#carmine golde

[carmine-golde]

Sorry for my hiatus

I’ve had a *lot* of shit happen in my life in the last few weeks alone, so I haven’t had too much time to post. But here’s a bit of an art dump from then 😛 I hope things will calm down soon so I can get back to having a more consistent presence but we’ll see

[skeleton-mischief]

Which of they boys would have scary dog privilege's?? (Totally not asking because euhhh people are scaryy T-T)

☀️ Anon

I love this question! I love all your ideas, and since life just keeps bombing me I just get distracted. I hope you like these little headcanons!

They all have a side to them that's scary in general, especially when they are feeling protective. However, only a few of them are initially scary to begin with!!

Red: He, by his world's standards, isn't the scariest. He doesn't even try to be scary on the surface either, since he's too lazy. However, he noticed that to humans, he seems scary. He sometimes does this to mess with humans, even you at times. (Though, it's always lighthearted and teasing.) When in public, he is casual with you, but he's aware that people will leave you alone more likely if you're with him. He tends to linger closer when he sees you're nervous, brushing it off with a tease. He won't push you too much, though, and he'll let you grab onto his hoodie when nervous. He might forget that he's scary at times though, which can lead to funny things happening

Pitch: He was scary in the underground, and he's scary on the surface. He knows he's scary, and this either greatly benefits him or greatly inconveniences him. When he's with you, he's always on high alert, and you'll be able to tell. He, with your permission of course, will tend to keep a hand on your shoulder if he can help it or ask that you stand close. He might make you feel embarrassed if someone bothers you and he demands that they apologize, but overall he has your back.

Carmine: With a slightly more intense energy, he's hyper aware of his scary dog privileges. He demands authority when walking into a room, and he is aware of the eyes that may linger on him. He may be more gentle and attentive with you, but that wouldn't show in public. He rarely would show PDA, or get distracted when you're around. Any time with him that wouldn't involve being high alert would only be on rare occasions like date night, but he's very aware of everything around him and he's okay with being that way for you

Rus: Much quieter and more relaxed, his scary dog privileges never fully turn off. He's naturally scary due to his height and appearance, even if he wasn't too intense for his underground's standard. He's quieter than Red, too, so that just adds on. He likes to stare at others and likes to drape himself around you, whether in public or not. He may not be the worst, but he's one of them

Razz: loud, demanding, and scary, he's like Carmine in a different way. Carmine is quiet in his intimidation, but Razz revels and preens in being more scary. He grows more humble, of course, but... Well, the moment he's aware he scared someone off for you, you won't see him stop smiling. He likes messing with others, to make them uncomfortable while smiling, even if you tell him not to. He can't help it!

Cash: He knows he looks intimidating, and he's aware that he's judged. Like Rus, he also is very clingy in different ways. He's louder, more sarcastic, and he likes to scare people to amuse himself. When he knows he's also conveniently protecting you, he never lets you out of his sight and he's quieter about his protectiveness. He won't outright tell you what he's doing, or cause a scene, but you can trust that he will deal with whoever bothers you.

Wine: Just naturally intimidating compared to the others, he's even more authoritative compared to anyone else. He preens in his intimidation, but he's humble about it and he can be polite. His scary dog privileges are quieter, but stronger under that thin veil of nice behavior. He won't ever let you see him act that way, though, because he's a gentleman and you don't need to worry your little head about things. He'll deal with whoever bothers you, don't worry!

Saint: He doesn't like being scary. He knows he is, though. It protected him underground, and he feels that lingering insecurity when he DOES get stares. However, he never voices them. He may get more irritable, though. He lingers around you, always on alert. He tries to make sure you can tell he's comfortable with laughing and joking, but he's sarcastic and rude with anyone that's annoying or bothering you. He's not above verbal threats, and he's open to fighting easily. To say the least, if you're afraid to go somewhere, he's wonderful to have since he's quieter and one of the most scary.

Lunar: he's tall, scary, and yet he doesn't like it. He really wishes that he didn't look so...like him. Nonetheless, even if he's polite and kind, he's aware that he's intimidating. He avoids trying to make himself look scary, which makes you and him feel a little braver when you encourage each other to feel less insecure. However, there would be occasions he doesn't let you see his expression when he's...protective. He won't vocalize it, but his aura and appearance alone is enough to ward people away

Dust: He doesn't have to try, and he doesn't bother to try. He's scary, he knows that. Monsters and Humans alike find him scary as hell, if not unnerving. He doesn't say anything, of course, unless you talk to him first. If confronted by someone, he just has to put minimal effort into scaring them off with his face under his hoodie or just with a few words. He'll let you cling onto him without commentary, and he's great if you want someone to ramble to. He'll make sure you're safe, no matter what

[ladyinrosso]

HAZBIN HOTEL incorrect quotes: 46/

Source x

[vinlynce]

diney sours !!!!! yes . dinaurian time . ft. updating that old height chart thing

non art under cut / au planning

[tofumaple]

Did some OC relationship chart, feel free to ask questions!!! (Also sorry for my fuckass handwriting, it’s like trying to decipher ancient text or some crap)

[pastelcatnip-x3]

~ Practicing expressions with some of my favorite sillies ~

I personally think I did the best with Gold but I think they all turned out okay ^^

[sillypiratelife]

There's something off with those kids... (picrew)

From top left to bottom right : Amber, Esmer, Carmine and Carnelia Guillemot, the Prince's and princesses of Miria. (for my fake prince Zoro au).

[writing-chats]

COLOURS in DESCRIPTION

colour is the lifeblood of a scene. here are ways not to over-use it.

Red: cardinal, coral, crimson, flaming, maroon, rose, wine, brick red, burgundy, carmine, cerise, cherry, chestnut, claret, copper, dahlia, fuschia, garnet, geranium, infrared, magenta, puce, ruby, russet, rust, salmon, sanguine, scarlet, tition, vermilion, roseate, rubicund, ruddy, rubescent, florid

Orange: apricot, tangerine, merigold, cider, ginger, bronze, cantaloupe orange, clay, honey, marmalade orange, amber

Yellow: blond, chrome, cream, gold, ivory, lemon, saffron, tawny, xanthous, sandy

Green: grassy, leafy, verdant, emerald, aquamarine, chartreuse, fir, forest green, jade, lime, malachite, mossy, pea green, pine, sage, sea green, verdigris, willow, spinach green, viridian

Blue: azure, beryl, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, navy, royal blue, sapphire, teal, turquoise, ultramarine

Purple: violet, indigo, lavender, lilac, mauve, periwinkle, plum, violet, amethyst, heliotrope, mulberry, orchid, pomegranate purple, wine, amaranthine, perse, violaceous, reddish-blue

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word Alternatives: Colours

BLACK atramentous, charcoal, coal, crow, darksomeness, denigration, duskiness, ebony, funereal, jet, inkiness, melanism, melanotic, midnight, niello, obsidian, pitch, raven, sable, singe, sloe, smirch, smoke, sombrous, soot, swarthiness, swartness, tar

