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bookshelf-dust · 3 months

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let the light in

steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 2,177

warnings: (this is a heavy fic! please be aware before you read if any of this is triggering for you!) swearing, reader suffers from depression/is in a depressive episode, allusions to passive suicidal feelings and self harm (not explicitly stated), trouble eating/drinking, wooziness, side effects of self-neglect, trouble with self care, one use of y/n, slight hair description—essentially reader is just very depressed

a/n: hello! it’s been quite a while since i wrote anything, but alas i have remembered how. i used this fic as a way to deal with things i’ve been going through and provide myself some comfort, but i’m hoping that it will reach anyone else who needs that or understands these sort of feelings. i really need a steve, and maybe you do too. please be kind! this is a tentative attempt at getting back into writing. also as a small note, this is meant to bet set in the mid 90s, so reader and steve are in their twenties. happy reading <33

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The phone is ringing again. For the third time.

You know who it is without having to answer. It’s not like there are a plethora of people with your number anyway.

But for the third time, you let it ring. When the shrill noise stops, you think you’re in the clear—only for the sound of Steve’s voice to reach your ears. He’s leaving you a voicemail.

Fucking answering machine.

You stare at the wall, your arm dangling off the bed, while you listen to him say everything you knew he’d say. That he’s worried. That he’s coming to check on you because your lack of an answer is freaking him out.

And you gave him a key all those months ago, so it’s not like you can stop him. You wouldn’t have the energy to anyhow.

You roll over and tuck your hands under your cheek. You have no idea what time it is, but the little light your curtains had let in is gone, leaving your room dark. There is a small night light though, just under your window, that Robin bought you because it looks like your favorite flower. Other than that, your small apartment has succumbed to the darkness of a winter evening.

That pressure behind your eyes builds, and without knowing why, you begin to cry. Steve is going to see you like this, and you want to be alone. You don’t have it in you to talk about it or be berated for letting yourself go.

But you’re also angry. You don’t understand why he gives a shit about you, or why he can’t just leave you alone. Why he can’t just let you go. Why he won’t let you go.

Most of all you’re angry at yourself for being this way. For being so fucked up. For being alone and for having to watch everyone else be happy and content.

In your emotional haze, you fall back asleep. You’re not sure how though, considering you shouldn’t even need the rest anymore. But that tired feeling ever goes away, does it?

You wake to the sound of footsteps, to the feeling of your mattress dipping behind you. There’s a gentle weight on your side. Steve.

“Hey, honey,” he starts. “Did you get my message?”

Steve’s hand rubs softly back and forth over the dip of your waist. You hate the pitying tone in his voice. Even if you know it’s not pity. It’s pain. He’s too big of an empath, and he hates seeing you this way. It breaks his heart, not knowing what you’re feeling and having to see you in a way that embodies nothing more than a shell of the you he first met.

“You need to go home, Steve,” you say, refusing to face him. He’s turned your lamp on, and something about that pisses you off.

Your voice is pleading, and it brings tears to Steve’s eyes. He pushes his glasses up onto his forehead.

“You know I can’t do that. I won’t leave you here like this.”

You roll your eyes and shift onto your back. Steve’s stomach drops at how drained you look.

“I want you to leave. I need to be alone,” you say, staring at his hand where it’s moved to your stomach with the change in position.

Your words are harsh, thick with emotion, and you look at Steve like you’re begging him to see how much you’re hurting and need him to go away. You want him to listen and leave you here to slowly disappear. That’s all you’re asking for. So why can’t he give you that much?

It’s killing him to see you like this. To watch you try and push him away. He knows that’s part of your plan. That way it’ll be easier, in the end. But this is not the you he’s always known. There was a time before it got this bad. Before you lost yourself in it.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asks, rather than fueling your frustration.

You roll onto your side, completely facing him now, and pull the blankets up to your chin. Your eyes fill with tears, so you close them. Something about being asked that upsets you. You don’t feel like eating and he’s going to make you.

Steve puts a hand on your leg and waits for an answer.

“Yesterday. At breakfast. I had a Pop-Tart.”

He keeps himself from sighing, but his heart might as well have dropped out of his ass. You haven’t eaten in 36 hours, and he’s sure that if he hadn’t shown up you might’ve made it more. You’re clearly not worried about eating, and there’s not a single cup in your room either.

“Please don’t make me eat, Steve. I don’t feel like it. Please don’t make me do anything.”

