The first hint of dawn crept through the glass wall, painting the room in soft grays and muted blues. The city below was stirring, early commuters threading through the streets like veins pulsing with life, but inside, time felt suspended. Y/N had dozed off in fits, her head resting awkwardly against the bed rail, one hand still entwined with Cillian’s. The monitors’ steady beep had become a lullaby of sorts, a reminder that he was holding on.
A faint groan pulled her from the haze of exhaustion. Her eyes snapped open, heart leaping into her throat. Cillian’s brow furrowed, his eyelids fluttering like he was fighting through layers of fog. His fingers twitched in hers, a weak squeeze that sent a jolt through her.
“Cillian?” she whispered, straightening up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. She leaned over him, her free hand brushing his cheek. His skin was warmer now, less clammy, but his face twisted in discomfort.
Another groan escaped him, low and ragged, as his eyes cracked open, just slits at first, hints of his blue irises, unfocused and glassy. He blinked slowly, like the light was too much, his gaze wandering the room without landing anywhere. “Wha…?” The word slurred out, barely audible, his voice rough from disuse.
“Hey, hey, it’s me,” Y/N said softly, her thumb stroking his cheekbone. Relief flooded her, sharp and sweet, but she could see the confusion etching deeper into his features. “You’re in the hospital, love. The surgery’s over. You’re okay.”
His head lolled slightly toward her voice, eyes struggling to focus on her face. “Y/N…?” It came out as a mumble, laced with a wince. He shifted under the sheets, and immediately regretted it, a sharp hiss escaped his lips, his free hand drifting vaguely toward his abdomen. “Hurts… stomach….”
“I know, baby, I know it does,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. She caught his wandering hand gently, guiding it back to the bed. “You had your appendix out. It ruptured, remember? But they fixed it. The pain’s from the incision—they had to open you up to clean everything out. It’ll get better, but you have to stay still.”
He blinked again, slower this time, his breathing uneven under the oxygen cannula. The monitors picked up a slight spike in his heart rate, the beep quickening for a moment before settling. “Ruptured…?” He echoed the word like it was foreign, his Irish lilt softened by the drugs. His eyes drifted down to his chest, taking in the electrodes and wires with a dazed frown. “What’s… all this?”
“It’s monitoring you,” she explained, keeping her tone calm, like she was narrating a story rather than holding back panic. “Heart rate, oxygen levels. Standard stuff after surgery. You’re on fluids and meds to help with the infection and pain.”
Cillian’s gaze shifted lower, landing on the bandages swathing his midsection. He stared at them for a long beat, as if processing the reality of what lay beneath. Then, with a sluggish movement, he lifted his arm, the one with the IV taped into the crook of his elbow. The tubing swayed slightly, catching the light. His brow creased further, and he reached for it with his other hand, fingers fumbling toward the needle site. “Don’t… want this. Itches. Get it off…”
“No, wait—don’t touch that,” Y/N said quickly, her hand darting out to intercept his. She gripped his wrist firmly but gently, pulling it away before he could tug. Her voice sharpened just a touch, the protectiveness creeping in out of necessity. “Cillian, stop. You need that IV. It’s keeping you hydrated and giving you antibiotics. Without it, the infection could come back, and we’d be right back where we started.”
He paused, his hand going limp in hers, but his eyes, still hazy with delirium, narrowed in mild protest. “Infection…?” He tried to sit up a fraction, but the motion sent a visible wave of pain through him, his face paling as he sank back with a grunt. “Feels like… like I’ve been hit by a truck. Why so many tubes? ’M not a bloody pincushion.”
Y/N couldn’t help a small, relieved laugh, it was so him, even in this state, grumbling with that dry wit. But she kept her grip on his hand, lacing their fingers to keep him from trying again. “Three IVs, actually. One for fluids to replace what you lost, one for the antibiotics to fight off the peritonitis—that’s the infection from the rupture—and the third’s your pain meds. Morphine, That’s why you’re so out of it right now. Groggy as hell, but it’s helping, isn’t it?”