BLUE aquamarine, azure, berylline, cerulean, cerulescent, cyan, cyanosis, cyanotic, electric blue, ice-blue, indigo, lividity, midnight, navy, Oxford blue, pavonian, pavonine, peacock blue, robin's egg blue, royal blue, sapphire, turquoise, ultramarine

BROWN adust, auburn, beige, biscuit, braise, bay, bronze, brune, brunette, buff, burnt umber, burnt sienna, caramel, castaneous, chestnut, chocolate, cinnamon, cocoa, coffee, drab, dun, embrown, fawn, grege, hazel, henna, infuscation, khaki, mushroom, ochre, paper bag, pumpernickel, raw sienna, raw umber, roan, rubiginous, rufous, russet, rust, scorch, seal, sepia, sorrel, suntan, sunburn, tan, taupe, toast, umber, walnut

GRAY ashiness, canescence, cinereous, cineritious, dullness, ecru, fuscous, glaucescence, greige, grisaille, gunmetal, hoar, iron, lead, mousiness, oyster, pewter, slatiness, smokiness, steel, taupe

GREEN aerugo, aestival, avocado, beryl, chartreuse, chloremia, chlorophyll, chlorosis, chlorotic, emerald, foliaged, glaucescence, grass, greensickness, ivy, jade, loden green, holly, olivaceous, olive, patina, patinate, pea-green, smaragdine, springlike, verdancy, verdantness, verdigris, verdure, vernal, virescence, viridescence, viridity

ORANGE apricot, cantaloupe, carotene, carroty, ochreous, ochroid, pumpkin, saffron, tangerine, terracotta, Titian

PINK carnation, coral, coralline, flesh-pink, incarnadine, peach, primrose, roseate, rosy, salmon

PURPLE amethystine, aubergine, bruise, empurple, fuchsia, lavender, lilac, lividity, magenta, mauve, mulberry, orchid, pansy, plum, puce, purpure, purpureous, raisin, violaceous, violet

RED beet, blowzy, cardinal, carmine, carnation, carnelian, cerise, cherry, copper, crimson, damask, encrimson, erubescence, erythema, erythematous, erythrism, erythroderma, ferruginous, fire, floridity, floridness, flushing, gules, hectic, henna, incarnadine, infrared, laky, lateritious, lobster, lurid, magenta, mantling, maroon, miniate, port, puce, raddle, rose, rosiness, rouge, rubefaction, rubicundity, rubor, rubricity, ruby, ruddiness, rufescence, rufosity, russet, rust, sanguine, scarlet, stammel, vermeil, vermilion, vinaceous

YELLOW aureateness, auric, aurify, banana, begild, bilious, biliousness, cadmium, canary, chartreuse, citreous, citrine, citron, engild, fallowness, flavescent, flaxen, fulvous, gildedness, gilt, goldenness, honey, icteric, icterus, jaundice, lemon, lutescent, luteous, luteolous, mustard, ochroid, old gold, primrose yellow, saffron, sallowness, sandy, straw, sulfur, topaz, xanthism, xanthochroism, xanthoderma

WHITE achromatic, alabaster, albescent, albinic, besnow, blanch, bleach, bone, calcimine, chalk, cream, cretaceous, eggshell, etiolate, ghastly, ivory, lactescent, lily, lime, milk, pearl, sheet, swan, sheep, fleece, flour, foam, marmoreal, niveous, paper, pearl, phantom, silver, snow, driven snow, tallow, teeth, wax, wool

VARIEGATION (diversity of colors) spectrum, rainbow, iris, chameleon, leopard, jaguar, cheetah, ocelot, zebra, barber pole, candy cane, Dalmatian, firedog, peacock, butterfly, mother-of-pearl, nacre, tortoise shell, opal, kaleidoscope, stained glass, serpentine, calico cat, marble, mackerel sky, confetti, crazy quilt, patchwork quilt, shot silk, moire, watered silk, marbled paper, Joseph's coat, harlequin, tapestry; bar code, checkerboard

variegation, multicolor; parti-color; medley or mixture of colors, spectrum, rainbow of colors, riot of color; polychrome, polychromatism; dichromatism, trichromatism; dichroism, trichroism

iridescence, iridization, irisation, opalescence, nacreousness, pearliness, chatoyancy, play of colors or light; light show; moire pattern, tabby; burelé or burelage

spottiness, maculation, freckliness, speckliness, mottledness, mottlement, dappleness, dappledness, stippledness, spottedness, dottedness; fleck, speck, speckle; freckle; spot, dot, polka dot, macula, macule, blotch, splotch, patch, splash; mottle, dapple; brindle; stipple, stippling, pointillism, pointillage

check, checker, checks, checking, checkerboard, chessboard; plaid, tartan; checker-work, variegated pattern, harlequin, colors in patches, crazy-work, patchwork; parquet, parquetry, marquetry, mosaic, tesserae, tessellation; crazy-paving; hound's tooth; inlay, damascene

stripe, striping, candy-stripe, pinstripe; barber pole; streak, streaking; striation, striature, stria; striola, striga; crack, craze, crackle, reticulation; bar, band, belt, list

mottled, motley; pied, piebald, skewbald, pinto; dappled, dapple; calico; marbled; clouded; salt-and-pepper

Source: The Concise Roget's International Thesaurus, Revised & Updated (6th Edition) More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[writerthreads]

SYNONYMS FOR COLOURS

Red (and versions of it): cardinal, coral, crimson, flaming, glowing, maroon, rose, blooming, blush, brick, burgundy, carmine, cerise, cherry, ruby, salmon (requires more detail, ie. "salmon pink"), mahogany (reddish-brown), wine

Orange: tangerine, apricot, coral, amber, rust, salmon, peach, burnt sienna, sunset, blush, turmeric (orangey-yellow), marigold, carrot, marmalade, cantaloupe

Yellow: marigold, sunflower, amber, gold, lemon, canary, mustard, daffodil, saffron, blonde, butter, honey, maize, flaxen, topaz, cream, chartreuse, buttercup, primrose, corn

Green: emerald, olive, jade, lime, mint, forest, sage, moss, grass fern, dark, kelp, seafoam, shamrock, olive, evergreen, lettuce, cyan, turquoise, swamp, apple, honeydew, frog

Blue: aquamarine, aqua, ice, blueberry, Caribbean, teal, navy, azure, sky, cobalt, indigo, sapphire, royal, denim, periwinkle, lapis, electric (+blue), midnight, baby blue, bluebell

Purple: royal, violet, indigo, beet, lavender, hyacinth, plum, magenta, periwinkle, grape, lilac, iris, mauve, amethyst, orchid, fuchsia, heather

White: cotton, cream, almond, pearlish, bleached, ashen, ivory, snow, pearl, milk, chalk, silver, alabaster, marble, cotton, eggshell

Black: ebony, jet, coal, onyx, raven, charcoal, ink, sable, obsidian, midnight, caviar, soot, licorice

[carmine-golde]

Creature time

Behold, more Carmine!

