ArdentInkwell

„Oh, what's with the tears and the feeble attitude?“

About Me & This Blog

Hi, my name is Nina, I'm 20 years old, and from Germany (preferred she/they).

I'm here, because I spend way too much time daydreaming about fictional worlds and my fictional crushes シ︎

Writing has been my biggest passion for years now, but I also dabble in art and the occasional bit of poetry when inspiration strikes!

I speak German [🇩🇪] fluently, as it is my mother-tongue, although I would say so of myself that I am also pretty fluent in English [🇬🇧] as well. Additionally, I do understand a few things in French [🇨🇵] and also Spanish [🇪🇦], although I don't speak either fluently.

I've been writing since I was 11 years old, and I've definitely gotten better since, which eventually brought me to writing on AO3 and WattPad.

Unfortunately, up to this day I haven't yet published anything of greater consistence on either of those sites, as I display most of my short writings here on Tumblr ♡︎

What You’ll Find Here

Me personally, I tend to write mostly fluff and slice of life, hurt/comfort, or angst (or the occasional crack fic). At some point I might attempt writing NSFW, although it's definitely not my main content <3

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This is a fun space first and foremost. I’m here to share my writing, connect with fellow fans, and enjoy the mess that is my very blog... ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

lf you enjoy what I make, thank you so much for being here, cause it means a lot. And if you're just lurking, that’s cool too <3

╰☆╮Thank You for Stopping By!╭☆╯

its been getting so cold recently (especially where i live) and the weather change has been messing with my immune system. i rarely ever get sick but when i do it’s BAD! Coughing, sneezing, fever, all of that but almost like hospital level bad!

so we all know vanitas is a doctor, mainly one who specializes in vampires, but what if his s/o (who rarely ever gets sick) suddenly fell ill? but instead of just your average person’s sickness, they get terribly ill! you can do a fic or headcanons, i’m not picky!

Arrête de Parler 🍯

Fandom: The Case Study of Vanitas

Pairing: Vanitas x GN!Reader

Theme/Type + TW: Hurt/Comfort Oneshot + descriptive writing regarding illness, ooc Vanitas...

RS: established

WC: I must confess with great regret, that I didn't check the count on Microsoft Word and it is now 2:46 a.m., so excuse the missing word count </3 Just be warned, it's loooooooong ^^

Summary: You have caught the cold of the millenia, and Vanitas looks after you.

When Does Vanitas Notice?

• Vanitas notices before you do... or, more accurately, before you admit it to yourself

• It's not that he notices because of you dramatically collapsing on the streets, but because your body starts to betray you in small ways

• It starts with your breathing, to be precise

• The sound is oddly shallow, and sightly uneven

• A single sneeze earns only a glance from him

• The second one earns a raised brow

• The third, followed by the way you rub your nose as if annoyed, makes him go quiet

• Mostly he notices how your behavior changes first:

- You sit closer to heat sources, because you have the perpetual chill clinging to your limbs

- You stop arguing with him over trivial things, much unlike your usual way of going about your day

- You actually forget to eat, or you eat mechanically and slowly

- You fall asleep too quickly, and a little too deeply at that, as well

Does He Confront You, or Wait?

• That depends entirely on where you are

• If You’re Among People:

- He waits at first, it's no one else's business

- It's not out of politeness, but because he refuses to let others see you vulnerable before he understands what’s exactly happening

• If You’re Alone Together:

- He confronts you immediately lol

- Vanitas gathers a few facts from you:

How long you’ve been coughing

Whether your head hurts

Whether your joints ache

Whether the cold feels inside your bones

The Moment He Realizes It’s Bad

• The shift is immediate and don't even try to brush him off

• You rarely get sick, which means your body likely doesn’t know how to handle it

• Vanitas knows exactly how dangerous that is, so he will stick to you like a barnacle now, friend

How Does Vanitas Care for You?

• You are removed from whatever you were doing, whether you protest or not

• He insists you lie down somewhere warm, dark, and quiet

• Your layers are adjusted constantly, which means blankets are added or removed every now and then, and he checks your temperature repeatedly

• When you drift in and out of sleep, he talks more quietly and explains to you what he's doing to not do anything without your knowledge

Practices Vanitas Swears By

• Despite his usually unconventional methods, Vanitas is quite well-read when it comes to medicine

• Remedies He Uses:

- Mustard plasters, which are applied to the chest or back to draw blood to the surface and ease congestion

- Herbal infusions

- Elderflower for fever

- Thyme for cough

- Chamomile to calm your nerves and help you sleep

- Warm poultices

- Linen soaked in hot water and herbs, placed over aching joints or your chest

- Windows will be cracked just enough to prevent stagnation, never enough to chill you

(I googled all late 19th century remedies there are, mind you. I'm so glad some of these're not used anymore.)

• What He Refuses to Use on You:

- Bloodletting

- Excessive laudanum consumption

His Personal Rules While You’re Ill

• You actually do not get out of bed unassisted, you stay where you are ffs

• You do not minimize your symptoms if he is supposed to help you, so be honest about what ails you (Doctor Vanitas is here to help, after all)

• You do not apologize for being sick, it's actually so grating <3

If the Fever Peaks

• He stays awake through most of the night

• Sometimes he counts your breaths to see if you're alright

• If you deliriously call his name, he answers immediately

• If you reach for him without seeing him, he takes your hand and doesn’t let go to assure you he's here without having to say much

Recovery

• He may enforce rest long after you feel "perfectly fine and dandy"

• Only when you laugh again, properly at that, does he allow himself a teensy wee little smirk

• “Next time you decide to nearly die, give me a little warning ahead, yeah?”

The Chimère Heureuse, the quaint tavern, which was located right down the street was packed to its rafters tonight.

Warm light shimmered off the brass fixtures and fogged the small, round windows with the breath of a dozen different conversations from across the spacious main room.

Laughter rolled across the hall in waves, the occasional clinking of glasses keeping time beneath it all.

The place was loud enough to jostle one's senses, yet the longer you sat, the more the noise seemed to melt together into something shapeless, deeply muffled, and strangely distant.

At your table, the evening had begun with your usual group gathering after too many days of errands and work, but it had slowly unraveled into its usual chaos. Who would have guessed?

Dominique’s purple fan snapped open like a banner of victory as she laid her final card on the table.

“I win, dear Dante,” she declared slyly, leaning back with a sort of dazzling pride that had always fascinated you.

Dante groaned as if she had personally stabbed him through the heart. He had already lost two rounds before.

“No, no... hold on, time OUT. You’re cheating somehow. I don’t know how, but you’re doing it. You’ve gotta be,” his hands hovered over the cards like he expected to spiritually gain an answer about what card it could have been that had betrayed him.

Dominique only fluttered her eyelashes at him, a sort of antic that always brought you amusement. “Members of the House de Sade don’t cheat. We simply win.”

Noé, who had been valiantly following the match for the first half hour, was now slumped sideways, elbow on the table, chin in hand.

His eyes drifted half-lidded, already having grown soft with drowsiness and the room’s heat. Every now and then, his head dipped forward, hovering dangerously close to landing atop Dominique’s shoulder.

“If… if you’re cheating,” he murmured, voice trailing, “you’re very good at it…”

“Merci, Noé, mon cœur.” She patted his shoulder without looking, as though used to catching a falling Noé mid-collapse.

Across from them, Vanitas watched the game with a bored expression, exaggerated, but bored all the same, cheek propped on his gloved knuckles. His drink, still nearly full, reflected the amber light, while standing untouched.

He had made a single attempt to sip it an hour ago and had refused to entertain the concoction ever since.

“You’re remarkably untalented,” he commented toward Dante, though the corner of his mouth twitched briefly. “It's almost fascinating, non?” he added toward Dominique.

“It's called having fun,” Dante grunted with a frown. “I could defeat you in a heartbeat, Quack.”

“Fun,” he repeated flatly, as if it were a concept he fundamentally rejected.

You had laughed earlier. You were pretty sure you had. But now you couldn’t quite grasp the humor the way you normally did.

The edges of the room felt softly blurred in your mind. The laughter coming from all sides and corners, the clatter of mugs, and the shuffle of cards as Dante arranged another match, all of it blended together in a slow, swimming haze.

Even the warmth of the taverne seemed to become too hot and then too cold in swift waves, pricking your skin with alternating sweat and chills.

Your small glass of wine, half-finished and really nothing you weren’t accustomed to handling, felt like it weighed a hundred pounds at your elbow.

You swallowed, throat tight. The heaviness in your limbs made even that small motion feel so awkwardly sluggish.

