rosi

of mind and men

[shwarbage]

intro + info !

hello everyone! my name is rosi (she/her), i'm 21, and i love to draw and write. feel free to check out my ao3 to see my other works :)

i do have a tumblr masterlist to help you navigate my page more easily!

notes & rules :

✦ minors and ageless accs do not interact w/ 18+ content (i will block you)

✦ most of my writing stars female readers, though i often use gender-neutral pronouns

✦ do not feed my work into ai or repost anywhere

✦ dni racists, zionists, homophobes, transphobes, islamophobes, proshippers

✦ i write for whatever fandom/characters i'm feeling, atm i'm interested in twst & jjk!

[catslikeio]

Part of the rivalry is cup size ig. At least Leona wins in the ass category 😋

[dionisoart]

Fatherhood... or something like that

[shwarbage]

never take a clear nose for granted ! - a twst sickfic (part 4)

synopsis: you fall ill and grim can't keep his big mouth shut. friends visit, but you don't mind. at least they're bringing get-well gifts.

characters: vil, rook, epel, grim

tags: sickfic, fluff, hurt/comfort, humor, nrc shenanigans, epel country accent ily, gn!reader, yuu!reader

wc: 2.8k

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

You talk to yourself the next morning, a testament that your voice had indeed returned. You narrate your actions and thoughts like a mantra: I am currently steeping tea and I will let it sit for at least three minutes; I am going to actually sit down and study and I will not get distracted; I will not have an elaborate breakdown in front of my peers. 

Grim had looked at you like you were crazy, shaking his head in disbelief and muttering to himself about the disease spreading to your sanity. But it really is good to have your voice back.

“I am not in the early stages of schizophrenia,” you tell him.

Your voice is still husky, rough around the edges like a sharp rock. The Anise seeds Jamil and Kalim gifted you were ocean waves, dulling the jaggedness of your voice and soothing the lingering sting. 

You feel extra tired that morning. You're not sure why because you haven’t done much of anything in the past few days. Yesterday, you considered attending classes the next day, but when you woke up, your body oozed fatigue, feet dragging sluggishly from the bedroom, to the bathroom, to the kitchen, and back to the bedroom. A loop you had walked so many times the floorboards were discolored from the frequency.

Or maybe they were always that fainted color. 

Each day felt the same to you, only highlighted by which visitor came and when, and time slipped from your grasp like sand in a sieve.

You have physical education today, you realize. 

“Skip!” your mind told you. You certainly don’t fancy running three laps around the school. Vargas would insist on it, regardless of your condition.

Not feeling well is no excuse to shirk class, he would say. In fact, it proves that you must work even harder to build your body, hone your muscles so that they do not betray you. 

And then he would make you drop and give him fifty and you would die. 

So yeah, skip. 

Trudging back into your bedroom, you take a look in the mirror. To say you are a mess is a serious understatement. You haven't showered in four days. Your hair is tangled and beyond taming. You've been rotting in the same clothes since you got sick. Your skin hasn’t felt the sun’s rays and it’s definitely beginning to show. And your limbs feel like they’re about to fall off.

And. Your nose is still plugged. Congestion is no joke.

Right there and then, you decide it's finally time to take a shower. You are a foreigner in your own flesh, and you are frankly disgusted with yourself. There’s no way you can sit down and do work when you smell like an Ignihyde student who’s been grinding game achievements for who knows how long.

Most of the time you shower at Heartslabyul. Because Heartslabyul has the beautiful, delightful, phenomenal privilege of hot water. In Ramshackle hot water is an alien concept. Warm(ish) water lasts for a solid six seconds and instantly transforms into water derived straight from glaciers.

The first time you stepped into the Ramshackle shower, your body went straight into a cold shock response and you swore you had turned into an icicle. Grim tried to warm you up with his fire magic but nearly burned down the house and you had the clever idea to rely on a hairdryer instead of becoming permanently houseless.

A trip to Heartslabyul doesn’t sound particularly appealing at the moment so you take a few moments to give yourself a pep talk out loud: The water is not that cold and I will soon be warm and clean; Grim did not use my soap bar; I will not die of hypothermia. 

Maybe it’s because the issue with the water heater had been fixed, or maybe it’s because you really do have some sort of mantra-related magic after all, but the shower temperature is not as bad as you remember it. It’s lukewarm at best, but you welcome it with outstretched arms and a happy heart. 

The best thing is that the slight heat from the water helped unclog your nose. You breathe in deeply and exhale slowly without resistance as the water ebbs away the soap on your hair. You almost forgot what that feels like.

It feels so good to be clean!

It feels so good to breathe!

For all of several minutes because the moment you step out of the shower your right nostril is plugged right back up. At least you know your nose is fully capable of functioning and your lungs haven’t forgotten how to work. 

Perhaps that is the reason why you haven’t been able to retain any Alchemy-related information. Oxygen deprivation.

You are drying your hair and Grim is giving Azul’s coupon a curious look (probably thinking it’s too good to be true) when you hear a brief knock. 

This particular visit comes as no surprise to you; the second Grim mentioned bumping into Epel yesterday evening, you knew there was no way for this visit to be avoided. For one, Epel is a friend and he is bound to be worried. Additionally, knowing Rook’s, ah, extensive knowledge regarding the states and whereabouts of most students on campus, it’s more of a surprise that Pomefiore hadn’t come to see you earlier.

No doubt Vil came along to observe the niceties of visiting the ill. The three of them are wearing masks, which you are grateful for because you aren’t sure if Rook would survive Vil getting sick. 

Or if you would then survive Rook.

Your timing for a long overdo shower is impeccable. Smelling like sweat and grime when Vil visits would be its own tragedy. 

“I hope this morning is treating you well,” Vil greets. He does not wrinkle his nose when he extends a curious package out to you, which you take as a good sign. “We brought you this as a get-well gift, it should help with your congestion. It’s not exactly part of the ‘current market’ so use it frugally. You won’t be getting another.” 

You grin at the trio and turn the container over in your hands. It seems to be a cream of some sort. “How’d you know I have congestion?”

“It is a classic symptom of illness, non? To some, it is the biggest nuisance of all,” Rook says. He places his right hand over his heart as a way to greet you. Somehow you doubt Pomefiore students are included in that “some.” Feeling sick under Vil’s strict, thorough regimen is highly improbable.

“Hey! We just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

Even with the mask you can tell Epel is smiling with the way his eyes crinkle. It’s been ages since you've seen him. Even longer since you, him, Ace, Deuce, and Jack all hung out together. Maybe when you get better, you can all go to Sam’s and get some ice-cream to celebrate or something. That sounds nice.