You look up at him with pleading eyes. You want to be left here until your body gives up on you.

“Honey, I’m not going to force you. But I came here to help you, and I need you to try and let me.”

Your vision goes blurry, tears rushing to the surface because the idea of taking care of yourself in any way upsets you more than anything. You cover your eyes, but can’t hold back the sob that lurches up your throat.

“Y/N, sweetheart, come here.”

Steve slips a hand around your back, coaxing you upwards. You oblige, happy to let him hold you for a moment. You ignore the fact that your vision blurs again, due to the fact that you haven’t sat up in who knows how long, and fall into him.

“I can’t, Steve. I can’t do anything or remember a damn thing. I’m so tired. I don’t feel like being alive. I don’t want to move.”

Hearing you express those feelings through your cries, hearing you tell him how bad it’s gotten tears him apart. He wants to make it all better. He can’t bear seeing you like this. And he doesn’t want to imagine what you might’ve done to take these feelings out before he got here.

Steve holds you until you stop wailing, and even when you pull away the tears still come, hiccups making you hold your breath. Your eyes are swollen and your nose won’t quit running. It doesn’t bother him one bit.

“I know you probably don’t want to do anything, so I have a plan for you, okay? I’m gonna turn the shower on and let you hop in while I get you something small for dinner. I’m gonna take care of everything.”

You sigh. You can’t leave your bed. Besides, who knows if you’ll even be able to stand with how little you’ve put in your body lately.

You press your face into Steve’s shoulder and shake your head. “I don’t think I can.”

He places both hands gently on your cheeks and lifts your face to get you looking at him.

“You can. I’m going to help, I promise. You won’t have to do anything too demanding.”

Steve slides off the bed and stands. He gently pulls the blankets back from your lap, revealing criss crossed legs and socked feet. He taps your knee and you brace yourself against the mattress, moving your legs over the side, toes feeling for the floor.

He holds out his hands and you grab hold of his forearms, letting him pull you upwards. Just as suspected, your vision swirls and your body goes all tingly. You sway a little, but Steve holds onto you still, waiting for the moment to pass. After a few seconds, your sight clears, your ears stop ringing, and you can stand on your own. “I’m okay now,” you say.

He presses a sweet kiss to your forehead, and your heart sinks into your stomach. You don’t deserve this. He needs to stop being so good to you when you’re falling apart.

“Stretch a little, alright?” Steve looks at you over his shoulder before going for your dresser and opening your pajama drawer.

You try to do as he says, ignoring the way you feel compelled to tell him not to take this so seriously. You press your hands to your back and lean so your hips pop, raise your arms so your shoulders do the same, and bend so harshly that your vision goes out again. Your body is so angry with you.

You’d closed your eyes, but open them when you hear the shower start running. Steve leaves your small bathroom and walks toward you.

“I laid everything out for you, okay? You don’t have to stay long if you don’t want, you only have to cover your bases. You’ll feel so much better after, I promise.”

You nod, and Steve is surprised by the way you hesitantly walk into the bathroom and mentally prepare yourself to shower.

“Yell if you need me,” he says, smiling before he closes the door behind you.

You’ve never wanted to shower less in your life, but the water is already running, and you have to get it over with. You quickly undress, avoiding the mirror and anything that might cause an extra ache. Though you do run a hand over the tender skin of your thigh before opening the door and stepping in. You know you have to be kinder to yourself.

As for bathing, you’re quick, but you wash and condition your hair and make sure to wash your body just as well. You’d never admit it, but being clean does help some. At least you’re physically taken care of.

When you’re finished, you realize you hadn’t gotten a towel, but your eyes soon find what Steve had laid out for you.

Two towels. Underwear. Your robe. Clean pajamas and socks. Not to mention the lotion and hairbrush he slid forward on the counter so you’d reach for them. He did all of this to make things easier for you. And that makes your heart grow in size.

You towel off and make the effort to put lotion on as best as you can. Usually you can haphazardly do your back on your own, but you’re so tired now, you realize. You haven’t moved this much in days.

You gently pull the bathroom door open. “Steve?” you call. He’s there within seconds.

“Yeah? All done, sweetheart?”

“Almost. Do you think you could put lotion on my back for me? I might need help with my hair, too. If you don’t mind.”

He smiles so sweetly at you. “Of course I don’t mind. Come on.”

You watch as he pumps some of your lotion into his hands, sniffing it just to make you grin. You move your robe down off your shoulders so that he can get to your back, careful to keep your chest covered. Not that he’d dare look anyway.

