#<- but unlike him it's not chronic

[bumblingbabooshka]

Aikum is one of Molly’s puppies! Mark gave them away to family and friends.

[arctic-bookclub]

both q!fit and q!tubbo keep explaining away q!phil's absence in ways that dismiss any possible alarm, tubbo with meta (phil playing hardcore) and q!fit thinks he's on a vacation again and keeps calling him lazy,, i knew q!phil was going to have to escape on his own regardless of if anyone noticed his absence or not because there's no way for anyone to even guess where he is, but now he'll be escaping alone only to come back to no one worried about him and calling him lazy for being away for so long

[rubsjuice]

Yknow i think that if they made House slightly more empathetic to the average joe his character couldve done wonders for the rights of people with chronic pain re: getting the medication they need without being labeled as drug seeking or addicts

[todayisafridaynight]

my dads never beating the masumi arakawa kin allegations why the fuck did he say to me 'i was like both your mother and father when you were growing up' ???????????

[m0e-ru]

annual realization where this gas station’s operations and my life owe it all to visualive i’m serious

[limelocked]

Keep thinking about a comment on a manhwa chapter calling the male lead a shitty husband and father

Mans found out he was a dad less than 14 days business days ago, the kid is five, he took contraceptives, after he found it out he’s been doing his got damn best about it

[genshinarchives]

Cyno, Al-Haitham, Kaveh, Tighnari / gender-neutral reader.

Synopsis: Cyno's, Kaveh's and Tighnari's reactions to Al-Haitham introducing you as his partner.

Cyno looked at Al-Haitham, then at you as if he was making a detailed analysis of your characters inside his head. While he normally wouldn't butt into other people's love affairs, he couldn't help but internally question your choice of partner.

Of all the people you could have dated in Sumeru, you chose the Scribe? Al-Haitham has zero dating experience, is a chronic bookworm and probably a sociopath deep inside. Cyno was positive that he wouldn't hesitate to abandon you for a measly book about communicating with cats if it ever came to that.

Nu-uh. Al-Haitham doesn't deserve someone like you.

"I think you should break up with him, (y/n)," he bluntly said as he shuffled the deck of cards.

"Cyno, I'm right here."

Kaveh was flabbergasted. Gobsmacked. Stupefied. Bamboozled.

If The Scream existed in Teyvat, that's what Kaveh looked like at the moment.

Since when was Al-Haitham dating you? He doesn't even look like the type to be romantically interested in someone!

Dropping his glass of wine, the architect staggered over to you and clamped his hands down on your shoulders with a disturbed look, beads of cold sweat rolling down his forehead.

There has to be a logical reason behind you, the sweetest angel in Teyvat, dating his sociopathic roommate.

"Are you being threatened?" he asked, puzzling you, "Or... do you have Stockholm Syndrome?" His mind was a whirlpool of unlikely hypotheses, and you swear you could see the spirals in his eyes. "If you need help, you can always come to me."

"Oi."

Tighnari laughed at the news and patted your shoulder as he congratulated the two of you. He knew that Al-Haitham had been secretly crushing on you for the past six months, and was glad that the Scribe actually took his advice after the latter sent him countless letters asking for tips on courting you, including letters detailing how he screwed up pathetically on some attempts.

What is he, a love counsellor?

Tighnari let out a muted sigh, shaking his head at Cyno and Kaveh badmouthing Al-Haitham to you right in front of the man himself, who looked less than pleased by his friends' behaviour.

Although he's happy to see you and Al-Haitham together...

His smile suddenly became strained.

He definitely thought that you could do better than this.

Taglist: @coco-goat-milk / @m3gitsune / @melkxsh / @irethepotato / @frostines-blog / @xphantasmagoriax / @crunchy-princeles / @nanamisflowerfield / @dulcetamore / @beowlet-spam / @sinnyrants / @chuusposts / @austrae / @chocogi / @angelkazusstuff / @flowwerpot / @mintydump / @kiraisastay / @niktwazny303 /

[chisatowo]

Thinking abt unit swap Shinonomes is fun to me cause they both have their token bestie who bullies them and they both fucking Hate the others bestie at first but they have to tolerate them cause their both under the impression that that's their only friend. Just both of them going damn dude get better taste before glaring at Kohane and Mafuyu in a "Don't You Dare Hurt Them" sort of way

[cinnamon-girl-writes]

sleeping headcanons w/ aot men

by @cinnamon-girl-writes!

eren: snores like a mf 😭 and normally, when people snore it's a habit developed later in life from conditions like sleep apnea (or depending on their sleeping position) but NO this boy has been snoring LOUD ASF every single night since he was like 2. which is like.....isn't ur dad a doctor......shouldn't he have noticed and at least mentioned it.......(jk we all know grisha forgot about eren) also he gives me the vibes of like. insists on sleeping naked (under the guise of 'health benefits' but really he just gets hot and is too lazy to remove the blanket or turn off the fan) lowkey has scared

armin: definitley drools in his sleep (it's okay girl me too) and i feel like he also clings onto something while he sleeps, like a blanket (or his s/o) also sleep talks *sometimes* but only when he has a particularly vivid dream

jean: BIG SPOON FS>> but when he's sleeping alone, i feel like he'd sleep on his side. he doesn't really snore or anything but he DEFINITELY moves a lot in his sleep. lowkey you can't even take a nap with him because he WILL kick you (and then apologizes for it in the morning and kisses your battle scars (bruises from his bony ass foot)) also pls someone give him head scratches 🙏🏻

reiner: i feel like he'd be *fairly* normal except occasionally he snores so fucking loud it's like a construction site and you cannot wake him up. anyways the most important thing to now about reindeer is that he WILL crush you/suffocate you in your sleep on accident 😭 like he'd just roll over normally in his sleep and all of a sudden you can't breathe. and also you can't move him so you jsut??? try an wake him up i guess but then you feel bad??

bertholdt: so we know about his weird sleeping positions, but i'm telling you this man sleeps so hard it's literally terrifying when you go to wake him up. like, you're shaking him super hard and saying his name and this man DOES NOT BUDGE 😭 eventually when he does he apologizes for almost giving you a heart attack (also he's fs the best cuddler on this list, just above reiner)

connie: nahhh he definitely does some weird ass shit in his sleep like punching or something 😭 jokes aside i think he'd be a great cuddler and share his sweatshirts. unlike jean who would either deny it or brush it off, if connie hit/kicked you in his sleep he would feel so bad 😭 he would probably cry and beg for your forgiveness

levi: honestly the most normal person on this list when it comes to sleeping habits. if anything i think he'd just toss and turn a lot. unfortunately,, he does get night terrors/nightmares from his trauma so pls give him a hug and make him some tea ☕️

erwin: SNORES so much omg 😭 😭 it's actually insane and it's every night. like every. single. night. similar to levi he probably also gets night terrors so look out for him </3

zeke: sleeps on his back with his arms folded on his chest like one of those pharaoh corpses in the pyramids 😭 😭 and he does NOT cuddle. he *might* indulge in it every once in a while, but not to sleep. it's more of a comfort thing and more for your sake. like eren he also snores (it runs in the family ig) but not nearly as noticeably.

porco: chronic side sleeper (real) doesn't really snore but i can see him sleep talking a lot actually

grisha: (BASEMENT SPOILERS!!!) dreams of how he'll turn all his sons into titans then manipulate them into trusting him 🤍

[pwinkprincess]

gettin high w geto :3 ( do what you will w that info hehe)

u get me so high ୨ৎ

you’ve never been a chronic smoker, unlike your boyfriend who can’t go a day without rolling up. for him, its a requirement to smoke. he can’t start his classes without hotboxing his car first, he can’t eat his lunch without taking a few hits, he can’t even have a good nights sleep without smoking.   

even though he denies with every fiber in his body that he isn’t addicted to weed, and he could stop whenever he felt the need to. you knew deep down, his words were ignored.  

suguru is also a hypocrite. he smokes all day but when it comes to you, he tends to be strict.   

