#need to wrap him in a blanket and feed him soup

[lizardkingeliot]

i started the newsreader last night and idk if i'm going to get around to making full gif sets for it but i just need everyone to look at this sweet lil baby man that i would do anything for LOOK AT HIM

[thehorsesthatareslow]

Feeling very normal on this Friday evening after rewatcging s1 of slow horses.

[chetter-holmgren]

Looking very husband here

[thelostgirl21]

Radovid is basically the fandom made flesh, whose ultimate purpose in life is to appreciate and love Jaskier the way we all wish we could make sure he's loved and appreciated.

Radovid is the most relatable character this season because I too am immediately distracted and smitten every time Jaskier appears.

[meenaxskz]

when he gets sick (hyung line)

ot8 reactions | bf!skz x reader au genre: crack warnings: language a/n : sorry for the silence. life said ✨plot twist✨. but here’s something to distract you! ✧ hyung line | maknae line

bang chan

you walk into the room with tea in one hand and judgment in the other. chan’s in bed. sweaty. pale. wrapped in blankets like a sad spring roll. and of course… of COURSE. he’s got the laptop again. you stop. blink. “really?” he looks up, fake innocent. eyes glassy. lips dry. “what?” you squint. “why are you working right now?” he blinks slower. “…i’m not.” you glance down. ableton. open. project name: “BANG CHAN FINAL FINAL FINAL MIX ACTUAL FINAL I SWEAR” “christopher. bang. chan.” he winces “okay i was working but just for a minute—” “you have a FEVER. and a death wish.” he sniffles “my creativity doesn’t take sick days.” you sigh and set the tea down “wanna know where your creativity is gonna go?” he blinks. “IN THE CEILING. WHERE YOUR LAPTOP’S ABOUT TO BE.” he gasps. hugs the laptop to his chest like it’s his firstborn “don’t threaten her!! she has feelings!” you snatch it in one swift motion. “SHIT SHE’S FAST—” you unplug it. tuck it under your arm “you’re on rest mode. no tech. no work. no producing.” he groans. flops back dramatically. “you don’t understand. the project NEEDS ME—” “the project also needs you to be ALIVE.” five minutes later: he’s under three blankets. grumpy. arms crossed. you feed him soup. he pretends to hate it “what is this? poison?” “it’s chicken noodle, you absolute gremlin.” he slurps it anyway “…it’s pretty good.” you press a cold rag to his forehead. he sighs “you’re gonna leave me like this. laptopless. joyless. alone.” you stare “you’re gonna take a nap.” he groans. “will you at least sing to me?” “no.” “…hold me like a baby?” “…fine.” ten minutes later? he’s asleep. drooling a little. snoring soft. you check under the bed. just to make sure he didn’t stash a secret ipad or something. you find his phone. tucked into a sock like it’s hiding. you whisper “...i knew it.” bonus: the next day he wakes up feeling better. you catch him hugging his laptop and whispering, “i missed you, my love. she was so cruel to you.” you: “i will LITERALLY unplug your entire life.”

lee know

you walk into the kitchen and immediately stop. minho’s leaning against the counter like he’s doing a vogue pose on the verge of collapse. “you good?” minho (clearly not good): “never better.” he sneezes so hard he hits the cabinet. you raise an eyebrow. “you’ve blown your nose seven times in two minutes. you’re wheezing. your knees buckled when you poured orange juice.” “coincidence.” you step forward with a thermometer. he holds up a hand like you’re holding a weapon “i don’t need that. i’m not a CHILD.” “no. children usually listen better.” you try to press it to his forehead. he dodges like a ninja. you try again. he spins. you chase. he crashes into the couch. “STOP TREATING ME LIKE I’M FRAGILE—” “minho, you just fainted trying to open a yogurt.” he groans and lays back. dramatic. arm over his eyes. like he’s dying in a historical novel. “i’m fine. i’m a man. men don’t nap.” “men also die for no reason. lay down.” you drag him to the bed. he lets you. but grumbles the entire time. “this is humiliating.” you tuck a blanket over him. “this is degrading.” you bring soup. he looks offended. “…is this chicken flavor? i like beef.” “eat it before i shove it in your nose.” ten minutes later? he’s curled into the blanket. holding a warm pack to his stomach. soup almost gone. cheeks pink. “want more?” he mutters something. you lean in. “what?” “…yes please.” you grin “huh. what was that? i couldn’t hear over your PRIDE.” he glares. “don’t make me cough on you.” bonus: you catch him later whispering to doongie: “she tucked me in. like i’m some pathetic little—” he sneezes. “…anyway. i think i love her.”

changbin

you walk in to find changbin on the couch like a grumpy little burrito. blanket over his head. only his eyes and a single bicep visible. he’s watching cartoons. volume low. pout HIGH. you blink. “how are you feeling?” he sniffs. “strong.” you squint “strong like… ‘i’m good’ strong? or strong like ‘i almost cried trying to reach the remote’ strong?” he pauses. “i didn’t cry. i just grunted emotionally.” you sit down and feel his forehead. he doesn’t move. just stares dramatically. “am i dying?” he whispers. “you have a mild fever. you’re not dying.” he closes his eyes. “…tell felix to take care of my plushies.” you bring him water. he sips it like he’s been rescued from a desert. then cough suspiciously loud. “that cough was FAKE.” “was not. it came from my soul.” you hand him some sliced oranges. his lip wobbles. “…you peeled them?” “of course.” he turns away. sniffles harder “don’t look at me. i’m fine.” “are you tearing up because of fruit right now??” “no. these are just really… thoughtful citrus.” twenty minutes later: he’s in your lap. wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. cuddling a bunny plush. watching paw patrol. “i’m literally a tank,” he mumbles, full pout. “but like… a soft tank.” you kiss his forehead “my softest tank.” he sniffles again. “…don’t tell the others.” bonus: he gets better the next day and tries to act cool again. but you catch him sneaking the bunny plush into his gym bag. you: “strong again?” changbin: nods, flexing dramatically “back to beast mode, baby.” the bunny peeks out of his hoodie pocket. you say nothing.