Earlier, you’d brushed off Amelia’s comment when you stopped by Hotel Chouchou to collect Vanitas and Noé, “You’re looking a bit pale today, chéri. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

But now the memory scraped at you. Maybe she had seen something you hadn’t.

A bead of sweat rolled down your spine despite the room’s warmth, and moments later goosebumps prickled across your arms again. You blinked slowly, trying to clear the fog gathering behind your eyes.

Tired. You felt so impossibly, bone-deep tired.

Across the table, Vanitas finally shifted. His gaze, bright and sharp even in dim lighting, flicked toward you for the first time in several minutes.

You weren’t sure what you looked like to him, but his brows pulled together by a hair’s breadth, a rare, subtle crack in his otherwise careless, brooding mask.

And still, the tavern’s sounds throbbed in your ears like they were coming from underwater, far away, too far away, and getting farther, still.

By the time the pub's clientele began to thin out, Paris had sunk into its usual late-night hush.

Lamps glowed weakly through a creeping cold fog, their light stretching long and tired across the pavement in a jaundiced sheen.

Dante was already halfway into his wool coat, still muttering under his breath about the game of cards, until he announced that he had important business to attend to with Riche. What exactly that business entailed was unclear, although Dominique had already made her guesses, much to Dante's chagrin.

Noé, meanwhile, looked like he had reached the absolute limit of his consciousness. He swayed gently on his feet, blinking slowly, head drooping forward until Dominique caught him by the collar of his scarf with a sigh.

“That’s quite enough for tonight,” she decided calmly, looping his arm through her shoulders. “Before you fall asleep standing up and embarrass us all, my dear...”

“I’m not asleep…” Noé mumbled in a weak attempt at protest, eyes already on their best way to closing again. “…just resting my eyelids, Domi.”

You had your coat on as well, a thick scarf pulled up to your nose, fingers numb from the sudden bite of cold outside.

But you were fine. You had to be. The fresh air was already doing wonders, was it not? And a full night's rest would be the cherry on top, before you would be feeling as right as rain again.

You took a step forward.

And then...

Vanitas hooked two fingers into the back of your coat collar and yanked you back quite effortlessly.

“—HEY!” You yelped, stumbling backward into him, before he steadied you with a grunt.

It startled you more than it hurt, really. Vanitas wasn’t rough with you ever, but he was strong when he wanted to be, and the ease with which he had just stopped you short made your heart jump unpleasantly into your throat.

“Vanitas!” you snapped in offense, whirling around instantly. “What the actual hell is wrong with you—!”

Your retort dissolved into a sudden, violent cough. Shit. That actually sounded horrifying. And maybe just a little disgusting, too...

It hit you hard enough to fold you slightly at the waist, shoulders jerking as air tore itself painfully from your lungs. The sound was wet and quite ugly, echoing faintly in the quiet street. You barely had time to turn your head before another cough followed, thick and rattling, and something warm and unpleasant slid up your throat.

“Oh... ugh—”

You fumbled for your handkerchief just in time, coughing again as something sticky splattered into the fabric with a distinctly unglamorous sound.

Vanitas recoiled instantly.

“—Ah.” He grimaced, twisting away with visible offense, lifting his free hand as if warding off a crime against nature. “That’s revolting. Absolutely vile. You couldn’t warn me?”

You glared at him over the handkerchief, eyes watery and unfocused. “You’re the one who assaulted me from behind, you damned idiot!”

He ignored your accusations entirely, turning back only to squint at you with open suspicion. “You look a little sick there.”

“Well, I am not,” you said quickly, nose now blocked enough that the tone of your voice came out slightly nasal. “For your information, I haven’t been sick in...” You paused, frowning as you tried to remember. “…almost seven years!”

Vanitas stared at you. Did he believe you? Even asking that is absurd! Because, why would he not?

Then, very pointedly, his eyes flicked down to the handkerchief still clutched in your hand, now unmistakably damp.

As if on cue, another cough clawed its way out of you, shorter this time but just as wet. You pressed the fabric tighter to your mouth, preventing another escape of your bacteria upon the cobblestones.

“…Seven years,” he repeated flatly, sounding entirely unconvinced.

“That doesn’t...” You sniffed, then winced. “That doesn’t count. I felt fine all day!”

“Mm-hm.”

“It just… crept over me,” you insisted weakly, shoulders hunched against another shiver, heat and cold warring miserably beneath your skin.

Vanitas pinched the bridge of his nose, keeping his head turned slightly away as if the mere attempt of your excuse offended him.

“Heavens above, would you please blow your nose?” he snapped, eyes pulled wide as a frown bloomed on his forehead. “Do you hear yourself?”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re a pest, Vanitas.”

“I’m not the one gargling snot in the street.”

That earned him another glare, but you turned away anyway, shoulders hunching as you pressed the handkerchief to your nose and blew. The sound was verily undignified, your nose stinging immediately afterward. You sniffed once, then again, eyes watering from the effort and the cold.

Vanitas waited with earnest impatience, arms crossed above his chest. Still, his gaze never quite left you.

“…There,” you muttered, stuffing the used handkerchief away as far from civilization as possible.

“Thank you,” he said dryly. “Now, come.”

You huffed, but the motion made your head swim faintly.

Before you could comment on that, Vanitas reached out and caught your hand, always firm, but familiar, and quite warm even through your gloves. Notably, he took only the hand that hadn’t touched your handkerchief.

You blinked at the contact. “What are you—”

“Walking,” he said, already tugging you along beside him. “You're going home.”

“I can go by myself.”

“Well, I'm taking you there, as you can see.”

He didn’t slow his pace, and you found yourself matching it automatically, feet moving automatically rather than by actual will. The night air felt harsher now, every breath scraping a little too sharply at your throat, but Vanitas’s grip was somewhat grounding through it all. Comforting even.

Neither of you spoke much after that.

It didn’t take long before the familiar stretch of street came into view, quieter than the main roads, tucked away between shops long since closed. Your house stood there as it always did, narrow and painted a soft, time-worn green, two floors tall and leaning just a little to the side.

On one side sat the boulangerie Moulin, dark now but still faintly smelling of the last bread sold. On the other side sat the luthier’s shop, Savatier, its window crowded with violin shapes and curled wood shadows.

Vanitas slowed only slightly as you reached the front door.

“I'll be fine,” you murmured, half-dazed, noticing the lights on in the apartmemt below your own. “You don't need to escort me like—”

“Humor me,” he replied without looking at you.

Below your apartment, a window creaked open.

Madame Doux, the elderly woman that lived below your quaint little home, appeared at her window, peering out through the beige lace curtains like a well-timed... apparition. Her eyes lit up immediately upon spotting the two of you, specifically, your joined hands.

“Oh! Bonsoir, my dears!” she called warmly, already smiling from ear to ear.

Vanitas stiffened almost imperceptibly. He knew this old Madame well by now, and preferred not to run in to her as often as he did.

You managed a weak wave. “Good evening, Madame.”

She leaned further out, her gaze bouncing between you and Vanitas with open delight behind her big, round spectacles. “It’s very cold tonight, isn’t it? Good thing you have such... attentive company.”

Vanitas muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse, so you elbowed him in the side.

Madame Doux only smiled wider. She had caught him every time he had attempted to smuggle himself into your lodgings, although she had made no more attenpts to stop him, after learning you two are an item.

The door had barely shut behind you before Vanitas was already guiding you further inside, steering you past the narrow sitting area and straight toward the bedroom.

Madame Doux’s voice still lingered in your ears, “Repose-toi bien, mon ange, and listen to that cute doctor of yours!” before Vanitas had practically hauled you up the stairs to spare you both the rest of her commentary.

Now, you sat on the edge of your bed, the sheets soft and crisp beneath your hands. The astermite lamp on your desk cast a gentle, bluish glow across the room, catching on your stacked books, the folded clothes on the canapé, and the faint shadow of the window frame against the wall. The warmth inside made your skin prickle uncomfortably, heat rising beneath your coat even as you shivered.

Vanitas crouched down in front of you without any ceremony whatsoever, fingers already worrying at your shoelaces.

“Hey... what are you doing?” you murmured weakly, but there was no real protest in it.

“Quiet,” he replied, already untying your boots with quick, practiced fingers.

The laces came loose one after the other, his movements swift yet unexpectedly gentle. He slid the first boot off your foot, then the second right after, careful not to jostle you too much. The relief was immediate, your legs felt lighter, though the rest of your body was still heavy with exhaustion.

He gathered the boots in one hand and stood, carrying them to their usual place without needing to ask. He knew your apartment well enough by now, knew where things belonged, how the floor creaked on that one specific spot by the wardrobe, which shelf held exactly what.