“don’t smoke. that shit fucks with your brain.” suguru told you one day when you reached for his blunt that sat in the black ashtray. you wave him off and bring it to your lips.  

he observes you from his position on the bed, right beside you, his back leaning against the headboard. as you take inhales, you could feel yourself feeling lighter and lighter. "suguru teach me how to ghost." you tell him. you were trying to teach yourself, but every attempt ended with you either simply failing or you are getting choked up on the smoke. you were beginning to get dizzy from all of your failed attempts, a clear sign that you need to slow down and drink water.  

"chill." he mumbles, taking the blunt from you. he sets it on the bedside table. he picks up a half full bottle of water, unscrews the cap, and hands it to you. you take quick gulps; you didn't realize how dehydrated you became until you seen him holding water.  

he picks a movie for you to watch. once the movie begins, he's quick to pull you beside him. in your relationship, some might assume you're the clingy one due to how stoic suguru looks, but if only they knew he's the cuddler.  

you try to tune in with the movie, you really do. but for some reason (you choose to blame it on the weed), suguru suddenly smells so good. and just his body heat has your pussy leaking. you keep throwing subtle glances in sguru's direction, only to see him intrigued with the movie he picked.  

with a sigh, you lay your head on his chest and throw your leg over his. he wraps his arms around your shoulders, hugging you closer to him. you lay still for a few minutes until you calm your nerves.  

slowly, you snake your hand to the band of his sweatpants. you bite down on your lip as you past through the elastic and reach for his dick. with gentle touches, you softly grope it through his boxers.  

"babe." suguru sighs. a warning to stop? a confirmation to keep going? you don't exactly know. you respond with a soft hum as you grip his length, coaxing it to harden. 

“you do this every time you get high.” suguru tuts.  

your hum merges into a whine at his observation. “can’t help it, sugu. you’re jus’ so sexy.”  

he only lets out a playful “mhm” as he lifts his hips so that he can pull his boxers and sweatpants off. once his cock is free, you’re instantly drooling. you’re quick to latch onto his cockhead, hungrily licking up at the salty beads of precum. 

suguru’s low moans echo throughout the room as he looks down at your ass. you were arched so perfectly for him on all fours. unfortunately, with him laying down in front of you he couldn’t see your wet pussy dripping from how needy you are for him. 

his long arms reach to your panties, he blindly thumbs your clit through your thin panties. soft little moans escape through your mouth as you bob your head around suguru’s dick. he is so thick, it’s almost a challenge for you to wrap your mouth around him fully.  

“c’mere, come sit on your dick, baby.” he coos at you.  

you’re quick to remove his dick from your mouth. your lower face is all messy and there’s remaining bits of drool seeping through the corner of your mouth. you scramble on top of him. you choose to do reverse cowgirl. you’re so desperate for him, you don’t even wait to take you panties off, choosing to just slide the fabric to the side. 

your head feels like it’s spinning, and you cannot tell if it’s from the weed or from suguru’s thick cock stretching your pussy to the max. when your ass smacks against suguru’s pelvis you let out a hiss.  

suguru bites down on his lip. he raises his hand and gives your right ass cheek a hard slap and follows up with your left cheek as well. “ride this dick, sexy.”  

“mmmhmm.” you already feel yourself becoming dick-dumb. you begin bouncing yourself on his thick dick, you’re so wet your pussy is already making a mess all over him. 

everything feels so hazy. you’re moaning and letting out cute mewls every time his cock brushes that spot in you that makes you see stars. 

“s’ big.” you pant. you straighten your posture, your hands come up to fondle with your own nipples. you pinch and twist them, adding more to the sensation. 

“fuckin’ squeezin’ me.” suguru groans. he tries to focus on lighting the blunt you had started a few minutes ago but it proves to be more than hard when a wet tight pussy is clinging onto him. 

“feel good, papa?” you ask. you seek out reassurance. you want him to feel as good as you’re feeling. you tilt your head so that you could look at him to the best of your ability. 

seeing suguru low lidded, and a fat cloud of smoke escaping his mouth has your pussy clenching around him even tighter. arousal drips onto his cock like an upcoming wave.  

“feelin’ so good, sexy. so fuckin’ good.” he breathes out. “keep going, yeah just like that. mhm, pussy’s gushing all over me. you gonna clean your mess up when we’re done?” his mouth is sooo dirty and it has you panting out inaudible promises. 

his dick and the weed mixed has you on a different high. a high a strain itself couldn’t bring you on. 

[amywritesthings]

war of clarity. / levi ackerman x f!reader

for @levievent #levimonth24. (day nine: soulmate au / day six: love at first sight)

pairing: captain levi ackerman x f!scout reader word count: 1.6k summary: They say finding your soulmate is like getting a migraine. When you've lived with chronic pain your whole life, the legends seem like a joke.

tags: soulmate au, love at first sight, mild language, reader has a chronic pain/illness condition, migraines/headaches credit: dividers by @saradika-graphics

They say when you meet your soulmate, the pain is worse than a migraine.

A rush of blood to the head so twisting, blinding, that the colors of the world bleed together and bleach white; then suddenly, clarity.

Funny enough, you’ve suffered through your entire life with ear-splitting headaches.

(Call it a cruel twist of fate.)

If this were the case — if being in pain from your earliest known memories in childhood all the way into enlisting in the cadets meant that you were playing the long game to experience the myth of finding The One — then you’d be quick to joke that everyone you’ve ever met could be your soulmate.

The girls in your bunk that offer to press a cold, wet rag to your forehead when the worst of your chronic illness hits — unlikely.

The boys failing at their ODM aptitude tests, where you zip by with flying colors — absolutely not.

You push—

Through training.

Through graduation.

Through choosing the Scouts, because for some reason it feels like the most noble option.

(The one that will make a difference, pushing past what’s beyond the Walls.)

So when you finally make it to the ranks, the emerald cloak draped across your taut shoulders like a badge of honor, you expect that continued dull ache in the base of your skull to follow you until your final days.

A comfort, really, to remind you that you’re still alive.

(If it’s quiet, then you’re probably dead.)

.

.

