#im sorry i wish i could answer a little more thoroughly but im rather exhausted and these are just my true thoughts | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

apollos-olives · 4 months

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what are your thoughts about what's going to happen on the 11th and 12th? I'm south african and although we've got a strong free Palestine and anti zionist community, as well as being the country to get Israhell to the ICJ, the pro zionist/Israel is very strong and very big. my fear is that if my country can be so against Palestine (and this is mainly because Israhell has sold this idea that Israel=the Holy land and Christianity is very strong here in SA) how is it going to be in other countries. Islamophobia is so much worse in western countries and I'm genuinely fearing for the outcome because the reality is whether Israhell is condemned or not, there's going to be outrage.

I'm not educated enough to even understand the implications of the ICJ, but I do pray that it goes in my country's favour, thereby going in Palestine's favour. I don't know if this is ignorant on my part, so do forgive me if this statement is tone deaf, but I remember reading something regarding the Syrian Civil War: that the healing process is painful but the result is worth it.

I sincerely believe that Israhell will not win and that Palestine will be free. My country is far from perfect, but we achieved democracy and ended our own Apartheid. Despite what many believe or think, I refuse to condemn Hamas because although I myself believed them to be in the wrong and thought of them as terrorists, the ANC were considered terrorists and Nelson Mandela was only removed from the CIAs terrorist list when Obama came into office. So it became clear to me that any act of resistance will always be considered an act of terror in the eyes of the oppressor, and we in Cape Town recognize this and we pray for Palestine's liberation.

I was born 11 years after Apartheid and grew up free, so I know that I will never be able to understand your pain, but I pray to Allah that this current generation will give birth to Palestinians who are like me and never have to experience oppression.

Allah will save this Ummah, I believe in it, and a powerful statement that was made by Alan Busack, a politician and theologian in my country, when he and Naledi Pandor, my country's Minister of International Relations, announced that the charge had been lodged with the UN was that "Palestine is already free." and i realized while listening to his speech that Palestinians are the bravest souls. Your children are braver than I could ever be and your faith is stronger than steel.

Regardless of the results of this case, we in South Africa will not give up on Palestine, we even have this new found tradition of fasting on Thursdays for Palestinians, and altho the Zionist movement is strong here and people are even being kicked out of public places for wearing the colours of the Palestinian flag, us supporters will take it in our stride.

May Allah bless you and free Palestine In Sha Allah Ameen ❤️

for the most part, what i hear and believe from my community is that the icj isn't actually gonna do anything or dismantle israel. but it WILL show the world the atrocities they've committed, and more and more people will be exposed to what has been happening, and therefore the intifada will become stronger. even if the icj doesn't do much (inshallah it will), it will still expose israel for what it is and will help change peoples minds over what is happening. that is the biggest thing we believe we will get out of from this whole situation.

islamophobia through christian zionism isn't new, nor is it something we don't know how to deal with. i don't really think you personally should be worrying about that, though we do appreciate the concern. people are waking up and more and more people are joining the intifada and not just protesting and supporting us but they're actually learning about palestine and it's history and culture and people and it's allowing people to learn about how palestine is the holy land and how we must protect it, etc etc. the world is turning to our side and taking apart christian zionism and proving it wrong, so while yes christian zionism is dangerous, it's easily dismissible and taken apart, and we are prepared to deal with that.

we are grateful for south africa helping us and inshallah palestine will be free soon. i hope the next generation of our children will never have to face hardship like this ever again. may allah accept all martyrs and send them to heaven ya rab. thank you for your kind message, it means a lot 🫶

#im sorry i wish i could answer a little more thoroughly but im rather exhausted and these are just my true thoughts #palestine #free palestine

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stickyy · 3 years

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Can I have a gn reader x Aizawa? Maybe a college AU where Aizawa doesn't know how to handle his crush because he was awkward when he was young and ended up a bully who was handsy. Thank you!

EEEE this is my first ask so i hope you like it anon! :D thanks so much for requesting!