His hands are gentle and soft against the nape of your neck, up and down your spine, on your lower back. He covers the area for you, taking the time to massage it in and hopefully provide you a little relief.

When he’s finished, you pull your robe up and tie it around your waist. You don’t have the chance to reach for your hairbrush because he’s already got it, fingers gathering your mass of hair towards your back. You can feel the heat of him behind you, and the ache for physical contact surfaces in your chest.

Steve is incredibly gentle when detangling your hair. He starts at the bottom and works your way up, apologizing each time it snags. It feels so nice, so mundane and comforting, that you close your eyes and let yourself feel his hands on your scalp, on your shoulders. You let him take care of you without complaint.

When that’s over he allows you to finish dressing. You slip into the pajamas he’d chosen for you, not disregarding the fact that the shirt is one of his.

You patter out to the kitchen, where Steve has fixed you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, cut into triangles. You sit next to him on your couch and eat in the quiet of the evening, you enjoying being less alone and him glad to see you eating.

He takes your empty plate from you shortly after, noticing how sleepy you look.

“Come on, honey. Let’s go lay down, yeah?” He helps you up and holds your hand on the way to the bedroom. He’d changed your sheets while you were showering.

You sit down on the bed, watery eyes looking up at him. “Are you leaving?” you ask.

“No, sweetheart. I was going to offer to stay.”

“Please. I don’t want to be alone.”

Steve slips into bed beside you. “You don’t have to worry. I’m right here.” He takes your pinky in his. “I promise you won’t have to suffer through this on your own. I’m not going anywhere.”

You squeeze your pinky against his, and in that moment, the pain in your chest eases just a little bit.

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please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

#tw: depression #tw: depressive thoughts #savannah’s fics #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x female reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington angst #steve harrington comfort #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x depressed!reader #tw: sucidal thoughts #tw: self harm

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animetrashmuffin · 5 months

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Seasons greasons! I participated in the @akatsuki-gift-exchange this year and had the pleasure of doing something based on the excellent prompts from @likorys-shimenawa. I hope you like it, I had a ton of fun doing it!

#kakuhida #kakuzu #hidan #akatsuki #naruto #tw: organs #tw: injury #tw: violence #tw: gore #tw: blood #tw: self harm

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ellenchain · 7 months

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So I've finally played Vampyr 🦇

#vampyr #jonathan reid #geoffrey mccullum #mcreid #imho jonathan should have stayed with the guy that has an unhealthy obsession with him #that option was really missing in the game #tw: blood #tw: self harm #sorry if this has been done already #I'm quite late to the party

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merakiui · 7 months

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his blueberry eyes (anagapesis in paradise).

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

the prelude - forever lost in cerulean paradise.

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

“Ah… I did it again.”

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

Looking on with those bewitching blueberry eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now it’s three.

Four.

Five.

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

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

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

It’s cold.

His breath hitches.

You’re cold.

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

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

It’s stopped.

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

Without you, I’m nothing.

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

Without you, I’m all alone.

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

So it’s impossible. A lie, definitely.

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

You can’t fool him.

Only you do. And you have.

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

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

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

the first vow - to have and to hold.

“We should make a baby.”

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

“Yeah.”

“I’m not opposed to it.”

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

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

“Can we?”

“This conversation feels rather circular, my dear.”

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

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

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

“You know I’m no good at art.”

“Anyone can be an artist.”

“Angelfish—”

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

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

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

“Yes… Yes, I’m aware. But even so—”

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

“But I have, dear.”

“Not with me you haven’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not in the slightest.”

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

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

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

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

“What? No way! I like it.”

“You’re just saying that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azul felt himself nodding along.

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

“Like painting a new picture.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the lies.

Then came the obsession with omniscience.

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

the second vow - to love and to cherish.

“You shouldn’t work so much.”

By the fourth year, he had told you that.

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

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

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

“It’s minimum wage, (Name).”

“Still…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not true. You’d have me.”

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

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

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

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

“We had that once and you broke it.”

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

“P-Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am—I… I will!”

“I’m serious.”

“As am I.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s different… That’s—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had it under control.

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

You had it under control.

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

You had it under control.

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

You had it under control.

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

You had it under control.

But then that was at the cost of your sanity.

the third vow - till death do us part.

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

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

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

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

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

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

Not mentally, you thought, morbidly wry.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

“I’m not.”