“Thank you, Vanitas,” you said quietly, your voice coming out rougher than you intended.

He paused only long enough to hum, “Mm.”

Then, more firmly, “Change. And get in bed.”

You frowned faintly, a headache slowly coming over you. “Vanitas, there’s really no need—”

“I’ll be back in a bit,” he cut in smoothly, already heading towards the door again. “I’m getting my bag.”

That snapped your attention fully to him. “What? No. Vanitas, seriously, you don’t—”

He crossed the space in two strides.

Before you could finish, his hand came up to the back of your head, fingers threading briefly into your hair. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss there, so fleeting it barely registered as touch at all, gone almost as soon as it was there.

“Don’t argue,” he said lightly, but there was no mistaking the firmness beneath it. “Just do as you’re told for once.”

You opened your mouth, still ready to protest.

He was already turning away.

“I’ll be right back,” he added casually, not bothering to entertain any of your little protests for long.

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

When would he be back? The time felt to be passing in the pace of an incapacitated snail, while he was gone.

You lay on your back, sheets drawn up to your chest, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer answers to your untimely misery.

The moonlight slipped in through the window in narrow, wavering bands, briefly illuminating the white above you before clouds smothered it again. Each change in light felt harsher than it should, like your senses had been rubbed raw.

Your body felt wrong.

Not just tired, but heavy, as though someone had filled your limbs with damp sand. Every part of you pressed into the mattress with uncomfortable insistence, muscles aching even in stillness. The simple act of breathing felt deliberate now, rather than your body's automatic action. Your chest tightened on each inhale, a dull pressure sitting just behind your sternum, and every exhale rattled faintly in your throat.

You’re hot. Unbearably so.

Yet your hands trembled under the blankets, goosebumps rippling across your arms as if you’d been left out in the cold. Sweat clung to your skin, sticky and cooling too fast, leaving you shivering seconds later. The sheets felt simultaneously too warm and not warm enough, the fabric irritating against oversensitive skin.

Your head throbbed. When was the last time you had felt this awful?

It wasn’t a sharp pain, but it was worse, somehow. A deep, pulsing ache that bloomed behind your eyes and seeped outward, making it difficult to focus on anything for more than a few seconds.

Your eyes burned, lids heavy, vision slightly blurred no matter how often you blinked. When you swallowed, your throat scraped painfully, raw and inflamed, like you had swallowed dust and glass.

Your nose was completely blocked, pressure building behind it until your face felt swollen from the inside. Every breath through your mouth dried your throat further, leaving an unpleasant, sour taste lingering on your tongue. Mucus clung stubbornly at the back of your throat, thick and unpleasant, forcing you to swallow repeatedly or cough weakly into the quiet room.

Every cough sent a sharp, exhausted pain through your ribs and chest, leaving you breathless afterward, heart racing for no good reason.

Your stomach churned faintly, unsettled, appetite completely absent yet uncomfortably hollow. Even shifting your legs an inch felt like too much effort, your joints ache as if bruised from the inside, bones sore and uncooperative.

You tried to relax, but your body wouldn’t let you.

It all came so sudden, no? And now your skin felt too tight, too sensitive. Your pulse was loud in your ears, uneven and distracting. Sleep hovered just out of reach, your mind foggy, drifting, but never quite slipping under.

Every few moments, awareness dragged you back: the ache, the heat, the chill, the pressure, the exhaustion that didn’t ease no matter how still you lay.

You felt so small in your own body, entirely trapped inside it.

Meanwhile, Vanitas made it halfway through the motions of picking the lock before the front door swung open.

Madame Doux, your downstairs neighbour, stood there in her night shawl, eyes sharp despite the hour.

The stairs creaked softly under his shoes as he rushed past her and climbed, every step swift, a little quieter than usual.

He stopped outside your bedroom door, fingers hovering near the handle. For a brief moment, he hesitated, half expecting to open it to find you sitting up or moving around, stubborn and defiant as he knew you, pretending nothing was wrong.

Instead, when he eased the door open and peered inside, he found you exactly where he’d told you to be.

In bed...

Still.

Looking half-dead, no less.

The sight hit harder than he expected.

Earlier that morning, you’d been fine, annoyingly so. Bright-eyed over coffee, sharp-tongued to match him in tone, lively in that way he always pretended not to notice. Even when you’d stopped by Hôtel Chouchou later to collect him and Noé, there had still been traces of it. That spark, dimmer maybe, was still there, albeit weak.

Then, over the course of the evening, it had slipped away piece by piece.

Where had you even caught this? The temperatures had been worsening lately, yes, but you were normally resilient to a fault. You didn’t get sick. Especially not like this.

Vanitas set his medical bag down on your desk with care and stepped fully into the room, nudging the door shut behind him.

The soft click startled you anyway.

You jolted upright with a sharp intake of breath, eyes wide and unfocused, hair mussed, face flushed an unhealthy red beneath pallor.

“Hey,” Vanitas hissed immediately, a crease between his brows. “Easy.”

He crossed the room in two strides, pressing a brief finger to his lips. “Be still.”

Your shoulders sagged slightly, the effort of sitting up already costing you more than it should have. He turned away before you could say anything, moving instead to the window. With a quick tug, he pulled the curtains closed, blocking out the harsh glow of the street lamps and leaving the room bathed in softer, dimmer light.

Only then did he pause.

He didn’t come to you right away.

Instead, he went to your drawers, pulling one open, then another, rummaging in silence. The apartment wasn’t cold, not truly, but he could feel it all the same. The way the air lingered just a little too crisp was probably a little too much for your body, which likely couldn’t regulate itself properly right now.

He found what he was looking for. Two woolen blankets.

Vanitas returned to the bed and draped the first over your duvet, smoothing it down without thinking. Then he wrapped the second around your shoulders, tucking it in securely and handing you the edges to hold onto.

At the same time, you simply sat there, eyes dull, breathing shallow, letting him do as he pleased.

That unsettled him far more than any of your usual arguments would have.

You looked so unbearably pitiful.

Vanitas finally sat down beside you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He lifted one gloved hand to his mouth and caught the tip of the middle finger between his teeth, tugging the material off with a short pull. The glove slid free, exposing his bare hand, a pale, calloused, warm thing, with elegant, slim fingers.

The back of his hand pressed gently to your forehead.

He sucked in a quiet breath through his teeth.

“My,” he muttered. “You’re burning up.”

Against your skin, his hand felt almost cool. Not cold, just pleasantly grounding against the feverish heat pooling beneath your scalp. You leaned into it without thinking, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment.

“What a silly thing,” he added, tone firm and clipped, as though irritation were easier than worry.

You shifted a little closer, your temple coming to rest against his shoulder. The contact was more tentative at first, as if you were waiting to be pushed away. The rejection never came.

Vanitas stiffened for half a second, just long enough for the thought to flicker, unwanted but present, I really don’t feel like getting sick, and then he exhaled, shoulders easing. He let you stay there, his hand coming to rest against the duvet, right on your thigh.

“Vanitaaaaas,” you swallowed thickly, the ache in your throat grating. “I feel awful,” you murmured.

“Yes, yes, you don't say...” he replied with a sliver of sarcasm, his voice then softening a fraction. “We’ll see what we can do.”

Normally, this would have been the part where you bristled. Where you insisted you were fine, that you didn’t need to be examined, that you’d survive without a professional, little prodding and muttering over your symptoms.

You always felt strangely awkward when Vanitas slipped fully into the role of doctor, too aware of his focus and the way his attention sharpened.

But now?

You were too tired to fight it.

The warmth that bloomed in your heart settled over you like another blanket, unexpected and heavy, but so so comforting. Safe even. Your body ached less when you leaned into him, even if only by a small degree.

Your mind drifted, foggy and slow, and with it came the memory of the last doctor who’d treated you seriously. He was an old, burly man with a bristling beard and hands like meat cleavers.

His grand solution to your ailment had been nothing short of horrifying, much more so to the young child you had been at that time. Bleeding you slightly, followed by a mustard plaster slapped onto your chest that burned like hellfire and smelled awful too.

Compared to that...

Vanitas stood. “I’ll get a wet rag,” he said, already moving away. “Might help take the edge off before I...”

You made a small sound of acknowledgment, barely audible.

He disappeared into the narrow bathroom, leaving the room quiet once more, except for the dribbling of water when he wrung out the cloth he had fetched.

The cold cloth felt damp and soothing on your forehead, the chill seeping just deep enough to take the edge off the fever’s relentless burn. It smelled faintly of your soap and clean water.