DISCLAIMER: i do not condone or encourage any of the behavior outlined in the following text. this is a work of fiction, and should be treated as such. :)

wordcount: 2299

warnings: dubcon, verbal abuse, slight dumbification, forced oral sex, brief mentions of gagging/vomit (doesn’t actually happen), aizawa is an law student asshole, quirkless!AU, ooc? more likely than u think

notes: im not like a writer so when i put this in word count and saw it was 2k words i gasped-

MIDTERM

Without a doubt, Aizawa’s the smartest student in your Civil Procedure lecture. You admire him; you’re both first years, but he already has an incredible work ethic and results to show for it. He works two part-time jobs to help pay for school (alongside his impressive scholarship), studies into the late hours of the night (mostly due to his being kept awake very loud roommate), and, despite a bad habit of regularly showing up to your 8 am class slightly hungover, still manages to produce the top marks in the class.

You’re envious of him, because you’re the exact opposite. Your tuition is paid in full by your parents, you have a wonderfully quiet apartment all to yourself, and you study as best you know how, only to practically fail every assignment. You wish you could be surprised, but the material is a dreadfully bland concoction of boring procedure and esoteric theory that you rarely get further than three or four pages into a chapter. You want to like law, you really do, but there’s something about the intricacies of drafting lawsuits that goes in one ear and out the other. It’s no surprise that you sought out Aizawa’s help, desperate to at least pass the class with a decent grade.

You wish you hadn’t.

You don’t understand what you do that bothers him so deeply, but something about you coaxes cruelty from somewhere dark inside of him. You always scurry towards the back of the lecture hall to grab a seat next to him, doing your best to be quiet and unassuming, but he shoots you a venomous glare or a soft flurry of harsh words. And you get it, to an extent- some days you walk into class chattering a little too loudly on the phone, and on others you loudly shuffle around in your book bag to try finding the notes that you attempted to start for this lecture (if you even brought them that day). You know it’s annoying, but you also know you don’t deserve the downright verbal abuse he throws at you for it.

“It’s hard to take notes if you forget your textbook. Try being prepared for once,” he’ll sigh as he slides his textbook to you. Like a good student, he took notes for lecture the night before, but it still took some convincing for him to spare you his textbook.

“Do you ever shut up?” He’ll interrupt you as you babble about your difficulties understanding the most recent lecture. You want to retort, tell him off for being rude, but the words die in your throat; he radiates an annoying apathy that makes you doubt the efficacy of anything you say to him.

“You wouldn’t fail every assignment if you actually studied. Or maybe, you’re actually just stupid?” He’ll quip as you clutch your paper, a red ‘47’ scrawled in the upper corner of the page littered with your professor's critiques and question marks. By contrast, Aizawa’s paper is pristine, donning a singular red mark of ‘98, nice work!’.

With a well placed glare and the sour baritone of his voice, laced with exhaustion, it’s always enough to make your stomach drop from shame and embarrassment. Under normal circumstances, you’d never allow anyone to speak to you that way, but your grade was a dire situation, and with the midterm upcoming, you forcefully swallow your pride and ask him for his help.

You have to beg, but Aizawa agrees to tutor you the day before the midterm. This grade is a make or break for the class- if you do poorly on this exam, you’ll have to drop the lecture to salvage your gpa, putting you half a semester behind your peers. It’s motivation enough to deal with his poor attitude, and the two of you end up reviewing in an empty studying room on the top floor of the library. You began the session alert and determined to catch up, but studying with him shows you just how far behind you are. The textbook sounds like foreign poetry coming from his mouth; Aizawa is nothing short of eloquent when explaining the complexities of something as boring as filing lawsuits, and you spend most of the two hours spent just zoning out, completely unable to focus.

“You’re just wasting my time at this point.” The break in his cadence snaps you out of your trance, unfocused eyes meeting his tired ones, slightly lidded in annoyance, “Are you even trying to remember the material? Or are you just expecting me to spoon-feed it to you?”

Your throat catches, forcing you to swallow a lump as you attempt to ignore his words.

“I am trying! I just don’t understand why there are two approaches, is all,” You whine, flipping back through your sparse notes to find the section that contained the explanation.

“I went over that almost 3 chapters ago. If you were paying attention, you would’ve stopped me by now. It’s hard to believe that you even got into this school, if this is how you studied in high school. Did your daddy pull some strings with his buddies in admissions?”

