#my entire body aches like it would with the flu but no fever

[risingsunresistance]

[theostrophywife]

darling, you look divine.

pairing: regulus black x reader.

song inspiration: eyes don't lie by isabel larosa.

author's note: screaming, crying, throwing up. if regulus looked at me like that, i'd be wetter than the black lake. please enjoy my darlings 🤎

The first symptom reared its ugly head early Monday morning. 

You were in the Great Hall eating breakfast with James, Remus, Sirius, and Peter when your skin suddenly felt like you were being engulfed by fiendfyre. The burning heat spread through your entire body, making you feel flushed and flustered. Your fork clattered against the table while you wiped the sweat off of your brow with clammy hands. 

“Are you feeling alright, love?” asked Sirius. 

You shook your head, fanning yourself. “Does anyone else feel hot all of a sudden? It feels like I’m getting burned alive.”

The boys shook their heads. Remus laid the back of his hand against your forehead. “You’re burning up, Y/N. I think you might be pitching a fever.” 

James pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and squinted. ��Moony’s right. You’re sweating profusely and you look a bit peaked.” 

Peter nodded in agreement. “It might be that new dragon flu that’s going around. Maybe you should head back to the dorms, Y/N.” 

“I can’t miss class. There’s an assignment due in Transfiguration.” 

Just then, a violent cramp seized your lower abdomen. You gripped the edge of the dining table so hard that you felt the wood splinter underneath your palm. Padfoot’s eyes widened at the appearance of your claws. It had only been a month since Sirius helped you summon your Animagus form and while you still had much to learn, you’ve never lost control like this before. 

You needed to get out of there. Transforming into a giant snow leopard in the middle of the Great Hall would be very, very bad. 

“Don’t worry about McGonagall,” Sirius said in a stern voice. “We’ll cover for you. Now come on, I’ll walk you back to your room.” 

Fortunately, you managed to reach Gryffindor tower with no other incidents. After Sirius escorted you back to your dorm, he barred the door with magic and promised to check up on you after class. 

The cramps only worsened. It felt like someone had buried a dagger into your stomach and was now twisting and turning it as they pleased. You doubled over in pain and clutched the poster of your canopy bed before curling up into a ball in the middle of your mattress. Not even your period cramps compared to this torment. 

When you thought it couldn’t get any worse, an overwhelming ache blossomed between your thighs and made you groan with need. You twisted in your sheets and pressed your legs together to counteract the wave of lust coursing through your veins, but it only made it worse. You felt empty and hollow and the overwhelming desire to be filled was the only thing you could think about.

This was different from the surge of adolescent hormones that you had grown so familiar with. The desire was a living thing, sinking its claws into your very being. You felt feral, animalistic. 

You burrowed into your pillows, your breaths growing ragged as you tried to regain control. A demanding knock against your door broke your concentration. You sniffed the air, whining softly as the intoxicating scent of eucalyptus, bergamot, and sandalwood overpowered your heightened senses. A part of you recalled the warning Sirius left you with. You were not, under any circumstances, supposed to open the door unless it was him or one of the boys on the other side, but the temptation was too strong. 

As the knocks grew more insistent, the scent shifted into something sharper. You felt yourself drawn to it and before long, you were opening the door to satiate your curiosity. The person standing on the other side made your stomach lurch. 

“Regulus,” you said through gritted teeth. The very presence of the younger Black brother made your entire body shake as you contended against the urge to transform. It was a losing battle. You could feel your canines elongating, making your gums feel sore and achy. “Now is not a good time.” 

In fact, it was the worst bloody fucking time. On a normal day, you could barely tolerate Regulus. His surly attitude and cutting glare certainly left little to be desired. Then there was the matter of his falling out with Sirius, which only served to heighten the tension between you. When Professor McGonagall chose to make you partners, you at least attempted to keep things civil. Whatever was going on between your best friend and his younger brother was none of your business, but Regulus had practically made it impossible to stay impartial. 

You had never met a broodier, haughtier, snootier arsehole than Regulus Arcturus Black. The pureblood prick acted like he was a prince amongst peasants just because he happened to be born into the right bloodline. Yet a muggleborn like yourself had managed to take the top spot in every class. A spot that previously belonged to him. 

To be expected, Regulus wasn’t the least bit pleased about this. He was even less thrilled when McGonagall tasked him to drop off the latest lecture notes so that you wouldn’t fall behind in class. If she hadn’t threatened to deduct points from his house for refusing, Regulus would’ve never set foot in the godforsaken lion’s den.

