his voice, like all the other times. But this time, he keeps talking, his words serving as a balm to Oikawa's trembling heart. "Because it's you and me. I can't promise eternity, for none can foresee the future," he turns his head and Tooru takes a deep breath before doing the same and meeting his gaze, intense, warm and full of serenity " but I can vow to give you my all, as I have for eighteen years."

There's an earnestness, an honesty, a steadfastness in his words that causes Oikawa's smile to bloom once more, genuine and tender, his eyes shimmering with emotion, cheeks mirroring the flush of Iwaizumi's own.

Oikawa thinks about how long he will stop loving him and immediately knows the answer: never.

"If you take more than two months to visit me once I've settled in Argentina, I'll consider it infidelity and report you to your mom" He says, but there's no warmth behind his words and Hajime's deep laughter rumbles in the bathroom.

"You're really insufferable"

Tooru playfully sticks out his tongue before leaning in to finally meet his lips, yielding to the tender pressure of Iwaizumi's soft, full lips before he laughs softly against them as a large, reassuring hand envelops his waist with eager impatience.

...

hope u enjoyed this!!

inspired by this old but really old iwaoi fanart that lives rent free in my mind

u can find me on my ao3 🍉

[lysandra-vesper]

Chapter 9 - Just for a moment

The morning breeze wound through the paths of the Garden of Willows like a resting dragon, moving with reverent slowness. It carried the subtle scent of freshly blossomed plum flowers, a fragrance that blended longing and hope, like the echoes of an ancient poem forgotten among the dusty silk scrolls of the ancestral library. The drooping willow leaves fluttered lightly, as if whispering secrets to the waters of the lake, while the white linen veils, suspended on the pavilion columns, danced in the air like benevolent spirits, fluttering under the delicate touch of the wind.

Faint rays of sunlight filtered through the branches, casting lace-like shadows over the green mirror of the lake that surrounded the courtyard. The water, serene like the surface of a cultivated crystal, reflected the harmonious tones of the vegetation — from young emerald to ancient moss — all framed by the sacred colors of the Li Clan: deep jade green, somber pine, and the discreet golden shimmer of their traditions.

The construction of the pavilion, built in dark sandalwood with curved tiles of bluish-green ceramic, exuded the stillness of forgotten eras. Every crevice of the polished wood seemed to hold echoes of ancestral conversations, while delicate pink petals, like childhood memories, detached from the plum trees and floated slowly until they landed on the lake’s placid surface. There, among concentric circles, swam small golden carp, with slow movements as if even they were meditating on the silence.

It had been weeks since you and your siblings had been kept away from your mother's presence. None of the servants dared explain why. Words were always veiled, eyes always avoided yours. In resigned whispers, they said only:

 It’s for the safety of the young masters…

Your father, leader of the Celestial Green Lotus Sect, Li Qiang, seemed increasingly absent. He was rarely seen in daylight, and when he appeared, he was like a spectral figure: present, but unreachable. Rumors said he visited his wife’s chambers every night, but there was never a trace — no sound, no scent, no extinguished candle to confirm such presence. Only silence.

Left to you and your older brother, Li Xiuying, were two monastic routines: cultivation and study. The rigidity of discipline was the only constant — an anchor amid the fog of the unknown. Little Li XiuMei, only three springs in his bare feet, still escaped the pressures of cultivation. He played under the patient gaze of an elderly nanny, old as the northern pines, whose serenity held more secrets than any library.

That morning, you were gathered in the Pavilion of Willows — a serene sanctuary in the heart of the clan’s inner estate, reserved for disciples in training. There, among brushes and sutras, one sought spiritual refinement through art, contemplation, and stillness.

You were seated on a bamboo mat, embroidered with fine threads in light jade-green, with the care and grace of a young disciple in her first training cycle. In front of you rested a sheet of rice paper on a dark wooden board. Your rabbit-hair brush glided with meditative precision, tracing solitary cherry trees on misty mountains, a painting that seemed to hold longing in every line.

Your child’s hanfu was dyed lotus-flower green, with subtle borders embroidered in golden threads that glistened in the morning sun. The long sleeves fluttered with the breeze, as if dancing with the veils of the pavilion.

At your side, Xiuying, with his attentive eyes and shoulders already shaped by responsibility, leaned against the polished wooden railing. His ceremonial changshan, a deep pine green, was embroidered with silver cloud patterns on the cuffs. He watched the lake with a somber expression — a distant gaze trying to decipher the mystery among the shadows of the carp.

You were the one who broke the silence first, without taking your eyes off the painting:

“I wonder how Mom is…”

your voice came out like the breath of a forgotten flute, more a thought than a question.

Xiuying frowned, crossing his arms with contained irritation.

“How should I know? This isn’t fair. I’m the heir, I should be the first to know these things.”

You paused the stroke in the middle of the branch, glancing at him sideways.

“Maybe... not even Dad can tell us.”

“That only makes it worse,”

he kicked a small stone with the tip of his fabric boot, the ancestral embroidery on his footwear rippling with the gesture.

“If even he is silent, something really bad must be happening.”

You bit your lower lip, turning your gaze back to the painting. The mountains now seemed more distant, and the sky… emptier.

“I heard two maids crying in the hallway. They didn’t see me behind the curtain.”

Xiuying clenched his fists. The fabric of his sleeve creaked under the tension.

“If it’s an illness… why were we kept away? And why so much secrecy?”

He knelt beside you, his eyes meeting yours.

“I swear… when I become Sect Master, no one will hide anything from our family again.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, as if seeking a silent refuge from the adults' fog.

“And I’ll be the strongest cultivator the Li Clan has ever seen. That way, no one can separate us.”

“Deal,” he smiled faintly, ruffling your hair.

“But you still paint like a third-grade disciple…”

“Hey!” you protested, laughing despite the weight in the air.

Little XiuMei laughed on the other side of the pavilion, chasing a petal that spun in the wind like a celestial sword leaf. He stumbled over his robes but kept laughing. The nanny called him softly, to no avail.

The wind ceased, for an instant. And in that silence — a silence as pure as snow over bamboo — you said:

“Gege…”

He turned to you.

“Yes?”

“Do you think that… that I’m capable of doing something real in the path of cultivation? Something real?”

Xiuying hesitated. His hardened expression softened, like a wall touched by spring.

“Of course you are! You’ve always been creative… Mom said you have the eyes of an old soul in a small body.”

You turned your face.

“If you use her words, it doesn’t count.”

He laughed, briefly. Then sighed.

You stared at the lake.

“Have you noticed that... most women stop going on night hunts? Mom too… it’s been three years since she last went.”

“She had children...”

“But she’s a cultivator too.”

“Maybe... maybe Dad...”

“He doesn’t train me. He barely talks to me.”

you suddenly stood up. The paper sheet fell to the floor like a wounded butterfly.

“A-MEI!” Xiuying raised his voice, and the snap of his palm against the railing echoed — sharp, cutting.

XiuMei stopped laughing, eyes wide.

The silk veil fluttered between you, as if the world itself refused to intervene.

“Sorry,” — Xiuying murmured.

“Sometimes I too... I’m also lost.”

You lowered your gaze.

“Do you think... Dad doesn’t think I’m worthy?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Maybe he’s afraid… of you blooming in your own way.”

“You’re not a good philosopher sometimes.”

You walked to the edge of the lake and touched the water. The circles expanded, like fates that never return.

“It’s just… exhausting.”

Your voice came out choked, each word as if pulled painfully from your chest.

“Dad doesn’t let me do anything… barely speaks to you… and with our dear little brother, then…”

You clenched your hands in your lap. Your eyes, moist, gleamed in the soft late afternoon light.

“And Mom… I just wanted to be with her.”

Xiuying remained silent. His gaze slowly drifted toward the inner garden, where the plum trees bloomed in their brief glory. A white petal detached from a branch and floated in the air, carried by the wind with the delicacy of an inevitable destiny.

“...” He let out a muffled sigh, trapped behind a knot in his throat that refused to give way.

“I do too…”

Then, the light sound of hurried little footsteps on the stones broke the moment.

XiuMei — who until then had played alone among tea bushes and ornamental rocks — came running with the chaotic energy of someone who believes the world can be fixed with laughter.

“And me!” he exclaimed in his high voice, tripping on the last step of the pavilion before jumping, without hesitation, into Xiuying’s arms, laughing with disarming brightness.

XiuMei, the youngest among you, had only four springs. He already carried in his eyes a light that warmed — the gentle promise of a rising sun. His hair, black as fresh calligraphy ink, was kept short, with a single side braid tied with a light green thread — a sign he had not yet begun his cultivation path.

His round cheeks were flushed like ripe peaches. He wore a short tunic of light linen, with jade-toned embroidery — the colors of the Li clan. A small wooden amulet hung from his belt, carved with the ideogram for “hope” — a gift from his mother, the maids said.

He nestled between you two, oblivious to the silent weight that hung in the air.

“You look like rain!” he complained, puffing his cheeks.

“Mom always said sadness causes wrinkles!”

Xiuying let out a muffled laugh and wrapped the little brother in a tight hug, pressing him to his chest as if that warmth were enough to chase the melancholy away.

“Then let’s hide our wrinkles from Dìdì and Jiějiě, shall we?” he said.

You gave a small smile. It wasn’t of relief — it was of resilience. XiuMei’s warmth in your lap reminded you that, even in your mother’s absence, the bond between you remained strong. There was still something to protect.

A moment of silence settled, gentle, like the pause between two chords. Then, in an impulse that burned in your chest, you spoke:

“What if... we visited her today?”

Xiuying turned, surprised.

“Huh? But we can’t. We have practice with the instructor after tea…”

But his voice lost strength before the last word.

“We are the children of the Leader of the Li Clan.”

you said, calmly but firmly.

“Why can’t we see our own mother? If we go before Father… just for a moment… no one needs to know.”

The pavilion plunged into a new silence, now heavier. In the distance, someone played a guzheng — soft notes floated through the air like an echo of what could not be said.

Xiuying frowned, torn between the discipline he had learned to follow and the love that insisted on calling him back.

XiuMei, unaware of the internal struggle, clapped his hands for a firefly dancing among the tea leaves.

And then, before reason could smother the heart’s impulse, Xiuying murmured:

“Just for a moment. And we return before the first chime of the night bell. Understood?”

You nodded, your eyes brighter, as if a window had opened inside you.

The world paused for an instant.

Xiuying’s gaze met yours.

And then... you knew.

That night, you would see her.

Even if only f

or a moment.

Even if in secret.

Even if everything changed afterward.

"Li Yuqing?"

The voice came from afar, like a call echoing through mist.

"Shimei?"

Closer now, with a touch of hesitation—as if trying to confirm you were still there.

"Li Yuqing!"

This time, Lan JingYi’s voice cut through the air with a mix of impatience and concern, slicing through the bubble of silence that wrapped around your thoughts.

You blinked slowly. Reality returned like a cold breeze against your skin. Your eyes focused on JingYi’s furrowed face, his eyebrows arched somewhere between genuine irritation and poorly disguised worry.

"Huh...?"

Your voice came out shaky, like you had forgotten what it sounded like.

"Did you even hear what I said?" he pressed, his voice slightly high-pitched, as it usually got when he was nervous.

"You’ve been acting weird since we left Mount Dafan. You didn’t even grumble once. That’s not normal!"

You looked away, trying to pull from memory the question you hadn’t heard.

"M-mhm... no. Sorry, JingYi."

The answer was almost a whisper. Honest, but shy.

JingYi sighed, the sound muffled by the rhythmic march of the horses.

"Are you really okay?"

"Of course I am."

You answered too quickly.

The speed betrayed the truth. You fixed your gaze on the dirt road ahead as if you could dig an escape route with your eyes alone.

The path wound between tea-covered hills and dense groves. Up ahead, Lan Wangji rode with his usual impeccable posture. His long black hair flowed down his back like polished silk, tied with a light blue ribbon. Since leaving the mountain that morning, he hadn’t said a single word. The silence around him seemed thicker than the air itself.

It was only then that a melodic, slightly mocking voice rose to your right:

"Hm. Lying’s not very pretty, Shimei."

said Mo Xuanyu, riding his donkey with a relaxed posture, as if he were out on a spring stroll rather than a journey under the strict eyes of the Lan Clan.

"And honestly, it doesn’t suit the whole 'pure-hearted cultivator maiden' thing. Tsk, tsk."

You shot him a sideways look, brow furrowed in a mix of doubt and irritation. His tone was impossible to pin down—accusatory? provocative? teasing? With Mo Xuanyu, you could never be sure.

The makeup he used to wear had long been removed. Now, his real face was visible: delicate, harmonious, almost androgynous. His eyes were large and expressive, framed by long dark lashes that seemed to blink with natural sarcasm. His smile hovered somewhere between irony and charm, as if every sentence came with a scandalous secret waiting to be revealed.

"In the Imperial Capital, saying something like that out loud would cause a scandal in every tea house on Magnolia Street."

you replied, a hint of humor surfacing for just a moment.

"Ah, the Imperial Capital, huh?"

Xuanyu arched an eyebrow with theatrical flair.

"Since when are you an expert on high-society gossip?"

Before you could fire back something witty, a soft voice interrupted:

"Li Yuqing lived there for a few years before coming to Gusu. That was... about four years ago, right?"