hyunjin

you walk into the bedroom. hyunjin is face-down on the bed like he’s been defeated by life. blankets everywhere. a tissue stuck to his cheek. “…you good?” him, muffled: “no.” you bring medicine and tea. he doesn’t move. just dramatically points toward the nightstand like he’s too weak to lift a hand. “you’re so annoying.” “and sick. don’t forget sick.” you try to give him the pill. he stares at it like it’s poison “it’s huge.” “it’s literally the size of a tic tac.” “do you want me to choke and die right now? is that what you want???” he finally takes it after you bribe him with a popsicle. “you’re being so dramatic—” “WELL SOMEONE HAS TO BE.” you go to leave the room. as you turn to leave— ding-a-ling-a-ling you freeze. “…what was that.” you turn around. he’s holding A BELL. a literal. actual. fucking. bell. “where did you get that.” “my bag.” “WHY was that in your bag??” “i knew one day it would come in handy.” ding-a-ling-a-ling “stop.” “you said you’d take care of me.” “i didn’t say i’d become your room service.” “…i crave grapes.” “we don’t have grapes.” “…then cut a banana into circles and pretend.” your soul briefly leaves your body. “you are so lucky you’re cute,” you mutter, turning toward the kitchen. behind you, you hear the softest little "yay." a few minutes later, you return. plate in hand. banana. perfectly sliced. arranged in a damn circle pattern. sprinkled with cinnamon because you care, unfortunately. you set it on the nightstand. “your fake grapes.” hyunjin blinks at the plate. then at you “…you rolled your eyes so hard i thought they were gonna fall out.” “yeah. and yet here you are. fed.” he grabs the plate “i love you.” you sit beside him with a sigh “i know.” he pops a banana slice in his mouth. “…tastes like betrayal.” you throw a pillow at his face. --- twenty minutes later? he’s asleep, bell on his chest, lip poked out. you tiptoe over to take the bell. his eyes snap open. “i felt that.” bonus: you finally hide the bell. next day? he’s using the dog’s toy bell collar and shaking his whole head. “i’ve ADAPTED,” he announces, crown of tissues on his head. “you CANNOT silence me.” you sigh. “…i should’ve just let the cold take him.”

⤷ main m.list ❟

DISCLAIMER : This blog and all related content (fics, fake texts, headcanons, imagines, etc.) are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. I do not know Stray Kids personally, nor do I claim any of this reflects their real personalities, actions, or relationships. All characters and their personalities—including Meena King—are original creations.Please enjoy responsibly and remember : real people = real boundaries.

[strayingawayy]

flu blues...

...the one where chan gets sick and feels guilty about not being able to attend fan call events so you take it upon yourself to make him feel better <3 (warnings: soup and being sick)

the moment chan cracked open the door, his glassy eyes peeked out, paired with a sheepish sniffle. his voice was a hoarse whisper.

“hey…”

you stepped inside, arms full of essentials: soup, medicine, and the fluffiest blanket you could find. “hey? that's all i get? you’re sick, not on a secret mission.”

chan attempted a chuckle but dissolved into a coughing fit. you guided him back to the couch where he’d apparently been living. strewn tissues, half-empty mugs of tea, and a laptop with an endless chain of apology drafts to STAYs littered the coffee table.

“before you start. yes, i postponed the fan calls,” he said, groaning as he sank into the cushions. “and yes, i feel awful about it. worse than this flu, probably.”

you gave him a pointed look, placing a hand on his forehead. “chan, your temperature is higher than what jeongin told me when he called me to come over. the fans will live. you, however, need soup.”

he pouted, rubbing his nose with a tissue. “but-”

“no buts,” you interrupted, already ladling soup into a bowl. “you’re not running the world today. you’re barely running your sinuses.”

“wow, poetic.” he sniffled, pulling the blanket around himself. “but i can’t just sit and-”

“chan,” you said, holding up a spoonful of soup. “open up or i’m force-feeding you like a toddler.”

he blinked at you, bewildered, before reluctantly opening his mouth. “this feels degrading.”

“you’re lucky i don’t have one of those airplane spoons,” you quipped, and he snorted mid-swallow.

the day went on like that: you making him rest while he grumbled about the pile of work awaiting him. at one point, he tried sneaking his laptop back onto his lap, only for you to confiscate it.

“let me remind you of something,” you said, holding the laptop hostage. “resting isn’t slacking off. it’s so you can be 100% when you do work. your body’s not a machine.”

chan groaned, flopping back into the couch. “i hate it when you’re right.”

“get used to it,” you replied smugly.

despite his guilt, chan’s mood brightened as the evening wore on. you caught him smiling as you made exaggerated commentary during a rerun of a cheesy action movie. his hoarse laugh filled the room when you made fun of the villain's over-the-top monologues.

by bedtime, his eyes were drooping, exhaustion finally winning. you tucked the blanket around him one last time.

“you’re amazing, you know that?” he mumbled sleepily, his voice softer now.

“yeah, i know,” you teased, ruffling his hair. “now sleep, my star.”

as you turned to leave, his hand reached out weakly, catching yours. his fingers were warm against yours, soft despite the roughness of his usual work.

“stay?” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and a little dazed. “just… for a bit?”

your heart softened immediately. you climbed onto the couch beside him, letting him curl into your side like a sleepy cat. his head found its place on your shoulder, and you pulled the blanket over both of you.

“wait actually you shouldn't. what if you fall sick too-” he mumbled again, his words slurring as he drifted further into sleep.

“and then i'll let you take care of me,” you whispered, smiling as you pressed a kiss to his temple. “now hush, or i’ll start charging for my services.”

chan let out a contented sigh, his breaths evening out as he fell completely asleep. the domestic stillness of the room wrapped around you like a second blanket, and you couldn’t help but feel at peace.

taking care of him like this felt as natural as breathing, as natural as being home.

[fu11ofshit]

𝘚𝘗𝘐𝘛 𝘖𝘕 𝘐𝘛 WAS SO GOOD OMG!! I LOVED IT.

I have a request! Armin x Reader → The reader is sick, but Armin insists on staying with her. He ends up spooning her from behind, and they do it while she's on her side, holding hands.

₊ ⊹ Thank you, I’m also a Black writer so I decided to make this an Armin x Black reader fic !! I hope you enjoy ;)

Cough, Cough! ⋆˙⟡

Armin x Sick!Reader

cw: porn without plot, dry humping, grinding, unprotected p in v, creampie, sick reader

…

Armin warned you. He told you over, and over again that if you didn’t slow down, if you didn’t take breaks from work, you’d eventually burn out. You’d shrug him off every time—  you knew your limits, and you knew your drive. Work was always a top priority. You weren’t just going to drop everything because you were a little tired. 

So what if you nearly fell asleep behind the wheel on your way back from work a few times? You were fine.

Until you weren’t. 

You were a mess. Coughing, congested, puffy eyed, and exhausted. You looked and felt like you’d been hit by a truck.

When you opened the door to your apartment, Armin was standing there wearing his smug “I told you so” look. You stood there in your bonnet, wrapped tightly in a blanket like a burrito, looking completely pitiful.

On the contrary, he looked… amused.

“Shut up,” you muttered, stepping aside to let him in.

But instead of walking past, he stepped closer and pulled you into a hug. His arms were warm and careful, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt. He pressed a kiss to your forehead that was hot with fever and rested your head gently against his shoulder.

You sighed, the kind of sigh that only comes when you’re finally allowed to stop pretending you’re okay.

“I didn’t even say anything,” he said softly, but you could still hear the smugness under his breath.

That’s when you noticed the small white bag in his hand.

“What’s that?” you mumbled.

Armin tilted it a little so you could peek inside. “Tea, honey, some cough drops… and that soup you like. The one from the little deli down the street.”

You stared at him, throat too sore to say anything meaningful. So instead, you leaned harder against his chest.