I know you guys didn’t ask for it! But you’re getting it anyways 😛

[skeleton-mischief]

Valentine's Day

What I think the skeletons would do to celebrate the holiday! It's a bit late but do I care? Nope!! Very self indulgent for me specifically 🫡

Vanilla: He's the type of skeleton I think who would pretend that he doesn't remember what holiday it is. If you asked him about it, he'd scratch his skull and ask "I wonder what's up with today?" And then dismiss it. He'd chalk everything up in order to further confuse you, all the way until he can get you alone. He's not a skeleton of much effort, but he would wait till it was night time to reveal what he made. Let's say you got him something. If you did, he'd blush and thank you, of course. He would just pretend to be confused up until it's night time. He'd take you to Grillbys and that's when he would show what he did. He asked Grillby to make a Valentine themed meal, and he'd present you with a small figurine. It would be a cute little charm, something that you can carry around in your pocket! He just wants to see you smile the moment you realize that he was messing with you all day, and he'd be grinning like a cheshire when the two of you can enjoy the cozy night

Cyperus: Oh boy he's been looking FORWARD to this day! Ever since he learned about it, he planned for the perfect day. He's the type to wake you up with a delicious breakfast of pancakes or waffles topped with whatever fruit you prefer and whipped cream. Then, he'll take you out on a day trip of him presenting you with all sorts of gifts! If you happen to surprise him with gifts of your own, he gets all flustered but tries to play it off to appear cool. He's flattered, of course, but it would also probably end up with him claiming that he needs to up his game and then that'll lead to a spiral of the both of you playfully being competitive. I can imagine the day ending with a kiss on the cheek, and he'll just sort of look cartoonishly go "WAOH!!!" before getting all giddy. He's so cute ｡⁠:ﾟ⁠(⁠;⁠´⁠∩⁠`⁠;⁠)ﾟ⁠:⁠｡

Red: He's worse than Vanilla, trust. He's going to avoid witnessing any hint, play dumb, and overall frustrate you to the point you would probably throw the stuffed animal you had for him. However, laughing, he'd just reveal that he also had a plushie that was just coincidentally matching. He has a big ol' box of chocolates for you and he's trying to coax you to forgive him with promises of taking you out to eat with no expenses worth worrying about. He's more of a stay at home guy, y'know? But he'll try to make it up for you

Pitch: If Cyperus was excited, you can say that Pitch is twice as much. He's the type to go with a theme, decorating your bedroom while you're out and about with roses upon roses decorating the place. He would prepare a home cooked table of delicious dinner and desserts galore, wearing his most beautiful red outfit. He's not going to say sappy things to you since his actions speak louder, but he would say that he wishes you a Happy Valentine's Day as he offers you things like your favorite perfume/cologne, a mug, and the like. If you got him something like a red scarf or purse of some kind, you can bet that he'll wear it and treat it well <3

Powder: He never really heard about Valentine's Day, up until knowing you, but just as expected, he's sappy about it. He would mark a date with something exciting like a theme park that's happening nearby, preparing a day where you two can run around and win games before exchanging kisses on the Ferris wheel. He would prepare a whole set that he hid for you until later in the day, a bouquet of flowers, a small plushie, and candy of your preferred taste. He would just be all over you, hugging you and holding your hand whenever you two can

Stretch: He's so sappy it's almost ridiculous. He made sure to buy TWO bouquets for you. He would have gotten you both matching animal pajamas and bought treats from Muffet to prepare a cozy Valentine's Day. He would buy you things a little less traditional, like things that are more specific to your interests. He also was able to make a little something special for you, but he'd wait until later that night. He would have it tucked within the snacks, waiting for you to find it, up until you found the little box. Inside is a handcrafted phone charm with your engravings, adorable beads to match your phone and a little honeybee at the end. He wanted to make you something, and he'll be stuttering trying to explain that he hopes you like it. I think the best chance you'd have is giving that skeleton a kiss on the cheek or something as simple as a hug to shut him up

Saint: What the hell is Valentine's Day???? It's been so long, he totally forgot what it was. Even with reminders, he actually had to be reminded the day of Valentine's Day from his brother. He wouldn't tell you that he forgot what day it was, but you would be able to tell. Nonetheless, you prepared a small decorative box filled with sweets and snacks, which would only make him feel more bad since it was so thoughtful. He managed to make a small letter sharing some of his sweet thoughts of you though, and he actually manages to find out that he didn't need to panic so much. He forgets a lot, but he totally forgot that he made a cardigan for you but had it tucked away to prevent it from being damaged! In the end, the two of you were able to prepare a nice walk together in the forest, admiring the scenery as he offered you flowers he picked along the way

Lunar: Sure, he struggles remembering these things sometimes, but he's a Papyrus! And Papyri want to make your day special. He would have been working on a handcrafted necklace and bracelet especially designed to your taste, and the day would be spent with him and you making Valentine themed sweets for the two of you to indulge in with things such as chocolate dipped strawberries, and rice krispie treats. He'd light a few candles and he'd present the jewelry to you afterwards, the two of you sitting on the porch as you both talked and had a more quiet but still romantic day. With what flowers you ended up keeping after they started to wilt, he would help you grind them and mix them with clay in order to make beads for later too

Carmine: He's been planning today for a while, and so he planned only the best. A romantic dinner with music at the restaurant? Bam. A warm bath prepared for you that has rose petals and candles? Bam. A bed prepared with silk sheets and the softest of fabrics of a blanket? Bam bam bam. He would place a gift box on the bed for as you finish showering, and it would have your favorite flowers with it. A small letter of only the most poetic, sappy things would be on there, and he would pride himself in being the one to walk you to your bed and provide a lovely robe for you to wear. He wants to pamper you, and yet he would struggle accepting ANYTHING you provide. However, if you happen to find out what his favorite perfume scent is? He'll wear it everywhere he goes, and he'll brag about who got it for him.

Rus: Not the best of planners, he managed to actually prepare a Valentine's Day you both can work with. He would take you to your guy's favorite restaurant and then go to the movies with you, watching whatever genre you liked. He still manages to surprise you though, pulling out a set of earrings that are of wonderful quality while the two of you enjoy walking around a scenic area. It's a more lighthearted, sweet date than anything for Valentine's, but the both of you exchange gifts and end up having a matching necklace the both of you can wear wherever you go.

Razz: Not one to consider gifts to be the most strong expression of love, he would prepare a day of going to somewhere like a botanical garden since he knows you would like that. Taking you to get pampered and refreshed, he would then offer the two of you to go to grab a bite to eat with a candlelight dinner. The surprise you can expect from him though, is a treasure hunt. Hell lay items around the house he managed to clean for you, and he would end up surprising you with a sudden presentation of tickets for the two of you. He's heard of this beautiful place, somewhere that involves some traveling, but he knew that it was somewhere you've been wanting to go. He would practically preen when he sees your excitement, growing even more preen when he earns a kiss

Cash: The skeleton decided to make sure that you got to experience a spa day for Valentine's Day, the both of you talking shit as you're both being pampered. After, he would outright take you to the mall, and the two of you would go on a spending spree. The things that were bought cannot be listed, since he just made sure to get whatever caught your eye. By the end of it, you would've assumed that is the end of it, but no. He would act like it was, but as soon as you got home you would see what he prepared in the kitchen. A bouquet of just purple and orange flowers, surrounding a heart shaped box of slices of cake, and romantic music playing on the speaker the moment you realize what it is since he had it set to play. The rest of the night is you and him devouring the cake and watching movies, cuddling.

