#headache is receding now.

[lunar-fey]

oh one last thing was REALLT not joking abt the panic attack thing. i was like on the verge of tears (and tbqh.........i havent actually cried but once since starting t. so maybe i WOULDA been crying by then if not for that) and i mention this bc there was a monitor in the room and i watched in real time as my ekg or whatever went from normal looking to SOLIDLY FILLED BLACK from the amount of brain activity. kind of cool to see that at least ig. okay enough out of me 👍

[lovebugism]

shy! reader & eddie -  “are you okay? is the heat getting to you?” 

💛💛💛💛💛💛💛

hi angel! thanks so much for your request!! — the one where you have a hard time telling eddie when you feel bad and he nurses you back to health (hurt/comfort, shy!reader, 1.5k)

bug's summer fic fest ♡

You felt a little like the sun was microwaving you.

The golden rays beat down on you most mercilessly, sucking all the energy from your body while simultaneously burning you alive. Once you sprawled out on the quilt Eddie brought for your little trip to Forest Hills Lake, you just laid there — too tired and too sick to do anything else.

The boy stood over you after noticing how uncharacteristically disinterested you were in feeding the ducks. His shadow shielded you from the sun as he poked your thigh with his foot. “Are you dead?” he joked with a lopsided grin you couldn’t see. Your eyes fluttered shut minutes ago, and you didn’t have the strength to open them again.

He knew something was off when you didn’t smile back. He knew something was really wrong when you muttered something vaguely in return that only came out in slurred mumbles. 

Eddie manages to get you up with little help from the you in question. 

Your suddenly exhausted frame leans heavily into his side as he leads you back to the trailer. Though the lake was quite literally in his backyard, the walk home took several minutes longer than usual. Your feet were made of brick and your swimming head had turned the world on its side. It took a world of strength to ascend the three steps of his rickety wooden porch. 

“Here, c’mon,” Eddie hums as he follows you through the squeaking screen door. He walks you the short distance to the couch, putting both hands on your waist to steady you when you start to sway. “Sit down before you give me a heart attack, alright?”

You listen to him, though you don’t exactly hear him. Through your pounding headache and the rushing ocean in your ears, he might as well be talking to you underwater.

“I don’t feel good…” you slur quietly, eyes squeezed shut as you descend slowly onto the couch cushion. Eddie holds onto your elbows as you sit, watching you with attentively wide button eyes.

“I know, doll,” he coos empathetically in return. “I’m gonna go get you some water, okay?”

Your clammy hands grasp his wrist when he lets you go, your grip weak with a barely-there touch. You peer up at him with glassy eyes that swim with unshed tears and leftover sunlight. 

“Don’t go,” you plead in a whisper. Your voice isn’t strong enough to be much louder.

You feel eerily close to passing out. Your head fills with static and you feel dreadfully far away from the world around you. Feeling this sick is scary in itself, but having Eddie so close makes you feel much safer in comparison.

“I’ll be right back. I promise,” he tells you with a soft, pink grin. He slides his palm out of your trembling grip to hold your hand. Your fingers are sweaty and uncharacteristically warm, almost burningly so. “You need some water in your system, babe. That’s probably why you feel so shitty right now.”

You’re too weak to protest any further.

The boy rushes into the kitchen. You vaguely hear his receding footsteps, glasses clattering together, and the hiss of the faucet — but it all sounds so far away. You’re just a countertop over from him, but it feels like lightyears.

Eddie stays gone for exactly four slow blinks. 

Time has become a big ball of nothingness in your nauseous state. It feels like he’s gone for a lifetime and zero seconds flat at the same time. Either way, you’re equally grateful when he returns to you.

“Here you go,” the boy lilts quietly when he’s back in the living room. He ushers the cup of water into your weak hands but keeps a hold of it for a moment or more, just to make sure you’ve got it. “Drink up, doll.”

Your face scrunches in disdain at the thought. You know you’re thirsty, but you feel so queasy that your mouth has started to water. 

“I’m scared I’m gonna puke,” you confess in a nearly inaudible slur. 

“You won’t. I promise,” Eddie assures with a quiet smile. His fingers smooth over your forehead to push away the sweaty tendrils sticking there. You’re hot to the touch — and not even in the way figurative way he always jokes about, like genuinely burning. He singsongs to quell heavy tension, “And even if you do, I’ll clean it up for you, okay?”

The thought of him washing up after you is as heartwarming as it is stomach-churning. 

You sip at the glass just to appease him. The water sloshes gently in the cup along with your trembling hand. It’s not cold, but it’s not warm either — it’s the perfect temperature for someone so fragile suffering from an acute bout of heatstroke. The liquid is soft in your mouth, piercing you somewhere in your soul and making you feel almost instantly better when you swallow it down.

“How’s that?” Eddie coos, still standing over you with a loving sort of concern.

You make an unintelligible noise into your water.

“Do you feel any better? Still feel faint?”

“I don’t know,” you mumble with a feeble shrug. Because you don’t. You still feel weak and burning, but less distant than you had just moments before. You’re not sure what that means, though. “Maybe a little…”

Eddie puts a hand to your forehead, at a loss of what else to do. You’re still hot to the touch, but certainly not as warm as you had been earlier. The whirring A.C. and tap water must be doing the trick, he figures. 

He spreads his palm along your clammy cheek. “You still feel a little sticky…” he tells you.

The words make you feel queasy. You blink up at him with a heavy, glassy gaze. “I feel gross…”

“You’re just sick, babe. It’s okay,” he assures you, laughing softly as he swipes his thumb over the apple of your cheek. His chocolate eyes sparkle when he looks down at you. “I’d hug you if I thought that wasn’t the worst idea in the world.”

The bridge of your nose scrunches at the thought. 

You need Eddie around, but the thought of him touching you any more than this makes you want to be sick. You’ll kiss him absolutely stupid the second you’ve cooled down, though. He won’t be able to peel you off of him, then.

You shake your head in response to his implication, slow and sloppy like a child.

Eddie chuckles. “Exactly. Keep drinking for me, ‘kay?”

He sits down next to you, careful not to jostle you too much. He leaves several inches of agonizing distance between you and finds keeping his hands to himself is a most incorrigible feat. He watches you take ginger sips from the cup and wants so desperately to hold you to his chest until you feel better again. 

He hopes that moment isn’t too far away now.

You feel considerably cooler once the water’s all gone. The leftover sunshine has nearly exited all your pores, allowing the air conditioner to formally pierce your skin. The tap water refreshes you from the inside out.

“Better?” Eddie ponders with raised brows.

You nod lazily.

He exhales in relief through his nose. “Good. You were starting to scare me for a second there.”

You flash him a sheepish glance. “Sorry…”

“It’s not your fault, doll. Don’t apologize,” the boy chuckles. Only you would apologize for feeling so sick — as though it wasn’t something as forced upon you as it was upon him. “I should’ve known better than to take you out today. It was way too hot outside.”

That’s not what he really wants to say. 

If he’d said exactly what he meant, it would’ve gone something like, “I should’ve known better than to take you out today because it was way too hot, and you never tell me when you’re feeling bad.” 

But that isn’t really your fault either. 

Eddie knows how you are. He should’ve checked in on your more. If he hadn’t gotten so distracted, he probably could’ve gotten you inside before the sun almost killed you.

“It’s not your fault, either, Eds,” you tell him rather pointedly, as though you could hear his thoughts.

“No,” Eddie concedes with a shake of his head. “It’s the stupid sun’s fault for making my girl feel so sick.”

And even though he wasn’t exactly trying to make a joke, you laugh at him anyway. It’s just a weak exhale through your nose, but Eddie beams when he sees you finally smiling. 

When his hands start to ache, he finally wonders, “Feel like being touched now?”

You don’t. Not really. Not in the way you’d like him to touch you, anyway. You’d love to be wrapped up in his arms and melt with him in totality, but your swimming head and warm skin disagree with you. 

You reach for the wrist in his lap and put his hand on your thigh — for the sake of feeling him, but not overwhelmingly so.  

It makes Eddie laugh. His palm smoothes over your knee before squeezing you there. “The water did the trick, huh?”

You nod. 

He beams. 

“I love being right,” he lilts, only halfway serious.

“I know you do,” you grumble in response. 

You love him and his smug grin far too much to be genuinely annoyed with him, though. The understanding of this unsaid fact makes his smile widen.

[feyhunter78]

Lab Partners

(Image taken from Pinterest, I believe the artist is teletwobees) More Nerd!Miguel here

Also, plz feel free to ask me about college/nerd!miguel bc he is in my thoughts now

Regret, that’s what you’re feeling as you bury your face in your arms, the lab table cool against your skin. You should’ve brought a jacket, but you didn’t have time, just raced out of your apartment to your car in leggings and a t-shirt with your letters printed across the back in purple and white bubble letters.

“Y/N are—are you okay?” Miguel’s voice is soft, the sound of his chair scraping against the floor not as soft, your head aching, pain piercing through your brain at the noise.

Your stomach rumbles and a wave of fatigue washes over you as you lift your head to look at him. “Got dragged to the bar last night.”

He’s wearing a soft looking, long sleeve dark blue shirt, the sleeves pushed up exposing his forearms, his glasses flecked with raindrops, his hair is tousled and slightly damp curling slightly at the ends.

“On a Thursday night?” He asks, his eyebrows furrowing as he unpacks the lab equipment.

“It’s the night everyone goes out, I don’t know why, and I hate it.” You whine, massaging your temples.

Miguel’s large warm hand presses against your forehead, and you startle for a moment, causing him to jolt back, stuttering apologies.

“I—I just wanted to make sure you weren’t sick.” He says, a light dusting of pink across his tanned cheekbones.

He’s got great cheekbones, really, he’s got great everything. Maybe it’s just the hangover talking, but you really want to kiss him. Well, you’ve wanted to kiss him since he sat next to you on the first day of class. And when he slid his notes over to you the month after when he saw you struggling to keep up with the professor’s supersonic lecturing speed.

“I mean, a hangover is a kind of sickness, I’m pretty sure.” You say, your own face burning, but you can’t tell if it from his touch or the hangover.

“Don’t they say to drink something for a hangover? A Bloody Mary or a mimosa? I heard the café off campus sells them until noon.” He suggests, nerves coloring his tone.

Is he trying to ask you out? No, he can’t be. He’s Miguel, the genius, shy and sweet, and definitely not interested in you, and your hectic, dramatic life with sisters you both love and hate depending on what week it is.

“Can’t drink in letters.” You tell him, fumbling for your water bottle and taking a long drink, your eyes fluttering closed as the cool water soothes your sore throat.

“Really?” He asks, and his eyes are on you when you open yours, lingering on your lips, then darting away.

“Yep, it’s like the number one rule for all sororities all across the U.S. movies always get it wrong, really pisses me off.” You grumble, putting your water bottle back in your bag and trying to muster the energy to focus on the assignment in front of you.

“Interesting.” Miguel says, taking his glasses off and cleaning them with the hem of his shirt.

Like an absolute pervert, your eyes shoot down to the exposed sliver of skin. Tanned and toned, you swallow hard as you rip your eyes away.

“Yep, Hollywood, they always try to make us look like drunk sluts. And look, I may be drunk occasionally, but I’m not a slut.”

Miguel’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. “I would never call you that—never think you were one, ever.”

You smile and pat his shoulder. “I know, Miguel, you’re too sweet for that.” You can’t help but let your hand drag down to his bicep, his stupidly firm bicep. “My sweet boy.”

His glasses clatter onto the lab table and Miguel scrambles to pick them up, slipping them back on. “Did you get to finish your assignment yet?”

You screw your eyes closed, swearing under your breath. “That’s what I forgot.”

“It’s due tomorrow.” He reminds you.

You nod and press the back of your hand to your forehead, willing your headache to recede. “Yes, yes, I know, I just shit, I totally forgot, and I’ve been so busy, we have this major philanthropy event coming up, and I’ve been up till two am all week helping paint the banner and I really don’t get anything we’re doing in here.”

You pause, sniffling, your eyes welling with tears, as you bite the inside of your cheek trying to keep from crying in the back of the lab.

“I could help you?” Miguel offers tentatively, fidgeting with his pen, his eyes darting between you and the table.

“Really? Miguel, that would be amazing.” You say, unable to resist the urge to lean over and wrap your arms around him.

He smells good, like expensive cologne, and old books.

You take a moment longer than necessary to pull back, basking in his warmth, in the way his strong arms wrap loosely around you before he gains the courage and crushes you to his chest.

“It’s no problem, why don’t we meet in the library around four? It looks like you’re almost done with it, so we shouldn’t be there for too long.” His voice low, calm, and warm vibrates in his chest, and you relax into his hold before pulling back and nodding.

“That would be perfect, thank you.” You beam at him, headache receding, the knot in your stomach unraveling, there’s something about him that’s so comforting, makes you feel safe.

He nods and focuses in on the PowerPoint the professor is going over. He looks so handsome, warm brown eyes flickering over the typed words, his broad shoulders still half turned towards you, his full lips parted ever so slightly as he mumbles to himself.

You rest your chin in your hand and watch him out of the corner of your eye, unable to keep from daydreaming about what it might be like to be his.

Miguel is going places, you know it. And you? You’ve always thought it might be fun to be a trophy wife, maybe Miguel needed a trophy wife?

You can see it now, standing next to him in a gorgeous red dress, your hand around his bicep as he accepts some award for genetics. You can almost feel his lips against yours as he thanks you for your support and dips you old movie style.

“Y/N I’ll see you at four, yeah?” Miguel’s voice pulls you from your daydreams. Class is over, you’ve taken zero notes, and he definitely caught you zoning out.

You nod, and quickly gather your things. “Yeah, yeah four, I’ll meet you there!”

(Also ummm I was in a sorority my entire time at college, so I am actually the expert and Hollywood gets everything soooo wrong it makes me legit angry😭)

Miguel TL: @bat-bae, @nyctophilic0vitnir, @smokeywhalee, @obi-mom-kenobi, @prowlingforfood, @penggion, @crystal-crax, @oharasfilipinawife, @generalkenobitrash, @melsimps

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 10[*]

Pairing: Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sister!Reader

A/N: Well, buckle up I guess

Warnings: Plot™️, I know clocks are canon but it still feels weird to do this, starting heavy 💪

Word Count: 6,012

-Part 9- -Part 11-

He sighs.

It’s not like she can help the way she is. Not like she can help the fact that whenever she tries to make things better it simply creates more work for him to do. By receding into her room, he has to pay more attention to when she appears, becoming extra vigilant in the moments she steps outside.

He shouldn’t be so harsh. Sometimes fatigue clouds his judgement, enough so it becomes apparent to even himself sleep is a necessary luxury. Still, they’re harmless behaviours really. Small habits that with the right guidance will enable her to flourish again.

A broken bone that needs to be left to set, to be good as new.

6:57 p.m.

Azriel massages his temples, the beginning aches of a headache making themselves apparent. Eases in a breath, counts, and releases. It seems a night of rest is unavoidable, but there’s so much to be done. He could perhaps rearrange breakfast…but that would collide nastily with training. Maybe moving lunch to three instead? But then that would impact the start time of going though the towering stack of reports, which would in turn result in him working later anyway.

Thick brows narrow as he prowls silently down the hallway of the River House, deciding to leave for some peace and quiet. It’s not an idea he’s keen on, but if he dips out of practice with Cassian atop the House of Wind tomorrow…that would work. Frustration simmers in his knuckles, tightening the trapezius. He doesn’t like the idea of skipping over valuable training time with the priestesses. They’re forcing themselves out of their comfort zone. The least he can do is respect their resolve by attending.

He’s so caught up in thoughts of schedule and routine he only realises she’s in the River House, on the same floor, when she’s a single corridor away. Another thing he needs to keep an eye on. Swiftly reorganises his thoughts, rotating and recalling the information his shadows have provided over the recent days and hours. The scraps of speculations Mor had offered from a single outing. If he remembers correctly, she will have just gotten back from her trip with Mor now. So why is she here? She should be back up at the House by now, retreating to her room away from everyone else.

Still, he rounds the corner in time to see her click a door closed—her sister’s. His curiosity piques, shadows already recollecting the news they’ve catalogued for the female with soft, cocoa eyes. Gloves still adorn her hands, but it does nothing to conceal their tremor.

Attention narrows in on her, darkness skittering back into the corners of the hallway, hiding between his wings as he approaches. Her lips are chapped and tight, features strained as her gloved hand rests for a moment atop the handle. Appearing in her own world—eyes glazed and vacant. Her jaw is wound tighter than usual, tight enough he can hear the grinding of enamel, like bone and porcelain powdered against rock. Brows draw together at the notice of her waxen complexion, skin gleaming faintly with peaky dew.