“I think I’m doing a little better? It’s as Rook says, congestion is a nuisance. I feel a little lethargic too but I’m otherwise alright.”

At the word lethargic, Vil gives a small frown.

“Any plans for the day?” he asks innocently, but his gaze is firm and his eyes unwavering.

You shrug. “I was just gonna lay in bed again, maybe study if I feel up for it. Nothing special.”

“You will not.”

Epel and Rook turn to look at Vil. Epel with his eyebrows furrowed, and Rook with a glowing smile.

You look at Vil with confusion. “Yes, I will? What do you mean I won’t?”

Even Grim turns to look, his tail swishing, but he does not say anything, preferring to avoid being dragged into whatever shenanigans Pomefiore is planning to rope you into.

“You will not. You will join us for a walk.”

“A walk?” Epel echoes, then protests, “But they're sick!”

Vil turns to Epel and wiggles a single, slender finger in the air. “Don’t underestimate the power of a quick walk, it can do wonders. For the body, yes, but also the mind. If you feel like rot, you will rot.”

Rook hums in agreement. “Just as the body can affect the mind, so too can the mind affect the body. Come, it would be a shame to waste such a magnificent day.”

“Change,” Vil commands, looking at your patterned pajamas up and down. It’s a fresh set but it’s no proper attire. “We will wait for you outside.”

“It will be a short walk, do not fret,” he adds. The click-clack of his shoes follows him down the stairs, Rook leaving behind him.

Epel looks apologetic. “Let’s go. I don’t recko—I don’t think Vil’ll take no for an answer…” 

You heave a heavy sigh and watch Epel round the corner. It’s always one thing after another. It doesn’t seem like you're gonna get much studying today either.

A loud yawn escapes Grim, and you turn. His paws are stretched out, claws digging into the carpet. “Have fun Purrefect,” he smirks.

“If you wanna stay cooped up in here, fine,” you huff. “But do not use my coupon. Azul gave it to me, and I fully intend to use it.”

“I wasn’t gonna,” Grim tells you unconvincingly. He sticks his tongue out.

You returns the gesture. 

And so, for the first time in four days, you leave Ramshackle. And how wondrous it is. 

The weather is decent today. The sun is out but the slight breeze passing through the trees keeps you from overheating, tickling your face with a refreshing coolness. Following every soft whip of wind is a sigh from you, awaiting the next one to pass through. 

They are heading to the courtyard, Vil calls from ahead.

Gravel crunches from beneath your and Epel’s footsteps mostly. Vil and Rook do not make a sound as they walk. Vil learned how to carry himself in this manner in order to exude elegance, or maybe as to not attract unwanted attention. As for Rook…well, he most likely developed this skill well before enrolling in Night Raven College.

Huntsmen should always be light on their feet so as to not startle their prey. 

You and Epel on the other hand, drag your feet. Albeit unintentionally. It doesn’t stop Vil from looking back at the two of you with a quirked up brow. Epel picks his feet up, but a few minutes after Vil turns back, his shuffles are back. You initially believe it to be a habit, like your own, but downcast eyes and a repressed grin on Epel’s face suggests he may be doing this on purpose.

The quiet chirping of birds and the scuttling of rodents on tree branches attract your attention. You whip your head around to catch glimpses of robins taking flight and squirrels burying their nuts before the winter whenever you can. Leaves of fainted green and yellow mark the beginning of a proper autumn. Some clouds pass overhead every now and then, making everything look gray, but they never linger long enough to induce a chill.

If you had looked a little closer to your left, you may have been able to spot a silver-haired boy amidst the forest, asleep against the trunk of a magnificent oak.

Your life as a student has been really stressful lately. On top of exams, you've had to deal with overblot after overblot, and Crowley still hasn’t found a way for you to return home. But here, along the gravel paths on campus, some so hidden you might miss them, you feel quiet. At peace even.

Vil and Rook are engaged in their own hushed conversation up ahead, no doubt discussing dorm-related topics and whether the freshmen are up to par with their expectations. Side by side, you and Epel walk at a slower pace with your arms linked, brief quips interrupting the stillness every now and then.

Didja see that squirrel? It was so fat!

Glad Grim didn’t come along. I don’t really wanna have to pull any small animals out of his mouth.

They may be short, mundane comments at a glance, but does every conversation have to be deep in order to be of value? Good company is good company, regardless of the content of the dialogue.

You thought you’d be out of breath by now, but the walk isn’t nearly as bad as you feared it would be. It’s nice to finally be outside after so long and the air is really quite refreshing. Although you would be enjoying it more if your nose was working properly. As soon as you get back you're trying the product Vil gifted immediately. 

“Gosh, ah ain’t seen ya in a month of Sundays,” Epel notes, kicking a pebble along the path. Every three steps or so, he'll reach the same pebble and kick it again a little further ahead. 

You smile. “I missed you too, Epel.”

“Madder than a wet hen, he is,” Epel says in a hush, jabbing a thumb at Vil’s back, “fer makin’ ya walk when yer ill.”

Epel kicks the stone a smidge too hard and it bumps into Vil’s heel. He turns back to look at the pair, a scowl on his face. Epel has the decency to look sheepish.

Laughing, you say, “Perhaps…but I can’t say he wasn’t right. It’s a little counterintuitive, but I feel a little more refreshed somehow.”

Your group soon reaches the courtyard, Rook announcing your arrival with a flourish and several dramatic words before heading to the well to draw up water for the four of you.

An echo of thanks passes around as he offers a cup to Vil first, then you, then Epel, before indulging in a cup himself. You sit beneath the tree for a short while, exchanging gossip and the occasional complaint (mostly from you about Alchemy) before Vil stands up and claps his hands, announcing it is time for them to return.

“Ah, Trickster, if you find you are too exhausted to make the journey back,” Rook winks, “I am not opposed to carrying you. I shall never ignore a little lamb in distress!” 

It is a tease and not a proposal, you know, but the image of Rook carrying you all the way back to Ramshackle is tad humorous, though that has nothing to do with you doubting Rook’s strength. Epel stifles a snort, and even Vil turns to look at Rook quizzically. 

While you may have rolled your eyes, a smile creeps at your lips nonetheless. “How noble of you. I’m sure I can manage though.”

