Author's Note: For my favorite Husk x Reader, HuskerDust x Reader and just over all my favorite writer at the time being, @hazbinshusk. One sentence turned into another in hopes to distract you as you need. Enjoy this small (really small) tender moment of him just holding you sweetly. 💜
BUT everyone, feel free to cozy up to Huskie for some well deserved comfort—we all need it... 💜
I like to think that Husk is the type of man who only shows certain things about himself to certain people. Behind closed doors in the hotel, you both have vinyl record players with records that play just the instrumental version of songs. With a wing cascaded about your shoulder as you both lay in the bed you often share, you lie still against Husk's chest—an earful of his heartbeat and another of the warm music filling the room.
Husk's voice joins the melody, sharing his voice with you as he sings for you; deep, honeyed, baritone as he is the one fascinated by the sizes of your palms. The way his elongated claws curl about the smallness of your hand makes his aged heart race like it once did in his youth.
His thumb brushes over your knuckles back and forth, counting each bump of your bones. Husk can't help but find your size precious as he presses a long and tender kiss to your forehead. The notes he sings resonates through your skull right down to your soul.
It is moments like these that make Husk wonder if he'd gotten lucky or somehow he'd stolen a piece of heaven into his suite. As you bury your face into his tuft of thick fur, he holds you closer to himself. There was no way he was going to let this little happiness go.
Lance takes one short look at Lorelai as she throws the backpack on the floor next to the dinner table in his living room, and it tells him all he needs to know.
“You’re not sick again, are you?”
Lorelai blinks at him for a few moments, bleary and tired, and Lance is half–convinced that he’ll need to spring out of his seat and catch her in the next few seconds when Lorelai clears her throat and shakes her head.
“Absolutely fuckin’ not.” She says, and then contradicts herself in the worst way by almost sneezing her brains out. Right into her elbow, and Lance gets brutally reminded to never borrow any of her clothes again, no matter how comfy they are. “Where did you get that idea from?”
“... No reason.” He lies through his teeth, and watches Lorelai struggle with the zipper of her backpack. “Maybe you want to lay down?”
“I’m not a baby, Lancelot, I don’t need a—” an absolutely monstrous sneeze, “nap.”
“Yeah.”
Lorelai sneezes, then yawns, and then barks out a strange combination of another yawn mixed with a cough. She almost slumps over his dinner table, but hauls herself up once again to dive into her backpack, looking like a ragdoll being thrown around with telepathy.
“Maybe—” He puts one hand on her bare arm, and Lorelai hisses. Like a wild cat with rabies.
“Jesus, Lance! Give a girl a warning before you come with your freaky cold hand, will you?”
Lance opens his mouth to defend himself, what the hell, Lorelai. Then he remembers that trying to fight with a sick Lorelai is absolutely useless, and resumes his work to straight up pick her up from the chair and put her on the nearest flat, comfy surface.
“Wha—” She blinks, but once her head hits Lance’s covered collarbone, all signs of consciousness disappear. Her cheek rests on his shoulder, smacked like she’s already fallen asleep, and he only knows that she’s awake by her pattern of breathing — too fast for usual asleep–Lorelai speed. Otherwise, she’s completely limp, snoring through her clogged nose, and Lance already tenses up knowing how bad her colds can get.
He sets her down on his bed as gently as he possibly can, but she still stirs when he tears her already–sweaty face off his sweater.
Lorelai stares at him with wide, dark eyes for a few moments before he awkwardly rattles off,
“Do you need something?”
Her nose scrunches up, and she yawns again, curling up in his goddamn Arthur and the Invisibles blanket.
“Nah.” She pulls the corner of the blanket higher, up to her face, but opens her eyes again. The way she looks reminds Lance of when they were younger, maybe in elementary school, and his mom would let her stay over for weeks when her dad worked across the country just to keep them afloat. “Actually, can y’do your work here?”
Oh. Of course.
(He’d run to the end of Earth for her.)
“Sure thing.”
Lorelai snorts through the phlegm in her throat. “St’p talkin’ like my dad.”
“Oh, screw you too.” He says with a bite of a smile in his voice, and when he leaves the room to collect his homework, he swears he can hear Lorelai grumbling affectionately, something about her father and him being the same person in different fonts.
He’d give his life up for her. Blanket, bed, free time and probably his own health aren’t that much.
"Love Is Not Divided By Gender Or Sexual Orientation" | A Message from "Motherland: Fort Salem"
Taylor Hickson (Raelle Collar) and Amalia Holm (Scylla Ramshorn) from Freeform's new show "Motherland: Fort Salem" share a message of love and support for the LGBTQ+ community.
