A is down with a miserably sneezy, runny head cold. they're laying on B, hugging them for their warmth while sniffling liquidly. their head is turned towards the TV, their eyes sleepily blinking and their cheeks rosy from the slight temperature they're running. B is petting and toying with their hair now and again while playing A's comfort video game to help them feel at least a little better. whenever A stifles a sneeze, trying not to do so on their partner, their nose runs even more. each time B just lets the character idle in the game, presses a kiss to the top of A's head, and puts a tissue in their hand. B knows that eventually they're going to catch this cold, but they can't help but to comfort A like this.
Requesting Reader pampering Dan Heng (especially in his Imbibitor Lunae form). 🙏 Washing and brushing his hair, drawing a bath for him after the shower, helping Pom-Pom cook healthy meals for him, leaving snacks and drinks for him at the door outside of the archives (and telling March to ask first before taking any bc March’s room is right next to the archives lol), reminding him once in a while to drink water and stretch, massaging his back and neck, making sure the temperature in the archives isn’t too warm or cold—
I just really need Dan Heng to be pampered, he deserves it.
As the Lotus Floats, So Shall You
Summary: You quietly care for Dan Heng, particularly in his Imbibitor Lunae form. You take the time to pamper him, washing and brushing his long hair, preparing his bath, cooking healthy meals, and offering gentle reminders to care for himself. Despite his reserved nature and the weight of his past, Dan Heng allows himself to be cared for, slowly finding comfort in your presence and your attentive gestures.
Tags: Dan Heng IL x Reader, Fluff, Comfort, Soft Caretaking, Slow Burn, Quiet Devotion, Light Domestic.
Dan Heng was always difficult to care for—not because he rejected kindness, but because he often didn’t know how to receive it. In his Imbibitor Lunae form, the weight of past lives pressed heavier on his shoulders, making him even more withdrawn, more hesitant to accept the warmth you so willingly offered. But that never stopped you from trying.
It started small. A cup of tea left outside the archives, a careful arrangement of his favorite snacks placed neatly beside it. You made sure to leave a note—March, please ask before taking. Because while you adored her, you also knew her appetite for anything remotely edible was insatiable. Dan Heng never said anything about the offerings, but you noticed how they always disappeared by morning, the cup emptied, the snacks gone.
Then came the gentle reminders. Drink water. Stretch your legs. The stars will still be there if you take a break. Sometimes, you caught him actually following your advice, rolling his shoulders with a sigh as he took slow sips of water. Other times, he merely glanced at you with that unreadable expression of his—fond, if you dared to hope—before returning to his studies.
But tonight, you were taking things a step further.
Dan Heng sat at the edge of his bed, his long still damp from his shower. His horns glowed faintly in the dim light of the archives, curling elegantly above his head. He looked ethereal, otherworldly, but also exhausted.
“You don’t have to fuss over me,” he murmured, even as you settled behind him, fingers threading through his hair with practiced ease.
“I know,” you said simply, reaching for the brush. “But I want to.”
He let out a quiet sigh but didn’t protest further, leaning slightly into your touch as you worked through the tangles. His hair was silk beneath your fingertips, heavy with the scent of lotus and green tea—something you had picked for him, knowing how much he preferred subtle, soothing fragrances.
Minutes passed in comfortable silence. You brushed with slow, deliberate strokes, making sure to be gentle around his horns. Dan Heng’s shoulders gradually relaxed, tension melting away as you worked.
“You’re warm,” he admitted after a while, voice quiet, almost drowsy.
You smiled. “Is the temperature in here okay? I can adjust it if it’s too cold.”
“It’s fine.” A pause. “You always make sure of that.”
The admission sent warmth curling in your chest, but you didn’t dwell on it. Instead, you set the brush aside, fingers moving to massage the knots in his neck. He tensed briefly at the first touch, then sighed, his head tilting slightly as he allowed himself to relax under your care.