He made a noncommittal hum, his eyelids drooping as if the effort of talking was draining him. But stubbornness flickered through the fog; he glanced at the IV in his hand, the one taped to the back, and flexed his fingers experimentally. “This one’s… annoying. Pulling at my skin. Just take it out for a sec? Promise I’ll behave.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Y/N shot back, her tone turning fully bossy now, though softened with affection. She leaned in closer, her face inches from his, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Listen to me, Cillian Murphy. You’ve just had major surgery. Your body’s a mess inside—fluids everywhere, infection cleared out like they were mopping up a spill. These IVs are non-negotiable. They’re what’s keeping you stable, fighting off any leftover bacteria, and making sure you don’t dehydrate while you’re too knocked out to drink. If you yank them, it’ll hurt like hell, and we’ll have to stick you again. You want that? More needles?”
He stared at her for a moment, the delirium making his expression almost comically petulant, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Bossy,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it, just a faint, lopsided smile tugging at his dry lips. His head sank deeper into the pillow, the fight ebbing out of him. “Fine… but it still itches.”
“Thank you Cill” she said lightly, releasing his wrist but keeping her hand over his to prevent any relapses. She reached for the call button with her free hand, pressing it just in case. “I’ll ask the nurse to check if they can adjust the tape. Maybe put some padding under it. But no pulling, got it? You’re not invincible, even if you play characters who think they are.”
The door opened a minute later, the same nurse from before slipping in with a knowing glance. “Heard some stirring on the monitor. How’s our patient?”
“Awake, sort of,” Y/N replied, glancing at Cillian, who was blinking up at the ceiling now, his breaths coming in shallow puffs. “Complaining about the IVs. Tried to play tug-of-war with one.”
The nurse chuckled, approaching the bed to check the lines. “Classic post-op delirium. The anaesthesia lingers, makes everything feel off.” She examined the sites quickly, then looked at Cillian. “How’s the pain, on a scale of one to ten?”
He considered it blearily, his voice slurring again. “Six… no, eight when I move. Like someone’s twisting a knife in my gut.” He winced as she gently pressed around the bandage, testing for swelling.
“That’s expected,” she said reassuringly, adjusting the morphine drip a touch. “We’ll bump this up a smidge to take the edge off. And the itching—could be a mild reaction to the tape. I’ll swap it for hypoallergenic stuff.” She worked efficiently, re-securing the IV while Y/N held his hand steady.
Cillian watched her through half-lidded eyes, then shifted his gaze back to Y/N. “You look tired,” he mumbled, as if just noticing. “Been here… all night?”
“Try all evening and night,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “Wasn’t leaving you alone in this place. Scared me half to death, you did.”
“Sorry,” he whispered, his voice fading as the fresh dose of pain meds started to hit. His eyes drifted shut, then opened again, fighting the pull. “Didn’t mean to… worry you.”
Y/N leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Just focus on getting better. No more heroics, alright? Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake up properly.”
He managed a faint nod, his hand going slack in hers. “Love you…”
“Love you too, you stubborn idiot,” she replied with a watery smile, watching as his breathing evened out, the delirium giving way to deeper sleep.
The nurse finished up, patting Y/N’s shoulder. “He’s through the roughest part. A few more hours like this, and he’ll be more himself. You did good keeping him from yanking those lines—patients get feisty when they’re loopy.”
Y/N nodded, settling back into her chair as the room quieted once more. The city outside was fully awake now, sunlight glinting off the buildings, but her world remained right here, anchored to him, through the pain and the haze, until he was whole again.
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but yeah, possibly my first light elemental villain.
Inspired by: Griffith, FireLord Ozai, Emer/Enchantress, Lord Shen, Silas Briarwood, White Diamond, Emperor Belos, and Azula
name: Habiki Hoshi
Nationality: Zecopian
age:1,472
sexuality: Straight
powers: Photomancy, necromancy, and pyromancy (basically he's mastered anything light-based in light elements.
weaknesses: Shadow magic
allies: the cryptic ones, hidden away shadows in the dark depths of the halls of his castle whose only identifiable features are their glowing white eyes and glowey white teeth, think of them as like the DeadBeats from Mystery skulls: Animated, or the HorrorTerrors from Homestuck
enemies: Mainly Hikaru, but also the guardian of lightning; "Rakurai"
bio: an ancient king far away from the land of Zecopia, said to be a fearsome lord, the lord of light who is said to converse with figures in a hall of darkness during the night. one day they foretold of a prophecy, where someone descended form Rakurai, would rise up and defeat him, he learned the magics of fire and lightning in order to prepare so he wouldn't be defeated very easily by them.
outfit: royal shirt(dunno how to desc it best) in black with pale bluish-white embellishments, gold and navy blue metal bracers. a blue cloak with a black underside, a gild crown with a blue gem, dark red slacks with silver toed(kinda cloven around the toes) greyish-blue leather pirate boots, a gold and platinum sword, gold and silver pauldrons, and a blue gem necklace
Summary: After a surprising second meeting, Cillian and Y/N exchange numbers and plan a date. Later, a flirty text sparks a playful connection, awakening new hope and excitement between them.