You focused on that sensation, on the gentle contrast between the cool fabric and your overheated, boiling skin, letting it anchor you.

Vanitas had seated himself beside the bed on a small wooden stool, his posture still but slightly slouched. His bare fingers circled your wrist carefully, thumb resting against your pulse point. You could feel it clearly, far too clearly actually, fluttering fast beneath his touch.

“It starts racing when I move,” you murmured pitifully, voice low and raspy. “Even just… sitting up feels like I just ran a marathon. This sucks.”

“Hm.” His brows knit slightly as he counted, eyes unfocused in that way that meant he was doing math in his head. After a few seconds, he released a quiet click of his tongue.

“Well,” he said, tone firm but not unkind, “that’s because your body’s working itself ragged right now. Fever, inflammation, a nasty cough, it’s all demanding energy. Of course your heart’s picking up the slack.”

You tensed a little. “So… that’s bad?”

He shot you a warning look. “Relax, it's a cold, not the plague.” His grip loosened, fingers still resting lightly against your wrist. “It just means you don’t get to run around for a while. Take it slow. And don’t get up unless you absolutely have to.”

Vanitas withdrew his hand and straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders once. “My notebooks do mention a few remedies,” he mumbled, almost offhandedly. “Though I’m not sure you'll be thrilled about some of them.”

The second he muttered, “There is an entry abour how to apply a mustard plaster—”

“No,” you croaked immediately, sharp despite your exhaustion. “Absolutely not!”

He paused mid-motion, blinking at you with mild irritation. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I don’t need to,” you argued, eyes half-lidded but resolute. “No mustard. No… to whatever else nonsense you’re thinking of.”

Just for a moment, he looked torn between arguing and respecting your answer. Mild annoyance flickered across his face, followed by reluctant acceptance.

“…Fine,” he grumbled at last, a touch of passive-aggressiveness entering his tone. “Whatever the highness wishes.”

He stood and moved to your desk, pulling the swivel chair with him before sitting down. The astermite lamp cast a soft glow over his hands as he opened his medical bag, rummaging through it.

Glass clinked softly against glass as he grabbed a small vial. He retrieved a small notebook, the worn pages already yellowed with age, and flipped through it, scanning the lines written in his father’s neat, precise hand.

“There... has to be something about a tincture,” he muttered. “Something to ease your breathing, help loosen whatever... sludge is sitting in your lungs.”

He measured his contents carefully, pouring drops from one bottle into a small cup, then another. It’s been a while since he had last treated anything other than a vampire’s malnomen, and the shift showed itself in the way he paused now and then, reread a line, and adjusted a measurement.

While he worked, he kept talking to you, attempting to keep you awake.

“Don’t close your eyes just yet,” he told you without looking up. “Actually, tell me, what did you have for breakfast this morning?”

You blinked blearily. “…Tea.”

“Just tea.”

“And... bread with cheese.”

“What kind of bread?”

You frowned at him, annoyed by his banal questioning. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I asked,” he replied. “Answer.”

“…It was a slice of Flûte from the bakery near Hôtel Chouchou.” You opened one eye, watching him from your peripheral vision. “That’s not even medical. Why do you ask?”

“I'm asking you to humor me, once again.” Vanitas chided you, before adding, “You need to start eating more. No wonder you look like death warmed-over.”

“Why are you being mean?”

“Stop whining.”

By the time he was finished, the mixture in the cup was cloudy and a little ominous looking, the smell alone enough to make your stomach twist.

Vanitas stood and approached the bed, tapping his glass with a careful touch of his finger. “All right. Sit up.”

You groaned abruptly, sinking further into the plush pillows. “No.”

“Don’t start.”

“It’s going to taste disgusting,” you complained weakly, nose wrinkling. “It already smells like a rotten carcass.”

“You don't know what a rotten carcass smells like.”

You squinted at the cup. “Are you trying to poison me? Is that it? Have I already served my purpose?!”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for your shoulder, expression entirely unimpressed by your little display.

“Up. Now.”

You resisted immediately, sluggish and stubborn, “No, I don’t want it.”

Vanitas’s tone sharpened, not directly angry, but firm and unyielding. “You don’t get to refuse help when you look like this. Drink it. Now. Before I make you.”

He holds the cup just a little closer to your lips, and you know he means it, “You know I will.”

In short, the medicine tasted exactly as bad as you had expected.

Bitter and sharp, with an aftertaste that clung stubbornly to the back of your tongue even now, like chewed roots and something metallic you didn’t want to identify.

You swallowed it down with visible effort, forcing yourself not to make a face. The last thing you needed was Vanitas mocking you for it.

He noticed anyway.

“Don’t tell me you liked it,” he said dryly.

You shook your head once and handed the cup back without comment, throat burning faintly as the bitterness lingered. He watched you for a moment longer, as if gauging your reaction, then finally nodded to himself.

“Good.”

Time blurred a little after that.

Vanitas shifted against the headboard and settled himself more comfortably, one of your small, yellow cushions placed against his abdomen. Your head rested peacefully on top, your body fitting there as though it had done so many times before.

You still felt awful, heavy, sore, and feverish, but the edge of it had dulled a little bit for now. After having taken the medicine, your breathing came a little easier now, less strained. The pounding in your chest slowed, just enough for you to notice.

You tilted your head slightly and looked up at him. “Stay a bit longer, will you?” you murmured sleepily. “Noé won’t notice.”

Vanitas scoffed quietly. “Noé won’t notice anything until noon tomorrow,” he replied. “He’s probably already passed out.”

He didn’t move away.

Vanitas's hand rested loosely near your shoulder, warmth seeping through the layers of fabric. The room was quiet now, dim and still, the moonlight softened by the drawn curtains on the other side of your bedchambers.

“Don’t overdo it tomorrow,” he said after a moment. “When I’m gone, you rest. No errands. No nonsense.”

You meant to answer, but you didn't.

Instead, your breathing slowed, evening out as sleep finally claimed you. The tension in your body eased, your weight settling more fully against him. Your thoughts drifted, then dissolved entirely.

Ondine is around the age 13-15, I'm not yet sure about where to go with it. She was born in the city of Bordeaux, with a highly regarded luthier as a father.

She was orphaned very early in her childhood after a fire devoured her family home. Ondine left Bordeaux all by herself and was ultimately taken in by the Catholic Church when she reached Paris.

Ondine is a very naive girl regarding a more positive outlook on life, despite the horrors she has witnessed in her life, and her training as a Chasseur.

She has a more bubbly personality, but she is highly sensitive to abandonment and deeply insecure about her lack of identity. Despite this, she insists she can get by alone and doesn't require any help whatsoever. At times, she can even act a little manipulative, without directly intending to.

I saw that your requests were open and was wondering if you could write Vanitas helping his s/o with showering due to their bad mental health.

Keep up the good work! :)

Il y a Aura Des Jours Meilleurs 🌧️

Fandom: The Case Study of Vanitas

Pairing: Vanitas x GN!Reader

Theme/Type + TW: Hurt/Comfort Oneshot + content warning for mentions of bad mental health, and brief nakedness <3

RS: established

WC: 5.3K

Summary: Vanitas helps you bathe when you are don't have the strength to do so anymore. As it turns out, his softer side is always reserved for you.

The sky sagged low over Paris, a swollen bruise of grey and violet, pressing its heavy weight against the rooftops until even the chimneys seemed to stoop beneath it.

During the late seasons of the year, the cold had a way of settling in, rather than merely brushing over things, but rather seeping through wool, crawling along the skin, and curling its damp fingers around bone.

It was the sort of chill that didn’t sting so much as smother, clinging like a burial shroud one hadn’t agreed to wear. Indoors, the air felt no lighter.

Every movement seemed to drag, as though the body had been packed with sand overnight, limbs pulling through a heaviness that had no name and needed none.

The light filtering through the windows was thin and metallic, touching the floorboards without warming them, revealing the dust without animating it. Even sound seemed muted, reduced to a distant murmur behind thick glass.

It was a day that felt like it was collapsing inward, slowly and quietly, taking everything, or everyone, within reach down with it.

The heavy duvet lay slumped over you like a defeated creature, offering little warmth and even less comfort, its edge curled limply against your ribs.

Afternoon had slipped in nearly unnoticed, if it could still be called afternoon when the room felt so close to night, curtains drawn tight against a sky that had no real light to give anyway.

Inside your room, the air was stale, heavy with the residue of too many hours spent unmoving.

You hadn’t left the bed since waking. Hadn’t even managed to sit up.