“Turn around,” you coaxed gently.
Dan Heng hesitated but obeyed, shifting so that he faced you, his eyes half-lidded with weariness. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze held something soft, something vulnerable that he rarely let show.
You reached for a towel, carefully dabbing at the ends of his hair before moving to his horns, wiping away any lingering moisture with delicate precision. Your fingers brushed against the smooth, translucent surface, and Dan Heng exhaled sharply, eyes flickering shut for a brief moment.
“Sensitive?” you asked.
“A little.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
You softened your touch, mindful of the sensation. When you finished, you stood, moving toward the small bath you had prepared for him earlier. The water was just the right temperature, infused with calming herbs meant to ease fatigue.
“Come on,” you said, offering him your hand. “It’s ready.”
Dan Heng eyed you for a long moment before exhaling softly. He took your hand, fingers cool against your palm, and allowed you to guide him toward the bath. He didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t have to. The way he looked at you—the way he let himself be cared for—was more than enough.
And when you left a final note by the archives later that night, reminding him to rest well, you knew he would see it. Just as you knew, without a doubt, that he would take it to heart.
when characters are too weak or exhausted to speak… they can hear their loved ones’ hushed voices or the medical team next to them, but they just don’t have the strength to reply. turning their head towards them is nearly more effort than they can manage, but they try anyways. someone squeezes their hand, and they gather up the last of their strength to squeeze back, barely noticeable but just enough to let them know they’re still with them
It's been a while, so you want to see how your poor sickie's doing. You quietly enter their bedroom. When you cast your gaze over at the bed it looks as though there's just a massive heap of blankets. However, that heap is your poor sickie, swaddled up and looking like they're in a cocoon. You see the mass shudder slightly. No doubt your poor sickie is still suffering with the chills. They'd been running a temperature of around 101.8 before you'd soothed them to sleep. Seeing them shiver, you move to get a closer look at them. Undoubtedly, their cheeks are still flushed, and beads of sweat dot their furrowed brows. You tentatively press the back of your fingers to their rosy cheeks. Sure enough, they still feel pretty warm. As quietly as possible, you reach for the infrared thermometer as you don't wish to rouse them from their slumber by making them take the oral thermometer. You shush the thermometer as it beeps when you turn it on as though it can heed your warning. You glance worriedly over at your sickie, but they're still dead to the world. You exhale with relief and move in carefully so that you can get a read on their temperature. The thermometer beeps thrice, indicating that it's picked up an alarming temperature. You feel your heart sink as you flip the monitor around so that you can read its verdict. You feel a little relief when you see that your sickie's temperature has at least gone down to 100.6. Still much too high for your liking, but you're so relieved that the fever reducer seemed to have helped a little. You gingerly retrieve the now tepid washcloth from their forehead and pad over to the bathroom with it, intending to run it under the coolest water possible before placing it back on their forehead. You feel worry twist your heart as you wring out the sodden cloth. When you return to your sickie's side and tentatively replace the washcloth, you can't help but smile as you see their sleeping expression ease. You know that they're absolutely loving that cool touch to their poor, fiery head. You brush their slightly dampened hairs away so that you can press a kiss to their forehead. You pause to take a moment to pet their brows with your thumb, affectionately stroking the fine little hairs.
You cast a glance at what's supposed to be your side of the bed. You see that it's occupied with several of the things you brought to your sickie. Their laptop and a novel are laying on the mattress, and you grin as you realize that your sickie looks like they're almost cuddling the box of tissues you gave them earlier as though it were a beloved teddy bear. When you look over at the bedside wastebasket and see it practically overflowing with used tissues you make a mental note to bring them a fresh box soon. Their poor nose has been much too runny, and their sneezes and blows have been obliterating the poor tissues that have had to stand up to snotty storm. On the nightstand rests a tray you'd brought them earlier. You see that they failed to finish both their tea and soup. They'd practically fallen asleep hovered over their mug earlier, so you'd moved it to safety so that it wouldn't fall and shatter and hurt them. As for the soup, their appetite has appeared to be rather weak ever since they got sick. You think to yourself that maybe you should rely on BRAT diet essentials instead since they'd likely be easier on your sickie. Maybe I'll cook some rice in chicken broth and add a little of the broth overtop. Maybe I'll add in some garlic to help them, too you muse as you collect the half-eaten bowl of soup. When they wake you'll ask them if they're hungry. If they are you'll make that for them along with a fresh mug of tea.