The four of you make your way back to Ramshackle (each person carrying only themselves). This time, Vil walks behind with you, leaving Rook and Epel to lead the way back up the path to Ramshackle. There is minimal conversation on the way back, but it is not an uncomfortable silence.

“Thanks for the stroll, by the way. I think I just needed to get away from that house for a bit,” you say suddenly. "It turns out a change of scenery wasn’t all that bad."

“Of course, and I would not have suggested it if you were severely bedridden,” Vil motions, matter-of-factly, “Sluggishness is a disease itself and it does not do well to molder in one’s bed. I have no doubt that you will recover soon enough.”

You open your mouth to say thank you, but remembers you've already done so. Vil doesn’t seem like the kind of person who wants to be profusely thanked, and you do not want to sound like a broken and insincere record.

Exhaustion sneaks up on you as you approach the iron fence surrounding Ramshackle, and you cannot help but look forward to laying down in your bed. Surely you can study later?

By the front door, the three Pomefiore students bid you farewell. Vil makes you promise to update him on the effectiveness of the cream he gifted, Rook emphasizes how he had a merveilleux time on their outing today, and Epel gives you a quick salute before wishing you a speedy recovery so that you may hang out again soon.

You don’t realize the extent of your tiredness until you have to climb the stairs back up to the bedroom. The stroll was nice, but you were out practically all day and your legs had threatened to give out during the last few minutes of the walk back.

A quick rest sounds incredibly appealing at the moment and studying for Alchemy is out of the question.

With half-lidded eyes threatening to close completely, you apply the creme to your face, concentrating it on the area right below your nose.

The bed is practically irresistible. As your head sinks further into the pillow, you take a deep inhale in, your first in so long, and give in to a short nap that soon evolves into a restful, three hours of sleep.

Naturally, when you awake, you are disoriented. For two whole seconds you consider getting up to review Alchemy notes but with your bed warm and your nose clear, you are no sooner dragged back into a gaping slumber.

You'll study...tomorrow.

[shwarbage]

cold compresses and warm hands ! - leona kingscholar

synopsis: Leona not showing up to class for three days straight is to be expected, but Leona not showing up to class for a week? Maybe you should drop in and make sure he's okay.

tags: sick!leona, hurt/comfort, vomiting, fever, ruggie and rook appearances, gn!reader, sfw

wc: 3.1k

a/n: i'm back from vacation! here's an older one while i get back into the groove of things <3

It's been nearly a week and there has been no sign of Leona whatsoever. No infuriatingly exaggerated yawn from behind you. No glimpse of the tip of his tail as he rounds a corner. No snore from behind the brush of the Botanical Garden. Nothing. So, being the curious classmate you are, you thought you ought to get to the bottom of this, and you knew just where to start.

Among the swarm of your peers lining up for food in the cafeteria, Ruggie was surprisingly easy to find, carrying a tray so full of food you thought it might slip from his grasp. Except Ruggie's exceptional balance and adamant nature about not wasting food meant that he would never let that happen.

"Hey Ruggie, know where Leona's at?" you inquire, careful not to bump into him as he sets his precariously balanced tray onto a lunch table.

"Busy with stuff."

Okay, a vague answer. Instead of looking at you, his attention is directed towards the five individually packaged meat buns stacked on his plate but he doesn't move to grab one.

"Busy with what?" you push.

"I dunno. I'm not telling. Just something. Why're you looking for him?"

You raise an eyebrow. That was three different responses rolled into one, and a question asked too quickly. Not at all suspicious. 

"Ruggie, is there something you're not telling me?"

"Nope, nothing. Sorry gotta go!" He suddenly stands up and his untouched food is packed into his bag before you can even blink. 

Definitely suspicious, you think as you watch him scamper off and weave his way through the crowd to exit the cafeteria. 

There goes that plan. There's no other student at Night Raven College who knows Leona better than Ruggie. Except maybe...

Yes, him.

You could spot him from anywhere with his seamlessly shaped bob and his over-the-top demeanor.

Rook Hunt has never been an easy person to approach, but if anyone would know of Leona's whereabouts, it's him. Pomefiore's vice-housewarden's reputation precedes him and though you've only spoken a handful of times, you know precisely what the rest of Night Raven College's gossipy students mean.

As if sensing your approach from four tables away, Rook Hunt turns around and his eyes are dangerously piercing as he looks directly at you. You try not to swallow too hard but his beaming grin does little to quell your nerves.

"Ah, bon après-midi! I thought I felt your eyes gracing me with their beauty."

There's no point in backing out now, not now that he's initiated a conversation. "Oh, hi Rook. I was wondering if you knew where Leona is?"

A heavy sigh escapes him and he shakes his head in defeat, "To think that the Roi des Lions has been evading you as well. Alas, I regretfully have not seen him."

You mimic his sigh, knowing you've reached a dead end. Perhaps you could make another round around the grounds just in case you missed him.

"But were I to venture a guess, there's no place a lion prefers than that of his den," Rook offers. 

"Of course, thank you!" Obviously you had checked all his usual napping spots around campus, and you even convinced a few Savanaclaw students to let you look around their dorm itself, but it had totally slipped your mind to check Leona's room.

Leona's room...it feels a little weird to be entering such a private space, but he left you no choice really.

"But of course, bonne chance! A persistent spirit must always be acknowledged!" Rook calls after you.

Twenty minutes later you find yourself standing outside of Leona's room with your knuckles braced on the door, and adamantly not knocking. Knocking is normal, but knocking on Leona's door just feels different somehow. Would it be weird to knock? He'll probably get mad at you for coming here in the first place, so it wouldn't really matter either way. 

Whatever. You shake those thoughts from your head and rap on the door. 

A beat passes and you try again.

With still no response, you thought that you made a mistake. You can't make out any sound from within. Maybe he's not in his room after all, but you should press your ear to the door just to be sure.

The door creaks open with the force of your weight, having not been shut properly, and you peer in.

With the curtains drawn the room was mostly in darkness, save for the sliver of light the door welcomed in. You can make out a hoard of pillows on the bed surrounding a strangely shaped hump beneath the blankets that you immediately recognized as Leona. As well as...three...four...seven boxes of tissues scattered about the room, a trash can beside the bed with used tissues inside and around it from where the user had so obviously missed his target.

Six days of prolonged absence and a hoard of tissues could only mean one thing.

Leona is sick.

"Leona?" You take a few tentative steps forward, hoping you're wrong.

"Ruggie," a hoarse voice calls out from the bed, "izaat you?"

The delirious Leona-shaped lump rolls over, trying and failing to sit up to get a better look at the person who just entered the room.