Blank eyes flick up to meet his own, and he steps forward. Her hand stiffens on the handle, posture turning rigid. Scent taking on a tang he’s far too familiar with from nights spent with his blade. He comes to a stop, keeping his distance from her taut form.

Azriel’s first thoughts are she must be pushing too hard with her magic. Honestly, he hadn’t anticipated her to be so resolved in mastering her power independently. Neither had he anticipated her making a lick of progress. At least not through measures that a sensible mentor would allow.

He should never have yielded to her look of despair. She’d be safer if he had simply insisted on doing things correctly. A foolish mistake on his part, and now she might be going down the wrong path. “Are you okay?” He asks, splitting his weight equally between each foot, resting in his place. Watches the roll of her throat, shifting in place, away from Elain’s door. Had there been an argument?

She nods her head, trying to straighten her spine as she sometimes does when pulling herself together. The effect is nullified by the was she hangs her head, never quite succeeding in meeting his eye for extended periods. He shouldn’t have ignored it for so long. Leaving something like that unchecked… Well, he should have known better.

“I’m—” She clears her throat, and tries again. “Good. I’m fine.” Nods to herself, eyeing the floorboards with bland eyes. He waits quietly, allowing the silence to coax her into unravelling. She shifts again, stepping away from Elain’s door, her gaze flitting about the corridor. Flicks to the stairs behind him, leading down to the exit—likely wanting to return to her haven up in the House by now.

Eyes regain a little focus, pupils contracting as a nervous smile quirks her mouth, nodding to the door as she makes for the stairs. “We were just speaking,” she elaborates, moving away hastily. “Catching up.”

Azriel watches, noting the briskness of her steps. It’s unusual for her to be so keen to leave his presence. What had happened?

“Wait,” he says, turning as she makes to move past him, peering at the floor, marking her steps. She pauses, gloved hand resting on the carved and polished banister. He steps forward, morbidly intrigued by the glaze in her eyes, as if made of glass. “You aren’t well,” he states. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” you repeat blandly, “just tired.”

Something bad then, if she’s not willing to even discuss whatever exchange happened with Elain.

Shadows loiter at the threshold, waiting to hear for any sounds that might offer hints, like the soft breath of cries, or the gentle splash of muffled tears. Nothing.

She turns again, descending the stairs, sweeping down the case quietly as she makes a bee-line for the door, vanishing out into the dark, leaving him perplexed and curious. A dangerous combination for the Spymaster.

She’d looked shaken up, so he should make sure things are okay.

It’s been a long while since he last had a one-on-one conversation with the soft-eyed female.

Azriel turns in the hallway, moving back the way she’d come.

8:36 a.m.

“We should talk.”

His words pull you from the world of bliss that had been graciously clouding your mind. Peer down at him from where you’re straddling his lap, pale sheets crumpled, clothes strewn about from being swiftly discarded. “About what?”

Thick, dark brows narrow over piercing golden eyes, full lips twisting down in the corners. Your own features shift to match his, “now, Bas?”

He sighs, large, warm hands splaying across the bruised skin of your hips. “I know, I know, I suck at timing. No need to tell me.” Almost immediately the edges of your lips lift up, a smile tugging at your mouth, vanquishing the momentary surge of annoyance. Fingers lightly press into the softness of his chest, spine losing its rigidity, relaxing your weight back onto him. Feeling slightly dizzy as pleasure sinks into your bones.

“Fine,” you mutter, playfully, “what is it?”

Bas shifts beneath you, thumbs soothing your skin, your back arching as you attempt to still the swirl of your hips. “Two things, actually,” he clarifies reaching higher, a reassuring pressure over your ribcage, rubbing to your waist. Peek down at him, raising a brow, “I wondered why you weren’t giving me a hard time tonight,” —shake your head, smiling slightly— “I should have known.”

He offers a tight smile and your own slips away. “Now you’re worrying me,” you murmur quietly, fingers curling. “What is it?” Golden eyes meet your own, concern shining in their depths, “you’ve been off recently. And I’m worried. So, it’s fine to be emotionally intimate too… Yeah?”

You blink, lips parting in surprise. “I’ve been…off?” Brow furrows in confusion, “what do you mean by that? Am I doing something wrong?” It’s an earnest question, yet it resonates a little deeper than you had expected. Thankfully he doesn’t pick up on the inner conflict. “It’s not that,” he reassures, hands stroking slowly, lightly. “But you’ve worn the same dress the last three times I’ve seen you.”

Internally, you cringe, making to pull away. “Do I smell?” You ask, wincing, bringing your arms to your chest. A slight smile tugs at his lips then, “no.” Relax a little, hands twining as he brings them back to his torso. “But…you taking care of yourself up there?” Sigh, shoulders losing their tension, lips resting into a quirked position.

“I’m fine, Bas. I like it up there, where it’s quiet, and—”

“No.” He interjects gently, hand slipping from yours, pushing a strand of hair from your cheek. Lightly cups your jaw, thumb skimming across the skin. “I mean up there.”

Spine stiffens, fingers freezing. Breath pauses. “Everything’s fine,” you murmur, watching him. He gives a look that urges you to stop lying, squeezing your hands. “Talk to me,” he says in response. “Something’s up. I can tell.”

“Bas—”

“Don’t even try,” he murmurs, golden eyes shimmering as he peers up at you. “I know what that feels like,” he whispers, hand raising to skim your breast, thumb brushing atop your heart. “I know change is difficult.”

“Bas, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Eyes lock, staring at one another.

His hand falls away.

Muscle loosens.

Licks his lips, gaze flitting elsewhere. “I was lonely too, when the attack happened.” Spine softens, brows tightening. Wait silently for him to continue. Licks his lips again, returning to watch you. “Ma… It was hard on both of us, losing pa. Y’know one day he was there, then the next it’s just us.” His throat rolls, eyes glazing as he looks into the middle distance. “We had our own ways of dealing with it—the loss. Mother knows I can’t talk about healthy coping mechanisms, I practically fucked anything that would let me. Probably drank more than I should have, too.”

The attack.

You and your sisters hadn’t yet come here, still mortally human and wonderfully unaware. Well, you and Elain, anyway. Even now, there were still signs of the aftermath. Traces of grief that had yet to be healed.

He shakes his head slowly, limbs turning stiff. “It got… I know what it’s like.” Golden eyes latch to your own. “So talk to me. Don’t keep that—…stuff, to yourself.” Shake your head, breaking the connection, pulling away. “There’s nothing to talk about. Stop prying.” Shake off the heaviness, easing a breath. “What else did you want to talk about?”

His expression is indiscernible, brows dipped, lips tugged down, eyes swirling with molten gold. Shifts beneath you, your hands pressing to his chest to steady yourself as he raises into a sitting position. Moving to be eye-to-eye, hands spanning your waist, gently keeping you still. Fingers brush the concealed muscle of his shoulders, linking at his back, hips winding in gentle encouragement.

A rough-skinned palm settles on the nape of your neck, sliding and gripping your hair lightly. Thumb oscillates over your waist. Calling up loneliness from the pit of your chest. Lips brush your mouth, the slightest caress of hot skin that feels like heated silk and tastes like spices and thyme. He looks like he’s about to try again, but decides against it, instead pulling you forward.

Only you’re taken to the crook of his shoulder, palm cupping the back of your head. His free arm snakes up your back, cradling you to his chest. Keeping you close by. At first you’re stiff, unsure how to react, muscle locks as his skin presses hot to your own, smooth and soft. Warm hands soothe along your spine, gently skimming across the expanse, tracing the knuckles of bone. Fingers draw light patterns atop, oscillating and sketching with reassuring steadiness.

He makes no move to kiss you, just holding you still, the thick locs of his hair scratching softly against the nape of your neck. His arm spans across the back of your waist, hand flattening against your side, thumbing over the skin, soothing you to melt.

Your bones begin to feel heavy in your body, sinking low as you hesitantly raise your arms to lock over his sturdy shoulders, tentatively shuffling to rest your cheek against him. Inhale slowly, deeply, taking in his scent—like rosemary and myrrh. He settles across your skin, and you sink deeper, emotion thawing as you melt into his arms, so tender and soft. Healing and welcoming.

Wet drops splash atop his shoulders, dripping onto dark skin as arms pull a little tighter, squeezing as lips tremble. Spine shudders, soft breaths stuttering as tears trickle down your cheeks, wetting strands of hair as fingers grip closer. Full lips graze your temple, and you feel those small cracks that had emerged during your argument with Feyre begin to spiderweb out, restraint fracturing just a little more.

Lower lip wobbles, and you curl around him tighter, body shuddering with quiet sobs as he holds you. Dry hands wrap into fists, nails biting the flesh of your arms as you fall into him, wanting to be washed away.

To peacefully melt to a place far from memory.

Slowly fade into absence.

2:43 p.m.

The iron-cast ring weighs on your palm, the glittering blue jewel of its swollen abdomen gazing up at you like silver moonlight dripping to dark, gleaming midnight. Polished and sharp like armour and blade.

“Do you like it?” Mor asks from your side, peering over your shoulder. You’d heard her footsteps that time, but shake your head absently, putting the ring back where it belongs. “It’s a lovely piece of jewellery,” you hedge, not wanting to talk badly when the shopkeepers are around. Spiders are still a little too close to home—insects at all, really.

She hums quietly, attention skimming to a piece beside it: a silver band fashioned to the stalk of a flower, the petals looking like stretched out droplets of warm citrine. Mor examines it for a moment, then holds it out for you to look at, which you do. “What about this one?” Fingers mindlessly come up to fumble with the glass pendant at your neck, steadily becoming a habit. “It’s very pretty,” you answer, hoping it suffices. Mor hums again, seemingly getting the hint, returning it to sit on the counter.

“You liked the dress, didn’t you?” She asks, quietly. Brows dip together as you turn in her direction, cascading golden hair loosely tied back. “I mean you wanted it. Not just because I was pushing you to get something.” A beat of quiet passes, and you examine her expression: the edges of plush and pillowy lips lengthened by slight worry lines, brow marginally dipped in the centre. Minute shifts in features that would have gone undetected by human eyes.

Throat rolls as you look away, but nod. “I did like it,” you mumble, fumbling your words, “do like it. Thank you.”

“Have you worn it yet?” She asks. Dread ices your skin, eyes flitting to honey warm irises. “I— No…” you manage honestly. Look away, scanning the jewels, that blue spider again catching your attention. “It’s a special dress,” you murmur, “I was waiting for a special occasion.”

More quiet beats between you, background chatter buzzing through your mind. But then she nods, accepting your answer. “It looks nice on you,” she replies, picking up a necklace this time—a thin chain of gold that shimmers beneath the daylight streaming in from the windows. Dip your head in silent thanks.

Peer out into the streets, watching fae pass by, enjoying their lives. Spots of colour splashing along as they go about their day. Eyes mark a small shop across the road, stools holding little trinkets like cups and pottery spilling out onto the cobbles, ceramics gleaming beneath the lowering sun. Plants sway in the crisp breeze outside, the nippy winds of early autumn already setting in.

Ease in a steady breath—there’s less than a week left until you’re due to complete your side of the agreement, and only small bits and pieces of progress to show. Not enough to avoid bringing it up to the rest of them.

Glance at Mor from the corner of your eye, watching through your peripherals as she holds up a necklace to herself, peering into a mirror. How would she react if you told her right now? She’d probably smile and tell you that’s great. Maybe ask you to show her or give a demonstration. The breath releases, knowing that question will crop up eventually. Seeking results when you have none to provide.

“Are you coming to dinner tonight?” She asks breaking you out of your wondering. Blink, pulling yourself back down, having forgotten about the extra supper they’d decided to fit in. Shake your head, turning your attention back to the jewellery stand, then flitting out to the shop. “I’m feeling pretty tired,” you reply quietly, “so I don’t think so.”

“Sure?” She says absently, already having moved onto the next stand. “The food’s really great—pork that practically comes part on your tongue. And the jam that goes with it is absolutely mouth-watering,” she dreams, smiling faintly as her fingers scrunch with anticipation. Your nose wrinkles for a split-second before you shut off the reaction, offering a bland smile, “how lovely.”

“You must try it at some point,” she gushes, turning to you now, accessories forgotten. “It’s one of my favourite places in Velaris. All the dishes they serve are,” —her hand flexes, as if trying to grasp onto something, eyes briefly shutting in bliss— “amazing.”

You smile again. “I’m sure.”

Warm-honey eyes narrow on you, examining the set of your expression. “You liked the soup,” she says, “what else do you like?” Throat rolls and you shift on your feet, fumbling. “Mash?” Mor nods slowly, remaining silent; in doing so forcing you to speak, too awkward to allow it to continue. “With thyme… Beans are nice, too?” She continues her bout of silence, quietly watching you. “The rice and…sauce. That’s been nice. Very nice.”

Her brows squish together, tension coiling in your stomach and shoulders. Lick your lips. “The—…” You pause, not knowing the name of the food. “The doughy balls? With…mushroom? in the middle? With—”

Eyes pop open. “You don’t eat meat.”

“I eat meat,” you say, hurriedly, but she’s in her own world.

“That’s why Az—” Her hand smacks up onto her forehead and you internally cringe—was the coddling that noticeable? To everyone but you?

“Why didn’t you say anything?” She asks, a mix of shock and exasperation lining her tone as she stares at you. Throat rolls and you turn away from her, picking up the silver band with the citrine-coloured flower. “I can eat meat just fine,” you mutter quietly, “it’s not as though there was anything else.”

“There was the soup,” she argues, still facing you, “you could have asked me to pass it to you—I even had some for myself.”

“No, I mean—” —eyes lock, her brows risen in confusion, not accusation. You sigh, shaking your head. “Sorry. Forget I said anything…” Her neatly groomed brows dip, head tilting ever so slightly. “No, what were you going to say?” She asks, voice quietening. Glance at her sidelong, fiddling with the ring in your hand, sliding it on and off your gloved little finger—far too large for it to possibly get stuck on. Lick your lips, spinning the band as you fidget. “I just mean, it’s basically all we ate back then,” you mumble, peering at your feet with forced interest. “Just brings back some bad memories, is all. Nothing I can’t deal with.”

She sighs softly, and guilt tightens your stomach, putting the now-warm ring down, listening to it clink on the glass. “You don’t like meat,” she states. It’s not a question.

“I can eat it,” you counter quietly, not wanting to be a bother. You’ve seen how much the others enjoy it. “But you wouldn’t choose it,” she returns, keeping her body open as she faces you. Shift on your feet, “I… No.”

Mor nods, hair glinting like freshly spun straw beneath a summer day. “Then we can eat somewhere else. Or order different dishes,” she reasons smoothly, “I’ll just mention it to the others since none of us even knew. Well, I suppose Az—”

“Please don’t,” you interrupt, cringing internally. “It’s fine. Meat’s good for you and I shouldn’t be so picky anyway. It’s annoying.”

“To who?” She asks, making you glance at her. “Who does it annoy?” She repeats, seemingly earnestly. “It’s silly to switch restaurants just because of…because of something so small. I can eat when I get back, anyway. It’s fine.”

She looks appalled.

“Mor, please don’t say anything,” you repeat quietly, meeting her eyes, a pained look unknowingly on your features. “I’m fine with how things are. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Her brow narrows, eyes flicking around the shop, taking in the other customers. “None of us would mind,” she says quietly. “You wouldn’t be causing a problem. We’ll just order more dishes without meat. We don’t have to change places if nobody wants to.”

But you shake your head adamantly. “I can eat when I get home. Please don’t change what you order just because—”

“Why don’t you deserve to eat food you like?” She asks sharply, voice remaining quiet but harsh. Blink at the tone, stiffening briefly before tension uncoils from your muscles. “It’s not like that,” you reply, turning from the display, slowly stepping toward the door. Mor follows beside you, appearing to have lost interest in the surrounding trinkets.

“No?” She asks, glancing at you through her peripherals. “What’s it like, then?”

You pause in the street, feet halting their movement as the question registers. She halts at your side, slowing to a stop, attention turned to you. “Mor, I don’t know how I could possibly put into words…” A heavy sigh escapes from you, shoulders sloping, exhaustion lining your eyes. “Never mind. Forget it.” Spine straightens, continuing heavily across the street to the shop with the little carvings and pieces of glazed pottery.

She follows quietly as you wander toward the stalls, inspecting the bits and bobs on display. Watches you quietly, taking in the ankle-length dress, clunky boots, thick cardigan and scarf. The vomit-yellow gloves. She should at least find another pair with a lighter colour for you. “You know,” she begins softly, a hint of a smile in her tone, “for someone so reserved, I didn’t expect you to be so stubborn.”

Fingers freeze for a moment, reaching out toward a small carving of a woman holding some drooping daisies. Breath catches, before you manage to resume motion, picking up the small figurine. “Sorry,” you mumble, “I don’t mean to be.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” she murmurs. “You’re strong willed. It’ll serve you well.”