For now you choose to just sit at their bedside with a book. You wonder if maybe they'd like to be read to when they wake. They always want to hear your voice whenever they're not feeling well, after all. Plus, a distraction might be just what the doctor ordered.
HIHI!!! I was looking through your masterlist and re-read your felix sick fic and to start, IM IN LOVE 💜 but also maybe if you're okay w/ it and are up to it, could you maybe do something like it but the sickie is Lino ?
I LAVA YOU, AND I HOPE YOURE DOING WELL >< !!
You're Not a Burden, You're Mine
🌸 pairing: MN x Sick Minho
🤍 tags: Sickfic, Stubborn Minho, Older Reader, hate for cold shower, cuddles, fluff, domestic, so soft, Minho "Is fine", Mn say otherwise, grumpy Minho with a fever, Minho feeling like a burden if you squint
📝note: this is the kind of love that makes your chest warm. no angst. just feelings. Toothrotting fluff
Mnie <3: I'm coming over
Grumpy Cat: But you don't have to
Mnie <3: I'm going to anyway
Grumpy Cat: It's just a small fever, I'm fine, I can still function
Mnie <3: What's your temp? read
Mnie <3: Minie? read
Mnie <3: Min? read
Mnie <3: I swear to everything, Min, you better not be above 100. read
“Min, 101?! You’re not functioning at all.”
Mn stood in the middle of Minho’s living room, coat still on, grocery bag looped in one hand, staring at his flushed, sleepy-looking boyfriend curled up on the couch like he hadn’t just tried to lie via text and say it was “just a little fever.”
Minho sat slouched in the corner of the couch, one leg bent underneath him, the other pulled up at the knee, arm lazily draped over it. His oversized hoodie was rumpled and clinging slightly to his sweat-slick skin, and there were deep pink splotches high on his cheeks. His hair looked like he’d tried to fix it and given up halfway through.
“Hi,” he said weakly, like he hadn’t just ignored Mn’s last text and then tried to sit upright like he wasn’t clearly about to fall sideways.
Mn exhaled slowly. He didn’t drop the bag, he set it down gently. Didn’t scold. Just crouched in front of the couch and rested both hands on either side of Minho’s knee.
“Don’t give me that ‘hi.’” He kept his voice soft. “You left me on read.”
Minho sighed and leaned his cheek against the couch cushion behind him. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
“You said that,” Mn murmured, brushing his hand up Minho’s shin. “I worried anyway. And now I’m here. You knew I’d come.”
Minho didn’t answer. His lashes fluttered, and his eyes drifted from Mn’s face to the hoodie Mn was wearing, one of his own, actually. Mn always wore Minho’s clothes when he was worried. Some kind of anchor, maybe. Or just something to feel closer.
“You look nice in that,” Minho mumbled, smiling faintly.
Mn’s heart broke a little. “You’re trying to flirt your way out of care again.”
Minho gave him a shrug, the smallest lift of one shoulder. “Worth a shot.”
“Not even close,” Mn said, standing. “Come on. We’re not doing this here. You need meds, water, a fresh towel, and someone to glue you to the bed so you don’t pass out sitting like that.”
“I’m comfy-” Minho tried to argue, but Mn was already crouched again, gently tugging Minho’s arm over his shoulder.
“Nope. Up. Bed. Now.”