He pushed his way inside, not bothering to wait for a proper invitation. “Here are the notes from class,” Regulus stated stiffly. “We’re required to transform a thimble into a thestral. I suggest you read up. I’ll not have you dragging me down just because you fancied playing hooky for the day.” 

“I’m not skipping for the bloody hell of it,” you snapped. “If I had a choice, I would be in class not doubled over in pain—” 

Regulus caught you just before you hit the ground. The dizzy spell had come out of nowhere, nearly knocking you to the floor from the sheer force of its effects. As Regulus snaked his arm around your waist, you almost wished it had. His scent hit you all at once. You whimpered as he tucked you against his side, feeling the heat of his touch even under all your layers of clothing. 

The ringing in your ears subsided enough for you to hear the panic in Regulus’ voice. “Y/N, can you hear me? Are you alright?” 

You pushed him off with what little strength remained in your body. “Thank you for the notes, but I’d appreciate it if you left.”

“No,” Regulus said. 

“What do you mean, no?

“I mean, no. Do you want to hear it in French? Non.” 

You frowned, clutching your stomach. The cramps were starting again, but it was different this time. The ache in your lower abdomen was excruciating and your current proximity to Regulus only seemed to make it worse. The slickness between your thighs certainly didn’t help the matter. It was humiliating, plain and simple. 

“Get the fuck out, Regulus!” 

Regulus caught your wrist. His fingers felt like ice against your overheated skin. “You don’t want that, darling. Not when I’m the only person who can help.”

“You know what’s wrong with me?” 

He sighed. “Of course my brother would convince you to turn without thinking about the side effects. Classic Sirius, honestly.” You glared at him to get on with it. “You’re in heat, Y/N.” 

You grimaced. There was no way in Godric’s green earth. “Like…a cat?” 

Regulus smirked. “Is that what you transform into, little kitten?” You pursed your lips, which caused him to roll his eyes. “Please, I know your merry band of misfits have all conjured an animagus form. There’s no use hiding it. So what are you? A fuzzy little Persian cat?” 

“No,” you said rather haughtily. Did he have to be so irritating? “My form is a snow leopard.” 

“Still a kitten,” he responded with a shit eating grin. “The same rules apply. You’ll be in heat for at least a week, mon chaton.” 

“You mean I have to suffer for seven whole days? This is hell. It feels like my uterus is being ripped apart. How am I supposed to endure this pain for an entire week?”

“Well, there are ways to find relief.” 

“What kind of ways?” 

Regulus gave you a knowing look. “You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you can figure it out. What’s the purpose of heat?” 

“Reproduction,” you answered almost instantly. The realization left your mouth before your brain could even process it. Oh, you have got to be kidding. This was some sort of cruel joke. For Merlin’s fucking sake! This was horrifying. Downright humiliating. “You can’t possibly mean…” 

The grin on the stupid twat’s face was growing wider by the second. “You don’t necessarily have to have sex,” he said in an amused tone. “An orgasm will do. I’m sure you can manage that with your fingers, can’t you princess?”

You swallowed thickly. “I—I’ve never—“ 

Was it possible to die from embarrassment? Discussing the details of your sex life would’ve been humiliating under any circumstance, but this? Standing here, telling Regulus fucking Black what you were about to tell him, this was truly rock bottom.

“Don’t tell me you’re a virgin.” 

“No!” you snapped. You’ve had your fair share of experience in that department, no matter how awkward they might’ve been. “I’ve had sex, I just haven’t…”

“You’ve never had an orgasm?” Regulus said, entirely perplexed. “Not even once?” 

You crossed your arms defensively, which turned out to be a big mistake. On top of everything else that you were already suffering through, your breasts now felt sore and sensitive. 

“No,” you conceded with a sigh. “I don’t need you judging me for it either, so if you’re quite done then please get the bloody hell out of my dorm.” 

It may have been your imagination, but you could’ve sworn that Regulus softened just a little bit. He at least loosened his grip on your wrist, rubbing up your arm in a gesture that might’ve been soothing if it weren’t coming from him. 

“I’m not judging you. If anything, I’m judging whoever it is that failed to make you finish. It’s quite rude to leave a lady unsatisfied.” 

“What would you even know about satisfying a woman, Regulus?”

“Trust me, darling. I know plenty.” Your cheeks heated as he traced circles on your forearm. “Tell me, kitten. Have you ever touched yourself?” 