You turned slowly to face Lan Sizhui, who rode a bit behind with his usual gentle posture, his eyes calm and observant. He spoke like he was simply recalling a fact—no judgment, no hidden intent. Still, the memory twisted something in your stomach.

The Imperial Capital.

Jade beauty, golden masks.

Flowers that wilted in silence.

Promises whispered behind silk screens.

A place where everything sparkled—except the truth.

There, you learned to smile without showing teeth. To bow without surrendering.

There, you longed to flee—and did. Or at least tried to.

A heavy silence settled between you all. The sound of hooves, the wind through the trees, and a distant birdcall filled the space of the words left unsaid.

Sizhui sighed, and this time, there was more than serenity—there was weariness.

"You don’t have to pretend with us," he said, his tone steady and sincere.

"If there’s something... anything, you can say it. Even just a little."

Your throat tightened. A rehearsed response nearly surfaced—I’m fine, Just tired, It’s nothing—but they all died before reaching your lips.

You let out a soft breath, trying to ease the tension with something less vulnerable:

"Shixiong... you're always so kind."

Your voice came out low, almost as if apologizing for saying it.

"You’d definitely be the type many girls in the capital would fall for... But really, you don’t have to worry about me, okay?"

There was affection in the teasing, but also a clear attempt to deflect.

To raise a wall between what you felt and what you were willing to show.

Lan Sizhui looked visibly startled. His eyes widened slightly, and a pink flush rose to his cheeks, contrasting with his usual composure. He quickly averted his gaze, fixing it on anything along the road that wasn’t your face.

"T-thank you, I... I suppose."

"What kind of comment is that, Shimei?"

grumbled JingYi, his face also slightly red. He tried to sound stern, but his voice came out choppy, almost flustered.

"What? There was nothing wrong with it. It was a compliment! You’re acting like I said something... disgraceful."

"That has nothing to do with what we were talking about!"

he snapped, crossing his arms.

"I’m just... just trying to help!"

You laughed inside, though your face remained neutral.

Of course it has nothing to do with it. I’m trying to change the subject...

"Anyway, why all the sudden concern?"

"Mhm... maybe because of this."

said Mo Xuanyu, appearing beside you again, eyes gleaming mischievously as he lightly tapped your injured shoulder.

You flinched at the touch. The pain came like a forgotten ache abruptly awakened. During the battle on Mount Dafan, you had briefly entered the Yin-Yang body state.

Usually, when you exit that state, your body is still flooded with adrenaline, making it hard to notice injuries right away. On top of that, the memories of what happens during activation often remain hazy, as though everything unfolded behind a thick veil. Maybe that’s why you had completely forgotten about the wound—like it only started existing again when Mo Xuanyu touched it.

Maybe, with everything that happened afterward, the boys hadn’t noticed. Or if they had, they chose to respect your silence. But now, the truth pulsed beneath your skin. You shuddered just thinking about what had really caused the injury—and why you’d taken so long to reappear.

Of course, even if they asked, you couldn’t tell the truth.

You’d grown used to avoiding members of the Baishi Clan—even your own Li Clan—whenever you ran into them.

Always in disguise.

Always on the run.

Always with a ready excuse.

The Baishi never left you in peace for long. And although you always escaped... you rarely walked away unscarred.

You drew a deep breath and improvised, shrugging:

"Oh... that? I got distracted while practicing a spiritual dispersal technique near an unstable formation. One of the seals broke and... well, let’s say I was faster than the seal, but not fast enough. That’s all."

"If you say so..."

Mo Xuanyu replied with a theatrical wave of his hand, feigning disbelief but smiling as if thoroughly entertained.

"It’s the truth."

"I never said it wasn’t."

"But for some reason, you don’t believe me."

"Why?"

"Just because."

"'Just because' what?"

"I already answered."

"So you can’t believe me?"

"I could. If I wanted to."

"But you don’t."

"But I do."

"But you didn’t."

"Didn’t what?"

"Whatever you wanted."

"Huh?"

You blinked, confused. For a second, you even forgot the pain.

"Wait... now I’m confused."

And Mo Xuanyu just laughed, satisfied that he had managed to distract you—if only for a moment.

After quite some time, all of you finally arrived at Cloud Recesses, the fresh mountain air filling your lungs.

With the silence of the mountain, people's hearts seemed to settle as well. Only the chimes from the tower could be heard high above. Though it wasn’t a temple, the place carried a desolate sense of Zen-like peace, like that of secluded peaks far from the world.

That serene atmosphere, however, was abruptly broken by the sound of loud weeping, startling several disciples still in the midst of their morning studies and sword practice. They couldn’t help but glance toward the mountain’s entrance, where the noise was coming from.

At the gate, Mo Xuanyu was sobbing and shouting while hugging his donkey tightly.

"Why are you crying?! You’re the one who said you liked Hanguang-jun! Now that we brought you here, why are you screaming again?!" asked Lan Jingyi, completely baffled.

Xuanyu kept his pout, tears still running down his face.

"Enough! Enough noise! Loud sounds are forbidden in the Cloud Recesses!" Jingyi warned.

But that was exactly why Xuanyu was making so much noise—he didn’t want to go in.

Once inside, getting out wouldn’t be so simple. When joining the Lan Clan, all disciples from other sects were given a jade token that served as a pass; they coud only enter or leave the Cloud Recesses while carrying it. Without it, the barrier wouldn't let anyone through.

That reminded you: back when you were still in the capital—before coming to the Lan Clan—you did something very similar. You clung to a pillar behind the courtesan house, crying and begging not to be taken to such a restrictive place.

In the end, your old master knocked you out, and when you woke up, you were already inside the carriage.

That old man...

If Mo Xuanyu stepped in now, he probably wouldn’t get out again so easily.

You and Lan Wangji stood silently at the gate, watching everything unfold with indifference. When Mo Xuanyu’s voice finally lowered, Lan Wangji said:

"Let him cry. When he tires himself out, drag him in."

At that, Mo Xuanyu hugged the donkey even tighter and burst into louder sobs, then smacked his forehead against the poor animal.

"Dramatic, isn’t he?" you whispered to Wangji. As always, he didn’t reply.

"Tell me... do you really think he is... Wei Wuxian? I don’t like to assume based on nothing, but... everything that’s happened—it’s a lot. Don’t you think so?"

"Mhm."

"Mhm... I’ll take that silence as a ‘maybe,’ alright?"

"I like men. And your clan has so many pretty boys... I’m afraid I might not be able to control myself," Xuanyu confessed.

"Young Master Mo," said Lan Sizhui, trying to explain gently,

"Hanguang-jun brought you here for your own good. If you hadn’t come with us, Clan Leader Jiang would not have let this go. Over the years, no one knows how many people he’s imprisoned and tortured for interrogation at Lotus Pier. And none of them have ever gotten out."

"Exactly. You have no idea what his methods are like, do you? Cruel to the core..." added Lan Jingyi, then quickly remembered the sect rule that said, “Speak no good or ill of others behind their backs.”

He glanced carefully at Lan Wangji, and when he saw no intention of punishment, he found the courage to mutter:

"It’s all because of those bad habits the Yiling Patriarch started. So many people are copying him now, not cultivating the proper way... That’s why Clan Leader Jiang suspects everyone. And if he had the chance to lock up everyone, he would. Just look at the way you played the flute... Hah."

That "hah" said more than a thousand words.

"Yeah... So, maybe you won’t believe it, but normally I play pretty well..."

You hid a smile behind your long sleeves. You weren’t sure whether to feel sorry for him or find the situation amusing.

He didn’t have time to finish, though, because a group of white-robed cultivators appeared near the entrance. They wore the Lan Clan’s uniform—pure white as snow, light as air.

The one leading them was Lan Xichen. In addition to the sword at his waist, he also carried a white jade xiao flute. Upon seeing him, Lan Wangji offered a light bow, which was returned just as politely.

Looking at Mo Xuanyu, Lan Xichen asked:

"Wangji rarely brings guests home. This is...?"

Lan Xichen was truly a clan leader—even seeing a man clutching a donkey didn’t faze him. Wei Wuxian let go of the animal and, with the biggest grin on his face, stepped toward him.

In the Lan Clan, seniority and proper etiquette were everything. One foolish remark, and Wei Wuxian could be driven out of the Cloud Recesses with a staff to the back. Just as he was about to demonstrate his "charm," Lan Wangji shot him a look. His lips stopped moving immediately.

Lan Wangji turned to Lan Xichen and, as if he hadn’t just cast a silencing spell, said:

"Xiongzhang, are you going to meet Lianfang-zun?"

"We’re going to discuss the upcoming cultivation conference at Golden Carp Tower."

Lianfang-zun was Jin Guangyao, the current leader of the Jin Clan of Lanling. He was the only acknowledged illegitimate son of Jin Guangshan, uncle of Jin Ling and half-brother of Jin Zixuan.

Jin Guangyao sat at the very top of the cultivation world, doing as he pleased. He could invite Lan Xichen or arrange a debate conference whenever he wanted. It wasn’t strange that the Jin and Lan clan leaders were close—after all, they were sworn brothers.

"That thing you brought from Mo Village... Uncle took it for examination," commented Lan Xichen.

At the mention of Mo Village, Mo Xuanyu subconsciously perked up. He felt his lips move—Lan Xichen had broken the silence spell.

Then he turned to Lan Wangji and said:

"It’s rare enough for you to bring someone home... even rarer to be in such a good mood. Be kind to him. Don’t be so cold."

While they spoke, you drifted into your own thoughts.

“Lianfang-zun is organizing another debate conference... Well, learning more about cultivator relations might be useful. I think... our relationship is ambiguous. Or maybe I’m just being naive. He’s been kind, we’ve exchanged letters and everything, but... maybe it’s just temporary interest. We have things in common, but... what if it’s nothing more than that? Then what could I even do...”

"Li Yuqing."

“Huh?” You looked up and met Lan Xichen’s eyes. “Leader Lan...”

He reached out toward your injured shoulder, though he didn’t actually touch it.

“Take good care of yourself,” was all he said.

After watching Lan Xichen leave, Lan Wangji gave the order:

“Drag him inside.”

The Lan Clan always treated their guests with respect, but Mo Xuanyu was different — being pushed and pulled around like that. Everyone found it quite the spectacle. If the rules weren’t so strict, there would no doubt be laughter echoing throughout the courtyard.

“Where should we take him, Hanguang-jun?” asked Lan Jingyi.

“To the Jìngshì.”

“The Jìngshì?!”

The Jìngshì was Hanguang-jun’s private quarters and study — a place no one had ever been allowed to enter.

Well... you were an exception.

But even when you were seen coming and going, people usually assumed you were just there to relay a message or retrieve something on Lan Wangji’s behalf. That mostly happened in the afternoons.

Still, you often went in and out as you pleased. Wangji never said a word about it.

You figured it was because you never disturbed him.

Even so, out of politeness, you usually knocked, asked permission to enter, or waited patiently outside until he gave a sign.

Not that the others needed to know that.

Suddenly, Lan Wangji turned directly toward you and said:

“Take care of him. He’s your responsibility for now.”

“Me? But why—… mhm... Alright. As you wish.”

There goes my chance to get some rest...

Also, that demonic arm wasn’t in the mountains like I thought...

Wait a second… Lan Xichen said: ‘What you brought from Mo Village, Uncle took to examine’...

Liar! Could it be…?!

You turned to Wangji.

“Hanguang-jun, you would always tell me the truth about something… wouldn’t you?”

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

The moment that single word left your lips, you saw something shift in his eyes — a quiet sting — and you immediately understood what it meant:

“If you wouldn’t tell the truth... then how can you expect that from me?

If you can’t say it, why should I?”

You looked away, instinctively placing a hand over your injured shoulder.

Wangji’s language could be so... complicated sometimes.

The disciples exchanged awkward glances, trying to avoid making any sound as everyone made their way toward the Jìngshì.

Inside, the furnishings were simple and elegant, nothing excessive.

The flowing clouds painted on the folding screen seemed to shift as each panel passed.

In front of it sat a low table for Wangji’s guqin.

In a far corner of the room, there was an incense burner. Thin, curling smoke rose from it, gently filling the air with the warm, delicate scent of sandalwood.

The burner’s lid was pierced with intricate designs, and the whole piece was made of pure white jade.

Lan Wangji left to meet with his uncle and discuss certain matters.

Mo Xuanyu was pushed inside, stumbling slightly as he entered.

You followed at a calm pace.

The disciples shut the door and walked off.

The moment the Jìngshì’s door closed with a soft click, the stillness inside fell upon you like a thick fog. The perfume of sandalwood hung in the air, almost hypnotic.

Mo Xuanyu, meanwhile, made his way to the corner of the room and flopped dramatically onto a cushion with a sigh.

“His room is just... so him.” he murmured, hugging his knees.

“Are you sure no one’s going to kill me in here?”

“You know no one’s going to kill you,” you replied flatly.

“At least not without a reason.”

It was hard to tell whether he was trying to lighten the mood or if that kind of comment was just... the way he was. Either way, it wasn’t the time.

With the soft crackling of incense in the background, you took a seat at the far table and pulled something from your Qiankun bag — an object that shimmered faintly under the dim light:

A white-covered book, streaked with black ink and splattered with red, like blood on paper.