You swallow gingerly, debating your response but the thud of Ruggie's running footsteps interrupts your reply.

"Leona!" The poor boy is nearly breathless from his sprint as he crosses the doorway. "I got you the meat buns you asked for."

Ruggie takes one long look at you, then Leona, then you again.

"Oh no."

Leona groans from his place on the bed, and lets out a terrible, raspy cough.

"What do you mean 'oh no,' Leona is sick!" you reprimand. "It's been a week." 

Ruggie's sour expression tells you that nobody at the school was supposed to know about this, which is also why Ruggie hadn't gone to Sam's to get medication. Probably on Leona's orders too. As if he was in any condition to make demands. His cough is so dry you were sure his throat is scarred from its force, and the sheer amount of tissues told you his nose has been dreadfully plugged for several days. Knowing Leona, he probably thought he could fight off this virus himself.

"Hey! Nobody told you to go looking for him!"

A grunt from Leona forces Ruggie to lower his voice.

"Nobody told you to go looking for him," Ruggie repeats, his voice barely audible.

You ignore him. "And meat buns? No wonder he's not getting any better with the food he's eating, I don't care if he asked you for it."

Diet, rest, and medication are the most important things for recovery. Two of which Leona has been utterly neglecting. 

"Well then nurse, why don't you try taking care of Leona?"

"Maybe I will!"

"Fine then!"

"Okay!"

"Shut up," Leona wheezes out. "Head hurts."

Ruggie extends his arm towards Leona as an invitation, and you take it, making your way towards him to assess the current situation.

Both of Leona's eyes are closed and his eyebrows are furrowed together in either pain or annoyance, you couldn't tell. Most likely a mix of both. Hesitantly, you reach your arm out and press the back of your hand to his forehead. You let out a hiss.

"He's burning up."

Shifting on his feet, Ruggie decides that looking after a sick Leona is probably a two-person job.

"What should I get?"

"A bowl of ice-water and a couple small cloths."

"Leona'll owe me big time," he mutters to himself, and you glance up only to find that he is already gone.

It's hard to see someone you know fall ill, even more so when it's someone so...strong. Minutes tick by as you wait for Ruggie to return but it feels more like hours and you wish there was something else you could do to help other than watch. Uselessly. Leona's eyes remain shut as he drifts in and out of sleep, never quite making it to a satisfying, full slumber. Drawing uneven breaths, it's clear he's breathing more from his mouth than his nose, on account of one of his nostrils being out of commission.

Leona is many things but he is not helpless, which makes this all the harder to watch.

Just as you finish dragging a chair over beside his bed, Ruggie returns, the water in the bowl threatening to spill as he sets the items on the nightstand next to you. 

The water is freezing, but you ignore the burning sting of the cold as you dunk the cloth in the water and wring it out. Leona lets out a yelp and jerks the second you place the cold cloth on his forehead. It feels like an electric shock delivered straight to his body.

His eyes shoot open. "The hell're ya doing. Get this thing offa me!" 

"Shh, sorry but I have to." You force his body down with your hands. "You have a fever."

The warmth of his forehead blooms through the cloth. This is not good. Yet he continues to argue, his words choppy and strangely quiet and not at all like the Leona you know.

"I was just gonna sleep it off."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah? And how's that been working out for you so far?" 

He could only grunt as a response and his eyes fall shut once again. You flip the cloth over and press your hand against the cloth, Leona letting out a hiss at the cool temperature.

"Ruggie, please go to the kitchen and ask one of the ghosts to prepare you a soup. Lentil, chicken noodle, carrot, I don't care. Just make sure it's hot."

Ruggie quirks a brow, knowing what's coming, but leaves wordlessly nevertheless.

"I'm not eating that watery herbivore crap," Leona protests, fighting his eyes open.

"Yes, you are," you say firmly. "No more meat buns for you."

It's clear that Leona so desperately wants to argue back but simply does not have the energy for it which works out well in your favor.

Eight reps of cold compresses later, a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup is placed on the nightstand as well. Warm and comforting, you can smell it from where you're sitting and you're sure Leona can too. His twitching nose just proves that Leona's acute sense of smell, which his ailment has certainly diminished, still seems to be functioning well. He is a beastman after all.

"Need anythin' else?" Ruggie asks. He's retreated to the doorframe and looks a little...on edge?

You shake your head. Leona's managed to sit up and from what you could tell, the fever's beginning to ebb away, even if just a little. "No. Thanks a lot Ruggie."

"I'm outta here," he says quickly, turning on his heel. "Just don't come cryin' to me when Leona tries to bite your fingers off for that soup," he calls from around the corner.

You turn to look at Leona, whose eyes are still closed, and yet you can sense a semblance of a smirk playing on his lips. 

His ears twitch and he attempts a laugh. "You're sooorely mistaken if ya think I'm just gonna open my m-ARRRGHHGH."

And in goes a spoonful of soup. If he thought you were going to waste that perfect opportunity then he is the one who is sorely mistaken. You see an opening? You always take it.

Face going through various contortions as he deciphers the taste, Leona manages to swallow. Somehow. It was probably a good call on the chicken noodle on Ruggie's behalf. At least there's some meat in it. Though you had to admit it would be pretty amusing to watch Leona choke down a bowl of lentil soup.

"Never do that again." His expression is soured with something you're sure has nothing to do with the taste of the soup. Betrayal.

"Keep fighting back and I'll ask Ruggie to bring me a cone or something."

Leona's eyes widen in shock.

"And don't test me," you add. "I will use it if I have to."

A new side of Leona is introduced to you, one that you're sure is never going to make a re-appearance: a docile, conceding side. But it's not without several vicious side-eyes and a few snide remarks made under his breath.

Miraculously, Leona finishes the entire bowl of soup with minimal complaining. Whether it's because of your (empty) threat or because he secretly likes the taste of the soup, you aren't sure. But hey! Mission accomplished, and no fingers were lost in the process. Leona's head rests against a pillow once more and it seems like he's due for another nap. If Leona's got any part of the recovery process down, it's rest. 

"If I didn't know any better I would say you're enjoying this, herbivore..." His voice is lazy as he trails off.

"Oh I am, mildly," you admit. "Beats History of Magic with Trein." 

He manages a half-laugh and then all goes quiet as the lull of a calming sleep overtakes his weary body.

✦ 𓆣 ✦

When Leona wakes, he isn't himself.