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

“A trip?”

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

“Oh. Um, okay. Where should we go?”

“Anywhere.”

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

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

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

“I’m not!”

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

“Mhm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re wrong.”

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

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

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

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

“Azul—”

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

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

“Well? I’m waiting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You took one step further and something inside him splintered.

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

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

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

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

Divorce divorce divorce divorce divorce.

Not love not love not love.

All alone.

Alone like before.

Back to the disgusting creature he once was.

You were walking away, your back turned on him.

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

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

Azul lunged, seizing your wrist and dragging you down.

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

From then on, everything was a blur.

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

the epilogue - there will never be two without you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I really can’t bring myself to do it…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world is dyed a brilliant, burdensome blue.

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

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

Assessing the handcuff once more, he turns up empty.

Why is he here?

Why does it hurt to move?

Why are there so many bandages around his stomach?

Most of all, where is his world?

What is this place?

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

Where is his world?

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

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

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

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

They hurry out just as he curses at them.

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

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

“May I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Safe… Right?

Right.

Right?

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

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

“You were on the verge of bleeding out.”

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

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

“What about them?” he asks instead.

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

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

Silence is his only reply.

Somehow that tells him everything and nothing all at once.

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

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

It’s always been you.

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

And he certainly feels it.

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

#yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere azul ashengrotto #yandere azul ashengrotto x reader #yandere azul x reader #yandere azul #tw: death #tw: murder #tw: self harm #tw: suicide

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aftgficrec · 3 months

Note

hi besties! can i be a bit weird and ask for sick fics here? old/new/favorites, any will do! just some big ol’ hurt/ comfort, especially if combined with some emotional hurt/comfort 🥰

There’s nothing weird about this at all! Apart from the fics below, there’s also our sickfic tag as well as our hurt/comfort tag for more (see our tag page under the heading ‘themes - injuries/illnesses/conditions’). - S

Previous recs:

cool andreil sick fics here

sick fics here

foxes with headaches/sick fics here

10k+ sick fics here

Andreil in hospital here

Neil with major injury here

Neil gets injured (post canon) here

Neil & car accidents here

accident-prone Neil here

Andreil with amnesia here

medical Andreil/Aaron & Neil here

Neil getting roofied here

Also see…

‘we're one (there's nothing to be done)’ here

‘Just like that day’ here

‘head case (what to do with you)’ here

‘Such Stuff as Dreams are Made’ here

‘Neil Josten Is a Lucky Man’ here

‘Broken’ here

‘If Only I Were Enough’ (completed) here

‘I'll Come Back To You’ here

‘glass in the trees (objects in the rearview)’ here

‘Running Ragged’ here

‘To Love and Be Loved’ here

‘all that looking down’ here

‘next best thing’, keep telling me that it gets better (does it ever?)’ and ‘no matter when and where, we’ll be alright’ here

‘Can Nobody Hear Me (I cannot breathe)’, ‘I remeber tears streaming down your face (for me to wipe them away)’, ‘you crawled inside my head’, ‘living leaves so many holes in us’, ‘Ciggarette Smoke Cure’, ‘Breathless’, ‘i've done my time’ and ‘cats and close calls’ here

‘The Highs and Lows of Pre-med Majors' here (Aaron)

‘Hold My Hand?’ here

‘Echo’ here

I’m More Than This Body of Mine by yall_send_help [Rated M, 88811 words, incomplete, last updated Jan 2024]

The doctor took a pause, which Nathaniel was able to use to ask, “what about my leg?” The two pigs had the audacity to look surprised. The doctor looked over at them with a hint of confusion. “You didn’t tell him?” Towns shook his head as Browning said, “you told us not to.” Dr. Byrd nodded her head in approval and turned back to the bed. “Nathaniel…” she trailed off, reevaluating her words. “Would you mind if I sit?” and only after his own nod did she. “The damage done to your leg… it was unlike what most of the staff at this hospital had ever seen. The surgeons tried to save it, but…” She looked down at where his legs were and Nathaniel did too, only to feel himself pale at what he found. “The surgery took about three hours,” Dr. Byrd continued. “The only reason why it took so long was because the surgeons really did try to save your leg. They did. Amputations usually take only half that time. Eventually, Dr. McCoy called it. Because of the damage done to your leg, we couldn’t wake you up to ask. It had to go. I’m sorry.” or - the one where neil goes to baltimore and comes back missing a leg

tw: torture, tw: amputation, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: panic attacks, tw: blood, tw: animal cruelty, tw: implied/referenced drug overdose

fireproof by mostly_maudlin [Rated T, 2097 words, complete, 2024]

Andrew gets his flu shot.