Your eyes narrow, searching harder for the correct section in your notes. That’s a pretty low blow, and even if he’s not completely wrong, it still stings. You now know for a fact you didn’t even read this part of the text, but you keep your eyes trained on the page. At this point, you’d do anything to avoid looking at Aizawa, lest you begin to cry.

“Don’t be an asshole,” is all you can muster, voice shaking with unshed tears, “Would it kill you to be a little nicer? It’s hard to focus when all you do is insult me.”

“It’s hard to focus?” He repeats, his tone a sickly sweet mockery of yours. “Sweetheart, I don’t think that’s my fault. You’re a lot dumber than you think, if you even think at all. The midterm is tomorrow, and we’re just now getting into chapter five. Don’t get mad at me for actually trying to study; if I was holding your hand through it all, we’d still be on chapter one.”

Your vision blurs and a single tear hits the lined paper of your notes, causing the ink to blur as the drop absorbs into the page. You clench your jaw and take a breath before standing up, opening your backpack to put you things away. You didn’t have to take this abuse, you could study on your own. Even if you did poorly, you’d have some of your dignity left.

“It’s pretty rude to just walk out on someone trying to help you,” Aizawa says after a moment, closing his notes shut. “Not only do you give me a headache every single morning, but I try to tutor you and you want to leave without even thanking me? I’m busy, you know? I take time that I don’t have to spare just help your sorry ass out, for free, and you’re not even capable of learning anything from it.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder and move to leave, but you find yourself face to face with Aizawa, his tall frame blocking the door, arms crossed over his chest, and a thoroughly disgusted expression plastered on his features.

“I should charge you a fee, just for completely wasting an afternoon. Absolutely ridiculous,” His tone is a juxtaposition to his demeanor; he sounds more amused than annoyed, a jeer underlying the words. It makes you feel sick, and you’re suddenly grossly aware of the fact that you're alone with him, the only method of escape blocked. It feels dangerous, and you want nothing more than to be at home, alone and safe.

“H-how much?” You stutter meekly, eager to appease him. “I don’t really have any cash on me but if you have Venmo-”

“That’s not quite what I had in mind,” Your heart starts to jackhammer against your ribcage and panic sets in. You’re frozen in place, unwilling to ask him to elaborate. You may not be very bright, but you have a good idea of what he’s going to ask for, and you can think of a million things you’d rather do instead.

“I know your pretty little skull is practically an echo chamber, so listen closely, okay? We both know that no matter how hard you try, you won’t be ready for the exam by the end of tonight, and I have to work in an hour and a half. So, if you behave and do what I ask you, I’ll let you copy my exam answers tomorrow. Understand?”

You’re silent, paralyzed by fear. A part of you wants to run, desperately, but your mind drifts to the midterm. You know that without any help, you’ll surely fail.

That’s how you end up on your knees in front of him, tears finally streaming down your face from choking on his thick cock.

“That’s it,” he groans breathlessly, eyes fluttering shut as his head presses back against the door, “I knew you were good for something. I bet this is how you convinced your other teachers to give you a passing grade, huh? A few cocks down your throat-fuck, to save your gpa, I wouldn’t put it past you, dumb slut.”

You hate this- hate being reduced to just a mouth for him to fuck. You hate how he sneers down at you, his eyes alight with sadistic pleasure. You especially hate the treacherous way your spine tingles and heat pools low in your stomach at his amused growls and degrading remarks. He’s just as cruel with the way he fucks into your mouth, disregarding your comfort entirely, hand in your hair roughly guiding your head over his length. He’s almost painfully thick, stretching your lips wide, tickling the recesses of your throat in a grotesque way. You try to wiggle away slightly, just to take a small breath; you’re beginning to feel dangerously lightheaded. You begin to pull your head away but he thrusts his hips upward, holding your head down and forcing your lips to wrap around the base of his cock.

“S’okay, baby, just relax that empty little head of yours, no need to breathe right now,” he sighs, watching you struggle against him with a smirk, watching the fear bloom in your chest and your mind buzz with the lack of oxygen. Your thrashing shifts his cock in just the right way and you violently gag, eyes widening with the painful sensation. You’re almost convinced he’s going to let you pass out, right before he yanks you off of him. You cough violently, gagging a few more times, drool spilling out of your mouth.