But you shake your head in denial. “Feyre’s strong willed. So is Nesta.”

“Do you think Elain is?” Mor asks, holding up a glazed mug she clearly has no interest in. Your brow dips, peering at her, not having anticipated the change of direction. “Why are you asking?”

“She’s been quiet, no?”

Turn your attention back to the woman in your hand, flipping her over to peer at the lines of her dress—swaying in a breeze. I wonder why… You think sardonically. Instead a hum lulls from your mouth, non-committal and vague. Mor nods her head, again picking up those minute hints you’re unaware you’re even capable of dropping.

“That’s a nice carving,” she says brightly, redirecting the conversation without a hitch, smooth fluidity long ago mastered. “Your father was a carpenter, wasn’t he?” She asks softly. “Would you like it?”

Gloved fingers rub the concealed skin of your other hand, knuckles itching for reprieve. Under ordinary circumstances, you would have declined the offer— it looks well carved. Not that you have an eye for such things. This time, however, you can make an exception. “That would be nice,” you answer quietly, “thank you.”

Swallow down the apology that had been slowly making it’s way up from your stomach.

She smiles then, and you look away.

She’s far too bright.

6:49 p.m.

You excuse yourself as soon as you step inside, heading up the stairs and along the hallway before returning to the House of Wind. Walk quietly along the floorboards, hoping to avoid any unnecessary confrontations. Reach the door you’re looking for, landing a series of knocks to the hardwood. “Elain?” You call, listening for a reply. She answers, letting you to come in, voice soft but terse.

The door swings open on oiled hinges, and you step inside, hearing it snick shut at your back. Eyes instantly locate your sister, sat in a large armchair facing the lit fireplace. Curtains are drawn, blocking out what little light remained in the sky, room set aglow with the golden-orange of flame. Cocoa melts to something soft and spicy as she peers into it, and you wonder if she’s perhaps missing Lucien.

“Hey,” you mumble quietly, noting how she seems kind of distant. You can’t help but be reminded of those initial months, the transitional stages of your lives where the world was turned upside down. How she’d shut down almost entirely, rarely speaking. Rarer still to get anything coherent, like she was trapped in a dream state. “I just…I wanted to see you,” you murmur, moving toward her.

Haunted eyes flick up to meet you, blank as they take you in with ghostly smoothness. She blinks and it’s gone, gesturing to a seat opposite from her, closer to the fire but angled for prime conversation. A smile lifts the edges of her mouth, etched with strain, chest stretching as you take in her fatigue.

Sigh heavily, settling into the plush armchair, remaining straight-backed as you put the paper bag at your feet, careful with the little carving. Wait for a beat to pass before looking to her, cocoa already reattached to the fire. “Elain,” you call quietly, gaining her attention. In the light of the flame the circles beneath her eyes are more pronounced, shadow flickering across the heavy crescents. Worry takes root in your gut—it seems to be taking more of a tole on her than you’d thought.

“You went out with Mor today didn’t you?” Elain asks, voice soft and faint, as if coming out of a daze. A shy smile curves your lips, nodding. “How was it?” She asks distantly, gently curled hair hanging in rich ringlets, tight and silky as they spill down the lilac night gown she likes. Throat rolls, turning your attention to the fire. Will this ever be an easy subject between the two of you? Between any of you?

Eyes flit down to the bag, pulling it up into your lap for comfort. “It was good,” you manage softly, nodding. “It was…nice. To be outside. Around someone, for a little.” Elain nods, a bland smile on her face, though you don’t doubt its sincerity. “I—…Mor’s nice,” you add, fumbling your words as you try to direct the flow of the conversation toward what you’re trying to get at. But you’ve never been good at reading the room, and it’s showing.

“You should…I mean, it would be nice for you to come along sometime…” you suggest, trailing off as fingers wring together in your lap, playing with the paper handle of the bag. “We could…I don’t know…” Shift in the chair as you try to think of something. “I’m sure there are some shops for gardening, or somewhere to sample pastries? You’re trying out pastries at the moment, aren’t you?” Eyes flit to your sister, the smile gone from her lips, lids heavy as she soaks in the heat of the fire. Letting it drink her in.

She’s quiet, and it’s obvious something’s off. Or is she just tired? She’d told you she’d been sleeping badly recently, has it not yet gotten better? Run your attention over her supple form, smooth skin over tight knuckles, the lilac of the fabric complimenting her drained complexion, dark circles beneath her eyes making the rich coca of her irises deeper, swirling with thought. They flick to you suddenly, shadow being cast across her delicate features as she turns, as if about to speak.

You look down into your lap abruptly, staring at the little carving. “I miss dad,” you blurt out quietly, the words being hauled up your throat, spat out into the air.

Elain stiffens in your peripherals, and your lips press together tight. Heart heavies, shoulders no longer being held taut as you begin to drown into the cushion. “I know…” you begin quietly, thoughts eddying away once you try to grasp for them. Just stare at the maiden holding the drooping daisies. “I was thinking about him,” you say quietly, managing to keep your voice somewhat even. “Earlier, when I was out with Mor,” you clarify, reaching into the bag.

Push the paper apart, reaching for the female figurine. Fingers brush the smooth wood of the carved figure, the pads able to sense the very grain with heightened nerve endings. She’s hewn from a darker material, deep brown and riddled with smooth and polished knots, creating a labyrinthine twist of swirling lines and wrinkles. It was probably once a beautiful piece of trunk, carried from a forest to a carpenters shop, whittled away until the figure emerged.

“I want to speak with you.”

You look up, hand stilling, fingers grasping the carving. Maybe…you’ve learned in the past it’s better to let someone else lead the conversation. Yours don’t seem to go anywhere unless the other is interested in a continuation.

“Okay,” you murmur, releasing the statue, pulling free as you return the bag to your feet, set aside so you can deliver her your full attention. “What is it?”

Elain blinks slowly, and hairs rise on the back of your neck.

“Elain?” You encourage, no more than a whisper.

For a long moment she won’t speak, just watching intently, as if she can see through you and is examining the sub-atomic structure of your soul, down to the bits and bobs between. Stiffen as cocoa bores into you, looking far older than should be possible as the flame flickers dully in muted brown. Throat rolls, trying to maintain the connection, letting her know you’re there. She’s been around for you; it’s the least you can do.

The contact breaks, her lids closing briefly, gaze returning to quietly observe the fire. Taking in its motion—how the heat wells, practically rolling from the hearth to the rugged floorboards. “There’s been something…” Elegant brows dip almost imperceptibly, the edges of her delicate mouth quivering, lips parted on a syllable. Close again, as if the words won’t suffice for what she’s trying to say. The fire almost seems to match her, growing more intense as she stares into it, shadows darkening as they writhe across the walls, like the wings of a great creature.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” she murmurs absently.

Worry sparks across your chest but you say nothing, allowing her to articulate her thoughts at the pace she wishes.

Cocoa returns to you, the colour of conkers—you can picture them sitting cozily among the branches of a dense forest, perfectly in place. “I need you to be calm,” she says firmly. “Can you do that for me?” Brow narrows in confusion, attention fading form your body as it’s directed to your older sister, posture lithe but firm. Sitting with the preternatural stillness of the fae, and something more… Something beyond what even…

You nod—as if your voice might break whatever she’s fallen into. Might cause a change in mind, your chance to comfort her lost. She stares for a moment longer, quiet and observing. An unwelcome itch builds beneath your knuckles, but you push it away, attention solely on your older sister. Her pupils seem to be the wrong size, as if you’re something far off in the distance that she’s struggling to focus on. Her posture relaxes, silently settling into the depth of her armchair, as if it might hold her together.

“Sleep has been difficult as of late,” she murmurs, eyes locked to yours and you find yourself unable to look away. She keeps herself still; poised; refined. Even in the undress of her lilac night robe, she’s collected, but there’s something off tonight. You nod in understanding—sleeping can be difficult. Especially after the war.

“Have you been taking care of yourself?” The question pulls from your lips before it’s fully formed in your mind. A faint smile sharpens her mouth—hairs prickling at the nape of your neck. Cocoa blinks, and the sharpness has faded, settling into the familiar gentle curve that makes Elain herself. “I’m perfectly fine,” she replies quietly, though her voice is strained. Eyes again run over you, weighing. Again you keep still, enduring the assessment.

Tongue peeks out to wet her lips, shadows flickering across her face as she shifts in her seat. “I’ve been trying some different tonics,” she admits quietly. “Chamomile, root ginger, valerian…they work fine, and I end up falling asleep swiftly.”

A dull wave of relief washes through your system, like a cool balm to desiccated skin. “I’m glad, ‘Lain,” you say softly, happy she’s found a remedy. But Elain shakes her head solemnly, shadows growing darker, weighing beneath her eyes. “It’s not…I’m not struggling with sleep,” she whispers, as if the walls are sitting in on the conversation. Eyes flit about, and your brows narrow. She’s being shifty. “Maybe we should have this conversation in your room,” she murmurs to herself, fingers massaging her temples.

“Elain…” you interject quietly, worry lacing your tone, “are you okay?” Eyes flick to you, heavy with gravity. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” You press gently. Could she have been sold another kind of herb? “You don’t seem fine…” She waves her hand dismissively, as if physically able to bat the thought away. She exhales heavily, staring again into the fire. Deep into the flames, like she can see to the other side.

“Chamomile, valerian, send me to sleep fine. It’s just not—” She cuts off, searching for the word. “They don’t send me deep enough,” she murmurs, a slight tremor in her voice. “What do you mean?” You ask, shifting toward her in your seat. Eyes snap to you with the movement, brows curving in a look of…

Fear.

You pull back, comprehending. Lean forward, on the verge of standing to cross the room to be at her side again. Like you were for those initial months. “Elain, what’s wrong?” You repeat, anxious to assuage her anxiety however you can.

“They’re back,” she whispers hoarsely. Fingers tremble in her lap, lightly gripping the lilac of her skirts to calm herself. “It’s the same thing again and again,” she manages, staring at you from across the hearth. “I see you at the edge of a forest with the wolves, traveling with the fox, ending with the…” She shakes her head. Steadying her breathing. Calming her nerves.

“There’s a flash of light—light like starfall, except it itches. Itches and burns. And then he’s down, and bleeding, and—”

“Elain, slow down,” you interrupt, standing from your seat as you hurry to her side, fingers linking with her own to soothe the trembles. Crouch before her, clasping her hands in you own gloved ones. “I don’t understand,” you say, staring up at her. “What are you talking about?”

Cocoa drains, dark and haunted.

“They’re back,” she whispers. “The visions.”

General taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

Az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch

cbmthy taglist: @impossibelle @naturakaashi @sakurafrost3-blog @ficienjoyedrbspot @azriels-shadowsinger @marina468 @misstea12 @going-through-shit @fussel9913 @minakay @i-am-infinite @wannabewolf @thegirlintheshadows101 @kennedy-brooke @esposadomd @horneybeach1 @jeannineee @harrystylesfan2686 @tothestarsandwhateverend @abysshaven @starlight-hope @stupidwingboy @nastynesta @luvmoo @furiousbooklover @kuraikei @kemillyfreitas @chasing-autumns-chill @marvelpotter @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde @fall-myriad @historygeekqueen @erin-m-harmon

[danikamariewrites]

Hi! Could you write a story where the reader has a very high fever and she has nightmares and Azriel takes care of her? Thank you!

I adore your stories and you're one of my favorite writers.🤗

Fever Dreams

Azriel x reader

A/n: hi anon! Thank you that’s so kind of you to say. I hope you enjoy this, I love comfort!Az

Warnings: angst and comfort

A violent cough shakes your body as you reach for the glass of water on your bedside table. The lights in the room were dim due to your headache, making it hard to see the glass through your watery eyes. Azriel rubbed your back and handed you the water as your couch calmed down.

You had a fever for a few days thanks to the flu that was currently infecting the citizens of Velaris. Azriel didn’t want you to be alone so he had been working in the bedroom all week. Having Az take care of you was wonderful. He knew when you wanted space, made you your favorite foods, and cuddled you whenever you wanted. He didn’t care that you were sick, you needed him and that was all that mattered.

Once the glass was finally in your hands you gulped water down like your life depended on it. “Slow down or you’ll make yourself sick again, love.” Azriel said, pulling on the glass a little. You let go and Azriel takes it from your lips, setting back down on the table.

“I have to go talk to Rhys and Cass for a bit. Try and get some rest and I’ll be back soon.” He places a gentle kiss on your forehead before leaving. Az let out a disapproving hum at your temperature. The fact that your fever hadn’t broke yet was scaring him, but Madja had done all she could for now.

As you lay down you mumble an ok. Closing your eyes you hear the door close softly and Azriel’s footsteps receding down the hall. You shiver, your eyes getting heavy with sleep. You decide to give in and finally rest.

You were running as fast as you possibly could. It felt like you were getting nowhere. Finally, you crash through the door and fly down the stone stairs, following the screaming. Azriel’s screaming.

Your heart was pounding. Sweat dripped down your forehead. You come to a screeching halt at the end of the long hall. Your eyes going wide at the sickening sight in front of you. Azriel was chained to the wall, his back exposed and wings dripping blood.

One of stepbrothers was standing behind him holding a dagger, the other dancing his fingers over a table laden with an arrangement of weapons. You went to enter the room but bounced back at the threshold. They look at you, vile smirks on their faces as they taunt you. You felt faint, like you were about to empty the contents of your stomach on the floor.

You kept running and banging on the invisible barrier keeping you from your mate. The males mouths were moving but you couldn’t hear them. The one with the dagger made a slice on Azriel’s wing. You couldn’t hear their words, but they sure as hell made sure you could hear Azriel’s cries of pain.

One of the stepbrothers approaches the invisible barrier. A taunting smile on his lips as he intensely stares into your eyes. You get closer to the barrier, putting on a stone face. He slams his fist down in front of your face and you black out.

Jolting awake, you feel the cold sweat coating your body. Your heart was still racing as you whip your head around the dark room looking for Azriel. You were shaking violently. Between your sickness and the dream that felt too real your mind was confused.

You rip the tangled sheets from your body and drop to the floor on your hands and knees. Pulling yourself up you stumble over to the door. Your stomach squeezing with each step. Your bones ache and knees scream in protest of your movement.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. You had to see Azriel with your own eyes. Know that this sickness wasn’t caused by his wicked stepbrothers. Gods, you were so disoriented.

You finally made it to the hallway. The cool air from the open windows freezing the sweat on your body, easing some of your nausea. You hold yourself up on the wall as you hobble as fast as you can to Rhys’ office.

You’re so close to the door. Just a few more steps and you’ll be there. You notice Cassian coming up from the other end of the hall. He tilts his head in confusion at your hunched over frame. Noticing it’s you he runs over, grasping your arms to hold you up.

“Y/n? What are you doing out of bed?” His brows knit together and concern flashes in his eyes. You steady yourself on his broad chest, your eyes staying glued to the office door the whole time. “Y/n?” He says louder.

“Azriel.” You mumble out and push off him. “What about Az?” You keep walking to the door. Cassian finally notices you are far from ok. He steadys you from behind, flinging the door open. “Az!” He calls out in panic.

You free yourself from Cassian once more and quickly stumble to your mate. He clears the room in two long strides and scoops you into his arms. “Baby, what’s wrong?” Panic is clear in his face. His eyes roam over you. You lift your shaking arms to place your hands on the sides of his face.

“You’re ok.” Your words come out broken and scratchy thanks to your dry throat. “Yeah I’m ok. What happened, baby?” You lick your dry lips while trying to find your voice. “Bad dream.” He nods and starts to walk back to your room.

Azriel places you back down in bed. He leaves your side for a moment and you let out a cry. Thinking that if he walked away he would never come back. He returned a moment later with a cold wet cloth for your face. Placing it over your eyes you feel the bed dip next to you as he sits.

He runs his fingers through your hair slowly as he hums to calm you down. You feel your heart beat return to normal and your nausea die down. Your shaking stops and your body relaxes into the mattress. “Az?” He lifts the cloth so you can see him. “Thank you. For taking care of me.”

Azriel gives you a small smile and pulls you close to him. Snuggling into his side you feel yourself regain some strength. Like his presence is curing you. “You don’t need to thank me, my love. I’m your mate. It’s what I’m supposed to do.” You let out a hum and feel a wave of exhaustion hit you. Sleep claiming you again.

tags: @nyotamalfoy @auggiesolovey @bubybubsters @baybay123455 @msiecrane @aroseinvelaris @twsssmlmaa

[thefearedashantis]

Garlic Toast and Bloody Noses

Pairing: Sirius Black x SAHM! Reader (stay at home mom)

Summary: Your eldest daughter got in trouble at school and Sirius is livid.

