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heich0e · 8 months ago

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ever since you were young, you've fallen victim to at least one terrible cold per year.

it's not your fault—your almost laughably fallible immune system is seemingly genetic, as your family was always the same growing up—but even that biological truth does little to make you feel better when you're in the thick of cough and cold season, waiting for illness to inevitably strike. one faint, meagre consolation from your predictably lacklustre immune response means that you at the very least have a fairly well-practiced routine for when you fall ill. you know the brands of medication that work best, the fever patches with the most reliable adhesion, which teas seem to help decongest you better than others. you've got soup recipes, and hot water bottles, and fuzzy socks tucked away at the ready for when you need them, because you know that you eventually will.

but this season, there's a wild card in the mix. a variable you haven't had the opportunity to plan for in years past.

shouto.

you met shouto last summer at a going away party to which you were a plus one of someone who didn't even know the person who was going away particularly well. you'd been beyond shocked when you turned up to the gathering only to see half the top pro-hero ranking list gathered before your very eyes. even more shocked when the most handsome one in the room—in the world?—bothered to speak to you.

your relationship with shouto built slowly. you were casually dating last cold season, so he hadn't had to witness you at your lowest, but this year you're living together—having moved in rather suddenly just shy of your one year anniversary since your lease was ending and shouto's apartment was more than suitable for two.

so now here you are, languishing in the bed you share with your still unfairly handsome pro-hero boyfriend, drifting in and out of consciousness in a decongestant fuelled haze, with a (now tepid) fever patch stuck to your forehead.

and there is a god awful racket coming from outside your bedroom door.

peeling yourself up from the loving embrace of your mattress is a nearly herculean task, but once you're upright it's not so hard to stuff your feet into your slippers and stumble your way to the the door. your head feels heavy and your cough is still in the nasty hacking stage, but you suspect your fever's dropping, which means the worst of your illness is likely over. any relief you may feel is decidedly shortlived as you turn the corner to the kitchen and freeze in place.

"shouto—" your voice is so raspy it sounds foreign to you "—what are you doing?"

in the kitchen, standing in the eye of what can only be described as a culinary hurricane, is your apron-clad boyfriend. he has one of your barrettes clipping his two-toned bangs up off his forehead, and a smudge of something (presumably edible) across his cheek. his eyes are wide as he turns to face you in the centre of this disaster, a carrot in one hand and a potato masher in the other.

"i," shouto pauses, and though you know it's not for dramatic effect it sure sounds like it is, "am cooking."

you start coughing, and rush to cover your mouth—turning away and bending a little at the waist from the force of it. you see shouto step towards you in your peripheral vision, but with the hand not covering your mouth you wave him away—you should have gotten a mask before you left your bedroom, but in your haste you'd forgotten to grab one.

"you sound terrible," shouto remarks and then follows up his own commentary with another, somewhat reproachful, "that's not very nice."

you look at him curiously, confused as to what he's just said and he points to his ear where he has one wireless earbud in.

"that was bakugou," he explains, and you realize he was only relaying the comment of his friend on the phone. "i'll call you back," he says again, and this time you don't need to wonder who he's speaking to before he plucks his headphone out of his ear and sets it (and the carrot and potato masher) down in the very limited counter space left.

shouto fidgets with his hands now that they're empty, inching a bit closer to you—slowly, like he know's you're going to wave him off again and is trying to avoid it.

"how are you feeling?" he asks.

"a bit better," you say, even though you don't sound it.

"why are you out of bed?" he follows up his first question with another, concern in his gaze.

"i heard... something," your eyes scan the room as you take in the very something you speak of. "why are you cooking?"

"i'm making you soup," shouto says, and then looks around the room at the scene you'd just surveyed. then he looks back at you again with a somewhat grim expression. "i'm trying to make you soup," he corrects himself.

and maybe it's the fever, or the decongestants, or the fact that he's possibly the sweetest man you've ever met in your life (on top of being the most handsome), but suddenly you feel like you might cry. or laugh, maybe. you aren't entirely sure either of them is off the table.

"what kind of soup?" you ask him, and this time your voice is croaky for an entirely unrelated reason.

"chicken soup," he answers, and he's suddenly closer than he'd been at first—having continued creeping closer to you when your guard was lowered. "with ginger. you said you like that."

"i do," you answer, and when shouto reaches out to wrap his arms around you, you have no will left in you to push him away. you tuck your face against his chest and relax against the firm, familiar shape of his body pressing into yours.

shouto peels the old fever patch from your forehead and tosses it aside, replacing it with the delightfully cool palm of his hand. he's been doing this since you fell ill, and was more than a little affronted the first time he came home from work and saw that you'd put a cooling patch on in his absence—as though jealous that it wasn't his touch that you were turning to for relief.

"was bakugou helping you make soup?" you ask, leaning into his hand.

shouto hums, and you feel the sound reverberate through his broad chest. "i don't know if helping is the right word."

"why did you have a potato masher out for chicken soup?" you then ask, remembering the utensil he'd been holding when you first walked into the kitchen.

"potato masher..." shouto says, realization heavy in his tone. he'd clearly had no idea what it was to begin with. "i was looking for a slotted spoon."

you laugh, and then cough a little.

"you should get back to bed," shouto insists.

"just another minute," you sigh, reaching up to hold his wrist and keep his hand in place. shouto freezes, and you feel his eyes on your face, peeking up at him through your lashes.

"what?" you ask him curiously.

in place of an answer, shouto wraps his arm (the one you don't have in your clutches) around your waist and hoists you up, balancing you against his hip like an overgrown toddler.

"sho-shouto! wait!"

he doesn't wait. in fact, he barely acknowledges you've said anything at all as he trots back in the direction of your shared bedroom. before you even manage to get your bearings, shouto's placed you gently back into bed, shucked his apron, and crawled in alongside you under the covers. you hardly have time to miss the cool weight of his hand before it's returned to its rightful place against your brow.

"what about your soup?" you ask him, but even in spite of your own words—and the fact that you've been keeping him at arm's length for days out of concern for his own health—you find yourself curling up against his side in bed, snuggling closer.

"i don't think it was going to taste very good anyway," shouto remarks somberly. he pouts a little. "bakugou said he'd drop some off for you later, because he was worried my soup was going to kill you."

you laugh, and then cough, and then rest your cheek against his chest.

shouto's heartbeat thumps steadily beneath your ear. his hand stays cool against your skin.

you may not have planned for him, but you think you might keep him around.

#shouto x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #bnha drabbles #bnha writing #writing

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mediumgayitalian · 3 months ago

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“Hnnnngh.”

Will snorts, reaching around his book to pat his currently cooking boyfriend gently if teasingly in the face region.

“There, there.”

“Hnnnnngh,” says Nico, with more emphasis. He curls up a little closer to Will, tucking his burning forehead to the dip in his shoulder.

Which, like. Is obviously very bad for him and everything, Will would of course prefer him to be healthy, et cetera, et cetera, but also the woods are a little chilly and Austin said he was gonna regret not wearing a sweater, so obviously he couldn’t go back and get one, and while unfortunate for the boy in question Will is a teensy weensy bit grateful for Nico’s pyrogens. Sue him.