— —

.

.

  They call him Humanity’s Strongest.

That much you’ve heard through the grapevine; a man of unbelievable strength and resolve, an unstoppable myth in the very flesh. If there is anyone to strive towards, to look towards, it’s him. 

He’s resilient. Bold.

Lethal.

And you don’t care that he’s visiting your small squadron on the Special Operations in the early morning hours of this mundane Sunday, not when you’ve woken up with the most vile headache you’ve had in quite some time.

It takes all of the effort in the world to drag yourself out of your cot, breaking out in a cold sweat as you beg the pain to ease up a little.

The importance of this moment isn’t lost on you.

Special Ops is where you’ve hoped you’d end up.

After fighting tooth and nail to place within the top ten of your graduating class, you refuse to let your body win this fight.

Most of your squad has already scrambled outside, tripping over their knee-high boots and fastening worn leather in order to get a glimpse of Captain Levi.

You just barely make it out of the barracks in time for your visitor’s arrival, shrugging your tan cropped jacket over your shoulders with immense effort.

The sun.

(Why the fuck did it have to be sunny again?)

Nostrils flaring, you slowly make your way to the line-up of your comrades as they stand shoulders back, chins tall, to greet the incoming troop of horses.

“Attention!”

Your squad leader’s voice rings out, and you manage to step your way in line with the rest of your colleagues.

With considerable effort, you lift your chin and keep your eyes closed against the rays of the morning light.

Horses whinny as they come to a halt in the dehydrated earth beneath your boot.

Two or three octaves of grunts can be heard as the representatives from the Special Ops squad make their descent from their saddles.

A few minutes.

Just a few more minutes and you can return to the barracks where it’s cool, it’s darker, it’s—

“At ease,” a deeper, baritone voice rings out against your mental pep talk.

Bored, as if already disinterested in being here.

It forces your eyes to open, despite yourself.

White.

The sun seems blinding, like you’ve somehow lost your vision in the process of squeezing your eyes so tight — until the world returns.

When your eyes catch black fringe cascading over a gray, narrowed gaze, you let out an exhale you weren’t aware you were holding.

Your mind, oftentimes its own hurricane, eases to the eye of the storm.

And there is…

Nothing.

No pain in the base of your skull.

No sensitivity to the sun that beats down on the halved squad that has come to visit to discuss an upcoming mission that your squadron can assist with.

No jolting pain from a bird chirping, or the huffs of exertion exiting like clouds out of the horses’ mouths, or the murmured excitement from your colleagues that feel intimidating to be even near the man who turns on the heel of his boot to stare the six of you down.

It’s him.

It’s really him, that’s Captain Levi.

His bluish-gray eyes blink down the line of bodies willing to lay down their lives for the cause, acknowledging each person —

Until they find you.

You see it: the way his fist bunches against the leather reigns in his hand, how the muscles of his neck tense when his jaw clenches, the whites of his eyes growing as he stares.

Right. At. You.

Suddenly your stomach bottoms out, but not out of nausea — terror.

A rush of blood to the head so twisting—

No.

—blinding, that the colors of the world bleed together and bleach white—

It can’t be real.

—then suddenly—

The noise ceases.

All you can do is stare back.

.

.

— —

  Clarity.

— —

.

.

  The silence knocks you off your axis for the rest of the day.

Everyone is so much quieter than you anticipated.

What used to be deafening now sounds at a normal octave. 

Your colleagues aren’t boisterous, or inconsiderate, or even loud. 

They’re just a baseline of noise, a soundtrack to the soup you stare at in the mess hall without an appetite.

You even enjoy the dimly lit warmth of the lanterns surrounding the building where you sit alone.

The other five of your squad are bombarding a woman and a man — you think they’re called Petra and Oluo — about their adventures outside of the Walls.

You only realize someone is moving into your space when the wooden chair screeches against the floor of the hall, waking you from a trance.

When your chin lifts, you know who it is already.

You may know nothing about him, but your heart thrums like it does.

Like you’ve known him your whole life.

His jaw is set, expression in an eternal scowl as he drops down unceremoniously in front of you. You idle your hold on your spoon, no longer interested in swirling the utensil like you plan to take a bite.

It’s too much.

It’s so—

“You should eat.”

That honey-smooth voice breaks your thoughts. 

When he had first arrived in the courtyard on horseback, it was gruff. Devoid of emotion.

Now? It’s just under his breath, tickling your ears. Soft.

Concerned.

“Not really hungry,” you confess to the stranger — this Captain Levi — unable to look away.

You see his jaw tense before he inhales, slow and measured through his nose.

“If soup isn’t your ideal, then I can give you my share. Your leader went overboard with spoiling us.”

“Did they?”

“Yeah, shit’s annoying.”

You aren’t sure why you huff through your nose in amusement, but you do. The blunt curse takes you by surprise.

“Why’s it annoying to be offered the good food?” you ask without thinking.

“Because there’s no reason to give my squad special treatment,” he reasons shortly. “We’re all running into the same shitstorm no matter the rank.”

Oh.

So he’s admirable on top of his resilience.

Your heart feels like it’s growing on overdrive with each syllable, but you hold back anything beyond a bland smile in return.

Setting the spoon down, you let your palm rest against the wooden table’s surface.

Silence.

He’s still studying you like you’re a war plan, a strategy he has to conquer.

“I don’t understand,” he finally states out of the blue, baritone voice softer this time.

“What… don’t you understand, sir?”

“Don’t.”

The command causes your stomach to flip. Captain Levi’s shoulders deflate as he shakes his head.

“Don’t… use that, for me. Not when we—”

He cuts himself off, dropping his attention to your chin.

No.

Your lips.

“Not when we, what?” you ask after a pregnant pause, though you’re afraid to ask.

Visibly swallowing, the Captain shakes his head. “Thought maybe it was a myth.”

So he did feel it.

(An overwhelming flare that consumed the sun.)

“I thought it was, too,” you confess after some time, keeping the conversation quiet between the two of you. “I just — it never happened, for me. And I’m prone to migraines—”

“Migraines?” he repeats, eyes narrowing to temporary slits.

“Yeah,” you breathe humorlessly. “By legend, it meant that everyone was my soulmate.”

There.

Laid bare on the table between you, the word makes the confessional.

Two strangers with an invisible string, warring with the reality of clarity before them. You may not know this man, and he may not know you, but suddenly the only thing in your world that brings you peace is the sight of his face and the sound of his voice.

“But it was never them,” you add after a beat. “All my life, it was never them. The only person who ever broke through that haze was you.”

Yet Levi doesn’t flinch. 

All he does is nod, as if resigned to the idea, before reaching over for your hand. 

Wordlessly he picks it up from the table, uncurls your fingers, and places the spoon back in its center. For a minute he pauses, his thumb running along your knuckles as if to commit them to memory.

“Eat,” he urges like it’ll break him. “Eat, and tell me about yourself.”

.

authors note:

Thank you so much for reading! This one shot was unbeta'd and written in an hour as an exercise for Levi Month '24, so I hope you enjoyed my take on the soulmate au.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Rotting Divinity.