The conversation should have ended there. You should’ve put a stop to it. But this bloody fucking heat was doing strange things to your body. Your hormones were out of control and Regulus was standing way too close for comfort. So close that you could see the little golden flecks in his emerald eyes. So close that one of his curls was tickling your cheek. So close that those full, pillowy lips were mere inches away from your own. 

He smirked when your gaze dipped down to his mouth. “My eyes are up here, Y/N and I asked you a question. The polite thing to do is answer.” 

“Since when have you ever cared about being polite?” 

“I don’t, but I think you and I are playing a very dangerous game here and I quite enjoy sparring with you, ma cherie.” Regulus tilted your chin up and cradled your jaw. “So, have you or have you not touched yourself?” 

You glared up at him defiantly; a last ditch effort to keep your dignity intact. “No,” you said with your head held high. “I’ve never touched myself and I’ve never had an orgasm. Are you happy now, Regulus?” 

“Quite the opposite,” he murmured. Regulus caressed your bottom lip with his thumb and tilted his head back to study you. His eyes were almost black when they flickered back up to meet yours. “I could teach you.” 

“You want to teach me how to…” 

“Masturbate. Wank. Get yourself off?” Regulus listed matter-of-factly. “Yes. Yes, I do, ma chérie.”

It should’ve been a no-brainer. This was a terrible, horrible fucking idea. An absolute hot mess that would yield calamitous results, but the ache in your core was too painful to ignore and you were willing to try just about anything to find relief. Including trusting someone you absolutely loathed. 

“Fine. You can teach me, but that’s it. None of this goes any further than that.” 

Regulus smirked. “I won’t touch you, princess. Not until you beg me to.” 

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “So?” 

He nodded behind you. “Get on the bed.” 

That was easy enough. You crawled into your mattress and sat cross legged on top of your sheets. “Not like that. Lie down on your back and take those ghastly pajamas off.” 

Arsehole. You happened to like your red and gold striped bottoms, but to be fair, they were in the way. The mattress dipped beneath him as Regulus positioned himself at the very edge of the bed. He leaned against the wooden poster, his gaze transfixed on the sight before him. 

“I wouldn’t have taken you as a red lace lingerie type of girl, mon chaton.” You frowned in response, which only made him chuckle. “As pretty as those panties are, you’ll need to take them off as well.” 

You hesitated, hooking your thumb over the waistband of your knickers. Regulus raised a brow as if he were challenging you to back out. Like he half-expected you to be too scared to continue. He seriously underestimated that infamous brashness that Gryffindors were so well known for. 

He inhaled sharply as you slipped out of your panties and tossed the discarded lace next to him. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.” 

For once, you kept silent and did what you were told. Regulus nodded tightly. “Wider. Yeah, just like that.” 

“What now?” you asked, trying to keep yourself from blushing at this totally undignified position. You were way past embarrassment now. 

“Run a finger through your folds,” Regulus said, his voice sounding huskier than it did a second ago. He watched with dark eyes as you stroked your core. “Fuck, you’re soaked. I can see it on your fingers.” 

You took a deep breath, feeling that tension coil in your lower abdomen. Every fiber of your being buzzed with lust. “Stroke yourself, kitten. Imagine that it’s someone else touching you.” 

With your eyes closed, you let his voice guide you through the steps. You hated to admit it, but he was good at this. “Use your own slick to make it easier, darling. Gather it before rubbing your clit. That’s it, just like that. There’s a good girl.” 

The words spurred you on, your fingers working that sensitive bundle of nerves to find release. You could feel the budding orgasm. It was spreading through you, setting your teeth on edge. You were close, so close. 

When the momentum dropped, you nearly cried out of frustration. If you thought you were in pain before, this was ten-fold of that. For some reason, there was some sort of mental block that you couldn’t get past. 

You looked up, your lower lip trembling. “I can’t do it. There’s this block and I freeze up and I just can’t do it on my own.” 

Regulus looked unhinged. Like he was going to jump out of his skin any second. You’ve never seen him like this. Anything other than calm and collected was out of character for the youngest Black. 

“Will you help me?” you whispered. To be honest, you weren’t above begging at this point. 

He looked utterly conflicted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Y/N. You’re in heat. I don’t want to take advantage when you’re in such a vulnerable state.” 

You shook your head. “You wouldn’t be taking advantage. I know I’m hormonal, but oddly enough, I trust you. You know how to keep a secret. Just please, Regulus. I’m in so much pain.” 

Regulus was silent for a moment. He seemed to be in deep contemplation. “Are you absolutely sure?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’re aware of what you’re asking for and who you’re asking it from?” 