Each minute seemed to have thickened into something viscous, something that pinned you down more effectively than the duvet ever could.

Your hair clung unpleasantly to your scalp, unbrushed and oily, its texture alone enough to make you want to shrink further into the mattress and jump up all the same.

The thought of turning onto your back, or even shifting enough to ease the soreness building along the side you’d been lying on, flitted through your mind and died there.

It was too much effort, too much everything.

Your mouth tasted sour, almost stale, a reminder of neglect that made you swallow against a faint surge of nausea. Sweat clung faintly to your skin, cooling into a clammy sheen that made you shiver even while the air around you felt thick and warm.

Your eyes ached with a dull, buzzing exhaustion, though whether from crying earlier or simply being awake too long in the dark, it was impossible to say.

Every inch of your body felt wrong, heavy, uncomfortable, as if you were sinking deeper into yourself and the bed at once.

The list of things you hadn’t done hovered somewhere above you like a rain cloud, shifting like a dark flock of birds, never settling but never leaving.

You were supposed to get up, at least enough to finally wash, to eat a bite, to open the curtains and let the grey daylight in.

You were supposed to step outside, walk the short distance down to the Quartier Latin, and meet your friend for an hour or two. Just a casual visit. Just a brief conversation. Just a little walk.

It would have taken so little, so little that the fact you couldn’t do it made the failure feel even heavier. Well, it was too late now, no? Much too late for everything. And yet the guilt clung all the same, prickling, insistent.

The thoughts spiralled, looping in on themselves until they blurred into senseless noise. It didn’t matter, as it was nothing, trivial at best, meaningless most certainly. But it also mattered far too much, each missed step sharpening into a tiny shard lodged behind your ribs.

Your head began to throb at the temples, dull at first, then pulsing steadily with each beat of your heart.

The ache crawled upward, spreading beneath the skin, turning into an itch along your scalp as if your very skull were too tight around your thoughts.

Then the sensation unfurled through your body, a low, unbearable buzzing that made your fingers twitch uselessly beneath the covers.

The room was silent except for that infernal hum, right until the door swung open without preamble, cutting through the heavy stillness. Cool air swept in with the motion, and in the doorway stood Vanitas.

He crossed the threshold with long, decisive strides, the heels of his fine, black shoes striking the floor with sharp irritation rather than their usual flourish.

His bell-shaped coat flared behind him as though even the fabric shared his mood, the door thudding shut behind him with more force than necessary.

Vanitas looked, for lack of a better word, thoroughly put out, with his eyebrows drawn low, mouth set in that thin, familiar line he reserved for moments when his patience was already frayed before he even opened his mouth.

“What in the devil are you doing still in bed?” he snapped, gesturing sharply at your unmoving form beneath the rumpled duvet. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to appear at the Île de la Cité?”

He sounded offended, almost personally affronted, as if you had wronged him on some profound level simply by not existing where he expected you to be.

The reminder landed dully in your mind. Oh. Right. You were supposed to meet your friend today at the Quartier Latin… and Vanitas, at the Île de la Cité. Two separate engagements, both quietly washed away in the blur that all days had been melting into lately.

Everything had started slipping, including memory, intention, and sense of time, like water through open fingers. No matter how tightly you tried to hold on, nothing stayed.

Vanitas carried on without really noticing your silence, pacing a short, agitated line at the foot of the bed.

“Honestly, I should have known better. My time is not infinite, you know,” he continued, his irritation swelling into its usual theatrical flair. “Contrary to popular belief, the great Vanitas is not simply waiting around, twiddling his thumbs until you decide to grace him with your presence. I have work to do, quite important work! Cases, investigations, research, patients, and yet what do I do?”

He flung a hand dramatically skyward. “I set aside my precious time because you asked for it, you, specifically, and this is what I get in return?”

Vanitas exhaled sharply, ready to launch into another tirade, but the words snagged in his throat.

Only now did he seem to register the shape beneath the covers. Still and silent. You weren’t rolling over to snap back, not even to scoff at him. Not glares, and no shifting to show you had even heard him.

Vanitas clicked his tongue sharply, mistaking your stillness for insolence. “Oh, so now you’re ignoring me,” he muttered under his breath, irritation sharpening into something more pointed.

He strode forward in two quick steps, reached down, and tore the duvet away with all the delicacy of the Krampus dragging a naughty child out of bed by the ankles before Christmas.

The fabric flew back in a dramatic arc, a puff of dust drifting free as though the bedding itself exhaled after being disturbed for the first time in far too long.

“Get up this instant!” he barked, the force of his frustration cracking his voice on the last syllable. He either didn’t notice or pretended not to. “I’m not going to stand here repeating myself while you—”

You didn’t move.

No, you couldn’t.

There wasn’t so much as a flinch, nor a recoil from the cold air hitting your skin, not even a sluggish attempt to pull the blanket back.

Vanitas whipped the duvet once more, as if shaking it might magically produce a reaction from you, sending another faint scatter of dust through the dim room.

He stared down at you, his exasperation poised on the edge of becoming another scolding.

But before he could speak, you finally forced out a mild rasp. It sounded scraped, thin, barely shaped into words. It hurt to speak, as the dryness clung to your throat like something brittle.

“...Sorry,” you murmured, eyes fixed blankly on the wall beside the bed, unfocused. “I… wasn’t feeling well. I couldn’t… come.” Your voice frayed at the edges, each word landing flat and limp between the two of you.

Vanitas blinked once, slowly, as though recalibrating everything he had expected to hear. The irritation didn’t vanish, not exactly, anyway, but it stalled, caught on the unexpected fragility of your voice.

He stood there for a beat longer than he probably meant to, blue eyes narrowing slightly as he looked you over with a strangely clinical kind of glance.

His gaze flicked from your tangled hair to the dull heaviness in your eyes, to the stiffness in your posture, to the faint sheen of sweat along your temple. Details, he was trained, in more ways than one, to notice.

And oddly, his expression shifted, not quite enough to be obvious, and not enough for him to admit anything, but the hard edge in his eyes softened by a fraction.

Vanitas had noticed you being… off, lately. Distant and sometimes a little slow on the uptake. Quiet in ways that didn’t fit your usual persona. He hadn’t really asked or poked at it, even though poking at things was practically second nature to him.

Maybe he’d hoped it was just a passing mood of the season. Maybe he’d thought ignoring it would make it go away. Or maybe acknowledging that faint, unwelcome buzz of worry in his chest would have meant admitting something he didn’t want to put into words.

But then, instead of lingering in that rare, precarious gentleness, the familiar spark of mischief returned to his eyes. His lips curled, slow and deliberate, into a smirk that grew with an almost triumphant confidence.

Vanitas closed his eyes halfway, playing at knowledge he didn’t actually possess in this very particular case, tilting his head as though he had solved some grand mystery.

“Well, well,” he drawled, grin widening. “I see how it is.”

There it was. That sly, knowing lilt.

“You could have simply said so, you know.” His tone sharpened with theatrical accusation. “All this moping around, acting so pitifully withdrawn, it’s because you’re desperate for my attention, isn’t it?” His smirk deepened, self-satisfied. “Honestly. If you’re going to pine for me this much, you might as well be honest about it, my darling.”

Vanitas, thoroughly pleased with his own interpretation of the whole situation, continued without missing a beat.

“Just so you know, pretending to be sick won’t work on me,” he went on, pacing a small, arrogant half-circle at the edge of the bed. “I’ve seen every trick in the book. And yours, ma Joie, is hardly subtle.”

He lifted a hand to his chest, fingers splayed dramatically over his ribbon. “Still, if you ask very, very nicely, I suppose I might be persuaded to squeeze you in as my… most favourite patient. Just until you recover from this dreadful case of…” His eyes glittered with suggestive amusement. “…acute yearning.”

The tone he used made his meaning unmistakable. The sly curve of his mouth, the way he leaned forward slightly, the implication dripping from each syllable, he was suggesting far more than simple medical attention.

He drew breath to continue, no doubt ready to escalate his teasing to even more scandalous territory—

But your voice, raw and tense, cut his theatrics short.

“Vanitas… I do feel awful. I…” You swallowed, throat tight. “I feel… so disgusting.”

He stopped.

Slowly, his brows twitched together, expression flattening into something more puzzled, almost taken aback at the sudden revelation. For all his perceptiveness, for all his ability to dissect a stranger’s psyche within seconds, he could still be remarkably slow when it came to the person he cared about most. Your tone hit him belatedly, sinking past his usual bluster.

You hesitated before speaking again. “Please… don’t be mean about this.”