“You didn’t have to,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, cupping your face gently and pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “But you never listen… so I came prepared.”

You sat at the kitchen table, your body slouched in the chair. Armin moved quietly around the kitchen, warming up the soup as he opened cabinets without hesitation. 

He already knew where the plates were, where the spoons were kept, and which mug you always reached for — he’d practically been here a thousand times.

He brought you your hot meal, slowly stirring it before lifting the spoon to his mouth. He pursed his lips and gently blew on it, then eased the spoon towards your mouth.

 “Open,” he said softly, eyes fixed on your lips, waiting.

“You don’t need to feed me,” you murmured, reaching up to take the spoon from him. You already felt guilty, having him take care of you when this could have been completely avoided had you just listened. 

Armin gave you a look— patient but firm. Then, with a sigh, he raised the spoon again. This time you let him in. 

You opened your mouth, and the warm soup slid down your throat, the heat spreading through your chest like comfort made tangible.

“Fuck, that’s good,” you muttered, as Armin chuckled. 

You opened your mouth again, and he fed you another spoonful. Eyes locked on you as you swallowed. 

His gaze lingered, and you felt it— warm and steady. Feeling a little self conscious under the attention, you tried to lighten the moment. “You’re totally thinking I look hot right now, huh?”

Armin smiled, scooping up another spoonful, his hand cupped beneath it to catch any drops. “You look gorgeous,” he said without hesitation. “You always do.”

You weakly kicked him under the table, “Stop it,” you said, smiling despite yourself.

He laughed again, bringing the spoon closer to your mouth, “Open,”

And you did, your eyes meeting his as you eased the soup down.

After you finished eating, Armin guided you to your room and gently tucked you into bed. He put on a movie, the volume low and soothing, before sliding in beside you. His arms wrapped around you from behind, his body warm against yours as he spooned you gently.

You leaned into his touch, letting yourself melt into the comfort he offered. He rocked you slowly, his arms draped securely across your body.

He started with a kiss to the top of your head, lips pressing gently against the fabric of your bonnet. Then, slowly, he trailed soft kisses behind your ear, down to the curve of your neck, each one delicate and unhurried.

His hands settled on your hips, fingertips moving in slow, soothing strokes. Every touch was tender, and grounding, it was a wordless reassurance that he was there for you, and wasn’t going anywhere. 

You leaned further into him, you turned your head, meeting his eyes for a breath before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

He kissed back, his hand gilding down to your  stomach, giving it a gentle squeeze. His fingertips then slipped just beneath the waistband of  your shorts, applying light pressure. 

You hummed softly, as you began smoothly grinding your hips against his, you both fell into this slow back and forth rhythm, his hips slightly rolling against yours. 

You felt his hardness pressing against your lower back, as you moved with a firmer, slightly quicker rhythm. His hand slid across your chest, finding your breast, his thumb pressing tender circles around your nipple. 

Armin’s other hand slipped deeper into your waistband, his finger gliding over your swollen clit. You let out a strained gasp as he began to rub it gently, your hips rolling between his hardness and his giving fingers.

Your hands slid down your shorts, your bare ass pressing back against him. He carefully pulled out his cock, groaning as he pressed it between the curves of your ass, shamelessly grinding against you, slowly angling it towards your pussy.

His other hand cupped your breast with care as he pressed himself to your entrance, the tip of him slick with your wetness. You jolted when he brushed your clit, the soft pressure making you moan into the pillow. Your fingers laced with his over your chest, holding tight as he slowly pushed inside, filling you with a deep, aching closeness.

Armin wasn’t quick with his pace, he took his time—  keeping in mind how fragile you felt. Instead of thrusting quickly, he rolled into you with deep, steady strokes, his cock filling you completely, in a way you didn’t know was possible. 

He drew back almost all the way before pushing into you again, hard enough to make you see stars. His other hand stayed between your thighs, fingers gently circling your clit, even as his hips moved with unrelenting rhythm.

It didn’t take long for you to reach your peak, his face buried in the crook of your neck, hands tightly gripping yours. You heard his breath hitch as he whispered, ‘I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,’ over and over until he finally did, deep and steady inside you.

Your breaths were heavy, tangled together, as you stayed in each other's arms. 

[sluttyseacadet]

so real actually

Adventures of a certain problem child in Middle Earth

Bonus:

[jinwoosbabyboo]

Can you please do a hc of the guys helping you out after you come home tipsy(or drunk) from a girls night?

𝙿𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜

The lads men taking care of you after a girls night out. You came home drunk and you woke up with the worst hangover known to man. A/N: for this we’re going full messy drunk okay? great. cw: mentions of vomit/puke

𝚉𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎

[Coming home]

he picked you up after you drunk dialed him

drove on side roads so he could go slower so you wouldn’t get motion sickness

keeps your hair out of your face while you puke

listens to you ramble on and on about handsome he is and reminds you that you’re already dating him when you ask if he’s single

dodges you every time you try to kiss him in your drunken state ; does not care how fussy you get

let’s you hang on him like a koala while he removes your makeup and runs you a bath

tucks you into bed and holds you while you sleep

[The hangover]

has been checking on you periodically while you were passed out asleep the second you start to stir he grabs water and pain meds for your headache

in full doctor mode ; not gentle at all making you down two pills and a glass of water

left a trash can by the bed for you incase you vomitted overnight

spoons feeds you ginger chicken soup so you’re not digesting pain meds on an empty stomach ; doesn't leave until the whole bowl is gone

makes you lay on your side when you fall back asleep ; he doesn’t want you to choke one your own vomit

rubs your back while giving you a small lecture about drinking too much

𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚕

[Coming home]

teases you about how you can’t hold your liquor

helps you take off your heels/shoes when you come stumbling through the door

picks you up carries you through the house while rubbing your back

is blushing furiously from your shameless flirting in your drunken state

sits you on the counter and holds your chin while he wipes your makeup off

finds it funny when you get fussy while he’s trying to take care of you “you’re so adorable”

strips you out of your current outfit and puts you in one of his shirts “You look better in my clothes anyway”

cradles you in his arms and has a trash can within reach if you have to puke

[The hangover]

has you laying on him while he reads a book when you wake up “good morning cutie does your head hurt?”

teases you again before kissing your forehead offering to get you food

“Come on you need a shower” carries you to the bathroom and showers with you ; dresses you in another one of his shirt again “you should just wear my clothes”

washes your face for you “I can do it Raf!” “I know you can, but let me take care of you”

wraps you up in the blanket like a burrito and carries you into his studio so he can keep an eye on you while he paints

gives you pain meds for your headache and orders or makes you whatever you want to eat

tells you all about your shameless flirting while you were drunk ; over exaggerates how he had to fight you off because you wanted him so bad

ends up laying on the couch with you instead of working on any of his projects

𝚇𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛

[Coming home]

woke up from his sleep when he heard you fumbling with the front door lock

fell to the floor with you on top of him when you stumbled through the door

concerned with how much you drank “Did you overdue it?” ; your giggles gave it away

is half sleep while he sits you on the counter and wipes your makeup off ; is unbelievably gentle while he does this

sits on the floor of the bathroom with you while you throw up ; stays like this with you until you start dozing off

rubs your back and wipes your mouth for you

grips you by the chin and lets you lean against him while he brushes your teeth

strips you down to your underwear and when you get too fussy for him he just lets you lay down like that