“I am perfectly aware, thank you very much. Is this the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had? Fuck no. Do I still want to do it anyways? Fuck yes.” 

The two of you stared at one another. Regulus clenched his jaw and then unclenched it. Finally, he sighed in resignation. 

“C’mere then.” 

He positioned himself against the headboard, his back pressed up on the wood. Regulus bent his long legs and pulled you against him, your back resting against the solid plane of his chest. You sighed as he rubbed soothing circles upon your skin, his rings kissing your hips with their cold bite. He shuffled behind you, adjusting himself just as you caught a glimpse of the two of you in your vanity mirror. 

Regulus stuck his middle and pointer finger into his mouth, making sure they were nice and wet before he moved them lower. You whimpered as he caressed the inside of your thigh and clutched the sheets as he teased along your crease. When he stroked along your wetness, a choked moan escaped from your lips. 

“Gods, you’re fucking dripping.” His cold breath fanned over your neck just as he plunged his fingers deep within you. “Salazar fucking save me, you’re even tighter than I imagined.” 

His strokes were languid, small ministrations as he buried his fingers inside of you. The cold metal rings that adorned his slender fingers hit your pubic bone every time he thrusted inside of you, but it wasn’t painful. In fact, seeing the Black heirloom ring soaked in your wetness might’ve been the most erotic sight you’ve ever witnessed.

You whimpered as his other hand disappeared underneath your shirt. “Can I touch you here, princess?” 

The sound that came out of you barely sounded human. It was a purr more than anything. Regulus caressed your ribs with his knuckles. “I need words, kitten.” 

“You can touch me, Regulus.” 

Fire skittered along your skin as his hand traveled further up. He palmed you through your bra before he slipped under the fabric and squeezed your breast. Regulus paid equal attention to both of your breasts, admiring the curve and swell of them as he picked up the pace of his fingers. You moaned as he pinched your nipples, which only made you wetter still. 

You fisted his curls in one hand as he curved them inside of you. Regulus chuckled darkly, pleased by your reaction. “Right there? Does that feel good, princess?” 

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, gods that’s perfect.” 

“You’re doing so well, ma cherie. That’s it. Ride my fingers just like that. Feels good, yeah?” 

You nodded, blinking at the image in the mirror. Regulus had his hands all over you, his lips pressed lightly against your neck as he watched his fingers slide in and out of your tight cunt. His eyes caught yours in the reflection, the green completely swallowed by dark pools of lust. 

“Look at you, all spread out for me. You’re fucking exquisite. The little moans you make are enough to drive me mad.” 

“Regulus, please,” you keened. He smirked against your neck and picked up the pace. Your head fell against his shoulder as that familiar tense built. “Oh gods. Oh fuck. Reggie—“

You felt him grip your chin, tilting it towards the mirror. “Don’t close your eyes,” Regulus growled into your ear. “Watch, kitten. Watch as I make you cum.”

When you dragged your gaze upwards, you almost didn’t recognize yourself. You were in a state of disarray, cheeks flushed, hair matted, and lips parted as Regulus pushed you over the edge. His fingers were magic and every stroke unraveled you, hips bucking, back arching, begging for more and more and more. The orgasm rippled through you like a monsoon, completely swallowing you whole. 

“That’s it, princess,” Regulus cooed. “Gods, you’re so fucking pretty when you cum. Darling, you look divine. Je suis raide dingue de toi.”

The comedown had you seeing stars. Behind your eyes was a whole galaxy, a cluster of constellations that you never would’ve reached without him. Regulus had made you cum so hard that your body felt like it was floating through outer space. 

When you finally regained awareness, you were surprised to find Regulus gently brushing your hair back. “How was that, kitten?” 

“That was—you were—fuck.”

“Well said, love. Shakespeare himself would envy your silver tongue.”

He slid his fingers out of you slowly and you tried and failed to suppress the little whine that escaped from the back of your throat. 

Regulus smirked, feeling the way you clenched around his digits in an attempt to keep him in place. He stared at his hand, mesmerized by the arousal dripping off his fingers. You stirred, having every intention to find something that he could clean himself off with. 

“Let me grab you a towel.” 

He gripped your hips in place and looked you straight in the eyes as he brought his fingers to his lips. “No need, princess.” 

Then he sucked, hard. The filthy image was enough to leave you gasping in shock. He lapped up every drop like you were the sweetest delicacy on this earth. Regulus groaned, his eyes rolling back as he savored the taste. The moan that rippled through him would forever be branded into your mind.

For Godric’s fucking sake, the man was downright obscene.