Pairing: Yandere!Scaramouche x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 2.9k.

TW: Reader Is Referred To As A Shrine Maiden But Gender Neutral, Set A Few Years After Dottore Starts Experimenting On Scaramouche, Unhealthy Relationships, Obsessive Behavior, Kidnapping, Themes of Chronic Illness, and Mentions of Human Experimentation.

Scaramouche opened his eyes as the sun set, casting the sky a dull pinkish blue. You were standing above him, a straw basket on your hip and a frown tugging on the corners of your lips.

He let a groan as he hauled himself into a more dignified position, palms planted in the raw dirt and dried grass caught in his hair. One glance was spared to establish that he was no longer in the Doctor’s cramped observation room, all cold stone walls and porcelain tables with leather straps stapled into each corner, before his attention settled on you. “Mortal,” he barked, speaking loudly enough to hear himself over the pain still buzzing in his skull. “Which island is this?”

“Yashiori, near Serpent’s Head,” you muttered, disappointment heavy in your tone. When he clicked his tongue, you went on, your frown deepening. “You ruined my herb garden.”

Had he? He couldn’t remember anything after the Doctor worked those long, tapered needles underneath the skin of his forearms; after an iron mask was forced over his mouth and nose and he began to think his body may tear itself apart before that sadist had the chance to. He wasn’t supposed to be in Serpent’s Head. He wasn’t supposed to be on Yashiro at all. He hadn’t meant to be here, and yet, he’d be thrown in a cage of iron bars and subjected to another round of testing as soon as he trudged back to that dungeon of a facility. Thinking about the feeling of thick, pulsing electricity coursing through his hollow limbs was enough to send a familiar bolt of agony down the length of his spine. It was little more than a phantom, a shadow of the torture it would take to unlock his truepotential, but it was enough to leave him curling into himself involuntarily, glaring at the soil with a hollow type of malice.

He would’ve recovered in a second – less than a second, a moment, a breath – if you hadn’t fallen to your knees at his side, cooing as you pressed the back of your hand into his forehead. “Are you hurt?” If he’d tried to answer, his response would’ve been lost to your fussing, the way you hummed and shook your head as you hauled him to his feet. “Body aches? Migraines? Whatever it is—” An arm was drawn over your shoulders, his weight forcibly rested on you. “—I’m sure I have something for it inside. A place for you to rest, too – however you got here, the journey had to be burdensome.”

He considered protesting. Even in the state he’d been reduced to, it would’ve taken nothing to pry himself away from you, to shatter your ankles underneath his heel and leave you begging for the mercy of the creature you’d tried to pity. He could’ve penned a letter to the Doctor as you bled out in the soil of your own garden, recovered his strength as he took your body apart and fed your remains, piece by piece, to whatever scavengers would have you. He could’ve, if he’d wanted to. He could’ve, but then, he saw what you were wearing.

The sleeves of your kosode were rolled neatly to the elbow, the hems of your pleaded hakama dusted with dirt and grass stains. Unlike the maidens of Watatsumi and the Grand Narukami Shrine, you wore neither red nor blue, but white. Pure, never-ending white.

Scaramouche went limp in your hold, his eyes falling shut as you let out a surprised laugh, doing your best to accommodate his now-dead weight. He could kill you tomorrow, he figured. It was already dusk, and while he didn’t mind traveling at night, he knew the Doctor wouldn’t begin to wonder where he was until the sun rose tomorrow morning. He wasn’t a dog, eager to crawl home and prove his obedience. He could wait until he was called for.

At least, by then, your worrying might’ve done something to dull the burn of the electricity underneath his skin.

~

“So, you’re telling me that this is a waste of time.”

You ignored him with a light hum, a quick movement of your tasseled gohei. Normally, daily rites were something to be performed quickly and efficiently before the unlucky shrine maiden responsible for carrying them out returned to scrubbing floorboards and disturbing fortunes, but in a life as slow as yours, with so little to occupy the many hours of your countless days, even repetitive tasks such as this were given an unnecessarily artistic flourish. Scaramouche might’ve called it indulgent, if he ever decided to be so kind to you.

Currently, you were dancing in front of a dilapidated shrine at the base of the snake’s skull; the paint mostly chipped away and the wood close to rotting. You’d explained, four days after he first allowed you to haul him into your ancient cabin, that you would be responsible for rebuilding it once it inevitably collapsed, an honor only bestowed upon caretakers every few centuries, and he’d told you that you ought to save yourself a few decades and tear it down that day, but you’d only laughed. Most things he said made you laugh.

He'd noticed early on that you were of a weak constitution. Dark bags circled under your eyes despite how often and how deeply you slept, and you seemed unable to carry anything heavier than what could fit in one of your woven baskets. There should’ve been another shrine keeper, if not several. And, if there could only be one, then it shouldn’t have been you.

Still, Scaramouche was glad that you had been chosen, even if you were a bad fit for the position. If it’d been anyone else, he would’ve had to get rid of them days ago, and he was thankful to be spared the effort.

“It’s not,” you said, consciously clipping his choice of words. You finished your rite with a deep bow, then turned to Scaramouche. “Shows of dedication make him happy.”

“He being…” His gaze drifted upward, to the fanged skull. Orobashi no Mikoto – the beast’s name provided by some nameless well of knowledge that seemed to linger in the space between the back of his throat and the pit of his chest. Consciously, the only title Scaramouche had ever thought to put to the serpent was that of ‘festering remains’. “…the fucking corpse?”

Right. It was too easy to forget that there was a pretense to his time with you; that he was supposed to be some wayward, ailing traveler with a mysterious condition your charms and cures could only keep at bay. He wasn’t lying to you. All he did was lie back and let you fuss over his nonexistent pulse, the bloodless pallor of his skin, the way his temperature never seemed to rise above that of damp clay. He wasn’t like the Doctor – scheming and underhanded, prone to leading his victims in circles before gifting them with the mercy of a slow death – or the priestess he could only vaguely remember from his first days, all dark eyes and whispers of a merciful end. You liked doting on him, and he didn’t mind keeping his mouth shut.

“If you keep using that kind of language, you might have to start sleeping outside.” You took up the basket of lavender melons you’d (admittedly, unwisely) left in his care, snatching it away before he could add to the small pile of black seeds stacked on his opposite side. Your hastiness left one of the rounder melons toppling over the well-worn edge, though, and he caught it with a single hand, grinning as he dug his teeth into the ripe flesh and claimed it for himself. You rolled your eyes, but quickly occupied yourself with clearing away yesterday’s fruit from the shrine. “It’s not complicated. We keep him happy, hold our rites and make our sacrifices, and he ensures that my crops grow quickly and the village prospers.” A pause, a smile thrown carelessly over your shoulder. You smiled as easily as you laughed, something that irritated Scaramouche to no end. “If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be recovering half as quickly as you are.”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit.” He dug his teeth into the lavender melon as you gathered your things, sugary juice turning his lips tacky as he went on. “I’ve always been hard to kill.”