“Throw up on me and a failing grade will be the least of your problems,” he growls, and the threat is a sobering reminder of how fucked up this is. You meet his expectant gaze, and reluctantly return to the task at hand. You can hold out just a little longer, you tell yourself; his hips are beginning to move on their own accord and you know he won’t last much longer. All you have to do is hang on and it will all be over soon.

You know that he’s just a bully, that you’re just doing what you have to do in order to pass this class, that you’re worth more than your grades, that you aren’t stupid- but the dark part of your mind questions if he’s right. Maybe you do belong on your knees, because what do you know? Maybe you are just a dumb slut; there’s no need to study if the only thing you’re good for is swallowing.

The shameful thought forces a new torrent of tears to pour from your eyes, gagging once more on both your tears and his cock, and the look of pure despair on your face pushes him over the edge. Aizawa yanks your head from his cock with a curse and you flinch as his hot cum hits your face. There’s a lot of it, the viscous seed slowly dripping down your face. The sensation is downright disgusting. You feel dirty and used, your throat sore, knees burning, lips swollen from his brutal assault. He presses the tip of his cock on your cheek, smearing his load all over your skin with a cruel laugh.

Through your panting, you keep your eyes closed for a little bit, hoping that maybe this is an awful nightmare and you’ll wake up in your dorm, with an extra day to study and a little more hope in your heart.

The sound of a camera shutter rips you from your fantasy, opening your eyes to see Aizawa grinning at his phone. You’re too shocked to say anything, only staring at him incredulously from your position on the floor in front of him.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, you know?” He hums as he tidies himself up and grabs his bag. “So photogenic, I’ll be able to get off to this for weeks. Who knows what good you’d be if you were dumb and ugly.”

You didn’t notice that you had stopped crying, but the fresh tears and sound of your own sobs call your attention to fact.

“Try and clean up before you leave, alright? I know you’re a little too stupid to remember, but I don’t think it’d be a good look for you to walk around covered in cum.”

The door clicks closed, and through your sobs you look around at the room, only to notice that there aren’t any tissues left laying around. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him.

(But at least you get an A- on your midterm.)

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clumsyclifford · 4 years

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you’re the photographer who’s been camped in front of my penthouse apartment for two weeks and i finally got lonely enough to come downstairs and share my leftovers with you” au or the child star one please i am begging you -it’s me rye rye rye your boat

ok im working on the child star thing but its gonna end up being much longer so heres this which honestly also ran away from me let’s see if tumblr will even let it all post it’s almost 2k ENJOY thank u for the prompt ily

The first day, Calum glances out the window and sees a whole host of paps on his front step and thinks, good thing I did the shopping yesterday.

The third day, most of them have gone except a few stragglers. Calum is determined to wait them out.

The sixth day, Calum is starting to run low on milk, and there's only one person left out there. He’s properly set up camp, actually, in a beat-up Volkswagen that makes Calum chuckle, then catch himself for chuckling because this man is for all intents and purposes his mortal enemy. Calum finds it strange that someone with such brightly colored hair and (squinting, he thinks he can make out) tattoos would be a paparazzi. He looks more like a punk groupie than a photographer, but to each their own, Calum supposes. He's tempted to make a break for it, or maybe sneak out in a cap and sunglasses, but leaving the apartment at all will get him photographed, and sue him, he’d like to be left alone. This is, like, the only month he gets to himself before training starts up again. He intends to take full advantage of it. Total invisibility.

Which would be a lot easier if this fucking pap wasn’t dead set on snapping his photo. Calum sees him turn the lens of the camera towards Calum’s front window, and he hastily moves out of sight.

The tenth day, Calum calls Luke.

“What?” Luke asks.

“‘Hey, Cal, nice to hear from you,’” Calum says. “Thanks, Lukey, right back at you.”

“I thought you were doing radio silence for a month,” Luke says. “Like, keeping your head down.”

“I am,” Calum says, exasperated. “There’s just one guy who’s been camped out in front of my building for, like, almost two weeks.”

“So what? Just go past him. He’s just one guy,” Luke says. Calum envies Luke. It must be nice to not care what the press thinks. Not that Calum cares, exactly; he just hates that they’re so insistent on being invasive. Calum’s not supposed to be a public figure, he’s supposed to be a symbol of Aussie pride. He plays soccer, that’s all. Nothing to be excited about.