To his surprise, Minho gave in with only a bit of grumbling, though the moment he stood, he wobbled. Mn caught him instantly, arms firm around his waist, guiding him toward the bedroom with a quiet hum.
“You’re burning up,” Mn murmured into Minho’s hair. “You should’ve called me earlier.”
“You had a long shift.”
“You’re more important.”
Minho didn’t reply to that, but Mn could feel the way he leaned heavier into him after hearing it, like a silent admission of guilt and need all at once.
In Minho's room, the bed was already unmade, messy and tangled like Minho had tried to nap and just couldn't settle. Mn helped him down gently, then busied himself moving around the room. Opening a window just a crack for air, setting a fresh glass of water on the nightstand, and padding back in with the grocery bag and medicine.
Minho watched him the whole time, eyes half-lidded and warm in a fevered kind of way.
“You really did all that for me?” he asked, voice hoarse.
Mn glanced back, unwrapping a cool strip of medicated fever patch. “Of course I did.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned in, brushing Minho’s hair back with one hand as he smoothed the patch across his forehead. Minho winced but didn’t pull away. If anything, his fingers ghosted toward Mn’s wrist and stayed there.
“You never complain,” Minho murmured, “Even when I make it hard to help me.”
Mn turned his hand to curl his fingers around Minho’s. “You don’t make it hard. You make it Minho, which is to say, you’re fiercely independent, annoyingly stubborn, and bad at texting when you’re clearly dying.”
That got a weak chuckle, which turned into a groan. Mn helped him sip water right after, thumb brushing his bottom lip when he wiped it.
“You gonna stay?” Minho asked, looking up at him through heavy lashes.
Mn smiled. “You think I’m going anywhere while you look like a feverish dumpling?”
“I could be fine in a few hours…”
Mn stood again, peeled off his hoodie, and climbed into bed beside him. “And I’ll be right here when you’re better too.”
Minho blinked at him as Mn tugged the blanket up, gently guiding Minho down until his cheek rested on Mn’s chest. He didn’t resist. If anything, he melted. Slow and sluggish, his hand finding Mn’s waist, his breath a warm puff against Mn’s shirt.
Mn held him close, arm wrapped fully around his back, hand resting between Minho’s shoulder blades with slow, steady strokes.
“This okay?” Mn whispered.
Minho nodded, almost sleepy now. “You’re warm. Soft.”
“You’re clingy when you’re sick.”
“You like it.”
Mn smiled into Minho’s hair. “Yeah. I do.”
Later, when Minho dozed off and Mn stayed awake rubbing soothing circles over his back, he whispered into the quiet room, “Next time, just tell me, okay?”
Minho didn’t answer but the way he curled in tighter, arm hooking around Mn’s waist, said enough.
And Mn didn’t move for hours. Because this was where he belonged, curled around someone who fought so hard to seem strong, but in Mn’s arms, could finally just be.
A few hours later, Mn blinked awake.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, not really. But with Minho tucked against him, wrapped up so sweetly in his arms and breathing slow, Mn’s body had betrayed him. It was only supposed to be for a moment. A blink. A rest.
What woke him was the heat.
He shifted slightly, frowning as his skin met Minho’s and found it scorching. Not warm, hot, like Minho’s entire body had become a furnace pressed against him.
“Min…” Mn sat up quickly, gently easing Minho’s head off his chest. The moment he did, Minho whimpered and furrowed his brow, curling inward.
“Shh, shh,” Mn hushed, brushing hair from his forehead. “Baby, I just need to check-”
He reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the thermometer. When he pressed it under Minho’s arm, he quietly counted the seconds with a tight jaw. Minho stirred, blinking open, sweat clinging to his brow, neck damp.
“Mn-hyung?” His voice was groggy, slurred. “Why’s it so hot…?”
The thermometer beeped. Mn looked down.
102.4.
His stomach twisted. “Shit.”
Minho blinked again, dazed. “Is that bad?”