Wine: Imagine the most romantic, stereotypical date for Valentine's Day. He's worse than that. Flowers upon flowers would surround you, the house cleaned to perfection and lit with candlelight while you both enjoy a fettuccini plate with garlic bread and wine. The bedroom has petals on the floor, and on the bed he has two glasses for the two of you to indulge in for drinks. He bought desserts to your liking, and he and you both watch crappy romance reality TV while talking mad shit, lounging in self indulgence so much it blends into hedonistic pleasure. He's a heavy romantic who speaks words of poetry and romance, showering you with sincerity. He struggles and outright denies gifts most of the time, until you discovered his favorite chocolate. White chocolate, something no one has seen him touching. You somehow managed to also discover his favorite jewel, which you managed to get ahold of as it decorated a crystal ball music box. You've never seen him more flustered, or hear his voice crack such as today.

Coffee: Oh he's so sweet. The two of you did DIY craft couple tasks together for the first half. For one activity, you exchange the same canvas and collaborated on a painting. For another, he had the honor of drawing you as the two of you ate ice cream on the couch together. You figured out his love for sanrio, so when you presented him with stickers for his sketchbook, a plushie, and a hoodie, he was practically in tears with joy. To finalize the day, he surprised you by covering your eyes before the two of you were in a gazebo that had a table for you both to sit at. He prepared a classic, simple dinner with snacks and desserts, but it was fun since it allowed you both to also make your food as you went along. He managed to also present you with a small bouquet of flowers, all having to do with flower symbolism, but he refuses to tell you.

Dust: You didn't think he would bother, let alone remember what today was. However, it was to your surprise when he silently approached you with a bag. Inside, a stuffed animal that was of your favorite animal was there, along with a picture book filled with memories you have made together. He stands there awkwardly, waiting for your approval, and he's met with one when you carefully offer a hug. He practically clings onto you and the both of you experience a silent holiday where you both manage to stay away from everyone. You both order takeout, look at the photos together that he took, and fall asleep in a pile of pillows and blankets that you managed to make. He wasn't sure you would like the gifts, but he was happy when he found out that you did. He also managed to be surprised when you offered a book that you thought he would like, along with a satchel that was red in color and had small patches on it you sewed down. When you fall asleep, he can't help but watch you, admiring you as his phalanges stroke your cheek and he can hear the sound of your soul. He's happy that he met you

[mwphisto]

How many children I think the LaDs Men would have (realistic edition)

A/N: no hate to any of the TikTok creators that have posted their head canons but as someone who works with children three and under every day?? Raf is not surviving 7+ children, Caleb is not having MC carry 9 kids…

Xavier

⭐️Xavier is a one and done type of man for sure

⭐️You don’t have kids until later in life, when you’re in your late twenties early thirties

⭐️I feel like Xavier can go either way, boy dad or girl dad but personally think he’d have one boy who is the spitting image of him and even has all of his traits… did your genes even try? You ask yourself this often.

⭐️I can also see Xavier being a one and done and lucking out with twins — fraternal not identical

Rafayel

🎨Rafayel is having three children maximum

🎨Your first is a boy who looks just like their father but acts just like you. The second is another boy, who looks like you and acts just like their father, and the last is a girl who is the perfect mix of you both.

🎨You had your first in your early twenties, Raf was around 26 at the time. Your second came three years later, and your third came a whole five years after that… she was definitely a “let’s try for a girl one more time.”

🎨Rafayel booked a vasectomy after your third btw

Zayne

🩺Zaybe has two children and that’s his limit

🩺One was supposed to be the limit but his first baby girl was such a sweetheart he figured one more couldn’t hurt. And luckily for him? It didn’t! Your baby boy was born three years after your daughter and he too was an angel.

🩺Zayne was thirty when you welcomed your daughter. The sweetest mix of you both — his hair and your eyes. She was a quiet but witty little thing and you knew right away she’d need a sibling to be her partner in crime.

🩺It took a lot of convincing, but Zayne couldn’t be happier with his decision to have a little family.

Sylus

🍷Sylus is a one and… oh oops… okay three

🍷You and Sylus welcomed your son a year after marriage. He was the most darling little baby, with his father’s carmine eyes and your smile. Sylus was content with one, and for the longest time so were you.

🍷Then, sometime around your son’s 7th birthday, you accidentally got pregnant and, well, nine months later your twin little girls were born and all three of you were smitten.

🍷You and Sylus’ eyes nearly bulged out of your heads when the doctor said identical twins… sounds familiar!

Caleb

🪐Caleb only got you pregnant twice and just so happened to strike gold… you have four children total.

🪐Your first baby was welcomed into the world around your mid twenties. A little chunky boy who looked just like his daddy. So sweet and charismatic that you and Caleb were absolutely ready to have another by the time your son was eight months old.

🪐Well, shortly after your son’s first birthday you got a positive test. And one trip to the doctors later revealed you were not pregnant with one, not two, but three babies.

🪐Caleb and you agreed that he’d get a vasectomy and you’d get your tubes tied… double security because HOW?

Heart/star banners are from @cafekitsune

[kiwiuhhhhh]

The kitakami siblings! I love them, so epic they are! I wish carmine is able to tease her brother without half of the fandom having meltdown about her ��abusing” him lol

Really lazy idea I’ve been putting off for a while lol. This is base off that one audio that trending online a little while ago, if you know it then you get a gold star.

[kolarpem]

Morning Doodle: “The rest of the closet has been converted into my own little workshop, stocked with all the things I need for my kit: bottles of dye, sheets of gold leaf and coils of copper, tins of crushed carmine, and jars of pickled berries. They smell dreadful when opened, but the colors stay pure. There are other bottles too, full of more dangerous things that I’ve buried near the back of the shelf. There’s one in particular that I like to take out when the day has been long. I made it myself and I love the liquid’s warm golden color, its sweet cinnamon smell. Dekora Nevich, I call it. The Ornamental Blade.” (Leigh Bardugo’s “The Tailor”)

[daosies]

when you get sick

sylus, zayne, xavier ♡ gn!reader

warnings: not proofread, kissing (xavier), reader is the protagonist but gender neutral, implications of myth lore (all three), sylus calls u "sweetie", reader is hospitalized (zayne), sharing the same bed (xavier)

notes: i wrote this with nothing but sylus on my mind and a dream 😍

also this is my first time writing zayne o(*￣▽￣*)ブ plz forgive me if he's ooc or his lore is inaccurate

Sylus told himself that he’d wait.

Maybe they just forgot, he thinks, swirling his glass of wine, I wouldn’t put it above them. You have a knack for being careless; it’s one of the things that makes you so cruel, second only to the painful ignorance you have towards his—... 

Sylus clears his throat, not wanting to continue the thought; still, the sentiment lingers, drifting to and fro, scattering across his mind and permeating into the forceful silence. You (he takes a deep breath)—you are (he sets down his glass of wine), you (he rubs his temples, and the thought ends there). You. 