You came to stand above him, your smile small and eyes vaguely narrowed. “If you’re feeling that strong,” you started, holding your now-emptied basket in front of you. “Then you shouldn’t mind weeding the garden and fetching water, this afternoon.”

It only took him a moment to think to protest, but you were already gone, stumbling down the mountainside as he hastily pushed himself to his feet. He called your name, but he could already hear your voice – rising above his in one of your obnoxiously repetitive hymns and drowning him out as he chased after you.

~

The villagers welcomed you as sheep welcomed field dogs; from a distance.

Scaramouche trailed behind you as you plodded through the humble village, humming and clutching your basket close to your chest, fiddling nervously with the pure-white material of your sleeves. The crowd parted around you, twin walls of watchful eyes and hushed voices forming well-ahead of your path and collapsing as you strode past them, either unable or unwilling to acknowledge the thick silence that seemed to hang over you like a shroud. Occasionally, you’d stop at a stall or a doorway, handing off bundles of wrapped herbs to gloved and trembling hands, and less often, you’d send him a smile over your shoulder, your tired eyes wrinkling at the corners, as if apologizing that he had to come along for such a dull errand. That was how you described it, when he asked where you went off to every few days. ‘Just a quick trip to the market,’ you’d said, as you tried to convince him to stay behind yet again. When he cited your poor health and his growing concern that he’d find you dead in that garden of yours one day, you didn’t waver. ‘You’ll only be bored if you come. The villagers aren’t very friendly.’

Scaramouche decided, mostly on a whim, that he would burn down this village before he returned to the Doctor. If he had time.

He moved to rush forward, to place himself at your side, but a hand shot out of a narrow alleyway and caught him by the wrist. It was a middle-aged blacksmith, judging by the ash smeared across his cheeks, the thick apron hanging from his neck. Scaramouche was quick to pull out of his filthy grasp, but he spoke regardless, his voice low and rough. “Mind your distance, boy.” A glance towards you, a deep sneer. “Don’t you know who that is?”

Scaramouche glanced over him, fighting the urge to scoff. “Why is no one speaking to the healer?”

“That’s no healer, that’s the shrine maiden.” He said it as if he’d caught Scaramouche attempting to throw himself into a rifthound’s mouth. “They cultivate the serpent’s remains. You’ll be dead in a week if you—”

This time, Scaramouche was the one to reach out, his hand wrapping around the blacksmith’s neck. By instinct, a bolt of pure, searing electro shot from his palm into the man’s neck, leaving him limp and convulsing in Scaramouche’s hold. Scaramouche released him as the last of the aftershocks faded, watching him collapse to the ground before planting his heel on the man’s diaphragm, prepared to shift his weight and crush whatever laid below his foot should the blacksmith say something to displease him.

“I’ll ask again,” he said, slowly, ozone thick in the air. “Why is no one speaking to the healer?”

~

Scaramouche returned to your cabin closer to sunrise than sunset. Somewhere, back in the village that he would see reduced to embers if it was his last act on the face of Teyvat, the charred remains of a blacksmith smoldered at the bottom of a stone well, and he opened the door to your ramshackle home with enough force to tear the rotted piece of wood from its hinges.

You were kneeling beside your work table, grinding dried lavender petals into a fine powder. He closed the space between you in a breath, knocked the pestle from your hand in another, then collapsed beside you. “You’re going to die?”

You eyed the spilled lavender wearily. “Even the archons will fall, eventually.”

He let out a ragged sob, burying his face in the dip of your shoulder. You allowed him to, your arms coming up to wrap loosely around him. You’d always been weak, but now, you seemed as feeble as a morning gale.

He was unable to speak, so you took up the mantle, tracing idle patterns into the base of his spine as you went on. “I know what they tell newcomers, about dead gods and their rot, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. He gifts us with herbs to cure our sick and soothe our elders and in return, someone sacrifices a few years. The villagers might not be able to linger, but they make sure I’m taken care of.” He felt you smile, heard you laugh. “So long as I get to help people, I don’t mind making sacrifices.”

“Other people don’t matter.” It took him longer than he cared to admit to pry himself away from you, to straighten his back and drag a deep breath into his aching lungs. He was thankful, not for the first time, that he couldn’t cry. You would only think him irrational if he fell apart so visibly. “How long do you have?”

Your head lulled to the side, your attention drifting to some indistinguishable point on the far wall. “Only the gods can say what fate has—”

“How long?”

“…another year.” Your tone carried a sort of detached acceptance, as if you couldn’t summon the energy to care. “Maybe two. The last caretaker was very fortunate – he survived half a decade in his position.”

He tried to speak, to scream at you for not telling him sooner, but his voice caught in his throat and you reached up, cupping his face in both hands. Slowly, with a dry chuckle, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. The cool porcelain of his skin sapped the warmth from yours, but for once, you didn’t seem to mind his unusual anatomy. “I hope I’ll be able to cure you, before I’m gone.” You were mumbling, now, speaking barely above your breath. “Do you think you’ll be able to stay for a little longer?”

He tried to answer, but you’d fallen asleep on top of him by the time he opened his mouth.

~

He left the next morning, while you were still tucked underneath a small pile of furs and quilts. A letter was penned and sent to the Doctor’s base, a caddy of wildflower seeds purchased from a young girl peddling wares by the side of the road, and he returned to your cabin just as your sleep turned restless. When you rose an hour past noon, he pestered you into taking him to the groove near the shoreline. By the time you returned, chiding him for distracting you from your responsibilities and pointedly ignoring the basket full of fruit at your hip, the sun was low in the sky and masked soldiers had stamped your garden into the ground. Your cabin was in flames and your shrine had been reduced to little more than a pillar of smoke in the distance.

Whatever concern you might’ve held for him was immediately forgotten. Dropping your basket, you moved to run towards the embers of your home, but Scaramouche caught you – one hand on your shoulder, another on your waist. Careful not to break what couldn’t be repaired, he forced you onto your knees, letting you scratch at his wrists as you screamed, the noise anguished and ragged. Masked soldiers gathered in the outskirts of his vision, but he bared his teeth, keeping them at a distance as you thrashed in his steadfast hold. Once he took you somewhere else, somewhere better, you’d be able to calm down.

Once he got you away from your rotting god and your unthankful village, you’d be able to worship something worth your time.

A moment passed, then another. Finally, the Doctor emerged from the crowd, his white coat unmarred by the ash in the air. He regarded you with a grin, then looked to Scaramouche. “This is the filthy toy you’d like to take home?”

It was a foolish question, undeserving of an answer. Scaramouche countered with one of his own. “Can you fix them?”

“Can I save a human being who’s been brought to the brink of death and infected thoroughly with the rot of divine remains?” The Doctor hummed, clicked his tongue. “That depends, little puppet. How much time are you willing to spend on my vivisection table?”

Scaramouche glowered, but he didn’t protest. Rather, he pulled you close – your crying softer, now, your struggling impossibly weak – and held you against his chest as he responded. “Do what you have to. They’ll be staying in my chambers, and you won’t lay a hand on them without my permission, doctor.”