Word count: 3.1K

Warning: None (if you think it needs one lmk)

Emmerson is cranky, per usual. You weren’t sure how long a two-year-old could cry before tiring themselves out, but he was surely going for the record.

Nothing you did soothed him. Rocking, singing, a stroll around the block. He didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to play. He didn’t want to sleep. The reasoning for his upset was simple enough. One you’d figured out shortly after he was born.

He hated you. Detested. Loathed. Abhorred. As much as the very idea broke your heart.

From the moment he took his first breathe he despised your very presence. Would absolutely scream his little head off until Sirius, or anyone really, rescued him from your grasp. Only then from the comfort of his fathers’ arms would he calm, then turn back to stare at you accusingly with watery eyes.

Well, his father wasn’t home at the moment, and you stare at the clock praying for the minutes to go by quicker. School and extracurricular activities having ended, Sirius and your other two children should be walking through the front door any second.

Your husband would enter your home silently, tuckered out from a long day. He’d take off his shoes and hang up his coat. Round the couch and lean down to peck you gently at the corner of your lips before prying your son from your arms. Wrestling his fat hands loose of your hair which he never failed to get an ironclad grip on. Then you’d stow away in the bathroom for a few quiet minutes after saying hello to your girls. Just to give yourself a little pep talk and allow the headache pulsing behind your eyes to recede. Give yourself some much-needed reassurance that this behaviour couldn’t last forever. At some point he’d warm up to you.

He had to, right?

You’re wretched from your thoughts at the slam of the front door. Followed by a gust of air whisking by you where you were slumped in the living room, thunderous footsteps banging up the stairs. Another door slams in the distance.

From the brief glimpse at the back of a muddy soccer uniform you know it must be Amelia, and that fact has you up on your feet in a panic. Because just as your youngest scorned your existence your eldest adored you. If she wasn’t at school she was virtually glued to your hip. She would never come home without stopping to throw herself at you like you’d been apart for an eternity.

Something was wrong.

You’ve barely placed Emmy into his playpen, a rigorous tussle, and taken a step into the hall when a small body crashes into your middle. Your kindergartner. Backpack, coat and shoes still on.

“Mom!”

“Claire!” you try to match her enthusiasm.

“I’m hungry” she mumbles against your stomach, arms squeezing you tight.

“I made your favourite snack. It’s on the counter for you.”

Sirius appears in the archway just as Claire scurries away. He’s in a flurry, making long strides in the direction of the stairs without so much as acknowledging you. “You get back down here right now young lady!” His voice all but shakes the house, sending your heart scuttling into your throat. Sirius never raises his voice, especially not when angry. Sirius was hardly ever angry to begin with.

Your hand shoots out to grab at him before he can get too far, pulling him to a harsh stop. “Whoa, whoa whoa! What’s going on?”

“Lia got in a fight at school!” Claire calls from the kitchen.

And he’s teetering on you, trying to get you to let him go.

“What? Why didn’t you call me? What’s happened, is she alright?”

“I’d say she’s doing better than Isaac!” Now he’s moving, circling to the other end of the room, dragging you along with him. “I mean parents trust me to look after and teach their children! How does it seem when I can’t even discipline my own? She’s old enough to know not to hit others!”

Sirius was the music teacher at the local elementary school. The one both of your daughters attended. That being the case he usually handled anything pertaining to the girls while on the premises.  Didn’t mean you were out of the loop however. If one got so much as a scratch on the playground you were sent a text about it. For the entire day to have elapsed without him informing you on what had happened was odd.

“Sirius” you release his arm in favour of his face, rubbing at the space between his nape and ear in a manner you knew he found soothing “Honey, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

But your attempts to pacify him prove worthless when his roaming eyes finally snap to yours with a steely coldness that has a chill running up your spine. You see none of the sticky affection you’re accustomed to within them. Nothing but distaste. There was no questioning Emmy’ parentage with that gaze.

“I told you the haircut wasn’t a good idea.”

Haircut? Was he still upset about that all these weeks later?

“What’s her hair have to do with anything?”

His eyes roll so hard you fear they’ll be lost in the back of his head. He shakes out of your hold. “Because you undermine me with every little thing when it comes to her! I try to put my foot down and you immediately slag it off!”

“It’s her hair Sirius. She wanted it short and you couldn’t give a good enough reason why she shouldn’t be allowed to have it that way.”

Emmy has finally gone quiet in his play pen. Standing and peeking over the edges at the two of you, gaze flitting back and forth like a ping pong ball whenever someone speaks. Probably wondering why his beloved father hasn’t come to pick him up yet.

“Because she looks like a boy!” Sirius throws his hands up, looking to the sky for some sort of backup he would not be receiving. “She already dresses like a boy, you’ve let her chop all her hair off and now she’s running around getting into trouble like some little delinquent!” With every word his face gets more and more red, voice trembling with raging effort.

You can’t seem to find anything to say for a long moment, just watching him breathe in and out in desperate rags. A minute passes, then two. When he manages to catch his breath and stumble over to the couch you follow closely behind. Leaning down near his ear so you won’t have to speak above a whisper.

“First of all Black, I don’t know who you’re speaking to in that tone but I suggest you check it, right now. Her hair and the way she dresses are nobody’s business but her own and they don’t make her a boy.” The fact those words could even leave his mouth after the childhood he had baffled you “And second I think you should stop and reevaluate the way you talk about your daughter, especially while she’s right upstairs to hear you.”

He turns his head. You’re so far into his space that your noses almost brush but you don’t back away. You would always stand firm when it came to your children. The one’s you two created and set out to raise together in the loving and supporting environment neither of you had gotten growing up.

 “Are you guys arguing?”

You straighten up at the squeak of Claire’s question. She stands behind the couch with a slight frown on her round face. Her snack of garlic toast held between two hands.

“No darling of course not,” a smile splits your expression for good measure “why don’t you come with me to check on Lia while Daddy says hello to Emmy hm?”

Claire is not convinced “sounded like arguing.”

You’re at the base of the stairs, swatting the girl up them, when Sirius calls back in a very small manner “I’m sorry.”

He appears more like himself now, the love of your life. Thin, long limbed, warm eyes with a hint of melancholy. Deflated of his anger and replenished with his token skittish composure.

“When I come back there will be no more yelling.”

He nods, and you’re off to discover the root of this grand affair.

Claire stands outside of Lia’ closed door when you arrive. Shifting from foot to foot as if nervous to go in. You reach over her and rap on the sticker covered wood with a firm knuckle. There’s no answer but you turn the knob and enter anyway.

The room is dark, lights off and curtains drawn. The only illumination comes from the device set up on the bedside table that projects stars and planets onto the ceiling. A balled-up form rests in the very corner of the bed, back to you, arms slung over the head.

“Is she crying?” Claire whispers. Well, her version of whispering. Which was just her regular speaking volume but slower.

“No.” Lia grinds out. She twists herself around so you can see her face. She wasn’t crying but she surely had been if the red of her eyes were evidence enough.

You make your way over to the bed, posting yourself up against the headboard. Claire opts to sit at the bottom, gazing up at the light show.

“Want to tell me what happened at school today?”

“Can I sit in your lap?”

Despite the circumstances a warm fuzzy feeling seeps throughout your chest, always happy to indulge in some physical affection. Lia is still quite small for her age. She crawls over your legs and slots her body against yours, burrowing as close as she can manage, sticking her nose into the material of your shirt and inhaling deeply. Her dark hair tickles your face. Not long enough for a scrunchy and too short for much other styling. It sticks up in amusing ends from sweat.

Claire must feel left out because she wraps a crummy hand around your socked foot.

“Daddy’s disappointed in me,” her voice is hoarse and wobbly. She keeps her eyes shut tight while speaking, nose scrunched.

“He’s not, he’s just…unsettled, stressed maybe.”

“Is there a difference?”

To an eight-year-old there might not be.

“Daddy was yelling” comes a whisper snaking up from the end of the bed.

“Be quiet Claire!” Lia tries to shoo the younger girl out of her room but she refuses to go.

“Loudly.” She continues “His face was all red.”

You fight a giggle “Eat your bread Claire bear.”

“Furious” she finishes around the last mouthful of her treat. She’s always been your chatty baby, forever excited for new vocabulary words.

You return your full attention to Amelia “Tell mom what happened bug.”

She doesn’t start immediately, instead relishing in the feeling of your fingers combing through her damp hair for a while. When she does start speaking the story is much worse than you thought it would be.

The boys in class have been bothering her for the last few months.

One in particular who sits directly behind her by the name of Isaac. He is the reason, she confesses, for originally wanting to cut her hair short despite loving the lack of inches now. It was in hopes of deterring him from yanking it by handfuls.

They apparently dislike her always trying to hang around with them and not the girls. Girls belonged with girls and boys belonged with boys as it went. Not allowed to mix. Cooties too easily spread. 

They took to stuffing things down the back of her shirt. Swiping her glasses off her face. Shoving her in the lunch line. Ripping the pages out of her notebooks. Pouring glue in her chair. Scratching mean names into her desk. Cornering her during recess while the teachers were distracted and pulling her pants down in front of everyone. Because if she wouldn’t play with the girls then she must be a boy but if she was a boy then they'd need proof. 

She tried to tell her homeroom teacher when it first started but the woman didn’t believe her because Isaac is a top student and his family name stood proud on the sign outside of the new gym complex. She must have done something to him to earn such treatment.

“Did you go to your father?”

Lia shakes her head “I started to once but he just told me to try sticking with the girls more.”

“What about me? I thought we didn’t keep secrets between us.”

“You always tell me to be brave and stick up for myself if someone bothers me. I was trying to build up the courage but—” she dissolves into a low whine, struggling to finish around her tears. “I don’t think Daddy likes me.”

Claires eyebrows furrow. Up until then you didn’t think the girl had even been listening “Why would you say that!” she shouts, looking seconds away from bursting into tears herself.

You’re quick to intervene “She doesn’t mean it. Your big sister is just really sad right now.”

“No, I mean it!” Lia insists, sitting up to rub at her eyes “He doesn’t like me! He complains about everything I do!” her head bobbles from side to side as she lists “Sit more lady like. Why don’t you wear any of the dresses grandma bought you. Why don’t you do ballet instead of soccer. Why don’t you grow your hair out like the other girls. Why don’t you have any girl friends”

You take her hands into yours, they’re cold. You feel unprepared to deal with her emotions, she’s so young to even be ruminating over such things. All you want to do is ease her heartache, as her mother. An adult in her life who should have all the answers, but has no clue where to start. What would be saying too much and what would be too little. “Oh, my love, your father had a really hard time growing up with his own dad. He was really strict with him. That’s no excuse for him to take it out on you, but I know he loves you very much”

She deflates back onto your chest “Yeah, but he doesn’t like me.”

She finishes the story. 

It was recess. She was climbing up onto the monkey bars and about to go across when Isaac caught her pant leg and tried to yank them down. On instinct she went to kick him off and accidentally struck him in the face.

“I didn’t mean to break his nose. Swear.”

Never in a million years would you think her capable of intentionally hurting some. You placate her with a kiss on the forehead anyway “how about you and mom go out for a treat? Huh? Just the two of us?”

She sniffles in contemplation “Ice cream?”

“Anything you want.”

“Can I come?” Claire crawls her way up to the headboard.

“I’ll bring you back some, but Lia’s had a very bad day and that means what?”

“She needs mommy time?”

“Exactly.”

You ease said girl out of your lap gently, laying her out on the pillows, and promising to be back in five minutes. Then you’d go for her treat.

On your way out of the room you notice Claire scooting closer. She sticks her pointer finger right in her sisters’ face. “Your eyes are puffy.”

The aggravated “Claire!” follows you down the stairs.

In the living room Sirius and Emmy sit in comfortable silence, your husband bouncing the now cheerful baby on his knee. His neck nearly snaps at your approach. Eyes already glassy with regret.

“Is she terribly upset?”

“Heartbroken more like” you say, not bothering to sugarcoat it for him “she thinks you don’t like her.”

He lowers his head in shameful anguish when you sit beside him. “I just, she’s so much like me when I was young.” No friends his own gender. Only interested in things typically deemed non-conforming “the things I went through in school, at home, it pains me to imagine that happening to her.”

How much had she told him of the bullying you wonder and why had he kept it from you. You'd been there for so much of his own struggle that it honestly hurts your feelings that he’d allowed himself to spiral so much without seeking you out. The number of times he showed up on your doorstep in the wee hours of the morning. The cuts and bruises you’d tended, caused over simplicities like nail polish, the length of his hair, the music he listened to. The way he dressed, acted, spoke. 

 “Ok, but you can’t just force her to change who she is in the name of protecting her. Just because she isn’t the girliest girl out there doesn’t give anyone the right to bully her, not even you. All you’re doing is teaching her that being herself is not ok. Then to go and blow up on her like that. It’s confusing Sirius. You know better.”

You don't say it, wouldn’t ever go that low, but you know he’s thinking it. He’s acting like his father.

Sirius sits with your words.

“Why did she hit him then?”

“She didn’t really. He tried to pull her pants down on the playset so she kicked out. It was an accident.”

“Pull her pants down?”

A fresh wave of anger rolls over his shoulders. You snatch Emmy from his grasp before planting a kiss onto his temple.

“No more of that. Go upstairs and talk to her before we leave.”

You’d get on him later for keeping secrets from you.

Sirius returns the kiss, lingering for a few seconds too long, pressing his nose into the fat of your cheek. He smells like peppermint.

“I love you.” Her murmurs. And you’re suddenly transported back to your childhood bedroom. The sun just creeping over the horizon and spilling through your window right onto his sleeping face. The lips so like Claires’, ears and brows so like Emersons’, freckles like Amelias’.  Hovering your finger over the bridge of his nose, skimming along his throat. Blowing gently at his thick lashes. Poking at the sliver of skin peeking out at his tummy where his shirt had risen up. When you’d fall asleep with him on the floor and always wake up to his breath on the back of your neck, legs tangled in bed with you. The fit of giggles sneaking him out the house before your parents woke up. 

“Love you too. Now go!”

You’re once again left with Emmy in the exact same place you’d started. He watches Sirius take the stairs two at a time before turning back to you, frown already forming. 

“And you my little man, i love you so much.”

[mrzombielover]

— stay?

feat. simon “ghost” riley x g/n!reader

rating: sfw fluff; alcohol and puke mentions

summary; you return home after a night out drinking with 141

a/n; this is my first work on this acc and i cant believe it’s sfw :,,)

wc; 837

“No, No- Soap! We’re almost back- No, Soap! Fuck!”

You’re dragged towards the wall with him as he leans on it for support, pushing yourself free as he bends down, retching. his vomit nearly hits your shoes as you stumble backwards.

“Ugh, gross, Johnny,” Ghost’s disappointed voice and Gaz’s laugh come from behind you as Soap chokes out the last of it.

“No, no, no, don’t pass out, cmon,” Your attempts to help him up are weak, he’s a heavy, sturdy man, and you’re pretty drunk too. “Come onn, we’re almost back,”

You’re basically carrying him with how much of his weight he’s put on you, feet dragging against the pavement. The alcohol in your system isn’t the only reason you can’t understand his unintelligible mumbling in your ear.

“I know, big guy,” you tell him soothingly, struggling to walk in a straight line.

“Will one of you- Help me for fucks sake!” You turn to the two unhelpful men behind you, who’ve just been watching and snickering. Ghost, who is likely the most sober, wordlessly walks over and effortlessly scoops Soap from your arms, throwing him over his shoulder before continuing to walk silently. You and Gaz make eye contact, then giggle as you stumble after them, almost having to jog to keep up with Ghost’s pace.

You help Ghost lob Soap onto the couch, throwing a blanket over him and leaving a trash can next to the couch. the adrenaline and energy from the night out has worn off now, leaving your brain feeling cloudy and a shooting headache making you wobble. the guest bedroom is all set up, but ghost takes it upon himself to walk you to your room anyway. you’re sober enough to walk on your own, but you lean on his arm anyway, relishing in the rare contact he wouldn’t normally allow.

you flip into bed and roll over, sighing in relief as the pressure is taken away from your limbs. Ghost is uncharacteristically careful, starting to tuck you in, making sure the blanket covers you.

“aww, you’re so caring, tucking me in?” you tease, rolling onto your stomach and looking up at him flirtatiously. he doesn’t answer you, your words making him step back and halt his movements.

“i was just teasing!” you sit up, grabbing at his arm quickly to prevent his leaving. neither of you say anything for a moment, but he lets you idly run your thumb over the tattoos covering his arm.

“will you… stay? with me?” you ask softly.

“you’re drunk,” he says flatly. what a gentleman.

“no! i don’t mean- like that, just…” you trail off, not sure what you’re asking for exactly. you just don’t want him to leave.