The evening air had a different chill to it, sharper and more electric, as London’s lights flickered on beneath the gathering night. Cillian found himself at a restaurant nestled in a quieter corner of Soho—an old brick building with ivy creeping up its walls, lanterns glowing warmly in the windows.
He’d come with some of his Peaky Blinders castmates, an easy, laughing group after a long day on set. The restaurant was cozy but lively, filled with clinking glasses and muted conversations.
He wasn’t expecting to see her again.
But as he stepped into the lobby to find the restroom, there she was.
Y/N, in a sleek black dress that caught the light with every subtle movement, surrounded by a few of her modeling friends who chatted animatedly nearby. Her face lit up with surprise when their eyes met across the room.
Cillian’s heart thudded — quieter this time, steadier, but no less intense.
She smiled and quipped, raising an eyebrow as she walked toward him, “I can’t seem to escape you today.”
He laughed, warm and a little breathless. “Seems the universe is getting persistent.”
She glanced at the small group behind her, then back at him. “You’re here with your Peaky crew?”
“Trying to survive the night with them,” he said, smirking. “And you?”
“Model friends celebrating the end of a shoot. Long day.”
“Hospital too, right?” He gestured gently toward her. “How was it? Survive any emergencies?”
She rolled her eyes playfully. “You have no idea. I’m exhausted. But it’s worth it.”
Cillian grinned, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice. “Good to hear. I’m glad you’re still standing.”
She tilted her head, eyes bright despite the fatigue. “If I didn’t have to be here, I’d probably be asleep somewhere by now.”
He shook his head, amused. “I wouldn’t want you to be my doctor.”
She blinked, curious.
“Because,” he added, voice teasing, “if I liked you as much as I do right now, I’d probably faint the moment you walked in to check me up.”
She laughed, the sound soft and easy. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m serious,” he said, gaze locking with hers. “I mean it.”
Her smile softened, a faint blush warming her cheeks. “That’s sweet. And terrifying.”
They stood for a moment, the buzz of the restaurant fading to a distant hum.
“Listen,” he said suddenly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. “I don’t want to be the mysterious guy you can’t escape without a number.”
She glanced at the screen, then back at him, hesitant but hopeful.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
He entered his number and handed the phone to her.
“Your turn.”
She tapped in her digits, then smiled. “There.”
He grinned, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
“Now,” he said, voice low, “I owe you a proper date.”
Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of amusement and something deeper. “I think I could be convinced.”
“Good,” he said, stepping back reluctantly, “Because I plan on making up for missing your tea this morning.”
She laughed, the kind of laugh that made his chest ache.
“well I'll see you around eh?” he said smirking.
She smiled, then nodded. “Maybe.”
He watched her walk away, the lightness in her step impossible to miss.
As she disappeared into the crowd, Cillian felt that same shift inside his chest — the one that told him this was just the beginning.
--
The moment she closed the front door behind her, the silence of her apartment wrapped around Y/N like a soft blanket. The muffled hum of the city outside felt distant, almost comforting after the relentless noise and urgency of the hospital and the energy of the evening.
She dropped her coat on the chair and kicked off her heels, the tight straps still clinging to her feet as she padded toward the bedroom. The cool wooden floor pressed gently against her skin, grounding her after the day’s chaos.
Her phone was dumped on the bedside table, its dark screen reflecting the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
She was already halfway through peeling off her dress when it suddenly lit up.
A message.
From Cillian.
Her heart did a sudden, familiar flip—the kind she hadn’t felt in years, like a teenager with a secret crush who’d just caught a glimpse of a note passed across the classroom.
She grabbed the phone, clutching it like it was something fragile and precious.
The message read:
Cillian:
“Hi ;), can't get you outta my mind.”