Actually, he isn't sure if he's even awake. It's dark, and he's sure the sun has set but he's not quite sure what time it is. His room is clean, which is definitely not how he left it. And you're by his side, slumped over with your chest and arms on his bed and the rest of your body on the seat.

How long had you been like that? It seems like an uncomfortable position.

White-hot pain shoots through his mind and hallucinatory shapes dance around the room. He feels so cold, but so hot at the same time. His head is a fifty ton weight and every bone in his body feels brittle, threatening to shatter at any moment. How can he feel so dizzy? He's sure he's laying down. Or maybe it's him that's spinning and not the room?

He can feel it coming and there's nothing he can do to stop it. 

✦ 𓆣 ✦

The sound of Leona hurling directly into the trashcan wakes you with a jolt. Had you really fallen asleep?

Before you can think you're rubbing his back with your hands as he gags over the trashcan with tears pricking his waterline. Vomiting is never a pleasant experience.

"It's okay, it's okay," you soothe with simple words, because you're not sure what else to say.

Leona has a death grip on either side of the trash can, bringing it closer to his mouth so he doesn't hunch over. There's nothing you can do except continue to whisper useless words and run your hands up and down his back as he finishes retching. 

"You're okay."

Leona barely spares you a glance as he gets up from his place on the bed, entirely too quickly, and stumbles into the bathroom adjacent to his room. You're half worried he'll slip from the lightheadedness and crumple on the floor, but you give him space to rinse his face. The water faucet shuts off and Leona wobbles back to his bed, crashing back down on the mattress without a word. 

Your hand shakes as you bring it up to his forehead once more. 

He's hot...maybe even hotter than he was earlier today.

It's a good thing you refilled the ice-water bowl because you were going to need it. First thing's first though; while Leona was asleep, you went down to Sam's for some medicine to help alleviate the symptoms. 

"Leona," you say gently. "You're gonna have to sit up for me real quick." 

Leona doesn't fight back, doesn't say a word as you pour him the recommended dosage and he downs it in one short gulp. He shivers; it is most definitely not chicken-flavored medication.

To his warm body, every new compress is a shock and Leona never gets used to the ice-cold cloth making contact with his skin over and over again. It doesn't help that your touch feels equally cool against him, but that part he doesn't mind so much. A few days ago he told himself that he can sleep through the pain and that the aches in his body are nothing more than overexerting himself at Spelldrive practice.

He was disgustingly wrong. If it weren't for your nosey personality and your persistence he has no idea how he would be able to push through this without your comforting presence beside him. This is, and he's sure, the worst of it.

"You don't hafta do this," he mumbles feverishly. "I didn't ask ya to."

You take your time wringing out a new cloth. 

"You don't need to," you finally murmur. "I'm sure as a prince you were given everything you wanted without needing to ask for it, and then you probably thought you were above help. That asking for it is a sign of weakness, and I'm here to tell you it's not. There's nothing wrong with letting the people who care for you help you out every once in a while."

There's a high chance Leona stopped listening many minutes ago, but your words bring you comfort as well. All is quiet in the Savanaclaw dorm with the only audible sounds being Leona's heavy breathing and the sound of your voice weaving stories to help yourself stay awake.

Cold compresses are placed and replaced until all the ice in the bowl has melted away.

✦ 𓆣 ✦

In the past twenty-four hours, Leona's been force-fed soup, threatened with a cone, and fought back a fever so vicious he was expecting to die at any moment.

His head is still pounding and his right nostril is still blocked but at least he isn't dizzy anymore and his body doesn't feel nearly as hot as it did last night. The worst of it is over. A look to his left told him that you had fallen asleep with a cold (now warm) compress still in hand.

He looks at you for a long while, memorizing the hypnotic rhythm of the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep. Fragments of your stories from last night make their way into his mind, but he can't remember too much of what you said. Gently, he plucks the cloth from you, his hand grazing yours in just the slightest way.

You're warm now, and so unlike how you felt just several hours ago, but you're not feverish. You're just...warm.

"Leona?" you ask groggily, eyes barely open.

Looking at you, he felt his heart throb with. Well, something.

Whatever it is, he had an inkling of a feeling that it's unrelated to his illness. But that, he thinks, is something that he can figure out after a long, warm, much-needed shower. Plus, he needs to make sure he hadn't gotten you sick too. 

[sukunahs]

crazy in love | ryomen sukuna

pairing: serial killer!sukuna x reader

summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.

he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.

if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.

content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's LOVELY to reader exclusively, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!

chapter 1: temptations

chapter 2: exactly what he wants

chapter 3: everything is romantic

chapter 4: bad at love

chapter 5: everybody scream

chapter 6: the rotten ones

chapter 7: innocence lost

chapter 8: ups and downs

chapter 9: it's nothing new

[octopuspot]

Happy (belated) birthday Leona! You suddenly became my favorite character in twst after playing for like 3 years congratulations!!

[greelin]

sorry to hear that you haven’t been feeling all that great lately. Do you want me to hunt you for sport

[greelin]

no worries if not. will be thinking of you regardless

[jojowentbananas]

Nami and Zeus 🍊☁️

[shwarbage]

he looks like a rodent here (affectionate)

[shwarbage]

for what was never said ! - gojo satoru

synopsis: gojo satoru's first apology

tags: gojo is kinda a little shit, minor injury, sfw, some angst, fluff, fem!reader but only briefly referenced

wc: 1.4k

For a train station that is nearly always empty this time of day, it is - most mercifully - about to burst at the seams with a wave of bodies desperate to return to the sweet sanctum of home. Whatever the case may be, suddenly benevolent managers or a concluding festival, the noisy atmosphere on the second track serves as the perfect cover for the argument you are having with Satoru Gojo. 

The argument is, naturally, one-sided. Because you are neither patient enough nor merciful enough to listen to his whiny, arrogant drivel anymore. You made your point; it’s his fault he won’t listen.

“There was no way I was going to lose,” Gojo repeats for the umpteenth time. Blessed with long legs, he barely has to speed-walk to keep up with your pace as you storm off as far away as you can from him. The train is only eight cars long, how can it feel so endless?

The urge to suddenly turn around and tear off his blindfold was strong. Maybe only then would he get it into his thick head.

You wonder if he’s still bleeding.

“It doesn’t matter if you are going to win or lose,” you say curtly, not bothering to turn around. According to the digital sign on the wall, the train will leave within the next minute. You shove past a gaggle of teenage boys to reach the eighth and final car. 