“That should hold you off for the rest of the day,” Regulus said. “You’ll still feel the effects of your heat, but it won’t be as bad. You might even be able to drag yourself down to dinner. If you can manage to walk on such shaky legs.” 

You rolled your eyes, but softened a bit. If it weren’t for him, you would still be in excruciating pain. “Would it be strange to say thank you?” 

Regulus shrugged nonchalantly as though you were merely discussing the weather. “Not strange at all. You’re very welcome, princess.” 

“You’re…” you took a deep breath, like your body was rejecting whatever compliment was forming in your mind. “You’re really good at that.” 

“Yeah? You think so?” 

You quirked a brow. “Fishing for compliments, are we?” 

“The only compliment I need is the sound of you moaning my name,” he said with a smile as he hooked your bra back in place and pulled your shirt back down. “I assure you that I intend to hear plenty of that in the near future. This is just the start.” 

Regulus straightened, trailing his fingers along the sheets before snatching up the red lace underwear you’d thrown at him earlier. He pocketed the lingerie and smirked. 

"You said something earlier," you recalled. "Before I..."

"Before I made you come so hard you saw stars?"

Heat flooded your cheeks at his vulgar choice of words. "Yes. Something in French. That's your native tongue, isn't it?"

"Thinking a lot about my tongue, are you love?"

You ignored the salacious comment. "What did you say?"

A devious smirk tugged at his lips. Regulus pierced you with his gaze, those emerald eyes burning with so much lust that you felt choked with desire.

"It's a secret," he whispered, his voice a deep and rough caress. "If you're good, then maybe you'll find out what my tongue and I have to say."

You rolled your eyes. "You're a pain in the arse, Regulus."

"Find me when you want to play again, princess," Regulus said with a dark chuckle. "I'll be waiting for those claws to come out. See you soon, mon chaton.” 

[persephone11110]

A Different Dialect | b.bradshaw

prompt: “You can’t keep hiding this stuff.”- credit: @memesomething

tw:illness—hiding said illness, past child abuse, self esteem issues, protective b.b, readers a mom| dad bradley bradshaw, reader is masking her pain, the word throw up is mentioned and vomit— also the act of throwing up is mentioned, perfectionism, pushing yourself to exhaustion, 15 years into the future

reader goes by angel

children names: Cobie and and Nicky

this a random one-shot/ apart of FALLEN ANGEL Series

AN: Its been awhile since I posted to this series, random idea was born after listeing to Because of You. And i also pulled a quote from one of my fav shows ever Bojack Horseman , ever have a hard time trying to write the middle of a fic

—

Self care….not your biggest strong suit, which is pretty funny for ER/n. Lets just say Bradley doesn’t find it so funny.

This is all started because of your weak immune system. It was shameful how someone who’s been a ER/n for the past decade and half didn’t recognize the severity and symptoms of the flu. For crying out loud your a mom and a wife, your the definition of unstoppable,someone who doesn’t get the chance to fall apart. And yet here we are—laying on bedroom floor, curled up in pain. Weakness doesn’t look good on you Y/n Bradshaw.

Let’s turn the clock back.

This time, you had the chance to hide your sickness from your other half—since he recently taken promotion of Captain he had been busy with students and paper work. As evil as its sounds—you just didnt want him fretting over you, ruining his work schedule because of you, missing out with friend’s because of you.

Being sick today wasn’t any different, you usually toughen it out—pushing yourself while sick was a familiarity, well before you became an adult. You gone to school with body aches, slight fevers, the twins sports game with severe nausea—taking medicine to soothe it. Nothing made you stop—as you learned at a young age age,“Y/n the world doesn’t stop just because your sick.”

You could remember the last time you got sick as a child and the memories are faint but some of it is ingrained into the back of your mind.

“Y/n remember what we say about crying... crying is stupid!"— Dad had grown tired of your loud wails, having come home from a important dinner, he grabbed you by your jaw and gripped it tightly. “Don’t make me have to tell you again”.

You cupped your forehead once again, it felt like someone was taking a knife pulling it in and out. Only couple more hours and twins could be put in their rooms for bedtime. Then you could fall apart—cry if you needed to, throw up if you needed to.

What you didnt expect was your husband to come home early.

“Honey its just a little cold”, you mother batted your hands away from your nose, she stood behind you smoothing the sides of your dresses perfectly.“Your father needs at your best for this dinner, the governor might be considering giving him the funding he deserves”.

You didn’t deserve to be cared for, you didn’t earn the right to stay home like your parents did.