[The hangover]

is sitting up in bed when you wake up and immediately drags you into the shower ; towel dries you ; dresses you in his clothes and puts you back in bed

offers to cook you something ; orders takeout after the look you gave him

gives you pain meds after you get something in your stomach

lazy day with Xav naps, naps, and more naps

lazes around in bed all day with you

gets up to get you anything you ask for

𝚂𝚢𝚕𝚞𝚜

[Coming home]

it’s night time so you know he’s in his element when you call him to come get you ; your night is ending and his day is just starting

picked you up from your girls night out ; promised to send Luke and Kieran for your car when you started throwing a fit about it

carries you bridal style through the house

already had a bath ready for you ; strips you out of your clothes and puts you in the tub

wraps you in a warm towel ; sits you on the counter ; puts your bonnet on you(or ties your hair back) ; wipes your makeup off and washes your face

doesn’t care how fussy you get when he’s trying to brush your teeth for you ; holds you in place with his evol “ahm roking(im choking)!” “You’re not choking sweetie spit”

lets you sleep in his lap and doesn’t care if you drool on him

[The hangover]

canceled everything to take care of you

him and the twins are at your beckoned call especially Sylus of course

gives you scalp massages

brings you a menu of foods that are good for hangovers ; watches you eat ; encourages one more bite before giving you some pain killers

teases you about your bratty fits you threw while you were drunk “it’s not that funny” “You’re adorable when you try to act angry” “im not acting!” “Whatever you say Princess”

if you have any body aches he’s giving you a massage

sits in bed with you letting you take naps on him ; once again he doesn’t mind you drooling on him

[dakusan]

Soft Things Belong Together

Lee Know x Reader | fluff, domesticity, mischief, slow love

🧺synopsis: It starts with a cat on his chest and ends with your head on his shoulder. In between? A sock war. Three judgmental cats. One too-big hoodie. And a hundred tiny ways to say I love you without saying it. This isn’t a grand love story. It’s a Sunday. And it’s enough.

💌a/n: welcome back to tender tuesdays where love is quiet, minho folds laundry like it’s life or death, and you fold socks like a raccoon on a Red Bull bender. this fic was inspired by god knows what because my brain is soup, the weather is grey depression, and i’m fighting for my life against the wind outside ☔️. no plot, just vibes and folding techniques. if you smiled even once, i win. p.s. reblog or the cats will stage a coup and fold your laundry wrong on purpose p.p.s. do you fold socks like minho or like a drunk raccoon. don’t lie. p.p.p.s. i wrote with only one braincell standing

📍credits: @cafekitsune , @roseraris for the dividers.

🎧 » Polaroid Love — ENHYPEN « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The first thing you hear is a faint purring vibration against your ribcage. The second is Minho’s voice, low and rough with sleep: “…I think he’s trying to suffocate me.”

You crack open one eye. The sunlight has already slipped through the blinds, painting lines across the bed, your bare legs tangled in sheets. Soonie is fully sprawled across Minho’s chest, smug and immovable, his purrs growing louder with every passing second. Dori is curled at your feet, twitching in his sleep, and Doongie is perched on the nightstand like a gargoyle—staring you down like you’ve personally ruined his morning.

Minho doesn’t move. His arm is heavy around your waist, palm splayed across the soft cotton of the shirt you stole from him last night. His voice is gravel and sleep when he speaks again.

“If I die, avenge me.”

You snort into the pillow. “You’re fine. He loves you.”

“He’s kneading my sternum.”

You open both eyes now, shifting slightly just to see him. Minho’s hair is an absolute disaster — sticking up in multiple directions, pressed flat on one side from your shoulder. His eyes are barely slits, one brow twitching in mock despair. Soonie flexes his paws into Minho’s chest, tail flicking with satisfaction.

You reach over lazily, giving Soonie’s head a soft pat. “He’s your child. Suffer.”

Minho exhales dramatically but doesn’t move Soonie. His hand instead shifts along your side, fingers curling over the dip of your waist like he needs to remind himself you’re real. Still here. Still warm. A breath passes, shared between you in the early hush.

Doongie lets out a loud, pointed meow.

Minho groans. “And the hunger games begin.”

You both lie there for another few seconds, clinging to the last stretch of blanket-wrapped quiet. Then Minho slowly, dramatically, shifts — rolling onto his back and sending Soonie off his chest with a startled grunt.

“You’re a traitor,” Minho mutters at him, rubbing his own ribs.

Soonie stretches luxuriously, absolutely unfazed.

Minho turns his face toward you again. His expression is softer now, unguarded in the light. “Stay in bed. I’ll feed the gremlins.”

You make a sleepy sound of protest, but Minho is already slipping out from under the blankets. The stolen shirt on your body slides up slightly as you stretch—he catches it, eyes flicking down briefly before smirking to himself and padding off toward the kitchen.

You listen to him move: the creak of the floorboards, the clink of dishes, the cats trailing behind like a noisy parade. His voice, quiet but warm, as he talks to them like they understand every word. (You’re not convinced they don’t.)

Eventually, you swing your legs out of bed. The floor’s cold, but the shirt you’re wearing is warm and smells like him—lemons, laundry, and a hint of cologne. You shuffle into the kitchen to find Minho already making coffee, cats devouring breakfast at their bowls.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says without looking, then turns just in time to flick a crumb off your cheek. “You drooled.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. You’re a swamp creature. But you’re cute, so I guess I’ll let it slide.”

He passes you a mug. You take it just to spite him.

You lean against the counter, sipping slowly, while Minho flips pancakes with expert ease. He’s still shirtless, still rumpled, hair a fluffy mess. And he’s humming — softly, off-key, content. Something domestic and safe wraps around you in that moment like an invisible thread. It’s not just the sun or the warm mug or the smell of pancakes.

It’s him. It’s this.

“Hey,” he says casually, sliding a plate in front of you.

“Yeah?”

“I like Sundays.”

You glance up, smiling around the edge of your mug. “Yeah?”

He shrugs. “You’re here. The cats are happy. Everyone is happy."

You laugh. He smiles. And so, the day begins with the first load of laundry barely hitting the living room floor and Minho declaring himself Minister of Folding.

You arch an eyebrow from across the room. “I didn’t vote for you.”

“I’m not elected. I’m ordained,” he says, solemnly unfolding a towel like it’s a sacred scroll.

The two of you are surrounded—cornered, really—by overflowing baskets, half-dry socks, and at least three hoodies you’ve lowkey adopted as your own. The cats are already in the thick of it. Doongie’s worming his way into the warm pile of sweatpants. Dori is headfirst inside an empty laundry basket, tail twitching wildly. Soonie has chosen a freshly folded blanket to nap on, which Minho immediately frowns at like it’s a personal betrayal.