That, at least, jolted him into motion. Vanitas scoffed softly and sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He angled himself toward you with a confident huff, one leg bent and pulled up, the other foot firmly on the floor.

“How dare you? I would never even think of such,” he declared with great self-assurance. A blatant lie, one he told often and with equal conviction, but this time it carried a strange, quiet sincerity beneath the swagger.

Your eyes dropped, cheeks heating with embarrassment. “I… haven’t bathed,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Not in a long time. I just… can’t get up.”

Vanitas received the confession with a face that barely shifted, lidded eyes, relaxed mouth, the faintest air of disinterest that was simply his default expression.

If anything, he looked as though he were weighing your words the same way a doctor would a medical chart- Very much clinically, and without giving away much of what he thought.

Without asking permission, Vanitas rarely bothered with that, he reached out, caught your ankles with a gentle-but-firm tug, and pulled your legs onto his lap.

The sudden movement startled your body more than you expected. Your muscles, stiff from days of disuse, protested faintly as you settled again.

One of his gloved hands remained resting on your shin, thumb idly brushing once, like he was grounding you without actually admitting that’s what he was doing.

It was… strangely relieving, the contact. Warm and steady, and comforting. It was more movement than your limbs had felt in far too long. Your body almost sank into the sensation, if not for the hovering dread of what you had just told him.

Vanitas, meanwhile, seemed lost in thought, like running calculations behind those sharp eyes, considering angles, weighing possibilities. Then, with all the bluntness of a dropped hammer, he asked:

“Do you stink yet?”

You jerked, actually turned your head to glare at him, offense slipping through your exhaustion.

The reaction lit up his face with a small, self-satisfied flicker. Aha. There you are. He didn’t say it aloud, but the glint in his eyes made it obvious enough.

“I… don’t think so,” you muttered, cheeks warming. “I just feel exflunctified.”

Vanitas tilted his head, giving a half-hearted, dismissive wave of his free hand. “Then there’s no need to be so dramatic about it.”

Your confusion was immediate. Dramatic? You?

This from Vanitas, who preened over his polished shoes, fussed at even the faintest rumple in his coat, and had lectured strangers for touching him with unwashed hands.

He was meticulous to the point of dedication when it came to hygiene and cleanliness. Yet here he was, sitting on your dusty bed, touching your unwashed skin, acting as though it were nothing.

You stared at him, properly looked at him for the first time that day.

His face was calm. Completely unbothered. Almost gentle, in his own strange way.

For all the softness Vanitas was capable of in rare, unguarded moments, this was still not quite the reaction you had expected.

Not from him, anyway.

Certainly not from the man who could sniff out a misplaced book across the room and complain about dust daring to exist in his presence.

And yet he had touched you with such care, helped you so easily, without recoiling, without so much as a wrinkle of his nose.

Time slipped by after that, a slow and hazy drift of minutes that accumulated into the large grandfather clock at the end of the room, showing nearly half-past.

You sat on the little cushioned stool beside the bathroom window, thin sunlight filtering through the stained glass in a washed-out strip. Your bare feet were planted on cold tile. Your head rested against the wall because even sitting upright felt oddly taxing.

Vanitas moved about the room rather briskly, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms and gloves neatly draped over the porcelain rim of the sink. His movements were a little sharper than usual, but not exactly frantic, just purposeful.

His face remained set in that vaguely irritated expression he wore like second skin… but his silence carried none of the usual venom.

Vanitas tested the water temperature with his wrist, adjusted the taps, and gathered a few of the towels that still hung unused over the paravent.

He searched your cabinets for scented soap and, finding something he deemed vaguely acceptable, set it on a small tray by the tub. All without commentary. All without derision.

When he finally approached you again, he crouched down, resting an elbow on his knee.

“Up,” he said simply, offering a hand. It was one of the few times he didn’t wear his gloves, and it was unusual to see him so almost nonchalant about it.

You had waited for a while when he had prepared the bath, and while you still felt tired beyond comprehension, the thought of dipping into the warm embrace of the water and finally feeling clean again was tempting, to say the least.

The process of undressing, however, was… slow. Awkward. Painfully tender in a way you didn't really know how to handle.

He helped peel away each layer of clothing, movements steady and careful, sometimes a little less so and brusquer, even as his ears grew unmistakably red at their tips.

Vanitas’s eyes kept darting away whenever a new spot of skin was exposed, gaze snapping to the tiled wall, or the floor, or anything that was not you.

The perpetual blush creeping along his cheekbones deepened every time he had to guide you to move your shoulder or lift your arm to free you from all this pesky fabric.

In short, for someone who could so boldly tease about devouring you from dusk till dawn, Vanitas was absolutely miserable at handling the actual intimacy of tending to you like this. One of the most innocent acts of intimacy there is.

Your voice cracked when you finally whispered, “Thank you…,” the sound so faint, so hoarse and pitiful that it barely qualified as speech. It scraped out of your throat like a faint cough, but he heard it anyway.

Vanitas didn’t reply.

He simply extended his hand again, offered to you palm-up with a kind of quiet insistence. He didn’t look at your face, nor did he meet your eyes even once as he helped you rise from the stool. His grip remained firm as he guided you, step by step, toward the waiting tub.

Getting in was slow. Your body felt very much heavy and stiff, like you were moving through some invisible resistance.

Vanitas kept one hand on your elbow and the other hovering by your ribs without touching, as though he was ready to steady you if you wavered.

The moment your foot touched the water, heat rushed up your leg. It was almost too warm at first, startling against the clamminess that clung to your skin so stubbornly. But as you eased down, inch by inch, letting the bath rise around yourself, the discomfort softened.

Warmth wrapped around you like an awaiting embrace you didn’t know how badly you needed, so gentle, enveloping, settling deep into your bones.

The water crept higher, first to your thighs, then your stomach and your chest, until it reached your collarbones, lifting some of the weight that had pressed so relentlessly on your limbs.

Your mind tried to twist that silence into anger. Into punishment, perhaps. Certainly into confirmation that he was irritated with you for all the missed meetings, the cancelled plans, the wasted time.

But… no.

Not this time.

You recognized the subtle signs, like the slight stiffness in his posture, the faint crease between his brows that wasn’t annoyance, the way he stayed close without hovering, as though afraid you might disappear into the water like a nymph if he blinked.

He wasn’t mad. He was worried. And a lot more worried than he would ever allow himself to admit.

Vanitas turned away suddenly, breaking the quiet only with movement. He bent down, scooped up the pile of discarded clothing from the tiles, and, without inspecting it, tossed it into the braided laundry basket tucked behind the paravent. The gesture was quick, almost brusque, as if he were doing it before he could think too hard about it.

Then he grabbed the small stool, the one you had used earlier, and dragged it across the floor until it sat right beside the tub. He lowered himself onto it, elbows resting loosely on his knees, finally settling at your side.

Vanitas reached for the small, red porcelain jug resting on the tray beside the tub, dipping it into the bath with slow, measured movements. The water sloshed softly as he lifted it again, now filled and steaming faintly in the cool air of the room.

“Lean your head back,” he said quietly.

You hesitated for a beat, uncertain, perhaps self-conscious, but ultimately obeyed, letting your head tilt until it rested against the rim of the tub.

Vanitas didn’t remark on the delay, didn’t even raise a brow. Instead, he braced one palm against your forehead, shielding your eyes as he poured the warmed water in a gentle stream over your hair.

The first cascade soaked through the tangled strands, trickling down to the nape of your neck. A few droplets escaped his careful angle, slipping across your temple.

Vanitas’s thumb moved almost automatically, brushing them away with a gentle stroke as if the gesture were second nature.

He set the jug aside and picked up the bar of soap he’d fished from their cabinet earlier. Vanitas rubbed it between his hands until a light lather formed, then began working it into your hair with slow, patient movements.

His fingers moved methodically, separating strands, coaxing the soap through the greasy weight that had built up.

The room remained comfortably quiet except for the faint sound of water lapping against the porcelain.

“It smells nice…” You murmured after a while, voice soft, eyelids drooping slightly.

Vanitas paused, not in annoyance, but as if caught off guard by the comment. He lifted the bar briefly, brought it to his nose, and inhaled with unnecessary seriousness.

“Should be... rosemary,” he announced, tone matter-of-fact, like he was delivering something of grave importance.

He set the soap aside again and returned to his work, fingers slipping into your hair, kneading gently at your aching scalp.

He was thorough, careful, his touch firm enough to scrub away knots of tension yet gentle enough not to jolt you from the hazy warmth settling over your senses after such a long time of unrest.