“I do wish you could call me Dottore.” He sighed, shaking his head. His acquiescence was communicated with a dismissive roll of his wrist, a silent order communicated to his lackeys. His soldiers moved to take you up, but he kept you in his arms as he pushed himself back to his feet, letting you cling to and beat against his chest in tandem.

Your voice was hoarse, your shoulders trembling. Tears streamed freely from your eyes, and he allowed himself to wonder how poorly you would take it if he ran his tongue over your cheeks. “You— You monster. Hundreds of people will—"

“You said you wanted to stay with me, right?” His smile wasn’t as soft as yours, as comforting, but he did what he could. You let out another agonized sob, crumbling against him as he let his lips ghost over your forehead, speaking against your skin and above your wordless cries.

“Now, there’ll be nothing in the world capable of taking you away from me.”

[cindol]

Relaxation

cw— drabble, smut, dick riding,

Rindou needs a stress relief every once in a while. Being a bonten executive was tough work, unlike ran and sanzu he doesn’t have it in him to be a slacker being a chronic workaholic. When he had the day off though on a rare Saturday he took the time to unwind with his wife just not in the way people would usually relax.

With his wife he could just escape, never having to worry about his executive position or going after people who owe bonten. Right now he could worry about escaping with his wife riding his dick. Nothing could distract him from looking up at her pretty brown face twisted with pleasure and open two lips at with her voice making soft moans and hand brushing through his purple hair.

His face was just as flustered as her, just a pink blush visible on his pale face than her brown cheeks. With his hands gripping all over her ass and waist just needing somewhere to place his hands until she she grabbed them herself and placed them on both her brown mounds.”just relax baby, it’s your day off you don’t have to do anything but enjoy yourself and watch me” saying that it in shushed soft honey voice then kissing his ear and continuing her bounce on his dick. Her bounce getting faster and sloppier as the minutes went on with more vocal moans coming from rindou, his head titling up to the ceiling from the moans he couldn’t even believe coming from his own mouth. If sanzu or ran were nearing hearing him he would be a laughing stalk for some harsh months.

Attempting to cover his mouth didn’t work so he covered his hand over his face at the immense pleasure his wife was giving him from just her hips and bouncing. Yes, this was relaxation for him.

[crimeronan]

house md is wild cause it feels like in creating a show based on "irreverent doctor who is garbage, unlike the saint docs on all the boring medical soap operas rn" they completely accidentally created one of the most compelling and important concepts of all time, in "disabled chronic pain doctor distrusts medical institutions because of his experiences with addiction and disability, therefore he is constantly breaking the law and hospital administrative policy rules to get marginalized patients care that they would otherwise be denied, and the show uses this as a way to spotlight various forms of institutional patient inequity"

but BECAUSE the writers lucked into this concept by accident and have no idea WHY it's important, half of the show is Also "doctor commits constant heinous malpractice on vulnerable patients and treats them like shit and traumatizes them and this is considered a normal good protag thing to do because it will always be shown to be retroactively justified, because actually the patient always Was lying or being unreasonable, and this doctor is so so so smart and special that no rules ever apply to him, and no consequences will ever be shown" which is obviously. eaugh

so when it's good it's SO SO SO SO SO FUCKING GOOOOOD but it's also like. not something i can in good conscience recommend to Any other chronic illness people. u feel me.

[poeticpascal]

White Lies (Joel Miller x Reader)

Masterlist | Request here!

Summary: Joel would do anything for you. He does anything for you. And he makes sure you don't know a thing.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: violence, Joel kills 3 dudes (what murdaaah?), descriptions of blood and wounds, stitches, Joel feels guilt and shame but is also very soppy and very in love, fuff and angst all tangled up, descriptions of chronic pain

A/n: I have had a bloody nightmare the last few weeks with suspected endometriosis, which is what inspired me to write this. In my head, reader has endo and the medicine is some sort of contraception or strong painkillers to help her manage it. But it isn't explicitly mentioned so you can imagine whatever you most relate to. Please do let me know what you think, and as always, requests are open!

It’s a harsh winter, even by Boston’s standards.

The QZ is coated in a veil of thick snow, the blizzard that took hold weeks ago now bruising the streets with an icy fist.

Joel pulls his coat tighter around himself, grateful at least for the cover the snowstorm offered, the skies foggy and grey. He can slip through the alleyways much quicker, much quieter beneath the frost. His footsteps are erased almost as soon as he leaves them, and when things get messy, he can soothe his wounds in the freeze.

Which is good, because things get messy a lot.

Not that he’d tell you that. You were too pure, too gentle; not unlike the snow that paints your doorframe now.

No, Joel keeps those things from you. The world has been unkind enough, and if he has one purpose now, it’s to protect that sweetness of yours. To collect it, each golden ray of sunshine that so easily radiates from you, to give it back and let you bask in the warmth of your own soul. 

No one deserves it more than you do. Least not him, and yet you’d given him more love, more sweetness, than he could ever dream of.

That’s why he told you he was working a late shift today - sewage, he thinks he said - rather than where he actually is at 3am, catching his death in an old littered alleyway.

He occasionally shifts to avoid the silver moonlight dripping from the gaps in the fire-escape stairs above him. Tonight’s meeting should be a simple one, free from FEDRA’s strict patrols; he’d done this long enough now to know when, and where, was safest for these things.

He stays on high alert, though. Just in case.

Marco’s late. He isn’t known for being the most competent of dealers, but Joel was getting desperate now, and he was the only crook in the QZ who could get what he needed. He was a small man, a bit pathetic looking, really. But he was smart, and he had connections that even Joel couldn’t make for all his smuggling and dealing.

So when Joel’s supplier told him he couldn’t help him anymore, he didn’t have a choice. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

“Miller, there ya’ are.” Joel’s snapped out of his thoughts, his looming regret of this whole situation, as Marco strolls down the alley. He grins, in the same cocky way he always did, the sort of grin a man who couldn’t win a fight but has enough men who could wrapped around his finger, doing the dirty work for him.

Joel insisted he come alone. Not because he couldn’t handle his goons; he knew he could. Maybe. But it would cause a scene, and draw attention, to something he very much wanted to keep under wraps.

He’s semi-surprised to see the two men walking behind Marco. Deep down, he’d had some faith that the dealer would stick to his word.

“Quiet the fuck down,” Joel warns, seething through his teeth as his eyes search the alley behind them, making sure they hadn’t been heard. “Who are your friends?”

Marco follows Joel’s gaze towards his companions. “They’re just here to observe.”

The men are the same height as Joel, maybe a little taller. He recognises both from the sleazy speakeasies that lie beneath the floors of the QZ. Where the bad guys go. 

One is bald, with a jagged scar carved across his cheek and over his eye. He’s scowling, unlike Marco and the other man, who looks somewhat softer with thick hair grown to his shoulders and brown eyes that stayed on Joel like bedrock.

“That’s not what we agreed,’ Joel growls.

There’s tension in the air, thick, and they must feel it too because Marco’s henchmen each have a hand hovering near their sides, where silver blades reflect the white of the snow.

