#when i was sick very sick but still more abled and able to just exist

[p5-apotelesma]

SPEAKING OF RYUJI ive been thinking of adding his own crashout to the okumura arc at the same time as mona. because drama.

like. i know. i know everybody collectively goes UUHHHHGGGG during this part and i get why. i totally get it. its frustrating cause you just wanna shake the characters and tell them to talk to each other. (and i think a lot of people are frustrated by it because they just Dont like morgana and think hes annoying. none of that here)

not to mention how it overshadowed harus intro arc (which is also why im still debating it) but i feel like this could be remedied by. introducing haru earlier. we meet goro in june and he doesnt join the team til november. no reason we cant set haru up early too.

is this behavior in character for morgana? yeah id say so. could it have been written more smoothly? very yeah. listen i could go on about morgana and why this crashout of his Works with his arc and why characters like him are so squeezy toy to my brain BUT. later. ryuji time

i know ryuji isnt really the kind of kid to hold grudges. every time someone he cares about is angry with him, he thinks its more or less acceptable if they take it out on him. its just all he knows (but its not really okay!) but hes gone through the grueling psychological trauma of an awakening and. the truth of the matter is. kamoshida isnt the only person who he should tell to stop looking down on him

morgana does it all the time. and its rare i hear any objections from the gang other than a “will both of you knock it off” as if ryuji isnt outright being provoked. and yeah you could say this is just how they are. ryuji is a teenager and morgana is like two. communication blunders of the ages. ect.

and i do think this is part of it. some people have friendships full of teasing and ribbing on each other. but they Lead with Nice. you have to like. treat someone with enough kindness to warrant being able to playfully dig at them as a friend and morgana.

hasnt? sure theyre able to rely on each other as team mates but mona is just needlessly a little bitch. a lot.

i think the two do genuinely care about each other. that they can act like friends and they are friends. but. consider. its not enough that morgana has to stop being mean. morgana should have to be nice.

because when mona says “ryuji you idiot” or “you dumb monkey” or “youre pathetic” ryuji does, in fact, Not hear “ryuji i know you can do better” its literally just words hes endured for years at this point. and again!! i dont think mona has treated him nice enough to reach bullying privileges!

morgana has set the tone for pretty much every interaction he has with ryuji and the kid is just meeting him where hes at. which is why ryuji so easily calls morgana useless and thinks nothing of it. i mean (gestures to everything morgana says to him that the gang regards as normal and fine)

and the gang needs to object a lot more loudly to the ryuji slander. but they dont. and i think ryuji should have his own crashout moment because hes sick of morgana dragging him and no one really saying anything. they should have to have this moment where theyre like. aw fuck have we been bad friends? shit

and also realize that. them enabling mona to bully ryuji does not exist in a vacuum. it has consequences. and has in part fostered the dynamic that has ryuji so easily insulting mona. which leads to the cat running off in the first place

[xa3r1s]

Hiii! Could I ask for some cute fluffy crush!Jongseob x booknerd!reader stuff? 😭 I’m in massive need of some cuteness

Hope you’re doing okay!! 🫶🏻

✧⭑----⋆✩⋆-------⋆ ℍ𝕀𝔻𝔻𝔼ℕ 𝔹𝔼𝕋𝕎𝔼𝔼ℕ 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕃𝕀ℕ𝔼𝕊 ♡ [k. jongseob]

⠀⠀ ☆ (⠀ 꽃⠀ ) ...

﹢﹒ ✦⊹﹒..𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗.: “ KIM JONGSEOB ; ✧ ”

✦⊹﹒synopsis:ㅤyou always thought of jongseob like someone intimidating till one day you got on a project with him. once it was over, thinking you can scoot? back in your shell, buried between your books -your safeplace- except that wasn't what jongseob had planned. ✦⊹﹒warnings:ㅤsfw, fluff, crush!jongseob x booknerd!reader (dunno if i really made that happen so heres smth), kinda mutual pining, reader wants to distance themselves from jongseob ✦⊹﹒word count:ㅤ1,1k

a/n.: hey daisies, here's my first ever request, thank you! ♡ hope you like it guys and have a wonderful day!

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after your professor successfully approved the project you and him have been working for who knows long, knowing it was worth half of your grade for that semester, you let out a big exhale and leaned back, finally going back to your usual activity without anyone bothering or nagging you.

except something deep down in your chest didn’t let that happen. were you stupid for not listening to your brain? maybe. were you stupid for listening to your heart? absolutely.

thinking back, he was kind, he was helpful —well, just like you’d expect from a partner on a project, nobody wanted to fail, nor him, nor you of course—

he turned out to be different from what your first impression was and in the end with no denying, you became really close. sharing small laughs and smiles, digging deeper and deeper into each other’s pasts and souls. he was really social, it wasn’t that challenging for him after all, he knew how to handle a closeted people like yourself and get them to show themselves.

and that’s where something more sparkled up in your heart, something completely other than a simple friendship towards the boy. you felt nauseous, were you sick? what was happening? why did you felt like that around him towards the end of your meetings. you weren’t in love, were you?

you were, indeed.

the days passed ridiculously fast after the assignment have been graded, —just like in a big time skip movie— the usual silence in your life, came back with the calmness surrounding you between your books. but he wasn’t been able to get a hold of you ever since no matter the effort he put into it. you purposely ignored him. if you do that, he and your dumb feeling would go away, right? or was it delusion, that you could lie to yourself and make yourself numb to it if you simply just don’t pay attention?

right after your classes ended, you rushed to your small but still very cozy little coffee shop. sitting in a hidden corner where you always do, it’s like your own little routine to keep yourself motivated and happy throughout the fast passing days and weeks. the word outside could be an absolute chaos, loud noises everywhere with a lot of people surrounding you, this was your safe space you could retreat and just exist in silence.

it was mid spring already, your favorite season. not too cold and still not too hot either, the world was blooming and it was just absolutely breathtaking. the small flower petals fell from the trees, straight to the ground or the gentle breeze made it land directly in your hair which may be a hassle to remove later but the soothing aroma it carried with itself was worth it.

buried deep in a book, the coffee machines and small chatters could be heard only, leaving you focused on the lines before you, drinking up everything the pages had to offer. a small creak broke the calming sounds bouncing back from the colorful walls, someone making it’s way and sitting across from you in silence.

you didn’t really care, head hung still low when the individual tapped their fingers on the cold wooden table in front of them, their gazes fixated on you, then leaning forward and a small sigh escaping them.

“knew you’d be here.” you recognized the voice. what would jongseob do here? the small building you sat in every day was in the most secluded place you could find on the whole campus. finally looking up from reading, you met with a small smile stretched across his face. the thumping finished with the pads of his digits, his arms resting on the table, he turned his head to the side to look outside the window from a few inches away from you, taking in the people passing by with hurry, the warm air caressing their skin.

in awe, you still stared at him from where you sat. you felt your heart picking up the pace.

“but.. how?” was all you could ask and in response he gave a small laugh, his smile growing further and his cute snaggle-tooth peeked out beneath his soft, pink lips. the light shone right towards your direction in this side of the shop, the thin branches of the trees doing nothing to cover the sun illuminating his eyes, which danced in a pretty honey brown color now. while you were stupidly admired his features, he still didn’t face you.

“you know, it’s not really nice to ignore someone when they try to reach out, is it?” but what else were you supposed to do? you were old enough to handle your own emotions, even if they were something new to you. sometimes you had to figure out things on your own without any help from others. wasn’t this the right choice? rather than giving in and having your heart break in the end. placing no hope in it and just isolate yourself from the outside world right from the start.

“i always saw you after class heading towards here.” jongseob leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand with a lopsided grin while looking at you.

“it isn’t nice to stalk on people either, seobie..” breaking your cold demeanor, you let yourself have a chuckle and you swore you could see the stars in his eyes light up even more with his demeanor illuminate. with a shook of your head, one hand stirred the already half-cold coffee placed right in front of you, eyeing how the black liquid splashed against the white porcelain cup, staining it for a few seconds. “need something?” you questioned, taking a sip from the drink, looking at him over the rim of the mug.

“oh so that’s what you think about me.” seeming like he pondered for a few seconds, jongseob continued: “do i really look like i need anything, just because i want to be in your company after we finished the project?” but why would he want to keep in touch with you in the first place? you centered yourself around books and reading, while, well he was just a casual boy. not the heartthrob of the campus, but still two very different words.

you were stunned nonetheless, trying your best to not let your face fade into a grimace, your teeth sinking into your plump bottom lip, debating on whether to say anything at all.

“look. i’m just asking you not to ignore me, ‘aight?” dumbly you nodded but the small hint of smile stretched at the corners of your mouth. that’s when he learned it; if he wanted to get to know you better, he had to read between the lines to understand you.

▚▚ @xa3r1s ▚▚ my works belongs to me! do not translate them, copy them or publish them on another site.

[xviruserrorx]

I don't understand why people get frustrated at things they knew were gonna happen because someone else is chronically I'll and it's happened multiple times before so it's not like it's new, like oh yeah sorry for existing like this

[pepprs]

genuinely so angry and scared im shaking. how many other times this week this month this year have i been exposed without knowing it. do people even tell each other anymore. it’s just so grim. it’s so fucking grim

[fellthemarvelous]

Deny. Defend. Depose.

It is clear to those of us that live in America, the only people we truly have on our side are ourselves. The ruling class has made it clear we don't matter to them.

Luigi Mangione was arrested and happened to have every single piece of evidence on him that law enforcement was looking for, including the parts for the ghost gun, inside his backpack (that he also got rid of in Central Park containing the Monopoly money???). Either he was trying to get caught or that evidence was planted. And when he was being forcefully pushed into the jail, he hollered back to the press about "injustice" and "being an insult to the intelligence of American citizens and our lived experiences."

The people have now turned against corporate America and the CEOs and billionaires are fucking terrified. Nothing the news stations are saying to us are changing our minds. The American people have finally united over this issue and there is no going back for us. Whoever did kill Brian Thompson (and theories abound on the game The Adjuster is playing because no one plays Monopoly alone) exposed the very real divide that exists between every day citizens and the extremely wealthy. Things were easier for them to control when they were able to divide us, but now that we are aware of how uncertain our future is in America and seeing just how little we matter to the people who take our money, we have realized that we have more in common with each other than the people who control every aspect of our lives. We are waking up.

There isn't one person in this country who hasn't been a victim to the predatory scam that is private health insurance. Medical debt is the leading cause of bankruptcy in America, and many of us are one ambulance ride or hospital stay away from homelessness. We all know people who have died because the insurance company denied them the treatment they needed or waited until it was too late for an approval of a medical claim to matter anymore.

Recently, I decided to be tested for autism and ADHD. Not life-threatening or anything, but my life is still in shambles and I want to know if I'm going untreated for something else. Before being tested though, I was informed that the insurance company (Aetna) has said that they were going to cover the full cost of the testing I was having (which was six hours of testing by the way). She even made sure several times that they were, in fact, going to cover it in full and they said yes.

The same day that Brian Thompson, CEO of another horrible healthcare company, was murdered in broad daylight, I received a call from that doctor's office with the woman telling me that Aetna was now telling her they never agreed to cover my testing and that they are going to bill me for $1600 (where the hell am I supposed to get that?) and she is fighting them, but considering our lives don't matter to the people who tell us what healthcare we are and are not allowed to receive, I don't think they will feel compelled to change their minds because they are bloodsucking parasites who only care about lining their pockets while I don't even have $6 lying around, let alone $1600!!

Corporate America leeches off our taxes. They take and take and take and we see nothing in return. They raise prices on insurance coverage and then deny us the very coverage that we pay for. They poison our food, price gouge our poisoned food, and then force us to pay for the treatment we get when the food makes us sick. Corporate America profits off of our hard work, our taxes, our health, our lives, our deaths.

I don't know if this will reach a larger audience or not, but I wanted to talk about it on Tumblr because this platform seems to be a crossroads for every type of creative soul. I initially brought up this idea on TikTok earlier, but I want to see if it can get traction in other places as well since I have fewer than 3,000 followers on TikTok (and I have seen a small few express interest in my idea in the hours since I posted the video.)

We're busy being lectured by politicians and the news media because while they are clutching their pearls at what happened to Brian Thompson, the rest of us do not give one single flying fuck about what happened to him. As CEO of a for-profit health insurance company, he signed off on denied claims and death for those of us who struggle to make it from one day to the next. The sicker you are, the poorer you are, the more they force you to struggle and pay. The love to deny coverage because regardless of whether we live or die, they already have the money we are forced to pay them.

I don't condone murder at all, but I also don't care that he was murdered because he was guilty of murdering so many more people in this country through legal means because it's profitable. The CEOs are scared and there are wanted posters with their names and faces popping up in places. Every CEO of every healthcare company is guilty of murdering Americans and they continue to go unpunished for it because "it's just business".