Y/N bit her lip, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She slipped under her sheets, curling up on her bed like a kid with a secret. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she typed:
“Bold statement for someone who barely knows me.”
Seconds later, his reply came:
Cillian:
“Fair. But I’m willing to learn.”
She rolled her eyes, playing coy.
“You actors always think you’ve got all the answers.”
His next message popped up instantly.
Cillian:
“Guilty as charged. But you’re the one who smiled first.”
She grinned, biting her thumbnail in a way that made her cheeks warm.
“That was polite, not an invitation.”
Cillian:
“So, how do I turn polite into maybe?”
She paused, debating how much to give away. Playing hard to get felt oddly thrilling.
“Depends. How good are you at convincing someone who’s had a twelve-hour hospital shift and is running on caffeine and sheer stubbornness?”
The next text came swiftly.
Cillian:
“Better than you’d expect. I have a plan.”
Curiosity got the better of her.
“Oh? Do tell.”
He typed back, slow and deliberate:
Cillian:
“Meet me at The Ivy, tomorrow night, 7 pm. Let me take you somewhere that isn’t a hospital or a shoot set. Just... us.”
Her heart sped up, and she had to breathe out a little laugh.
“The Ivy, huh? Going straight for the fancy spots.”
Cillian:
“Only the best for you.”
She toyed with her phone, feeling giddy.
“Alright, I’ll accept. But only because you’ve got the Thomas Shelby charm.”
His final text before she put the phone down:
Cillian:
“I’ll hold you to that. And if you try to ghost me, I’ll track you down at every coffee shop ;).”
She smiled wide, the weight of the day melting away in that small, glowing rectangle.
Y/N sank deeper into her pillows, the soft sheet pulled up to her chin, her fingers still tingling from the conversation.
For the first time in a long while, she felt something new stirring—hope, excitement, and maybe, just maybe, the start of something real.
Warnings: illness symptoms, hurt/comfort, mild angst, mentions of pain & discomfort, Cillian being stubborn.
Summary: Cillian’s fever spikes dangerously, leaving him weak, sweating, and in severe abdominal pain. Y/N rushes him to the hospital despite his protests, staying calm and supportive as he fades in and out of awareness.
By the time the clock crept past 10 p.m., the rain had picked up outside, turning into a steady rhythm that battered the windows, wind howling through the gaps in the eaves. The house had sunk into a dense, uneasy quiet. The TV still played in the corner—some old film neither of them were paying attention to—but its soft flicker cast long shadows across the walls.
Y/N sat curled at the far end of the couch, still in her sweats, legs tucked underneath her, watching him with increasing worry.
Cillian hadn’t moved in over an hour.
He was huddled beneath two heavy blankets, his hoodie damp at the collar with sweat, his head tipped back against the cushions, lips slightly parted as he breathed through his mouth. His hand, again—was pressed protectively over his lower abdomen, fingers curled tightly into the fabric. A sheen of sweat glistened along his hairline and jaw, clinging to his temples despite the cool air in the room.
She could hear his breathing—slow, but a little too shallow.
“Cill,” she said quietly from across the room.
He didn’t respond.
She leaned forward. “Cillian?”
He stirred slightly, a vague hum in the back of his throat as his brows pulled together.
“Hey,” she said, rising to her feet, her voice gentler now as she crossed the room. “Come on, talk to me. You’ve barely said a word in hours.”
He let out a low groan, shifting beneath the blankets. “Still… here,” he murmured, voice hoarse and scratchy.
She crouched beside the couch, her hand instantly finding his forehead. The heat radiating off him made her stomach twist.
“Oh my god, Cill… you’re on fire.”
“I told you,” he mumbled. “Just a bug…”
Y/N’s eyes darted across his face—his flushed cheeks, the purple smudges beneath his eyes, the way his lashes fluttered like he was barely hanging on to consciousness.
“Cillian, your fever’s gotten worse,” she whispered. “You’re sweating through your clothes and you can’t even stay awake.”
He winced suddenly, curling slightly to the side as his arm instinctively wrapped around his midsection.
“Stomach?” she asked instantly.
He nodded, barely.
“Where exactly?”
He moved his hand, lazily pressing his palm over the area just to the right and below his belly button. “There. Low. Feels… twisted. Like it’s pulling.”