Will flips a page.

“You know, you would be in less pain and misery if you went unconscious. Hard to feel anything when you aren’t aware of anything, famously.”

“Shldn’t b sleepin’,” Nico mumbles. Will widens his stance ever so slightly. Nico curls further against him. Will grins. Score.

“You better sleep. I worked hard for those herbs, you know. Don’t waste all my hard work.”

Nico makes another noise of stubborn misery, freeing his hand for the sole purpose of flapping it dismissively.

“Nnngh.”

Will sighs. Nico’s eyes are squeezed shut, but there is a brazen, shameless pout to his lips, and he just looks so miserable, and it is entirely his fault for traipsing about in the dark and cold but he is so so pitiable and so so cute. Will is moved, a little. Not a lot, ‘cause his boyfriend’s a dumbass and Will does not indulge dumbasses, but.

Most dumbasses aren’t quite so adorable when they’re hacking up a lung and wishing for death.

“It’s a head cold, you fucking goober.”

“I’m fevered,” Nico retorts, popping one dark eye open to glare. “My brain is cooking, and this is how you treat me? Your beloved? This is how you treat me, the love of your life, when my brain is simmering at one hundred and ten degrees?”

“You are barely one hundred point four.”

“Cooking!”

“Oh my gods.”

Will cannot help himself. He ducks down and kisses Mr. Drama Queen Of Darkness on those ridiculous pouty lips, not bothering to hide his smirk. Nico whines again.

“Go to sleep, you dumbass.”

Nico puffs out a breath, sagging against Will’s side.

“I can’t.” His eyes flutter shut, limbs growing heavy. Will pushes his book to the side, settling against the tree they’re laying against and sliding his hands into Nico’s sweaty hair. With every knot he detangles, Nico shivers. “I can’t sleep, there’re — dng’rous things. Inthe forest.”

Will snorts. How chivalrous. “Don’t worry about it, Ghost King.” He slows his hand as Nico stills, breaths evening. He waits, motionless, counting Nico’s laboured breaths: in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. In. Out. In. Out.

He picks up his book again when he’s sure Nico’s asleep, wrapping an arm around him. He looks out into the clearing, watching the shifting shadows, meeting the glare of glowing red eyes and flashing fangs. He grins, green circling his eyes, acrid, emerald smoke simmering in circles around them.

“I am the most dangerous thing in this forest.”

———

based on this comic

#five foot nothing fevered pouty nico talking at will about oh the forest is so dangerous oh i gotta protect you #meanwhile the man could wipe out every living thing in a square acre #has me giggling like okay king whatever you say #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #will solace #nico di angelo #nico di angelo/will solace #solangelo #established solangelo #sickfic #100 ways #100 ways to say i love you #my writing

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impish-baby · 8 months ago

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The bell tolls once - platonic yandere infection x reader - ❔️

Jonah crashing into your room wasn't how you expected to wake up today. It nearly gives you a heart attack, clumsily throwing your blanket off as he hacks on the floor. The man doesn't respond when you frantically ask if he's ok or kneel beside him, body wracked with a wheezing cough.

He feels like he's burning up as you stroke circles into his back in an attempt to soothe him, a horrible fever no doubt. It's way too high for him not to already be in medical, like his body is cooking itself from the inside out.

You're not strong enough to carry him there, so the only choice is to run and grab someone else from the crew. Sarah is the doctor on board, she'd-

The hand that jolts out to grip your wrist when you attempt to get up is startling, Jonah finally looking at you. He's pale and clammy, face completely wet with tears as his coughs turn into sobs.

"Darling.."

He sounds like he's in pain, in utter agony really. It breaks your heart. Jonah has never been your favorite teammate, but it hurts to see anyone so miserable.

"Please don't leave me..." He trembles, clumsily pulling you into his arms. "I can't die alone... please.."

Nothing you do or say seems to comfort him, he only cries as you start to panic more. Suggesting you go to medical together only agitates him, Jonah cradling you closer to his sweltering body.

"Thieves..." He grits his teeth, "no, no, no... they can't have you too..." The man babbles on incomprehensible, words not making any sense at all.

"Taking..stealing... but not my child.." Jonah nuzzles his face into your hair, "please.. stay... I need you.."

#famial yandere #platonic yandere #platonic yandere x reader #yandere x reader #yandere father #yandere monster #yandere drabble #infection probably isnt the right term #i just dont know how else to decribe it

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harmless-variety-of-garden-snake · 4 months ago

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It's time for BuckTommy Fluffebruary Day Twenty: Baby Fever. These two are so ready to be dads, and I'm ready to see them be dads or at least cool uncles. This was so close to being a breeding king fic, but it's really just fluff about them wanting to start a family. Who am I anymore? Also, I fixed Melton not being a captain, ya boy is getting the promotion he already had in canon. I'm a hack, and I know it. This is also on AO3 over here. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary

Buck likes Tommy's captain, because even from the start he had been a nice guy, and over time Buck’s found out that Bryant protects the hell out of his team. He's been on the city about safety regulations to a degree that he has a routine for going in and raising hell, they have the lowest instance of equipment failure in any Air Ops division in the state, and he'd fired no less than three people for bigoted statements or actions toward members of the team or people being rescued. One of those guys had said something to Tommy, who'd brushed it off, but Bryant had overheard and come down on the man like the hammer of God.

When Bryant has to announce his retirement, Buck is sad to see him go. The man's health has taken a hit after some hazardous material exposure earlier in his career came back to haunt him in the form of a (thankfully early stage and already in remission) cancer that he's had treated, but the treatment was aggressive and visibly weakened him. Tommy is devastated and helps organize a party to send him off, and Buck is happy to lend his planning and cooking skills. He shows up to Harbor with ten dozen cookies, four sheet cakes, three trays of lasagna (regular, plant-based, and gluten free), and enough crudité trays to feed a small army.

“I know I should be alarmed, but we really were worried we wouldn't have enough food,” Lucy says as she grabs the lasagnas from the bed of Tommy's truck and walks into the engine bay. “BK, your man's here!”

Tommy's head appears from around a corner, and Buck grins and waves at his husband. When the rest of Tommy appears, he has a baby in the crook of his arm, and Buck feels his heart melt.

“Who's this?” he asks as he approaches Tommy.

“Cap’s granddaughter,” Tommy replies, picking up a chubby hand and waving it at Buck. “Nicola, this is Evan. Evan, Nicola.”

“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Buck says, kissing the back of her hand and grinning at her toothless smile. “Can I steal you from the nice man?”

“As long as you promise to give her back,” Tommy says, carefully transferring her to Buck’s arms.

He bounces her and raises his brows when hers go up, laughing when she giggles. “Okay, silly girl, let's go get cookies from Uncle Tommy's truck.”

Tommy's hand rests between his shoulder blades as they walk out to the truck, which has already been largely cleared out. The cookies are in bakery boxes, and Tommy grabs them so Buck can flip the tailgate back up as he talks to Nicola about all of the stuff he made and how Bobby had helped out with the lasagna.