So (if you've read this far) all of this previous rambling is to say that I keep thinking about how I want to make an impression. I want to continue upsetting the billionaires and the CEOs because corporate America is full of murderers who are legally allowed to decide whether we live or die based on which outcome will give them more money.

I have thought about the idea of creating a wall/constructing a wall somewhere as an art piece or something (making a statement) that will somehow honor the memory of people who died because insurance denied them care.

I know I definitely want it to say something along the lines of "In memory of those murdered by for-profit healthcare systems in corporate America". Something blatant. Loud. Something they are forced to look at every single day. Somehow. The wall could have images of those who are gone, or names of the person who died with the name of the insurance company responsible for their death underneath. Just something to make it clear that we see them for what they are. Something to avenge those who were sacrificed so billionaires and CEOS and shareholders could brag about record profits. Something that shows the whole world that American citizens are waking up to who the real monsters are.

The Adjuster (whoever he is or is not) has fanned the flames of revolution in America. He managed to unite us in a way I can't even recall before. It's not over. We know what happened to Brian Thompson was just the beginning, and corporate America only just now realized how much we actually hate them. A single shooter has sparked an awakening in America that is starting to snowball into something much bigger.

So if there is anyone out there who might be interested in collaborating on something like this, please let me know. I know we are all tired and demoralized and we have no money. I want to make a statement though, and I love doing that through art or writing. Collaborating with other people who have been through this same shit will also probably help us unite even more.

This is a watershed moment in American history.

In the words of Kanan Jarrus, Jedi Knight,

"There is a future for us. One where we're all free. But it's up to us to make it happen."

[raintemper]

Moon and Pebbles!! Yippee

oh the woes of being a flesh creature surrounded by supercomputer gods,, I got sad drawing him hhh

more about them under the line :>

Moon! She, like Suns, was one of the first successful projects and were both more of test models/therapeutic companions than anything else. They were both restructured to fit their new functions but Suns has obviously undergone more significant changes... Moon is kept inside to assist with research and computational stuff. She's a lab cat. She's generally looks more like a normal creature, and has a friendly appearance because her creators (i guess it would be the ancients) would be seeing her frequently and would rather a friendly face, something that is easily perceived as nonthreatening, as opposed to Suns weaponry and NSH's extra limbs and spikes. She doesn't have the screen face like NSH, so expressing emotions comes mostly from body language. Moon is not outside at all so there is no need for solar panel components like Suns or NSH. She has internal stored power that can last for quite a while but still needs to be recharged? I imagine the neuron fly drones would also assist in that department. The drones still function somewhat like her portable processing servers/braincells. She has also programed a defensive protocol into them, they can create small bits of electricity to use in dire moments. Initially programmed to keep track of NSH's samples that sometimes escapes him.

Pebbles is a purposed organism. He is a whole entire organic cat. He was born in the lab, in a chaotic time when resources were low. He has a mark of communication. He also has a brain chip where he can access (basically) the cloud where the others upload information. He is also a lab cat so this is crucial to his role. He did try and remove it once when he was younger and it backfired horribly and now he has a mechanical ear and eye. He still feels out of place for obvious reasons, being the only creature of organic origin amongst his peers.

He is closest to Moon who had a role in caring for and raising him. She did not know a thing about caring for a living being but did her best. Pebbles does not like being confined to the facility. The suggestion and influence the brain chip has on him sometimes clashes with his thoughts. He is very aware of the limitations it puts on him to not leave. He envies NSH and Suns a lot for being able to do what he can't. He often downloads the maps they create and read NSH's sample studies in his spare time. He also likes seeing the lizards NSH brings back, from a distance.

I think in the time that Pebbles exists, NSH is not very active. Due to the low resources and chaotic season, NSH is often in low power mode. Which means less expeditions outside and more time just, half asleep. And when the weather becomes more sustainable, NSH would be sent on long outings to gather as much as possible before being powered down again. So instead of hearing stories from NSH, he sought out Suns and UI instead. (Actually I think everyone is kind of low power mode here, Suns does not wander as far).

erhm i think he tries to leave the place and then gets sick or something,,,im still thinking..

[ms-demeanor]

I've been following what's been going on with Belphie the kitten and his person, Greer Stothers, has just mentioned pet insurance in a tag on a post and I wanted to give an example from my life backing up why pet insurance can be a good idea and why I think it is worthwhile.

Two years ago my sister's dog had bloat while she was on vacation. The kennel he was staying at recognized symptoms and called my sister to clear them to take him to the emergency vet. My sister is very financially secure and this dog is an enormous part of her life, so she said yes with barely a moment of hesitation. That ended up being about twelve thousand dollars of emergency surgery.

Large Bastard and I got pet insurance for Tiny Bastard the same week because we realized that if someone had presented that option to us, we would have had no choice but to have Tiny Bastard put down, and we didn't want to be put in that position.

I did a lot of research about different kinds of pet insurance and different levels of coverage and annual maximums and deductibles and so on and so forth. Tiny Bastard is a senior dog, so this was going to be expensive no matter what options we went with, so I chose a moderately priced plan with a $500 annual deductible, unlimited annual coverage, that pays 80% of the bills incurred annually below the maximum. What that means is that we pay the first $500 of care totally out of pocket, after which point we are reimbursed 80% of any vet bills for care covered by the plan.

The first year we had this plan I was kind of iffy about it. It's a noticeable monthly expense and we didn't even spend the deductible in vet bills the first year. Except that a month before the policy was set to renew, Tiny Bastard got diagnosed with diabetes. We now have monthly insulin costs and syringe costs; there are tests she has to have regularly to monitor her overall condition and we need to do more frequent vet visits to track symptoms.

Suddenly the insulin alone means that the insurance is break-even within six months and the additional visits and tests are something we can afford instead of something we'd have to put on credit.

Our plan (through ManyPets) covers medication, surgery, diagnostics, medical equipment, and euthanasia and cremation. It doesn't cover pre-existing conditions, joint conditions for dogs who were signed up over a certain age, dental care, spay/neuter, vaccinations, or prescription food but honestly all of that makes me just kind of wish we'd signed her up earlier - her knee problems *would* be covered if we'd had her signed up as a puppy, and the monthly cost would have been lower if we'd signed her up then. And there are at least a few emergency vet bills that I wouldn't still be paying off on my credit card. Hell, I've probably paid more in interest on some bruising she got in a fight three years ago than I have for this policy as a whole.

I am glad that Greer is able to take care of Belphie. I am glad that my sister was able to take care of her dog. But I'm also really, really glad that for a relatively low cost, I would be able to take care of Tiny Bastard if she were catastrophically injured, or if she needed emergency surgery. I'm glad that I'm able to take care of her now with her medications and her additional vet visits.

There are a lot of people who say that pet insurance isn't worth it, especially not for young animals. But if your young animal gets very sick, or gets badly injured, or eats a hairband and needs an emergency endoscopy, then it will probably be VERY worth it. It's a risk/reward question. You feel like you're wasting money if you're paying for a policy that you never use, but honestly that just means you're lucky to have a healthy pet.

I'm lucky that Tiny Bastard was relatively healthy before I got the insurance; I'm also lucky that she was insured when she was diagnosed with a chronic illness that will need lifelong care. This enables me to provide care for her that would otherwise be financially unmanageable, and that makes the insurance *extremely worth it* from my perspective.

And Belphie is a good example of why it's a good idea to get coverage even for very young pets. Greer is recommending it because this kitten has required a tremendous amount of care during a period in his life when it's generally taken for granted that a cat will be healthy. (And Greer is not stupid for forgoing pet insurance - pet insurance is still a relatively new concept and there are lots of people who are leery of it for a number of good reasons)

So I'd say that if you've got a pet or are getting a pet it is very worthwhile to find a pet insurance plan that fits in your budget. There are a variety of plans out there and some are very inexpensive. Check coverage levels (you can even get some with wellness plans that include dental care and vaccinations) and see if there's something that works for you.

I personally don't think I'm ever going to own another pet without having pet insurance. It's ridiculous how much easier it is for me to say yes to diagnostic tests or different treatments than it was before because I know I'm going to be able to fit Tiny Bastard's care into our budget.

[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.”

[ponderingmoonlight]

kny men saving you

Pairings: Sanemi x reader; Obanai x reader; Rengoku x reader

Word Count: 3,1k

Warnings: near death experiences but your knights in shining armor have your back hehe, pure fluff in every part, there might be some spelling mistakes here and there, my heart is in pieces bc I deleted Rengoku's part and had to re-write it and now it's bad

Sanemi Shinazugawa

The moon hangs low tonight, its pale light pooling in the dark grooves of the forest. You always loved how tender the night looks when the full moon is out, especially during summer. It dapples your path, just barely enough to see the worn trail beneath your feet. Your sandals whisper against the ground as you clutch the heavy clay jar in your arms. It’s not far now - you know the stream is just a little farther ahead. The thought of your mother, feverish and frail in her bed, keeps you going despite the nervous twist in your stomach. You hate walking out here alone. Because even though the night looks peaceful, it certainly isn’t.

Those past nights, a lot of innocent people disappeared during night. The elders talk frequently about creatures called demons who lurk out in the shelter of the dark in order to take lives. Your mother was very clear when telling you more than once that you aren’t allowed to go outside when it’s dark, that you have to stay inside at all cost.

But does that include her being so sick that she’s barely able to move? You can’t just sit there and watch her suffer, right? You can’t just wait for something that might never happen-

A twig snaps in the distance.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat. It’s probably nothing - you hope it’s nothing. But the hair on the back of your neck stands on end, and the oppressive weight of the dark seems to grow heavier with each passing minute.

The stream, you remind yourself. Get the water. Get back home.

Then the smell hits you.

It’s foul, coppery and rancid, and so wrong that your guts turn. You stumble, the clay jar nearly slipping from your grip. You freeze. There’s something ahead. No, someone.

But the silhouette isn’t really human. Too tall. Limbs too long. The gleam of sharp teeth is the first thing you make out, the grin stretching across its distorted face.

Your legs refuse to move. The demon lunges.

A demon?

Is this…what your mother always talked about, what everyone at the village warned you about countless times? Demons really do exist, that demon right in front of you is the ultimate prove for that.

You won’t be able to tell anyone the truth, though. Those sharp teeth that draw closer and closer, aiming for your neck. This is how you’ll die. Alone in a forest like so many people before you. Tears start stinging in your eyes, your throat so tight that you can’t catch breath.

Before you can even scream, there’s a flash of silver and a roar that shakes the trees. It takes you a moment to register what’s happening - the demon is on the ground now, twitching and headless. The stench of blood intensifies, and you realize it’s not just the demon’s. Your knees wobble.

And then he’s there.

The man who killed it, a whirlwind of pale scars and wild hair, is in front of you before you can blink. His blade gleams in the moonlight, still dripping. His eyes, sharp and livid, pin you in place.

“What the hell are you doing out here?!”

The force of his voice slams into you like a physical blow. You flinch, the jar slipping from your arms and shattering against the ground.

“I-I was just-” you stammer, words tumbling over each other, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“Do you have a death wish?” he snaps, taking a step closer.

“Are you stupid or just suicidal? Do you know how many of those things are out here? You’re lucky that was only one!”

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. You can’t even bring yourself to speak now, your throat tightening with every harsh word he throws at you.

Are you…crying? Sanemi’s eyes narrow, mouth opening to yell again, but something shifts in his expression when he sees the tears spill down your cheeks. Fuck, how is he supposed to scream when you’re looking at him like that?

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, looking away like he’s trying to calm himself.

“Shit. Stop crying.”

You hiccup, trying to stifle the sobs that threaten to bubble up. To his own surprise, he kneels down, so suddenly and close that it startles you. His hands hover awkwardly, like he’s not sure what to do with them. His voice, though still gruff, softens ever so slightly.

“Hey. I’m not gonna hurt you, alright? Just…stop crying already.”

You nod weakly, wiping at your face with trembling hands. He sighs again, this time more resigned.

“Look,” he grumbles, reaching out hesitantly,

“I didn’t mean to scare you. But you shouldn’t be out here. Not alone.”

His hand, rough and warm, settles lightly on your shoulder. It’s surprisingly steadying, even a little bit soft. You nod again, this time more firmly.

“I…I was getting water. For my mother. She’s sick.”

He frowns at that, eyes flicking to the broken jar on the ground. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just stares at you like he’s trying to figure you out. You were out there to get some water for your mother. How absolutely fucking stupid. But on the other side…he can’t help but admire your courage the slightest bit. Given your pretty weak frame and haunted eyes, you aren’t really experienced when it comes to combat. It’s obvious that you’re nothing but an ordinary villager, a girl who just tried to save her mother without having a single clue about the shit that awaits her.