On the cover, written in your own calligraphy, were the words:

“A Personal Treatise on Cultivators and Their Cultivation”

formerly titled “Suspicious but Very Useful Notes on Cultivators”, though that name felt far too unprofessional to keep.

You opened it carefully, your fingers tracing the edge of the cover like you were handling something sacred. A quiet swell of pride filled your chest — after all, this notebook was your work, the product of detailed research, sleepless nights spent cross-referencing data, memories, and conflicting accounts. Every detail had been dug up through effort, persistence, and, at times, sheer stubbornness.

But alongside the pride came a flicker of irritation. So many blanks still remained. Silent spaces between lines that no one seemed willing to fill.

The book was a sort of personal compendium, somewhere between an investigation journal and a confidential archive. It contained detailed notes on every cultivator you'd ever met — friends, enemies, mentors, disciples — even figures you'd only crossed paths with once, but who had intrigued you enough to earn a mention.

Your fingers pulled one of the pages marked with a red ribbon. The name at the top seemed to pulse under the soft light of the Jìngshì:

Wei Wuxian

[extremedecadeschallenge]

Inside *Thermae Caelestis*, the world transformed into a haven of soft echoes and shimmering light. Warm air wrapped around Sabine, laced with the faintest scent of lavender and eucalyptus, soothing her senses instantly. Intricate blue tiles adorned the walls, forming swirling patterns that danced in the light like waves, giving the room an otherworldly, underwater glow. 🫧🛁✨🌿

In the center of the space, a fountain bubbled serenely, its gentle, rhythmic splashes weaving with the quiet murmur of voices that drifted across the hall. Laughter and whispered conversations rose and fell, each sound echoing off the smooth stone walls, creating a chorus that felt timeless and calm. 🌊

Pompeia led Sabine with a graceful wave of her hand, a serene smile gracing her lips as they moved deeper into the bathhouse. She gestured toward a secluded corner, where soft linen screens and carved wooden benches marked an area for changing. 👙

“Here we are,” she said, her voice a gentle murmur in the tranquil space. Sabine glanced around, taking in the old-world charm and sacred calm of the bathhouse, feeling like she’d stepped into a cherished secret shared by the city itself. 🫧🛁✨

They exchanged a look, a shared excitement lighting their eyes, before each slipped behind the screens to prepare for the warmth of the baths awaiting them. 🫧

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Wishful Thinking

The rooftop of the ice palace was colder than usual tonight, the wind biting, the snow whispering across the tiles like ghosts too shy to speak. But above them—above the towers and battlements and the silent kingdom—a meteor shower lit up the sky in a cascade of silver streaks and golden sparks.

Kai leaned back against the icy ledge, his curls dusted with snowflakes, one leg kicked up casually. He looked up, blood-red eyes wide and shimmering like he’d never seen the sky before.

“Kitty Kat,” he said, kicking his boot lightly toward the other man’s side, “make a wish.”

Katsuka didn’t look up from the flask in his hand. “That you’ll stop talking.”

Kai gasped. “You can’t waste a star wish on something so selfish. You’re supposed to wish for love, or world peace, or… or a lifetime supply of shirtless paintings of me.”

“I already have to look at the real thing,” Katsuka replied dryly, finally looking up.

Kai grinned and turned toward the sky with both hands cupped over his chest like a child in a fairytale. “Fine, I’ll go first then.”

He closed his eyes dramatically, one leg slightly lifted, like he was about to float off the ground.

“I wish,” he declared, loud enough for the entire heavens to hear, “for a hundred more winters with this icy prince of mine. May his heart remain frozen, his sighs long, and his tolerance for me forever just slightly too high.”

A shooting star blazed overhead—and then exploded.

A rain of golden sparkles rained down in a burst of magic, and without warning, Katsuka was covered in glitter.

He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

Kai slowly turned to him with his most angelic expression. “...That may have been a side effect.”

Katsuka brushed a fleck of gold off his coat with all the grace of a man who had already resigned himself to whatever this night would become. “You’re cursed.”

“Cursed with charm,” Kai winked, then turned back to the stars.

Above them, the sky rippled.

Another shooting star flashed past—and this time, it looped—twisting and spiralling above their heads in a heart-shaped pattern before vanishing in a puff of pink dust.

Kai gasped again, clutching his chest.

“Oh my stars, the universe ships us.”

“No,” Katsuka said immediately. “It’s mocking you.”

Kai turned fully toward him now, stepping closer, his boots crunching gently on snow-dusted stone. “Come on, don’t you have something to wish for? Something deep and brooding?” He fluttered his fingers dramatically. “A tragic backstory? A second wardrobe? A muzzle for me?”

Katsuka’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “A way off this roof.”

“Liar,” Kai said, sweetly. “You’re exactly where you want to be.”

There was no explosion this time, no glittering fallout. Just a soft swirl of snow curling through the air between them.

Katsuka was quiet.

Kai glanced sideways at him, grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Well? What did you wish for?”

A beat.

Kai let the silence hang, his smirk curling into something quieter. “Ooh. It was a real one, then.”

He stepped closer, just enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. “Now I’m curious.”

Kai tilted his head, watching him. “Was it about me?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Katsuka said nothing. Just the faintest flicker of a smirk that he was definitely trying to suppress.

Kai leaned in closer, eyes narrowed with delight. “Was it a scandalous wish? Something steamy? Or maybe soft? A dream of me resting my head in your lap while you pretend you’re not stroking my hair?”

“Ugh.”

“I’ll never tell,” he promised, placing two fingers over his lips. “My wish is already out there. Sparkly. Glorious. Possibly illegal in three kingdoms.”

He paused.

Then suddenly, the grin softened—just for a moment. He turned back to the stars, voice lower now, almost gentle.

“You don’t have to say it,” he murmured, more to the sky than to Katsuka. “You know the rule. If you say your wish out loud… it might not come true.”

He smiled. Not a smirk, not a tease. A real smile. Quiet. Honest. Fleeting.

And then—poof—he spun again, scattering a wave of snow from the edge of the ledge.

“But just so you know,” he called over his shoulder with a wink, “if yours was about me, you’ve got impeccable taste.”

Katsuka didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Because Kai had already seen the flicker of something in his eyes when he’d said those last words—just a second too long to be nothing, just a little too soft to be coincidence.

And he didn’t press it.

Because wishes, like feelings, worked best when left unspoken.

[scp095]

drew my favorite little scrumbly guy + my s/o’s faves :3

@t4per3c0rder 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

[jainmarble]

Top Design Ideas Using White Galaxy Granite in Your Home

When it comes to elevating the aesthetics of your home, few materials can match the elegance and charm of White Galaxy Granite. Known for its subtle shimmer and sophisticated white base speckled with grey and black crystals, this granite is an ideal choice for modern Indian homes. Whether you’re designing a new space or renovating an old one, White Galaxy Granite offers versatility, durability, and timeless appeal.

In this blog, we will explore some of the top design ideas using White Galaxy Granite in different areas of your home. From countertops to flooring, this natural stone can redefine your interiors with a luxurious finish that blends seamlessly with various themes and colour palettes.

1. Kitchen Countertops That Make a Statement

One of the most common and effective uses of White Galaxy Granite is in kitchen countertops. Its smooth texture and subtle sparkle add a refined look to the kitchen. Unlike darker stones, the light base colour brightens up the space, making even smaller kitchens appear larger and more open.

Pairing White Galaxy Granite countertops with white or grey cabinets gives a clean, modern look. On the other hand, matching it with deep wooden tones brings out a more classic or traditional aesthetic.

As a granite manufacturer, JMC Jain Marble Centre recommends this granite for kitchen countertops due to its heat resistance and ease of maintenance, making it both functional and beautiful.

2. Elegant Bathroom Vanities

Another trending idea is to use White Galaxy Granite in bathroom vanities. Its polished finish and water-resistant properties make it an ideal surface for high-moisture areas like bathrooms.

The stone’s natural shine complements chrome fixtures and mirrors beautifully, giving the space a serene spa-like appearance. Whether used for a single-sink vanity or a full countertop with dual basins, White Galaxy Granite brings both practicality and elegance to your bathroom interiors.

3. Flooring That Reflects Luxury

Flooring is one of the most underrated design elements in Indian homes. While many opt for tiles or marble, granite flooring is making a comeback — especially in modern homes.

White Galaxy Granite flooring not only adds a sense of grandeur but also increases the resale value of your home. It’s highly durable and suitable for high-traffic areas like living rooms, dining rooms, and hallways.

Being a reputed Granite Supplier, JMC Jain Marble Centre ensures the granite is cut and polished to perfection, offering a smooth and seamless finish across large floor areas.

4. Backsplashes with a Subtle Sparkle

Backsplashes in the kitchen or bathroom can dramatically enhance the visual appeal of a space. Using White Galaxy Granite for the backsplash ensures a cohesive look when paired with granite countertops.

Its natural speckled patterns eliminate the need for excessive decor, letting the stone speak for itself. This minimalistic yet elegant look fits perfectly into both contemporary and transitional designs.

5. Graceful Staircases and Steps

If your home has multiple levels, using White Galaxy Granite for staircases can be a game changer. It not only adds to the elegance of the interior but also offers a sturdy and durable solution that can last for years.

Polished granite steps give a refined look and require very little maintenance. You can even choose a honed or leathered finish for a non-slip texture, which is ideal for homes with children or elderly residents.

Readmore

[scp095]

@t4per3c0rder look!! your guy !!

My artist friend produced another gorgeous piece that they didn't want tied to their own account, this time of Richard Nixon. This is the same fellow who did the bongfield image.

[brceramics]

Bold and Beautiful: Inspiring Mosaic Tile Patterns for Every Style

Mosaic Magic: Unveiling the Art of Luxurious Tile Patterns

Mosaic art is not merely a decorative technique; it’s a storytelling medium that has transcended time, cultures, and artistic boundaries. In this guide, we delve into the breathtaking world of mosaic tile patterns, showcasing their unmatched ability to elevate any space’s elegance. From glass mosaic tiles to the enduring charm of “marble mosaic tiles”, let’s explore what makes mosaics a timeless choice for design enthusiasts.

Introduction to Mosaic Tile Patterns

“Mosaic tile” patterns are intricate arrangements of small tiles made from materials like glass, marble, and ceramics. Renowned for their flexibility and visual appeal, they transform ordinary spaces into artistic sanctuaries. Whether you want to add a pop of color, texture, or personality, mosaics provide the perfect solution.

Historical Significance of Mosaic Art

Evolution of Mosaic Tiles Through Centuries

Dating back to Mesopotamian civilizations, “mosaic” art has graced everything from temples to palaces. Ancient Greeks and Romans refined the technique, incorporating materials like gold and gemstones into their designs.

Mosaic as a Symbol of Luxury in Ancient Times

In antiquity, mosaics symbolized wealth and sophistication. Aristocrats adorned their villas with intricate mosaics, depicting scenes of mythology, nature, and daily life.

Types of Mosaic Tiles

Glass Mosaic Tiles: Shimmering Beauty

These tiles captivate with their luminous, jewel-like appearance. “Glass mosaics tile” are ideal for creating striking backsplashes and accent walls that exude modern luxury.

Mosaic Floor Tiles: Strength Meets Style

Known for their durability, “mosaic floor tiles” withstand heavy foot traffic while maintaining an elegant finish. From geometric patterns to floral motifs, they add both charm and resilience to floors.

Mirror Mosaic Tiles: Reflective Elegance

“Mirror mosaic tiles” enhance light and create an illusion of spaciousness. They’re a popular choice for contemporary spaces seeking a chic and glamorous touch.

Mosaic Wall Tiles: Walls That Tell Stories

Ideal for feature walls, these tiles bring creativity to interiors. Whether through vibrant patterns or subdued tones, “mosaic wall tiles” turn walls into masterpieces.

Marble Mosaic Tile: Timeless Sophistication

“Marble mosaic tiles” combine natural beauty with luxurious appeal. Their versatility makes them suitable for both traditional and modern designs.

The Crafting Process of Mosaic Tiles

Materials Used in Mosaic Production

From natural stones to recycled glass, a variety of materials shape mosaic tiles’ unique textures and colors. These raw materials undergo meticulous cutting and shaping.

Techniques and Tools of Mosaic Crafting

Hand-cutting techniques and precision tools ensure each tile fits perfectly into its design. Skilled artisans bring these mosaics to life, embedding their passion and expertise in every piece.

Applications of Mosaic Tiles

Mosaic Tiles in Modern Homes

Kitchens, bathrooms, and living areas come alive with mosaic installations. From backsplashes to feature walls, these tiles amplify home aesthetics.

Mosaic Tiles in Commercial Spaces

Retail outlets, luxury spas, and hotels use mosaics to enhance their ambiance. These tiles contribute both functionality and a sense of indulgence.

Outdoor Uses of Mosaic Tiles

From garden pathways to poolside designs, outdoor mosaics withstand weather challenges while maintaining their decorative appeal.

Designing with Mosaic Tiles

Popular Patterns and Arrangements

Herringbone, chevron, and hexagonal layouts are among the trending patterns. Their timeless appeal adapts seamlessly to varied themes.

Tips for Choosing the Perfect Mosaic Tile

Select materials and colors that align with the intended space’s purpose and aesthetic. Always consider durability and maintenance requirements.