He feels a tug behind his belly button sometimes, like a hook’s been attached, and he's started realizing what it is. He wants this. He wants to hold a baby and then a toddler and then a child and talk to them and console them and love them and teach them. He wants to see Tommy do the same. He wants them to do it together. They've talked about it at length, and they're on the same page that sometime before Tommy turns forty-five, they'll be fathers. Tommy's forty-two and makes jokes about being one of those elderly dads one day, and Buck wants that. Every time a baby or toddler is in his vicinity, he wants to hold them and interact with them and make them smile and show them to his husband.

He holds Nicola close and kisses her fine hair and inhales the smell of baby soap and lotion and powder and milk that always clings to them when they're this young. A hand settles on his back again and he blinks at his husband. He's been blindly following Tommy and hadn't realized that he’d led them to the hangar where the party’s happening and had set the cookies down on a table.

Buck knows Tommy better than anyone probably ever has, something he's fought for and felt honored to achieve. When he looks at him, he can see a reflection of what he's feeling, having seen it more than a few times. Tommy tells him about every baby or toddler or kid who interacts with him while he's at the store, which is a lot. Kids gravitate toward Tommy, and Buck’s turned a corner in the grocery store more than once to see Tommy engaged in a conversation with a six-year-old who's explaining why their dog is named what they're named. He knows it’s what they want one day, but that one day doesn’t feel that far off anymore.

“Melton’s taking over Bryant’s spot as Captain, Jack’s taking over as First L-T,” Tommy says, reaching up to rub Nicola’s back as she wobbles a bit trying to look around at all of the people walking past them. “So the Training Captain job will be opening up. I was thinking of applying.”

Training Captain would mean Tommy is taken off rescues, that he'd only be flying to train, that his hours would be a little more regular. It’s been their first step in starting their family ever since they mapped out what that might look like for them.

“Yeah?” Buck asks, feeling his chest swell with something like hope.

Tommy’s gaze meets his, and his husband looks happy at the idea. “Yeah.”

Nicola squirms against Buck’s chest, and he turns his attention back to her. She's getting a little pouty, and Buck soothes her softly, bouncing her a bit and talking quietly to her.

“Sorry,” a woman says, smiling. “I need to feed her. You're Tommy’s husband, right?”

Buck grins and nods, still not able to tamp down the thrill that goes through him at being able to say he's Tommy's husband. “Yeah, that's me. Evan Buckley-Kinard. Does this young lady belong to you?”

“She does,” she confirms, giving her daughter a smile filled with so much love that it lights up her face. “I'm Mary, Cap’s kid. You guys don’t have any yet, right?”

“Not yet,” Buck says with full confidence that he'll be able to give a different answer one day. One day, he'll be able to say ‘yes’ and pull out his phone to show a million pictures to someone who will coo politely and ask about milestones and how old and names and sleep schedules. And he'll be able to turn to Tommy and commiserate about sleepless nights and quiet moments and—

“Yeah, you've got it bad,” Mary says, laughing. Buck flushes and hands the baby over to her patient mother. “Don't worry, you'll probably get her back until my dad gets her. Thanks for keeping an eye on her.”

“Not a problem,” Tommy says, slipping an arm around Buck’s waist. “Tell your dad to share. He's about to get all the time in the world with her.”

Mary looks between them with a smile. “You guys know they don't sleep, diaper blow-outs are a ‘when’ not ‘if’ situation—not to take the shine off the idea, but I feel like everyone just gassed me up until it was too late, then I got all the horror stories.”

“Oh, we know,” Buck says, sighing happily as he reaches over to brush a thumb over Nicola’s petal soft cheek. “But look at that face.”

She tucks herself against her mom, and Mary kisses the top of her head. “Yeah,” she says softly. “It's the best one. Nice meeting you, Evan.”

“You, too,” Buck says, watching them leave. He waves sadly at Nicola when she peeks at him from over Mary’s shoulder. “One?”

“Or two,” Tommy says, kissing his temple. “We'll see. But at least one. I always wished I had a sibling.”

“They're great,” Buck confirms, even though Maddie is going to be so smug, because she'd called him wanting kids right after marriage and he'd denied it vehemently, saying they’d wait another two to three years. “Mostly.”

“You'll be a great dad.”

Buck smiles at his husband and presses their foreheads together. “So will you.”

He sees a bit of the fear and doubt and knows it's the spirit of Tommy's dad looming over him. He wants to reach back in time and throw the man down a mountain.

“You're one of the best people I've ever known,” Buck reminds him. “And I love you and will love you even when you let our kids get paint on the walls.”

Tommy chuckles and squeezes his waist. “It'll add character to the house. And I'd give them washable paint.”

“That stuff is bullshit and you know it and I know it and so does Crayola, because the stains—” Buck’s cut off from his rant by a pair of lips, and he sighs against his husband's mouth.

“Wanna practice after the party?” Tommy asks softly.

“Stain removal?” Buck asks faintly.

“No,” Tommy says, looking between Buck’s eyes with an intensity that burns straight through him. “Making a baby.”

Buck’s heart stutters in his chest and heat shoots through him. “Neither of us really has the right—but we could try.”

Tommy nods and kisses him again, and it's only the distant voice of the fire chief that keeps Buck from slipping him any tongue.

#bucktommy #my fic #bucktommy fluffebruary

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zombiecowboy65 · 4 days ago

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Jeremy crawling into bed to curl around Jean when he’s sick , and Jean trying (half-heartedly) to shoo him away because “you’ll get sick”. And Jeremy’s like nonsense I have an immune system of steel. And then Jean’s cough subsides and he can breathe out of his nose again and no longer feels like dying , but now Jeremy’s hacking up a lung and running a low fever and hasn’t left the bed all day and Jean cooks him soups and then crawls into bed to curl around him, and as he pulls Jeremy back into his chest, says, “immune system of steel hm?”

#Jeremy threatens to push him off the bed #jean says u won’t #Jeremy says humph I’ll think about it #jeremy knox #jean moreau #jerejean

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originalwinnercheesecake · 1 year ago

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Guess's on How Sasappis died.

Sasappis is the last ghost for us to learn his death. Sass is very private (undead) person, and we have been given no real/clear hints to his death. His ghost power (To enter into the dreams of the livings) could easily correlate to him being a story teller, and not necisarly "He died in his sleep, after catching a sever fever, that also caused him to have very strange dreams. Note I do not believe that Sass died of a fever. They would have incorporated some sign of it into his character. He would be more tired, feel more cold, possibly have a "unexplainable sweating problem". He also does not have any vibsiable gaping wounds, like Pete, Flower, or Stephanie, so that rules out death by attacker. So the question is how did Sass die

Now he could have died of some kind of sickness, but I do not think it is very likely. For one thing he is implied to have had a sudden death, just days before an important tribal ceremony he was planning/supposed to take part in. Correct me if I am wrong, but wouldn't most sickness take a period of weeks, months, years to do him in. A second thing again he isn't really sickly in the the show. All the cholera ghosts are flushed and still hacking. Issac will sneeze and mention stomach pains. But Sass seems fine, so if he has any kind of sickness then he has been masking it for 500 years. That is really sad.