“I just folded that,” he mutters. “He didn’t even wait five minutes.”

“He knows who he is,” you say, grinning. “A menace. Like his dad.”

“Rude.”

“You’re not denying it.”

Minho scoffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he picks up a pair of socks, folds them into that neat ball formation you always screw up, and tosses it perfectly into the basket like a basketball shot. “See that? Precision. Art.”

You mimic him, trying to copy his exact technique. You miss by a full meter.

“Tragic,” he says. “Do you try to fold things like a chaotic raccoon?”

“Yes,” you reply sweetly. “It’s how I stay grounded.”

The playlist hums in the background, soft and upbeat. The kind of songs you dance to barefoot in kitchens. Light spills through the windows, warming the wooden floor, painting lazy sun patches that the cats immediately seek out like heat-seeking missiles.

Minho grabs a hoodie—your favourite, oversized, worn-in and frayed slightly at the cuffs. “You’ve stretched this out.”

You look up from your towel folding. “That’s mine now.”

“It literally has my name embroidered on the sleeve.”

You shrug. “You gifted it to me when you left it here for five weeks.”

“That’s called forgetting, not gifting.”

You toss him a freshly folded shirt in response. It hits his shoulder and flops to the ground. Minho just looks at it, then at you. Then, with the unbothered calm of a man about to cause problems on purpose, he picks up a sock and gently flings it at your face. It bounces off your cheek with a pitiful pfft.

You blink.

“…Did you just—?”

Another sock follows. This one lands in your lap.

You narrow your eyes. “You have chosen war.”

Minho grins. Full teeth, mischief and love all wrapped into one sharp look. “I accept your terms.”

The next few minutes are absolute chaos.

Socks fly. Towels are used as shields. Doongie bolts out of the hoodie pile like he’s in a war zone. Dori, drunk on excitement, starts sprinting in circles. Soonie yells once, offended by the noise, but refuses to abandon his blanket. You’re breathless from laughing, your arms full of half-folded laundry, and Minho looks at you like it’s the happiest he’s been in weeks.

He’s flushed with warmth—not just from play, but from looking at you. T-shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, eyes bright, grinning like you’re everything good he ever stumbled into. You feel it in the air: this invisible tether between you. This softness that keeps pulling you back.

He clears his throat, straightens a hoodie with excessive seriousness. “Back to work. Laundry doesn’t fold itself.”

“Tell that to your little soldiers,” you tease, gesturing at the cats.

Dori immediately steals a sock and runs off with it like a trophy.

Minho sighs, but he’s smiling. “Why do I even try.”

You scoot a little closer to him on the floor. “Because you like folding things while I ruin them.”

His eyes flick to yours—glinting, amused. “Because I like you, even when you ruin everything.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Flattery won’t get you out of towel duty.”

“I’ll fold all the towels in the world,” he says, voice dipping, “as long as you keep stealing my hoodies and smiling like that.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. The playlist fades into a softer track. Dori flops dramatically onto his side in the middle of the clean laundry. Doongie sneezes. You’re both still on the floor, laundry half-done, surrounded by your shared life.

Eventually, the storm dies down.

Dori.... still flopped onto his side in the middle of the clean laundry. Doongie has returned to the hoodie pile with an air of disdain. Soonie, ever above it all, stretches out luxuriously atop the freshly folded towel stack like he’s earned it. And Minho?

Minho flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh, arm flung over his face like he’s just fought a great war. His shirt has ridden up slightly at the hem, revealing a sliver of pale skin just above his waistband. His chest rises and falls in lazy rhythm, hair a chaotic mess from the skirmish, one sock still in his hand like he forgot to let it go.

You stare at him from your perch beside the laundry basket, knees tucked to your chest. “I think we broke the truce,” you say after a beat.

Minho lifts his arm just enough to peek at you. His lashes catch the late afternoon light. “It was a tactical surrender.”

“Oh?”

“I had to,” he adds, “you were starting to fold socks like weapons.”

You smile, slow and full, resting your chin on your knee. “I learned from the best.”

For a long moment, there’s no sound but the soft fade of the playlist and the occasional jingle of a cat collar. You shift, crawling toward him on hands and knees, ignoring the sock minefield. He doesn’t flinch when you sit beside him, doesn’t move when you gently nudge his side with your elbow. Instead, he turns his head, rests his cheek against your thigh like it’s the most obvious place to be.

His voice is quieter now. “I missed this.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, brushing it off his forehead. “Laundry?”

He snorts. “You. Us. The calm.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You’re so good at pretending you don’t care about soft things,” you murmur.

“I care,” he says simply. “I just don’t want the cats to think I’ve gone soft.”

“Too late.”

Minho hums and lets his eyes flutter shut. You keep petting his hair, slow and absentminded, like you’re tuning into his heartbeat through your fingertips. The sun has dropped lower now, casting golden light across the room. It touches his skin, catches in his lashes, makes him look softer than any photo could capture. There’s a rare stillness to him when he’s like this — the calm after his sharpness has settled. He only shows it to you. You wonder if he even knows he’s doing it.

Then, in the silence: “I like you messy,” he says, not opening his eyes. “Like this. Laughing. On the floor. Touching my hair like it’s nothing.”

Your hand stills slightly, caught off guard.

“I like you when you ruin my system,” he continues, voice gentle. “When you toss socks at me. When you wear my clothes. When the cats listen to you more than me. When you steal my morning silence and make it louder.”

You blink.

“And I like when you shut me up with your smile,” he finishes, cracking one eye open, “so maybe do that right now.”

You lean down, kiss his forehead. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins. “But loveable.”

By the time you finish folding the last shirt, the sky outside has slipped into that deep navy blue that almost looks like velvet. The playlist is down to faint instrumentals. The cats are scattered across the room like crime scene chalk outlines—every one of them knocked out cold from their own brand of chaos.

Dori is curled inside the now-empty laundry basket like he pays rent there. Soonie has claimed the folded towels again and dares anyone to challenge him. Doongie is half under the coffee table, snoring.

The rest of the apartment has settled. Lights are warm. The air smells like fabric softener and the remnants of cocoa. Your knees are sore from sitting on the floor too long.

Minho stretches beside you, spine cracking as he raises his arms overhead. “Well,” he says. “If nothing else, we’ve achieved peak adulthood.”

You raise a brow. “You mean folding laundry with tactical precision while covered in cat hair?”

He glances down at his shirt, where Soonie’s legacy lives in soft beige smudges. He shrugs. “Exactly.”

You both ease back against the couch now, finally sitting upright after being on the floor for what feels like hours. The baskets are stacked neatly. Everything smells clean. You feel… settled. Not because the work is done—but because you did it together. Because the room feels lived-in, not just cleaned.

Minho shifts, drapes a blanket across your legs without asking. Then he leans back again and lets out a quiet breath. His fingers, idle, find yours under the edge of the blanket. No squeezing. No dramatic gesture. Just the press of knuckles—his way of saying I’m here.