“You’re boiling, love,” Mn said gently, already shifting into action. “I’m getting you up. We need to cool you down.”
“I don’t- wanna move-”
“I know. I know you don’t,” Mn said, helping Minho sit up. “But this fever’s not coming down with meds alone.”
Minho groaned, slumping against him, forehead buried into Mn’s shoulder. “Not the cold shower. I hate the cold shower…” Minho whined and honestly it was so cute, Mn had to bite back a smile
Mn chuckled softly and kissed his temple. “You hate it until you’re in it, and then suddenly you’re praising the cold gods.”
“I’ll whine the entire time.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Getting Minho to the bathroom took patience...and strength. He wobbled, swayed, groaned like a cranky ghost every few steps. Mn kept one hand around his waist, the other guiding Minho’s head against his shoulder when he leaned too far. Once they were in the bathroom, Mn sat him on the closed toilet seat and pulled his own shirt off before helping Minho out of his hoodie.
“Still with me?” Mn asked softly.
Minho gave a weak nod. “Only cause I like seeing you shirtless.”
Mn barked out a laugh, relieved that even this sick, Minho could still flirt.
“Try not to pass out while you’re admiring me, alright?”
“Can’t promise.”
Mn got the shower going. Cold but not freezing. Cool enough to fight the fever without shocking his system. He peeled off the rest of Minho’s clothes with care, kissing his knuckles every time he helped him lift his arms or step out of something.
Then, they stepped in together.
Minho made a pitiful noise when the water hit him. “You’re trying to kill me.”
Mn wrapped his arms around him from behind, pressing cool kisses to the side of his neck. “I’d never. You’re far too cute when you’re miserable.”
“You’re sadistic.”
“You’re dramatic.”
But Mn was gentle. Rubbing cool water down his back, combing fingers through his hair, whispering praise and comfort the entire time. “Just a few more minutes. You’re doing amazing, baby. I’ve got you.”
By the time they stepped out and toweled off, Minho was less flushed, more sluggish. Sleepy. Dazed. But the shivering had stopped.
Mn helped him into a fresh set of pajamas. One of Mn’s oversized T-shirts and loose sleep shorts. Mn then tucked him into the couch this time, under a fresh blanket. Then he kissed his forehead.
“I’ll be right back. Stay awake for me just a little longer, yeah?”
Minho blinked slowly. “What’re you doing?”
Mn smiled faintly. “Making you something that cured every fever of mine as a kid. Magic soup, if you must know.”
Minho didn’t argue. He didn’t even sass. Just nodded and curled into the blanket like he trusted Mn with the world.
The soup was simple, fragrant, and full of warmth. Soft rice simmered with chicken broth, a pinch of grated ginger, slivers of carrot, and a swirl of sesame oil. Mn made it exactly the way his grandmother used to, letting it simmer low and long enough to make the kitchen smell like home.
He ladled a bowl and brought it out with a quiet hum of success.
Minho was still awake. Well, barely. His eyes fluttered open when Mn crouched beside him again, cradling the bowl and spoon.
“Smells good,” Minho mumbled.
Mn sat down and pulled Minho to sit up in his lap, one arm around his back to steady him. “Tastes better. Come on.”
Minho didn’t even argue this time. He let Mn feed him slow, careful spoonfuls, lips parting automatically, face resting against Mn’s shoulder between bites.
It was quiet. Peaceful.
Only the clink of the spoon, the breath between sips, the soft hum Mn made every time Minho’s eyes drifted shut. Mn pressed his lips to Minho’s temple after each swallow, whispering things like “So good for me,” and “Almost done, love.”
When the bowl was empty, Minho made a sleepy, content noise. “That was really good.”
Mn smiled. “Want seconds?”
Minho nodded. “Later… just. Stay.”
His eyes had already fallen shut before Mn could answer.