A hand wraps around your wrist as you cross the platform threshold. His usual smirk, while aggravating, brings with it a strange feeling of comfort. Like everything is going to be okay. You would entrust everything to that smirk, but when you whip your head around to face him, it’s nowhere to be found. Distress knots the downturn of his lips instead. 

The bead of blood rolling down his cheek is even more out of place. You forgot he was even capable of bleeding. It’s a simple, shallow cut and it certainly won’t scar. It may be comparable to a papercut, but the size of the cut is not what’s bothering you, but rather the realization that tomorrow he probably won’t even remember he had it.

He’ll show up to work with the same galling grin, the same patronizing tone, at the top of a world he’s deigned for himself, thinking he has done no wrong.

No, the thought wouldn’t even cross his mind. He would simply go about his day, unaware of what it is like for others to see him bleed. 

The thought sends your anger past its boiling point. You shove your instincts away, effectively silencing the little voice ringing inside your head, and wrest your wrist from his grip.

“I just–Hold on!” He takes a step forward, but you point to the pink sign on the platform floor.

“I’m soooo sorry sir,” you say with faux concern, voice dripping with an upturned, saccharine pitch, “but this is a women’s only car. It runs weekdays from four in the afternoon until seven.”

Gojo looks by his feet to see he has, truly, been outmaneuvered. 

By now, the commotion at the door has caught the attention of all the women in the train car. To their credit, they try their best to mind their damn business. Still, they drag their loitering eyes between Gojo’s six-foot-three figure, standing obediently outside of the door, and you, scowling with searing certainty, and come to the conclusion that he has royally fucked up. It’s best not to get involved. Besides, you seem to be handling the situation just fine on your own.

You hear the jingle of the familiar departure melody as the door closes. In a final, flourishing gesture, you elegantly stick a middle finger up as the train departs.

The last thing you see is Gojo reaching up to touch his face, and his expression as he withdraws his palm to see residues of red. Like he had, indeed, forgotten all about it.

| ✦ |

When you get to your apartment building, Gojo is already waiting for you at the entrance. You’re surprised to see that he had ditched his teacher’s uniform and was dressed in linen shirt and baggy dark blue jeans, holding a bouquet of blue hydrangeas and white-yellow honeysuckles. A record time outfit change that would put even the most seasoned actor to shame, no doubt.

His fingers toy with the paper wrapping in hand. Upon seeing you, his hands still. A soft smile crosses his face. Despite his blindfold, you can tell he isn’t quite able to keep his eyes on yours through it. 

You can't help but think about how endearingly pathetic he looks, stripped of his natural flair and his penchant for dramatics, with what is clearly an apology bouquet in hand.

This might be his first time apologizing ever. 

Ensuring your expression remains starkly indifferent, you punch in the code to your apartment building and climb the too-tiny steps to the third floor in silence. You don’t need to turn around to picture the way his feet hang off every step as he follows suit, scrambling up the narrow staircase before you can shut the door in his face. Gojo is abnormally large in a way that Japanese architecture doesn’t sympathize with very well.

Maybe a fall would humble him further.

Gojo falling isn’t nearly as easy to picture as his humongous feet. Then again, Gojo bleeding was something you had never been able to imagine either. 

Seeing that he’s still behind you when you reach your door, and in one piece, you groan and pull him into the apartment. The briefest grin crosses his features, but it vanishes just as quickly. Gojo clears his throat and hands you the flowers. You make a show of setting them to the side, and the two of you sit on the couch. The leather crinkles awkwardly. He notices that you sit further away from him than usual. 

You consider him for a moment. Untouchable when he wants to be, precisely the problem. Arrogance is, perhaps, an ailment of strength, but in the frantic edge lining the corners of his lips, you see that you might be the only person able to touch him in ways that others would never be able to.

You take a deep breath, and find the commute home has somewhat quelled your anger. “Disabling your Limitless for fun is reckless and endangering,” you start. “You’re the strongest person I know, but-”

“I’m the strongest person anyone knows,” he corrects. 

You give him a pointed look.

“Okay, yeah. Semantics shmemantics.”

“You should still think through things before diving in headfirst.”

“What, you don’t trust me? C’mon, I can handle myself, you know that!”

“And the people around you? Please Gojo, please,” you repeat. “I don’t like to watch you bleed.”

It is not your words that finally reach his ears, but the quiet desperation in the way you exhale them. His hand unconsciously makes its way to his cheek. The blood has long since been wiped, and no scar taints his skin.

He had wanted to let this particular curse get a hit in, just for fun. Goading your enemy is its own thrill, and in Gojo's own sick way, there was an undeniable part of him that liked watching the sliver of hope in his enemy’s eyes vanish after realizing they’re indisputably outmatched.

Your anger is one of your best traits, never blind and never without reason. Maybe that’s why, instead of stubbornly continuing to justify his actions, he chooses to give you space to fill the silence, and finds pride is rather bitter when swallowed.

You fill that silence with gentle action, stretching your hands out to his blindfold. Gojo doesn’t move to stop you. The world becomes impossibly still. His breath tickles your arms as you slip the blindfold off and let it fall in the space between you. You look at him, though honestly you find it hard to at times. It’s not often he goes without some sort of eye covering, so each time you forget just how dazzling the blue of his eyes is. It's piercing in a way that makes you self conscious. 

But you look him in the eye anyway.

“Make me a promise.”

“Anything,” he breathes.

“Don’t ever die.”

“Never.”

He reaches a hand out to cup your face, tenderly swiping his thumb along your cheekbone, around the fullness of your cheeks. And when he gives you a slight pinch, you can’t help but finally smile. 

Looking back, you don’t recall that Gojo had ever said the words I’m sorry. You suppose it can’t be helped, it was his first time apologizing.

Besides, in the gentleness of his caress, in the soft kisses he plants on your lips, you can hear what he doesn't say aloud.

And in the ever so slight way you lean deeper into his touch, Gojo knows he was forgiven.

[vampyrebug-art]

[shwarbage]

imagining a yuu who was distracted playing pokemon go in the great year of 2016, gets hit by a car, dies, and gets sent to twisted wonderland

[shwarbage]

in the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps toniiighhttt

[shwarbage]

hisoka scribbles from a scant memory

[wopmia]

I'm not affraid of you now

A silent legacy

[shwarbage]

never take a clear nose for granted ! - a twst sickfic (part 3)

synopsis: you fall ill and grim can't keep his big mouth shut. friends visit, but you don't mind. at least they're bringing get-well gifts.

characters: grim, azul, jade, floyd, jamil, kalim

tags: sickfic, fluff, hurt/comfort, humor, nrc shenanigans, gn!reader, yuu!reader

wc: 2.5k

a/n: when ur in a useless competition and crowley never shows up bc he's useless

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

You hadn't noticed anything different the next morning. You had gotten up with your head heavy, brushed your teeth, failed to blow your nose twice, and gone down to eat some breakfast.