He also could have could died if he went walk in the woods one night and fell from a cliff or out of a tree... but if that happened well that is kinda anti-climactic for how long we had to wait. I would rate that on the same scale as Thorfinn dying because he went walking with his helmet, through a storm and was struck by lightening. It is just a case of him not being as careful as he should have been. Not nearly an impressive follow up to Alberta or Hetty's more recently revealed deaths.... But you could make it more sad. Sass and his crush Shiki are implied to have died in the same year. Sass says that when they were alive, he was ghosted by Shiki after gifting a freshly killed deer to her family, as a jester of love. What if that was because Shiki actually went missing (i.e. died) shortly after, and Sass went out to search for her?

Another death I have considered was a food related one. A detail of Sass's character is is the most in love with food smells (the closest they can come to eating) of all the ghosts. He hangs out in the kitchen whenever Jay is cooking, consistently begs Sam and Jay to cook more of his favorite smelling food: pepperoni pizza, and I am honestly half expecting him to move into the barn once Jay's restaurant opens... What if Sass's love of food is actually a hint at his death? Maybe he had an allergy and accidentally ate something he was not supposed to? Or, maybe he had diabetes or some other dietary need, a crop or the meat from a particular animal, and Sass died when it was wiped out or disappeared. With so many people in the U.S. having dietary issues, and the countries known love of food, I could see the show choosing to write an episode on dietary importance, and the need for people from all walks of life to have access to healthy food.

My finale theory is one I have actually gotten off Tumblr, from the people who are fans of both the CBS and BBC series. Some people are suggesting Sass got bit by a poison snake or something and died from the poison venom. The puncture marks are small enough for Sass to be able to conceal with his clothing. Apparently something of the similar nature happened to BBC's Kitty? And I actually know a really good way to blend that into Sass's personality and a possible reason for why he became a ghost. Sass as mentioned loves stories and is a gifted story teller. But also as mentioned he is very private person who gets nervous about speaking in front of crowds. A week before the tribes festival Sass's father gave him an eagle's feather, which was believed to help bring confidence and courage. But what if Sass was still nervous/afraid afterwards. What as the days got closer got more more nervous/afraid, until he decided to do something reckless and stupid, to prove to himself that he could be brave. Something like walking through a more dangerous (poison animal infested) part of valley, telling himself "If I can brave this I will have no reason to be afraid of anything anymore". While that would not be the most exciting death, it would be very tragic, and it could set up "Overcoming the fears he had as a living", all of them, as Sass's unfinished business. Essentially, he would need to become a more rounded and confident person. Note that seems to also be Pete's unfinished business. Sass and Pete are roommates, and we have had at least a few really nice episodes exploring their relationship. It would be really cool if that continued to him and Pete having to teach themselves the same thing, but in different ways.

#american ghosts #sasappis #pete martino #Cbs ghosts Shiki #cbs ghosts season 4 #Cbs ghosts theories #cbs ghosts sas #ghosts Sass #Ghosts Shiki #Ghosts pete #CBS Ghosts #CBS Ghots Sass

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trulybetty · 2 years ago

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Sick Day

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (no use of Y/N) Word Count: 1,581 Warnings: Pure fluff, talk of not feeling well, cooking, caretaking, and on brand Marcus Pike. Summary: Marcus never cancels dates, and if he does it usually comes with his own brand of romantic gestures to make up for it. So when he doesn't, you know something isn't quite right. AO3: Linked

A/N: It's been a week - but this had been sitting in my WIP folder unfinished for a while and this prompted me to finish this piece of pure fluff.

Sick Day.

Marcus was not accustomed to feeling helpless. Being weak or vulnerable was not part of his persona, not part of what made Marcus Pike who he was.

His sickness had come on suddenly, a relentless fever accompanied by a deep, hacking cough. Marcus was not one to fall ill often, and when he did, he had always soldiered through, never allowing weakness to dictate his schedule. But this was different; this was not something he could ignore. His body was not cooperating, and all his attempts to carry on were futile.

The fever alone had struck with a vengeance. His body ached, his throat was on fire, and even the faintest hint of light sent his head spinning into oblivion. A normally robust Marcus was reduced to a shivering mess, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, his mind clouded by the relentless throb of a migraine.

And yet, the real disquiet lay not in his physical discomfort but in a new and unexpected vulnerability. The one person he sought to impress, care for, and be strong for, was now seeing him at his weakest.

You.

From the early days of your relationship, Marcus had been the one to shower you with romantic gestures, much to your chagrin at times. Breakfasts in bed, spontaneous day trips, surprise gifts — he'd done it all. It was how he'd always been, it was how past relationships had dictated how he should operate to ensure that his love interest remained enamoured, entranced and with him.

But you were different.

You didn't expect anything from him. You didn't need grand gestures or elaborate displays of affection. Your love was calm, steady, and unconditional. It was a love that sought no repayment, demanded no proof, and required no theatrics.

And it was something Marcus had never experienced before.

He had sent you a text message that he had to skip your date night and you’d looked at your phone warily. The two of you had been together for quite some time now and this was not his usual MO. Marcus Pike didn’t just cancel dates, you had cancelled dates sure, but never Marcus without a flurry of rearranged reservations or a bouquet of flowers at your door.

So when you showed up at his doorstep on your way to work, your eyes wide with concern with a bag full of remedies, Marcus was utterly unprepared. Especially when you said you were going to call in to work and take the day off when you realized how sick he was. The truth was, no one had ever taken a day off work to care for him. No one had ever put him first in quite the same way.

Once inside Marcus's apartment, the evidence of his illness was palpable. The usually immaculate space was in mild disarray, evidence of his discomfort. Marcus was bundled on the couch, looking both vulnerable and endearing, his face flushed and his eyes glazed.

He had tried to protest, to insist that he was fine, that you didn't need to trouble yourself. But the words had come out slurred, his voice weak and barely above a whisper.

“You look awful,” you'd said, your intention sympathetic, as you brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead.

Your hand had felt cool and soothing against his fevered skin and he leant into it, his eyes closed.

“It’s okay.” he tried to assure you.

You laughed at his failed attempt to convince you, “It’s not okay, for starters your voice sounds terrible.”

“Sounds worse than it is.” he gave you what he thought was an unabashed smile, but came out crooked and tired.

You just stared at him incredulously, “You just almost coughed up a lung.”

“I’m fine.” he tried to sit up but the sudden movement caused him to double over in a fit of coughing.

You placed the back of your hand against his forehead, “Case in point. You’re not fine Marcus, you’re burning up.”

“It’s just a cold,” he insisted.

“Marcus, you need to rest,” you'd chided, your tone gentle but firm as you led him to his bedroom. “I'm here now. Let me take care of you, please.”

And so you did.

The hours turned into a day, and then another, your presence a constant. You sat at his kitchen table, replying to emails and calls between checking his fever and ensuring he took his medication. When he asked you to stay overnight that first night you’d obliged his ask in his vulnerable state. So you’d watched movies with him, choosing his favourites, even though he’d drifted in and out of sleep throughout.