“…and i’m not that drunk,” you mumble.

when he reaches over and clicks off the lights, shrouding you in darkness, you expect to hear his footsteps receding. instead, his arm never leaves your hand, and he silently sits next to you on the bed. still in the clothes he wore out, he lays down next to you. not touching you, but he lets you keep hold of his arm, holding it against your body as you settle in.

your room’s bitter cold contrasts the heat simon is radiating, and if he’s overheating he doesn’t say anything when you cling to him for warmth. in the darkness, you cant see anything, but your eyes are wide open. this is… unusual. he’s laying unnaturally stiffly next to you, and you feel a prickle of guilt in the back of your mind for making him stay. you let your grip loosen on him as you settle in and get comfortable, only now processing the boundaries you’ve crossed.

his warmth is missing when you let go of his arm, leaving you to curl up on your side. suddenly, simon is on his side, too, pulling you against his body again in one swift movement. while both wide awake, neither of you say anything. your cheeks are burning hot, but you cuddle closer to simon anyway, desperate to feel his body heat. moments pass, and the drumming of his heart near your ear and steady breathing have lulled you almost entirely to sleep.

unbeknownst to you, your steadying breathing has done nearly the same for him. Simon hasn’t felt this relaxed in months, despite his uncertainty from moments earlier. he’s glad you asked him to stay, your body molded against his and your rhythmic heartbeat against his skin calming him in ways he didn’t know possible, years of high anxiety situations and stress beginning to melt away. he thought about how pretty you looked tonight, he’d only seen you in uniform previously, and while you do make it work, seeing your hair and makeup done for going out took his breathe away.

once he thinks you’re asleep, he leans his head towards yours, and hesitantly presses a kiss to the top of your head. he could get used to this, he thinks. the action makes you smile to yourself.

[agustdiv1ne]

✧˖°.10:52 p.m. — choi soobin

genre: fluff, college au, a couple of introverts at a party LOL

wc: 1.2k

soobin isn't particularly fond of parties.

it's something that he’s made abundantly clear — raucous music results in a miserable headache; cramped, sweaty crowds cause his heart to pound and his stomach to twist in the worst way. soobin despises parties, really. his housemate, yeonjun, is more than well aware after soobin yelled at him the first time he threw one of the impromptu variety. the question is: does yeonjun care?

another bass-boosted edm song rattles the entire house. soobin gets his answer.

he drags a pillow over his face with an exasperated groan. there seems to be no sign of this particular party ending any time soon, much to his own displeasure. he purses his lips, sits up, and grabs his phone from the nightstand next to his bed. it looks like he won’t be getting much sleep tonight.

the rest of his room remains relatively dark while he cycles through the myriad of apps on his phone, yet none of them keep his attention for very long. he’s engrossed in a youtube video about some dog when his door swings open with a flourish of light and a wall of sound before promptly slamming shut. heart racing, he watches a complete stranger slide down his bedroom door with their face buried in their hands.

unsure of what to do, he sits frozen on his bed, staring down at your curled up form. he hears an almost inaudible sniffle come from you, a shock of concern shooting down his spine. though his mouth falls agape, he pauses before words can escape.

his eyes widen and his stomach flips when he realizes it's you — not a stranger, but, in soobin's eyes, something much worse: his pathetically long-term, same-major-as-him crush. what's worse: you barely know him, only ever having brief conversations in class if absolutely forced to. you've had more than a few classes together, sitting near each other but never too close. he finds it difficult to strike up conversation with you when you seem just as reserved as him.

despite it all, vines began to curl around his heart, squeezing every time he would see you, or speak a few words to you, even if those words simply pertained to an assignment. even now, those feelings don't seem to want to recede. though quiet, he's found you to be kind, bright, your smile lighting up his heart in a way that he's never felt before. again, he thinks of himself as pitiful, knowing that there is a slim to none chance of you ever getting together due to his own insecurities.

another one of your sniffles, louder now, shakes him from his thoughts. he gulps, steeling himself, and says, “are you okay?”

you flinch, and panic singes his nerves. he doesn’t even realize that you’ve stood up, spouting apologies as your hand shoots for the doorknob. “i didn’t realize i wasn’t alone, i’m s—”

“w-wait!” he interrupts. your movements halt as you stare at him for a second, regarding him with an odd expression painted on your face. a beat of silence passes, two, as you stare at each other. he notices the sheen of tears that line your waterline despite the dimness of the room. it makes you look prettier, somehow — like dewdrops clinging onto spiderwebs.

“really, are you okay?” he tries again, praying that you don’t try to bolt this time. he’s nearly ready to jump out of his own skin when you choke a sob down.

“i…” you trail off for a moment, wringing your fingers. you look around his room, avoiding eye contact now, blinking away the tears. “yeah, um, i guess. just a little overwhelmed right now.”

your face twists in confusion for a moment before you speak again. “you’re…you’re soobin, right?”

jumping at the sound of his name passing your lips, he scrambles to respond as nonchalantly as possible. “yeah! yeah, that’s me. um, we have a class together, right?” 

“a few classes, actually,” you answer a little too quickly, gaze finding the floor. the smile you wear doesn’t quite reach your eyes. you offer him your name, but he replies that he already knows. “well, um, it’s nice to formally meet you, despite the circumstances.”

“same here,” he says, ignoring the frenzied beating of his heart. he never thought this would ever happen — you, standing in his room and actually talking to him. he sees you shuffling back towards the door, and his lips purse for a second. should he?

(you look about ready to say goodbye, but he's not sure when he'll ever be able to talk to you again.

he should.)

“um, if you’d like to chill in here for a bit, feel free. i mean! you don’t have to, but um—”

your giggle has the words fading from his tongue in an instant. "thanks, but i wouldn't wanna intrude."

“you wouldn’t!” he exclaims, cringing at his voice’s volume. “you wouldn’t. you don’t really seem like the rager type.”

“i’m not,” you agree, moving closer to him. he moves to switch a light on, and when he looks back, you stand at the foot of his bed, front teeth worrying your bottom lip. “you mind if i, um, sit on your bed?”

“not at all,” he says, but he does, he so does. he thinks that he might just pass out at this rate, but as you begin talking — everything from classes and favorite colors to what you dream about for your futures, you moving closer until your sitting knee-to-knee — he somehow begins to relax.

you lean closer in a moment of boldness, asking if he'd like to hang out sometime, just the two of you. he finds himself admiring your lips, the urge to kiss you unable to win over his logical mind. he wants to take things slow with you, find out all of your little quirks, your likes and dislikes, the way you like your coffee, if you even like coffee. he wants to believe that maybe, just maybe, you like him back when you grin at his acceptance.

the mirage of peace is broken by a ding! from your phone, your friend telling you that she's ready to go and where the hell are you? you literally disappeared. you sigh, apologizing, as you rise from his comforter. he stands up to walk you out, and you turn around as you exit his room, him leaning against the doorframe.

“if you ever come to another of yeonjun’s parties, you know where to find me,” soobin jokes, causing you to smile. you tell him you would, and that you’re looking forward to your classes together on monday. you leave with a gentle squeeze of your hand entangled in his and a demure smile, and he watches you disappear down the stairs before his door clicks shut.

collapsing back onto his bed, soobin decides that he may dislike parties, but he thinks that he may be able to bear them if you're there, too.

masterlist

© to agustdiv1ne. do not copy, repost, steal, and/or translate.

[thetriumphantpanda]

Tale As Old As Time | Joel Miller Fantasy AU (Chapter Two)

Series Summary | A Prince, cursed to be unloved, hardened by years of staring at his scars and sitting in his loneliness. A girl, headstrong and wanting of adventure, to escape the life curated for her, a breath of fresh air against the dark of his heart and his home. Can she really learn to love the beast he has become? Truly, a tale as old as time.

Chapter Summary | A girl, granted reprieve from her cell, but is the extravagant room you find yourself in now just a guided cage? A prince, unsure of himself and what to do, let's his temper get the better of him.

Pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader (Beauty and The Beast AU) 

Chapter Warnings | Grumpy/Angry Joel. Introduction of some famous friends we all know and love, a girl who has essentially been kidnapped, discussion of food and alcohol but nothing else yet.

Word Count | 4.5K

Authors Note | I am so blown away by the love the first part of this received! I didn't ever think that AU's would be my thing but I'm so excited by this story and I'm excited to bring your part 2! For those of you who loved and enjoyed the original Beauty and The Beast, there's some scenes here which are just for you! I'd love to know your thoughts so if you enjoyed this (or even if you didn't!) then please consider reblogging, commenting or leaving me some asks! And if you'd like to support me further, you can leave a tip on my Ko-Fi.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“Did you see her?” One conspiratorial voice asks in a hushed whisper. 

“Poor thing, was scared to death,” The other voice responds, “He’s never going to break the curse if he behaves like this every time someone comes wandering through.” 

There is a third voice added to the mix, “What do you mean, every time someone wanders through?” This voice is sarcastic, “This is the first time in years we’ve seen a single soul.” 

“Maybe this our chance?” The second voice suggests, “Women like her don’t stumble upon souls like us often.” 

“You really think she could be the answer?” It’s the first voice speaking again, “If the master had thrown me in a cell, I don’t think I could ever forgive him.” 

It’s the second voice that decides the plan of action, “There is simply only one way to find out and that is to try.” 

It’s late and Joel has a headache. With the passage of time, he’s stopped thinking of himself a Prince. He might still have his servants and his castle, which is crumbling around him, but outside of that, he is no better than any other man, no different from the people in the villages that surround his once magnificent estate. They don’t remember him; he doesn’t really remember them. He thinks, over the glass of wine he drinks, that it’s probably for the best. All the power and attention had gone to his head, wasting his father’s money on extravagant parties, guests whose names he didn’t know. They weren’t there for him, only for what he offered. They’d have gone to any party where the wine was good, and the music made them soar. 

He finishes the wine in his glass when there is a tentative knock at the door. If it wasn’t for the wine jug being empty, he’d have told whoever it was to leave him alone, to leave him to his nightly stupor, but he wasn’t nearly drunk enough. 

“Enter.” He calls out. 

The door to the reception room opens and closes behind him, then the sound of footsteps and the empty jug being swapped for one that is full. Joel waits for the footsteps to start receding again, but they don’t. He clamps his jaw, trying not to lose his temper. They know to leave him alone in the evenings. Only to come to him to refill his drink at hourly intervals and leave with minimal talk. It was a routine they’d fallen into since the beginning. 

“What will you do with her?” 

It’s Lucian’s voice. Strange, Joel thinks. It’s normally Horace who oversees his nightly refills. The old man clearly didn’t have the courage for this conversation. If he wasn’t so fucking angry, he’d almost praise the younger man. 

“Haven’t decided.” 

Joel turns his head to look at the man. He’s smaller than Joel is, considerably, even before he was turned into a towering monster. Blonde hair with pointed features, and a stature that was so uncharacteristically rigid this evening, that Joel almost laughs. 

“Might I offer a suggestion?” He speaks. 

“You might,” Joel scoffs, “Doesn’t mean I’ll listen.” 

He clears his throat as he pours wine into his cup, perhaps hoping the alcohol might placate his master. 

“She is a girl, and we are running out of time, my lord.” 

“Your powers of observation have always been astounding, Lucian,” Joel replies gruffly, sipping at the fresh cup of wine, “She trespassed, she must face the consequences.” 

“I’m not suggesting she doesn’t,” Lucian assures, “But surely one evening locked in the tower is enough, my Lord, she was terrified.” 

“And then what?” 

“Maybe we bring her down to one of the rooms, make her feel comfortable?” He suggests. 

“So, she breaks into my home, and we reward her, is what you’re suggesting?” Joel turns, face warmed by the fire burning in front of him. 

“I’m suggesting that she is our only hope, sir,” Lucian is pleading now, “Another petal fell this week, none of us have much time left, or we’re damned to remain like this forever.” 

Joel ponders for a moment, mulling it over in his mind. If it had just been himself under the curse, he’d leave the silly girl where she was, but it isn’t just him. He’s got his servants to think about, although they don’t know it, they are more his friends than anything else now, the only people he has spoken to in years, and he knows they’re tired. 

He waves a hand in Lucian’s general direction, picking up the wine glass that is now full, “Do as you will, but she is not to stray to the West Wing, if I find her there, it won’t just be her that ends up back in a cell, understood?” 

“Clearly, sir.” 

The sun greets you early, peering in through the open gaps in the wall, meant to be a window, but only acting as a taunt for its prisoners. You could clearly see outside, out to freedom, but there was no way to reach it. At some point during the night, Phillipe had disappeared, no longer tied to the gate that you can see from the gap. You curse to whichever God will listen for your rotten luck, even if you could escape, the lack of horse would mean you wouldn’t get far before you were struck down by something, or worse, recaptured. 

You lean your back against the wall and bring your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around your legs to try and comfort yourself. The ground is cold and you find yourself wishing for some straw or something, anything to act as a barrier between you and the cold ground you’d spent the night on. 

A little while later you can hear footsteps traveling up the stairs. Maybe now, in the harsh light of day, you’d finally see your captors face. Put features to the deep gruff voice and the large hands that had gripped you last night. It wasn’t to be. The man who comes into view is nowhere near large enough to be the same man who threw you over his shoulder like you were a sack of flour from the miller. This man looks friendly enough when he comes to kneel in front of the bars of your cell. Light blonde hair and a clean face, with friendly eyes. You want to trust him, but this could all be some kind of sick joke at your expense. 

“I brought you some food,” The mystery man speaks, placing a plate down on the ground as he unlocks the cell door, “Are you hungry?” He asks, pushing the plate through the small open gap, kneeling on the floor outside so you’re of a similar height. 

You shake your head and push the plate away with your foot – you have no idea what it could be laced with, even if it is just a lump of bread and some cheese. You try and curl in on yourself, make yourself smaller, hoping whoever this is will take the hint and leave you be. 

“The master can be quite… abrasive,” He starts, “But he means well.” 

You are vaguely aware of another set of feet making their way up the stairs, slower than this man had, but you push it to the back of your mind, “Abrasive?” You snort, “He locked me in a cell for walking through an open door, he is nothing more than a brute!” 

The man in front of you holds his hands up in surrender at your outburst, just in time for another man, still nowhere near large enough to be your captor, to walk up the stairs, clutching at his chest as he caught his breath. 

“I implore you Lucian,” He speaks with a deep voice, still trying to catch his breath, “You leave her where she is, the master didn’t give you express permission for this.” 

“Charming,” You mumble, “Wait, leave me where I am?” Your head perks, “Where else would I go?” 

The man who you now know is Lucian smiles, a genuine, friendly smile, which goes a small way in putting you at ease, “Well, this is no place for a beautiful girl like you, is it?” You return his smile because at this point, you think you’d do anything to not spend another second in this damp cell, “How about we take you somewhere more comfortable?” 

“This is a terrible idea,” The older man, with a full beard and greying hair on his head to match speaks, “I really do think we should leave her here.” 

“Horace, will you please shut up,” Lucian turns and chides him, “Look at her,” He tilts his head back towards you, “She’s terrified, she can’t stay here, and if the master asks, I’ll take the fall.” 

He extends a hand to you and after weighing up another night spent in this cell, you let your own slip into his. Lucian pulls you to your feet and helps brush off some of the dirt from the skirt of your dress, as he motions for you to walk in front of him, “Follow that oaf back down the stairs,” He chuckles, “He’ll be slow going because of his knees.” 

The room that you find yourself in now is a complete juxtaposition to a huge amount of the rest of the castle. None of the windows are broken, it doesn’t smell like the damp musk of the rest of the place, and the bed looks so comfortable you might cry. Your back is screaming from the night on the stone floor of the cell so you don’t think twice about flopping down onto the bed, letting the soft sheets and the mattress sink below you. You’re almost convinced you could fall asleep, until there is a loud knock at the door and then a woman, followed by a small boy invading the room. 

“Oh you must have had a ghastly night up there,” She exclaims, “Only one thing for it, and that’s a strong cup of tea,” She’s picking up a tea pot and pouring the warm liquid into a cup, stirring in some milk and sugar, before the saucer is held in your direction. You take it gratefully and drink, letting it warm your bones, “Drink up dear, we’ve got a lot to do.” 

“I’m sorry…” You trail off, “I’m lost?” 

“That dress has seen far better days,” She points to your clothes, understandably covered in grime from your night in the cell, “And I’m sure you’re absolutely famished, now come on, before Madame Audra appears.” 

You take another sip of the tea, as you watch the young boy rummaging around the room, “And who might you be?” You ask, smiling as he turns to face you. 

“I’m Oliver, Miss,” He smiles widely, walking towards you, “But everyone here calls me Chip.” 

“Chip?” You ask, a giggle to your voice. 