You rolled your shoulders back, you looked in the mirror, praying to god that your mascara didn’t smudge. You put on a fake smile because god forbid you didn’t you smile hard enough infront of strangers your father would have your backside and a belt.

“Come on Y/n, Linda!”’your father shouted from downstairs, he stood at the end of staircase. His shoulders squared straight, his eyes portraying nothing but coldness, it really added to the whole army man persona. “Don’t have all day”.

You sniffled one more time, you swallowed the snot down your throat. Mom hated the way your nose looked after you blew it too many times.

You spent the entire night politely turning down men old enough to your father,while also keeping the bile of vomit down. Multitasker

“Dear god Y/n loosen up, your father needs all the support he can get”. Your mother walked past you, whispering into your ear.

“Yes ma’am, let me go freshen up real quick”, your were face down in toliet, biles of vomit coming up. Remembering where you were, you quickly stood flushing the toliet— you held onto the stall wall.

An older woman passed you onto the way to the sink. “This generation,what makes you think a man is going to want you like that if cant even hold your liquor?”. The silvered hair woman voice held a certain amount of digust that even your own mother couldn’t beat.

Pull yourself together Y/n.

You can do better than this, you were taught trained better than this.

—

Walking through the front door Bradley expected two things, his wife helping the twins with last minute homework Or Cobie and Nicky chasing after Orbit, causing a mess to happen around the house.

Quiet house. Bradley allowed his feet to bring him to their shared bedroom.

He didn’t expect for his wife to laying on the floor curled up in a fetal position.“Angel!” Bradley shouts as he slides on to the ground, he didn’t have time to panic—years of being in miltary and being father kicked in. He pressed his finger into your neck hoping and praying to god there was pulse somewhere.

“Brad?” You open your eyes, your confused the worry look Bradley was wearing.“Whats wrong?”.

“Whats wrong Y/n?” His voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just found my wife unconscious on the floor”. You and Bradley are sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Bradley lets not be hysterical, I wasn’t unconscious I’ve worked a graveyard shift while also taking care of the kids”. Your was voice strained, you lost it while at Cobie soccer game.

You squeezed your eyes the ceiling light was starting to bother you, and because you didn’t want Bradley to see you cry.

Bradley gave you once over and started to feel his bubbling anger starting to faint away. “Angel we’re partners remember?” He’s caressing your face, “I have your six, you know that right?”

You peered your eyes back open, and whispered“I know that, I just…..nevermind it doesn’t matter”.

You start to move away from him“the twins need some important forms signed Brad-Brad and Orbit needs to be let out again”.

“Y/n dont worry about that, right now we need to talk about your lack of self care”. Bradley pulls you back to him, “Please let me take care of you”. The amount of emotion that filled Bradley voice broke your heart, you didn’t mean to make him upset.

“We also need to talk about I didn’t even notice my own damn wife was in so much pain”. Bradley ran his hands through hair, “I mean how I couldn’t I?”.

“Well Brad you’ve been working long hours since becoming a captain, the navy needs you more than usual to”. You smile weakly, the last thing you wanted to do was make Bradley feel bad for being promoted.

“Oh angel Im sorry, thats it I’m taking a leave of absence”. Bradley tone held a no-none sense tone.

“No,no Bradley I’m fine this something im used to, sometimes you need make sacrifices”. You speak like its fact, you’ve never been told otherwise.

Bradley sighs his eyes rimming with tears, its got this far without Bradley noticing.“No Y/n your just used to making unnecessary sacrifices for everyone else”.

“When the last time you’ve been taken care of— when’s the last time I spend the day taking care of you?”. Bradley voice was soft, careful to not wake the kids. “Y/n let me take care of you, my wife the mother of kids deserves to be loved , cherised and taken care of”. His voice is quiet, he puts his hand into yours. “I got you Y/n Helen Bradshaw”.

“I know you do Bradley Peter Bradshaw”.

[letthewhumpbegin]

Sick Day - Wonka (2023)

Fandom: Wonka (2023) Characters: Willy Wonka, Noodle Prompt: Sick Word count: 1590 Warnings: contains descriptions of being sick, fever, collapse. Slight mentions of blood.

It was in all his bones and muscles from the moment he opened his eyes that morning: an ache and chill that no amount of chocolate could make better, combined with a headache like an entire chocolate factory was drilling inside his brain. 

Willy had had this once before, when he had fallen ill during his travels. Back then he had spent four days straight in bed, unable to move as much as a toe, but right now that wasn’t an option. Surely, neither Mrs. Scrubbitt nor Mr. Bleacher would allow him to miss one minute of work. So, with the very limited amount of strength he could muster, Willy dragged his feverish body out of bed. 