About Motherland: Fort Salem:
https://twitter.com/Motherland
https://freeform.go.com/news/clips/mo...
About It Gets Better Project:
The It Gets Better Project exists to uplift, empower, and connect LGBTQ+ youth around the globe.
On the market
For sale
1 bedroom flat
Hallfield Estate
London W2
£405,000
Following the Second World War, Paddington underwent a series of rehabilitation and renewal programmes. The decision to redevelop the partially bombed site between Gloucester Terrace and Inverness Terrace was taken by the Metropolitan Borough of Paddington in 1947.
The Borough invited several architects to prepare designs for a new estate, initially called Bishops Bridge Road Housing Estate. The original design for the estate was conceived by Tecton but when the firm split, it was executed by two of its members, Lyndsay Drake and Sir Denys Lasdun.
This one bedroom flat, which is on the eight floor, is pretty much in original condition, including the kitchen which is great to see. Rectangular in plan, there is a double bedroom and living room to the south side, and the bathroom and kitchen facing north.
View the listing here.
If I only could make a deal with God-
Get him to swap our places.
It always snows here. Here, below the ground where sunlight doesn’t touch the sandy soil anymore.
Sage would beg to differ.
Sage has met the sun- fiery and bright and sharp enough to make you turn away, blinking the flashes of color from your vision. Loud without sound; burning hot and comfortably warm all at once.
And, eventually destined to end in a supernova of bright, bright red.
And the sun’s name was Paprika- bitter and tart on the tongue like red pepper, like old liqour from basement stills; sharp like the first breath of Snowdin’s air after a night curled under heavy duvets.
And the sun did touch the dry earth here- with quick steps like a soldier’s march, cutting a path through the heavy snow and natural stillness of a realm of monsters. In the sharp bark of a voice and the roll of empty eyes lined in cosmetic paint- to turn sockets into caverns of unspoken words and unacknowledged emotion, of hiding places when the frozen stillness drifted down from a strange sky.
It’s snowing again.
And Sage feels it touch his skull and leak down in frozen trails as it melts; he swears to himself its simply the snow. It’s the snow, the sky is crying it’s frozen teardrops, not him.
He does not cry, anymore.
He is lying, but there’s no one left to call him on it. His steps are heavy, and when he falls to his knees he blames his untied boots. And his ribcage is rattling, but not from the cold, and his hands are shaking so hard he can see the gaps in his wrists.
And Paprika is spread upon the snow like a supernova’s remnants- like a star nursery painted in blacks and golds and so much red. And Sage wishes, prays to whatever God exists for his kind that it’s blood, that its wine like a dropped sacrament; but he knows it isn’t.
He knows it’s a tattered sash-scarf. He knows its a torn uniform and he knows beyond a doubt that the little stars dotting that emptiness are buttons and decor befitting one who knew violence untamed. And he knows that amongst the cloth scattered he will find dust, dust and bonechips like lost comets and star nurseries but that doesn’t make it hurt less.
And then Paprika’s head turns to him, smiling with missing and chipped fangs and one eye socket split like torn silk.
“There you are.”
And Sage nods, the snowmelt on his face flowing faster as the wind picks up and tugs at the red draped over white powder.
“I was... hoping it... would be you.”, is breathed out in wisps of steam and gravedust.
“Of course it’s me, babe.”
“It was...It was bound to happen, you know.”, whispered Paprika, his bitter smile faltering, “I have not lived gently.”
“None of us have, P’rika, come one, let’s get you home, I gotta-”
“There is no getting me home, Love.”
“There’s always home babe, c’mon-”
“I have no legs, Sage. They were the first things to give out during the attack.”, crooned Paprika, “I have only half a cage left, the rest is all dust.”
Sage hung his head, leaning to let his head rest against Paprika’s shoulder. A shaky arm goes around sweater-padded shoulders and gives a weak squeeze of failing strength and goodbyes unsaid.
“Please, darling, don’t cry for me. Don’t cry.”, is whispered as Sage coughs hoarsely, “Never cry for me, no more... tears now....”
The arm drops, and Sage swears it shatters the world like glass. A last drip of steam escapes a fanged mouth and Paprika begins to crumble- the rest of him long since fallen to dust with his last comforts to Sage. The scars on the bone collapse first first slowly and then like a tidal wave of erasure and all that’s left is that red, red scarf in the snow.
The wind, oh the wind picks up and carries away the remnants of sunshine in its claws and Sage scrambles to his feet with a howl-
“NO!”
But all his shaking fingers close on is red. Red silk, red satin, red softness.
It never rains in Snowdin.
Because, like its lone son and scribe of tragedy, it has grown so used to death that it has all gone so cold.