Enough of that sentimental bullshit. If he looks at you one more second…

With a rough huff, he stands and turns his back to you.

“C’mon.”

You blink, trying to understand the meaning behind his rough words.

“W-What?”

“I’m taking you back. You’re gonna get yourself killed if I leave you out here.”

Before you can protest, he crouches slightly.

“Get on.”

“Wh-What?” you stammer again, heat flooding your cheeks.

No, you can’t do this. Not when he’s a stranger, not when he already saved you. He glares over his shoulder.

“Do I have to spell it out? You’re too slow, and I’m not dragging you the whole way. Now get on before I change my mind.”

Swallowing your nerves, you shuffle closer, hesitantly placing your hands on his shoulders. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he hooks his arms under your knees and lifts you like it’s nothing. You’re startled by the steadiness of his grip, the surprising warmth of him despite the chill of the night. This is…the first time a boy ever touched you like this.

The walk back is quiet save for the crunch of his boots against the forest floor. You cling to his haori, your earlier fear slowly ebbing away. His presence, though sharp-edged and intense, is strangely comforting now.

When you finally see the soft glow of your village lights through the trees, relief washes over you. He doesn’t stop until he’s at the edge of your house, where he kneels to let you down.

“You’re lucky I came along,” he mutters, his voice still rough but quieter now.

“Next time, think before you do something stupid.”

You nod meekly.

“Thank you.”

He grunts, straightening.

“Get inside. And stay there.”

But before he turns to leave, he hesitates. His hand lingers for a moment, brushing against your shoulder again, almost absentmindedly. Then he steps back, his expression unreadable under the moonlight.

“Take care of your mom,” he says gruffly, before disappearing into the night.

Your heart feels a little fuller, even as your legs wobble carrying you inside.

Iguro Obanai

The wind howls against your ears as you step cautiously closer to the cliff’s edge, the jagged rocks below barely visible through the mist. It’s a beautiful view - almost ethereal. You should stop here, you know you should, but something about the sheer drop pulls you in. Just a few more steps, you think. A little closer and you’ll be able to see that gorgeous field of tulips your friends told you about.

The world seems quieter here, the rush of blood in your ears louder than the rustling trees behind you. You feel weightless, suspended between the earth and the empty sky. It’s thrilling, in a way. Comforting in depressing times like these.

You don’t notice the loose gravel underfoot until it shifts.

Your breath catches as your sandal slips, toes curling desperately to hold onto anything solid. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, there’s nothing but air beneath you, and you’re falling straight towards the tulips, straight towards certain death-

Until a strong hand clamps onto your wrist and yanks you back.

The force sends you sprawling onto solid ground, your heart hammering in your chest. You barely have time to register what happened before a familiar voice cuts through the panic, sharp and laced with fury.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

You look up to find Obanai crouched in front of you, his mismatched eyes blazing with barely-contained anger. His hand is still gripping your wrist, tight enough that it’s almost painful, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away.

“I-I didn’t mean-” you stammer, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“You didn’t mean what? To nearly kill yourself? To fall off a cliff like it’s nothing?”

His voice rises, each word sharper than the last.

“Do you even realize how close you were?!”

Tears well up in your eyes, hot and stinging, as his words hit you like a physical blow. You hadn’t meant to be careless - it wasn’t like you wanted to fall. But hearing the raw frustration in his voice, seeing the way his knuckles are white from gripping your wrist too tightly, makes you feel like you’ve done something unforgivable.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“I didn’t-”

He cuts you off again, though this time it’s not with words. He pulls you into his arms so suddenly that you barely have time to react. His embrace is firm, almost desperate, and the tension in his body makes it clear that he’s holding on more for himself than for you.

“Don’t do that again,” he mutters, his voice muffled against your hair.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

Your tears spill over, and you nod against his chest, your hands clutching at his haori as if letting go would send you tumbling back over the edge. He’s warm, solid in a way that grounds you, his presence filling the air with something that feels like safety.

For a long moment, the two of you stay like that, the wind swirling around you but never quite reaching where he holds you. His hand moves to the back of your head, cradling it gently, and you feel his fingers tremble ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur again, your voice barely audible.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He sighs, the sound heavy but softer than before.

“You didn’t just scare me,” he says quietly, his voice steady now.

“You almost—” He stops himself, shaking his head.

“Just... be more careful. It’s not like I’m able to be around you all the time.”

You nod, pressing closer to him. The anger in his tone has faded, replaced by something warmer, something that feels like relief. His grip loosens just enough for you to breathe, but he doesn’t let go entirely.

After a while, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands settling on your shoulders. His gaze, though still stern, is no longer angry. Instead, it’s filled with something you can’t quite name, a mix of worry and something softer, something more fragile.

“You’re not allowed to scare me like that again.  Promise me.”

“I promise,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

He studies you for a moment longer, as if trying to determine whether you mean it, before nodding.

“Good.”

And then, to your surprise, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, visible through the bandages that cover his inviting lips. It’s fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, but it’s there, and it warms you in a way that nothing else could.

“Come on. Let’s get away from the edge.”

You take his hand without hesitation, letting him pull you to your feet. His grip is steady, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary as if to reassure himself that you’re really there.

“But…Why were you here in the first place?”

Obanai can’t help but get lost in a wave of coughing, his cheeks turning bright pink. Maybe, just maybe because he has his eyes on you since he can remember and never misses the chance to be around you when he’s home.

“Just…because”, he mumbles.

And as the two of you walk back toward safety, his hand never quite lets go of yours.

Rengoku Kyojuro

The festival is alive with the hum of happy chatter and flickering lanterns, their golden glow dancing across the busy streets. The air is thick with the scent of grilled skewers and sweetened rice cakes, and laughter echoes around you like a warm embrace. You pause at a stall, admiring the delicate charms on display.

You've been in love with those annual festivals since you were young, always admiring the different stalls with all the goos from far away while wearing your best kimono out.

But today was even better with that tall stranger wearing that elegant red kimono and those beaming eyes. Even though he talked louder than everyone surrounding him, you never got tired of listening to his food advice.

Maybe you should really try the sweet potatos he mentioned earlier. You lean in closer, trying to decide between a bento box and a side of sweet potatos when a scream cuts through the noise like a blade.

It’s sharp, raw, and sends a chill down your spine.

The joyous energy of the crowd fractures, shattering into chaos as people scatter. The street that had been so full of life mere moments ago is now a stampede of panicked footsteps. Vendors abandon their carts, children cry out for their parents, and the cheerful festival music grinds to a halt.

You hesitate, your instincts screaming at you to run, but your feet refuse to move. You can’t see what’s happening yet - the crowd is too thick - but the smell of blood is unmistakable, metallic and sickly sweet, twisting your stomach into knots.

And then you see it.

A demon emerges from the shadows, its grotesque face twisting into a wide, terrifying grin as it prowls forward. Its claws are long, sharp, and dripping with fresh blood. It locks eyes with you—a predator that has spotted its prey.

You freeze.

You’ve heard stories about demons. You know they’re real, but knowing something and facing it are two very different things. Your legs tremble, your heart slamming against your ribs, but you can’t make yourself move. It’s as though the world has narrowed, the monster at the center, everything else falling away.

It lunges.

A blur of orange and red streaks through the air before it can reach you.

"Do not dare to touch this lady!"

The voice is booming, confident, and electrifying. The demon’s attack is intercepted, its claws clashing with a nichirin blade that burns like fire. You gasp as your rescuer appears, his haori billowing around him like flames brought to life.

Rengoku Kyojuro.

“Do not fear!” he declares, his smile broad and reassuring even as he pushes the demon back with a powerful swing of his sword.

“You are safe now, young lady! I will not allow harm to come to you!”

He is...The stranger from before, the man with the elegant kimono!

The demon snarls, lunging again with feral speed, but Rengoku meets it head-on. His blade flashes, and sparks erupt as the demon’s claws glance off his sword. He’s a blur of motion, his strikes precise and devastating, and yet there’s something graceful in the way he moves, as though the fight is a choreographed dance he has perfected.

You watch, rooted to the spot, as he delivers the final blow. Flames erupt from his blade.

"Flame Breathing, Fifth Form: Flame Tiger!"

A fiery streak takes the shape of a roaring tiger, consuming the demon in one final, dazzling strike. Its body disintegrates into ash, leaving nothing behind but the acrid smell of death.

The silence that follows is almost as shocking as the chaos that preceded it.

Rengoku turns to you, lowering his sword but keeping it at the ready. His golden eyes scan your face, his expression softening into something kinder.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice warm, though tinged with concern.

You nod shakily, though you’re not entirely sure if you’re alright. Your knees feel like jelly, and your heart is still racing, but his presence alone feels like an anchor.

“Y-Yes. I think so,” you manage to whisper.

He steps closer, his towering frame somehow not intimidating but comforting.

“You were very brave to stay so calm,” he comments, his smile returning, this time gentler.

“But next time, it’s best to run. Demons are relentless creatures.”

“I-I couldn’t move,” you admit, shame coloring your voice.

“I froze.”

His gaze softens further, and he crouches slightly, bringing himself more to your eye level.

“That’s natural,” he replies, his tone soothing.

“Fear is not weakness. It’s what reminds us to protect what’s important.”

He tilts his head, his smile growing.

“But you’re safe now, and that’s all that matters.”

You feel tears pricking at your eyes, the overwhelming relief hitting you all at once. Before you can say anything, his warm hand gently pats the top of your head, his calloused fingers light but grounding.

“Good work holding on,” he says quietly.

“You did well.”

Your breath hitches at the kindness in his words. He straightens then, offering you his hand.

“Shall I escort you somewhere safe?” he asks, his voice as bright and steady as the flame he wields.

“There’s no need to fear - I’ll protect you.”

You take his hand, its warmth seeping into your skin, and nod. Somehow, with him beside you, the world doesn’t feel so terrifying anymore.

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix  @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @laurencrsnt @sanemifucker @blunderland

[yandere-daydreams]

Screening: Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978).

Pairing: Yandere!Carlisle Cullen x Reader (Twilight).

Word Count: 2.1k.

TW: Wildly Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Medical Malpractice, Blood, Controlling Behavior, Deliberate Social Isolation, Misuse of Prescription Drugs, and Generalized Twilight. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

It might’ve just been the isolation getting to you, but you were starting to think that your doctor wasn’t completely human.

Not that you’d ever say so out loud. At best, it was awful thing to think about a man who’d only ever been kind to you and, at worst, it proved yet another symptom to your ever-developing, ever-worsening illness had cropped up and would need further treatment to correct. You knew better than to say things that would make you seem more sick than you already were, but it was hard to stop yourself from lingering on the idea – especially considering you only had books, sleep, and his company to pass the endless time. Admittedly, it’d been a while since you’d seen another person, but you could’ve sworn he was paler than he should’ve been, to the point of bloodlessness. He never ate or drank around you, but sometimes when he spoke, the light would catch on his teeth in a way that made them look too sharp, too prominent. You might’ve been dreaming, but once, after you took your medicine but just before you fell asleep, you swore you saw him taking the cap off of the blood sample he’d taken a few minutes prior, like he planned to do something aside from—

You heard a door open and instantly, your paranoia was dismissed in favor of more interesting stimuli. In this case, that came in the form of your doctor, Carlisle Cullen, stepping into your bedroom, an inhumanly perfect smile already painted across his inhumanly perfect lips.

…maybe you should tell somebody about your little conspiracy. If only to be absolutely sure that you were really losing your mind.

“Good morning,” he said, and it occurred to you that you hadn’t thought to check the time, yet. Your life existed in three states: alone, asleep, and with Carlisle. Only that last one really mattered – the other two could easily be lumped into the same category helpfully labeled ‘waiting for Carlisle’s next visit’. “Have you been keeping yourself busy?”

“I’ve only been awake for a couple hours,” you explained, shrugging as he took his usual seat in the chair left next to your bed. He was always polite enough to ask about the boring details of your day, and you were always embarrassed enough to skirt around just how little you had the energy for. Most of the time, it was all you could do to pull yourself out of bed and yourself to eat before retreating back into your little safe haven. On a good day, you’d be able to go for a walk, maybe respond to a few of the calls you were constantly missing, but most days weren’t very good. “Reading, mostly. Thanks again for the recommendation.”

The book he’d lent you – a dry historical drama with characters as bland as water and a plot as boring as sin – sat open on your lap, but you’d only gotten through half a chapter before giving up. It was hard to believe Carlisle was only a few years older than you, sometimes. You couldn’t imagine how someone who seemed so young could have such awful taste.