“Jesus,” she whispered. “Alright, that’s it. We’re going. Now.”
He let out a tired groan, trying to protest even as she pulled the blankets off of him. “Y/N, no… no, love, I’m just—just need to rest—”
“You’ve been resting all day. And you’ve only gotten worse. I’m not risking waiting till morning.”
“Please,” he said, eyes fluttering closed again. “Just—just let me—”
“No. No more arguing,” she snapped, but her hands were still gentle as she helped him sit up. “You’re going to the hospital. Come on. Coat on. Shoes. We’re going.”
He groaned again, his body folding slightly with another pang that tightened his jaw.
“Nausea’s getting worse,” he muttered. “Can’t tell if I’m hot or freezing…”
“You’re both,” she said, quickly slipping his shoes on for him as he slumped against her shoulder. “You’re feverish, Cill. You can barely walk.”
He didn’t argue after that. He let her guide him to the front door, one slow step at a time, head sagging forward, breath hitching every few seconds as another ripple of pain moved through his stomach. The moment the cool night air hit his face, he swayed on his feet.
“Alright—careful,” she said, tightening her grip around his waist. “Lean on me. Almost there.”
—
The automatic doors of the emergency department slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a stark, sterile brightness that made Cillian flinch. Y/N guided him inside, her arm firmly around his back, practically holding him up.
The waiting area was moderately busy, enough bodies in the room to make the air feel stiff and thick. A young man held a bleeding tissue to his nose, a child coughed wetly in the corner, and a woman held her partner’s arm as he gripped his shoulder in pain.
Y/N led Cillian carefully to a chair by the wall and lowered him down.
“Sit. Right here, baby,” she said softly, brushing his hair away from his forehead. “I’ll check you in.”
He nodded vaguely, head tipping back against the wall, his eyes barely staying open.
She gave his hand a squeeze and rushed toward the check-in window. The woman behind the glass looked up expectantly.
“Hi, sorry—my husband, Cillian Murphy,” Y/N said breathlessly. “He’s got a high fever, intense abdominal pain, nausea. It’s been getting worse all day. I think something’s really wrong. He’s barely coherent.”
The receptionist’s expression shifted quickly into concern. “Alright. Just give me a moment.” She typed quickly, asking for Cillian’s date of birth, symptoms again, how long it had been going on. “We’ll get him triaged. You did the right thing coming in.”
Y/N nodded, biting her lip as she glanced over her shoulder at him. He was completely still in the chair, head slumped sideways against the wall.
She hurried back over and sat down beside him, gently guiding his head to her shoulder.
“Hey,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “I’m back. You’re alright.”
He let out a quiet, broken breath and leaned into her, his entire weight sagging like the effort to stay upright had completely left him.
Her heart clenched.
“You’re okay,” she whispered again, wrapping her arm around him. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”
A few minutes later, the double doors to triage opened, and a nurse stepped through. She looked to be in her late fifties—soft features, kind eyes, a pink scrub top. She had a clipboard in one hand and a plastic ID wristband in the other.
“Cillian Murphy?” she called, scanning the room.
Y/N stood immediately, gently nudging him awake. “That’s us.”
The nurse approached with a warm smile, kneeling slightly beside him to get on his level.
“Hi, love,” she said softly to Cillian. “I just need to put this on your wrist, okay?”
Cillian blinked at her, dazed, sluggish.
“Can I take your hand?” she asked gently.
He nodded faintly, and Y/N helped lift his arm.
The nurse’s fingers brushed his skin, and her eyes widened slightly.
Y/N’s jaw tensed as she held him steady. “He’s been like this all day. He’s got pain down low in his belly, right side. It’s getting worse. He’s barely eaten. Fever’s been climbing.”
The nurse gave a quick, reassuring smile as she fastened the wristband. “Thank you for bringing him in when you did. We’re going to try and get him back sooner. I’m going to speak to the charge nurse now, okay?”
“Thank you,” Y/N breathed.
The nurse gave Cillian’s shoulder a gentle pat. “Hang in there, love. We’ll get you into a bed soon.”
Cillian didn’t respond. His head had already sunk back onto Y/N’s shoulder, breath shallow, body radiating heat.
Y/N kissed his temple, holding him tighter. “Just a little longer, baby.”
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