So Mn leaned back on the couch, shifting until Minho could lie against him again, curled fully into his chest. Mn draped the blanket back over them, one hand rubbing soft circles into Minho’s back, the other running through his damp hair.
“I’ll always stay,” he whispered.
Minho didn’t answer but his hand curled into Mn’s shirt, and he sighed against his neck like he believed it.
I hope this is okay and fluffy and what you were looking for.
Whumpee’s rushed to the hospital alone and wounded. All of their possessions are gone or destroyed; even their clothes are bloodied and torn apart.
They have nothing.
They feel like nothing.
When they awaken next, caretaker nudges into the room with a bag filled with seemingly random things. A blanket, pillow, mug, a change of clothes for as soon as they’re able; all just to make them feel like a person again.
Now when they bring them a drink, It’s no paper cup. It's a mug.
“You’re… —hic— pretty hot.” Atlas slurs, looking up at the blurry shape that’s supposed to be Aveline’s face. She is dragging his useless bundle of limbs across the sidewalk, the noise and lights of the party fading into the dark distance.
He didn’t mean to get this drunk, or that’s at least what he will tell her in the morning. Right now, he finds comfort in the unpredictable swaying of the world cradling him like what he imagines a mother’s embrace would be like. Or perhaps it is the steady way Aveline is carrying him, her arms hooked under his, dragging him like a sack of flour.
The thought makes him erupt in a fit of giggles and hiccups, barely distinguishable from another.
”You’re so drunk.” Aveline laughs, and Atlas has to think back to what prompted her to say this, already forgetting his own words from seconds ago.
Ah, right. She is hot. He thinks.
He doesn’t really know, but the other guys at the party told him. They said he is lucky to have someone with her curves, her tits and ass and soft lips pay attention to him. Somehow he never noticed that those things make someone hot, whatever that is.
But really, he is lucky. But when Atlas thinks about her, he remembers her soft voice and warm touch, embracing him, protecting him. He remembers her gentle voice and her unending kindness.
He thinks about nights like this, when she sacrifices her time and fun to get him home safe, just because he couldn’t or wouldn’t stop drinking. Nights, when she holds his limp body up as he retches over a toilet or a bush or a trash can. Nights when the alcohol brings memories up instead of burying them, and she holds him when he cries. When he tries to be her Pet, and she loves him all the same.
In the end, he doesn’t truly know if this makes her hot. Really, it only stuck to his fuzzy mind because the others insisted on it.
But as he feels her arms under his, their car waiting in the distance and home being almost within his reach, he knows this is love. Maybe not what his friends know, but their own, very special love. And perhaps that makes him special too.
@augusnippets
taglist: @octopus-reactivated, @sodacreampuff, @topsheepstudent, @clickerflight, @rabass
let me know if you want to be added or removed :)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Why do we even need a watch here? This place is desolate.
Kremy was shaken out of his self-pitying thoughts by a rustling far off in the forest. He turned his head to the sound and tried to pinpoint the location.
He heard another sound to his left, the sharp snapping of a twig followed by a muttered curse.
----------------------------------------------
Kremy turned and only saw the dark blue glow of a blade before Gideon dove between them, he grits his teeth as he suppressed a yell, “Son of a bitch!”
Gideon grabbed the bandit by the collar of his shirt and punched him with the force of a freight train, sending the bandit flying off into the thick bushes outside of their camp.
Kremy stepped in front of Gideon, “Hey, are you okay? You don’t look so- Oh shit”
Gideon slumped forward, his eyes rolling back into their sockets. The second Gideon hit the ground he started violently convulsing.
---------------------------------
Carnivale Lecroux got attacked by bandits who had a cursed weapon, Gideon saves Kremy but will Kremy be able to save Gideon before he succumbs to his magical wounds?
Fandom: legends of avantris, once upon a witchlight
Pairing: Kremy Lecroux X Gideon Coal
Words: 7,8K
Language: English
Content warning: graphic depictions of violence, major character death, dissociation