Maintenance Tips for Long-lasting Beauty

Regular cleaning with mild detergents and sealing (where applicable) ensures mosaics retain their charm for decades.

The Environmental Impact of Mosaic Tiles

Sustainability in Mosaic Tile Production

Recycled materials and eco-friendly manufacturing processes minimize the environmental footprint of mosaic tiles.

Eco-Friendly Innovations in Mosaic Materials

Innovations such as water-based adhesives and low-energy production techniques are redefining mosaics’ sustainability.

FAQs

What are the benefits of using Glass Mosaic Tiles?

Glass mosaic tiles enhance spaces with their vibrant colors, reflectivity, and stain resistance. They’re perfect for creating a luxurious atmosphere.

Are Mosaic Floor Tiles durable for high-traffic areas?

Absolutely! “Mosaic floor tiles” are highly durable and capable of withstanding high foot traffic, making them an excellent choice for both residential and commercial flooring.

How do I clean and maintain Mirror Mosaic Tiles?

Gently clean mirror mosaics using a soft cloth and non-abrasive cleaner. Regular maintenance ensures their reflective properties remain intact.

Can Mosaic Wall Tiles be used in bathrooms?

Yes, they’re ideal for bathrooms. Mosaic wall tiles are water-resistant and bring an artistic flair to wet areas.

Are Marble Mosaic Tiles worth the investment?

Yes, marble mosaics add timeless elegance and significantly increase a property’s aesthetic and market value.

Conclusion

Mosaic tiles embody the perfect fusion of artistry and practicality, transforming any space into a canvas of elegance. With diverse types, applications, and designs, mosaics are an investment in beauty that lasts a lifetime.

[maddogbackdrops]

Dazzle Your Décor: How Shimmer Walls Add Glamour to Any Space

 Shimmer walls, with their ethereal and captivating presence, are making a resounding comeback in the realm of interior design. These walls, adorned with reflective materials such as sequins, metallic tiles, or shimmering fabrics, bring an element of enchantment and opulence to any space they grace. 

From homes to event venues, shimmer walls have become synonymous with sophistication and style, elevating ordinary environments into extraordinary realms of glamour.

Transforming Spaces with Radiant Elegance

One of the most remarkable aspects of shimmer walls is their ability to transform the ambience of a room instantly. Whether it's a cozy living area, a chic dining room, or a luxurious event venue, shimmer walls infuse spaces with a radiant elegance that captivates the senses. 

The interplay of light and texture creates a mesmerising visual spectacle, enchanting all who behold it. Moreover, shimmer walls have a versatile appeal, seamlessly blending into various design themes, from modern and minimalist to lavish and extravagant.

Creating Visual Drama and Dimension

Beyond their aesthetic appeal, shimmer walls also serve as powerful tools for creating visual drama and dimension within a space. 

By strategically placing shimmer walls in key areas, such as behind a focal point or along a feature wall, designers can enhance the perception of depth and add a touch of theatricality to the environment. The shimmering surfaces reflect and refract light, casting enchanting patterns and shadows that dance across the room, imbuing it with a sense of dynamism and intrigue.

Customisation Options for Personalized Glamour

One of the most enticing aspects of shimmer walls is the wide array of customization options available, allowing individuals to tailor these dazzling features to suit their unique preferences and aesthetic visions. 

Whether you prefer a subtle shimmer or an all-out sparkle, there are countless materials, colours, and patterns to choose from, ensuring that your shimmer wall is a true reflection of your style and personality. Furthermore, designers can play with different textures and finishes to create bespoke shimmer walls that complement the existing décor and architecture of any space.

From Everyday Spaces to Extraordinary Events

While shimmer walls undoubtedly add a touch of glamour to everyday spaces, their allure truly shines in the realm of special events and celebrations. From weddings and galas to corporate gatherings and product launches, shimmer walls serve as stunning backdrops that set the stage for unforgettable moments. 

The opulent shimmering surfaces provide the perfect canvas for photography and videography, capturing the essence of the occasion in a mesmerising display of light and luxury. Moreover, with the ability to be easily assembled and disassembled, shimmer walls offer unparalleled versatility, allowing event planners to transform any venue into a dazzling oasis of style and sophistication.

Conclusion:

In a world where design trends come and go, shimmer walls stand out as timeless symbols of glamour and sophistication. With their ability to captivate the senses, create visual drama, and transform ordinary spaces into extraordinary realms of elegance, shimmer walls have cemented their place as coveted features in the world of interior design and event décor. 

Whether adorning the walls of a chic living room or serving as a backdrop for a glamorous event, shimmer walls never fail to dazzle and delight, leaving a lasting impression on all who encounter their radiant allure.

[thatonebabybat]

[Lyrics] Patterned tiles in shimmering grace Catch carousel smiles painted in place Quietly forging the head meets the hand Fluttering softly the footsteps escaping And souless poverty sends its greeting The strange girl she wears red today And then sometimes has nowhere to hang The face he wore for her This labyrinth of vales to wander Follow the witches revelry Here his way one gladly loses Truly it would easier be.

[scp095]

Top five favorite Reagan pictures? 😘

number 5: wedding photo with The Better Wife (nancy) + my redraw of it for the OCified versions! they run a candy store and solve murder cases look at them go :3

number 4: this photo of him and his VP, george bush sr. lol.

number 3: my russian history textbook that mentions him with gorbachev!

number 2: this photo of him and bush eating lunch together. why are you as a man getting another man flowers and taking him on lunch dates every thursday? gay af if you ask me /lh

and number 1: him with both the bushes

bonus: my top four favorite pictures i drew of ronnie and the bushes (OC-ified, obviously, lol… last picture is somewhat spoilery to the ending of the story? but its a good ending, don’t worry)

[jenovahh]

Comm 08 - Grand - NSFW

Rating: NC-17/Explicit Tags: Fem!WoL x Elidibus, Enemies to Lovers, Smut, Penis in Vagina Sex, Fingering Commission from twitter from a user who wanted to remain anonymous! ===========================================================

“It’s a bit late to be coming one’s room this late, is it not?”

Your eyes have yet to open as you hear the telltale sound of the rift yawning wide. Unbothered, you lie relaxed on your bed in the Pendants, dressed in a silk nightgown that seemed incredibly luxurious for someone as hardy as the Warrior of Light. And usually you would wear more practical sleep wear…

But he didn’t have to know that.

“Would you prefer I whisk you away before your companions in broad daylight?” The voice is masculine, the baritone of his voice rich like brandy and soothing like menthol. “If you have grown so bold…”

You hold up a hand to stop his speech, finally turning to face him on your side, not bothering to retain your modesty as the silk glides on your skin, riding up your legs. The nightgown usually reaches your calves (and it wasn’t like you didn’t have shorter ones), but even you can hear the slight hitch of your intruder’s breath.

Would that you could see the expression to go along with his gasp. Unfortunately, that insufferable, red mask is in place. Robes of white trimmed with gold shimmer in the low light of your room, clawed hands resting casually at their sides. Your eyes focus on rosy lips, watching how a pink tongue swipes over them quickly before a clawed hand reaches up to cover it as he clears his throat.

“Elidibus.” You acknowledge, choosing to not answer his question. You never liked thinking hard on what your friends would do should they find out you flirted (which, at this point was putting it lightly) with the enemy. They could never understand, you had convinced yourself in your deepest nightmares, plagued by visions of a past you could not fathom. Visions you were not sure if they were your own, or perhaps--

“I admit, I was expecting you to arrive earlier.” You sigh, moving to sit up. You can feel his eyes on you beneath that mask; feel how his gaze trails across the bared skin on your shoulders, the hair thin straps of your gown the only thing protecting your modesty. “Had you not come when you did, I would’ve closed my eyes to rest for tonight.”

“Then pray forgive my tardiness,” Elidibus breathes, extending a clawed hand. “I would make it up to you, should you still give me the chance.”

You stare at the offered hand warily, feeling an abrupt surge of hesitation roll through you. All at once does the weight of all the teasing, the sly looks and wayward glances feel like they’ve caught up with you. He could easily spirit you away, never to return, having played the long con to earn your trust and have you play right into his hands. The Warrior of Light disappearing in the middle of the night in what was supposed to be the relative safety of her room…

“Having second thoughts?”

His voice is teasing, taunting. Bait, and a knock at your pride. Your thoughts must be written on your face, your inner turmoil an open book. He knows as well as you do that he is powerful; an ancient. Magic that mortal eyes have not seen in millenia, powers that your mind could not possibly comprehend.

But he is taking the same risk, is he not?

You have struck down two of the three, unsundered Ascians, leaving only the one in white, The Emissary as the sole survivor. You've rolled it around in your mind how he could possibly bear to be here given that fact, knowing full well you have slain his brethren and could do the same to him.

"Do you think me afraid?" You huff, standing to your bare feet and closing the distance between you. Placing your hand in his, the cool metal of his claws nearly stings against your warmth. You do not flinch, giving nothing away.

"Warrior of Light? Eikon Slayer?" He scoffs, somehow knowing the adverse effect your titles have on you. "I do not offer fear. Merely...understanding."

You nod, running your fingers along his leathery gloves, tracing nonsensical patterns. You gaze at him from beneath your lashes, feeling how he tenses. "What shall we be understanding tonight then?"

Even beneath his cowl you can see his throat bob as he swallows. Being able to have him on edge in this way is far more of a power trip than dangling white auracite in his face could ever be. "You and yours seem to think us some unfeeling harbingers of doom," he starts, finally encircling your hand with his own. His claws bite into your skin just enough to be painful, but not enough to draw blood. "I thought I might follow in Emet-Selch's example, and show you what you fight against."

Before you can ask any further the void opens wide, and so do your eyes as your stare back into its inky depths. He gives you no warning and pulls you forward, your instinct making you dig your feet into the tile of your room, but his grip is too strong and you are pulled inside. Strangely, the darkness feels like a caress, its magic whispering across your skin like how the smoke of burning incense crawls along the floor. It feels like an eternity until you are pulled through to the city of Amaurot, still as pristine as Emet-Selch had left it. A chill washes over you, your body releasing a light shudder that does not escape your...companion's notice.

"Would you like a cloak, perhaps?" He offers, his hands already weaving dark fabric into existence. You stare at it warily, pouting as you do.

"Had I known where you would take me for our outing, I would've dressed more appropriately," you snark, taking the cloak from him. The material is softer than silk, so thin that it almost feels like water in your hands. With a smirk, you give him a sly look. "Would you assist me in putting it on?"

"Are you shards so incapable of the simplest of tasks?" He questions, and you swear you can hear an upraised eyebrow. Clearly you needed to be a little more...forward.

"Hardly." You snort, moving to put it on yourself but just as you move it lifts from your hand and drapes itself around you. Despite how sheer it is the warmth it provides feels akin to the pelt of a mammoth. "Thank you." You murmur shyly, pulling it closer to yourself.

Tucking his hands behind his back, Elidibus begins to walk. "This way, Warrior of Light." It is only due to your many encounters with him that you can hear the resentment which taints your title. "I doubt Emet-Selch spared the time to explain the structure of the true world."

"He did not explain much at all," You murmur softly, giving him a weak glare. Despite yourself, you follow behind him, gazing up at the tall towers that somehow reach further below past your sight.

As the two of you walk, he explains multiple functions of buildings, drawing you further into his world. Even though the recreation was of Emet-Selch's making, leaving it subject to misremembrance, it was so accurate that even Elidibus could traverse it easily. Listening unlocked a deep sorrow within you, a hole you could not quite place.

"Where did you frequent," you ask, cutting him off mid-explanation, "in your spare time?"

He pauses to look at you, studying you from behind the safety of his mask. "What makes you think I had such time available?"

"From our encounters I have gleaned you are a man devoted to duty," Almost bordering on obsession, you add mentally, "But I would be a fool to think that in a world where you were nigh immortal, that you didn't have something as mundane as a hobby."

He allows himself a brief chuckle at that, his hand raising slowly. "You are more perceptive than most," he compliments, dark magic swirling around you, transporting you once more. As it fades you find yourself in a grandiose auditorium, curtains made of the finest velvet lining its walls, seats trimmed with gold. You spin in small circles as you take in its splendor, in how elegant it looks. It is a wonder how it manages to flaunt such wealth yet does not look gaudy or tacky in any way.

"Before I had assumed the mantle of Emissary," Elidibus begins, causing you to face him. His voice carries through the space easily, his dulcet tones practically surrounding you. "I would oft hold concerts."

Your eyebrows raise in surprise. "You were a musician?"

"Am, Warrior." he tuts, waggling a finger. Just as he finishes the motion with a wave of his hand does he create a grand piano from thin air. Its glossy wood shines in the stage lighting, the black lacquer so polished you'd think you were looking in some twisted mirror. "Are you familiar with the arts?"

Biting your lip, you circle the piano, wishing to touch it but afraid of getting even one smudge on its surface. "I do not have time for such things," you admit, well aware of the irony.

He's aware of it too, an infuriating smirk gracing his pouty lips. "Then allow me this lesson," he makes a grand sweeping gesture with his arm as a piano bench weaves itself into existence, taking a seat with all the poise of a professional. "Let us see what untapped talent lies within you."