The moment he stood, it was as though Willy had stepped aboard a ship caught in a heavy storm. The floor felt like it was making waves underneath his feet, and the whole room seemed to move around him.  "Oh, boy…" Willy grabbed a hold of the desk to steady himself. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. This was going to be a long and hard day for him… 

Exactly how he had managed to get dressed, Willy didn’t quite know. There were several times where he nearly fainted and almost went crashing to the floor, but somehow, probably on sheer willpower alone, he managed to keep himself standing and make himself look somewhat presentable. 

"What’s wrong with you?" Noodle immediately saw something was off as they made their way down for roll call. "Nothing," Willy grumbled back. The lack of his usual cheer and optimism alone betrayed his answer was a lie. "I know you’re not telling the truth," Noodle smiled reassuringly, "but whatever you do, don’t show Mrs. Scrubbitt or Mr. Bleacher that something is wrong. They’ll add to your debt every chance they get."

Willy stumbled over his own feet and had to steady himself against the wall, as a fresh wave of vertigo and a flare-up of his fever threatened to take him down. He knew Noodle was right, but keeping his symptoms hidden was definitely going to be a challenge.  "I’ll try." Willy’s voice trembled, yet the determination was in his eyes. 

Noodle eyed him in worry as he stood slumped against the wall, breathing heavily and looking rather disheveled. "Are you sure you’re okay?" "Not really." Willy slowly shook his head, "but don’t worry about me." Noodle cocked her head to one side, scoffing softly. "Don’t mind if I do worry about you. I’ll be keeping my eye on you today."

---

Somehow Willy managed to get through Mr. Bleacher’s roll call without raising suspicion. But getting down in the hot and humid washhouse wasn’t doing him any favours. His fever-riddled body already had trouble regulating his temperature, and the heat only made that worse. Willy was shivering, yet his face and neck were covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His hands and legs had startled to tremble ever so slightly, and Willy already knew he was losing his battle with this flu sooner or later. 

He eventually lasted just over an hour.  When Willy reached overhead to hang out some freshly laundered sheets, was when his body finally gave out on him.  Another spike in his fever made him sweat and shiver at the same time, and his headache pounded inside his head like nothing before. The room spun around him once more and his vision darkened around the edges. All sounds became distorted, seemingly coming from far away, as if he was listening from underwater. 

"I…" His voice was barely a breath off his lips, completely lost in the noises of the washhouse. Willy reached beside him for anything that offered some support to keep him on his feet, but apart from the sheet, nothing else was around. 

Suddenly it felt as if the ground was yanked away from under Willy’s already wobbly legs. He stumbled sideways in a desperate attempt to catch himself, but he’d already lost out to gravity. Willy’s knees buckled and he went crashing to the wooden floor of the washhouse. He just registered Noodle’s cry in alarm, before his vision darkened completely and he passed out.

---

When consciousness vaguely returned to Willy, he had no idea how long he had been out for. He definitely wasn’t feeling better: the fever was obviously still raging inside him, his headache hadn’t subsided in the slightest, and his entire body ached. 

Willy found himself lying on his side on a hard surface, presumably the floor of the washhouse. His head rested on a soft, freshly-laundered sheet, folded into a bundle to serve as a pillow. An equally soft sheet was draped over him to keep him warm. 

Willy slowly opened his eyes now. He felt like absolute crap and he had no desire, nor the strength, to move at all. His eyes needed a few seconds to adjust to the light, but when they did he found Noodle sitting on the floor next to him. 

"You’re awake!" Noodle gasped in relief when she saw Willy give a sign of life again. Willy groaned softly in reply. He wouldn’t really call this state he was in awake, but he could imagine it was more responsive than he had been half a minute ago.  "Nothing wrong, huh?" Noodle frowned disapprovingly. "You scared the hell out of me just now." "Sorry…" Willy mumbled softly. 

Noodle slowly shook her head, before pulling a wet cloth from a bowl sitting next to her on the floor and gently pressing it to Willy’s neck and forehead. Willy savoured the feeling of the cold cloth against his fever-burning skin. It offered the littlest bit of relief, but he was grateful for it anyway. "Thank you," he whispered. "Yeah, well, with you looking like this I really can’t stay mad at you." Noodle clearly didn’t like that Willy hadn’t warned her about him being on the verge of collapsing, but her worry for him was most evident. 