“Yeah!” He exclaims, getting as close to you as he possibly can, lifting his lip to show you his teeth, “Because I fell and chipped my tooth, see?” 

“Oh! How rude of me!” The older woman who has been fussing over the tea trolley exclaims, “I’m Mrs Thompson, and Chip here is my boy, and we’re going to make sure you’re comfortable here.” 

There’s another swift knock at the door before it’s kicked open to reveal a woman, younger than Mrs Thompson but still older than you, arms laden with so many materials that she can barely see over the top of the pile. She’s bustles into the room and drops them on the bed, immediately taking hold of the cup of tea you were enjoying to set back on the tea trolley. She grabs hold of your wrists and pulls you up from the bed, holding up your arms and running you over with her eyes, as if she’s sizing you up. Turns out that’s exactly what she’s doing. 

Whilst she’s fussing over the pile of what turns out to be dresses, you take a closer look at her. She’s beautiful, with smooth skin and friendly eyes, much like the rest of the gang you’ve met today. You wonder how these people have stayed so positive under the employment of such a horrid man. This woman in front of you can only be Madame Audra, and she’s dressed to the nines. You’d read about women like her in your books. Women of high society, with powdered faces and hair that towered on their heads, gowns made of silk and ribbons. She is quite possibly everything you had wanted to find in this world. 

“Now, I’m going to leave you in Madame Audra’s capable hands, we’ve got dinner to prepare, haven’t we Chip?” Mrs Thompson explains, steering the tea trolley out of the room with Chip on her heel. 

As the door closes you can hear Chip speaking to his mother, “See, I told you she pretty, mama.” 

You smile, turning your attention back to Madame Audra, who is holding up a simple dress, the colour of sugared almonds. You remember when your father had brought some back from the city, years ago. You’d eaten them with your mother, already sick and in bed. One of the few good memories you still held of her. 

“This will do nicely,” Madame Audra nods, holding it against your body, “The master will like this, and it’ll look lovely in the glow of the dining hall.” 

“Oh, but I’m…” 

“Well come on, let’s get you out of these dirty things.” 

“I’m very grateful,” You start, a hand placed on her arm as she tries to turn you to undo the back of the dress you’re already wearing, “But I won’t be going for dinner.”

She stops dead in her fussing over you, eyes wide, “Oh but you must.” She implores. 

“I won’t sit opposite a man who threw me in a cell for waking through an open door.” You stand your ground. 

She’s about to open her mouth to speak when there is a knock at the door. It opens to reveal Horace, the man from earlier, straight-backed and serious. 

“Dinner is served, my Lady.” 

Joel is pacing, mainly through frustration more than anything else, as Lucian and Mrs Thompson set the dining table ready to begin the execution of their master plan. There is a roaring fire lit, warming the room, and all sorts of dishes being carried out and placed upon the table. It’s nothing short of a feast, if he closes his eyes, he could even convince himself that he was the man he once was and he wasn’t about to sit down with a girl who had trespassed into his home and was now seemingly being rewarded for it. If he’s honest with himself, he also might be a little nervous. 

He'd been careful last night to stay in the shadows. He’s not really sure why, because at that point, all he was ever going to do with her was leave her up there to rot, but now he’s glad, glad that he hadn’t seen the look of repulsion on her face as he stepped into the light, showing the mottled skin of his face, scarred and textured as if someone had held his face to a flame for too long. 

“What is taking her so long?” He finally lets out, exasperated, mainly because the food is going cold. 

Mrs Thompson stands near the fire, her hands clasped in front of her, “Do try to be patient, my Lord, the girl has lost her freedom in less than a day, it’s going to take her some time.” 

Lucian decides to add his two pence to the situation, setting down the fork he’s been pointlessly polishing to pass time, “Have you thought that maybe she might be the one to break the spell?” He asks, hope lacing his voice. 

“Of course I have!” Joel exclaims, turning around to face him, “I’m not a fucking fool.” 

Lucian holds his hand up in surrender like he always does, but then claps them together, “Well then, it’s settled,” He exclaims, “You fall in love with her,” He holds out one hand, “She falls in love with you,” His other hand now held out, “The spell is broken, and we all go back to normal.” 

“Oh Lucian,” Mrs Thompson sighs, “It’s not that easy, love takes time.” 

Joel can feel his stomach sinking, hope had flourished before, at the idea that perhaps this might work, that these people who have surrounded him for years might be right, but when he thinks to the way he looks, face scarred, frame so big he would scare anyone who saw him, he realizes it’s no use. The enchantress had been right, no-one could ever learn to love him. 

“It’s no use,” He sighs, teeth gritted in frustration, he’s got a hand on the mantle above the fire, clenched in a fist, “She’s so beautiful,” He admits, because you are, even when fear had covered your features, you were quite possibly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, “And I’m like this.” He points to his face.

Mrs Thompson moves to stand closer to him, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder, “Then you need to help her see past all this, don’t scare her with that intimidating scowl you always wear.” She points to his face. 

“And when she comes in,” Lucian adds, “Smile at her, make her feel welcome.” 

Joel listens back and forth as the two of them give him advice on how to behave when the girl finally arrives. Compliment her. But be sincere. Impress her with your whit. But be gentle. But above all, you must control your temper. 

It’s almost overwhelming, he can feel anger and embarrassment flooding through his body. He’s about to demand they stop when the door opens. He holds his breath, standing up straight, but then it’s only Horace’s portly figure that emerges over the threshold. 

“Where is she?” Joel demands. 

“Well, you see,” Horace begins, “Circumstances being what they are….” He trails off, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for the wrath he knows he’s about to be on the receiving end of, “She’s not coming.” 

“What?” Joel speaks calmly, although there is rage flowing through his veins, threatening to bubble over at any time. 

Before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s stomping, feet heavy, from the dining hall. He can feel everyone else following being him, but all he can focus on is how rude this girl is being. Beautiful, but the most stubborn woman he’s ever met, and he’s known her for less than a day. How dare she refuse him? He should have left her where she was to rot in the tower. 

There is a pounding at the door, so fierce you’re surprised it doesn’t break, “You were told to come down to dinner!” 

You look towards Madame Audra who has fear in her eyes, imploring you to placate whoever the man is currently shouting at you, but you can’t. He’s taken your freedom; you won’t let him control you as well. 

“I’m not hungry!” 

“You come out right now, or I will break down this door!” 

Unbeknownst to you, it isn’t just the master on the other side of the door, but Mrs Thompson, Lucian and Horace too. They’re all looking at each other, knowing that the talk they’d had with Joel in the dining hall has been forgotten, his anger taking over as it always does. They’re all trying to convince each other to talk, through knowing looks, surely one of them can help salvage this situation. 

It is Lucian who takes the initiative, “Master, I could be wrong,” He rubs his hands together in front of him, his own nervous habit showing through, “But that probably isn’t the best way to win the girls affections.” 

“Please, just attempt to be a gentleman.” Horace adds, making sure he’s standing behind Lucian, so he has a chance to escape if Joel feels the need to take his anger out on anyone.

“How can I when she’s being so difficult?!” Joel hisses, pointing towards the door. 

“Just ask her nicely,” Mrs Thompson implores, “Don’t demand.” 

Joel takes a deep breath and turns back to the door, the three pairs of eyes trained on his back as he digs deep and tries to remember what it means to be a gentleman, though he’s not been one for some time. 

“Will you come down to dinner?” 

The answer is almost instant, “Absolutely not.” 

Horace is already trying to tame Joel’s frustration when he turns back around to them, “Gentle, be suave, my Lord.” 

Another sigh, and another turn back to the door, his voice strained, trying to control his anger to destroy something from the rejection, “It would give me great pleasure if you would join me for dinner, please.” He speaks through gritted teeth, not quite believing that he is the one begging when she was the one who trespassed. 

“No thank you!” You call back through the door. 

“You can’t stay in there forever!” 

“Yes I can!” 

“Fine!” Joel shouts, “THEN YOU CAN GO AHEAD AND STARVE!” He bellows at the top of his lungs, turning around to his servants who are cowering across the hall from him, “If she doesn’t eat with me, then she doesn’t eat at all!” 

He stalks off back down the corridor, slamming the door at the end of it shut behind him. Madame Audra leaves the girl’s room, looking to her fellow servants before shaking her head. She’s not quick enough in closing the door, because all four of them can hear the racking sobs coming from the room. 

“Well, that went terribly.” Mrs Thompson muses, wanting nothing more than to storm into the girl’s room and embrace her. 

“Lucian, you stay right here,” Horace directs, slipping right into his role as head of the household in a crisis, “If she attempts to leave, you inform me immediately,” He runs a hand over his greying beard, “We need to be careful with this, she’s a firecracker, and anymore wrong moves and he’ll have her right back up in the cell,” Then he turns to Mrs Thompson and Madame Audra, “Household meeting in the kitchens.” 

taglist: @sinsofsummers @dinsdjrn @tightjeansjavi @morning-star-joy@darkroastjoel @cavillscurls @cupofjoel @patti7dc@drewharrisonwriter @casa-boiardi @partyofone3413

[meaningofaeons]

I know you must be pretty busy right now considering that you probably have a lot of requests but do you mind writing hanahaki disease au with Gepard and Sampo (separately)? Mb Natasha too if you write for her but that's completely optional! I'm just a sucker for pining 😞 They know reader for a long time but for some reason never made a move (well maybe Sampo did but reader thought he was just being his usual flirty self) but then reader got closer to someone else and they misunderstood and got jealous and the whole hanahaki thing happened

Thank you!

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ blooming regrets

⊹ character(s) - gepard landau, sampo koski ⊹ word count - 1.6k ⊹ notes - gn!reader, hanahaki disease (character is diseased, not reader)/mentioned gore, angst just angst I'm sorry, a bit open-ended

hi anon! thanks for the req!! unfortunately I do not write for natasha but I'm happy to do the req for sampo and gepard (=^･ω･^=) I debated between ending this with angst or hurt/comfort but since you didn't specify I went for pure (but a Little open-ended?) angst hoohoo.. sorry it's kinda short ;w; ty again!!

⊹ Gepard Landau

His cough really wasn't a big deal.

He assured his fellow Silvermane Guards, his sister, even the newly-appointed Supreme Guardian Bronya Rand near-daily.

It was a cold. Just got something stuck in his throat. Ah, he just had a drink of water, and it went down the wrong pipe.

The Captain of the Silvermane Guards cannot afford to be unwell, not for a second. If he had a fever, he'd push past it. If he got a headache, he'd keep his focus on the job at hand and ignore his pain. No matter what it was, it wouldn't put him down, and this cough, while persistent, was no exception.

The excuses worked at first, but not for long.

And they certainly didn't work on you.

"I might not know the Supreme Guardian, but surely she's going to listen if I beg for you to be given a break. Ever since the Astral Express crew left, the Fragmentum has receded more than before. Surely you can—"

"Y/N, I told you, it's just a minor cold. I'm fine. Just fine."

You raised a brow.

"This cough has only gotten worse since you first had it, Gepard! That's no simple cold. If you really want me to stop bothering you, at least go to the doctor and get yourself checked out."

In an attempt to appease you, the man had agreed, finding himself trudging to the one place he wanted to avoid.

If the doctor diagnosed him, then it became real that he had some sort of illness, and that would only be a hindrance. Not only to his duties, but to you...

Still, if going to be examined would make you happy... he'd do it.

The man would do anything for you.

And it seems that this was the problem all along.

"M-Mr. Landau..." the physician reentered the room after a short moment to look over his tests, anxiously fiddling with the paperwork. Well, that wasn't a good sign.

"It's okay, I can take it," Gepard answered confidently, folding his hands as he stifled another cough. "Any treatment is fine, as long as I can get back to work as soon as possible."

The physician's face crumbled, and the Captain felt his pulse run cold.

Was it... worse than he thought?

"I'm... I'm terribly sorry, sir. I'm afraid this is not something you may want treated."

What does that even mean?

"Of course I do! Just..." Gepard calmed himself, slumping onto the examination bed again. "Just let me know what it is."

"Sir... you have contracted an incredibly rare disease. With the onset of the Eternal Freeze and the extinction of many botanical-related illnesses and plants, many medical experts considered it impossible for this disease to return, and many wrote it off as gone for good. But..."

He turned a paper containing an x-ray of the Captain's chest.

A small root dug its way up inside his lung, and the blonde froze.

"It's called Hanahaki... and it originates from love. Unrequited love. And the only cure, I fear, is... to have your love for the one that afflicted this removed for good."

—

Against all odds, Gepard had taken the time off that he desperately needed.

Though Supreme Guardian Bronya was shocked at first by his submission to the advice of everyone around him, she could not bring herself to question the man when he coughed again—seeing that crimson red sprout up that he desperately tried to hide.

Knowledge that hanahaki was still in existence would bring panic to the masses. Gepard knew this. He kept himself hidden, out of sight. Not even to see you did he leave his home.

After all, even that simple action alone would hasten his disease.

He still had a duty. He told himself that over and over, slamming it into his mind. The surgery to remove the roots was all but essential.

Gazing out of the Landau home's window, seeing you walking down the street with a smile on his face... his heart panged, though.

He couldn't do it.

Loving you was painful, but the thought of losing that emotion towards you wrought even further pain upon him.

It was then that he saw a stranger at your side. Well, not quite—he'd seen them around with you before, talking to you, laughing with you, taking your hand as they led you around town.

Just as they did in that moment.

An uncomfortable feeling rose in Gepard's throat, and he began hacking into his hand once again, collapsing as he clutched the windowsill for stability.

A small, blood-soaked periwinkle fell right into his waiting hand.

Yet somehow, it felt as though his chest hurt for reasons far deeper than the flowers taking hold of his lungs with each passing moment.

⊹ Sampo Koski

Sampo wasn't one to instill concern in anyone.

Even for those who genuinely cared for him, though they were few and far between, it was always the same thought.

"It's Sampo. What could possibly happen to him?"

Of course, there's always the joking thought that one day, all his disgruntled customers and scammed victims will come back to wreak vengeance. But really, this happened every other week.

And Sampo was always fine.

So, when he sat in front of a very distraught Natasha, something felt terribly, horribly wrong.

"H-Heyyy, Nat! Come on, now, you can tell Sampo all the details of this little cough!" he chuckled, though it was punctuated by said hacking. "It can't be too bad, eh?"

Usually, his joking would elicit even just a small chuckle from the woman. But she nearly trembled when picking up her notes, rereading them over and over as though to confirm the information she already knew.

"Sampo..." she murmured. "Is there... someone you love?"

Though he could crack another jest, ask if Miss Natasha of all people was coming onto him, he saw the look in her eye, and swallowed another choke.

"Erm..."

Of course, in spite of his hesitation in speech, his mind had none at all.

Your face came to mind at once, bright, smiling, overjoyed. The way your brow would pull when he got into a scuffle and came to you all banged up, or the way you'd laugh at his latest scheme to trick some no-good vagrants into a 'package deal' scam.

Your energy, your voice, your touch. Everything flooded into his senses, and he smiled despite himself, despite the situation.

"Well..."

"If you're thinking of lying, save it," Natasha managed a strained laugh. "I think we both know from that silly grin that you have someone in mind. And I know... I think I know exactly who it is."

"But what've they got to do with my 'lil cold? Don't tell me... My only cure is to have my beloved Y/N nurse me back to health?!" Sampo clasped his hands together, making goo-goo eyes at Natasha.

He had assumed the mood to be lightened, but her eyes only darkened again.

"Sampo... this disease... it's—"

Her prognosis was punctuated by another cough from the conman—this time wet, uncomfortable, as blood trickled down the corner of his mouth. He was about to continue her sentence for her to throw in a joke, to reassure him that he was used to such minor amounts of blood, when something rose up his throat and into his mouth, cutting off his words.

Loosening his jaw, a purple and pink hyacinth landed right in his palm. Natasha was so pale, she might as well have been a ghost.

"What's..."

For once in his life, even the Sampo Koski was stumped.

"Hanahaki..." Natasha whispered, covering her mouth.

"What?!" Sampo's head snapped up, flicking between the doctor and the flower. "That's... That's a myth that kids get told so they confess their feelings quicker, so they don't chicken out. C-Come on, Miss Nat, that's not—"

She shook her head, and Sampo paused, staring at the flower.

"I've gotta clear my head."

"Sampo!"

The conman was to his feet in an instant, speed-walking out of the clinic faster than he ever thought his legs could take him. He didn't really know where he needed to go, but he knew he had to see you.

Seeing your face would put that warm, fuzzy, butterfly-like feeling right back in his chest. It would replace all this pain crawling into his lungs, his throat, not worsen it.

But when he saw you approach with your friend in tow, it felt like his chest had been stabbed straight through.

"Sampo! I heard you saw Nat today. You okay?"