Feeling too much like you've lost the high ground, as you move to sit you take care to allow the robe to part, reminding him of what lies beneath. You cross one leg over the other, the silk riding up your thigh and you can hear a claw scrape against an ivory key. "By all means," you purr, daring to even scoot closer to him, leaving barely an ilm from his shoulder to yours.

"There seven notes, and therefore one key for each note, and they are the white ones," he explains. "They repeat themselves, from A, to G."

You lose yourself in his lesson, watching with mild fascination at his careful instruction. If he had other plans by bringing you here, he has surely lost them for he is so caught up in teaching you properly. You find yourself wishing you could see the skin of his hands beneath those gloves, and you catch your eyes drifting to the movement of his lips more often than they should. Unfortunately, it seems that your advances thus far have gone undetected, so you decide to turn on the charm.

Closing that small gap between you, you gaze at him from beneath your lashes, lips parted in a pout. "Would you play something for me?"

If your question is not enough to stop his lecture, the warmth of your body against his own is. His hood casts just enough of a shadow that you cannot see his eyes still, but you can feel the deep intake of breath. "I have nothing to play that you could possibly recall." He defends, tongue darting out to swipe at his lips.

"Does one attend a concert solely to hear things they have heard before?" you counter easily, going as far as to lay your hand atop his own that still rests on the keys. "Show me this skill you claimed to have."

However, Elidibus is not as prideful as Emet-Selch or even Lahabrea, and your barb bounces off. "I have nothing to prove to you, Warrior." His voice is firm, but non-threatening.

"Then why did you bring me here?" you question, pressing even closer to him. Your cloak has slipped from your shoulders, revealing your supple skin to glow under the stage lights. "We are enemies before we are companions. What brought you to the Warrior of Light's rooms to steal her away,"

Before you can finish the sentence he's pressed his lips to yours as best he can with his damned mask in the way. It takes you by surprise, but his sudden confidence gives way to hesitation, and you easily take control of the kiss. "Zodiark help me," he breathes, even though between the two of you, you're the only one who needs the air.

You reach to try and peel back his hood but his hands are like stone as they catch your wrists in their grip, the points of his claws pricking your skin. "That is an intimacy you've not yet earned." Despite the underlying threat in his voice, you can hear the hunger, the unabashed desire suffusing his words.

"How does one go about it then?" You rasp, pressing your chest against him. "How might I see the man beneath the mask?"

"I am no man," he rumbles, guiding your arms to link around his shoulders. "But I am not immune to...worldly pleasures. Even if it has been some time."

"It sounds like you've devoted yourself to duty too much," You comment, instead choosing to place kisses along his jawline, feeling how smooth his skin is. "Perhaps I may provide a distraction?"

"A distraction," he echoes, his hands trailing down your sides, feeling the curvature your nightgown refused to hide. "Very well."

Hands at your hips, he urges you to leave your spot on the piano bench to straddle his lap, the skirt of your gown riding even higher. His hands are gentle, but greedy, a shuddering sigh passing his lips as he gives the meat of your thighs a testing squeeze. "Has it been long for you?" you ask out of curiosity.

He huffs a bitter laugh. "Even in days of eld have I ever focused on my duty." Through with words, he brings your lips down to his own, slightly hesitant until past experience catches up with him, as if relearning how to nock a bow. He tastes divine, all dark, forbidden magic, cool under the heat of the lamps in the rafters. He wrenches control of the kiss suddenly, nipping at your lip, coaxing your tongue to twine with his as his hands push your gown up higher.

While most would fear his claws, the feel of them dragging up your skin only serves to make you quiver under his touch. Your hips roll against him, both from your own need driving your actions and to regain the upper hand. You succeed in pulling a gasp from his throat as his hands grip painfully tight, hard enough to elicit a whimper of pain that has the claws vanishing before you can speak against it.

“I liked those,” you comment, allowing him to tilt your head back to taste the skin on your neck, his tongue a mix of ice and fire as he licks a slow line along your collarbones. Unsure what to do with your hands, you give a desperate tug to his robes. “This is rather one-sided, don’t you think?” You give another roll of your hips, feeling the imprint of his length between your thighs.

“The privilege,”

“Is not yet earned, yes, I too, have ears,” you sass, grinding down harder, moaning as you feel just how rigid he is, feel how hot and hard he is beneath his robes. “I have bared my soul to you, Elidibus. There are a precious few who have known me this way.” With cautious fingers, your play with the hem of his hood. “Just for tonight.” You whisper, slowly pushing it back.

He lets you, lets the hood rest against his back to reveal long hair that you aren’t quite sure if it purple or silver or perhaps even both. You waste no time taking the strands between your fingers, feeling their softness, their silkyness, this move somehow igniting your passion even more as you press into him for a deep kiss. He groans deeply into your mouth, his hands in a rush to divest you of your robe. You won’t move your hands from his hair in favor of him pulling the gown off, so he simply turns it to mist, baring your nude body to his hungry eyes.

As his mouth trails lower, so do your hands, surprised to see his robes melt away with each thread you touch. Ilm by ilm, milky, unmarred skin is bared to your curious eyes, finding him lean and fit beneath his clothing. His skin is smooth, inhumanly perfect, silken to the touch as you run your hands across his torso as if you had never felt up a man in your life. Just as his mouth reaches a breast, your fingers graze across his pants, the threads evaporating and revealing his length, your hands immediately seeking out the prize you sought.

He seems to be painfully hard in your hand, a small glance between the two of you shows that the head of him is red to the point of nearly being purple, and you tut to yourself. “This won’t do,” lowering your hips, you slick him with your wetness, his arms clutching you to him as he gives a full body shudder.

“By Zodiark,” he rasps, totally breathless. You hum, pleased, glad he doesn’t notice how much your own sex quivers with how much you need him.

“Your piano playing is very well its own brand of foreplay,” you admit, gliding yourself along his length. There’s no way he wouldn’t slip on in, but still you raise yourself just enough to slip a finger inside, pausing your grinding.

“Have you always talked so much,” He growls, pressing a finger of his own inside you, making it your turn to gasp. His finger is longer, thicker, just the right amount to spread you for him in what must be his haste to get inside you.

“You don’t talk enough,” You laugh, arching your back as your walls flutter around his finger. You give him control, allowing him to slip a second finger inside. “Twelve above,”

“Silence,” he grunts, curling his fingers just so inside you. He give you little time to catch your breath as your toes curl from the sheer pleasure, leaning you back against the ivory keys, uncaring of the dissonance that rings throughout the auditorium. With hurried, yet careful movements, he lifts you high enough to sit atop them, placing himself between your thighs. There are no words as he guides himself into your wet heat, the groan torn from his throat nearly enough to send you over the edge.

“Elidibus,” you gasp, back arching off the glossy wood. Your arms clutch him by the shoulders, looping around to bring him down for a needy kiss as he slowly begins to stroke, pumping harder and harder until he loses himself in chasing his end. Your lewd sounds echo in the auditorium, your gasps and sighs making a lovely duet next to his grunts and groans. You take in everything; the way his lips are parted, how fiercely he grips your hips to bring you down on his cock.

His mask.

Reaching up, your finger tips brush his mask just barely before a hand grabs your wrist in a death grip, his lips pulled into a frown. “Don’t,” There is almost a desperation to his voice, a plea.

“Elidibus,” you whimper, reaching up with your other hand, lifting the mask ever so slowly. “Let me see you.”

He doesn’t stop you, the mask scattering into the air like petals, revealing the sharp features that most Ascians seemed to share. His eyes are similar to his hair, silvery and purple and so godsdamned beautiful that an inner part of you weeps. “Elidibus,” you choke out, pressing close to press your lips to his, moaning into his mouth at his renewed vigor. “Oh gods,”

He presses you down against the piano, eyes focused on your face as you come apart. He doesn’t stop his assault, his eyebrows furrowing as he comes near his end. He begins to lean forward, but you stop him, cradling his face in your hands so that you may watch him fall apart. Rapture overtakes him, your title a broken cry on his perfect lips, the feel of him coming deep inside paling in comparison to seeing his face as he is dragged under by the waves of ecstasy.

It is quiet in the afterglow, your hands caressing his face, allowing him to finally rest his head on your shoulder. Your fingers, light as a feather trail up and down his back, your lips press soft kisses to his skin. “Well?”

He is silent still, almost uncharacteristically so. You wait however, giving him all the time he needs. “It has...been some time.” He admits, caressing your hips just as tenderly.

“A good distraction then?” You ask, nuzzling your head into his neck.

He nods, choosing not to speak still. You do not mind it, deciding to not let words cloud this moment, especially when you know that when it is all said and done, only one of you may live.

[scp095]

LMAO “very complex”

this is just slang for “hyperfixated on the worst stuff ever but with good intentions”

i’m also lesbian but i like the Candy Thingy… reminds me of a certain character i like lmaooo

tagging: @wiltingofthewhitelily @rhythmheavensys @anorexic-bitch-from-the-swamp :3

@igotthisaccountunderduress tagged me to do this quiz and this pic crew

Thanks for the tag <3 I’m obsessed with this pic crew.

Tagging: @emqraldrxses @authorofemotion @caityrayeraye @partlysunny15 @ladyartichokie @pickle-bandits

[rosepyrearchive]

𝐟𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

an  experiment  of  posting  a  drabble  a  day,     from  a  few  sentences  to  a  paragraph  or  more.     i  posted  them  on  my  old  blog,     now  i’m  going  to  compile  them  all  here !

i.

fingers  carefully  shift  the  lavender  crystal  in  betwixt  her  thin  fingers.     for  years,      it  had  remained  faithfully  at  the  base  of  her  throat,     the  way  wolves  protect  each  other’s  most  delicate  parts;     her  father  always  did  the  same.     now,      there’s  somewhere  else  she’d  like  to  place  that  power,     that  protection.     what  color  would  the  crystal  turn,     when  placed  in  anakin’s  palm ?     blue,     like   his  eyes,     or  red,     like  the  blood  he  sheds ?     the  choker  she  once  wore,     pastel  colored  velvet  around  her  neck,     has  an  empty  slot  where  she’d  pulled  the  gem  from,     and  now  it  finds  a  new  home  on  a  long  chain  of  beskar;     where  she  imagines  it  will  press  right  in  the  middle  of  his  chest,     beneath  his  tunic    &    tabard.     no  matter  what  becomes  of  him,     or  what  tries  to  hurt  him . . .   the  chain  and  crystal  will  remain.

ii.

in  her  mother’s  arms,     she  is  just  a  daughter,    a  doll.     on  stage,     she  is  better  than  a  mortal  girl,     or  even  the  immortal  one  she  became;     she’s  a  ballerina  in  tufts  of  pink    &    tulle.     i  am  a  good  girl,     even  now  when  they’re  all  in  the  ground.     now  that  the  curtains  of  earth  &  velvet  have  fallen,     though,     who  is  she ?     who  does  she  become,     without  the  pale  pink  ribbons   &    tight  bodice  of  her  costumes ?      the  voice,     the  visions,     the  hallucinations  seem  to  answer  for  her;     a  ghost,    a  hazy,     obscure  daydream  who  cannot  truly  exist.     who  is  she ?     where  does  the  camouflage,     the  eagerness  to  please  end ?     serena  supposes  it  doesn’t  end  at  all;     and  in  that,     she  is  a  russian  doll  of  nothingness.

iii.

she’s  never  seen  him  without  his  helmet.  no  one  has,     serena  imagines  —  not  in  this  state  of  his  life,     where  removing  it  means  deprivation  and  vulnerability;     the  simple  act  and  thought  is  filled  with  an  intimacy  serena  knows  she  could  never  earn  from  him,     but  …     the  yearning  doesn’t  stop,     nor  does  the  longing  and  curiosity  to  see  his  pallid  skin,     scarred  &  tainted,     the  marks  that  must  cover  his  cheeks  and  chest.     where  do  they  end ?     are  they  like  ripples  in  waves  or  a  pattern ?     and  …  when  she  stands  near  him,  does  he  ever  look  at  her ?     the  blackness  of  his  shield  hides  it  all,  and  it  does  it’s  job  in  making  her  nervous;  serena  can  never  stand  still  in  his  presence,  thighs  shaking  and  nails  digging  trench  tracks  into  her  soft  palms.     darth  vader  is  terrible,  awful,  even  cruel  …     so  what  is  it  that  allures  her  so  deeply,  and  why ?     then  again,  if  she  knew,  perhaps  the  shimmering  butterflies  would  subside  and  she  could  see  clearly,     see  this  for  what  it  was.  he  wasn’t  even  using  her  —  and  she  is  the  very  picture  of  devotion.

iv.

to  what  end  does  the  fae  steal  a  fair  maiden ?     or  is  it  truly  a  crime,     when  the  victim  is  so  terribly  willing ?     allie’s  feet  move  so  mesmerizingly,    around  &  around  while  flowers  and  mushrooms   bloom  from  beneath  her  soles;     her  palm  is  so  open  –     ❪   come  to  me,     serena !   ❫     perspiration  of  late  summer  sticks  to  serena’s  forehead,     betwixt  her  rosy  fingers,     ❪   𝙾𝚁  𝙸𝚂  𝚂𝙷𝙴  𝙹��𝚂𝚃  𝙽𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙾𝚄𝚂 ?     𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙴  𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙳  𝚃𝙾  𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻  𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃  𝚆𝙰𝚈 …   ❫     and  without  a  regret,     she  lays  her  hand  in  the  other  girl’s.     she  sups  on  honeyed  milk,     gives  her  name.     the  fairies  covet  gold,     and  what  is  serena,     if  not  well - dressed  in  a  golden  shroud,    from  her  crown  to  the  hem  of  her  long  dress ?     what  does  she  have  to  fear,     when  she  is  magic  all  on  her  own ?     allie’s  hand  lifts  both  of  theirs  high  as  she  twirls  serena  amidst  the  flowers,     and  she  swears  she  can  feel  grass  grow  from  her  steps.