It was three days longer than the original one you planned on staying when he was looking and feeling more like himself. You were both in the kitchen, you preparing dinner, while he watched on.

“So where did you learn how to make this?” Marcus asked, fatigue still lingering as he leaned on the countertop to rest his head in his hand. He watched diligently as you added ingredients to the ceramic pot atop the stovetop. The smell of the simmering food was already permeating the apartment making your mouth water.

It was one of, if not your number one comfort meal. You’d experienced it at a tiny restaurant years ago in a quiet city off the main drag of flashy restaurants and bars. The only good things to come of a past failed date, one whose name now you couldn’t recall even if you tried. While the relationship hadn’t gone anywhere you’d gone back repeatedly to the small establishment time and time again and learned how to make it yourself.

“Want a taste?” you asked him, offering a spoon laden with a sample to taste. He watched in amusement as you blew on it to cool it down, “Here you go, try.”

Marcus tentatively tasted the food and felt a sting on his tongue from the heat, but smiled at the ability to finally be able to taste something, “My taste buds may not be quite back up to par,” he said, “but this, this is delicious.”

You grinned, “Good, it means you’re getting better.”

Marcus pulled himself away from the counter and stepped up behind you. His arms wrapped around your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder. Even now, while he was slowly recovering, this simple embrace made your heart swell with affection.

“You've really been incredible these past few days,” Marcus murmured, his voice still hoarse. “I can't even begin to express how grateful I am. I'm not used to... this, you know? Being taken care of.”

You gave him a gentle smile, as you dried your hands off with a kitchen towel and lowered the heat on the pot.

You twisted around in his arms to face him, tucking a stray lock of hair back from his forehead. “It was my pleasure, Marcus,” you said with a smile.

He was silent for a moment, taking in what you said. That one sentence soothing to years of a self-imposed belief that he should always be the caretaker, the provider. “Thank you,” he spoke softly.

“Since you're feeling much better now, I’d better think about getting back to my place,” you said, puncturing the comfortable quiet of the room. You were trying to sound casual, but it was obvious that your presence wasn’t intended to be a long-term thing; Marcus understood this, yet he still felt a twinge of sadness.

“But it's Friday,” he retorted, his voice carrying the softest note of protest. “Maybe you could stay for the weekend? Now that I'm feeling better, I can find a way to thank you properly.” A mischievous glint shone in Marcus's eyes as he smiled slowly. “Since you’ve been playing nurse so well, maybe it’s time for the patient to return the favour and take care of you?” he finished, his voice dropping into a suggestive tone, making the implication all but transparent.

But before he could elaborate, his words were interrupted by a sudden coughing fit. The rough, barking sound filled the apartment, and Marcus grimaced as he cleared his throat. Covering his mouth with his forearm, he tried to suppress another cough as he failed to stop the onslaught of another fit.

You let out a loud and throaty laugh as you filled Marcus a glass of water. “Okay, maybe we'll hold off on the whole nurse-and-patient role-play for now.”

Marcus joined in, his laughter tinged with a hint of self-deprecation once he’d finished with the water you'd poured him. “Maybe you're right. But the offer to stay the weekend still stands.”

These days, such as now, in small moments of reflection Marcus was able to step back and see his previous relationships a little more clearly. They had felt solid at the time, and had seemed like they were built on a foundation of mutual understanding and love, but looking back he could tell that the foundation was merely a house of cards. Meaning one wrong move or unmet expectation and it all would have come crashing down on unrealistic standards he’d set himself.

But with you, it was different.

While Marcus was off in his own world, you returned your attention to the meal cooking on the stove. “Dinner will be ready soon. What do you think about watching a movie while we eat? You choose,” you asked..

Marcus, snapping out of his thoughts, smiled warmly. “I think that sounds perfect,” he replied.

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x female reader #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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starlight-lesbians · 10 months ago

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Currently thinking about Greaseball whump? Just like coming home battered and bruised as fuck to an empty shed, except one day Dinah’s there to unscrew all her plating and tend to her wounds. Or like GB coming down with her flu and Dinah feeling her engine for a fever instead of her forehead because she’s burnt up all her diesel and she’s running on fumes, while she’s sniffling or hacking up oil into oil cloths instead of tissues. Or like her with migraines and head injuries from crashes and bright lights on the track. Or her just absolutely burning herself out doing endless pulling jobs. Idk sorry if this is too much I just can’t stop thinking about how the whole train aspect adds so many more interesting dynamics into just absolutely torturing these characters LOL.

a/n: i always feel SO bad making them suffer but writing GB working her way up to being vulnerable and letting Dinah care for her is so wonderful it makes me CRY

sfw, warnings: injury, illness, etc

Greaseball Letting Dinah Tend to Her

So before Dinah and Greaseball started living together, GB lived alone and just kind of dealt with the physical fallout of all the heavy lifting she did

She didn’t plan on doing anything any differently when Dinah moved in, she’d keep pretending she wasn’t in pain and Dinah would believe her.

What she wasn’t expecting was Dinah Noticing and Caring as much as she did

The first time she came home with a particularly nasty injury from a crash during practice, she tried to sneak past Dinah and patch herself up. Dinah caught her and insisted on at least cleaning the wound for her because it was somewhere she couldn’t see well on her own.

After that, she didn’t try to hide her injuries as much, now that she knew Dinah would still love her even though she had been vulnerable with her.

Dinah fussed over her taking too many pulling jobs and not resting as much as she should be, but she was always there to care for her when she finally hit a breaking point

That breaking point ended up being a nasty flu that got her while her defenses were down from not resting.

Dinah took time off from her own work to stay with her until she was better, cooking her soup with some diesel mixed in to give her some energy and helping her keep the fever down with endless ice packs on her head

Greaseball hadn’t ever been cared for like that, and at first it freaked her out a bit, did Dinah think she couldn’t take care of herself? Was she becoming weak because she enjoyed being doted on too much?

Dinah had to assure her she was still just as tough and strong as she’s always been, she just loves her and wants her to get better faster (and stop overworking herself plEASE she’s begging)

They now have an extensive medicine cabinet for all the ailments Greaseball incurs between pulling jobs and racing. They keep a million kinds of painkillers, wound cleaning kits, even some beginner sutures that Dinah’s gotten pretty handy with because Greaseball now only lets her take care of her except in really serious situations.

Unless something is Really Really wrong, GB won’t go to the repair shop, she trusts Dinah to take care of it. If Dinah says she needs to go then she will, but very begrudgingly, and not alone.

After her big crash, Dinah visits her every day in the repair shop while she’s getting fixed up. Greaseball knows she’s done racing, so she’s only getting fixed up for pulling jobs now.

Dinah being there to hold her hand and reassure her makes all the difference in her recovery. Losing racing was hard enough, she couldn’t imagine losing Dinah too, that would be unbearable.