During yesterday’s fit (which was extremely embarrassing), Grim had left late last night and returned with instant oatmeal bought with his own money. Upon his return, he bumped into Leona, who offered him no explanation as to why he was there and left with his chess set under his arms. 

Your throat feels a bit strange as you swallow the warm oats. But then again, all your symptoms have been a series of mixed signals so this isn't too unusual. 

Ramshackle house is eerily quiet; you haven’t spoken a single word since you awoke as Grim had stirred and left sometime early in the morning. To go to classes or to skip and hang out at Heartslabyul, you aren’t too sure. It was a groggy start and you are glad for no distractions because you really need to start reviewing your (Ace and Deuce’s) notes.

The crisp morning air whipped up a sharp, entirely uninviting breeze so you abandon your plans to study outside and retreat back to the heat of your bed (so much for a half-breath of fresh air!). It’s a little boring, sitting in the same spot for hours on end, even with the occasional walk around the house. A change of scenery would be nice but what else could you do?

Your room had racked up a considerable amount of clutter. You are in no mood to pick clothes up off the ground or take used bowls and mugs to the kitchen, which have been accumulating so much you could barely see the wood of the nightstand.

Water in a mug bleeds a warm comfort into one of your hands. Normally there would be ginger and some lemon slices in there but Ramshackle does not have such luxuries. Hot water will do.

The other hand was sacrificed to the cold, holding up Deuce’s notebook close so you could decipher his handwriting. The doodles in the margins keep your peripheral vision company as you try to recall how frog slime interacts with blood without glancing at the written word.

Frog slime…frog slime…

You rack your brain hard trying to remember its properties but all you can remember is how during that lesson you had to pull Grim, who was definitely not trying to drink it, away from the green substance. Which would only be helpful if the exam was about reasons why Grim should not be left unattended without adult supervision. 

Suddenly, you hear the unmistakable sound of the door being kicked open. And a loud, guttural shriek of joy echoes throughout the decrepit house. 

“SHRRRIMMMMMPPYYYYY!”

Oh no.

Ramshackle house itself shudders, not prepared for the chaos it was about to face. You shudder too, knowing your study plans are crumbling right before your very eyes. 

That voice, that barrage of footsteps, could only belong to one person.

Floyd Leech bursts into the bedroom without so much as a knock, sprints up towards the bed in two long strides and leaps on top of it, landing right on you, wide-eyed and wholly unprepared. 

“ARGHHHH! FLOYD GET OFF ME!” 

Is what you intended to say, however all you could manage was a strange screech. A jolt of pain shoots through your throat and you realize something terrible has happened.

“Little Shrimpy, I missed cha!” Floyd giggles and makes no effort to move. He then lowers his voice and asks, “You’re not avoiding me are you?” quite seriously. You shake your head vigorously.

Jade’s voice is velvet as he greets you with his hand on his chest from afar, and immediately steps aside to make room for his housewarden.

“My, my,” Azul surveys the room. “What do we have here?”

You try to speak again from beneath Floyd, though it’s up for debate whether or not Azul and Jade could understand you. Floyd’s weight presses against you and you swear you could feel the oxygen leaving your body, lungs squeezing out every molecule. Which is definitely not helping the whole losing-your-voice thing.

You flounder, trying to worm your way through his limbs, to no avail. Jade seems to get the gist of the situation first though because Azul heaves a heavy sigh and begins monologuing. 

“Well, when I heard the rumors that our dearest Prefect has been feeling under the weather as of late, I thought it natural to pay a visit! Truly, I had hoped the rumors were simply that, but…” Azul’s eyes dart around the messy room again and land on the notebook in your hands. He smirks. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“If I may, Azul,” Jade gives a smile that is less than comforting when you fail to respond. “I believe our dear Prefect has lost their voice this morning.”

Floyd sits up immediately. “Aha ha! No way Shrimpy, you must be pullin’ our tails!”

You shake your head.

A mysterious illness, an untidy room, a desperate cram, and no voice? An all-too-familiar, dangerous glint in Azul’s eyes forms. 

All you could do was shake your head quickly, denying whatever it is Azul is offering before he even has a chance to open his mouth. Taking into account the circumstances and the current company, today was the absolute worst day to lose such a vital thing. 

Azul continues as if he hadn't seen, “A deal could be struck here, you know? One that will greatly benefit you, considering your… situation.”

“Allow us to assist you,” Jade says.

If the way all three Octavinelle students are looking at you is any indication as to how favorable the offer would be, you would rather eat Jack’s cactus and defecate needles for the rest of the day than take him up on it.

You mouth a “No, thank you” and Azul is quick to redirect. “Then, on behalf of the Mosto Lounge, may we interest you in this coupon? Consider it a care gesture.”

Reaching for the card Azul extends, you scan it over.

Good for one (1) free Mostro Lounge special drink!

“There’s a few excellent herbal beverages on the current menu that I’m sure would be to your liking,” Jade comments. 

Floyd pipes up. “I didn’t like ‘em!” He sticks his tongue out and makes a gag gesture that would surely be bad for business. Azul gives him a look.

That sounds…really nice actually.

Nice? Wait a second.

You squint to read the fine print at the bottom: This coupon is valid until the end of the month.

“EXPIRES AT THE END OF THE MONTH? THAT’S IN FOUR DAYS!” You mean to say, but your voice is fried from all your sobbing yesterday and your illness so you can’t manage more than a squeak and a look of resignation. The likelihood that you would feel better by then is slim, which is terribly tragic because a free drink sounds fantastic right now.

You eye your mug of lukewarm water and sigh.

During Heartlabyul’s visit, you had the idea to ask Crewel to brew some kind of potion to alleviate your symptoms and give you energy. But upon further reflection and essential input from Cater, that was a lousy idea because Crewel would probably have the bright and unfortunate idea of making you brew it yourself for “training purposes.”

You do not fancy tempting death with a dance or, worse yet, risk permanent transfiguration. When you do finally find a way back home, reuniting with your parents as a dormouse is severely disadvantageous.

Assuming Grim doesn’t eat you first.