"Y-Yeah!" Sampo was quick on the uptake, hiding the flower and swiping a hand over his mouth swiftly in case of any leftover blood. "You know me, just'a coupl'a bangs and scrapes from the latest 'customer'. You know how it is for ol' Sampo!"

You chuckled lightly.

"Well, that's good. Just don't go scamming any good people now, huh?" Your friend tugged your arm, giving Sampo an apologetic smile—something that dug up an even more foreign emotion within him. "Ah, right. I'm sorry, Sampo, we have plans today. But let's spend some time at the Great Mine some other time, huh?"

"No problemo! Sampo never skimps out on plans, and he never leaves a friend hanging! I'll see you then, Y/N."

You left with one last laugh and a smile.

Sampo's own smile slowly fell the moment you vanished from view... and he stared at the pink-and-purple hyacinth in his hand.

He recalled what they meant when Natasha had told him once, explaining all the intricacies of flower language if he were to ever give a 'special someone' a bouquet one day...

Joy, fresh starts, new love... But the purple?

That could only mean regret.

The conman threw the flower to the ground and stalked away, but not before trampling the bud.

As if he could ever regret something like loving you.

[biolizardboils]

Presenting, for possibly the first time anywhere on the entire Internet... the Official 3-D Hypno-Ring instruction manual!

Transcription and extra notes under the cut!

__________________

OFFICIAL 3-D Hypno-Ring™ Instruction Manual

WARNING: Improper use of this ring may result in irreversible mental disturbances and severe psychological trauma. Keep out of reach of mad scientists and evil geniuses.

©1997 The Li’l Wiseguy Novelty Co.

__________________

⚡ WELCOME to the WONDERFUL WORLD of HYPNOSIS! ⚡

In this booklet, you’ll learn how to use your new 3-D Hypno-Ring to amaze your friends, control your enemies, and rule the world!

[NOTE: This ring is for entertainment purposes only. The Li’l Wiseguy Novelty Company hereby disclaims all responsibility for any global conquests which may result from the use or misuse of the 3-D Hypno-Ring.]

__________________

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. Put the 3-D Hypno-Ring on your finger—DANGER: DO NOT STARE DIRECTLY INTO THE RING! 2. Ask a friend to stare directly into the ring. 3. Slowly move the ring back and forth. 4. Instruct your friend to stare deeper and deeper into the ring. Say the word “deeper” over and over again, very slowly.

__________________

5 [sic] Tell your friend that he or she is getting very sleepy. Say the words “very sleepy” again and again, slower and slower. 6. When your friend closes his or her eyes, say these words: “You are under my spell. When I snap my fingers, you will obey my every command!” 7. Now have some fun! Turn them into a dog...or a banana. Tell them to do all your homework from now on...

__________________

...or make ‘em clean your room. Use your imagination- it’s fun! 8. [sic] To safely bring a person out of a trance, just snap your fingers, then give them a hug.

DO NOT POUR WATER ON THEIR HEADS!

[DANGER: The 3-D Hypno Ring [sic] may have an opposite effect on adult females. Who knew?]

__________________

Caution: The 3-D Hypno Ring may cause headaches, nausea, runny nose, diaper rash, watery eyes, post-nasal drip, upset stomach, nervousness, sleeplessness, loss of appetite, increased appetite, hiccups, hives, tunnel vision, projectile diarrhea, gingivitis, temporary hallucinations, irreversible brain damage, halitosis, fever, dizziness, excessive hair growth on the shoulders and upper back, sore throat, coughing, interest in yoga, pink-eye, tennis elbow, runner’s knee, athlete’s foot, bowler’s belly, pitcher’s mound, secretaries’ day, author’s misanthropism, dejà vu...

__________________

...dejà vu, stiffness in joints, stubbed toes, weeping, gnashing of teeth, drooling, snoring, severe belching and flatulence, vertigo, receding hairline, dandruff, ring-around-the-collar, stuffy nose, sneezing, tingling in extremities, achy-breaky heart, stinky-winky feet, split ends, profuse sweating, an uncontrollable urge to watch Bette Midler movies, paranoia, ingrown toenails, and/or chapped lips.

It’s Fun for the Whole Family!

__________________

WARNING!!!

Whatever you do, don’t pour water on anybody’s head while they are in a trance! This will cause the hypnotized person to slip back and forth from trance to reality whenever they hear the sound of fingers snapping.

TM &© 2001 Day [sic] Pilkey

__________________

Notes:

This thing is 4 pages longer than I expected (including the front and back “covers”)?? To think that this vital statistic went undocumented for so long...

The 2001 copyright date on the package sticker has been visible in photos for years; despite this, I’ve hesitated on pinning this as the Ring’s production date. The mention of the Works-Opposite-On-Women thing makes me more confident that the manual, at least, was added to the package in 2001, perhaps close to or after Book 5 dropped that August. (I’d still say the Ring itself is still up in the air, given the multiple claims of it being given out as early as 1997. Which brings up some more questions: Did those early Rings come with a different manual and sticker, or none at all?)

Speaking of the Works-Opposite-On-Women thing, the wording of “may” kills me fghjf. It’s like the Company found this glaring malfunction during testing and went “oh well, off to mass production!” No wonder they got shut down lol

The back cover looks exactly as it appeared in Book 1, down to the sentence breaks! The only addition is the copyright info on the right side.

I’ve been laughing at “Day Pilkey” for 20 minutes now lol. I thought of correcting all the typos in my transcription, but they’re cute to me so I left them in

Somehow it never occurred to me that Dav himself might’ve written this manual. The long list of silly side-effects is a big giveaway. There’s little guarantee he’ll remember the answer after all this time, but it’s a question I’ll be keeping in mind just in case.

The Ring itself is so tiny that I’m scared to wear it fhgjghj, it might get stuck past my knuckle or even break! Also I can’t snap my fingers so it’s not like I could use it anyway

Besides the Black Lenticular Spiral/Red Light-Up Spiral thing, there’s another small difference between this Ring and the Movie-era one. This one has “3-D” printed vertically on its shoulders and “Hypno-Ring” printed horizontally on its halo; the Movie one has the full name on its halo, minus the hyphen between 3 and D. (Look up “ring anatomy” if that sentence doesn’t make sense.)

The package is resealable, so I’ve put everything back in. I’ll be storing it in the little plastic chest I keep my first-edition CU books in, away from excess heat, excess light, and—most importantly—the wrong hands!

I’ve been waiting 20 years to get my hands on this thing. (Well, okay, first I stewed about it for about 1-3 years as a kid, then forgot about it for 11, then suddenly remembered it and stewed for 6 more, but you get this gist.) It’s nuts to finally hold it in my hands, let alone be the first to preserve a piece of it. Let this be a lesson to all: no matter how long it takes or how silly it is, your personal Holy Grail still exists for the taking... though it might cost over 40 bucks!

[candiedspit]

GRB 080319B 

For a month, I was a smudge. 

A mute monk in the bathtub, lukewarm water running as dull colors rolled around my head like fractured, aged marbles. Thoughts lost strength before fruition. I called out of work once a week, faked a cough, a car accident, another funeral. When I did make the drive out to the office, I spent most of the time typing a word, deleting the word, and typing the word again. I stopped taking calls. Mary left me beautiful voice messages. I listened to them while I laid on the couch, sprawled out like an active disease, furious tears streaming down my face. I knew it was stupid. A feeling cannot kill you. But then, I was being diminished. I was receding. 

I know you don’t feel well right now. But listen, I have these neighbors who still have their Christmas lights hanging up. It’s April. I sorta hope they leave them up all year round. 

I stayed frozen for a few weeks. 

Vitamin D and herbal teas, coffee and long novels. But then, I can’t explain it. It was Friday afternoon. Just a Friday afternoon. 

It began when I left the office. A slow bloom rose throughout my entire body. 

I noticed how all the buildings stood scraping against the most gorgeous, thin blue of the dying afternoon, rising evening. The wind felt kind. I didn’t go home. I went to the supermarket and held an orange in my hand, feeling the small indents with my thumbs, smelling the bright zest. It was as though everything was real again. That night, I bought a pack of cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked since I was nineteen. But I inhaled and let out a giant laugh at how lightheaded I felt, I walked through the streets like that, laughing and laughing, the laughter like the magician’s scarf being pulled out and out. It was a fantastic feeling. I felt fearless. As though I could scoop the fear and pain and shit out of myself like a pudding. I had capabilities. 

When I got home, I rushed in and had a shot of blueberry vodka and opened the windows and called Mary; she answered within a couple of rings. That gorgeous rodeo clown. I loved her as much as I loved anything. 

I never thought I’d hear your voice again, she said. But this worries me, y’know. How blue was the sky today?

I’m coming to see you, I said. Not tonight. But soon. I’ll stumble on your porch like a speedball. The sky was fantastic. I’m smoking.

Hm, she said. Listen, stay out of trouble. A feeling cannot kill you. I’ll save some tea for you. Come anytime. Come anytime. 

I couldn’t sleep. I played the same image in my mind, again and again. And words fizzed in and out too quickly for me to catch them. A church of nukes. Do you understand what you are signing? Perfume made of whale semen. Dominoes. 

In the morning, I could feel the angels looking over me. I imagined them like teenagers, shooting the shit, smoking and coughing and pointing. I spent the weekend in bars, meeting everyone on earth. A woman with a strong russian accent who told me the world was going down the toilet and we were all there for the ride. A man who asked me for three cigarettes and then told me he had coke if I wanted some. I spread a little on my gums. But it was a fifteen minute headache, it had nothing on the feeling within me, the glow which propelled and drove me around. I fucked the russian woman. 

I called out of work for the week, claimed I’d contracted HIV and needed time to grieve. I felt awful about the lie. It was ridiculous. But anything could happen. And I wasn’t wasting my time at a computer when I could see patterns in the streets. I wore a long, leather coat and wrapped it around my waist. And beneath, a black thong strung across my hips. I felt like a machine, I felt electric as I walked through the advertisement pus of Times Square, a cigarette beneath my teeth. I rode the trains for hours, befriending the other passengers. And for a moment, I forgot my address. It was nine in the morning. It was the middle of the night. I got nervous anytime I saw a police officer; there was a criminal in my heart. What was I doing? 

I went down to the village to visit Mary as promised. I felt breathless, sensitive to light. I was tired. It’d been years since sleep. I felt as though I was dying. A star exploding in reverse. Mary would know what to do. 

I knocked on her door and she answered as quick as she answered the phone. I smelled her vanilla scent. It made me nauseous. But I was so glad to see her; so glad she was there. I dated Mary for eight years. There was nobody on earth who knew me better than she did. 

You don’t look great, she said. Are you eating?

Not really, I told her as i walked into her apartment. I feel like I need a touch up. My engine is black. I’m running out of oil. I think I lost my job. I don’t know what day it is. 

It’s Saturday, she said. Three in the afternoon. It’s May and spring is here. Have a seat. 

I sat on her couch. 

I think I’ve been hexed, I said. A spell has been put on me. A poison. 

You’ve been here before, she said. Remember? That arrest in Ohio? Disturbing the peace? And the outburst in the museum. Banned from the gas station. A wild iris in your eyes. A desire for mountains. The call is coming from inside the house, Adam.

Mary gave me a cherry tart. I ate half of it and began to weep. Mary gave me a sleeping tablet. And when I woke up, I was horrified. 

When I got home, Mary had left me a voicemail. I laid down naked on the floor and listened. 

You’re a wife with cold feet. Shivering in the dressing room. You’re an astronaut grazing the face of the moon, blind to the wars on earth. You’re brave. You’re pathetic. You go to the amusement park to weep. You walk out onto the avenue to dance. You sneak into a club. And you feel nothing when the band plays, the gilded brass and vulgar scatting. 

And maybe you deserve it. 

[jakkon-and-rose-topic]

Grief

Cw: Mentions to death, grief, and depression (I guess?)

Jakkon fell against the door heavily, the tears finally coming as the footsteps of his former best friend receded. He sank to his knees, desperate gasping sobs shaking his whole body as his grief spilled down his face and bled from his shattered heart. Maybe they were better off now. Away from him and all the danger, where he couldn't hurt them anymore.

But as he tried to convince himself they'd be alright; the reality of their deaths came crashing down on him and the tears just came harder. The Satyr pressed his eyes closed and gritted sharp teeth. Blood seeping through his fingers and sticking to the blade stained in Rune's life.

He shuddered, gasping for air through sobs as screams echoed in his head and he covered his ears. Flashes of fire, hoarse shouts of his name. Over and over again in his head, tormenting him as he tried to block it out.

He couldn't speak, the clear ring his voice used to have, now dulled to a low rasp. He hated it. Screaming echoed again and he huddled into the corner, pulling his knees to his chest in a desperate search for warmth and comfort. He no longer had anyone else to help fend off the cold emptiness of an ocean dragging him deeper and deeper as ice claimed his throat and his mind.

Jakkon flinched, his throat and lungs burning with every sobbing gasp like he really were drowning, with all this air around him just out of reach. The pressure of the night pressed in around him, crushing the air out of his lungs and leaving only the hollow terror of being alone.

Time flew by in a blur of tears and terror, leaving the man so many looked up to as a hero into a shivering, whimpering mess. No tears remained, only a burning headache as Rose stepped into the room to check on him, clearing tears from her own cheeks as she cleared her throat. "H...hey Horns. Are you..." But the fae stopped as she saw her brother-in-law curled up in the corner, overcoat ripped to shreds beside him as he hugged his arms close, shivering in the cold darkness.

Jakkon looked up weakly, eyes glazed with grief as Rose smoothed out her voice. "Are you okay?"

The Satyr clenched his fists and opened his mouth to say something. But he stopped and began crying again raspy gasps echoing in the silence as one of his hands flew to his throat and he tried to start a word. But instead, only the soft bleat of a goat escaped his lips, and he froze. He paused, and managed a small sniff as he stood, dissolving back into tears as he enveloped Rose in a hug.

She hugged him back and the two cried into each other, spilling their grief of losing their last family out into the heavy air, dark crimson rose petals drifting into a ring around them.

Neither spoke. Neither could anyway. But they didn't have to. This embrace spoke a silent promise both understood. You're all I have left. I will stand by you, love you, and I will never leave you. I will protect you.

[thatgirlwithasquid]

I was incredibly inspired by @eyedrinktwomp ’s ‘Oculus Argos’ article post because it was such a neat concept so I spent probably too many hours some time creating a leaflet for it!

this took me so long but it was so much fun. i really do think this is an awesome headcanon that would be so interesting to explore the consequences of!!

but here are the pages:

links to the pdfs are here and here if you want a better look, text written out below the cut

OCULUS ARGOS

Stay aware

Stay safe

Stay eye-free

information distributed by the V.C.C.A. on behalf of V.O.I.D.

SCIENTIFIC BREAKTHROUGH

Originally discovered in VOID 73, Oculus Argos has since been identified in over 680 voids post its identification by now renowned scientist, Dr Clipboard.

Although initially theorised to be a variation on the common but harmless spotted mushroom pox, vaccinations for the mushroom pox proved woefully ineffective during the infamous eye-pox epidemic of VOID 312. VOID 312 remains locked down to preserve the health and safety of wider VOID populations. Despite this, it is widely accepted to be the primary source of seasonal Oculus spores.

While theories over the origins of Oculus Argos are still widely disputed, one common theory amongst the medical science community is that the disease originated from notoriously dangerous and off-limits VOID 1. This would not be the first instance of a disease breaking free from the VOID's containment to plague masses of VOID citizens.

Whether this theory holds water or not, more research is desperately needed to provide more accurate early-stage diagnosis, a more effective treatment, and a working vaccine to prevent another epidemic of this debilitating disease.

READ MORE on this topic in Dr Clipboard's autobiography: "The Spores Stared at Me, and I Stared Back"

KNOW THE SIGNS

If you have come into contact with an entity exhibiting eyes all over their body, there is a chance you might have contracted Oculus Argos, so it is important to be aware of the signs. (1)

Oculus Argos presents in three identifiable stages (see figure 1 for reference). Being able to identify these as early as possible is vital for reversal of they symptoms.

STAGE 1: eyes only on hands and arms. There will be minor itching and pain when touched.

STAGE 2: Oculus Argos spreads to the legs and some parts of the torso. Itching recedes, offering moderate relief, only to be replaced by headaches, fever and moderate to severe pain.

STAGE 3: eyes encompass the entire body. All previous symptoms either clear or worsen. Mortality rate us high in this stage, with brief relief often being followed by sharp return of all symptoms before total failure.

It should be noted that in 3.1% of Oculus Argos cases, patients exhibit rashes on their forearms pre-stage 1. These have since been identified as irritation in the microscopic openings that will develop into eyes.