Hope you liked! I focused more on the emotional aspect of everything because that’s where my brain goes lol. I loved this prompt :)

#starlight express london 2024 #starlight express #greaseball the diesel #dinah the dining car #greasedinah #dinah starlight express #greaseball and dinah #dinah x greaseball #stex #starlight express greaseball #rory rambles! 💕

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naenarwhal · 2 years ago

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youtube

How to Hack Cooking Fever Gems & Diamonds in 2 Minutes 🔥 In this video we will teach how to get cooking fever gems and diamonds in a quick way. Finish the video and share if you love the content! Timestamps: 0:00 - Start 1:20 - How to Navigate the site 1:50 - How to get Diamonds and Gems #cookingfever via YouTube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3VJfKAd8yA

#How to Hack Cooking Fever Gems & Diamonds in 2 Minutes 🔥#Youtube

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sherbet-shivers · 5 months ago

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Catch a Break

Series: T//he W//ire (my favorite series of all time, I cannot encourage watching this enough!)

Characters: J//immy M//cNulty (-centric) and B//unk M//oreland

Part 1/? (This was gonna be a one-shot but who knows)

Blurb: Self-indulgent fic where McNulty is overworked with a cold. Nobody asked for this but I love sassy, self-destructive fictional men.

Length: ~2k words

TW: cursing, contagion and alcoholism mentioned, light mess, cops (no spoilers)

**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs — no need to drag vanillas into this! <3**

“Jimmy…Jimmy…JIMMY!”

McNulty startles half-awake, his office swaying like a damn boat while he blinks away the noir fuzz bordering his peripherals. He felt like shit. Cement had replaced his bones, making every step heavy from labor. Menial aches and pains had exploded into full on torture wounds by morning. It didn’t help that he had a headache and a ringing in one ear. Not to mention the fever that’d been creeping up on him since noon.

Fuck. If there was anything McNulty resented more than red tape, it was being sick. It made him a lousy detective, a lousy sport, made him feel lousy. It was too bad his nap hadn’t killed him, really; that or at least slipped him into a coma long enough to ride out this misery. He straightens in his seat and loosens his tie. The hellfire torching up his throat and sinuses had moved on to cooking up his insides. Ironic, given that he was shivering and shaking so bad.

“Jesus,” huffs an admonishing tone. McNulty doesn’t have to look up to recognize who it is. He knows that voice — or rather that tone — anywhere. “Who shit you out and left me on janitor’s duty?”

“Fuck off, Bunk,” McNulty grumbles. He’s congested when he speaks, drowning his consonants. A chesty cough escapes him as he snuggles back in his chair. “What time is it?”

“Well it ain’t Happy Hour, but you smell like it.” It’s an unnecessary jab (although not entirely undeserved).

“I’m not drunk,” he slurs back uselessly.

“But you’ve been drinking, right?”

McNulty hesitates, then rolls his eyes to meet his partner’s stare, both judgmental and vigilant as ever. His silence speaks for itself.

“Thought so,” Bunk mutters. The detective saunters over to his own desk where he takes a seat on a twice handed-down office chair. The vinyl cushioning squeaks under his weight, deflating an inch or so. “Not that I’m one to judge; what with the state you’re in, a shot’s the last thing that’ll kill ya.”

“Poor choice of words given our business, don’t you think?” McNulty lazily jests. His eyes are already closing on their own again. He was exhausted, and too eager to fit in another cat nap or two.

“Fuck you, smartass; you know what I mean.”

Bunk gives him a bump on the shoulder to keep him roused. Concern, maybe? His touch lingers as he casts his friend a sideways look.

“Fuck; you really do look like shit, though,” Bunk declares upon reinspection of Jimmy’s face. He pulls his hand back slowly and rubs his fingers together like they’ve collected soot. “Motherfucker hot as Hell, too.”

“You’re not too bad yourself, handsome,” McNulty winks. The giggle that escapes him is whimsical, borderline delirious; undoubtedly tipsy on liquor and a fever of at least a hundred and one by Bunk’s estimate.

“How long you been sick for?” Bunk asks. McNulty shrugs, as expected.

“Dunno,” he lies, “does it matter?”

“Guess not,” Bunk follows, blasé. “I should know better than to think you’d give a fuck about-“

Suddenly McNulty breaks out in a coughing fit. It’s deep and chesty, only further evidencing his poor condition.

“-self-care,” he finishes.

He falls silent as he waits for McNulty to ride out the rest of his huffing and hacking. The damn fool’s face was turning red from effort, a contrast to its former pallor. Honestly speaking, Bunk would feel worse for the son of a bitch if it weren’t for the fact he willfully came into work bugged the past few days (spreading it four floors in either direction) even though he knew damn well he was getting sick a week in advance, at least. Jimmy was an idiot like that. Stupid fucker was so damn addicted to his job and the game that he often neglected the effects on people closest to him — himself included. No doubt it was his fault Bunk had to come in tonight; the damn office was short staffed and under tight watch after some jackass “accidentally” sneezed on Rawls. It didn’t take a detective to figure out who the fuck that could be.

“hHUH-!…HRRSH’huu!”

Speaking of the devil.

“SH’ih-!…shit-!” McNulty curses breathlessly. A hiccup of air, another gasp, then- “hHD’ZSHH’hu!”

McNulty spreads his legs and snaps in half just in time to launch a sneeze between his own thighs. The desk lamp catches mist in its light, repulsing Bunk further and prompting him to inch away.

“Fuck! That’s sick, Jimmy,” Bunk groans, shielding his line of sight with a newspaper.

Jimmy shrugs and shakes his head.

“D’hHH-…d-don’t watch then-!” he manages before pitching another — “ihH’DSHH’h!” — towards the floor. He can hear Bunk cursing in the background, but since when did he give a fuck about etiquette; least of all in front of Bunk? Besides, he’d been waiting on a fit like this all day. He wanted to indulge in this relief while possible.

He concentrates on the itch; head tipped back, eyes firmly closed, nose wrinkled and nostrils flaring. Broken gasps of air escape the parting of his lips, and his eyebrows tug skyward, drawing attention to the sweat clinging to crows feet. He remains suspended like that for a moment. You see, this was the other issue he had with colds: they made him itch like crazy; but all the extra congestion meant his sneezes had a tendency to get stuck — no matter how badly they were needed.

Not to mention luck was rarely on his side even on a good day, and so maybe this was just another fabulous example of his crude misfortune. As expected, the promise of relief retreats away, leaving McNulty frustrated and teary eyed as he wipes his nose on his tie and suppresses a cough against his sleeve.

“Fuck,” he groans, collpasing back into his seat, head back and arms hugging himself. Beside him, Bunk slowly lowers his paper, grimace fading as he resumes observing his partner.

“Bless you. You uh, take anything for…this?” Bunk asks, gesturing vaguely towards Jimmy.

McNulty chuckles, opening one eye and hesitating to catch his breath. “What's with the third degree?” He’s joking, but Bunk isn’t smiling this time. His stare is oppositely stern and silently chastising. McNulty clears his throat awkwardly. “No, nothing,” he answers more honestly.

“Why not?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you unfamiliar with the drugstore? Or have you forgotten that’s where people traditionally get their drugs?”

McNulty petulantly shrugs, right on cue. “It started off as a headache and the sniffles a few days ago. Thought it was allergies, so I figured I’d just ride it out,” he explains. “Plus, you know I hate that CVS shit. All it does is knock you out; I can’t go around solvin’ cases and questioning witnesses without a clear head.”