“No,” Calum says. He’s not sure where this dogged determination is coming from, but he knows he would rather die than acknowledge the paparazzi out in front of his building. He’s got a right to his privacy, damn it. “Look, it’s a whole thing, I don’t want to get into it. But, uh, I’m sort of short on a few groceries. D’you mind…”

Luke heaves an exhausted sigh that Calum recognizes well. He calls it the fucking hell Calum the things I do for you sigh. Sounds similar to the fucking hell Ashton the things I do for you sigh, but less horny.

“Fine,” he says. “Send me a list.”

Luke gets photographed on his way both up and down the building. Calum watches the one stubborn pap take his picture, look at it on the camera screen, and slump over as if thoroughly drained.

Well. That’s his problem.

After two weeks, Calum caves.

He’s been subtly watching the pap out the window, and every day he looks a little worse for wear. Not that Calum can see him very well, but he can tell in the set of his shoulders, the way he leans against the steering wheel of his car or slouches against the driver’s window. Calum hasn’t been consistently staring, but he’s pretty sure this guy hasn’t even left. How is he eating? Is he eating? UberEats, maybe? Calum shudders to imagine living off of delivery Maccas. Here he is, eating home-cooked food, and this poor pap has been sitting out there, probably wishing he could go home and make some pasta.

For the first time in his recorded life, Calum takes pity on the paparazzi.

He cobbles together some leftovers from the past few nights — homemade pizza, a bean dish he’d got off the internet that hadn’t been half bad, and some spaghetti bolognese. He heats it all up and then takes the elevator down to the lobby.

Calum has genuinely not left his apartment in two entire weeks, so the greying evening takes him aback, but not nearly as much as when he makes eye contact with the blue-haired pap and the guy doesn’t instantly take his picture. Also, Calum thinks, despite his best efforts not to acknowledge it, he has to admit this is the most attractive paparazzi he’s ever met, and easily the most laid-back. Is that an eyebrow piercing? Fucking hell.

The pap rolls down his window. “Uh, hi?”

Calum starts to feel a bit silly, but whatever, he’s already here. “Hi,” he says. “Uh, you’ve just — you’ve been camped out here awhile, and I thought…maybe you’d want some real food? Not just, like, UberEats?”

The blue-haired pap looks suspicious. “Is this a bribe?”

“No, I wish,” Calum says, laughing a little. “If anything, this feels like feeding a kitten to encourage it to stay. I’d love for you to leave, but if you’re not going to, the least I can do is make sure you’re eating well.”

“I’ll leave,” the blue-haired guy says, surprising Calum. “I — I’ve wanted to leave since I got here. I’m sorry. You don’t have to feed me —”

“I insist,” Calum says, because he’s already gone through the trouble of heating it up, and he has a fork and everything. God, he’s going to regret this, he thinks, before adding: “Unlock the door? I’ll sit with you.”

The blue-haired guy looks positively dumbstruck. “Um,” he says. “You don’t have to.”

“Believe me, I know,” Calum says. “You just look like you could use the company. And, to be honest, so could I. What’s your name?”

“Michael,” blue-haired guy says, smiling gratefully with just a touch of apprehension. “Alright, if you say so.”

He hits a button, and Calum comes around to the passenger side and climbs into the car. It occurs to him that Michael could easily kidnap him right now. Calum’s entirely defenceless, and has just willingly gotten into a car with him.

(But Michael doesn’t look that strong, and Calum’s an athlete, for god’s sake. He could take him.)

“Here,” Calum says when he’s settled, offering up the food. “It’s all warm and everything.” He hesitates as Michael takes the tupperwares and cracks one open. “You — you said you wanted to leave? Why haven’t you?”

Michael already has a mouthful of spaghetti, so he covers his mouth with his hand and swallows before speaking. Calum tracks the way his Adam's apple moves, then mentally slaps himself for doing that.