Still, he looked pleased, his pleasantly aloof expression taking on a defined note of satisfaction. “It’s important to keep your mind occupied while your body’s recovering. You wouldn’t want to waste all of my hard work by letting yourself die of boredom, now, would you?”

“No, doctor.” It was stupid to try, but he’d set himself up for it. You couldn’t seem to stop yourself, your heart beating just a little faster as you grasped blindly for the impossible. “You know, there’s this friend of mine who keeps asking when she’ll be able to visit, and I thought it might help pass the time if—”  

“You’ll have to find a way to let her down.” Carlisle’s voice was smooth, calm. You did your best not to sulk, but still, he let out a labored sigh, only a touch too professional to roll his eyes. “It’s for the best. It’s good that you stay active, but you know what’ll happen if you overexert yourself, don’t you?”

Vaguely. It was hard to remember the details of your condition, and you weren’t in the mood for another lecture. “I do, doctor.”

“And you’re going to behave your check-up, aren’t you?”

“I am, doctor.”

“And that’s why you’re my favorite patient.” Your compliance was rewarded with a beaming smile, an appeased nod as he pulled his old-fashioned leather doctor’s bag into his lap. “We better make good on that promise before you change your mind, then.”

You didn’t protest. Honestly, you didn’t say much of anything. You never talked during your exam, preferring to let Carlisle go through the necessary motions with as little interference as possible. Instead, he filled the silence with mindless chatter about his children and how they were doing at the local public school, the hospital’s ongoings since you were unofficially discharged, and your favorite – Forks’ particularly colorful smalltown gossip, from the sheriff’s wayward daughter moving back into town to the spike in bear sightings on the local hiking paths. “It’ll be a busy week,” he mentioned, as he finished taking your blood pressure. “You might have some unexpected company, after all.”

At that, you perked up. You met nearly all of Carlisle’s assistants (medical students, you guessed, judging by their ages) by now, and even if you didn’t care for all of them, it was still nice to see someone other than him. Your least favorites were the dark haired twins – the wiry boy who always seemed to be biting back a smirk and the pixie-like girl who always acted like she knew something you didn’t – and you were particularly fond of the blonde girl… Rosemary, or maybe Rosaline. She was nice, compassionate, kind enough to keep you company even when Carlisle wasn’t in the room. More importantly, she brought interesting books – romance and horror, novels like Dracula and Carmilla and Interview with a Vampire, always handing over with a sweet smile and a hushed reminder not to let Carlisle know she was breaking his rules. Looking back on it, you probably shouldn’t have accepted anything she tried to give you. You would’ve hated for her to get in trouble just because she was trying to be nice.

Rather than voicing your overwhelming bias, you watched intently as he slipped the loose cuff off of your arm, tucking it back into his bag and removing something else, something long and silver and sharp. Immediately, your gaze shot back to your lap, your throat going dry in an instant. The next time you managed to spit something out, it was nearly too quiet to be audible. “…is there any chance we could, uh, I don’t know,” You paused, shrunk into yourself. “…skip the phlebotomy, this time?”

Carlisle’s answer was as swift as it was ruthless. An airy laugh, a jagged twist to this smile as he took up the needle properly and turned it over in his hand, looking for defects. It was already attached the glass syringe and, even worse, an empty vial; just a touch bigger than you remembered it being, the day before. “And take that kind of risk? How little do you think of me, (Y/n)?”

“It’s not you, it’s just—I already feel a little faint, and you take one every day, and—” You cut yourself off, inhaling sharply. “I just don’t know if it’s really necessary. Considering how careful you are and everything.”

“You’re right, I am careful. Which is exactly why I have to do this each and every time I come to see you.” He sighed, shook his head – suddenly more of a patronizing, paternal figure than any kind of medical professional, let alone peer. “You understand, don’t you? Without regular testing, your condition may worsen, and if you get any sicker than you are now…” You stiffened as he trailed off, bracing yourself. You knew what came next, what always came next.

“You’ll have to go back to the hospital, angel.”

It was strange, how a voice as smooth and as beautiful as his could be so difficult to listen to.

You didn’t like Carlisle. You hated his condescending smile, his repetitive rambling, his terrible taste in books and his creepy little students. You hated how little he let you do, how he talked about your illness – always skirting around the details, never giving you enough information to know whether you were on the verge of dying or a few days away from making a full recovery. No, when you were honest with yourself, you didn’t like him. Hated him, even.

But you couldn’t go back to the hospital, with its blank white walls and sobbing patients and strange, mind-altering drugs that put your sleep and made you feel like someone was biting into your throat. It’d been a miracle when Carlisle first told you about his domestic services, when he offered to have you discharged in exchange for only the promise that you wouldn’t seek care that didn’t come from him. Arrangements were made, your rent and bills taken over by some nameless, faceless local charity, and for the first time in months, you got to go home. You could live with Carlisle and his once weekly, now daily check-ups. You could live with the fact that you didn’t remember the last time you’d gotten to make a decision for yourself.

And, if you had to, you could live with paying for your freedom in blood, too. As long as it meant you didn’t have to go back to that terrible place.

Once again, you didn’t say anything, but you didn’t resist as he sighed and ran a sterilizing pad over your forearm, the antibiotic strong enough to burn. You clenched your eyes shut, but that did nothing to block out the feeling of a thin elastic band being wrapped around the crook of your elbow, of his needle pushing through your skin and burrowing into the vein underneath it. There was a second of pressure, of knotted soreness, and then, the syringe was gone and you were left feeling just a little colder, just a little more empty than you had before.

Even after opening your eyes, you kept them trained on your lap. You easily could’ve spent the rest of his visit in silence, but metal clinked against glass as he rushed to cap his vial and suddenly, you needed to hear the sound of your own voice. “I think I might be getting paranoid,” you managed, with a breath of a laugh. “For a few minutes this morning, I was able to convince myself that you were… I don’t know, an alien studying humanity, or something.”

“If I was, I’m sure that I would still pick you as the best possible specimen for my examination.” It was hollow comfort, but you smiled anyway, nodding along. Your medication came next, in the form of a small, chalky white pill that you still struggled to swallow under Carlisle’s vigilant gaze. You managed to choke it down, though, and as always, the effects were instant; a sudden clearness, blankness, followed shortly by an exhaustion so thick and so heavy, you couldn’t remember what it’d ever felt like not to be tired. You tried to hold yourself up, but faltered – buckling under your own weight. Carlisle chuckled as he caught you, helping you lay down with a soft squeeze to your shoulder, a feather-light kiss to the top of your head. “Sleep, angel. It’s good for you.” And then, his grin still pressing into your scalp. “And try not to dream about vampires, this time.”

So he did know about Rosalie’s books. Pouting, you shrunk into yourself, letting him drag the comforter over your abruptly immobile body as your eyes eased shut, as he pulled away – a vial of your blood still warm in his hand. It would’ve been impossible to stop yourself from falling asleep, but you managed to stave off unconscious long enough to watch him remove the vial’s carefully applied seal, to unscrew the air-tight cap with the kind of tenderness you’d only seen him use while taking your temperature or petting his fingers through your hair after he thought you were already too far gone to remember. He did a lot of things when he thought you weren’t looking, didn’t he? You’d never really noticed that, before.

Through your eyelashes, you watched him bring the vial to his lips before everything went dark.

[sayruq]

Dr. Tanya Haj-Hassan, a pediatric intensive care physician who works with Médecins Sans Frontières and co-founded @GazaMedicVoices, has emerged as one of the most prominent voices raising the alarm about the hell Israel has created for Gaza’s healthcare workers. Mary Turfah: Yesterday, I came across a report of a third mass grave unearthed at Al-Shifa Hospital. One month ago, as the first mass graves there were being uncovered, you were interviewed by Sky News. The anchor cited Israeli military sources saying that they had detained “hundreds of Hamas militants” within the complex, then asked you what you thought of that. Could you speak to your response to him, and to this persistent obsession with “militants at Al-Shifa,” when not a single hospital in Gaza has been spared, and when there have been mass graves [seven in total to date] uncovered at multiple hospitals in Gaza? Tanya Haj-Hassan: Yeah. I think my response was something to the effect of, I can’t believe we’re still having this conversation. Everybody from a medical or humanitarian background is so sick of having to respond to these atrocious, preposterous justifications that are being provided for things that are never justifiable. I thought the Hamas and Al-Shifa question was buried a long time ago. There were several weeks where that’s all we were asked about in interviews. There were multiple investigations done that concluded no credible evidence existed to justify the attacks on Al-Shifa. And then, Al-Shifa was targeted again, besieged again. Then, eventually, Al-Shifa started functioning again. The staff were so proud of the fact that they got it functioning again. That second time, the hospital was again besieged and targeted. A lot of the staff were taken out into the courtyard of the hospital, where the male staff were stripped. Israeli soldiers beat several of the healthcare providers. A very, very senior person at Al Shifa, an older doctor, was eventually released and came on foot to Al-Aqsa Hospital. And immediately, he went back to work. I was at Al-Aqsa Hospital when he turned up disheveled, beard down to here, exhausted, having lost I don’t know how many kilos, hadn’t seen his family for five months, didn’t have a phone, didn’t have proper shoes, didn’t have proper clothes. They fled with basically nothing. And many of the other healthcare providers who were taken outside with him were abducted. I think his testimonies of what happened and the amount of work they had put into getting Al-Shifa functioning again made the question of the Sky News anchor even more infuriating. Because that’s the reality I had just come out of, and to hear him then ask a health professional who had spent the last few weeks resuscitating dead and dying children that have been maimed to an extent that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget—even though I think for my own well-being, it would probably be good if I would forget some of those images—I found it so insulting. Insulting to me, to the healthcare providers who had risked their lives to stay at Al-Shifa, who had lost 25 percent of their body weight, who were exhausted. Insulting to the health care providers who had been killed at Al-Shifa, fleeing from Al-Shifa, to the civilians who were executed there. It’s insulting to our intellect. It’s insulting to humanity

MT: Last week, it was revealed that Dr. Adnan Al-Bursh, a renowned orthopedic surgeon in Gaza, was tortured to death inside of Israeli prisons, according to eyewitness testimony, after he had been abducted from the hospital where he was providing life-saving care, back in December. Hundreds of medical workers have been killed to date, and many more injured. You said in one interview that doctors and healthcare workers are changing out of their scrubs before leaving the hospital so that they’re not targeted. On top of this, the doctors in Gaza have been working basically nonstop for 215 days. As someone who has worked in Gaza, I was wondering if you could say a bit about what your colleagues are facing day-to-day. THH: I want to start with the abduction of healthcare workers, because it’s so underreported, to the point where myself and my colleagues, medical providers working our own jobs, are doing the investigative work. They’re systematic. There have been at least 240 abductions documented by our group— MT: 240?! THH: At least 240, and I’m not talking about what’s reported by the Ministry of Health, which I believe is an even higher number. We documented that at least 240 healthcare workers have been abducted and detained by Israeli forces, the majority of whom have not been released. And the ones who have been released are providing testimonies of torture, of themselves but also the torture that they’ve witnessed. I’ve taken testimonies. One, a three-hour-long testimony about the torture inflicted on [my friend,] a nurse, for 53 days in custody, accusing him of being part of Hamas, of his family being part of Hamas, even though the fact that he was released tells you he wasn’t part of Hamas. Given the extent to which he was tortured, I’m surprised that he survived. And he has not survived with his physical and mental health intact. He has scars, he has nightmares. He had hematuria, so bleeding when he urinated, for weeks after he was released.

Please read this interview as it sheds light on the horrors doctors, nurses, and other medical workers in Gaza have endured

[kibblbread]

AK!Jason doesn’t really like anything.. but he really likes spending time with you.

There isn’t much joy in his life, and when he does experience it, it’s pretty hard to tell. Very hard in fact. When Jason is his absolute happiest it’s truly rare that he’s fully conscious or not coming down from a state of extreme distress and panic.

More recent anecdotes of him happily existing involve him waking up or falling asleep alongside you, preventing a loved one from being fatally hurt, or brutalizing soneone that hurts you. Pretty scary, but these aren’t things he wants to acknowledge in the slightest or ever make known to you. External validation is necessary for him to truly feel good at this point in his life, which is something you’re privy to— just not the extent obviously.

When JT is hardly awake or really beginning to fall into what’ll be a comfortable dreamless sleep, he feels safe and secure enough to relax properly. He’s being held, allowed to be perceivably weak in a way that he deems acceptable. He can bury himself deep into the warmth and softness of your body to be protected from the nipping cold of Gotham.

It’s such a special time for him, a sacred moment that he cherishes.

You are his one precious piece of bliss.

Jason doesn’t acknowledge your gentle scalp rubs and lip balm coated kisses outside of a slight tightening of his grasp on your t-shirt. Greedily and lazily claiming his lover and her kind gestures of affection.