And once more, his mind returns to you, unrestrained, uncontrolled—because nothing in this world belongs to him; everything is yours. From the thoughts of his mind to the beat of his heart, he is yours; why else was he given the ability to perceive, if not for you? 

Sylus was crafted, forsakenly, for the sole purpose of worshiping you; he was given eyes so he could see you, hands so he could feel you, and a heart so he could feel the ache and the spasm when you left. 

Because you’re cruel. Because he’s cruel. Because he deserves to suffer, because he must suffer, when he is able to perceive you, unfathomably, and the grand, obscene void that follows thereafter. 

Because you exist! Around him, beside him (he glances at the warm, flickering candlelight, its ember illuminating his wine a valiant shade of carmine), but most poignantly, (his gaze does not leave the flame—his fist, however, comes up to the left side of his chest, fisting the fabric of his shirt) you exist within him.

Like a flame. Smoldering. Like a bomb. Ticking. Like, like—he takes a deep breath, and he continues to wait. 

He looks at his dim phone screen. Nothing. But Sylus told himself that he’d wait. Maybe you forgot to call him, or, maybe you didn’t want to call him at all. (He takes a sip of wine, wincing at the bitter flavor—was it always that way?) Maybe, you decided that he wasn’t worth your time, that maybe, of all the people in the world who want you (his brows furrow, and one of his hands come to fiddle with the holster of his pistol), he was the least suitable option. 

Sylus scoffs. Truly, if he was the least suitable option, he should have let that bullet you put in his heart stay there. At least then, he could attribute the throbbing to the gnawing metal and not the mere thought of you. 

(That’s all it takes. A thought. A fraction. A wisp! The mere thought of you is enough for his heart to mourn, for it to ache despite there being far worse things done to it; a knife, a dagger, a gun! A bullet! And you—you, oh, in all your wondrous cruelty, manage to triumph over it all!)

If they’re going to leave me, Sylus thinks, at least leave no trace. If you’re going to leave him, then at least spare him of your memory—he thinks of flowers, of treasures and gold—or take away his sight! His mind! His lungs! 

Make it so that he cannot live! Make it so he cannot comprehend the thought of your absence, so he has never felt the satiation of your existence! Starve him! An insatiable creature will never realize its hunger if it has never felt full!

But your cruelty (Sylus chuckles to himself, bemused) is reassuring; at the very least, he can expect that you won’t go down without a fight. Or two. Or three—spanning across lifetimes and eras. 

In this life, however, his fight is against the age of modern technology and his own stubbornness; should he surrender and call you first? But he doesn’t want to be easy, he has always prided himself in his self-restraint; after all, that was how he was able to let you go. Restraint. 

(His hand, briefly, grazes over the left side of his chest. He feels a spasm, a choke and a throb, his ribs beginning to constrict, his lungs stagnating.)

Should he call you first? Should he give in, and make himself easy? Should he forget self-restraint, and pursue what he has believed to be his? His treasure, his deity, his—his! 

Sylus doesn’t need to mull over the idea for long. He picks up his phone, your number on the top of his contact list, starred. Forget his pride. Forget his restraint. When did he ever have any of that? He has always hoarded his treasures, keeping them close to his heart—because holding something in his hand means that it’s his, forever. 

Your caller picture comes up. You; smiling; glowing; glimmering. Instinctively, Sylus is drawn to radiant things. It’s a primal urge, an innate trait—he looks down at your image, unable to contain his adoration, his gaze trailing over his treasure—which cannot be restrained. He’s insatiable. He’s insatiable because he, once, perceived you. Eons ago. 

(In a field of flowers, in an oasis of gold, Sylus perceived you. He perceived you, and oh, from that moment on, he has worshiped you. Forget the gold! Forget the jewelry! Forget him! He is yours; an offering; a submission; a pawn. He is yours! For that is the law of this world.)

The phone rings. Once, twice—Sylus smirks, thinking, Why play hard to get when I’m already theirs?—before finally, you pick up. He sets his glass of wine down. A flame. A bomb!

“Finally decided to answer, hm?” he says. 

From the other end, Sylus hears this: a rustle; a deep breath; a cough and a sigh. His smirk falters a little, his heart, wildly, going: tick-tick-tick…

“Sylus,” you call, your voice sounding raspy. “I can’t talk right now,”—your words are minced by a slaughter of coughs—“sorry. I’m sick. I took medicine already, though.”

He didn’t wait for your explanation. The moment you spoke his name, the syllables sounding ethereal from your tongue, Sylus stood up and reached for the keys of his motorbike, the engine rumbling before you even finished your sentence. 

(All you have to do is call his name! All you have to do is perceive him, really! To allow him to exist within a fragment of your thoughts, and that is enough!)

“I’m on my way.”

Rustling. Sylus can picture your face, disheveled, startled, as you quickly retort, “There’s no need! It’s late!”

Sylus laughs a little. How adorable, he thinks, sneaking another glance at your caller photo. “Late? Have you forgotten who I am, sweetie?”

Coughs. “Ugh.” You sniffle. 

“Open the door,” Sylus says, his tone not matching his words. When it comes to you, Sylus becomes unlike himself, his hardened exterior crumbling away, his voice reincarnates, contorting from a callous demand to a subtle plea. He metamorphosizes! From a sinner to a lover! Both equally egregious in magnitude, both equally intense and violent and…

“Huh?! Already?” From the other end, Sylus can hear you rummaging through your layers of bedsheets and blankets, your movements shabby and unrefined as you make a beeline towards the door. The cacophony dips into a muffled buzz, your voice becoming distant as you leave your phone behind.

A lull. The door creaks open; where you stand, the light fails to meet him; the shadow of your figure etched onto his skin.

A lover. He looks at you; not even bothering the end the call, or hide his obvious stare; Sylus smirks. His gaze trails over your features, affirming to himself that the camera does not do you justice, that the ability to perceive and feel the actual magnitude of your existence is otherworldly. 

This—this cannot be mimicked: the radiance, the glimmer, the recollection of all things that are beautiful. When Sylus looks at you, he thinks of flowers, of gold and of an ever-expanding sky. Back when the world was lovely, and now, when it became lovely again. 

You take a step back, eyes widening once your foot fails to meet the ground, the world beginning to spin while you brace yourself for impact. But the landing never comes. The small of your back meets a firm, warm palm, the scent of pine overwhelming your senses. 

(Instinctively, you lean forward. Sylus notices this. When you flinch back, embarrassed, however, Sylus’s other hand comes to press against the back of your head, bringing you closer to him.)

(“Trying to escape?” he whispers, lips near the shell of your ear. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”)

Before you can retort, Sylus lifts you up, heading in the direction of your bedroom, unusually familiar with the layout of your apartment. Sylus’s touch has always been featherlight—even when he tucks you into bed, and pulls the sheet over your chin, and presses his knuckle against your forehead, his calloused fingers are tender, just barely grazing your skin. 

(He had learned, long ago, that the most prized of possessions are often the most delicate.)

“Which do you prefer, sweetie?” he asks, placing a damp towel on your forehead. (Since when did Sylus know how to take care of people? you wonder.) “Porridge or hot tea?”