v.

calloused  fingers  dig  deep  into  serena’s  sweet,     soft  dimples;     and  from  her  jaw,    trickles  of  sweet  wine  drip,     down  her  neck,    like  spilled  rubies  on  her  pale  skin.     you  hurt  me,    she  wants  to  say.     you’ve  hurt  me,     and  i  am  the  one  who’s  sorry.     hollis  draws  his  thumb  down  to  her  chin,     leaving  perfect  smudged  fingerprints  across  her  the  way  one  would  drag  their  fingers  across  a  fogged  glass.     his  eyes  are  a  dull,    venomous  green  as  he  calls  her  a  name  that  doesn’t  belong  to  her.    that  isn’t  me,   serena  wants  to  cry.     non,    mon rêve,     you’re  much  prettier  than  she  ever  was,     hollis  would  reply,     because  this  isn’t  the  first  time.     he  squeezes  bruises  into  her  little  arms  as  he  kisses  her,     and  serena  thinks  she  kisses  him  back.

vi.

allow  the  camera  to  pan  upwards,     from  her  pale  pink  ballet  slippers  into  her  soft  cotton  dress,     her  feet  turn  out  in  first  position  as  she  raises  her  hands  into  fourth,     pulled  up  by  soft  silk  strings  by  an  invisible  puppeteer.     the  stage  is  her  church,     a  massive,     all  encompassing  world  of  history  &  grace,     and  then  the  world  becomes  it’s  own  stage;     and  serena’s  performance  is  all  consumed,     like  an  apple  in  the  garden  of  eden.     isn’t  she  so  lovely,     so  flawless,     our  little  ballerina  ornament ?     serena  doesn’t  know  who,     or  what,    controls  her  actions   –   her  lies,     her  pliés.     some  entity  who  refuses  to  present  themselves,     only  bothering  to  choreograph  her  life  &  watch  her  from  behind  the  scenes;     she  is  both  fresh  as  a  flower,     brought  up  in  springtime,     &     as  broken  as  skeletons  that  have  long  withered  to  dusk  in  their  caskets.     even  in  her  most  secluded  moments,     she  does  not  feel  alone   –   not  truly.     this  puppet master  is  always  watching,     writing  their  script,     judging  her  arches  and  how  gracefully  she  can  slide  across  the  floor  in  her  pointe  shoes.     when  she  takes  her  final  bow,     it’s  only  the  studio  mirror  that  gazes  back  at  her,     her  own  doelike  brown  eyes,     her  own  slim  form  –  there’s  no  cables  attaching  her  to  the  ceiling.

this  life  is  so  very  boring,     so  unlike  the  dreamy  world  she  longed  for  as  a  foolish  girl.     i  had  long  ruined  my  own  life  with  my  own  dissatisfaction  before  someone  else  destroyed  it  for  me.

viii.

longing  lurks  deep  behind  a  golden  -  brown  gaze   /   what  comfort  can  she  take  in  the  jedi  code,     when  it’s  cold,    hard …     and  ben’s  hand  is  warm,     all  encompassing ?    the  code,     the  code …     the  temple  is  a  stage,     and  the  council  pulls  her  strings,     but  the  one  thing  they  can’t  take  from  her  is  her  mind;     in  there,     she  is  strong,     stone.     they  encourage  compassion:     but  no  attachments.     what  is  that,     to  her ?    what  is  it  compared  to  the  sunlight  she  feels  in  ben’s  eyes  when  he  leans  down  to  kiss  her  temple,     or  the  delight  serena  can  see  in  him  when  she  enters  the  room ?     ❪  because  love  is  the  death  of  duty,     as  wiser  men  say   ❫     in  many  ways,     she  is  greater  than  other  girls;     a  doll - like  padawan,    bright,     intelligent   –   but  in  the  end,    she  is  still  human,     and  she  finds  no  love  within  the  code   /   only  does  she  find  the  serenity  it  speaks  of  in  ben’s  embrace,     and  the  way  he  bends  over  at  the  waist  to  hold  her,     and  he  is  all  around  her  like  cologne.     that  is  a  glory  &  a  tragedy  worth  dying  for.

viii.

fear  has  always  cut  deep  within  serena’s  soft  skin;     it  was  easy  to  pull  her  apart  like  a  pomegranate,     see  the  little  pin - prick  razors  of  fright,     but  nothing  had  made  her  so  afraid  since  meeting  the  jedi.     she’s  a  fragile  heart  wound  tightly  in  red  ribbons  and  strings,     each  tied  to  the  pinkie  finger  of  every  person  she  loves.     some  of  the  ends  are  cut,     some  fray  towards  the  latter,     but  she  doesn’t  forget.     she  doesn’t  let  go,     not  in  her  deep  heart,     where  they  are  safe.     the  jedi  don’t  agree;     and  her  body  wracks  with  guilt  as  she  resists  placing  ribbons  on  their  fingers.     they  cannot  love  me,     she  knows   /   so  why  isn’t  it  enough  to  stop  her ?

ix.

every  part  of  my  body  aches.       serena  sits  on  the  hard  bathroom  floor  like  a  stain  on  the  tile,     the  tulle  of  her  practice  skirt  shimmering  in  the  dim  fluorescents.     the  plastic  stall  divider  is  freezing  against  her  shoulders,     and  it  hurts  when  her  head  falls  back  against  it.     the  bathroom  is  empty,     but  the  room  is  loud.     DISGUSTING  GIRL.     IT  HURTS.    what  hurts ?     I  CAN’T  FIND  IT  ANYMORE,     IT’S  SPREAD  LIKE  A  POISON.     she  finds  sanctuary  in  her  own  little  white  lies,     and  this  stall  where  none  of  the  other  ballerinas  go  –  she’s  a  soloist,     a  prima;     she  is  special.     allegedly.     she  barely  notices  the  wine - red  trickle  of  blood  that  spills  from  her  nose,     gravity  pulling  it  down  her  perfect  pale  face.      the  relief  is  nearly  instant,     whatever  ache  she’d  had  seems  to  fade  away   /   her  eyes  hone  in  on  the  empty  plastic  bag,     only  remnants  of  white  pill  powder  left.     the  same  resin  seems  to  linger  on  the  tip  of  her  pointe  shoe,     that  she’d  used  to  crush  it  all  up.     the  urge  to  smash  the  wooden  end  of  her  slipper  into  the  stupid  godforsaken  plastic  container  as  hard  as  she  can  and  see  how  much  damage  she  can  do  washes  over  her;     but  she’s  too  shocked  by  the  sudden  violent  urge  to  act  on  it.     instead,     serena  lets  the  clarity  &  ability  to  focus  drown  out  the  voices  that  scream  in  her  tender  head,     and  brings  herself  to  stand.

x.

❪   𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐊  ❫

pink  silk  shimmers  in  the  early  morning  sun;     her  blush  is  just  as  pretty,     sitting  across  from  her  father  at  the  iron  balcony  table.     he  is  her  king,     her  first  love,     and  serena  revels  in  the  attention  her  father  lavishes  on  her.     everything  is  still  so  new,     so  beautiful,     when  she’s  young  –  serena  dreams  of  the  future,     of  white  veils  and  cotillions.     her  distance  isn’t  yet  defensive,     but  a  sweet  daydream,     of  romantic  notions  &  hopes.     serena  dreams  of  the  far  away,     of  paris  and  rushing  crowds.     you  have  the  carlisle  look,     julian  had  told  her,    once.    your  brother  has  it  too.     someday,     this  world  will  be  wrapped  around  your  little  finger.     be  kind  to  it.     serena  had  smiled  so  lovely  at  that  –  let  the  world  be  kind.     let  it  show  her  kindness.

xi.

❪   𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐘  ❫

this  is  a  private  moment;     but  serena  can  feel  the  hidden  camera  lenses  on  her,     seeking  that  million  dollar  photo of  palpable  grief,     or  the  bullet  hole  in  her  father’s  chest,     as  if  it  weren’t  hidden  from  view  behind  his  favorite  suit.     she  won’t  cry.     serena  had  already  emptied  herself  of  every  golden  tear  when  she’d  cleaned  her  father’s  face,     when  she’d  combed  his  hair.      she  was  the  one  who’d  laid  his  arms  over  his  chest,     with  her  favorite  stuffed  animal  between  them  to  keep  him  company.     august  pulls  all  her  curls  behind  her  head,     and  lays  his  hands  on  her  thin  shoulders,     squeezing  just  enough  to  be  a  reassurance.     a  million  questions  ran  through  her  head  –     every  single  one  beginning  with  why.

her  fingers  drift,     softly,     for  the  last  time,     over  her  father’s  cheek.     she  pretends  it’s  warm  with  life,     and  not  chilling  to  the  bone.     if  he  could  be  killed,     then  no  one  is  safe.

xii.

❪   𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋  ❫

be  kind  to  the  world.    serena’s  innocence  had  died  screaming,     yet  she  still  remembers  the  words  her  father  had  told  her.     sunlight  streams  through  the  trees  above,     but  she  is  too  stiff  to  move  just  yet;     so  she  lies  there  in  the  grass,     flowers  having  bloomed  over  the  years  of  her  sleep  through  her  hair  and  around  her  body.     a  new  era  has  begun,     everything  she  knows  is  gone.     everyone  she  loves  is  gone.     maybe  it’s  the  haziness  of  first  waking  up  after  a  half - century,     but  there’s  a  determination  beneath  her  silk  skin,     her  ivory  bones.     serena  has  become  something  new,     just  as  the  world  has  –  beneath  the  porcelain,     her  ribs  have  grown  steel.     she  will  not  be  so  breakable  ever  again.

xiii.

in  the  movies,     pearls  are  always  being  yanked  from  necks,     the  precious  little  beads  clattering  to  the  hardwood  floor  in  bunches.     serena  allows  the  pretty  necklace  to  drift  through  her  fingers,     remembering  the  time  her  mother  had  wrapped  it  around  her  neck.     she’d  felt  like  such  a  little madam  in  her  maman’s  pearls.     there’s  a  little  secret:     those  pearls  in  films,     dramatic  as  they  were,     were fake.     maman’s  were  genuine,     and  the  little  pieces  were  knotted  in  between,     meaning  even  if  she’d  ripped  them  from  her  throat,     only  one  or  two  at  worst  would  go  missing.     her  mother  was  too  much  of  a  lady,     anyway …     prone  to  melancholy  and  hurt,     but  not  quite  fits.     what  a  complicated  love,     the  one  between  a  mother  &  a  daughter …     serena  finds  herself  missing  her  mother’s  arms  more  often  than  not  these  days,     and  the  security  that  came  with  them.

xiv.

valentine’s  day  has  always  been  a  non - affair  romantically;     her  favorites  were  dinner  dates  with  her  family,     the  men  being  the  gentlemen,     and  the  one  day  her  maman  would  let  her  wear  her  red  lipstick.     the  couples  on  the  street  below  her  balcony  make  her  feel something,    but  is  it  jealousy,   or  nostalgia ?     her  palm  cradles  her  jaw  as  she  leans  against  the  iron  barrier.     a  man  kisses  a  woman,     and  why  does  her  heart  lurch  for  something  so  impossible ?    to  love,     to  be  loved …     she  would  never  be  capable  of  it,     her  last  boyfriend  had  told  her  so.     adam  had  as  well.     anyone  who  would  want  to  spend  this  day  with  her  is  dead,     and  no  one  else  could  accept  the  things  she’d  done,     the  person  she’s  become  beneath  the  lace  and  ribbons.     hallowed,     broken.

xv.

i   hate  the  dirt.     i  hate  the  grime  that  i  can’t  wash  away,     and  the  fingerprint  i  leave  on  the  pristine  envelope  that  the  postman  gives  me,     his  gaze  apologetic.     until  i  look  at  the  handwriting,     i  don’t  understand  why.     it’s  been  a  week  since  he  could  last  reach  us  on  the  battlefield,     to  give  us  some  form  of  comfort  and  relief,     and  he  only  gives  me  a  single  letter.     there  should  be  more.     serena  writes  to  me  every  day,     there  should  be  at  least  six  or  seven,     all  beginning  with  my  dearest  brother;     but  even  the  single  letter  isn’t  from  my  sister,     but  my  wife.     i  should  be  excited  for  that,     but  i’m  not  –  not  when  i  can’t  fathom  why  there’s  only  this  one  letter.     when  i  tear  into  it,     a  picture  falls  out:     my  wife,     holding  our  son.     this  is  a  happy  moment,     and  i  can  feel  pressure  build  behind  my  eyes,     but  it’s  distracted,     because  serena  should  be  in  this  photo.     she  isn’t,     because  for  some  godforsaken  reason  she’s  here  in  europe  –  and  that’s  enough  to  push  the  tears  from  my  eyes.     i  should  be  there,     and  serena  should  be  holding  her  nephew  and  accepting  our  request  to  be  his  godmother.