This is the most common and most easily detectable example of happiness from Jason. It’s somewhat complex without any explanation but still worth noting to an observant s/o of JT. I think that Jason himself though wouldn’t identify this experience (or lack of) is actually happening beyond him being happy to snuggle every once in a while. Being able to be excited to be touched instead of anxious or irrationally annoyed, it doesn’t occur to himself how often he’s in a nasty mood.

Preventing a loved one from being hurt only gives a small sense of joy that’s usually overshadowed by guilt and anger. The fact that the situation happened in the first place is somehow his own fault in the mind of Jason. But there are times where you’re able to thank him immediately after the fact, those are the times he can feel ego. That pat on the back is always a major surprise to him! Any gratitude he receives in moments so stressful boost his confidence a lot. When you do that he doesn’t have to much time to think about every specific way he fucked up, instead he’s concentrated on rationalizing why you’re complimenting something that in his head could’ve been somehow avoided.

You give him a quick hug and smile up at his faceless red helmet, telling him things could’ve ended terribly if he hadn’t been there. There is a small ping of joy radiate from within his chest. The positive reinforcement of your small affirming touches and verbal encouragement give pause to the harsh self criticisms. While the ultimate core emotions attached to this moment would be some initial surprise and frustration, there will always be a lingering feeling of pride that he got to be your hero.

As for getting a lick-back for your sake, lol, he’s pretty fucked up about it. Whether it be a lowly henchman/gang member or a notorious villain, he doesn’t know when to let up— or if he wants to. Deep down Jason derives a sick sense of joy from maiming people. It’s not his fault, but it’s his responsibility to face this dark and crooked part of himself. He knows it spooks you, it spooks all his loved ones, but he can’t help it can he? He can’t help being the twisted mangled thing Joker forced him to become.

Jason just wants you to feel safe.

He almost never feels safe so this is a favor from him to you of course..

For you to feel safe around a psycho like him.

[gatorbites-imagines]

Logan Howlett x Cyclops variant male reader

Ficlet

Reader is a Cyclops variant, just extra spikey, because Scogan is one of my guilty pleasures. I don’t know a whole lot about the X-men, so this I try to keep it vague.

I’m also very sick, so if this sucks, that’s why. I didn’t get a request for this, but I just needed it out my system.

Deadpool and Wolverine Spoilers ahead!!

The void was a strange place, it didn’t take Logan long to learn that. Being stuck with Deadpool meant he had come to expect seeing weird shit, but a very angry, very bloody, almost half feral Cyclops was not one of them. You were simply so… angry. From what the resistance could tell them, your deep connection to the punch dimension, and whatever else had you picked up by the TVA and dumped into the Void, kept you safely out of Novas grasp, even if she very openly wanted you by her side.

Seeing the familiar visor made Logans heart ache so deeply, but that snarl on your lips reminded him too much of himself. Deadpool being himself immediately started cracking jokes, only for you to blast him with your eyes. And instead of just throwing Deadpool back, it seemed to completely disintegrate arm right off his body. Logan later learned that was one of the reasons the TVA picked you up. Apparently, your mutation was… wrong. Cyclops wasn’t meant to slice people in half with his eyes, just throw or punch them back. But whatever life you had lived, had shaped you differently.

Working side by side with a Cyclops again took some getting used too, and for you it was difficult too. But that rivalry but underlying respect was still there. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to hit him or kiss him when Logan absentmindedly called you Slim for the first time. In the end you nailed him in the knee with your one of your beams, just enough to get him to trip face first into the ground. That had caused Logan to snap out at you with his claws, but there had been no real heat behind it.

After everything, with Nova, with the TVA, and with you and Logan for some reason settling down in Deadpools dimension, things were up in the air. The X-men still existed in this world, and neither of you felt much want to join them again. Both for the fact that they clearly already had a much more stable Cyclops, and their Wolverine had been dead for years at this point. So, in the end you two just stuck together, tracking down different mutant traffickers and other bad guys, and dealing with them in your own violent manner. Your beams and other abilities, and Logan technically being dead in this world kept you both an unknown card in this world, to everyone but Deadpool at least.

Sure, at some point your actions would catch the attention of the X-men, but it would take them a while, and during that time the relationship between you two brewed into something new and different, but still good. At least, you thought it was good, and if Logans shoulders growing less tense and his eyes less haunted meant anything, then you could only assume the same from him.

Seeing Jean, Remy and Anna Marie on a hit wasn’t something you expected though. Logan had never truly dealt with his grief of losing them, and you had over dealt with it, to the point where you felt nothing but an empty black hole, which fueled the more deadly part of your powers. In the end, you sent Logan away, as you distracted the present X-men, with the fancy black beams you had mastered, keeping their appearance different enough that they wouldn’t be able to tie it back to their Cyclops.

Maybe the reunion with past familiar faces was what broke the camels back with Logan, as the moment you guys got back to your motel room, you found yourself flung onto the bed, Logan easily ripping your baggy clothes off your body. “Logan- hold up” you grunted out, as he descended upon you like an animal, sinking his teeth into your neck, your shoulders, your chest, as his hands grabbed and kneaded at you. Unlike most cyclops, you had a healing factor, so it was fine, but still, seeing him so fervent had you worried.

Logan had never been one for talking about feelings, but he also wasn’t gonna force you to do something when you clearly wanted to talk about it first. In the end, you two wound up laying side by side, Logans ear resting against your chest to hear your heartbeat even if his heightened senses easily could have heard it anywhere else. It was clearly painful for him to talk about it, how he felt, what he wanted to do about it but couldn’t, what he thought of himself, so on and so forth. And through it all, you just found yourself rubbing his back and caressing his hair, giving him replies when he needed it.

Getting all the nasty details off his chest seemed to be what Logan needed, as he became so much more relaxed and softer afterwards. You had never imagined you’d see the wolverine of all people being soft, but him laying on your chest and drawing small shapes on your stomach was proof it was real. Hearing it all from Logan brought of some of your own suppressed memories, stuff you wanted to forget or stuff you had overanalyzed till it lost all meaning, but still, you found yourself spilling it all to him. What happened to you, your own x-men, your powers, how you ended up in the void.

It left you both feeling vulnerable, like an exposed nerve, but also so much closer. It was at this point you two officially started your relationship, and would also be the day you celebrated anniversaries, even if Logan acted like he didn’t care.

In the end, you two hadn’t really planned too far out in the future, what you would do, where you would go, you just kinda lived at the edge of your seats and went where the wind took you. Of course, you guys joined Deadpool and his little gang of misfits every now and then, whenever you were around his territory. You shouldn’t have been surprised when the X-men finally fully tracked you down. Apparently, Colossus had been a great guy and kept you two hidden, since you in his words “needed time to heal and find yourselves”.

Them having Kurt bamf into your motel room was too much though, especially as Logan almost skewered him on his claws, only avoided by old instincts of Kurts taking him out of fire. They had all been near tears when they saw Logan, some happier or weepier than others. He fit in so great with them, and made that lonely sour feeling rear its ugly head as you sank into the background.

Logan, being ever observant, pulled you to the front, and introduced you by his nickname for you, easily stating that you were his, and that was that. Your visor had been lost a long time ago, replaced by whatever shades or goggles you two could find, but it was pretty clear who’s variant you were. It left the X-men floundering when it became obvious you two were more than just allies. Your preference for bloody violence was also pretty new, but what could they really do.

You both denied joining the X-men, blaming it on not wanting to settle down in one place. Xavier had a very knowing look on his face, so you wouldn’t be shocked if he knew exactly why neither of you felt comfortable amongst their ranks, at least for a long while. That didn’t keep different X-men from pulling up on you two any chance they got. Apparently seeing an edgier more rebel version of their leader and/or headmaster was quite a hit. They talked about you offering students beer for months, and how sour this worlds Cyclops looked about you made you cackle. So maybe it wasn’t all bad. But only the future could really tell, but with Logan, and your shared group of randos, then that future didn’t look too bleak .

[samkerrworshipper]

replaced

sam kerr x sister!reader

um i wrote a fic? sorry for the chelsea fans but i simply couldnt make this solely chelsea. glad that i could please the SK fans tho yall are patient and queens! hope you all enjoy and lmk what else you might want to see in the future 👀 love you all!

warnings: none? that i’m aware of !

There was something completely all-consuming about the thought of a tiny alien growing inside of a body. It made you uncomfortable, thinking about a tiny human with a deformed body and underdeveloped everything just existing inside of a person. To put it lightly, it freaked you out. It was possibly the best birth control for a 16-year-old seeing firsthand what it looked like when a baby kicked or hearing the sounds of first-trimester morning sickness. You’d made it very clear to your sister that yes, whilst you were willing to babysit once the deformed fetus entered the world and was slightly less deformed, you would take some responsibilities. You wanted nothing to do with it until it made its grand entrance into the world. 

That didn’t change the fact that yours, your sister’s, and your sister’s fiancé’s lives had very quickly come to revolve solely around your future niece or nephew in a very short amount of time. Normally, it wouldn’t bother you in the slightest. If anything, you were usually doing anything and everything to get Sam and Kristie to leave you alone, but there was something different about their attention completely revolving around the life that the two of them were building together. 

It hadn’t mattered truly when they’d missed your parent-teacher interviews for an anatomy scan or missed your first training with the senior Chelsea team because Kristie had woken up with such bad morning sickness that she hadn’t been able to leave the bathroom for hours, or when you’d had to walk 3 miles from school to the training grounds because your sister had been up so late trying to make Kristie comfortable enough to sleep that she’d completely forgotten that she was supposed to pick you up early on a Thursday so you didn’t miss training. 

None of it mattered individually, but altogether, it made a difference. 

It had been a big decision moving halfway across the world to live with your sister at 15. You were a good football player, you weren’t anywhere near the prodigy of your sister, but if you wanted to make strides in your career, it was the best decision to move to London to play in the academy. It didn’t make the decision any easier; you were moving in with your sister that you’d essentially not known for most of your childhood. Too wrapped up in her own career in other countries to spend any time with you. Yet the moment it had even been an option, she was ecstatic at the idea of you joining her in London, taking you under her wing, and truly welcoming you into the tight-knit family that Kristie and her had built in London. 

It was good, it was so good. You had made advancements in your football that you didn’t think were possible; school was good, and for once in your life, you felt like you were actually in a place where you were fully understood and at peace. 

It had been perfect, until Sam had torn her ACL a couple of months into your stay, and then things had gone downhill. It wasn’t anything you couldn’t deal with; in terms of the footballing aspect of your life, it was definitely tough. You didn’t have your training buddy or your person to help you settle into the club that still kind of terrified you. On the flip side, you got to spend a whole lot more one-on-one time with your sister, and her girlfriend was there to cater to all of your football needs. After the initial impacts of her surgery, life had mostly gone back to normal; sure, your sister wasn’t there physically on the pitch with you, but she was there to support you in every other way. 

Then, the idea of a baby had been mentioned. 

It wasn’t alarm bells from the beginning. At first, it had mostly seemed like an idea for the future, not near future. Of course, they wanted to start a family, and of course, you wanted that for them. It just hadn’t been made clear to you that it was a plan for the present. Until you’d been sitting on the couch on a movie night, and a gift bag had been thrust into your hands. The both of them had the goofiest smiles on their faces that you’d known that something had been up. You just hadn’t expected a positive pregnancy test to be the source of the excitement. 

Initially, not much had changed. The pregnancy was so early on that the biggest worry was an early miscarriage and making sure that the three of you didn’t let the information slip too early. 

It had been completely fine. Life had kept on moving, until the symptoms had started. 

First, it was a bit of exhaustion, then some vomiting, headaches, nausea, more vomiting, migraines, insomnia, every possible pregnancy symptom you could think of. Kristie was afflicted by every possible pregnancy symptom. 

You felt bad. Here, two of your favourite people were trying to start a family, and it was starting off as hell. 

Then the feelings of sympathy had very quickly turned into resentment and then into isolation. 

You resented the fact that you didn’t feel at home anymore. There was nothing homey about the situation you were living in. You felt like in a number of fleeting weeks you had gone from feeling on top of the world to feeling like you no longer belonged in the life that you’d so recently settled into. 

It was a rough realisation to come to that you were no longer wanted, that you were being replaced. 

It was a slow process, but it was easy to figure out when you were and weren’t wanted, and in the picture-perfect future life of your sister and her fiancé, it was clear that you weren’t. 

You were 17, you were on the cusp of being an adult, you just hadn’t expected to be thrust into your independent adulthood so early on. A shiny new baby was going to replace you, and once that happened you were going to be even more unwanted than you already felt before it was introduced to the world. 