(He had learned, long ago, that to be a lover is to change. To morph, to change and to grow into someone kinder. Someone gentler. Most of all, however, to be a lover is to learn.)

“Hot tea,” you reply, throat feeling terribly sore. “But—”

Sylus’s glare silences you, the words falling down your esophagus, their wings clipped. Your throat is soar. You didn’t tell him, but still, you think he knows. (How does he know? you wonder.)

(To be a lover is to understand.)

“Hot tea it is.”

He finds your kitchen with ease. It’s as if Sylus lives with you, the way he navigates through your various cabinets and cooking utensils, familiar with everything—from your favorite cup to your favorite tea, Sylus knows you. 

(But how? you wonder.)

(To be a lover is to know. It’s like an instinct, an innate trait, a primal desire and an insatiable urge. When he was crafted, forsakenly, Sylus was given eyes to perceive and hands to touch—but also, he was given purpose, like how life exists to survive, like how death exists to control life. Sylus exists to love. He lives to love. He dies, time and time again, for love.)

From the doorframe of your room, Sylus stares at you, unabashed, unrestrained. A cup of hot tea steams in his hand. 

(Sylus loves for you. He finds love around you. From the color of your favorite cup to the tune of your favorite song, Sylus finds love. He finds purpose. He finds meaning.)

“Careful,” he says, helping you sit up in your bed. Sylus wipes the beads of sweat from your face with the soft taps of a towel, his dexterous fingers, used to pressing triggers, now reinvented to serve you.

(That was their original purpose.)

“The tea is hot,” he states, blowing, the steam bending to his breath. “Take small sips.” 

“To think the leader of Onychinus is cooling down my tea,” you say, managing to crack the slightest of smiles despite the exhaustion.

Sylus chuckles. “It’s your privilege.”

(What is the purpose of his title, if not for you?)

“Wow,” you reply, “what an honor.”

(What is the purpose of him, if not to love you?)

“Truly.” Sylus stares at you, your image devoured in flames. “What an honor.”

After finishing the tea, and settling completely into bed, you find yourself fighting the drowsiness. Sylus finds his seat by your side, turning off the lights with the snap of his Evol, not wanting to part from you, even if it’s for but a moment.

“Sleep, sweetie. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Really?” you remark, finding it in yourself to banter despite teetering across the border of consciousness.

“Always,” Sylus affirms, his large hand coming to cover your eyes, forcing you to fall, engulfed by the darkness. But Sylus would never let you brave the underworld alone, so he rests his head against the imprint of your figure in the mattress, breathing in your existence.

He closes his eyes. Vulnerable. His only weapon is his gun, holstered onto his belt. His hands are occupied, however, with yours. You could kill him now if you wanted to. If you wanted to end Onychinus. To restore justice in the N109 Zone. To receive merit within the Hunter’s Association.

Your breathing evens out. Sylus feels his heart throb. A bullet was there, once; he wished it could stay there; it was your offering to him, after all.

Tick-tick-tick… 

You’ve fallen asleep. Sylus scoffs. There goes your chance for a quick and easy promotion. 

(To be a lover is to wait. For the explosion, for the certainty, for the promise of eternity despite the inevitable end.)

(To be a lover is to have purpose.)

Sylus slips his fingers into the gaps of yours, and he rests. Like this, he is bound to you (but Sylus has always been bound to you—from his hands, to his eyes, to his lips, to his soul, Sylus is chained. He is destined to find you, to perceive you, and most fervently, to love you again.)

(Sylus loves you.)

Boom! 

(It has always been that way.)

“Dr. Zayne, you have an urgent message,” an automated voice says, echoing throughout his office. Zayne glances up from his various documents, sage-green eyes fixating on the projection before him. It’s a missed call from a sister hospital.

“Continue,” he replies, twirling a pen in between his deft fingers, his pale skin illuminating under the dim overhead lights. Zayne looks at the time; it’s almost midnight—he should call you soon. 

Zayne has a habit of calling you, even if it’s only for a minute or two; he does it for the sake of doing it. To check up on you. To see if you’re doing fine, or if your heart is giving you any troubles. As any good doctor would do for their patients.

(Zayne has a habit of lying to himself, for not following the standards of which he sets for others. He always tells you not to lie, to not make a fool of yourself when he can see through your facade so easily, but he himself lies, every day, at midnight, when he dials your number and waits for the ring; for the pause and for the breath, he lies, saying that it’s his duty as your physician.)

(It is a facade he refuses to recognize, a fault which he feigns ignorance to.)

(He calls you because he wants to hear your voice. To be reassured of your existence, to savor the moments of your vitality, which has slipped from his grasp, over and over again.) 

“Dr. Zayne,” someone says. Zayne looks at the holograph which manifests onto the projected screen, recognizing it to be his coworker. Briefly, his thoughts of you are interrupted, his attention belonging wholly to the projection.

“We need your assistance immediately. One of your patients has been admitted into our hospital. At the moment, their vitals are stable, but they are experiencing abrupt seizures and…”

Zayne’s collected demeanor falters. His tormented mind conjures up the worst of thoughts, because although Zayne has a plethora of patients, only a handful of them suffer from infrequent, violent seizures. And only a handful of them—he recognizes his coworker, who, similarly to Zayne, chose to specialize in cardiology—suffer from such severe symptoms.

He thinks of you. Zayne’s tormented mind always finds itself at the concept of you, curled inwards, tucked away into a gentle, petaled flower: fragile; fleeting; inevitable. And at the thought of you, everything freezes. Frost begins to tickle the tip of his nose, his breaths leaving in frantic, condensed puffs. 

(When will this cycle end? The desperation, the cling to survival, the repetition of the beginning and the end, never to last despite him doing everything in his power to prolong your presence—Zayne wants you to live!)

“I’ll be there,” Zayne declares, watching the holograph disappear. “Send me the location.” He grabs a black trenchcoat, ignoring the frost that infects his skin, the numbness of his limbs, the weeping of his heart. 

(He wants you to survive! He wants and wants and, daringly, despite everything, he—he still finds it in his heart to want you.)

When Zayne arrives at the hospital, his hands—which have performed surgeries, which have stitched the tiniest of arteries, which have connected the smallest of tissue—tremble. He feels sweat trickle down the side of his head, unable to fully contain himself as he shows his badge haphazardly, searching through the various units before arriving at the dreadful, forsaken ICU. 

Zayne is no stranger to the intensity of hospitals, the sharp scent of disinfectant, the repetitive beeps of various monitors. He is no stranger to the haunting sights of injected needles, of bedridden patients, of flatlines—but you, oh, you, seem to reinvent the world that was once normal to him. When it comes to you, Zayne views hospitals not as a symbol of health and life, but as an omen of doom. 

When it comes to you, Zayne remembers the past, the repeated history, the inevitable, incessant realization that both you and him are terribly finite. That, no matter what he does, or how many lives he saves, you will never be one of them. 

(That is a known fact of this world, Zayne thinks.)