“I recall us also agreeing that you’d get your meds in return for the money. But we’re doing things a little differently today.” Joel remains stoic, though his eyes turn dark and angry, the moon’s light no longer illuminating his features. Marco tiptoes slowly towards him, getting so close that Joel can feel his breath and raising a hand to pick a piece of lint from his flannel shirt. “I want my money. But you might have to wait a little longer for your meds.”

Joel reacts then, squaring up to him, stepping forward and clenching his fists. The other men wrap their hands around their blades, anticipating a fight. Marco just laughs.

“‘Scuse me?” Joel asks, though they all know he understood what was going on.

“You’re gonna give me the amount we agreed. And then, you’re gonna speak to one of your guard friends, and cut me a deal. Then you might get your meds.”

Joel’s anger swells inside him like a beast, his previous care to stay hidden long gone as he imagines driving his fist into Marco’s smug, son of a bitch face again and again and again. 

He has to think this through, though. He needs those meds. Marco can see the cogs turning. “Just give me the money, Miller. Don’t make this difficult. You can’t take three of us.”

“No?” Joel retorts, already decided in what he’d do next. “I don’t think it’s worth findin’ out. Give me the meds.”

Marco sighs, dropping his head and stepping away from Joel, leaving him to face his men. “Shame, Joel. You really coulda helped us.”

He nods to his men, who immediately draw their blades and attack. The first lands a punch on his face, the weight of it surprising him as he falls back into the railing. Before he can recover, the other has already plunged a blade through his stomach, right below his ribcage. He controls himself, swallows the yell that claws its way up his throat, tries to think. The cold steel of the rail stabs into his back, and when another fist collides with his cheek and sends him to the floor, he uses it to haul himself up and tackle one of the men - the softer one - to the ground with him.

Marco only stands and watches as Joel throws his weight onto the man and smashes his head into the stone floor. The other grabs his shoulder, spinning him round but Joel’s prepared this time and he dodges the swat of his knife. Instead he throws a punch into his stomach, making him double over which gives Joel the opportunity to grab the knife strapped to his calf and drive it through the bald man’s throat. He stumbles, collapsing to the floor with a choked cry, and Joel turns back just in time to see the other man trying to stand, though the injury to his head makes him dizzy. Joel stands first, easily pushing the man to the ground, and stomping on his head with as much force as his steel-toed boots would let him. Both men stay down.

Marco has regressed into the darkness of the alley, and he looks somehow smaller than usual. He’s pathetic, and if this was any other job, he’d laugh. But this wasn’t a laughing matter, and there was only one target for him; the medication.

The smaller man reaches into his pocket, searching for his gun, but Joel anticipates the move and has already reached him and thrown him against the wall before he can find it. His movements strain the wound in his abdomen, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t feel it.

Joel’s fist pins Marco to the wall by his throat, making him splutter and flail like a fish out of water.

“Where are the fuckin’ pills, Marco?” He just continues to flail, trying to pull Joel’s hand off of him with both of his own, to no effect. Joel scoffs, throwing him to the floor and dragging his knife out of the now dead henchman’s neck. “If you won’t tell me, I guess I’ve got no use for ya.” He uses his shirt to clean the blade, the flannel already soaked in blood, his own.

“For fuck sake, Marco whines, slightly out of breath. “They’re at my place.”

“There anyone else there?” Joel asks, so nonchalantly that it almost sounds like a passing thought.

“No, no one there. But you’ll need me to get you in.”

Joel looks up again, the now-clean knife held in his fist with a vice-like grip. He stalks towards Marco, ignoring his desperate pleas. 

“Shouldn’t be a problem-” 

With that, he stabs him in the chest, letting him choke and gasp on the floor and searching his pockets for a key. He finds it, and does a quick, final survey of the alleyway. The once perfectly settled snow is disturbed, kicked up in the fight, and deeply stained with blood.

Joel curses, but leaves, only now noticing the burning pain from his torso. He leans against the wall, now stood out in the street, open; but there are no guards. He doesn’t think he’d care. Instead he grabs a fistful of the snow around his feet, packs it into the wound, hissing at the sharp pain of the ice but quickly feeling relief as it numbs him.

This was going to be a long night.

—------------------

It’s another couple of hours or so before he returns. There were, in fact, people at Marco’s place - but Joel knew that would be the case anyway. They weren’t a problem.

He’d showered in Marco’s flat, after taking out the men hanging out in there. Protecting it, he assumed. And he’d found a med pack that let him stitch up the wound to some degree; it was a hack job, but it should do the trick. He’d had worse.

The most important thing was that he found the meds.

The old door of your place creaks as he steps inside, quickly closing it behind him before the cold could enter. It’s futile, really; the wooden pillars are rotten, decaying so badly that the wind sweeps through the cracks with ease, and he can see dustings of snow on the floor around your windows. But he tries anyway.

“Joel?”

There you are.

It’s scary, honestly, what your voice does to him. Even so quiet, so distant from the bedroom upstairs, it lifts the weight from his shoulders that he thought he’d carry forever.

“I’m here, baby. I’m comin’.” He pulls off his shoes, placing them neatly beside the door just how you like, and heads upstairs. His bloodied shirt is long gone, buried in some forgotten corner of the QZ, where he has a collection of discarded items by now.

You don’t reply, he doesn’t expect you to. He reaches your bedroom, gently opening the door and sighing at the sight of you lying there, curled up between mountains of sheets and pillows.

He’d almost think you look peaceful if he didn’t know how much pain you’re in.

“Oh, honey,” he laments, crossing the distance from the door to you and kneeling down beside your head. You open your eyes, though they’re weighed down by exhaustion, and a small smile creeps onto your lips at the sight of the man before you.

“Hi,” you whisper, letting a gentle hand poke out from the duvet and brush his jaw. He can’t help but grin back at you, the total mess that took place just hours ago wiped from his mind completely, and he leans into your touch.

The both of you just stay like that for a moment, your thumb sweeping across his cheek, his eyes never leaving yours. Then you wince, and no matter how much you try to hide it, he can see the wave of pain inflict your body.

“I’ve got your tablets, sweetheart.” He reaches into his pocket, a desperation to his actions now; he hates seeing you like this. You just nod, pushing a meek but honest “thank you” past your lips, so quiet that he almost doesn’t hear it. His heart swells.

Joel presses out one tablet and hands it to you, then picks up the glass of water that stands on your side table, making a mental note to replace it later. You take the pill, grabbing hold of his hand before he can pull it away, and give it a gentle squeeze. He follows your lead and tips the water to your lips once you’ve placed the tablet on your tongue, gently helping you swallow and squeezing your hand right back.

A look of relief washes over your face, and he finally lets himself relax. He stands, letting go of your hand and leaning over to kiss your forehead, before pulling off the clothes he’d taken from Marco’s wardrobe and climbing in beside you.

He only knew heaven in these moments with you, late at night, when your hands reach for him beneath the sheets and your head nuzzles into his neck. It’s no different tonight; he’s quiet, unsure if you’d fallen asleep in those few seconds, and as much as he wishes you’d rest, he can’t deny the way his lips curl when he feels your gentle touch wrap around him.