Whilst you knew that your mood was being affected by the neglect you were suffering, it was all too easy to blame it on the exams you were going through for your last year of school, or the slight injury setbacks that were keeping you from your first minutes for the blues, or the fact that you were a teenager with fluctuating moods. You didn’t expect your slightly off interactions or slightly less happy demeanor to be a warning sign for anybody, specifically the people closest to you. Your performance on the training pitch had been as good as usual, you’d been saying all the right things, acting in all the right ways even though you actively felt like a stranger in the apartment and life you’d once felt like was home. 

You’d managed to allude to all of the people closest to you, it just hadn’t occurred to you that people on the outside would notice your slightly off behaviour. 

Lucy was one person at the club who was newer than you, even though you didn’t necessarily fit in with all the older girls due to the age disparity it was common knowledge that you were an extension of your sister, people who were friends with Sam were friends of yours. It was a little bit embarrassing that in hindsight most of the people were only friends with you as a result of your last name but it was easier to just accept it. 

Lucy was one person that wasn’t particularly close with your sister, on no means were they enemies, they just didn’t hang out with the same people. If Sam and her didn’t interact on the regular then neither did you, that was just how it worked. 

It’s why you’d been a little bit surprised when she’d asked you to be her spotting partner in the gym. A few sets in, though, it had become abundantly clear that Lucy had ulterior motives. 

“So what does a kid like you do nowadays to have a little bit of fun, uh?”

You weren’t sure if spotting for Lucy was much help at all. There was absolutely zero possibility that if she failed, you were going to be able to lift the weight that she was pressing. The ease with which she did it all was shocking and enough of a focus for you. 

“Play soccer for one of the best teams in England.”

Lucy laughs, even though all you’re doing is being honest. Between school, football, and trying to live up to the expectations of your sister, you don’t have time for ‘fun’.

“It must be hard, having so much pressure on you, so young?”

You shake your head. You don’t think of it that way. Pressure is privilege. That’s what your mom had taught you, and then your brother, and now your sister. Pressure is what had made you good enough to be where you were. 

“It’s more pressure trying to decide what to have for breakfast in the morning than coming here every day.”

Lucy finishes her set and sits up, looking at you in a way that makes you feel like you have to ask. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Her tongue pushes against the inside of her cheek, and you get the feeling that you’re going to be told something you don’t want to hear. 

“You’ve been acting differently lately, spacey, less present. I’m just wondering if there is any particular reason.”

You focus on switching the weights from Lucy’s bar to yours and lying down on the bench she’d previously occupied. 

“I don’t know what would give you that impression.”

You focus on your set, and Lucy uses it as an excuse to stare at you in the exact same way she had been all morning. 

“You look like a kicked puppy all the time. You’re less happy, less comfortable. You look like you’re on edge all the time.”

It’s a list of traits that probably suit you. You’ll admit that you’ve been less than enthusiastic in recent times, but you hadn't thought it had been extremely noticeable. Sam hadn’t noticed, not that she noticed much about you anymore. 

“Didn’t realise you were so focused on the team protege, Bronzey.”

Like Sam, you were a pro in humorous deflection, yet when you spoke it came off with an unfamiliar edge that made you uncomfortable. 

“I’m worried about one of my teammates and friends because they’re exhibiting behaviours that are unfamiliar for them and no one else seems to be noticing.”

You finish your set and focus on drinking from your water bottle and not making too much eye contact with Lucy. 

“Lot of big words coming from you, Luce.”

Lucy’s determination doesn’t fade. She looks at you the same way. 

“So it’s not football. I’m going to make an educated guess that it’s not school. You’re going to be an aunt and you’ve got a good family situation. What is it?”

You must flinch, even if you don’t feel it. You must because Lucy’s eyes light up. 

“So it’s Kerr household issues then?”

You focus on finishing your set again. You focus on the feeling of your arms pushing and relaxing, the feeling of all your muscles stretching and slackening. 

“You know you can talk to me about it. I might not have the best advice, but I won’t judge you or go and tell your sister about it or anything.”

You finish the set, and all that’s on your mind is that you have one more to go. One more and you can remove yourself from whatever this awkward conversation is and go and hide in some other corner like normal. 

“I don’t know what makes you think it’s any of your business.”

You’re three reps in, nowhere near failure, yet on the next one, Lucy takes over and pulls the bar up and onto the rack. 

Before you can have a go at her, she sits down next to you on the bench, and for whatever reason, puts an arm around your shoulder. It makes you incredibly uncomfortable, and you flinch away almost immediately, but Lucy doesn’t shy away. 

“Look, whether it’s from a teammate to another teammate, or a friend to a friend, or whatever you feel most comfortable calling it. You don’t seem like you’re doing okay. If I can tell, it’s not going to be long before other people figure it out. I don’t really know you properly, but you seem like a good kid. You also don’t seem like the kind of person who likes to be vulnerable in front of people you don’t trust. If you don’t let go of whatever has clearly been bothering you, then that’s probably the inevitable if you don’t talk to somebody about it or get it off your chest. That person by no means has to be me or anyone else here. Just think about it, okay? You’re not alone. I can’t imagine how hard it would be playing here and everyone constantly making you feel like you were in your sister’s shadow. You aren’t just your sister, though. People around here like you beyond that, and they’re here to support you beyond that. You aren’t your last name.”

You’d be a liar if you said that Lucy’s words didn’t hit you a little bit, but you didn’t let her see that. You shook her arm off you and rolled your eyes. 

“You have no fucking clue what it’s like to be me. Don’t try and make it out like you understand.”

Before she could say anything else that remotely played on your heartstrings, you walked away, dragging your drink bottle and gear off to the other side of the gym and settling into whatever exercises for your ankle strength. 

You didn’t like to admit it, but what Lucy said to you resonated with you for the rest of the day. It had you in your head, thinking about it over and over again. You were second-guessing everything, and it translated out onto the pitch. In training, you were sloppy, to the point of nearly injuring yourself due to a lack of awareness. If you were trying to prove that you were over your setbacks, then it was a clear testament to the opposite. You were evidently a shit show. It was what was expected of you. You were a teenager. You were expected to crash out, to not be able to live up to the constant expectations of being a professional every day. You were falling into the one stereotype that you spent every minute of every day trying to claw away from. Already consumed by the reality of your stupifying family situation and adding on self-doubt about your every action was a whole new mind game that you’d never truly experienced. 

There was one part about what Lucy had said that had stuck with you the most. If you didn’t get it off your chest soon, it was inevitable that you were going to let it slip in far worse ways, and that was a slippery slope you had no intention of going down. 

It wasn’t surprising that your sister wasn’t there to pick you up after training had finished. There was a slew of excuses that trumped you. You were used to being forgotten. As the reality of new life being brought into the Kerr household became more real, it only felt like you were fading further. 

You didn’t want to go home, not to a place where you actively felt like an impostor. You didn’t have many people to lean on, though. As much as Lucy tried to make it out like you were an individual person at Chelsea, you weren’t. You were Sam Kerr’s younger sister, the baby of the family, the nepotism sister, riding on your sister’s success and reaping whatever benefits came from it. You were a complete result of your sister, stuck in a never-ending cycle of following her footsteps. 

In Australia, you’d had individuality, your parents’ sole focus. Your football wasn’t as good, but you hadn’t questioned your existence or how you fitted into spaces. Yet in England, or with your sister, you had to second-guess everything, were forced to feel like you didn’t belong anywhere. 

You didn’t want to go home. 

There weren’t a lot of people in London you could call. A couple of months ago, Kristie was your go-to person for when your sister was tied up with her stuff, but with the baby on the way, Kristie’s sole focus had been shifted. You didn’t matter in comparison. Sam’s friends were like family, but they weren’t your family; they were people that had to like you because you lived with Sam and were with her all the time. You hadn’t made many friends at Chelsea; it didn’t seem important in retrospect. It left you with a handful of people. You could always call your mum or someone else in the family, but it seemed pointless in that there would be no outcome. So you called the only person that was really left. 

It had been a long shot; St Albans wasn’t exactly in close proximity to Cobham, but you felt like you were at a crossroads. 

You’d had to wait outside in the cold for a while, but it wasn’t awfully long until Caitlin pulled up in front of the training grounds. Before you could second-guess your decision-making, you got into her car, buckling your seatbelt before looking at her. 

“Just drive, I’ll exp   n later.”

Caitlin got the message and pulled her car into drive before heading back onto the highway. 

“Where we going? Yours? Mine? An airport?”

It was hard not to laugh at the predicament. 

“Just yours.”

The rest of the car ride was silent; it was good, it was hard for you to slot every feeling into place, but it was good to think about it all. You felt like a whirlwind of feelings, a big spiral of never-ending emotions that were completely nonsensical. 

By the time you get to Caitlin’s house, not much was making any more sense, but you felt less panicked. You walked from the car into her house in the same silence that had stretched between the two of you the whole car trip. In through the front door, into the kitchen, and sat down at the island when Caitlin pointed at one of the seats. You felt like you were cemented to the seat, all of the weight of the day, or really the last few weeks, was weighing you down like there were rocks stuffed in your pockets. You felt heavy, filled with all of the uncertainties. 

Caitlin pushed a glass of water towards you, and you took it gratefully. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

You’d been around Caitlin practically since birth. As a kid growing up, you hadn’t wanted to be around your sister; it had always been her best friend that had lit up your face. She was your sister’s best friend, but in every way, she was a sister to you; you’d spent every moment of your childhood following the two around and every waking moment with them when they were around. 

“I can’t just spend an afternoon with my favourite auntie?”

Caitlin rolled her eyes, reaching over the table to ruffle your hair. 

“Of course, you can, dickhead, but that doesn’t mean that you are. Something’s up, and if you called me, then that means you want to talk about it because it has something to do with Sam.”

Were you really that easy to read? First, Lucy, and now Caitlin. You were beginning to doubt your abilities to keep all of your cards to your chest. 

“That’s some creepy shit; you should become some mindreader.”

Caitlin rolled her eyes at you. 

“Tell me about it; I can’t do anything in this house without her sniffing it out.”

You turned your head to see Katie standing in the doorway of the kitchen, smiling at you, but mostly at Caitlin. 

“Ya didn’t tell me mini kerr was coming over.”

You tried to stop the way your face flinched at the sound of your last name. You didn’t know why in recent times it had begun to bother you so much. It was just so synonymous with your sister. Every time you heard it or saw it on your jersey, it was a clear sign of the one thing you were becoming most afraid of. You weren’t living up to it or living the life of it. 

“Just wanted to spend some time with my favourite derby losers.”

Katie’s reaction is visceral. Her face moves into something of pure disgust. 

“That kind of slander is just not acceptable in this house. You want to embrace your Chel-shit culture? Keep it away from our house. We’re going to have to sage the bad vibes away now. Do a full cleanse.”

At a point in your life, you’d never felt less Chelsea than you did right now. The thought of the club put you on the brink of dissociation. 

“Katie, can you please go get some pasta? We’re all out, and I’m making bolognese for dinner.”

It was a cue. You were sure of it because as soon as the words left Caitlin’s mouth, Katie was nodding dutifully and off and out of sight. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s up or keep dodging around it?”

With your lip between your teeth and so much uncertainty, you nodded. There wasn’t much point in keeping it all in when you’d come here with the inadvertent intention to offload some of it. 

“Sam doesn’t want anything to do with me. When I got here, it was hard. We made it work, and she tried to make me fit in with her life as it was, but it never quite felt right. But with the baby now, there’s no pretending. I’m not a part of her life, and she doesn’t want to pretend that I am anymore. And I’m sick of waiting in the background, hoping she’ll get her shit together and remember that I’m part of her life. She doesn’t care about me, and I can’t handle it anymore.”

Caitlin’s expressions are schooled. They are most of the time, but she doesn’t give anything at all away. 

“Your sister loves you a lot. I’m not invalidating what you’re feeling. I am sure that you’re right. She loves you though. Before you came here, all she ever talked about was wanting to spend more time with you, going back to see you, Facetiming you.”

You shake your head. You didn’t come here to be told that you’re loved. You came here to feel a little bit less chained down. 

“No, she doesn’t, or she doesn’t show it remotely. She doesn’t pick me up from school. She forgets me or stopped caring because she’s busy looking after Kristie or busy being worried about the baby, stressing about the baby. It’s all they talk about. It’s all they care about. It’s the shiny new toy, and I’m the old one at the back of the wardrobe that’s all broken and disgusting. I’m the last option. I’m the last option at Chelsea, the last option at home, the last option for everybody, and I can’t physically handle it. I’m done constantly being left on the fucking sidelines of life whilst everybody else plays.”

Caitlin nods. She listens. It’s what you need. You just need to feel listened to. 