But the inevitable end is followed by Zayne’s own helpless pride, his insatiable and desperate instinct. He’s a lover. He’s selfish. He wants to love you—he, he wants to live with you! Despite anything! Despite everything! If he must defy his creator, then so be it! Zayne will find a way to rewrite fate; he will find a way to love you; he already loves you. 

It has always been that way, from this life to the next, and the many thereafter. No matter how many incarnations he must live, nor how many times he is forced to watch you perish, Zayne will love you.

(That is a known fact of this world, Zayne thinks.) 

“Dr. Zayne, you’re here! Please, come this way!” 

Feverishly, Zayne follows after his coworker, offering apologies to the various people he runs into while racing towards your room. (When did he decide that it was you, the patient who is suffering from seizures?) Despite the tremble of his hands, Zayne’s breaths are steady, his shoulders accustomed to the enormity of pressure, your life dangling above his head. (Because history repeats. Because Zayne is guided by an inexplicable desire, and this desire is fed by fear and yearning and…)

You appear before him—like a premonition, like a figment of his wildest imagination, like a fantastical and mystical creature!—in a manner which, despite your unfathomable beauty, Zayne wishes he would never see again. Just once is enough: you; the hospital sheets; the haunting wires; the erratic green line which quantifies your vitality. 

Somehow, Zayne believes you to still be wondrous, your existence astonishing, illuminating every reach of the world! No matter how many times his eyes have had the privilege of beholding you, Zayne is still a stranger to the colossal magnitude of your presence, the remarkable radiance, the light, which one never truly perceives, but instinctively understands its importance.

The sun. Who would ever dare to look at the sun? Its light, although significant, is blinding—it could permanently damage one’s retinas, effectively blinding them for life.

(And at the same time, the sun grants life. What a cruel and twisted fate—to be needed and never truly accepted, to be needed and still be pushed away.)

Zayne looks at the sun. His finger barely grazes across your face, feeling the searing warmth, your incomparable light melting away the frost that once consumed his skin. When he looks away, Zayne is unable to see. He is unable to recognize anything that isn’t you: the sun; the light; the life. 

His eyes have been reworked, trained and forced to perceive only you, your image burned into his retinas, his hands feeling oh-so warm. 

“Dr. Zayne, this patient’s symptoms are unlike anything we have ever seen before.”

He blinks, recognizing the existence of a face but not truly acknowledging who it belongs to (since, undoubtedly, it is not yours). 

“Yes,” he replies, glancing back at you, sage-green eyes trailing over the bridge of your nose, the curl of your chapped lips, the furrow of your brows, your solace disturbed. “They are experiencing a unique congenital heart disease.”

“This is congenital?” 

Zayne swallows thickly, never tearing his gaze away from you.

“I’m not sure.”

To think he entered this profession for you. To think he spent years of his life learning about the intricacies of the heart, studying the finest of tissues and the most minute of cells, only for his knowledge to be insignificant. Only for his knowledge to be worthless, for his meaning to be starved, for his existence to be futile.

(When will this cycle end? When will his futility end? When will he finally become worth something? When will he finally be able to save you?)

“Is there any medication that is being administered to nullify the severity of their symptoms?” 

“Yes,” Zayne replies, glancing back down at your frail figure, your sickly countenance. “But it must be rotated often, as they build tolerance rather quickly.”

(Just how many more lives will it take? How many more times must he watch you perish? How many more times must he fight against the inevitable, the grand, twisted wheel of fate?)

“These seizures are severe, Dr. Zayne. We must find a cure.”

Zayne feels thorns prick at his skin. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die before they can reach his tongue. He is but a shell of himself. As every incarnation passes, Zayne re-experiences loss, and although he thought he would grow accustomed to the enormity of its void, he feels the emptiness each time. Wholly. 

Every time Zayne experiences loss, he thinks of you. Every time he lives, and every time he dies, he thinks of you. Every time a flower blooms, he thinks of you.

(Somehow, this shell finds it in itself to love. Time and time again. Somehow, this shell never learns. This shell chooses to love you, from one life to the next, even if the outcome is already predetermined, even if it, once, announced the outcomes itself.)

The magnitude of loss is equal to the magnitude of your existence. Of the grandness of your presence. Of the unparalleled actuality of you. You cannot be over-dreamed. 

No matter how many times Zayne finds you, he is left breathless, feverish, satiated. No matter how many times Zayne loses you, he is left desperate, grieving, yearning. 

Your voice is imprinted in his mind, yes, and your image worshiped by his retinas, yes, but no matter how many times Zayne perceives you, he believes you to be fantastical—like, like a star! Like the sun! Bright, exhilarating, radiant!

“Zayne?” a voice calls, transcending across lifetimes. Its timbre has been transcribed, remembered, desired; across eons, across universes. It’s you. 

And Zayne heeds your voice like an emissary does their master, like it’s enchanted, like it’s a tonic, promising happiness and vitality despite Zayne knowing better, despite how he knows that, of all the laws in this world, your inevitable end is the sole constant.

He stiffens, his hand immediately coming to turn off the lights, not wanting you to bear witness to the weakness of his expression and the overwhelming brightness of the lamp.

“[Name],” he replies, drawing circles into the back of your hand. I’m here, Zayne thinks, I’m sorry I’m late.

Zayne has a terrible habit of not voicing out the magnitude of his feelings, the swell of his heart. He has a terrible habit of not fully expressing the extent of which you mean to him, the extent and the desire which draws him from one life to the next, equally as forlorn and despairing as before. 

(You will never realize how he has chased you, how he has sought to save you, how he has fought against fate, wishing to defy the inevitable. You will never realize how Zayne forfeited everything, how he burned in the sun, how he reached for your light, despite feeling the wax melt, despite the plummet and the shocking death, his figure submerged.)

“You’re here,” you say, voice marred by sleep and your face stained with tears and snot. Still, Zayne thinks of you to be ethereal—divine, otherworldly. Truly, no matter how many times his eyes have beheld you in their irises, Zayne is left dazed. Silenced. Incapable of uttering anything anymore, so all that’s left within him—the enormous desire, the overwhelming grief—is left uncommunicable, irrevocable. Forever. 

(You will never realize how he would do it again. How he continues to do it again. How he would—if you did so much as asked him to—build those wax wings again, and don them again, and jump and soar and fall again. He would throw himself into the sea, even without those wings. He would—he would!)

Zayne doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to. His hand tightens around yours, grief swelling in his throat. 

“I thought,” you begin, but are interrupted by a fit of coughs. Zayne brings a cup of water up to your lips, tilting it ever-so slightly. You swallow, then continue again, “I thought you were busy.”

“Not at all,” Zayne replies, thumbing his hand over your cheekbone, barely applying any pressure. He wants to say more—like how he’ll always be there for you, like how he’ll always make time for you—but then, Zayne realizes the inevitable, the laws of this world, the fate which he has tried for so, so long to defy.

His words never manage to escape his throat. They come to a stuttering stop, then silence, then acceptance.

(He will not always be there for you. He cannot always make time for you.)

“I wish,” you say, voice muffled by your sobs. Zayne feels his chest pulsate, his heart hammering against its confines, threatening to escape his body and crawl into yours. “I wish it didn’t hurt so much, Zayne.”