“Right, because that’s what you’ve got alright-,” Bunk scoffs, “-a clear head. That’s why you’re passing out at work hungover with the plague; sneezing and hacking your ‘clear head’ all over the motherfucking place.”

McNulty pauses, locking eyes with Bunk in a private game of chicken he can’t win. They stay that way for half a minute, but seeing as how he can’t win, McNulty raises both his hands, wordlessly forfeiting from the argument. Instead, he opts for performatively conceding one hand to dig around his breast pocket, where he frees an aged, aluminum flask that squeaks when he unscrews the cap. With added showmanship he raises his flask in mock cheers to “Rawls’ speedy recovery” and takes a long, indulgent swig. The burn that follows is heavenly and momentarily suspends his chills, like a furnace in his chest.

“Look your concern is appreciated, but I’ve already got the strongest antidote to man’s ailments right here; what more do I need?” McNulty cheekily defends, adding: “Sides, FDA doesn’t recommend mixing antihistamines with alcohol.”

Bunk snorts. “You’re a fucking alcoholic, Jimmy.”

“Takes one to know one. Just be proud of me for choosing not to drive home tonight,” he smirks before swigging the tin back once, twice again. Christ, that hit the spot, and even better than usual. Probably partly in thanks to his mucked up senses, which inadvertently spare him from tasting his own bad decisions.

Bunk rolls his eyes. “Just shut the fuck up and blow your goddamn nose. Can’t understand a fucking word you’re saying.”

Bunk hurls a travel pack of tissues from somewhere off his desk and towards McNulty. The latter catches it (albeit barely) and as a token of appreciation, spares his company a witty retort. Not to mention he needed to blow his nose, badly — stupid thing was so plugged up, he felt like he’d been swimming in his own head.

He takes his opportunity to wipe the liquor from his lip before blowing, then massaging freely at his nose. Knuckling at it all day has made it sore, but it’s the only way he can squash the tickle roosting there, even for a second. While he’s distracted, Bunk rises to his feet again and starts towards the elevator. McNulty only notices once he’s grabbed a second tissue.

“Where are you going?” he calls.

“Break room.”

“Break room?” Blow, sniffle, repeat. “That’s on the second floor.”

“So?”

“So what; you j’huH’st-…!” Oh, fuck off. “hHI’SCHH’hu!! ih’ZSCHH’h!”

McNulty sneezes twice at the ground again, even though he has a tissue in his hands. Thankfully Bunk’s still got his back turned, saving his partner from another lecture.

“Bless you!” Bunk says anyway.

“hh’-!…HH’RRSCHH’u!” He manages to catch that one. Lucky too, since he’s pretty sure his nose is running. “Than’gk-,” he blows his nose, coughs, clears his throat, and tries again. “Thank you baby. So…you really just came up here to sixth to wake me up like a dickhead?”

Bunk pauses and pays McNulty a glance over his shoulder as the elevator doors hiss open and he steps inside.

“Why’s everything gotta be about you, huh?” he asks. He jabs a button with his thumb, then points the butt of a withdrawn cigarrillo back at McNulty. “But yeah; looks like I did.”

Bunk blows McNulty a facetious kiss, then smugly disappears behind metal doors that ding shut. McNulty makes sure to send him off with two middle fingers, and another uncovered sneeze in chorus with his rumbling descent. The further he goes down, the quieter it feels, reminding McNulty he’s alone again. Only once Bunk’s already reached ground does McNulty realize he should have asked him more questions (or at least requested he bring him back something from the vending machine — a pop-tart or something chocolatey).

Not that it was too late to go after him…and he should probably do it, he knows. Christ, when was the last time he’d even eaten anything? Or really slept for that matter? He couldn’t remember, which was probably a bad sign in and of itself. In fact, that nap and the shitty coffee he’d had this morning were the best sleep and “meal” he’d gotten in days, but neither were exactly enough to sustain him — he knew that. He knew he should go home, sleep in a bed, eat an actual warm meal, and really take a few days to recover in private…but where was the entertainment in that? Sure, all that would cure him quicker, but they wouldn’t do anything to directly solve his case, and that was his priority as far as he was concerned.

It was a selfish, obsessive, and short-sighted way of thinking; shamelessly self-destructive at its worst. But really, so were all his other decisions the majority of the time…weren’t they…?

McNulty shakes his head. Why was he even dwelling on this shit anyway? He just wasn’t in the mood for eating, he reasons to himself; not when he couldn’t cook or taste a damn thing. Plus he still had half a flask remaining and plenty of work to get done; a reality evidenced by the mountain of eyewitness testimonies and crime scene photos burying his desk. Getting serious again, he takes another long sip of booze, pockets it, then brushes a few case notes aside to clear a space. Searching among the clutter, he plucks a chubby manilla folder from the most recent pile, grabs a pen, then kicks his feet up on the clearing he’d made.

He’d take a break when Bunk came back, he lies to himself. Until then, it was back to homicide…

“hh’ZSCHH!!”

…and that.

#snz #snz kink #snz fic #snzblr #t/he w/ire

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ladamedusoif · 2 years ago

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Family (Din Djarin x F!Reader)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 25

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Pedro Boys Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist

Follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications!

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Word Count: 1903

Rating: Teen

Warnings: No physical description of reader; no use of Y/N; set after S3 of The Mandalorian; references to illness

Aliit ori’shya tal’din - Family is more than blood (Mandalorian proverb)

***

Din doesn’t get sick. Injured, sure. But sick? Never.

The strange, fuzzy feeling in his head is just a headache, he reasons to himself as he potters around the house, back early from a job and waiting for you to return from collecting Grogu from school in the town. You’ve been helping them out for a few months now, taking care of housekeeping and looking after the little boy when his father is away or busy during the day.

Din likes having you around. In the beginning, he’d leave almost as soon as you arrived at their cabin, having travelled from the nearby farm you lived on with your widower father. But now, he lingered. He was glad when you suggested coming by on days when he was there, to help show him the basics of managing the household. He would never admit it, but he missed you when you went home in the evenings.

He pours a glass of water and tries to focus, bringing his hand to his forehead and being surprised to find it cold and clammy, even though he feels like he’s on fire.

He can’t be sick, though. Not him. He sips the water and promptly splutters it back out as his body is racked with a hacking cough.

He can hear you and Grogu chattering as you approach the house. A few deep breaths and sips of water, and his helmet is back on before you’ve even opened the door.

***

It had become a habit to stay after picking Grogu up from school, to help out with preparing the main meal for him and Din. Din appreciates your help - he tells you how much he’s learned from you, and how much he still needs to know.

Today, you stand side by side at one of the worktops peeling vegetables and chopping them into bite-size chunks to accompany the meat that’s cooking nicely in the oven, filling the little cabin with its aroma. You look over to see how Din is getting on, and are struck by the fact that his chopping is a far cry from its usual even, meticulous standard.

More worryingly, you’re sure you can hear him wheezing through his modulator. He’s leaning heavily on the worktop, as if for fear he’ll fall.