“How was today? Doing the sewage?”

Joel swallows. “Yeah, yeah. It was fine. Don’t you worry about it, sweetheart.” His arms envelop you, holding you tight against him, one hand drawing gentle circles on your back. He’s lost in the bliss for a moment, letting it wash over him in waves, when your hand brushes his haphazard and you freeze. So does he.

“Joel,” you say; it’s still a whisper, but not the tired kind you’d given him earlier. It’s like you’re too scared to ask. “What’s that?”

He panics, holding you tighter, trying to think. He can’t believe himself for not remembering to cover it, to make sure you didn’t see. 

“There was an accident today. I did some building work before I went to sewage, a pipe fell. Nicked me real bad-” you gasp, forcing yourself to sit up with shaky arms. Joel immediately pulls you back down, his hands grasping your face, staring into your eyes like they held the world inside them. It’s dark, but they glimmer, and he just hopes you can’t see his fear.

“No no. It’s fine, baby. I’m fine. Got seen by the doc, got a couple ‘a stitches. Says i’ll be all good by tomorrow.”

“By tomorrow? Joel that doesn’t sound right-”

He interrupts you. He hates this. “I promise, baby. That’s what she said. I promise.” He wipes a thumb across your cheek, and the way you seem to settle, to believe him, makes him ache. He hates this.

You nuzzle back into his side, placated. You trust him, endlessly, and he hates that he abuses that trust just as much as he needs to protect you. A means to an end, he thinks.

The two of you are silent for a few moments, your hand lay gentle over his wound. Like you’re trying to heal it. He thinks it’s working.

“Thank you for picking up my medicine,” you say.

“It’s okay.” His words are quiet, muffled; he’s got his face buried in your hair now, revelling in your scent, and really, he doesn’t want to talk about this with you. He doesn’t want to lie anymore than he already has.

You’re still oblivious, though. Still sweet.

“I’m so glad you can make my rations cover it. I don’t know what I’d do if they made them more expensive.”

Oh, babygirl, he thinks.

Because your rations don’t cover your medicine. Neither did his. Even combined, they’d hardly cover a drink in the bar these days. He’d seen you work and work and work, in spite of the pain that bloomed in your abdomen and tortured your bones until you could hardly stand up anymore, and he saw the way they laughed in your face and turned you away when you tried to get the help you needed. When you tried to trade your labour for medicine. You were nothing to them.

So he told you he could barter the price down. That it was best if he goes from now on, to make sure you’re not taken advantage of. He takes your rations, stuffs them right back in the savings pot you keep above the shelves in your kitchen, and leaves to make whatever underground deals he needs to in order to get those meds. And you didn’t know a thing.

He must’ve been quiet for a while, because you continue. “And I’m glad you don’t do those scary things anymore.”

That gets his attention. “Scary things?”

“Yeah. Like, the smuggling and stuff.” You take a breath, tighten your arms around his waist. “I mean, I know why you did it. I’m glad you were able to look after yourself.”

Joel curses to himself, unable to wipe the tears that brimmed in his eyes as you spoke, because that would mean letting go of you.

“But I’m also glad you don’t do that anymore. You go out, and you work, even the horrible sewage shifts like tonight.” You giggle, but Joel can’t even force himself to smile. Shame consumes him.

“I’m proud of you, Joel.”

He’s silent. He doesn’t know what to say. He feels like shit.

If you notice his stillness, you don’t mention it. That alone makes his heart ache; you’d always been so understanding, so careful to make sure he’s okay while knowing exactly how to handle his feelings.

It’s odd, really, how fiercely you protect one another. He doesn’t let the darkness of the world so much as touch you, and you extract the horrors from his veins like a vacuum, making him forget the damage was ever even there.

His eyes flitter down, watching you drift asleep, finally at peace and free from pain. He exhales.

He’d never feel good about lying to you. But some things, he thinks, are worth it.

You are worth it.

And so he brushes away the hair that’s fallen over your eyes, trying to fight the droopiness of his own so he can keep them on you for just a second longer. But sleep overtakes him, and the only reason he lets himself fall into dreamland, is because he knows he’ll find you there, too.

[lvlystars]

seventeen reaction — 95z

scenario : reader is emceeing with a male idol, and their dynamic blows up (idol!svt)

disclaimer : their relationship is semi-public (known to the staff)

95z | 96z | 97z | maknaez

CHOI SEUNGCHEOL.

"so...i saw your collab stage today..." brings it up while you both are cuddling and on your phones.

ofc he knows it, he saw it the minute it came out bcus he's such a supportive bf (not bcus he's chronically online)

this man is trying his HARDEST to not let the jealousy get to him bcus it's just for a while.

it's natural for him to just scroll through comments so best believe he saw all the fans shipping the two of you.

right away you could tell he's jealous bcus he cannot hide ANYTHING from you.

"yeah, it was really fun! we both matched each other's energy so well. even we were surprised! he even asked for my number after the performance." you love pushing his buttons when he's jealous so obv you see him get even more jealous and maybe a lil pouty.

you reassure him that: 1. the guy didn't actually ask for your number and 2. it's only because you both are mc's so he'd have to expect things like that.

he really does not like the idea of that, but he'll manage, bcus he loves you <3

YOON JEONGHAN.

surprisingly very chill abt it.

you tried your hardest not to seem too close to your mc partner bcus of fans and how brutal they are, but luckily the fans liked it...maybe a little too much.

"did you see my collab stage?" he hums and nods, but seems unfazed.

"do you like it?" "it's nice."

"you're...not bothered by it?" "not really."

"but we were like...holding hands and acting all 'mushy' and 'whimsical'." "you've acted worse around me and i endured it."

he doesn't really care—he's even supportive of your dynamic as well.

maybe gets a little clingy seeing how fans speculated that you were in a relationship with your mc partner

JOSHUA HONG.

another supportive bf :(

only this time he's ACTUALLY supportive (unlike seungcheol)

"you did so great, babe! you killed it!"

smothers you with love, buys you a bouquet and chocolate and EVERYTHING

he's not called a gentleman for nothing (actually does this because he is secretly EXTREMELY jealous and wants EVERYONE in that waiting room to know that he's the only man in your life)

has your mc schedule on his phone along with his so he knows when you get off and when you're free so he can spend time with you all while making sure you have everything you need for this gig

OH but when he sees the comments online about how you and your partner look so good together, and how they would look so good as a couple, he is internally crying screaming throwing up because isn't it so obvious that joshua and y/n are meant to be for each other??? they look WAY better together anyways

...he can't comment that. he's not THAT stupid.

tags 🏷️ —

@arafilez @etherealyoungk @fairyhaos @georgia-hong @gyuguys @haowrld @kyeomyun @starshuas @welcometomyoasis @wqnwoos @wheeboo @yoonzinuhh @seuonji @shieunviya @mykpopficblog @chaatandchai

SVT WORKS

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ⓒ lvlystars