And, of course, Crowley has been strangely silent and unreachable since you fell ill. There goes the plan of asking the Headmage for help. So much for magnanimity and unparalleled benevolence…

You raise an eyebrow from above the coupon. Azul shrugs, Floyd gives a cheery “You’re welcome!” and from his place in the corner, Jade offers a morbid “You should visit as soon as you can. After all, all things must expire eventually.” 

He eyes you in such a way that sends a shiver reverberating through your spine. 

The three guests leave as quickly as they came, door slamming shut behind them. You think it may be time to rethink your open-door policy, because at this rate you won’t have a door anymore.

Jade’s last words echo in your mind.

Expire eventually…expire eventually…expire eventually…

You pull the cover closer to your chest. You are not going to expire.

✦ 𓆣 ✦

Of course, when Grim returns, he is not alone.

Nope, you cannot have a single evening where you are alone in Ramshackle and actually being productive. Ace and Deuce’s notebooks have been abandoned on your dresser, keeping Jack’s cactus gift company. 

Even wearing masks, you can tell Jamil is not pleased with the turn of events. His eyebrows are furrowed together in the slightest way, his arms are crossed, and he is looking at Kalim as if fearing he is going to catch whatever ailment you're affected with through just three seconds of eye contact.

A tug on the back of Kalim’s shirt brings the boy back to where Jamil is standing, on the opposite side of the room. Better safe than sorry; the last thing Jamil wants is for Kalim to get sick. 

“Hey, how are you? It’s been so, so long since I’ve seen you and I was wondering if you finally found a way to get back home and left without saying goodbye, but then we bumped into Grim and he told us you were super sick!”

Kalim’s words tumble one after another, and you can’t help but think to yourself how Kalim’s presence is refreshing in every way. Honest and genuine and true. 

“Well we wanted to check up on you to make sure you’re not dying, because Grim said it was really serious…”

You make a mental note to have a chat with Grim later because, for the fifth time, you are not dying.

Or expiring.

You really wish you could return Kalim’s energy, but all you can do in the moment is frown, look between Kalim and Jamil, and point at your throat.

“You lost your voice?” Jamil asks. 

You nod and try to speak again, but your “yes” is hoarse and charred. It was as if your throat was igneous rock, with its cracks and grooves and residuous heat emanating from dried lava. It hurt to speak, and it hurt more to see the expressions on the boys’ faces. 

“That really…sucks.”

“Yeah you sound horrible.”

“Can we get you anything?” Kalim asks, looking around as if the answer was in the room. Jamil’s eyes also sweep over the area but he doesn’t wait for an answer, already beginning to pick up the various cups and plates on the dresser and nightstand.

“Oooh, let me help too!” 

Jamil gives him a resounding no and follows it up with a “Just-just don’t touch anything” upon seeing the sorrowful expression on Kalim’s face.

I don’t need any help. It’s alright. Thank you but I’ll manage.

Words of protest are out of your reach and all you can do is watch helplessly as Jamil walks about the room and cleans what he can. Bickering ensues when Jamil heads to the kitchen and Kalim follows.

Kalim reappears in your room shortly after, looking somewhat forlorn.

He recovers immediately upon seeing your face, and begins to regale the minutiae of student life since your absence. You wrestles with your initial FOMO and eventually find a unique comfort in Kalim’s tales. 

Jamil returns as Kalim begins telling you how he was going to throw a party this weekend.

“Oh, but I want you to go! Maybe I should postpone it another few days…”

“Here! I made you some tea,” Jamil interjects loudly, diverting Kalim’s attention from a possible postponement because that would be more work. And Jamil already arranged for the animals to come in this weekend.

He hands you one mug and Kalim another. Jamil’s mug is set on the dresser. The aroma is new to you, and you takes a tentative sip. The liquid is hot on your tongue, but the slight natural sweetness makes up for it.

“It’s Anise tea,” he explains. “It’s good for you, full of antioxidants. Also, not caffeinated.”

Kalim perks up. “My favorite! I always drink it whenever I have tummy aches.”

“This is really good, thank you!” You try your best to articulate, but your throat burns and it’s not because of the steaming tea.

“Don’t talk,” Jamil commands.

Your attempt is swiftly struck down. For a fraction of a second, you think it is because of his unique magic and then realize it was just his direct tone and also the fact that you couldn’t speak even if you wanted to.

You and Jamil listen to Kalim’s stories as he continues, thankfully moving past the party topic. You in your bed, head propped against a pillow. Kalim resting on the foot of the bed, much to Jamil’s dismay. And Jamil sitting on a chair he had pulled out beside Kalim. They each sip from their respective cup. The tea has cooled to a gentle temperature; warm, but not scalding. A soft kiss presses your lips every time you lift the mug.

Kalim twines stories together effortlessly, each separate one braided into the other as if it were always intended as one big story. Even the most mundane things became of vital importance when he spoke of them. His hands move wildly and each gesture makes each detail all the more thrilling.

Heartslabyul’s visit was loud and boisterous, thoughtful friends keeping you company. Savanaclaw, relaxed, giving you what you need in the moment. Octavinelle, a little scary. Your ribs still hurt from where Floyd’s elbow jabbed, but you did score a coupon you were sure Azul made just for you. Where one might expect ulterior motives, you found a strange and rare kindness shifting just below.

But Scarabia’s visit was comforting. You needn’t talk. You needn’t entertain, nor argue. You could just listen. And listen you did, until all the tea had been sipped and all the stories spoken. 

The mug was promptly plucked from your hands (you had learned not to object), washed, and put to dry. Jamil gives you directions on how to make the tea again, placing a small container of Anise seeds on the dresser.

You mouth a “thank you” in his direction, and hoped it would convey how truly grateful you are. Jamil gives a brief smile he was not quick enough to catch and Kalim beams.

The pair leaves in the late evening, but a lingering and fulfilling feeling remains.

Not too long after, Grim returns. As it turns out, he did go to Heartslabyul and he came back with physical evidence in the form of another one of Trey’s pots. Not broth this time, but a zucchini soup. From the Botanical Garden, Grim relays.

“Oh yeah, I bumped inta Epel on my way back and–”

You whip your head around to see Grim getting comfortable on your bed. You're looking him right in the eye, expression more serious than he had ever seen before.

“If you tell anyone else I’m sick I’ll—” Your voice is practically gone, but you makes sure to enunciate every single word. “I’ll kill you.”

But it doesn’t sound like a threat. 

Grim thinks that, if anything, you are closer to death’s door right now than anyone.