RECEIVING HELP

Have you or a loved one started exhibiting symptoms of Oculus Argos? Well, good news; when caught in the early stages of progression, Oculus Argos can be reversed.

Just pop down to your local VOID PHARMACY or call a VOID call centre to be put in touch with a V.C.C.A. approved physician! From there they will help put together a treatment plan to reverse the effects. (2)

After stage 2 has begun (see figure 1) reversing is impossible. But don't fret, there are still options for you:

THE PIT

In collaboration with the V.C.C.A, VOID PHARMACUTICALS has created a one of a kind care facility specifically designed for Oculus Argos patients. Receive all the care you need at the bottom of VOID 324's infamous pit!

State of the art with all the technology needed to aid in your recovery or passing from Oculus Argos, tended to by top of the line robotic staff. Featuring all the comfort and care you have come to expect of VOID PHARMACUTICALS, all while being perfectly quarantined to keep other void citizens safe from your infection.

Open to patients from satge 2-3. (3)

a sponsored message:

"If you already have a later stage of Oculus Argos, make sure to apply eye cream, purchased from most convenience stores, before you come in contact with anyone else. We do not want this to continue to spread for the safety of the public." - V.O.I.D

We hope to see you in the pit soon!

STAYING SAFE

So, when do you need to be cautious?

Well, Oculus Argos spreads through spores that only evolved to survive in colder conditions. In the summer or if your VOID is always warm, then good news! You won't have to worry even if you do come across an entity showing the eyes that characterise this disease.

But in the winter, or in perpetually cold VOIDs you should never approach sufferers of Oculus Argos unless absolutely necessary. If the patient is someone you know, strongly encourage them to apply their protective cream to limit spore production, and always be sure to never breathe the air around them.

Spore production is at its height in each patient from the duration of stage 2 through to the stabilisation (or death) of stage 3. Never approach entities of this stage as they are at their most contagious.

Try to encourage the entity to check themselves into The Pit (see page 3 for details). If the entity is being particularly stubborn and refusing to take the reasonable course of action to sign themselves up for a quarantine, be sure to call in to a VOID call centre and place a report. One of our Oculus Argos specialised enforcers will come and set the situation to rights. (4)

Mortality rates in Oculus Argos skyrocket to 56% after stage 2, so our priority here at the VOID Citizens Care Administration will always be to preserve the wellbeing of our healthy citizens first!

WORDS FROM OTHERS

Clarence B. Monster

"I JUST THINK THEY SHOULD ALL BE SHUT AWAY, THE LOT OF THEM. MY WIFE BROUGHT IT HOME FROM A COWORKER AND IF I'D HAD THE CHOICE TO THROW HER IN THE PIT BACK THEN, I WOULD'VE!"

Anonymous

"I think that the whole thing is horribly unethical. My whole family was forced into that so-called hospital and locked away. I didn't even get to say goodbye when they died, they didn't let any guests see them. And when I contracted Oculus Argos, I found out first hand how cold and uncaring the staff are, and how unsatisfactory the food is. It's not nearly enough to fuel a sustainable recovery. No wonder mortality is so high!"

Wow, what shining reviews! If there was anything to prove our faith in V.O.I.D, this is certainly it.

(1) approximately 13.21% or those who come in contact with an entity with Oculus Argos develop the condition

(2) whole or partial reversal of symptoms is not guaranteed

(3) if stage 1 reversal treatment fails, these patients will also be admitted to The Pit

(4) non-compliants may not be approved for release if difficult behaviour persists

[sneezingfetishftw-fics]

According to popular vote, here’s the huskerdust y’all asked for! This turned out way more angsty than I expected lol, but don’t worry, there’s plenty of comfort too.

Not a performance

He should be excited right now. He should be full of eager anticipation. But despite what he “should” be feeling, Husk finds his ears drooping.

“Husk, baby, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, a slight growl in his voice. But Angel hasn’t missed the way Husk isn’t quite meeting his eyes.

“Husk, we don’t have to do this right now. Your consent matters. It’s not like being stuck in one of Val’s shoots.”Husk winces, and Angel instantly regrets the comparison.

“That’s just it! You’re a professional, and I’m just a… an old, washed-up ex-overlord. How the fuck could I ever be good enough for someone like you?”

Angel cups Husk’s face in his hands - he almost uses his other arms to hug Husk, but reconsiders as he’s not sure how much Husk really wants intimacy right now. “Husk, look at me. I want you. Not some fancy schmancy professional porn star. I get enough of that at work. That’s a performance. This is not about performing, it’s about being real with someone I care about…” He pulled back a moment. “Husk, are you… crying?”

“I’m fine,” Husk repeated, sniffling.

“Hey, remember that part I just said about being real? I don’t want you to perform for me. How are you feeling?”

“I…” the cat rubs his eyes that have been insistently watering. “Okay, fine. I feel like shit. Happy now?”

“Happy that you’re opening up? Yes. Happy that you feel like shit? Definitely not. I’m here for you, whatever you need.” He opens his arms for a hug, and Husk practically collapses in, desperate for the affection. There’s a brief moment of peaceful silence as Angel feels Husk’s breath warm on his neck.

The breaths get more frequent and shallow, until Husk finally pulls away and turns to the side. “Huh’RRRSCHH! Ugh, sorry. As if I didn’t feel disgusting enough.”

“Oh, so when you said you felt like shit, you meant…”

“I meant a lot of things. But yeah, I’m fuckigd sigk.” He frowns at the sudden congestion. “Oh thad’s jusd woderful.” Angel hands him a tissue and he lets out a long, gurgling blow. “Thanks. Hopefully that will help for a while.”

Angel nods. “How long have you been feeling like this for?”

“Ugh, the brain’s a little foggy right now so it’s hard to say. Actually, now that I think about it, my throat was a little sore last night so I downed a bunch of whiskey. And I thought it was just a hangover when I woke up with a headache, but I guess I have been sneezing a lot too.”

“You poor thing,” Angel says softly, stroking Husk’s fur. Husk flinches at the touch, then immediately softens. Angel pulls his hand away as soon as he registers the reaction. “Husk, are you okay? Do you need me to stop touching you for a bit? Do you need me to leave and give you some space?” The words tumble out so fast it feels like he’s about to trip on his own tongue.

Husk’s pupils dilate and he freezes. “Don’t go. Please don’t leave me. I need you to stay.” The water that’s been welling up in his eyes turns to full fledged tears.

“I’m not going anywhere, Kitty. I’m right here.” Angel takes a deep breath. He’s never seen Husk anywhere near this vulnerable - it’s an honor but at the same time it’s a little terrifying. What the fuck is going on? “You don’t have to say anything, but I’m ready to listen if you wanna talk. And either way I’m staying here with you.” He tries to look into Husk’s eyes, but the cat is already turned away.

“Het’HRRRRR’tschhh! Fuck. I don’t need this.” Angel’s eyes start to get watery too. “I don’t mean you, Angel. I need you. It’s just this… shitty ass cold that’s making everything suck more.”

Angel nods, tears receding. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so awful, Husk.” He reaches a hand forward and then freezes awkwardly before he gets to Husk. Damn reflexes! He just saw the man flinch, that is not the time to be touching unprompted.

Husk takes Angel’s hand and guides it gently to his back, guiding him through the motions of stroking before letting go. “I do want to be touched, Angel, I just… freaked out for a moment there. I guess some part of me still feels like I don’t deserve you.” Angel starts to open his mouth. “And I know what you’re gonna say. And I’m trying to believe you. But the feelings are just taking some time to catch up. And this… this…” he breaks out into a coughing fit while Angel rubs his back. “This ain’t helping.” Angel stops rubbing, and Husk facepalms and moves Angel’s hand back to where it was. “Sorry, I’m shit at communicating today apparently. You’re doing great. My immune system is not. I hate being sick.” He rubs at his eyes again, growling.

“Um, Husk?”

“What?” He asks, a little too snappily, his ears flattended to the back of his head. Angel flinches, and Husk’s ears droop. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. What did you wanna say?”

“It’s just that your eyes are, well… I don’t think I’ve seen them that red before, and the fur looks a little… I don’t know. It just looks different somehow and I’m pretty sure that’s not typical cold symptoms.”

Husk frowns. “Oh.” The frown abruptly deepens. “Oh shit.”

“Husk, are you alright?” Angel asks shakily, fighting to keep his voice from rising a few octaves.

Husk buries his face deep in Angel’s neck and takes a long sniff, then pulls back before Angel can wrap him in a hug. The effect is immediate. “HRSSCH! HTTTTTSCH! HRRRRRASCHU! Tchh! Tssssch! Itschhh! Hattttsch! HRRRRRRSCHHH’OOO!” The fit continues for several minutes, with barely any space for Husk to breathe. Angel keeps passing him tissue after tissue, holding them up to Husk’s face when he realizes his partner is too incapacitated to hold the tissues himself. Eventually, the sneezes subside and Husk catches his breath. He looks like he’s about to collapse.

“Fucking hell, Husk, do you wanna tell me what just happened there?”

“Okay so maybe pressing my face directly into a suspected allergen wasn’t the smartest plan.”

“You don’t say! Please just use your words next time, babe.” Angel paused for a moment. “Wait, what allergen?”

“It’s the… snfff, ugh. The perfume. Why do you even have perfume on anyway?”

Angel sighs. “Another one of Valentino’s dumb ideas. He says it’s needed to ‘set the mood’, despite the fact that nobody can smell through the TV screen. Although, Vox does like updating technology, maybe he’ll figure it out at some point.” Another sneeze from Husk startles him out of his musings. “Right, the allergies, sorry. If I had known it would be a problem, I woulda…”

Husk puts his hand on Angel’s arm. “You didn’t know. It’s not your fault. You’ve been doing great. Honestly, I’m just… I didn’t even know if I could feel anymore after all I’ve been through, but you made me want to feel. And you’ve been with me through all the confusion and shittiness that’s included in figuring out how to feel again. I… thank you.” Wait, were those real tears now? Shit.

Angel nodded. “Of course. Anything for you, Husk.” He stands up. “Speaking of which, how about I take a shower to clear all of… this off? And then we can cuddle up and watch something. Maybe a sappy romcom, or some kinda action thriller - depends on whether you wanna lean into your emotions or take a break from them, I guess. Either way is fine with me. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Husk nods. Angel starts to walk to the shower. “Wait!”

“What’s up?”

“I, uh… can I come with you? To the shower? I just still don’t wanna be alone right now.”

“Husk, I’m going to wash off the perfume. You’ll be sneezing your poor head off!”

“Yeah, but I’ll be with you.” Husk blushes, realizing just how sappy that sounded. “And also steam is good for, uh, congestion. I am still sick, you know,” he adds, punctuating with a series of coughs.

Angel chuckles. “Alright then, just try not to pass out. But if you do, I’ll be there to catch you.”

Husk wraps Angel tight in a fierce hug, too overwhelmed for words. Of course, that hug means he once again has his face pressed in Angel’s neck. “Oops…”

[sleeplessdreamer123]

Fanfic Idea! (Lucemond, Legend of the Seeker AU, were Lucerys was a male confessor)

Alys warned them. She warned her brother, and he, in turn, warned Rhaenyra. Her second son would be a danger to all, a powerful male confessor, a dangerous being from the blood of Old Valyria, a being that should be killed upon child birth. One that could completely control anyone and everyone with a single touch, one who obtains complete and utter loyalty through devotion, and one that could potentially destroy the entirety of Westeros. It is in their nature to bring chaos and destruction, she told them, they could not control their powers, no matter how hard they are trained.

But she couldn't do it. Rhaenyra only needed to look at her son before deciding she would rather kill anyone and everyone rather than to harm her sweet boy. Alys then gave her a second option. For him to wear rada'han, the collar that disrupts any and all possible connection from his magic. The one surviving rada'han was with the Velaryons, treated as their heirloom. No one would suspect. Why would they? People believe the olden magic has all but died in Old Valyria, only dragons being living proof of it's existence. Now, they have another living proof, and to keep him living, he must hide it.

It hurts her so, to watch her sweet boy wear such a thing around his neck, but to keep him safe from prosecution, it must be done. They tell the people of Westeros a made-up story about tradition of the hundredth heir of the Velaryon house, and all was well and good.

Until Lucerys was five, and complained about how sick he was. It was unlike any other sickness, and many of the maesters struggled to name it, even believing it was fake. The idea was quickly disregarded, however, when Lucerys started vomiting. Then came the headaches, and the fevers. It took Lucerys clawing at his neck for Rhaenyra to figure out it was his magic trying and failing to connect to him. Because of this, it decides to disrupt his body.

Alys, Lucerys' personal nursemaid, tried to warn her that the child will pull through, that he will not die, that his magic just needed to get used to being disconnected to him, but when Rhaenyra saw his crying, sick, suffering face, she couldn't allow it to go on. She unlocked the rada'han, and after a few days, he turned well.

She and Alys argued, but eventually, Alys receded, though she warned Rhaenyra that she made has made it worse.

Lucerys detested the rada'han. Every time he wore it, he felt constant pain, yet he was forced to wear it, as the heir of the tides. He can hear the whispers though, that the heirloom rejects him, and that made his uncle Vaemond very happy.

He argued with his mother, the first time because she tried to make him wear it after he had another round of sickness, he screamed that the Velaryon ancestors disapproved of him, that he didn't want to be the heir anymore, that the heirloom is cursing him for being...not Velaryon.

Still, Rhaenyra insisted, and he wore it. Every day, every night. And he begged her, to at least allow him a good night's rest, and she allowed the rada'han to be unlocked every night and returned to his neck every morning, if he sleeps in his own room, to be locked in, and to have no one else, not even Alys, in the room until he wears it himself.

Lucerys cried the first night, grateful to have the thing off of his neck, but tearful for being alone. Was it really horrible for them to see him without the heirloom? Did he really need to suffer in loneliness just because he didn't want to be sick every day?

Then something strange happened. That night, he found a secret passage from his room, and decided to explore it. He accidentally entered his uncle's, Aemond's, room. He was just as shocked and confused as he was, asking him why he was there. Lucerys just shrugged and said he was exploring. He asked if Aemond would like to follow, and Aemond, not wanting to get in trouble if something might happen to his nephew, rolled his eyes and got off his bed. They secret passage led to many places, one being the servants' quarters.

And one of them was still awake, poised to scream. Lucerys quickly grabbed her wrist, and he felt it. Something left his body. That was...strange.

But the servant must have realized who they were, or at least, who he was, for he knelt before him, and said, "Command me, master," which was odd, because his grandfather was his master, but Lucerys was too terrified to worry about that.

He ordered the servant to stay quiet, to sleep and to forget he ever saw them. The servant simply nodded, and left for bed. The two boys were tired by then, and after Aemond made sure he would stay in his chambers, he left for his own bed. They never told anyone else about this, and the servant seemed to have kept his word, for nothing was told to the queen or to the princess.

It became a secret between them, to explore the palace every night, to discover every single secret passage there was to offer, and to follow it to wherever it may lead. Lucerys enjoys these nights, they were the one thing he looked forward to. He could explore the castles, with his uncle, and not have to were that gods be damned heirloom. He also felt surprisingly lighter, less sick, despite wearing the heirloom every morning, so maybe it even helped the Velaryon ancestors accept him somehow. There were times were they got caught, but Lucerys and Aemond quickly discovered that all they had to do was make Lucerys stop them and order their secrecy. It was strange, but it worked.

Meanwhile Rhaenyra learned that the servants were slowly becoming more defensive when it comes to rumors of her sons', specifically Lucerys', bastardy. In fact, there had been reports of fights when someone, be it a servant, a guard, a squire, hells, even a noble, tried to speak ill of him. At first, Rhaenyra felt glad that Lucerys managed to charm the servants so much so that they would defend him with such vigor, but after she witnesses the fight itself, she began to worry. It was less of a servant fighting for his master, and more of a devout worshipper fighting for their god. She began to worry. The fights lessened, but the worship of her boy was even stronger.

They greeted him first and foremost, even when the king was right next to him, they looked at him like he was the maiden reborn, and in one occasion, several servants dropped to their knees and begged for forgiveness, admitting that they were the ones who spread the awful rumors of Lucerys' bastardy, that someone paid them to do it, and even revealed them to be Alicent's personal servants, who were taken and punished, with Alicent being punished by being locked in her chambers.

Rhaenyra was suspicious, but she swallowed her doubts. How could her son even do it? He, who wore the rada'han despite hating it. He, who she always had with her except when he sleeps?

It was when even Alys, the most guarded nursemaid, began suggesting that maybe he should stop wearing the heirloom, that Rhaenyra finally opened her eyes to the truth. Her son, her sweet boy, knowingly or not, confessed most of the people in the palace. He was now in total control of them for the rest of his life.

-----------

I'm reminiscent of the times I could watch series without the looming worry of college submission dates, so here you go.