“‘S my job,” Michael says. “Not because I like it. It just, it pays well enough, and…it’s not like I have anything better to do with my time. I’m usually not invasive like this, I swear. I try to keep at the back, I just get some blurry photos and people pay me for them, nobody usually cares. But my boss was, like, crazy about this. He kept pushing to get exclusive photos, and then when he heard you had a month off, he told me to stake you out like my life depended on it.” Michael looks incredibly sheepish, hanging his head. “Sorry, mate. I thought I could just get a few pictures on the first day and be done with it, and then when you didn’t come out, I tried to tell my boss you’d holed up. But he wasn’t having it. Told me to stick it out.”

“Christ,” Calum says, aghast. “Your boss sounds like a real dick.”

“He is,” Michael says agreeably. “But, you know. I need the money, so.”

Calum likes how honest Michael is. It’s refreshing. People tend to lie to him a lot, especially in regards to his job, which he’s usually very good at, but gets told he’s good at even when he’s not. Michael’s forthright, though. Calum appreciates it about him.

“Well,” he says obligingly, “take a few photos now and take them back to your boss. Can even say you got an exclusive interview if that wins you any points.”

Michael raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t.”

“Fine,” Calum says. “Ask me a question. Wait.” He pulls his phone out and opens up the voice memo app. Hits record. “Alright, ask me a question.”

Michael looks amused. “Okay, but you’re not going to like this question very much.” Calum gestures for him to go on. “Okay. Um, what exactly are you famous for?”

Calum stares at him and then bursts out laughing.

Once he’s calmed down, he manages, “I never thought I’d say this, but I am absolutely delighted to have met you, Michael. I’m the center forward for Socceroos.”

“Oh,” Michael says, grinning. “Explains why I don’t know you, then. I’m not really a sports guy.”

“Yeah? What kind of guy are you?”

Michael shrugs. “Music, really. Part of why I ended up in this line of work.”

So Calum’s initial instinct had been correct. He’s weirdly proud to know that.

“Well, Calum Hood,” Michael says, and Calum likes how his name sounds in an unfamiliar voice, saying it because it’s what he’s called, not because it’s some big name to throw around, “what’s your favorite color?”

“Blue,” Calum says.

“How many years have you played soccer?”

“Most of them. Boring question, been asked that a million times,” Calum answers. “Come on, be creative.”

Michael arches his eyebrow, like he’s ready for the challenge. “Alright then. Worst drink you ever had?”

“Any time I have to drink beer in America, it’s a dark day,” Calum says. American beer is awful, and he will die on that hill.

“Favorite song at the moment?”

“‘Monsters’ by All Time Low.” Michael hums appreciatively.

“Good taste. Favorite article of clothing you own?”

Calum glances down at himself. “Probably this sweatshirt,” he admits, because he’s pretty sure at this point the sweatshirt is legally part of his body. Has he even taken it off in two weeks? Hard to say.

“Uh, worst way you’ve ever tried to pick someone up?”

Calum really only thinks for a moment before diving headfirst. “Well, once there was this pap who sat outside my building for two weeks, so I brought him my leftovers because I felt badly, but then he turned out to be fairly interesting and very attractive, so.”

Michael turns pink. He grabs Calum’s phone and turns off the recording.

“You’re not picking me up,” Michael says. “You can’t. This is my car.”

Calum laughs. He likes Michael. “Humor me,” he says. “You can say no. I’ll still let you have the pictures and everything, I’m not a total dickhead.”

“I didn’t say no,” Michael says. He lifts up his camera. “Smile.”

Calum makes his most serious face at the camera and listens for the click. He makes another face, and the camera clicks again. Then again, and once more.

“Alright,” Michael says. “That’s my job done. I’m officially off the clock. You were asking me something, I think?”

“You’re a shit,” Calum says. “I might take it back.”

Michael grins. “You will not.”

No, he won’t. “Fine,” he says. “Dinner? Or, uh, ice cream? You’ve sort of just eaten.”

“Won’t say no to ice cream,” Michael says. He looks over at Calum and smirks. “Imagine if this is the ‘how I met your father’ story.”

It’s an extremely forward thing to say, Calum’s too busy laughing to call him out on it.

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turning-the-kaleidoscope · 5 years

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10 with whoever youd like ;w; i only ask that serizawa be in there somewhere

OKAY I KNOW THIS TOOK ME FOREVER TO GET AROUND TO BUT YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MY FACE LIT UP WHEN I SAW THIS BECAUSE I IMMEDIATELY KNEW EXACTLY WHAT I WAS GOING TO WRITE.