“Your sister should be focusing more on you. She doesn’t realise that you didn’t move for independence like she did. When we moved for football for the first time, it was because we finally wanted independence. We wanted freedom. We wanted to feel like adults. You want to feel supported, want to feel like you’re a part of a family. You’re feeling that whilst your sister is simultaneously beginning to start her own family, and that’s scary. I would be scared by that if I were you. You’re seeing the cementation of new roots, and in your eyes, you don’t fit into the foundation that they’re building. There’s one thing that hasn’t changed about your sister since we were 18, and that is the fact that she’s a little bit unobservant. She doesn’t do small feelings. She does the big ones. She doesn’t understand the anxieties that you’re experiencing because she doesn’t experience them. Also, whether you want to admit it or not, I think you might be a little bit jealous of this baby. You didn’t get to spend your childhood with your sister. That was stripped from you when she moved away. This baby gets all the attention and all the love and doesn’t get left behind, and that’s tough.”

You are a little dumbstruck for words. It’s been hard to pinpoint all of your feelings, and yet Caitlin has just laid them all out in front of you.

“I’m not jealous of the fetus.”

Caitlin snorts, a proper snort that has you in fits of giggles. 

“Not even a little bit?” 

You shake your head defiantly. It’s easier to deny than admit it. 

“Because think about it. This time you’re like the older sister. That kid won’t want to be spending time with Kristie and Sam. It’ll be fawning over you from day one. Babies take a village. I know you feel on the outs right now, but when that baby comes, it’ll change.”

It’s easy to say that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, but in your opinion, there really isn’t. You can’t see any future where you feel any less of a misfit. 

“It’s not just Sam though. It’s everywhere. I don’t have friends, not at Chelsea. I’m my sister’s shadow, I always have been, but since the move, it’s been worse. I can’t make friends at school. I’m there purely to go to class, and I miss half of them anyways. Everyone at Chelsea sees me as my sister. I’m just an extension of her. Everything I do that is any good is because of her. Nobody can see past it.”

Caitlin didn’t have a quick answer for you. Your eyes burned with angry, hot tears. They were yet to spill, but they were on the brink, and it was impossible to ignore. 

“I can’t get away from my sister’s shadow, and it would be fine if I felt like I was a byproduct of her, if she spent every waking moment helping me be that way. But she hasn’t. It’s all been me. It’s been my hard work, my own push. Sure, she’s helped me into environments that have made me better, but it’s been my hard work. She hasn’t done shit, and yet all anybody says is that I’m good because of her, that I’m just a result of my sister’s influence. I’ll always be a shadow of her to everyone, even her.”

It’s a cathartic feeling. The tears slip down your face. You push and scratch at your cheeks, trying to remove the evidence, but it’s obvious. It’s ugly. It’s everything that’s been building. 

Caitlin doesn’t say anything. She just walks around the counter and gives you a big hug. 

“You are a lot more than your sister, and if people don’t recognise that, then you should be getting away from that, taking a break. You deserve to feel like your own person because you are.”

You don’t have anything left to say. You’ve laid it all out, and it feels good, but there isn’t any change. Venting is good, but when you’re going to go back to it all, it doesn’t truly matter. You’re stuck in the prison of your life, and there is no escaping. 

“I’m sure you’re exhausted. How about you go and take a nap before dinner? Refresh and let your mind rest, and we can regroup, okay? I promise you we can find a solution to some of this.”

You nod; you are feeling tired. It’s been hard to sleep at the apartment with Kristie constantly getting up during the night to hurl her guts. 

Caitlin’s guest room is warm, it’s nice, it’s virtually the same as your room at home, and yet it feels so much more welcoming. It doesn’t take you long to drift off. 

When you wake up, it’s very clear that quite a few hours have passed. Not only is it completely black, but the sleep in your eyes and fogginess in your head is enough of an indicator that what was going to be a quick nap had turned into something a lot longer. The edges of your vision are hazy and blurred as you blink your way back into consciousness. You don’t want to get up, not at all. It would be so much easier to just stay where you are, forever. Just stay lying in bed and warm and cozy, comfortable. You didn’t get to where you were today, though, by allowing yourself to be comfortable. 

So begrudgingly, you pulled yourself out of the bed, still dressed head to toe in a Chelsea tracksuit and hoodie. It really did feel illegal amongst all of the Arsenal memorabilia in every corner, and on every wall of the house, it only made you feel like more of a dichotomy. 

Your stomach began to rumble as you walked down the stairs to the kitchen. You were sure that you must have missed dinner but hoped that maybe something had been left aside to tide you over. 

You could hear murmurs coming from the kitchen, and in your state of half-awakeness, you’d put it down as being Caitlin and Katie. 

You were off guard, and that’s why you’d been more shocked than you thought possible when you walked into the kitchen and your sister was seated in the exact same place you’d been sat a couple of hours ago. Immediately, both Caitlin and your sister’s eyes were on you, them both seeming just as surprised as you. 

You were ready to bolt, but Caitlin’s voice stopped you.

“Your sister came to talk to you. She was worried when you weren’t home tonight for dinner.”

You roll your eyes, if you’d moved out a month ago Sam wouldn’t have noticed. 

“We haven’t had dinner together in months, don’t lie to my face. You called her, you fucking called her, I trsuted you with something and you called her.”

Sam looked like she was going to butt in but Caitlin stopped her. 

“Okay, yes I called her. Because I was worried but also mad and I wanted to fix that. I’m going to leave you two to sort this out.”

Caitlin started to walk towards you and out of the kitchen, you couldn’t help but clutch for her hand as she walked away. 

“It’s going to be fine. Trust me and listen to what she says and tell her how you feel. She came here to fix things, or start to fix things.”

Caitlin closes the kitchen door leaving just you and your sister alone with each other. 

“Just because we don’t have dinner together doesn’t mean I don’t notice when you’re done. Mum would kill me if I wasn’t keeping an eye on you and let her baby sneak out.”

It was the connotation of it all, Sam didn’t care, she was doing all of this for your mum. 

“I’m so sorry mum decided to burden you with my presence.”

Your sister exhales, like she’s trying to keep control, because she feels she has to. 

“That’s not what I meant. You matter just as much to me as you do to mum.”

Rich. Really rich coming from her. 

“Oh yeah, so that’s why mum calls me everyday to ask me about my day and how I’m doing and you just exist beside me. When was the last time you talked to me about anything besides football or the baby or Kristie? When was the last time you did anything with me that wasn’t related to football. When was the last time you asked me anything about my life or even acted like you cared?”

Sam exhales again, and breathes in like she’s trying to suck in every bit of oxygen in the room. 

“It’s not like that.”

You didn’t want to be angry about all of this, sad, disheartened, depressed. You could deal with that, but anger was so much harder. 

“Oh tell me how it is then. I know you didn’t ask to be looking after your teenage sister fulltime but you could at least pretend like my presence isn’t a complete burden to you. I fucking idolised you my whole childhood, when we had dress up days at school I would always dress up as you. I’ve always wanted to be you, and I was fine with everybody putting me into the box of Sam Kerr’s sister, I didn’t care, if anything it was the best feeling in the world. I didn’t care about being your shadow when you were my favourite person. But now that I’m here you’ve wrecked it all. You don’t have to tell me that I don’t fit into your picture perfect life, I’m well aware. I just didn’t expect you to treat me like fucking shit. I’m sick of it, I want to go home, I’d rather jeopardise my football career by going back then deal with anymore of this.”

Sam looks like she’s about to start crying and it feels good, you want her to feel what you are feeling, you want her to feel an inch of what you’ve been feeling for the past months. 

“You aren’t a burden to me. Not at all.”

You scoff, you aren’t a burden but she just opts to forget your existence, makes a lot of sense. 

“Okay so am I a ghost then? Do I have the ability to turn invisible and nobody has told me about it because you sure fucking act like I’m not here 95% of the time.”

Your sister stands up and starts to walk towards you and you immediately move. You don’t want touch or hugs or whatever she’s going to offer. 

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel that way. I’m really sorry.”

You really don’t know what to say to that. It’s a step forward but it doesn’t do anything, saying sorry is good and well but it doesn’t change an action. 

“I thought you came here for independence. God mum made it out like you were going to blow perth up if she didn’t get you out soon enough. I’ve wanted to be close to you since you were born, you were the light in all of our lives. Then you were here and I underestimated what it was going to be like but it was awesome and just having you in the house made it all so much better. Kristie and I had always wanted kids but having you around just made it seem like it would be the right fit, you have made our lives so much better. So, we started the process and it was all I could think about. I was your age when mum had you, I got to see you take your first steps and grow your first tooth and I thought it would be good for you to have the same experience. I just didn’t get how much time it would take up and how consumed with it I would get. You don’t deserve to feel this way, you don’t deserve to not feel cared for. I love you more than anybody else, I would put down anything for you, without a question. I haven’t made it seem that way recently but it’s true. You’re my priority, you always have been and you always will be. I don’t want you to go back home, having you here has been the best thing that has ever happened. I don’t know how i;m going to fix this but I’m going to. I’ll maker the changes, I’ll talk to Kristie, I’ll spend more time with you like I did before.”

So many feelings, so little words. 

“You don’t get me. I don’t want you to give up time, Kristie is the love of your life, this baby is going to be your kid. Your kid, not your sister, your kid. I don’t want you to detest me because I take away moments from your life.”

Sam shakes her head. 

“You are just as big a part of my life as anything else is. You fit into it all, if I haven’t amde you feel that way that is completely my fault.”

It’s nice to hear her say that, it’s nice to feel accepted even if it’s just for a second. 

“It’s not just that. I am literally your shadow. I don’t have any friends at Chelsea, everyone thinks I’m good because of you. Kerr is plastered everywhere and I’m just synonymous with all of your achievements. I don’t get to be me, the only difference is the different first name letter on our jerseys. I’m a good football player, because of me, not because of you. I’m sick of everyone telling me that I have a good right foot because my sister is Sam Kerr, or that I must have gotten my good defending skills from practicing with you. Everything has to be because of you, and I can’t handle it. I don’t have any friends that aren’t yours, my life is a by product of yours and I’m done with it being that way.”

This time when Sam takes a step towards you, you don’t immediately step away. Her presence doesn’t bother you, it’s the look on her face. 

“Okay, we can fix that. You want to quit? Move clubs? Go on Loan? I can talk to everyone at the club and make changes. Wew can change jerseys, you can have your first name and not last name. You should spend some extra time with the younger girls, stop feeling restricted by what I do and don’t do and just live your life. I’ll tell everuone how much of a fuckup I am and how you are skilled because of you. Whatever you want, I am here to support it. I haven’t done that enough recently and it needs to change, I want to make you my complete priority. No more forgetting you because I’m being selfish and only thinking about myself. My asshat behaviour ends now, I promise. What do you want, I will try my hardest to help you get it. I can call our agent right now and you can be playing in a different country.”

You shake your head, a small smile working it’s way to the corners of your mouth at your sisters franticness. 

“I don’t know, I have no fucking clue what I want. I just want you to know, I want help, I want to not feel like shit everyday just because of who I am.”

Sam nods, and reaches out for you. The hug is easy, it’s cathartic, you feel so much pressure releasing from your body as her arms tighten around you. 

“Okay, I can do that. We can do that. You and me yeah, you and me against the world.”

It’s not even close to fixed, your life hasn’t changed. But the overall weight, the soul crushing pressure of it all fades. You don’t trust, you don’t trust her to make changes. She hasn’t earnt that trust but you hope, you fucking hope that maybe something is going to happen. 

[sparklesandpudding]

Can i ask for Yandere Beelzebub, hades, and Poseidonas. It was soulmate and reverse harem AU. What if the three of them had same soulmate and their soulmate is demigod and sister of Brunhilde and going fo fight in Ragnarok as opposite side? The three seen her getting beaten and hurt. What story and what would they do?

Thank you, sorry for the grammar and asking this. If you are uncomfortable with the theme is okay. Have nice days ahead of you ❤❤

YES!! ID BE HAPPY TO! 😭 Thank you for the idea!

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Token of love | YANDERE ROR × soulmate READER

Hades + Beelzebub + Poseidon × fem!reader

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The gods have never felt pity towards the human race. Most of them despising the mere thought, it disgusted them. All the sins humans have committed against them and the very earth, truly disgusting.

That was until you came to valhalla. Born as the offspring of a human, and a god. That god being, Susanoo. At first, they just thought of you as a lower being, it didn't matter if you had the blood of Susanoo, you also had a mortal's blood within you. It meant you were still weak in their eyes.

Susanoo had fallen for a beautiful woman, who bore him a child, that child being you. So you were raised in the human world. But things didn't go so well for you, ever since they found out you had abilities that slowly started showing, as well as how you stopped aging. That resulted in many townsfolk chasing you down until you stumbled across a young Valkyrie named Brunhilde, who took you in as her sister.