“Din? Are you okay?”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine. It’s just a headache.”

No sooner has he resumed his work than a horrible, hacking cough has him bent double, gasping under his helmet. Even Grogu is scared - you can see it in his big dark eyes as he drops his toys and runs to comfort his beloved father.

“That’s not a headache, Din. You’re sick.”

The Mandalorian grips the edge of the counter and hauls himself up to his full, imposing height, Grogu still clinging to his leg. “I am not sick. I don’t get sick.”

You toss your knife on the chopping board. “Are Mandalorians somehow special, that they don’t get a simple cold, now and again?”

He does that exasperated sigh you’ve heard too often.

“Alright, Din. You’re not sick. But tell me how your body feels, being not-sick.”

That sigh.

“My head feels a little fuzzy. I have this slight cough. That’s it.”

“No fever?”

He shakes his head again, and you spot him tightening his grip on the counter. “I am fine. Now, can we please make some dinner?”

***

You tend to eat outside, on the veranda, if you’re eating with Din and Grogu. It means he can take off his helmet and eat comfortably, without revealing his face to someone outside his family.

You eat the last of your vegetables and survey the little garden the clan of two have cultivated, with your help. A little pond, a vegetable patch, even some desert flowers that bloom happily in the dry, sandy soil.

A proper home for the little family, you muse. From what your father and Karga had told you about Din and Grogu’s past, you knew they deserved this little sanctuary.

Your reverie is shattered by the sound of distressed noises coming from inside the cabin - Grogu, babbling in panic and crying out with fear. You drop your bowl and are about to race inside when you stop, remembering that Din may well have his helmet off.

“I’m coming in. Din? Just giving you fair warning.”

No answer. Just more frightened coos and what sounds like metal scraping on the floor.

“Din?”

Still nothing.

“Grogu? Is it okay for me to come in?”

The door to the cabin opens and the child races out and flings himself into your arms, pointing back into the house and babbling something in his curious mix of Basic and Mando’a about his father.

You understand as soon as you enter.

There, on the floor of the kitchen, his helmet barely on, lies an unconscious Din Djarin.

***

With the help of Grogu’s powers, you lift Din and move him to his bed, still unresponsive. Din is definitely breathing, thankfully, but there’s a crackling wheeze in his chest that scares you as you manoeuvre his broad body onto the mattress.

If it was anyone else you’d be taking his temperature and preparing cold compresses for his brow. But this is a Mandalorian, one who takes his creed very seriously, and even the prospect of exposing Din’s chest feels like a violation.

When his body starts to tremble, despite the blankets you’ve pulled over him, you take an executive decision.

“Grogu?” He looks up at you from his spot beside his sick father on the bed. “I’m going to open up your dad’s shirt, just a little. I need to hear his breathing and try to cool him down. I’m not going to hurt him.”

With a coo and a nod he confirms that he understands. You expose just enough of Din’s broad chest to assess his temperature, the clammy, hot skin while Din continues to shiver proof of the severity of the fever.

Grogu places his little hand on his father’s chest, eyes wide with fear and concern. He can heal many injuries, but the Force is no match for whatever virus or infection is raging through Din’s system.

“We’re going to make your buir all better, I promise. Can you help me with that?”

He nods and hops off the bed, following you into the kitchen where you fill some bowls with cold water and find rags to make cold compresses. Grogu watches attentively as you place the damp cloths on Din’s chest, rising and falling with each shallow breath.

“Now, you need to stay here and keep the cloths on his chest, okay? I’m going to try to make up some medicine to help make him all better.”

Before she died, your mother had taught you a few simple herbal remedies that could be easily prepared in advance, dried, and carried with you, in case of emergency. “Bacta is a wonderful thing,” she’d counseled, “until you find yourself in the middle of nowhere with a fever.”

You retrieve the little vials of dried herbs from your bag and set some water to boil, ready to make the infusion. The liquid turns an ominous purple colour as the herbs brew, and you can’t help but chuckle as you imagine how Din would react if you presented him with this in the whole of his health.

When the medicine has cooled enough to be administered, you return to Din’s simple, neat bedroom, where Grogu is dutifully pressing the cloths to his father’s chest. You praise him effusively, showing him how to wring out the cloths and make them colder again.

As you prop Din up on the pillows, you realise that you aren’t going to be able to give him the special medicine as you would anyone else. Gingerly, you push back his helmet just enough to expose his mouth.

You pause for a moment as you realise this is the most you’ve ever seen of the Mandalorian. Seeing the open expanse of his golden, battle-scarred chest and the peek of his jaw somehow seems more intimate than if Din was lying here completely naked. His mouth is pink and plush, and you are surprised to realise that Din has a moustache, as well as a patchy beard, of sorts. You push away the temptation to peek further, as well as the desire that’s rising inside you.

“Help me give your buir this medicine, Grogu. Can you keep his helmet at this angle for me?”

The little boy is only too keen to help, and you slowly, steadily, feed Din the mixture you hope will heal him.

***

Other than changing the water and the compresses, you do not move from Din’s side all night. Grogu falls asleep on his father’s chest, and you scoop him up and bring him to bed, placing a little kiss to his fuzzy scalp as you tuck him into his cot. He coos sleepily in appreciation.

You are waiting for Din’s fever to break, the turning point in any illness like this. If it doesn’t happen tonight, you’ll need to seek a medic in the morning.

His helmet is still up slightly, and you study the line of his jaw, the little divot in his lower lip, the dark hair of his moustache. You trace the scars on his body, wondering about the stories behind each one, feeling a simultaneous sense of relief that he is still here and dread at the prospect of this man being wounded - or worse - in the future.

In the darkest hours of the night, with Din’s breathing still heavy and laboured, you find yourself reaching for his hand: running your fingertips over his broad palm and thick fingers before holding it gently, willing the herbal mixture to do its work. He is all Grogu has, after all. He is his entire family, and vice versa.

And what are you?, asks a little voice inside you. Is this your clan, too?

You have pressed your lips to the back of his hand before you realise what you’re doing.

***

His stirring wakes you to the half-light of early morning, your hand still wrapped around his.

“Din?”

He tries to sit up, reaching in panic to adjust his helmet when he realises how much of his face is exposed.

“Din, take it easy…” You press your hand to his chest and sigh with relief as you realise his temperature is normal.

“What…why - what happened?”

“You were sick, had a bad fever - you’ve been out since yesterday afternoon.”

“I don’t get sick.”

You roll your eyes and chuckle. “Yes, you do. Hate to break it to you.”

You swear you can hear a huffed laugh from under his helmet.

“Din, I… I’m sorry for opening your shirt, lifting the helmet - I had to, it was the only way to help. I only saw part of your jaw, but… I’m so sorry.”

To your surprise, he reaches for your hand and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“I’m grateful. You didn’t have to stay here.”

I wanted to take care of you. I want to take care of you. I need to take care of you.

“I couldn’t have left you. Anyway, what would we - I mean, what would Grogu do without you?”

Another gentle squeeze of your hand.

“What would I do without you, cyare?”

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