The motion, slow circles, and ever-steady pressure, was soothing in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks. Each pass of his fingers loosened something tight inside you, untangling more than just hair.

Your eyes fluttered, growing heavy.

If it weren’t for the occasional shift of his hand, you might have drifted to sleep right then, lulled by the simple comfort of Vanitas’s careful touch.

Vanitas let the suds in your hair settle, fingers slipping away from your scalp with a last, absentminded brush of his knuckles.

The shift brought him closer, and though he tried to keep his expression neutral, the heat blooming across his cheeks betrayed him completely.

A flustered scowl settled onto his face, a little sharper than his usual irritation, yet softer than genuine annoyance. Conveniently, with him seated diagonally behind you, you couldn’t see just how red he’d gotten.

He cleared his throat once, brisk and clipped, before touching the bar of soap to your shoulder.

“Hold still,” he muttered, more to cover for himself than to instruct you.

The first pass of his hand was gentle but deliberate, working the lather along your upper back, tracing the tension in your shoulders and down your spine.

He avoided anything even remotely improper with almost comical focus, but everything else, every place your exhaustion made awkward to reach, he handled with quiet thoroughness.

Each careful movement left behind a cool trail of suds and a warm glide of his fingertips.

The scent gradually rose with the steam, clean and bright with the fragrance of fresh dried rosemary and a hint of citrus peel. It wrapped around your senses like a fresh breeze cutting through the heat of the bath, grounding you.

Vanitas set the bar aside again and reached for the sea sponge, dipping the thing into the water and squeezing it out just once before pressing it lightly to your skin.

The texture was soft, almost velvety, and he worked it over your arms, then your shoulders and underneath them, then your back.

“Turn a little,” he murmured.

You did, letting him continue down your sides, your ribs, the curve of your waist. His blush deepened dramatically the closer he got to anywhere he deemed questionable, and each time, he abruptly redirected to a safer angle, jaw tense.

When the sponge had done its job, he set it aside and took up the stiff-bristled brush instead.

It wasn’t unpleasant, just a lot firmer, sweeping arcs that scrubbed away residue and made your skin tingle with renewed warmth. He used it everywhere that needed a deeper clean, making sure you didn’t have to strain a single muscle.

Once satisfied, he let out a slow breath and traded the brush for the small jug once more. He angled himself closer, leaning to reach the section of water still untouched by foam.

“Alright,” he said softly.

A rare warning.

Warm, clear water cascaded through your hair again, his fingers guiding it through the strands until the suds thinned and slipped away. Then he let the stream run down your back, over your shoulders, along your arms, gentle and unhurried, until every trace of soap was gone.

Your muscles sagged with how good it felt. Your thoughts dipped toward sleep.

Vanitas didn’t comment, but his touch stayed steady, careful to the very last rinse.

After a short while, the steam had thinned, and the bathwater had gone still around you. Vanitas returned with a large cloth bundled in his arms, far too big, but clearly the safest option given his refusal to rummage through your wardrobe unsupervised.

He held it out stiffly, eyes elsewhere, and once you were wrapped securely, he wordlessly escorted you back to the stool, which was now placed beside the sink.

Now, perched there with the cloth draped around your shoulders and the warmth of the bath still clinging to your skin, you felt him settle behind you again.

The towel he used on your hair was soft, and his hands worked with a patience that almost didn’t feel like him. The repetition of it, the warmth, the quiet… it was dangerously easy to drift.

Your head tipped forward once.

Then again.

The third time, you nearly nodded straight into the sink.

Vanitas caught the motion instantly and gave the towel a sharp, admonishing tug, just enough to jolt you upright.

“Stop it with the high jinks,” he said flatly, as if you were misbehaving. “If you fall asleep like this, you’ll get a crick in your neck.”

But the faint flush across his cheekbones gave away the truth: he was flustered, not angry.

The motions continued, gentler again once you stopped slumping. He worked until your hair was no longer dripping, only damp and fluffy beneath his hands. When he paused, it wasn’t to check his progress, but to glance at himself in the mirror.

For a heartbeat, he seemed to appraise his own reflection with something like resignation.

Then his gaze slid to you.

Your eyes were half-lidded, bleary with exhaustion, and your skin still glowed pink from the heat of the bath. The sight softened something in his expression, not enough to be called tenderness, but enough to quiet the scowl he had guarded himself with earlier.

He exhaled, took the brush from the counter, and coaxed it through the ends of your hair.

A few small tangles resisted, but he worked them out with the same deliberate care he’d used moments ago, never pulling, never letting the bristles snap through.

Only when every knot was gone did he return the brush to its place.

Finally, he picked up the smaller towel, wrapped it neatly around your hair, and tucked the ends so it stayed secure.

The fabric kept the damp strands off your neck, exposing the warm skin along your nape to the cooler air.

“There,” he murmured, his tone strangely gentle.

The chamber had gone quiet in the gentle way only winter nights could manage.

After you’d dressed, clumsily and a little sluggishly, and with Vanitas helping here and there, he had guided you out of the washroom, one hand steady on your back, the other bracing your arm.

Beyond the windows, the world was already dark, the glass fogged at the corners, faint flakes drifting down in slow, lazy spirals.

The time to go out was no longer there. Vanitas had settled you on the canapé in front of the fireplace, where the flames snapped softly, throwing amber light over the room, the warmth sinking into your bones almost immediately.

You didn’t even remember lying down. You only recalled a moment of sitting upright, and then his hand on your shoulder, lowering you carefully.

Now you slept, breathing deep and even beneath the thick woolen blanket pulled over you.

Over the blanket rested his coat. Heavy and dark, with the faint scent of his cologne utterly unmistakable.

The gesture was almost embarrassingly sweet of him, which was perhaps why he’d done it silently after you had drifted off.

You lay curled onto your side, your head pillowed on his bent leg. Your cheek was pressed into the front of his waistcoat, against the warmth of his abdomen. Each time he breathed, you could feel the faint rise and fall beneath your cheek.

Vanitas sat slouched beside you, legs parted in that loose, off-guard posture he only ever took in private. One leg stretched along the front of the canapé, the other propped upright, the one you rested against.

His elbow hooked lazily over the armrest, hand supporting his chin. The other hand, gloved once more, lay on your head.

His fingers moved slowly, massaging your scalp through your now dry hair.

The claws embedded in the gloves scraped lightly, deliberately gentle, small arcs of dull pressure that sent you deeper into sleep rather than waking you.

Every movement was cautious and loving. He knew exactly how easily he could hurt someone with those gloves.

The flames cracked, bright and steady. Shadows shifted across the floor, and snow tapped faintly at the panes.

Vanitas’s jaw tightened, then loosened again.

A conversation hung at the edge of his thoughts. About what had made you this exhausted. About why you hadn’t told him sooner. About how you’d let yourself decline enough that you could barely hold your own weight… and why it made something endlessly uncomfortable coil in his chest to see it.

Vanitas considered it. He even pictured the words, vaguely at least. Then he exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet.

No. He knew himself better than that.

He probably wouldn’t bring this up again. Vanitas wouldn’t poke at something he wasn’t sure he could fix. Much less would he let you see just how much the sight of you limp with fatigue had unsettled him so.

Instead, he kept his hand on your scalp, kept his eyes on the fire, and let the quiet fill the room.

The warmth of the flames in the hearth, engulfing the room in a golden glow.

The steady sensation of your breathing, evening out.

The heavy fold of his coat draped over you like a protective shield.

It was enough, he decided.

Just for tonight... it was surely enough.

Fandom: The Case Study of Vanitas

Pairing: Noé Archiviste x F!Reader

Theme/Type + TW: hurt/comfort and fluff scenario + No TW necessary

RS: established (engaged)

WC: 1.5K

Summary: Noé catches you during a fainting spell and looks after you for a while, to make sure you're alright.

The late-afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the coral-red townhouse, casting steady bands of warm light across the entry hall.

Inside, the polished walnut banister reflected the glow, and the wallpaper, deep red with a faint, repeating pattern of florals, looked a little darker by comparison.

When Ondine, the head-maid of the house, opened the door, Noé stepped inside with a quiet nod of thanks.

His posture was perfectly straight, his expression showing a kind of barely-contained eagerness. In one hand, he carried a small bouquet he had picked out from a vendor on the way.

It looked fresh, neatly arranged, and had clearly been chosen with care.

Your mother met him before he could fully step off the welcome mat. She had long since adopted an easy familiarity with him, speaking as though he were already a member of the household, simply upon his arrival home.

“Noé, dear, you look well,” she greeted, her smile widening at the flowers. “Are those for me again?”