Things Always Gets Worse Before They Gets Better series by Renee_Walker_09 [Rated G, 40141 words, incomplete, 3 complete works, 2024]

Part 1: Beginnings & Endings (G, 1083 words)

It's 1:30 in the morning. The Foxes are celebrating their championship win against the Ravens the only way they know how to: booze, partying, and a little bit more booze. Nothing could possibly ruin this?

tw: car accident, tw: major character injury

Part 2: You Mean Everything To Me (G, 12767 words)

There are two crashed cars. There’s blood on the floor. Lights are flashing all around. Andrew is standing in the middle of the crash site with a blanket draped across his shoulders as he stares straight at Neil, lying on the floor.

tw: car accident, tw: major character injury, tw: (temporary) major character death, tw: suicide attempt, tw: drug overdose, tw: blood, tw: self harm

Part 3: Hours, Days, Weeks (G, 26299 words)

Andrew is lying in a coma following the accident. His condition is critical. And Neil and Aaron have to find a way to cope. Neil and Aaron’s POVs of the crash and the past 6 weeks

tw: car accident, tw: blood, tw: major character injury, tw: (temporary) major character death, tw: self harm, tw: panic attacks, tw: seizures

NB: find art for the fics by the author here as well as embedded in the fics

Even goalkeepers can’t block sickness by BlowingYourMind [Rated G, 12768 words, complete, 2024]

“Rabbit,” Andrew peered up at him with half lidded eyes, “Yes or no?” “Yes ‘Drew,” Neil clasped his hands at Andrew’s elbows, “it’s always a yes, you know that.” “No ‘s not,” Andrew weakly argued as he took hold of Neil’s chest pad, using it to leverage himself upwards. It was awkward work of walking half-delirious Andrew back to the locker room, shielding him from the crowd while keeping him on his feet, but they managed. Or Andrew becomes very sick at an away game, and Neil and the foxes take care of him.

tw: vomit

the upswing by missgivings [Not Rated, 45569 words, incomplete, last updated Jan 2024]

The next universe over, life has gone a bit easier on Andrew. He’s gainfully employed as a nurse of all things, working beside his best friend Renee, and living in relative harmony with his brother, the recently graduated Dr. Aaron Minyard. Everything’s fine. It’s fine that he hasn’t spoken to Kevin in person for three years. It’s fine if Aaron’s leaving him to marry his stupid doctor girlfriend. It’s fine until the boy with the box-dyed hair stumbles into the ER and passes out at his feet, bringing a world of secrets and trouble with him. And Neil? Neil’s looking for any port in a storm.

tw: major character injury, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced self harm

please (don't bite) by Major_816 [Rated M, 5478 words, complete, 2024]

Genioglossus. It’s a fan-shaped muscle and forms the bulk of the inferior part of the tongue. It stretches to the hyoid bone too. ~ Neil wakes up to a bad day and it just gets worse.

tw: blood, tw: self harm, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: nightmares, tw: flashbacks, tw: vomit

Will you love me for who I am, not for who I was? by something_boring [Rated T, 1580 words, complete, 2024]

Neil is sick on New Year's eve, wakes up to the fireworks, and continues to have a panic attack about his time on the run.

tw: nightmares, tw: panic attacks, tw: implied/referenced child abuse

Your Needs, My Needs by TogeMythia [Rated T, 1073 words, complete, 2023]

‘Neil.’ He whined, his face still buried under the blankets. ‘Hrmph?’ Neil responded with a confused noise from somewhere across the bed. ‘Do you feel as shit as you sound?’ - Or Neil and Andrew wake up sick on Christmas day.

tw: vomit

To be safe by HushedStars [Rated G, 2116 words, complete, 2023]

Neil is feeling unwell. He seeks comfort from Matt. It was late at night. Neil stood in the kitchen, deep in thought but still with one ear alert for any movement of his roommates. He shifted from foot to foot, hands digging into his sore neck

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: panic attacks

Safe with him by 1mNot4Hum4n [Not Rated, 2434 words, complete, 2023]

Neil is sick but doesn't want to admit it. He can't be sick. He can't be weak. Luckily Andrew is there to make sure his junkie is okay, and remind him that he has people around him who are willing to do anything to protect him.