You were brought to valhalla, being introduced to a few of the gods there. Growing up, you had Odin as your father figure, incredibly protective of you since he thought of you as his own daughter, that's why he didn't let you out of the Norse pantheon, which explains why you haven't met the other gods from other pantheons.

But you had friends to keep you company there, a few being Loki and Thor. Loki who loved to chitchat with you and probably make a few sly comments about Thor's little crush on you which would immediately be interrupted by Thor's glare. Luckily for him though, you were a bit oblivious to it.

When you started growing to be strong and pretty, you set out on your journey to know more about everything, still making sure to visit the Norse gods multiple times.

Beelzebub was the first to have met you, when you introduced yourself to him as a demigod. Then Poseidon, who you left with a bitter taste in his mouth from having to face a being that was lower than him. The last was hades, who instead of Poseidon, greeted you formally instead. More mature minded, but that doesn't mean he'll treat you any differently from the rest.

Until you started showing up more and more, getting your name engraved into their heads, which grew overwhelmingly annoying.

Everytime you passed by them, their hearts would beat fast, and they feel a strong connection towards you...it was sick. How dare you make anyone feel that way?

Hades, had heard about it from his dear brother zues, who wouldn't stop talking about it, making Poseidon listen in as well to all his annoying bickering about "soulmates". Beelzebub on the other hand, had read about it after some thorough research in a library, unable to believe that such feelings could even exist, especially inside him. He knew that if his love were to grow too strong, then he'll end up going on a killing spree.

But...it was different...this wasn't just simple love that he felt..it was obssession. An obssesssive type of love. Which is why he hasn't killed anyone yet, making everything more surprising for him. He was never able to love someone so freely without having to face consequences, which is why the feeling that lingered in him..made him long for you. Since you were the only hope he had for love.

Hades, was full of joy that he could find a queen to love and care for. Someone who he could take with him to the lonely place he had to call "home". There was finally something new for him to look forward to, something that could always brighten up his world.

Poseidon... Poseidon was unhappy about the fact that he had to bear feelings for someone... especially the offspring of a human...you were a deity of lesser status, if he ever had to marry anyone, it would be a woman of higher status, but that would mean the marriage was loveless. This however, was a new experience, being able to love someone so much, it was pathetic. Anyone who bore feelings like that were pathetic...but oh how desperate his body ached to see you.

When the Ragnarok came into place, Brunhilde had convinced you to fight as a representative for the human race. Which you kindly accepted, she was your sister after all. How could you ever turn her down when she needed you most?

You walked into the arena, hoping to win for the sake of humanity. As cruel as humans were, there are still a few exceptions who deserved to live. And to your surprise, you saw the faces of Poseidon and hades, as well as Beelzebub. Their eyes watching you like a hawk, they hated how you had to be a representative. It meant that if you ever lost, you'll be gone..forever. that mere thought was enough to make them grit their teeth in anger. What kind of scum would even think of putting their filthy hands on you?

Sadly, you were paired up with a god who was too strong for you to defeat. Your body already covered in bruises and wounds. Your legs grew weak as you pathetically dropped to your knees, throwing up blood. Your weak state...those sad eyes that lost more and more hope every second that passed...

They were enraged.

Luckily for you, you were able to throw one last move in a desperate attempt to kill the god, and it brought you to victory.

Your body immediately slumping down, trembling in pain. Before your eyes shut, unable to remember anything aside from hands carrying you to get treated.

A few hours had passed and you saw three men surrounding you, all of them exchanging glares at each other while you stared weakly.

"can I...help you..? Are you here to...kill me... because I...fought for the humans...?"

Hades was the first to speak, caressing your hair, a sudden spark igniting within his body when he felt you for the first time. "No, not exactly."

Poseidon left the room, gritting his teeth in annoyance as he tried to get some air. Suppressing his urge to kill whoever was in charge of putting you in such a dangerous situation, forced to be talked out of it by zues. Ending in him letting out a "tch" before leaving his brother to soothe his nerves. Oh how good it would feel to kill that skank, but his pride wouldn't let him. He was a god, if he killed a Valkyrie, that would mean he was pathetic and afraid of losing to the challenge.

It's most probably that the gods would force you into a safer place. Believing that it was best for you to stay away from the dangers outside, especially Odin, who caught on to the gods and their 'feelings' towards you.

Odin was incredibly enraged by not only the fact that you nearly lost your life, but, adding salt to the wound, also had a bunch of males trying for your love! That's why he got Loki and Thor to guard you, knowing that it was best. Not uttering a word to the others about your sudden disappearance.

The other gods were pissed when they couldn't find you anywhere. The love that swelled in their chest made them desperate to find you, but they had no idea where you were put after your match.

But don't worry, once they get rid of all the possible threats to you, they'll find you. They'll find you, and take you back to where you belonged. With them.

But for now, you can play your little hide and seek. But beware that it won't last very long once they've got their hands on you.

After all, it was your fault they felt that way, isn't it?

So don't go wondering why you woke up to knocking on your door, and don't be surprised if it wasn't Thor, or Loki, nor Odin...

You have to pay the consequences.

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@kuroi19-blog Hello!!! I'm finally finished with the story. Thank you for requesting! I hope this is good enough for your liking 🥹

[heliads]

Hi!! So excited your requests are open! I was wondering if you write for young!charles xavier? Where him and fem!reader (who has similar telepathic powers as him, and often communicates with him this way, e.g. through some small quips that causes him to accidentally laugh out loud) have just returned from a really tiring mission back to the school, dealt with some of the kids, and just take some time to relax and just be with each other?

Thank you very much and have a lovely day!

'like me' - charles xavier

masterlist

Charles Xavier is stressed again.

You can feel it on your skin like rushing water, pouring around your brain until all you can think about is him, him– the way it always has been, the way it always will be. The divide between you and Charles has rapidly worn away until it is practically nothing at all. It’s you and him, him and you. Almost one person. Certainly one mind.

All your life, you’ve struggled with who you want to be. Discovering your mutation at the young age of ten years old only catapulted you into a life of confusion. At first, your telepathy was nothing more than a burden. The sound of everyone’s thoughts in your head was a crashing din of noise and exhaustion. You dragged yourself through every day, bothered to overstimulation by the never ending tumult of voices in your mind, but you could never sleep enough at night, kept awake by the dreams of those around you.

Only with time were you able to calm your mind down, to set up walls between yourself and others until you could finally experience some peace within the confines of your own head. On days when you’re sick or tired, the whispers find a way to sneak in through the cracks in your mental barriers, but for the most part, you’re okay. You block out the world, and even if it makes you lonelier, and even if shutting off your mutation makes you feel like you’ve cut off a limb, you’re less distracted. It was better.

So you told yourself, at least. You had assumed that shoving everything to the very periphery of your existence was the only way to live. It wasn’t as if there were any other mutants around to tell you otherwise, after all. Then, all of a sudden, there was. Appearing out of the blue, a stranger, dressed well, with a comforting air to him. A quiet smile directed towards you, a cup of tea cooling in his hands. Charles Xavier found you and told you were going to be alright. And you believed him. And he was telling the truth.

He often does. Charles is the rare sort of person that lives life as if it isn’t just a game. He abides by the rules, and whether he wins or loses, he doesn’t cheat. Not often, and never unless it’s absolutely necessary. Charles consistently looks for the good in people, and, amazingly enough, he has a knack for finding it. The idea of a mutant school was unfathomable– too risky, too many dangerous people in one place– but of course if one person could make it happen, it would be Charles. Charles was everything to you. Is everything to you. And always will be.

You were one of the first mutants Charles found. All of the others in the first round, he met with Erik, but Charles met you by himself. He said he wanted it to be personal. Really, Charles wanted to have this moment with you to himself. Apparently, he’d been able to sense that your mutation was just like his, and he was delighted by it, a child again. You could see it in the cherubic grin on his face, the bright spark in those shining blue eyes. After all this time alone, the two of you had finally found each other.

You can still remember every detail of that first meeting even all these years later. It was impossible to forget a single thing about Charles. You were practically starstruck to be in his presence. Here was this man who knew everything about the torment in your mind, who had found a way to live without suppressing himself. His control was incredible. He led the life you wanted for yourself, and best of all, he was willing to teach it to you.

Of course you would have gone with him to this idea of a school. You would have followed him anywhere if it meant being able to embrace your gift, and later, although you didn’t know it or perhaps weren’t willing to acknowledge it, being able to embrace him. When the two of you came back to the school, Erik initially didn’t believe that the two of you had just met. It was impossible, he said. The two of you spoke to each other like you’d known each other your entire lives, not just for the span of a few hours.

And maybe you had known him forever. It certainly felt that way. Charles understood you like no one else. The two of you developed a way of speaking that drove everyone else mad, half in your heads and half aloud. You’d go five minutes just staring intently at each other, then laugh and say a word here and there that revealed absolutely nothing about the conversation taking place. As your control over your mutation grew, your talks with Charles grew more and more nonverbal until they happened entirely in your heads save for odd exclamations here and there.

It tends to interfere with his teaching. Charles will be in the middle of a lesson when you’ll pop into his mind to report on a mission or tell him a funny joke. The students have come to brush it off when Professor Xavier starts laughing in the middle of an otherwise serious debate on ethics, or a long derivation of some physics formula. It’s you, again. Always is.

Charles pretends it drives him mental, but you both know otherwise. You can feel his delight in being able to speak to you in your mind, after all. It resonates through your head just as it does in his, warming your cheeks with his own rosy blush of affection. When the two of you fell in love, you could sense it instantly. His emotions were yours. Your love was his. All of the pieces of the two of you overlapped until there was no separation between yourselves, just one great person, one Charles-and-Y/N, Y/N-and-Charles, together until the end. You adore it.

And so it has been since the very start. The two of you as one, watching over the students as they enter your school. You teach them all you can, and say fond goodbyes as some pupils leave, ready to face the outside world, this time armed with the knowledge that they can take care of themselves and their mutations. Others stay for years, perhaps indefinitely, and you treasure them for as long as you can. Everyone leaves eventually. Everyone but you and Charles.

The school is not merely a school, of course. Your primary objective will always be to care for the young mutants of the world, but there is another facet to it, and that would happen to be your extracurricular activity of saving the planet. You’re a central part of the X-Men, and often find yourself shipping out on missions across the world with the others when you’re needed.

You’ve been on a particularly nasty mission for a few weeks now, but at long last, you’re on a plane headed home. You always miss Charles whenever you’re away; feeling his connection to you grow shakier the farther you’re apart before dropping away entirely once you’re out of range is nothing short of heartbreaking. Whenever you’re unable to communicate directly through your minds, you feel like a child again, utterly alone and with no idea that she could ever find someone to love and understand her the way Charles does.

You come back, though. You always come back. This time, it was a little less certain that you would, but after several harrowing weeks, you’re finally landing at the mansion, and you know everything is going to be okay again. You have a few minor injuries that need clearing in the medical wing, and there are reports that need to be written, but it is over, the fear is over.

Still, there is one person in the mansion who will not stop being afraid until you find him. You saw Charles briefly when you arrived, and eagerly fell into his embrace upon disembarking, but you were split up by the necessity of medical attention and wrapping up some lingering loose ends. Once the end of the day is upon you, though, and your bandages have been wrapped and wounds treated, you want nothing more than to find Charles again.

You can feel his stress pressing in on you from all sides. He gets like this a lot when missions are running, Jean has told you that, but this time it’s worse than usual. You were only able to send him quick, intermittent messages through the radio, and all delivered bad news. The odds that you would come back severely injured were high, and even if you managed to beat them, the possibility was still there.

You make your way out of the medical wing, walking through the halls of the mansion towards the living quarters. On the way, you’re stopped by several children who’ve waited up to see you, and after assuring them that you’re alright and will be back to training with them soon, you’re free to bid them goodnight and head upstairs.

Charles is waiting for you in your shared room. He’s been whispering to you all evening, making sure you’re okay and that you’re coming to find him soon, but once you open the door and come face to face with him once more, the whispers suddenly stop. All is quiet.

“I missed you,” he says aloud.

You smile. “I know. I missed you too.”

Charles’ face, a portrait of anxiety, cracks with relief at last and he holds out his arms to you. You release yourself towards him and let him embrace you. Charles’ breath is warm on your face, and his hand rubs calming circles on the small of your back. The comfort of finally being back with him is indescribable, closest to finally taking a breath after suffocating. The last few weeks have been tumultuous and torturous, but at long last, you know you’re going to be okay again. You’re with Charles. What could ever harm you?

requested by @fly-you-dam-fools, i hope you enjoy!

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