He handed them over without hesitation. “Yes. You said you liked the pale violets last week. I found some that looked similar.”

Her face lit up as she accepted them. “You’re always so thoughtful.” She turned toward the sitting room, already thinking of a vase. “She’s upstairs getting ready. She’ll be down soon.”

At the mention of you, his smile softened into something quieter. “Thank you, Madame.”

The house felt unusually calm today. Your father was gone again, away for a few days to sort out shipping arrangements, something Noé only vaguely understood, and the stillness gave everything a muted, peaceful atmosphere.

He’d planned a simple outing for today. Perhaps a walk through one of the less crowded districts and a stop at your favourite pâtisserie. Nothing extravagant, just the kind of afternoon he had been looking forward to since he’d woken up…

Upstairs, though, reality was not matching the promise of an uncomplicated day.

You sat at your vanity, leaning forward slightly, fingertips resting against the wooden edge. The afternoon heat had settled heavily in the room, and the air felt strangely thick and twice as uncomfortable.

You had already paused two times while getting ready, once while clasping your necklace, once when bending to pick up a dropped hairpin, because the room had wavered around you for a moment. You had brushed both episodes off, thinking it was just the weather.

You reminded yourself to stand, fix your hair, and smooth your collar. Each was a simple task, nothing too difficult.

But the moment you pushed to your feet, the floor shifted in a slow, sickening way. Your vision blurred at the edges, and you instinctively reached for the iron bedframe to steady yourself. A faint pulse throbbed behind your eyes, and the sour twist of nausea you’d been ignoring all morning dragged itself up again, stronger this time.

Just give it a second, you thought. Just breathe. It will fade.

You stayed still until your sight sharpened a little and your knees stopped wobbling. Then you tried again, took one step, always slow and careful. The dizziness didn’t fully pass; it just retreated far enough that you hoped you could manage.

Then came a knock, gentle but distinct.

“It’s me. Noé. May I come in?” His voice was warm, but there was an undertone of formality, the kind he used when he wasn’t sure if he was intruding.

You answered. Or rather, you tried to. The sound came out thin and quiet, barely a response at all, but he heard it anyway, and the door opened partway.

The sight that greeted him made his expression tighten, just slightly, but enough to be noticed. You were upright but barely, gripping the bedframe with white-knuckled tension. Your face lacked all its usual colour. Your eyes didn’t seem to focus on him right away. To him, even your breathing sounded too shallow.

“Are you alright?” he asked as he stepped inside, his voice soft, but moving with a sharp, focused urgency that he rarely displayed unless something was genuinely wrong.

You attempted to straighten, to pretend, with what little steadiness you had left. But the moment you shifted your hand from the bedpost, your balance tipped. The dizziness returned instantly and with force. A wave of weakness rolled through your body, hollowing out your knees. The room dimmed around the edges, then narrowed further, as though the daylight itself was pulling away from you.

“No…” The whisper fell from your lips, faint and unfixed, not directed at him or anyone, more of a little slur than actual speech.

Your legs gave out.

Noé moved before you were even fully falling, crossing the space between you in two quick steps. He caught you under your arms and pulled you close before your body could hit the floor. Your head dropped onto his shoulder, the last threads of consciousness slipping away quickly and completely.

“Easy,” he murmured, lowering you carefully. His voice shook despite his effort to keep it steady. One hand supported you behind your back, the other brushed your hair from your face. “I’ve got you. It’s alright. I’m here.”

Your breath was soft against his collar, light enough that he had to concentrate to feel it. He adjusted his hold, supporting your weight with a protective firmness, already thinking of calling for your mother, already worrying far more deeply than he let himself show.

Only after a long while, slowly, so agonizingly slowly, the fog began to lift.

Your lashes fluttered against the dim light of your bedchamber, the world swimming back into shape in muted, unthreatening pieces. The ceiling. The familiar curve of the canopy. The distant hum of the city beyond your window. A warmth around your hand, though not your own, for your skin still felt chilled, as if your blood had forgotten how to circulate.

As your awareness deepened, you felt the gentle weight of a gloved thumb brushing the back of your hand in slow, careful strokes. Noé’s presence registered before his face came into focus. His familiar scent, the quiet steadiness of his breathing, the anxious stillness only he could somehow make tender.

You shifted, just a fraction, and the movement caught his attention at once.

“There you are,” His voice was soft enough that it barely disturbed the air, but the relief in it was unmistakable. He leaned in, the faintest smile easing into place as he saw you return to the waking world. “You’re back.”

Your throat felt dry, your body weak, but the warmth of his expression made something inside you loosen, soften. You tried to speak, but only a whisper came out.

“Noé…”

He shook his head gently, urging silence. “Don’t push yourself yet. It’s okay.”

The vampire tightened his hold around your hand, bringing it closer between his palms as though his touch alone might coax warmth back into your fingers. He had removed one glove, so your skin met his directly, the contrast noticeable, his warmth almost startling.

“You scared me,” he admitted, though the words carried not a trace of reproach, only lingering fear softened by his affection for you. “You were out for a while.”

“How… how long?” Your voice was a fragile thread.

“About half an hour, I think.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek, his touch featherlight. “I didn’t call your mother.” A faint, rueful smile tugged at one corner of his lips. “I knew you wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Even with your vision still slightly blurred, you could see the tender worry in his eyes, rawer than he tried to let on, more vulnerable than he likely intended.

Noé had seen anemia before, had already seen it in Mademoiselle Amelia, yet each time it touched you, he responded as if it were happening for the first time.

He adjusted his seat, still close, watching for the slightest sign of discomfort.

“Do you feel dizzy?” he asked quietly. “Nauseated? Anything like before?”

“A little lightheaded,” you admitted, your voice steadier this time.

“That’s alright,” he murmured. “Just stay still. Let your body catch up.”

For a moment, the two of you sat in peaceful silence. Your breathing gradually regulated, his thumb tracing delicate circles over your skin. He didn’t fuss, nor did he panic. He simply stayed with you and anchored you.

Then, with a soft smile, he continued.

“When you’re feeling stronger… if you still want to go out, we can. But if you’d rather stay here, I don’t mind at all. We can sit by the fire for a while, or I can read to you.” His smile widened slightly. “Whatever feels best for you.”

Your chest warmed with something gentle. Noé always erred on the side of kindness, but when these spells hit, he became something even softer, even more attentive, just for you.

You squeezed his hand weakly. His eyes lit at the faint pressure, as if it were the strongest gesture in the world.

“Just tell me what you need,” he murmured. “I’ll follow your pace.”

A/N: ...this sadly turned out just a little shorter than I planned, but it was all I could come up with. I've never written about anemia before, and tjis might just not fit the actual symptoms? I'll be trying to practice this for the future, though...

omg hiiii !! 💗💗 first of all THANK YOU?? like actually thank you, I reread your message three times during break because my brain was doing cartwheels. you’re so sweet 😭🫶

also LMAO I’m so sorry for replying with literally just my gumball picture... I swear I hit send way too early and immediately stared at my screen like. oh. oh no. (tumblr mobile my beloathed)

but okay!! advice and tools!!

honestly the biggest thing for me is that I read. a lot. like… way too much probably. especially on ao3, where 9 times out of 10 the fics I fall into are written like absolute masterclass prose and I just absorb it like a lil sponge. reading good writing genuinely teaches your brain how good writing sounds, even before you realize you’re learning anything (this is just my opinion though. things i like can sound like absolute bullshit to the next person...)

alsoooo I did go to an international translation school for three years, so I think that kinda trained my eye for English? like you get used to rhythm, tone, structure, vibes, all that stuff you don’t even notice until you start writing and suddenly it’s there lol

and ngl… sometimes… when I’m tired and I’m staring at a sentence like "is this English or did I just make up a new language," I do use grammarly. 😭 I’m not a huge fan of it but it helps me catch the silly little mistakes when my brain taps out.

my actual advice though, since you asked, is that you have to write without overthinking. literally just type. don’t try to make it perfect. the magic happens when you let yourself be a little messy at first. sometimes it takes you one night to get where you want to be, sometimes it takes months, and that's all fine and dandy <3

read your fave fics and notice what you like, as in the pacing, the dialogue, how they describe emotion.

listen to how your characters would talk instead of just trying to sound "fancy" and essentially having all your characters talk in the same way. that's what i did a lot in the beginning, but it just gets boring to read...

have fun (most important tbh)

and seriously, I’m so insanely flattered you’d even ask me this?? like hiiii I’m just a gremlin on tumblr writing silly stories about blorbos and somehow you think my prose is awe-inducing?? I’m gonna go lie down. 😭💗