#request posted

“Moollllllyyyyyyy.” You groan-wail into his shoulder, tightening the grip you have around his neck. You feel them stiffen; they worry too much. They play it off with a mild chortle, and you can hate that you sense the smile work itself onto their face.

“I know my bug. We’re almost there.” He didn’t feel pity for you, in fact he kinda felt indignant about it. You knew that you were sick and didn’t tell anyone, and also took it upon yourself to decide to join the fight; and now your body is paying for it, with achy joints and stinging eyes. He felt that he was overprotective. The pissed-off I-told-you attitude, lingering near and around both of you, was embarrassing, but being taken care of by Molly was something you’d never pass up.

He steps into the bar, which is simmering with liveliness, and parts his way through the crowd of regulars who have seen the Nein around, asking questions; with every step, you can feel the lingering agony in your ribs. The broken bones are shifting and rubbing against each other; you can feel it every step Molly takes, and with every shuddering breath that trickles painfully inside your lungs.

“Alright, stairs now.” He whispers it to you softly into your hair, and you nod, because it’s the only thing that you can do, because you can’t beg him not to bring you up the stairs; so instead, you nod. You feel his lips against your head, and the searing, sharp pain in your ribs cools, becoming something milder, more manageable.

“Take a deep breath, I’ve got you.” And he does, and easily, and despite your dread, the stairs don’t cause the anticipated torture; you really should’ve known, Molly has you; and he’d never let the pain get that bad. And just as easily, you both are outside your shared room, and it smells familiar, the incense that Molly likes to burn and the natural mossy scent that tends to linger on you. Easily —as if floating across the floor— Molly places you gently onto your shared bed, and though it is soft, and the mattress dips perfectly to cradle your body, it is not Molly; it doesn’t carry his natural warmth.

“What? Miss me holding you already?” It’s not a question, though posed as one, you know it’s not when he has that sharp smirk on his face or that one raised eyebrow that teases so perfectly. You can feel a laugh bubbling in your lungs, but what comes out instead is a sharp exhale, followed quickly by a grimace. Broken ribs really are no joke.

“You’d think you’re a masochist with how you throw yourself in front of imminent danger.” You chortle halfheartedly, watching his hands work to undo your shift, taking care to touch your damaged skin oh so lightly.

“I don’t throw myself, I tactically maneuver myself.” They laugh, genuinely laugh, head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, and a beautiful grin stretching across their face. And for a moment, you think to yourself that you could very easily live the rest of your life like this.

“If that’s what you call tactical, then whatever Beau’s doing must be godly.” You snicker, still careful not to disturb your injured ribs, to which Molly quickly focuses back on his current task, applying a salve to your skin, which is now a rich shade of mottled, over-ripe plum.

“Mmmm, I definitely like the ones that I leave better.” Though their comment doesn’t register immediately, you definitely feel heat rush to your face the second it does process. You close your eyes so as not to meet their eyes, and shake your head with a sigh, but you wouldn’t have anyone else take care of you.

“Oh, come on, buggy, you know you like them better, too.” You nearly shiver at the remembering, while his hand makes gentle contact with your skin, which instantly gives you goosebumps, much to your humiliation. And he only chuckles, that deep, luscious chuckle that he finds his way from his lips when he knows that he’s struck the nail on its head. You hate how perfectly it curls around your ears, and the heady nature of it— even when it usually comes around when your ears are burning with a flush.

“Mayhaps your highness would like something to drink and eat.” As if on queue, your stomach rumbles with a hunger that you’ve been ignoring for an hour past noon. He smiles and puts his hand gently on your cheek and presses a chaste kiss to your lips, and it’s so perfectly gentle and soft that it sends butterflies through your stomach.

“I’ll be back soon, bug.” And his nearly silent footsteps exit your shared room with a grace that will always astound you, the grace that Mollymauk is capable of is almost awe-inspiring. But the thought finally leaves you, and your exhaustion becomes far too apparent. This isn't a standard after-mission type of tired; this is a bone-deep tired, a sort of tired that clings and mixes with your very essence.

Suddenly, the bed you're lying in is far more comfortable than it was when you first were set down in it, the sheets are soft and freshly washed, and there are two sticks of incense burning that Molly must’ve lit when you weren’t looking; this is true comfort.

The final thing that would bring you the most comfort is Molly, your Molly. Even just the thought of them sends a surge of comfortable warmth through you, and despite still feeling the throbbing ache on your side, your eyes slide shut.

“I am your god, long may I reign." Your eyes barely open, and though he opens the door with grandeur, he walks over gently and quietly, taking care as he sets down the plate of food, which smells mouth-watering

“C’mon, bug, no sleeping, you need to help your body heal.” You whine, loud and utterly childish, and Molly chuckles ever patiently with you, then shifts to placing a warm hand on your back, helping move you to a more sitting position. Though bone-tired, you sit, sapped of all the energy you can ever store in your body, and Molly shifts the pillows behind you.

“Thank you.” It’s barely loud enough to be considered a whisper, but they hear it, and when they turn their head to study you, the jewelry on their horns tinkles gently, and they smile.

“Always my bug.” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like taking care of you is ingrained in their very being, like it's second nature to be the one next to you. And then he turns and grabs the plate of food, piled high with meat and still piping hot. And with a precise and gentle hand, Molly carves out a piece of meat and a section of baked potato that you hadn’t noticed; with the care of a wizard perfecting his spells, he brings the form to your lips.

“Open up, pretty thing, I know you know how.” The flush that you thought was gone returns with a vengeance. However, you do open your mouth, and, as you suspected, the food tastes as great as it smells, which is far easier to focus on than the gorgeous tiefling before you, who smirks viciously, a deep purple blush rising to their cheeks.

“Is the flirting necessary for the healing process?” You wonder out loud, chewing yet another mouthful of food, Molly nods vehemently, eyes closed with fake professionalism.

“Oh yes, it’s pivotal otherwise the patient may never make a full recovery.” Putting on a posh accent and stroking a fake beard, which makes you smile, a genuine smile. A smile that makes your eyes shine magnificently, and a beautiful rosiness returns to your cheek, and in that moment, Molly assures himself that he would do anything in the world to make sure that you always smile that beautifully.