'tis the season by moonix [Rated T, 5579 words, complete, 2023]

Five holidays Andrew had to let Kevin take care of him and one time he got to return the favour.

i called your name ‘til the fever broke by cyanica [Rated T, 5632 words, incomplete, last updated Nov 2023]

Neil’s breath is hot and awful against Andrew’s thigh. “I can’t be sick on your birthday,” he says, like it’s that simple. “I can’t be sick on you on your birthday.” “How considerate,” Andrew’s voice is a bland murmur, and he is left watching Neil’s bloodless, wet lips, as he curls into Andrew’s lap. Neil gently pulls away after a moment, leaning back into Andrew’s hand on his neck. “Is me being sick still making you anxious?” he asks. Fever-stricken with dizzied-eyes and delirious thoughts, he knows Andrew without more than a moment beside him, a look into his eyes that makes Andrew feel undone, found. Or Neil is sick and Andrew isn’t coping well.

tw: vomit, tw: panic attacks, tw: dissociation, tw: anxiety

You Know I'm Good On My Own by sambutwithbooks [Rated G, 4568 words, complete, Aftg Then And Now 2023]

Andrew breaks his arm two games into the season and it feels a little bit like Neil’s world snaps with it. (A snapshot of Neil and Andrew between Andrew coming home from the hospital and going back home to Palmetto State.)

tw: major character injury

that's my line by sillyunicorn6154 [Rated G, 1291 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew is definitely not sick. But he is a little stubborn.

You're not fine, but you will be by karmenvi [Not Rated, 616 words, complete, 2023]

Neil is sick, so Andrew takes care of him. So it was supposed to be a sickfic, but it turned into 'Andrew stares at Neil and thinks his boyfriend is the prettiest boy in the world.' Anyway, enjoy some fluff.

I'll be okay if he's here by obsessivereader156 [Not Rated, 1673 words, complete, 2023]

“Thank you, Drew,” Neil says for the twentieth time, feeling so lucky to have someone take care of him. “Say it again and I will kill you.” “You’re just so nice to me,” Neil says a bit deliriously, “I’ve never had someone take care of me when I’m sick.”

If it means losing you, then no by LostMess_24 [Rated T, 6712 words, complete, 2023]

There was something against his hand, a pressure he knew too well, a hand that fit so perfectly against his, making Andrew’s presence known, making Neil’s entire body relax, slowing his breathing a bit. But before Neil could see the man at his side, it hit him. He was starting to feel it, all around him. Those white walls, the mattress he was in, the soft yet old sheets, the pressure on his arm. And finally, unmistakably, the regular and aggressive beeps, signs of a life that was his own. He was in a hospital bed. There’s an accident. Those idiots would do anything and everything to protect each other.

tw: major character injury, tw: car accidents

cause and effect by mistyrie [Rated M, 13107 words, complete, 2023]

"Andrew realized what he was seeing but he couldn’t comprehend it. He didn’t know how to help. There was no enemy to deal with – there was just Neil seizing on the floor and Andrew didn’t know what to do." Neil starts having seizures and Andrew tries to help.

tw: seizures (epilepsy)

how the foxes act when they're sick by @detectivebambam [tumblr, 2024]

headcanons on the foxes and illness

headcanons on Neil getting sick by @24-0z [tumblr, 2022]

Neil doesn't get sick very often, so when he finally catches the bug that had been going around campus, he's suddenly 8 years old again, sweating and trembling with fever

SICK!Neil for my soul. by @satan-in-a-v-neck [tumblr, 2021]

Neil is acting strange. Ask every fox and they'll tell you that for the past three days Neil Josten wasn't acting very Neil Josteny.

tw: vomit

illness/injuries as background event:

The Songs Around Us by doodlingstuff [Rated M, 80075 words, complete, 2022]

The mission was simple: Nathaniel would join Astral Foxes as Neil Josten and make them part of Moriyama Music. In reality, Neil became real, found a home, and fell in love despite his lies. When the Moriyamas send the Butcher to remind Neil of his mission and Andrew's life ends on the line, Neil will have to find a way to escape his fate and bring Andrew back. As he gets closer to losing the man he loves the most, Neil will realize that sometimes, music is the only answer, and others, truth is the only weapon he can use. Another Band!AU. This time extra angsty.

tw: torture, tw: car accident, tw: major character injury, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: panic attacks, tw: violence

NB: find art for this fic by @doodlingstuff here

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