but  she  isn’t,     and  i’m  not  either.

xvi.

the  streets  of  new  york  now  aren’t  so  different  from  the  streets  of  new  york  in  my  childhood.     the  fashion  is  different;     women  wear  shorter  skirts,     deeper  cuts  to  expose  their  collarbones,     and  these  are  changes  i  like.     the  buildings  still  creep  into  the  clouds  like  pillars  of  divinity,     and  the  sidewalks  are  crowded,     but  no  one  pays  too  much  attention  to  anyone  else.     the  men  dress  differently  too,     and  those  changes  i  don’t  like,     but  if  i  sit  and  close  my  eyes …     it’s  still  all  the  same,     and  i  can  picture  the  cars,     the  pretty  women  and  handsome  men …     even  my  silly  little  girl  friends,     the  ones  who  would  walk  with  me  during  breaks  in  ballet  when  we  had  so  little  else  to  do.     when  i  close  my  eyes,     it  doesn’t  feel  like  a  lifetime  ago.

xvii.

it  happens  gradually,     then  all  at  once,     like  the  impatience  of  waiting  for  a  rose  to  blossom.     one  day  you  wake  up,     and  it’s  simply  bloomed,     petals  spread  wide  in  the  sunshine.     in  that  case,     serena  wonders  which  moment  it  was  that  made  her  realize  her  feelings  for  ben  had  flowered   ──   was  it  the  time  his  fingers  grazed  hers  on  the  piano  keys,     and  he  played  the  wrong  note  to  make  her  laugh ?     or  perhaps  when  he  smiled  at  her  so  earnestly,     all  white  teeth  and  curled  lips  that  met  the  crinkles  by  his  eyes ?     she  can’t  pinpoint  the  exact  moment  she  realized  she  loves  ben  kenobi;     serena  only  knows  what  she  feels  now,     the  safety  of  his  warm  hugs,     the  way  the  word  ‘graves’  slips  between  her  teeth  and  she  doesn’t  choke  trying  to  reel  it  back  in.     home  was  something  impossible,     turned  to  ash  &  bone,     but  then  she  finds  herself  sitting  at  their  table  in  the  coffee  shop  &  she  thinks  perhaps  a  home  can  be  rebuilt.

xviii.

prayer  used  to  come  first  thing  in  the  morning,     a  mantra  spoken  breathlessly  to  open  air.     it’s  not  an  ideology  that  serena  subscribes  to  anymore     ❪   part  of  her  wonders  if  she  ever  did   ❫ ,     but  old  habits  had  died  hard.     she  wants  to  enjoy  a  new  one.     ben  is  there,     barely  awake  while  thick  raindrops  smack  against  the  balcony  doors,     and  serena  shimmies  his  boxers  down  his  thighs.     she’s  already  asked  him  nicely,     with  her  polite  manners  and  pretty  mouth     ──     and  she  tries  to  mask  her  eagerness  with  languid  movements,     laying  her  cheek  to  his  hip  and  letting  her  long  curls  fall  over  his  body.     serena  knows  he  can  feel  her  by  the  way  he  shudders  when  her  eyelashes  flit  over  him,     her  rose - petal  fingers  everywhere  and  nowhere  because  they  aren’t  exactly  where  ben  wants  them.     you  should  tell  me  what  you  like,    serena  offers  with  a  wicked  little  smile,     dragging  his  hand  until  he  can  grip  her  curls,     holding  sunshine  in  his  palms.

xix.

when  the  legs  beat  against  each  other  in  the  midst  of  a  jete,     it’s  a  battu  jete …     beaten.     everything  is  more  beautiful  in  french,     and  serena  thinks  it’s  true  of  herself  as  well.     she  had  been  her  company  director’s  little  princess,     sliding  into  his  queen;     she  would’ve  been  the  youngest  prima  ballerina  in  history.     she  would’ve  had  a  life.     she  would’ve  had  a  brother.     orson  does  so  much  for  her,     and  serena  can  hardly  find  it  in  herself  to  be  grateful,     can  hardly  repeat  the  pleasantries  and  manners  she’d  been  taught  to  sing  since  she  was  a  little  girl  letting  words  tumble  from  her  mouth.     instead,     serena  tries  to  create  a  peaceful  world,     she  jumps  at  the  chance  to  redesign  the  building  he  buys,     create  a  setting  of  her  own  making;     only  to  lay  under  the  covers,     sleeping  next  to  a  pillow  she  pretends  is  august.

xx.

disgusting.     vile.    serena  watches  august  rip  a  newspaper  in  half,     once,     twice,     then  three  times,     letting  the  pieces  fly  onto  the  floor  and  cover  the  coffee  table.     the  headline  had  once  read  about  her,     calling  her  a  top  three  debutante  in  new  york’s  uppercrust  society.     not  just  in  the  top  three,     but  ranked  number  one.    shouldn’t  we  be  proud ?    serena  asks  him.    shouldn’t  i  be  flattered ?     august  had  fallen  to  his  knees  in  front  of  the  chaise  where  she  sat  after  that,     holding  her  little  hands  in  his  own.     he  squeezes  them  so  tight  serena  winces.    tell  me,     he  begs.     tell  me  if  anyone  ever  touches  you.     tell  me,     and  i’ll  kill  them.    with  all  the  naivety  in  the  world,     serena  giggles,     shaking  her  head.     nonsense,     my  darling  brother.     the  only  man  i  love  is  you;     and  the  only  man  who  shall  ever  touch  me  is  not  here  yet.

xxi.

the  sunlight  doesn’t  seem  so  bright,     but  the  city  is  just  as  bustling  as  the  last  time  she’d  seen  it.     what  year  had  that  been ?     somewhere  around  nineteen  forty,     serena  thinks.     her  old  ballet  studio  has  moved;     it’s  previous  location  now  just  another  parking  lot  in  new  york  city.     everything  about  it  gives  her  whiplash.     it’s  all  the  same  and  all  entirely  different.     she  almost  expects  to  see  august  across  the  street,     handsome  smile  &  hair  swept  back,     but  she  knows  she  won’t.     he’s  dead,     and  so  is  everyone  else  she  ever  knew.     there’s  a  pressure  on  her  shoulders,     wondering  when  someone  will  notice  the  imaginary  blood  seeping  out  of  her  core,     or  when  someone will  realize  she’s  half - dead.     little  walking  dead  girl,     schrodinger’s  girl,     dead  and  alive.

xxii.

photographs  from  another  era  are  spread  all  across  the  wooden  table  serena  sits  at,     glimmering  and  shining  in  their  black  and  white  glory,     sepia,     and  even  a  few  colored  ones.     they  all  had  a  touch  of  grain  to  them,     the  consequence  of  new,     unperfected  technology,     but  serena  adores  them.     after  all,     in  every  photo  she  sees  the  face  of  someone  she  loves.     her  grandfather  royce,     cradling  the  toddler  version  of  herself  in  his  arms,     and  then  them  at  a  later  age,     serena  with  her  arms  wrapped  tightly  around  him.     in  another  photo,     serena  sits  in  his  lap,     while  her  grandmother,     the  woman  for  whom  she  was  named,     hugs  them  both  from  behind.     so  many  lost  smiles,     shining  with  no  idea  of  what’s  to  come.     her  finger  traces  along  another  photo,     of  her  mother  posing  with  her  in  her  first  pair  of  pointe  shoes.     she’d  been  so  proud  that  day,     and  serena  can’t  help  but  smile  back  at  her.     these  little  moments  are  all  she  has  left  now;     what  if  she  forgets  it  all  someday ?     at  least  she  won’t  forget  their  faces.     serena  glues  the  back  of  the  photos,  pasting  them  into  a  scrapbook.     there  are  new  people  she  doesn’t  want  to  forget  someday  as  well,     and  for  them,     serena  glances  at  a  newer  camera.     she  doesn’t  have  to  forget.

xxiii.

moy  lebed.    my  swan.    mr.  nikolaev  calls  her  that,     from  the  first  moment  he  saw  her  complete  the  thirty - two  fouettés  in  odile’s  coda.     serena  sighs  into  the  open  studio.     the  sky  has  long  gone  dark,     and  every  other  dancer  and  crew  member  has  gone  home — but  she  remains.     this  is  the  dedication  that  will  make  me  the  prima,     serena  reminds  herself.     this  is  what  sets  me  apart.     she  counts  the  steps  in  her  head  until  she  loses  herself  to  the  imagined  music,     eyes  closed  while  she  moves  her  arms  and  tip - toes  across the  floor.     serena  is  the  very  picture  of  a  music  box  ballerina  when  she  kicks  her  foot  up,      finding  her  north  star  and  turning  in  pirouettes.     not  even  the  quiet  opening  of  a  door  interrupts  her  focus.     august  takes  her  little  waist  in  his  hands  and  helps  to  give  her  the  extra  momentum.     then  he  hoists  her  over  his  shoulder,     telling  her  how  mother  is  so worried,    and  she  has  to  come  home  right  away…     all  spoken  with  his  hidden,    wry  smile.

xxiv.

i  had  never  tried  to  impress  anyone  the  way  i’d  tried  to  impress  mr.  nikolaev,     my  ballet  master  and  choreographer.     my  every  waking  moment  was  spent  under  his  scrutinizing  gaze,     attempting  to  dissect  his  utter  dissatisfaction  with  the  world  for  it’s  lack  of  grace  and  beauty  and  what  he  felt  towards  me  specifically …     all  in  a  leotard  and  tights  that  would  only  leave  the  color  of  my  skin  to  our  imaginations,     and  mirrors  on  every  wall  reminding  me  of  that  fact.     i  don’t  know  if  i  tried  harder  to  gain  his  attention  in  the  first  place,     or  if  i  would  have  killed  myself  trying  to  keep  it.     no  girl  is  ever  more  beautiful  than  they  are  at  sixteen,     and  though  i  didn’t  realize  it,     perhaps  if  i  had  lived  to  see  him  again  in  my  later  years  he  would’ve  been  impressed  with  my  freckles,     my  dimples,     and  my  big  eyes  at  the  age  of  twenty  –  i’ve  heard  i  don’t  look  so  different.     still,     i  was  even  more  girlish  then  than  i  am  now,     and  three  times  as  shy ;     ballet  was  all  i  could  use  to  get  him  to  look  at  me,     to  make  him  pay  attention  &  perhaps  remember  why  he  took  this  job  in  the  first  place  after  his  own  short,     but  famed  career.     i  would  be  perfect ;     not  just  for  him,     but  for  myself.     it  didn’t  hurt  anything  that  i  was  his  little  prima  prodigy.     he  smiled  for  the  first  time  when  he  called  me  his  moy  lebed,     his  swan,     and  i  can’t  remember  the  last  thing,     even  now,     that  had  made  my  heart  soar  so  much.

xxv.

‘are  you  ready?’     on  the  cusp  of  spring  in  the  midst  of  march,     lies  serena’s  birthday.     thirteen  is  such  a  special  age  for  a girl ;     not  quite  a  woman  yet,     not  quite  a  girl  anymore,     but  leaving  the  throes  of  childhood  behind.     august’s  question  comes  with  an  excited  edge  to  his  voice  and  a  slim  box  in  his  hands,     with  pink  wrapping  paper  and  white  ribbons.     the  other  guests  at  the  party  had  long  dissipated,      and  serena  sits  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,     feet  swinging  back  and  forth  to  dissipate  a  bit  of  the  thrill  she  feels.    ‘i’ve  been  waiting  all  day!’     is  what  serena  replies,     taking  the  gift  into  her  lap.     her  brother  sits  down  next  to  her ;     he’s  twenty,     seven  years  older,     and  a  man  grown,     but  it’s  as  if  there’s  no  difference  between  them  as  august  wraps  his  arm  around  her  waist,     matching  brown  eyes  gleaming  as  he  watches  her  carefully  pry  apart  the  paper  to  reveal  a  box  of  velvet.     ‘it’s  sentimental,’     august  had  said,     as  to  why  he  couldn’t  let  her  open  it  amongst  the  guests.     private,     serena  thinks.     her  brother  was  always  a private  man.     when  she  lifts  the  lid,     and  august  uses  his  other  hand  to  fold  away  the  white  paper,     it  reveals  a  precious,     heart - shaped  golden  locket.     he  pulls  it  out  by  the  chain,     letting  the  pendent  rest  in  serena’s  palms.     ‘it’s  the  most  beautiful  thing  i’ve  ever  seen,’     serena  says,     eyes  glimmering.     august’s  fingers  snap  the  clasp,     and  inside,     a  photo  of  himself  on  one  side,     and  then  a  photo  of  their  parents  from  their  wedding  day  on  the  other.     serena  beams  as  august  closes  it  then  places  the  necklace  around  her  neck,     the  pendent  falling  just  at  her  collarbones.    ‘it’s  beautiful,     my  wonderful  brother,’     she  says,     and  august  kisses  her  crown.     ‘it’s  almost  as  lovely  as  you,     my  sweet  little  sister,     and  you  deserve  lovely  things.     this  way,     we’ll  always  be  with  you.’

xxvi.

julian’s  wedding  band  was  like  him ;     it  was  a  simple  golden  band,     with  ivy  growing  around  it,     interrupted  only  by  a  diagonal  line  of  diamonds.     when  serena  tilts  it  back,     she  can  see  her  mother’s  name  engraved  in  it.     eirene’s  was  a  little  flashier,     with  a  bigger  diamond  in  the  center.     it  wasn’t  because  of  her  personality,     though …     in  that,     serena  can  still  see  her  father,     wanting  to  impress  her,     wanting  to  give  his  wife  the  world.     julian’s  ring  occupies  her  left  thumb ;     she  couldn’t  bear  to  get  it  resized  for  her  dainty  hands,     so  it’s  the  best  she  could  manage.     he’d  had  a  lithe  frame,     and  for  that  she’s  thankful  –  serena  remembers  sliding  the  ring  off  of  his  finger  when  she’d  crossed  his  arms  over  his  chest,     holding  it  between  her  fingers.     she  had  to  have  it.     her  mother  had  worn  hers  until  the  very  last,     until  she  had  slipped  from  serena’s  hand  into  the  ocean’s  embrace.     serena  had  only  been  able  to  just  clasp  the  ring,     before  it  too  could  fall  from  her  grasp.     now,     it  rests  on  her  index  finger,     where  at  least  on  her  hands,     her  parents  could  still  be  together.