“You really do fold like a raccoon,” he says, eyes half-lidded now.

“Maybe I am one.”

“You steal my hoodies. You bite sometimes. You make nests.”

You scoff. “You’re literally describing yourself.”

He hums. Doesn’t deny it.

The apartment hums with low, easy sounds—distant traffic, the fridge buzzing, a cat twitching in his sleep.

You don’t speak for a while.

Eventually, Minho’s hand leaves yours. He stretches again and grabs the folded hoodie sitting closest—one of his old ones, a little too big for you, frayed at the collar.

He tosses it to you lazily. “Here,” he says. “You always steal this one anyway.”

You catch it. “Is this you surrendering?”

“This is me streamlining the theft process.”

You smile faintly, pressing the hoodie to your chest before slipping it on. It smells like his shampoo and something warm beneath it—like worn-in comfort and skin and quiet mornings.

When you look at him again, he’s already watching you. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t say anything poetic. He just lifts one shoulder and says, “Soft things belong together.”

And that’s it.

Not a confession. Not a dramatic line.

Just Minho, telling you exactly how he feels the way he always does—direct, simple, no frills. You nod once, then lean into his side. His arm lifts instinctively to pull you in. The two of you sit like that on the couch, warm and wordless, cats all around, baskets finally empty.

It’s peaceful. Not loud. Just a space you and Minho fit into—naturally. The cats, too.

And somehow, it feels perfect.

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ the "dying" wolverine ]❜

ft. logan howlett x gn! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ taking care of logan when he’s sick┊0.8k words

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: fluff, established relationship

➤ author's note: i’m feeling like shit so i’m making him suffer with me

what part of regenerative healing don’t you understand? it’s impossible for him to get sick in any capacity as his immune system is stronger than the adamantium in his body, so feel free to read any of the other logan fics written by all the amazing writers on this platform!!

but let’s say that he somehow contracted a special bug that managed to get past all that and managed to make him fall ill, requiring you to take care of him while wade goes on a mission to figure out what’s wrong with him…

this headstrong two-hundred-year mutant who can take stab wounds without flinching and is an invincible tank in battles will be the whinest son of the bitch. he always lets his guard down around you, but he’s the most vulnerable and immature that he’ll ever allow himself to be around anyone since he can’t remember the last time (or if he has ever in his life) felt so shitty. shivering despite being feverish and covered up in blankets which just made him sweaty and uncomfortable, an itchy nose that wouldn’t sneeze when he needed it to, coughing his lungs out every two minutes— it’s so alien to him.

when you finally show up to look after him, he’ll have uncharacteristically big puppy eyes as you gently place your hand on his forehead to gauge how bad it is. “how are you feeling, lo?”

“i feel like i’m going to fucking die.” there are several discarded tissues and water bottles overfilling the nearby trashcan, but it was clear that he had no idea how he was supposed to make himself feel better and suffering.

“i can tell,” you chuckle at how dramatic he sounds and it makes him frown, but he’s just so thankful that you’re here to take care of him (he doesn’t exactly trust al to do it, that woman is a bit too mysterious and cryptic for him, and the medicine she offered smelled funny even to his dulled senses). “let me go make you some soup.”

he doesn’t want you to leave at first because your cold skin feels so good against him, but he’ll lightly doze off for a bit now that he’s more comfortable and feels safer. don’t expect him to stay asleep for long though, he’ll get up from his little while you’re in the middle of cooking chicken vegetable soup to wrap his arms around you and rest his head on top of yours until you finish.

“why are there barely any vegetables in the fridge? i could only find half a carrot and wilted celery.”

“i don’t think anyone here eats that stuff.”

“logan, you need to eat your greens— all you guys do, how are all three of you in such good shape then?!”

“eh.”

he can’t make anything more complicated than butter noodles, wade sets nearly everything on fire, he feels slightly guilty eating the food made by an elderly blind lady when he’s already freeloading at the moment, and constantly ordering take-out becomes expensive. you’ve given some food in tupperware for him to eat up, but it isn’t quite the same. as if being sick didn’t make him miserable enough, he’s so fucking pissed that he couldn’t properly taste your freshly-cooked food and will make it known.

you scoff that it’s just soup and pour it out in a bowl for him to eat, but you’ll quickly find yourself spoon-feeding him. yes, his hands still work with perfectly fine motor functions. no, you’re not passing up the opportunity to baby him while he rolls his eyes (he’ll grunt at most and doesn’t say a word of protest, claiming that he’s merely allowing it since he’s too tired to fight with you over it and very glad no one could see it happening).

“here comes the airplane~”

“i’m a grown-ass man, don’t be ridiculous.”

“a grown-ass man without an ounce of whimsy in his life, open your fucking mouth and eat.”

this is one of the lower points in his life where he doesn’t quite understand why this is happening to him yet, so you obviously have give him as much affection as possible! keeping a cold glass of water nearby and a wet rag to dab on his face, he rests his head upon your thighs and you swear that you can hear him purring like a kitten. there’s not better pillow than his lover, soft, warm, and full of love as you hum a song to lull him to sleep.

“let’s get married one day…” he not sure how that slipped past his lips, it might be the fever talking for him, or the fact that he’s completely relaxed without any tension in his muscles and feeling himself falling in love all over again when you smile so sweetly at him

“okay, but you need to sleep and get better first.” you place a gentle kiss on his forehead until his eyes slowly drift shut, “i love you, logan.”

[yvesssssssss]

Hi~ *cough**cough* do you open request? Could you write sickfic where Sakamoto days boys pamper reader that fell sick? I'm catching a cold currently and need some fluff fic🤒😷if it's too much then I'll just ask for nagumo

Sick Days with the Boys

Hope you feel better soon! Get plenty of rest and take care!

Nagumo Yoichi

Nagumo dramatically gasps when he sees you curled up under layers of blankets, sniffling. "Oh no, my beloved has fallen in battle… to a common cold." He places a hand over his heart like he’s truly in mourning.

"Yoichi, shut up," you mumble, voice hoarse.

But instead of teasing further, he leans down and presses the back of his hand against your forehead, his usual playful smirk replaced with something softer. "You're burning up," he murmurs. "Don't worry, babe. The world's greatest assassin is also the world's greatest nurse."

…Which explains why he disappears for twenty minutes and then returns wearing a ridiculous nurse’s outfit. "What the hell are you wearing?"

Nagumo grins. "A uniform is key to getting into character!" He twirls a spoonful of steaming soup in front of your face. "Now, open up, sweetheart. Say 'ahh'~"

Despite your glare, you let him feed you. He’s surprisingly gentle about it, blowing on the soup to cool it down before pressing it to your lips. "Good patient," he praises, tucking the blankets around you snugly. Then, without warning, he flops beside you.

"You'll get sick, idiot," you grumble.

"Then we'll be sick together. Romantic, right?"