“I know,” he whispers, trying to contain his expression, trying to console you with the patterns he draws into your hand, the handkerchief he uses to wipe your face. “I know. I’m sorry, [Name].”

(When will this cycle end? When will he finally be able to love you, without fear, without fail? When will you finally be able to realize, in full, the magnitude of his colossal desire, the ghostly heart he hosts, the flowers which bloom all across his chest, wilting before they can be bestowed upon you?)

Sometimes, Zayne wishes he could cease to exist. So you wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. So he wouldn’t have to witness it anymore. 

(But if he never existed, he would have never been able to perceive you, to realize the extent of all that is beautiful, to recognize the fragility of life, its fleeting loveliness. If he never existed, Zayne would have never heard the wildness of your voice, its divine tune, its incomparable sound. If he never existed, Zayne would have never beheld you within his eyes, the enchanted sight, the ethereal image.)

(And that, to him, is a fate worse than death itself. Worse than the endless cycles. Worse than the inevitable end.)

You’re alive, Zayne realizes, watching your breathing steady itself, watching your heart stroke up and down, in the form of a green line, beating, on and on, ceaselessly. 

You’re alive. Zayne chokes up at the thought. You’re alive! 

His gaze tears from the heart monitor to your face. Incomparable.

(This life will be different.)

Inevitably, Zayne’s hand finds yours, the warmth from your skin sinking into his. He stares at your figure, outlining your features despite the darkness, his mind not once needing light to conjure up your image.

Although he has decided this long ago, Zayne’s resolve is strengthened by your bedridden form, your once-valiant eyes, now reduced to a lidded, teary defeat—he will find a cure, he will defy fate, he will love you.

(This life is different.)

No matter what. 

Xavier finds himself in front of your room. 

He finds himself here often, really. Ever since he found out that the two of you were floor-neighbors, Xavier has been taking full advantage of your proximity, often coming up with various excuses and reasons to see you.

Sometimes, he knocks on your door, talking about your packages that were delivered to his door by accident (which he hopes will continue to happen), or various new cafes that have opened up nearby, which he thought you’d like (and he would like too, if you went with him). 

Other times, Xavier just decides to, in a very nonchalant fashion, loiter around before work in the morning, coincidentally running into you while making his way down to the ground floor. 

This time, however, Xavier is here with more than just himself. A bag filled with medicine dangles from his hand, the other coming up to knock once, twice, then thrice on your door. Earlier, you had called in sick, and although you hadn’t personally asked for any help from him, Xavier decided to make a quick stop at the convenience store before coming home. 

Xavier doesn’t often get sick from the common cold or the flu, so he wasn’t really sure what to buy—frankly, he just wiped everything off the shelf labeled “fever” and went on with his day. He doesn’t even know if you have a fever; still, when you open the door, he steps inside. Confidently.

“Are you okay, [Name]?” he asks, observing your wobbly gait and your shallow breaths. Before you can reply and continue walking, however, Xavier’s hand snakes around your waist, supporting you against his own figure. 

“Yeah!” you manage to heave out, exhausted. Your voice sounds congested, sweat racing down the side of your face while you try to reassure Xavier of your health.

He is, unsurprisingly, not convinced.

“You should rest, [Name]. Don’t worry, I’ve got this handled,” he says, setting down his bag of medicine on your countertop. “I can make you some warm soup.”

You shiver. Xavier takes it as a sign of your sickness worsening, not realizing your fear stems from his cooking skills (or lack thereof) and not the illness that, although temporary, feels like it’s eating you away one trait at a time. 

“Thank you, Xavier,” you manage to muster out, defeated. Xavier, on the other hand, is completely oblivious.

“It’s no problem at all,”—he ushers you in the direction of your room, guiding you into your bed and pressing a kiss against your forehead—“rest up. I’ll be back.”

“Xavier!” you scold, batting him away. “Don’t kiss me! I’m sick.”

He blinks at you innocently. “So?”

“You’ll get sick, too!” 

Xavier shrugs. “So, we’d be sick together.” His smile reveals his satisfaction with the idea. You groan, sinking into the sheets, not wanting to argue any further. Victorious, Xavier leaves your room, practically beaming, whilst cooking up a toxic recipe which only the likes of him are able to make.

The domesticity of it all makes Xavier’s heart shiver. Him; your kitchen; your apartment; your room. To coexist with you, to occupy the same time and space as you, to—to be with you! Oh, how Xavier has yearned for this moment, how he has longed to stand by your side once more, even if it’s only for a fraction of time, even if a wisp is all he deserves! 

Briefly, Xavier glances over his shoulder, looking back at your door, your bedroom, your form. He looks out the window. The world. This world: unfamiliar; unforgiving; unlike what he left. Philos. Xavier had thought of ways to return, to fulfill his duty, to stake his claim as the crown prince—but, but then…

You erupt into a cacophony of coughs, and Xavier drops his wizardly concoction to comfort you, his hand patting gently against your back.

(But then he found you.)

“Sorry, Xavier,” you barely manage to say.

(Forget his duty. Forget his position. Forget his mission—he, he found you!)

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassures, his touch featherlight. If only this moment could last forever. If only! 

If only Xavier could preserve this: the tinge, the blush, the limitless expansion of the enormity within him! If only he could preserve the way you look at him, the way you make him feel—like a wondrous, fantastical being—his words unutterable, his gaze forever wedded to your own.

You—you make him feel, like, like he’s capable of anything. Of everything. You, back in Philos and here, have always brought Xavier to his knees, his mind to a halt, his vision to a standstill. You have always changed the world! With this love of his, wielding it wildly, and—and he lets you, because Xavier is your sword. Because Xavier lives to serve you. 

(He found his duty. He found his mission. He found his position: yours. It has always been that way. Back in Philos and here, now, on Earth. With you. For you.)

“The soup must be ready,” Xavier suddenly says, still, his hand remains on the small of your back, not wanting to part. “Would you like to eat it now or later?”

You shiver. Xavier, once more, takes it as a sign of your developing sickness. 

“Actually, I believe you should rest,” he says, tucking you into your bed, “the soup will always be there for you. And me.”

You laugh a little, and Xavier mimics your expression, radiant joy beginning to bloom across his face, his azure eyes trained onto your face. Xavier is but a mere mirror of you, a reflection of all of your emotions, your habits. 

When you fully sink into your bed, Xavier is unsatisfied with his position at your side. So, he crawls in beside you, his weight sinking in towards you as he envelopes you in his arms, not caring for your coughs or sneezes.

“Xavier!” you exclaim, trying to wretch yourself out of his grasp. Xavier doesn’t let you. He feigns ignorance to your thrashing and holds you even tighter.

“Xavier, you’ll get sick, too!”

He pretends to snore. His limbs are limp on top of yours, his expression unbothered as he pretends to be asleep, despite the way he peers through his half-lidded eyes, so obviously staring at you.

“Xavier!”

“Hm?”

“You—”

“I’m sleeping.”

“What?”

“I’m asleep.”

“You’re responding to me.”

He doesn’t say a word. Still, you feel him smile into your shoulder.

“Let’s get sick together,” he mumbles. “And then, let’s sleep.”