[tronnyboyo]

BLUE SEA Chapter 2: The Prince of the Ocean

Based off of “Delicious” from Pet Shop of Horrors

Rating: Teen

AU: Don Thousand’s Pet Shop

Relationship(s): Hellshark/Disqualifyshipping (IVxRyoga)

Warnings: N/A

Summary: Thomas goes to retrieve the pet Ryoga had ordered. 

  Before me, the unremarkable pet shop stood. Its windows were darkened and I couldn’t see beyond the sign that hung there. I checked the map again and looked around. Heartland City’s Quartz Quarter had meant to be an upscale part of town, filled with high end stores and luxury boutiques. Unfortunately, after the WDC and the Barian Invasion, most of them had fled to safer cities. What was left were a series of smashed in storefronts and cracked sidewalks. Garbage littered the streets and not a single O-bot was seen. 

   I was surprised that there was still business here. Yet now that I thought of it, this would be the exact part of town Ryoga would have done his shopping in. Like him, this place had fallen from grace, awaiting a revival. The only difference between him and the Quartz Quarter was that he was able to rise up again. 

    I took in a deep breath. Here goes nothing. 

   Stepping through the pet store’s double doors, I was immediately surrounded by the heady smell of incense. I blinked for a few moments, my eyes watering. It must have been to disguise the smell of the pets. As my body slowly accustomed to its new surroundings, I hesitantly walked in. The pet store was dimly lit with a single light hanging from the ceiling. It was a pretty light, decorated with tiles forming curlicues of flowers and butterflies. Too bad it wasn’t particularly functional. The light was a dark amber, barely making a difference from the rest of the shadows. 

  “Hello there, Mr. Arclight. If you please, we can sit down over there and have some tea,” called a voice from the shadows. 

   I jumped, wildly turning towards the voice. From the darkness seemed to emerge a man with long, shadowy hair and deep red bangs. He wore robes that were equally dark, patterned with embroidered flowers against a background of black. Long fingers with black and sharp nails rested by his sides. His mismatched eyes regarded me carefully as he stepped into the amber light. 

   “Are you Emperor Thousand?” I asked. 

    The man nodded and motioned towards the sofa. It must have been a stage name. I could respect that. I took a seat and jumped as another young man, clad entirely in black seemed to materialize out of the shadows with a tray of tea. 

   “Thank you, Mist,” murmured the store proprietor as the tea was placed on the mahogany table. 

   As silent as he had arrived, Mist slid away. I turned back to the man before me, despite the slight prickles that were crawling up my spine. He began to pour the tea for both of us, its pleasant aroma melding with the incense. I stifled a sneeze and blinked a few times. 

   “To be precise, Emperor Thousand is my honorary title. My name is Don,” explained the man.  

   “Why Emperor Thousand?” I asked as I regarded the tea. 

   Don took a graceful sip of his tea, his silky tresses sliding towards his elegant face. A small smile filled his alarmingly red lips. 

   “Because it is said that I have one thousand pets and they all regard me as their ruler,” chuckled Don. “Which isn’t true, by the way.” 

   I raised a bushy eyebrow and looked around at the dimly lit pet store. 

   “Is your establishment legal?” I asked in a lowered voice. “Not that it really matters. I’m taking Ryoga’s pet, even if it’s an endangered snow leopard.”

  Don’s laugh was filled with derision, as if he were witnessing the antics of a silly child. 

   “Of course my store is legal! I could show you our certificates and documents in the back if you’d like,” he offered. 

   “Er, no. It’s quite alright. I was just surprised that I’ve never heard of your store before,” I replied awkwardly. 

  Hesitantly, I took a sip of the tea. Woah. It was delicious. Don beamed at my reaction. 

   “What can I say? This store is a hidden gem in the Quartz Quarter.”

   “Mmm.” 

   Before I realized it, I had emptied my cup. The pet store owner quickly moved to refill it. I thanked him and then leaned back in my seat.

   “What exactly did Ryoga order? A dog? A cat? A fish?”

   I received a nod at fish. 

   “A very rare species, too. We had only just received it last Tuesday,” replied Don. 

   My eyes widened. 

  “That was our wedding night.” 

    And Ryoga’s death. 

   “Once again, I would like to offer my condolences.”

   I sighed. The radio stations had gone insane. My phone was quickly filled to the brim with messages. All of the networks had hour-to-hour coverage of the incident. I still hadn’t answered any of the messages that awaited me or listened to them. It was all just static at this point. I took another sip of the sweet smelling tea. 

   “Could we look at this fish now?” I asked, changing the subject. 

   Don languidly removed himself from the sofa, a shimmer in his eyes. His movement brought to mind a slow moving stream, every movement smoothly sliding into the next.

  “Of course. Follow me.” 

  I drained my cup and followed him. He opened the back door to the pet shop and led me down a passage full of winding corridors. From the outside, I never expected it to be so big. Our footsteps fell silent on the soft carpeting. Like the front of the store, it was dimly lit by the occasional amber light. The smell of the incense followed us all the way, never dissipating. As much as I tried to peer into the doors that we passed by, I could see nothing. Distantly, I could hear the cries of birds and loud barking. Sometimes, I thought I could even hear the howling of monkeys. 

   “This way,” said Don as he disappeared down a narrow corridor. 

   “What kind of a fish is it anyways?” I began as the lights began to grow dimmer. “A beta? A goldfish?”

   The pet shop owner chuckled again with the same derision in his voice. He stopped before a large set of copper doors at the end of the corridor. Procuring a key from his pocket, he unlocked the doors and swung them open. 

  “See for yourself,” he invited. 

   In the dimly lit room, I saw an opaque earthen vase that almost touched the high ceiling. A ladder leading to a platform overlooking the top of the vase stood in the corner. The room was surrounded by candles, creating warped shadows across the room. From a record player, the sound of ocean waves was heard. When I took in a deep breath, I noticed that the incense had finally given way to the smell of sea salt. I stood there for a few moments, shocked that such a thing existed in this store. Gently, Don nudged me. 

  “Go on. He’s waiting for you,” he called softly. 

   Giving myself a shake, I stepped forwards. 

   “Ah, right. Take this with you.”

   I paused and saw Don take a candle from its place. Hesitantly, I took it, the fire flickering ominously. Even if the incident had happened a decade ago, I still couldn’t forget what I had done. Noticing my discomfort, Don looked around at the room. 

   “I could get you a lantern from the backrooms,” he offered. 

   Quickly, I shook my head. I wanted to see the fish now. I bounded towards the ladder. With each rung I ascended, I could hear a hollow ring echoing throughout the room. Like funeral bells. When I arrived at the top, I peered into the inky blackness. 

   “There’s nothing the—”

   My blood turned to ice as I saw a flicker of a large shadow and then the beginnings of a face resurfacing from the inky abyss. Before I could drop the candle, I placed it on the platform by the top. I rubbed my eyes in the dim light, praying that I had only been sleep deprived. Shakily, I peered over the edge of the vase again, my nails digging into the rim of the platform. Nothing. I closed my eyes for a few more moments. Nothing.

   Plish. I opened up my eyes again, meeting a pair of deep blue eyes. My heart leapt to my throat. I pulled back and looked down at Don, my blood rushing through my ears. 

  “What kind of a joke is this?!” I snapped. 

   I looked back into the vase, where he remained, staring at me with those deep blue eyes. My voice rose to a fever pitch as he continued to stare at me, heat filling every single pore of my body like a raging fire. The same pale skin. The same pert nose. Those stupid, meticulously plucked brows. 

   “You bastard!” I screamed. “We were all worried about you! I thought you died! You stupid, tasteless son of a bitch! And now you go and do this?! I thought you were fucked up but—”

   Plish. Ryoga sank back into the waters, splashing me with the cold liquid. A hand rested on my shoulder. I turned around to see Don by my side with his own candle in his hands. His expression was solemn as he regarded me. 

   “Please refrain from shouting at him. He dislikes loud noises,” said Don. 

   I gritted my teeth and pulled away.

   “Stop fucking around! I know that’s Ryoga! This isn’t funny!” I snapped.

   “This isn’t a joke. Your husband had ordered a merperson,” murmured Don as he peered into the black abyss. “In truth, I had found him washed ashore during my nightly strolls.” 

   As if on cue, Ryoga peeked up at us again. Wariness filled his expression as he saw me. Gently, Don stuck out his hand and ran his fingers through Ryoga’s curls. Ryoga closed his eyes at the touch, as if it had been me stroking his hair. Jealousy filled my chest. 

   “Adding insult to injury, you hired this creep to play along with this joke of yours?!” I uttered, my eyes filling with tears. “God, what am I to you?”

   Don let out an exasperated sigh. He moved his candle closer to the water. Ryoga looked up at the flame, transfixed. 

   “Look carefully,” he ordered me. 

   I squinted, trying to peer past Ryoga’s smug face. His eyes seemed to mock me. I at once wanted to throttle him and hold him tight. And then, I saw it. A gray dorsal fin. A long tail. Three slashes on each side of his neck that opened and closed. Before I could say anything else, Ryoga had dove into the waters, his tail splashing me. 

   “But...but that’s Ryoga,” I weakly uttered, my anger slowly giving way to relief. “Ryoga…! Come back!”

    No answer. Another sigh from behind me followed. 

   “Perhaps he may look like your husband, but he’s lost all of his memories,” said Don. “If you spend time with him and remind him of who he was when he was human, he could possibly remember again.” 

   I swallowed the lump in my throat. Looking at Don and then back into the waters, I longed to see Ryoga’s beautiful face again. 

   “How…?” I uttered. “How..?”

   I saw him, swallowed into the ocean without resurfacing. It was as if the ocean had consumed him whole. No one, not even the best of Heartland’s coast guards, had been able to find him. We were miles and miles away from the shore. There was no way he could have swum back. Unless...

    Plash. Slowly, Ryoga resurfaced, pale hand resting against the side of the vase. A pang filled my chest when I saw the two silver rings on his fingers.

   “It really is you..,” I choked. 

   My wedding ring was next to his own ring. There was no mistaking it. 

   “Did you ever think that you may have married a merman?” asked Don. “Folklore says that merfolk live at the bottom of the ocean but occasionally walk among us to play.” 

   I looked into my husband’s eyes that were devoid of recognition. My heart wrenched. I desperately wanted to reach out to him and pull him into an embrace that I would never release him from. I wanted his unmoving lips to form my name again, his deep voice erasing all of the previous week’s worries. Yet we only continued to stare at each other. 

   “...he was called the Prince of the Ocean,” I murmured after Ryoga disappeared again.  

     Don chuckled softly, not a hint of mockery in his voice.

   “Perhaps he was indeed the Prince of the Ocean, who came to the surface to amuse himself.”

   A pause followed as I hesitantly reached out into the cold waters, my hands shaking. I felt Don’s gaze on my back, calming and reassuring in the darkness. Please come back, I thought desperately. Memories filled my mind of our moments together. Side-by-side in the pool house, basking in the sweltering summer heat. In the living room, watching the sparse bits of snowflakes dot the garden. Singing together in the gardens during spring. Munching on apples from our trees in the fall, surrounded by shades of rich gold and red. All of it, all of it, was not enough. 

   Ker-plissssh…Ryoga resurfaced under my hand, his hair resting against my palm. Like a cat, he ran his head under my hand, dark strands of purple getting caught in my fingertips. He looked at me from underneath his eyelids, regarding me calmly. For a moment, I thought I saw a flash of coquetry in his face, as if he were his old self again. My hand ran down his surprisingly rough face, sending various prickles up my skin. A smile filled his lips before he dove back into the water. Tease. 

   “Will you take him home?” asked Don. 

   “Yes. Oh, god, yes,” I whispered fervently. 

   “Very good. There’s a bit of paperwork we need to fill out before you can bring him home so would you mind coming down with me?” 

   My heart twisted at the thought of having to leave Ryoga, even for just a few moments. Regardless, I nodded and turned away from the vase. I knew that after this, I could be by his side as long as I wished. As I descended the ladder with Don, future plans with Ryoga were already beginning to fill my mi