You groan, but when he pulls you close, warm and solid against your aching body, you can’t bring yourself to push him away.

Shin Asakura

Shin nearly has a heart attack when he hears your thoughts before even seeing you. Ugh… I feel like I’m dying…

He kicks open your door like a SWAT team member, eyes wide with panic. "Who’s dying?! What happened?!"

You peek out from under your blanket pile, looking like a pathetic, sniffling mess. "…Me."

His whole body deflates with relief, but then his worry kicks back in. "You should’ve told me you weren’t feeling well!" He rushes to your bedside, hands awkwardly hovering like he wants to help but isn’t sure how.

"Stay still, I’ll—wait, do you need medicine? Food? Water? Do you want me to read your mind so you don’t have to talk?"

You sigh. "Shin, just lie down with me."

He stiffens. "But you'll get me sick—"

"Please?" You blink up at him, miserable and exhausted.

Shin groans but immediately kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed beside you, wrapping you up in a careful but firm hug. "Fine, but if I get sick, you're nursing me back to health," he mumbles against your hair.

You hum in contentment, already drifting off. "Deal."

Natsuki Seba

Natsuki walks in, sees you half-dead in bed, and immediately goes, "Damn, that sucks. Anyway—"

"Natsuki."

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, alright. I’ll take care of you."

You watch as he fumbles around the kitchen, somehow making tea and getting medicine without burning anything down. When he returns, he nudges you until you sit up, handing you a warm cup. "Drink. It’s not poisoned, I promise."

You raise an eyebrow. "…Was that a possibility?"

He shrugs. "Not saying yes, not saying no."

Despite his usual deadpan attitude, he sticks around, flipping through his phone while you sip your tea. At some point, he starts running his fingers through your hair absentmindedly, and when you sigh in relief, he pauses.

Then he keeps going.

"You’re weirdly good at this," you mumble.

"Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it," he grumbles, but his fingers never stop moving.

Gaku

Gaku stares at you like you’ve personally betrayed him. "How’d ya let a little cold take you out?"

"Ask my immune system," you deadpan.

Gaku huffs, crossing his arms. "Guess I gotta take care of ya, huh? Fine, but only ‘cause you look pathetic."

He disappears and comes back with an absurd amount of food—snacks, soup, even a ridiculous-looking fruit platter. "Eat," he commands, sitting next to you.

You take a bite and glance at him. "Aren’t you worried about getting sick?"

He scoffs. "Please. My immune system is built different."

Thirty-six hours later, he’s sneezing his lungs out next to you.

"You definitely got me sick," he groans.

You pat his head. "Guess it's my turn to take care of you."

"...Yeah, yeah. Just don’t tell anyone I went down this easy."

[formulaonecrumbs]

how about one where she had a long working day so ocs helps with her migraine and flare up bub turning off lights and takes care of her after a nap by feeding her and braiding her hair. hope it is not too hard to write. btw love ur pcos pieces.

keeping the lights low

Oscar Piastri x PCOS!reader

summary: oscar takes care of reader after a long, painful day.

warnings: pcos mention, migraine, chronic pain, flare up

A/N: hiyyyaaa i’m so glad u enjoy this series, it’s my most written 😭 i hope this is to ur liking and expectations. ENJOOOYYYY!!!! ❤️

⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘

the door clicks shut behind you, the quiet thud of your bag hitting the floor following right after. your head’s pounding, legs heavy, and every part of you feels like it’s been wrung out, body screaming from a full day of moving, thinking, pushing through.

oscar’s already crossing the room before you can say a word.

“lights,” you mumble, wincing.

he’s got you — one hand guiding you to the couch with a soft, “sit down, baby,” and the other flicking every switch until the room falls into a warm, safe kind of darkness. the curtains get drawn, too, until there’s just the softest amber spill of light from the hallway.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel him kneel in front of you and brush your cheeks dry with both thumbs. “migraine?” he asks quietly.

you nod, curling in on yourself. “and a flare up. and i feel gross. and—”

he kisses your knee. “no need to explain. you’ve done enough for one day.”

his hands help you out of your shoes, easing them off like he’s holding something fragile, and he whispers, “lean back,” guiding you gently to lie down. he covers you with your favorite blanket, tucks it around your shoulders, and presses a soft kiss to your temple. “nap for a bit. i’ll be right here.”

you fall asleep to the sound of his quiet breathing and the occasional hum of him scrolling through his phone at a distance, making sure nothing’s loud, nothing’s jarring, nothing disturbs you.

when you wake up, it’s to the smell of something warm and sweet. you’re still fuzzy when oscar crouches beside the couch again, thumb brushing your cheek.

“hey, baby,” he whispers. “made you some soup.”

you blink at him, sluggish. “you didn’t have to…”

“shh.” he slides a pillow behind your head and lifts a spoon to your lips. “you don’t lift a finger tonight, yeah?”

you let him feed you, let him wipe a little broth from your chin when you miss your mouth. his smile is fond, soft as his voice. “there she is,” he murmurs, like your whole world fits in the space between each breath he takes.

later, when your stomach’s full and your body’s still aching, he helps you sit upright between his legs, back against his chest, and starts combing his fingers gently through your hair.

“gonna braid it for you,” he says into your shoulder. “keep it from tangling while you rest.”

his fingers work slowly, carefully — the braid’s a little loose, a little uneven, but it doesn’t matter. it’s from him, done with love, done with care.

you whisper, “thank you,” voice hoarse.

he kisses the back of your neck. “anything for you, baby.”

and he holds you there, arms wrapped around you tight, both of you quiet in the dark. pain still there, but somehow smaller now. somehow lighter. all because of him.

THE END :>

[chetter-holmgren]

Why my pookie looks like he hasn’t slept in three days straight 😭

[swanimagines]

Hey! Could you write headcanons for Being the Peaky Blinders’ nurse? Thanks so much!

When you first got one of the Shelby’s to your little clinic, you were surprised instead of being afraid. 

The Shelbys weren’t exactly good people, but they were kind to those who lived in the area, helping them in exchange for not snitching on them.

So you didn’t think twice when you ushered them to lay the man on your table and started examining him.

It was John - bruises covering his body, him groaning in pain as you twisted and pressed around him to find any broken bones.

He had a nasty gash on his side and bruises, but nothing more serious.

So you disinfected his gash and wrapped it up, before you called out to his brothers to come and pick him up.

“A week of rest and lots of water helps a lot,” you instructed them. “But if he gets a fever, bring him back immediately.”

And that was that, they thanked you and left.

You thought it was the last time you’d see them, at least for a while – but then they kept coming back.

You didn’t really understand why, your little clinic at the corner of two backstreets, on the verge of bankruptcy, when they could afford going to one of the fancier places near where the injury happened.

Not that you complained of course, they paid you handsomely.

But to your surprise, those payments weren’t enough as a large company bought the building complex where you had your clinic, and you were forced to close it.

You wandered around Birmingham for a week or two, trying to make up a way to feed yourself and pay the rent for your flat.