HERE WE GO–

Edit: YOU CAN LISTEN TO IT NOW TOO OH MY GOODNESS

PHOENIX I’M STILL SCREAMING OVER THIS A A A A A A A your reading voice is so freaking gOOD JDKLSDF A A A A A,,,

im just gonna,,, listen to this like 10 more times,,, dont mind m e ,,,,

Reigen lived with the belief that everyone held an equal measurement of potential, psychic powers be damned. He believed that psychics were not above humanity; that they were not some “better form” of human, and rather, humans with only somewhat different capabilities. In fact, Reigen seemed to envy runners more than he envied psychics.

They come from entirely different worlds, Serizawa and Reigen. Serizawa doesn’t believe he could ever truly understand him.

Except it’s Reigen’s belief—the belief that all people are equal, that no one is more special than anyone else, that everyone is unique in their own way but in no way more important—that leads him to a perilous downfall.

And, in hindsight, Serizawa should have known.

Because Reigen sees everyone the same, but one. He sees everyone as having worth, as having importance, as being special, with one exception.

Serizawa is not used to exorcising spirits. In fact, Reigen probably has more experience than him. But with Shigeo so swamped with entrance exams right around the corner, it had to be Serizawa. Reigen told him he’d be fine. He’d even gone so far as to jokingly ask “What’s the worst that could happen?”

He has an answer now. An answer and clarity he wishes he didn’t have.

The spirits aren’t very strong, but there are a lot of them. Enough to have Serizawa overwhelmed within the moment they stepped down into the canyon. Spirits with varying strengths and weaknesses, with varying skillsets and tricks up their metaphorical sleeves.

Reigen has literal salt up his sleeves, which doesn’t do much of anything at all. But it does distract some of them while Serizawa takes them out, two by two, unable to exorcise more than that at a time. And a part of that is his fault. Or, rather, his nature. Because he wants to be careful. Because he isn’t used to this at all. Because he wants to make sure the spirits are thoroughly taken care of and can’t hurt anyone again.

There are too many spirits. Too many spirits and not enough exorcists to deal with them.

“Katsuya, there’s–!”

It was bound to happen. But Serizawa still couldn’t have predicted it actually would.

He’s just exorcised spirit number who’s-keeping-count, and is turning to look over his shoulder towards the shout of his name, but he’s bodyslammed before he can see anything.

His shoulder collides with the dirt and the air is knocked from his lungs. His throat closes in on him, but so do the spirits, and he forces himself into gear and swings an arm, exorcising the two nearest ones.

“Arataka,” he gasps, struggling to get his feet underneath him, “why did you–”

That was the worst case scenario.

That was the worst that could happen.

Because while Reigen was just as human as the rest of them, he was no psychic.

The rest of it happens in a blur, for a time. Not nearly for long enough, but for a time. Serizawa didn’t mean to, but his aura took the reins of the situation and tore through every spirit like a knife through butter.

And it somehow overrides his panic and knows what to do, too, because he presses hands over the gaping wound in Reigen’s side and his aura, trembling and scared, winds tendrils around it and seals it. Temporarily seals it, but seals it nonetheless.

The outburst upsets the sides of the canyon. He barely gets his barrier around them in time before it comes crumbling down, burying them beneath rocks and dirt and dust until no trace can be found.

And now they’re huddled together, occupying as little space as they can beneath the dome of the barrier. Serizawa has an arm wound tight around Reigen’s shoulders and lets him lean into his side and rest his head on his shoulder, because he’d been struggling to hold it up on his own. The front of his shirt is bloodied, with a giant tear in the side of it where the spirit caught him. If the spirit had been aiming for him, he’d probably be dead.

“I wish I could take you to a hospital,” Serizawa says quietly, a pit in his gut. “I don’t know how much blood you lost.”

“Prob’ly shouldn’t mess with it,” Reigen slurs, eyes barely open. His head is a dead weight against Serizawa’s shoulder, and his hands lay loosely threaded in his lap. “I dunno how… precarious it is up there. Don’t wanna risk… bringing down the rest…”

“What else do you suggest we do, then? We aren’t going to have oxygen forever, you don’t have service on your phone–”

“Someone’ll find us,” Reigen answers shortly, and something tells Serizawa that the promise is more than desperate delirium. Even if he is struggling to keep his eyes open. “Someone’ll find us, I know it…”

Serizawa bites his lip, but Reigen doesn’t have the strength for an argument and he doesn’t have the heart to push one.