And then…

Tommy Shelby himself appeared at your door.

“I have a proposition,” he started, handing you an envelope. “We have a free room at the Garrison, you could practice your clinic there. In exchange, you would take care of our gang.”

You eyed him for a moment before you peeked into the envelope. Hundreds of pounds laid there, enough to pay off months of rent in advance. You frowned.

“Why me?”

He was quiet for a moment. “You help without questions, are good at what you do and are currently struggling.”

You stared at him for a moment longer, fiddling with the envelope, before you nodded. “Let me get my suitcase.”

The room at the Garrison was bigger than you expected—not as big as at your clinic, but plenty of room to do whatever you needed. And you remembered occasionally thinking that you could get by with a smaller room.

So, you began your work.

The gang was your priority, but you were allowed to take other customers for extra coin.

Not that there were many, but you were content treating the gang only too - they paid you well, you had money to live comfortably.

Sometimes, they invited you to have a drink or two with them.

In case you fell sick, Polly and Ada took care of you.

Hot tea, warm blankets, soup.

They fell like they were your mother and sister those times, by how caring they were.

Eventually, you moved to live closer to Garrison, Tommy pitching in to help you with costlier rent.

Finn growing up meant he spent time at your clinic a lot. He got into trouble almost daily and came back with bruised or bleeding knees, and you were constantly patching him up.

And Arthur needed your help after he returned from fighting rings, or when he had wandered around and got into trouble while drunk.

You grew to be an important part of the gang, something you didn’t expect.

And they, in turn, grew to be important to you too.

Requests are open! FANDOM LIST | PROMPT LIST(S)

[katsukistofu]

PLEASE (if you feel like it) WRITE FOR AIZAWA! A SICK READER TROPE MAYBE?

Btw ur fics are so good and are part of the reason why I’ve gotten back into mha <333 I love ur writing style sm and ur hawks fics??? That was amazing

hi my love! thank you so much omg that’s so sweet, i’m happy i helped you rekindle your love for mha again lol! <3

sick (but never of you)

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ s. aizawa x fem reader. fluff. cursing. 997 words ★ your husband insists on taking care of you when you fall ill, despite your protests.

Not this shit again. 

You groan as your eyes flutter open for the second time after you said you were fine, then proceeded to dramatically faint in Shota’s arms in the middle of your patrol and sit up, hurriedly tossing the pile of soft blankets off your body.

You shiver despite the warmth radiating from the heater nearby. Shota must have brought it out for you after getting you home.

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

The disapproving voice of your husband floats over, and there he is, leaning on the doorway with a steaming bowl of something in his hands. You perk up despite yourself. Miso soup? 

“I don’t have time to sleep off a little cold, Shota!” Your arms tremble as you try to force yourself off of the plush king-sized bed. “It’s already past nine, I have to head to the agency.”

“Don’t care, didn’t ask.” Shota wraps his arms around you to trap you in place, ignoring your insistent budging. “You’re staying home today with the cat.”

“But—But they need me…” You weakly mumble in his firm grip. It was no use trying to break free, and you’re not sure if you even want to anymore with how nice he feels against you.

“And I need you here.” His stern gaze doesn’t waver, and his hand guides your head from the back of your hair, which you’re certain looks like a disaster zone right now, to rest on his chest. “It’s my job to make sure you’re safe, happy and healthy.”

Shota brushes a hair from your face and tucks it behind your ear. The little beads of sweat on your skin don’t bother him in the slightest.

“So let me do my job.”

“Are you using your teacher voice on me?” You grumble into the dark fabric of his sleeveless shirt. He smells warm and like all things good, as if he just came out of the shower. 

“I vaguely recall someone commenting that it was ‘hot.” Shota’s gravelly voice teases your ear and his stubble tickles your cheek as he smirks, knowing he’s won the battle when he finally feels you melt in defeat against him. 

He brushes a soft kiss to your forehead. “Stay in bed, sweetheart, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” You say in a tiny voice, weakly slumping back into the sheets. 

Shota comes back with a spoon and a folded piece of paper. A hint of a smile tugs at his lips as he holds it out to you.

“Looks like I’m not the only one that wants you to stay home.”

Your eyes widen as you look at the get-well card in your hands.

feel beter soon!! lots of loove, eri it said, with millions of tiny hearts doodled around your name. You choke back a sob as your eyes fall onto the little stick figure drawings of you pushing the little gray-haired girl on a swing set. 

It looked just like the one from the playground nearby that you would often take her to on your days off.

us when youre not sick anymor! :D

“Shota, give me that damn soup.”

He chuckles deeply and scoots closer on the bed to feed you. You squeeze your eyes shut as a sharp throb suddenly pierces through your head.

“The room’s spinning again, that’s not normal is it?”

“No. No, it’s not.” Shota’s forehead creases in concern, bringing the spoon of warm soupy goodness up to your lips while his other hand holds yours.

You part your lips to drink it, letting the rich, comforting flavor of miso spread across your tongue.

Letting out a little sigh of relief, you’re about to lean back before Shota sets the bowl down on the nightstand to prop up the pillows behind you, making sure you’re comfortable before he picks it back up again and holds up another spoonful to your mouth.

“Come on, one more for me sweetheart.” 

“Not hungry anymore,” you huff, turning your head away from his outstretched hand.

He lifts an eyebrow. 

“We can cuddle after you take your medicine.”

“...Can you rub my tummy too?”

“You know I will.”

You sniffle and reluctantly open your mouth to sip a spoonful of the soup once again.

“Atta girl.” Shota smooths a kiss on your forehead, rubbing circles against the back of your hand. 

He reaches over to the nightstand to grab your medicine he picked up from the local pharmacy earlier, and hands a small cup of what he pours to you. 

You grimace at its cherry-colored contents and tilt your head back to drink it in one go like a shot.

“Good job. Now come lay on me.” He didn’t need to ask you twice, but Shota’s hands are already on your waist to gently flip you over him as he takes your previous position on the bed, setting you down to rest your head on your usual spot on his chest.

He strokes your hair gently, arm snug against your back while he presses you to him. “How are you feeling?”

“A little bit better,” you mumble, absentmindedly tracing the outline of his abs under his shirt. It's always been soothing to you.

Shota’s chest rumbles as he lets out a husky laugh. “Are you just saying that so you can keep tracing my abs?”

“Maybe.” You giggle against him, which turns into a cough and he firmly pats your back. His hand slides under your pajamas to rub gentle circles on your tummy like he promised. You softly squeal at the ticklish feeling of his hard-earned callouses against your skin, and Shota tenderly kisses your cheek once, twice.

All your senses are numb, but you can still feel the overflowing love behind them.

“Go to sleep, sweet girl. I got you,” he murmurs into your hair.

“Okay.” You comply easily this time, nuzzling deeper into his chest. “Goodnight, Shota.”

“Goodnight, angel. Love you.”

“Love you too,” you mumble before drifting off to sleep in the safety of his warm arms.

Maybe being sick wasn’t all bad.