So they sit, and Reigen breathes. He isn’t very awake, but he’s awake enough to know falling asleep is the last thing he should do. Just before Serizawa shakes him, Reigen has snapped himself awake all on his own, usually with a barely-audible reminder to himself not to fall asleep.

Time passes, and with each painstaking second, the gnawing hole in Serizawa’s stomach grows and continues growing. Reigen’s skin is a shade it shouldn’t be, a pasty color like old white paint. His breaths are measured, but never steady, nor even. He’s never looked more exhausted. Or drained.

The arm around him doesn’t feel like enough, and with minimal hesitation, Serizawa brings his opposite hand to settle over both of Reigen’s. His fingers are cold, and that’s not a good sign.

“… Are your hands really warm or did I just lose a lot of blood.”

Serizawa’s chest is tight. “You lost a lot of blood.”

“Ahhn, makes sense.”

Serizawa nods, but as Reigen’s head becomes more and more of a weight on his shoulder, his mind wanders elsewhere. Relives the previous hour once, then twice, before he squeezes his eyes shut in a sorry attempt to block it from his mind.

It doesn’t work.

He inhales, then swallows, then draws Reigen just a little closer. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Reigen doesn’t ask what he means. “Mmn, yeah,” he slurs, nodding weakly. “That is true.”

He doesn’t seem to get it. Serizawa struggles onward. “You should’ve just let it happen,” he says, voice somewhat sharper than he would have liked it to be. “The spirit wouldn’t have been able to do much of anything, definitely not something like—like this.”

“I knew that,” Reigen says, and his voice is sharp, too, out of nowhere, “but my body reacted on the off-chance that I’d be wrong. I didn’t really… have the chance to… think about it. Y’know. Before it happened.”

And Serizawa should have known, because that’s just how he is. He thinks things through, he can talk himself around just about anything, but when it comes to other people, he often acts before he thinks. Usually he gets away with it. Usually his impromptu plans work to his advantage.

But not always.

Serizawa decides to fight him on it later and instead asks, “How’s the pain?”

“Not as bad as it should be,” Reigen says. A pause. “… That… might not be a good thing.”

“It might be my aura,” Serizawa muses aloud. “I’ve never been good at healing wounds completely, but I’ve learned enough. You still need a hospital as soon as we’re out of here, though.”

“Mm, yeah.” Reigen cracks a weak smile, then smiles and leans into him again. “M’not sure home remedies are gonna be nearly enough this time.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so either.”

“But I’ll be fine.” Reigen shuts his eyes, not to sleep, but to rest. “Thanks for the… aura, stuff.

Serizawa manages a feeble but genuine smile in return. “Don’t mention it,” he says, and lets himself rest his cheek on the top of his head. “It’s the least I could do. Thank you.”

“Mm, for what?”

So much, really. So much Reigen doesn’t know. So much that it’d be hard to pin it down with words of any sort, of any magnitude. So much. Everything.

But that can be saved for later, too. When he has time to express it. For now, he shakes his head and murmurs, “Y’know, stuff,” and somehow, Reigen understands.

It’s Shigeo who finds them not too long after, calling their names and finally lifting the fallen rocks and debris with barely a flick of his wrist. He’s clearly distressed, and Serizawa only realizes now that it’d been the outburst of his aura that led him here, but he can explain that later too, now that he knows “later” will indeed come.

For now, they bring Reigen to the hospital.

#I'm not happy with the ending but everything else?#*''okay hand''*#THANKS FOR THE PROMPT AAA #ive been super excited to write this one ever since I got it jksdjflksdfdfdf #:DDDD #prompt fill #mob psycho 100 #mp100 #cloud writes #serizawa katsuya #reigen arataka #unedited i'm sorry djfkgljdlkgdfg #if I re-read it too many times I'm gonna be nitpicky where nitpicks are unnecessary #so i'm just crossing my fingers and hoping my hands and brain knew what they were doing jdkfjsldfdf

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