"How long was I out for?" Willy mumbled weakly. "For over an hour," Noodle answered. "Oh…" Willy certainly understood how he must’ve scared Noodle and the rest of the washhouse crew just now. He slowly rearranged his aching body. The wooden floor beneath him didn’t do him much favours, but getting up and moving himself to a more comfortable position was most definitely out of the question. He meant to pass a trembling hand over his face, only to realise there was blood on his palm.

"Wh–" Willy stammered. His foggy mind only half registered what he saw. "I… I’m bleeding." Noodle gently took his wrist in her hand to look at Willy’s palm. She had a short look at the abrasions that were clearly visible there.  "You must’ve scraped it open when you fell," she concluded, "here, let me take care of it."

Noodle dipped a clean cloth in the bowl of water next to her. Willy hissed through his teeth as she pressed the wet cloth against the abrasions to his palm. She was being most gentle, but the water stung the wounds. "Ow," Willy whimpered softly. "I’m sorry," Noodle apologised, "but there’s dirt in there, and if this gets infected…" Her voice trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish that sentence for Willy to understand the necessity. "It’s alright," he mumbled weakly. He was feeling yet more miserable, and just let it all happen to him at this point. 

---

"All done."

Willy hadn’t even realised he had closed his eyes and had completely zoned out. He was pulled back to the here and now by Noodle gently tucking his now bandaged hand under the sheet with him.

"Thank you," Willy whispered. He couldn’t get his voice to produce much more volume.  "Will you be alright here?" Noodle sounded almost apologetic. "I need to go out to make the deliveries." "Yeah," Willy groaned, "I’ll get back to work."

Even though he barely had the strength, Willy felt bad for not pulling his weight in the washhouse today. It meant the others had to do his work on top of their own, and that didn’t sit right with him.  He propped himself up on one elbow in an attempt to get back up again. It didn’t look steady at all, and before he could make another move, Noodle gently pushed him back down.  "You’re not doing one more thing today apart from lying here and sleeping," she stated firmly. "But…" Willy protested, but deep down he already knew that he simply couldn’t work, no matter how badly he might want it. "No." Noodle rearranged the sheet covering Willy. "You going down just now was one time too many already. So you just stay right here. We’ll manage."

Willy blew out a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I guess you’re right." Noodle chuckled softly, placing the cold, wet cloth back on Willy’s forehead, before she rose to her feet. "I’ll come check on you as soon as I’m back." Willy hummed softly, but he was already halfway back to sleep. 

Even though he had a pounding headache and felt absolutely lousy, somehow the sounds of the washhouse in full effect around him calmed Willy. It reminded him he was amongst people who he trusted and cared about, and he knew they cared about him, too. Willy felt more miserable than ever, but the hands of sleep pulled at him. He focused on the comforting sounds around him, and before he knew it, Willy had fallen into a deep, healing sleep.

[doodle-pops]

Love Cures Anything

Beleg x human! reader

Request: Hi Mina! Hope you're having a lovely day today!!! Sending lots of hugs!!! If you're comfortable writing this I was hoping to possibly request some Beleg x reader! I was hoping for a fic where he takes care of reader who catches colds often and awkwardly asks him to help out! If this isn't comfortable or if you have too many requests already then I'm really sorry, I did look to see if you're requests are still open and what characters you're doing but I'm always just a little bit anxious that my stupid phone won't load the correct information... it's really old and I have the worst wifi in like all of Canada 😅 but first and foremost I want you to be comfortable and happy!!! And I just really like interacting with you! You're a lovely person with a beautiful mind and amazing ideas!!! Hugs!!! - @mcwentfandomtraveling

A/N: A little Beleg cures the soul and makes everything better. Enjoy!

Warnings: fluff, sick reader, vomiting, the whole shenanigans when ill, a surprise at the end

Word: 2.5k

Synopsis: When illness befalls during your anniversary with your beloved Marchwarden, you choose to avoid and evade him. However, he had plans to keep you at his side forever.

A violent sneeze shook your body and rattled your bones as you lay curled up in your small makeshift bed on the sofa. The groans signalled the quake your bones were experiencing from the roasting fever and vibrations from the endless shivers. Eyes teary, nose stuffed, sore throat, head pounding and nausea, you suffered the epitome of the flu on one of the worst days and weeks possible. It was your one-year anniversary with your beloved Beleg, and you were most pleased and excited to share a custom from your human traditions with him. He had no idea about celebrating anniversaries for courtships, so like you, he was ecstatic to celebrate a memorable milestone with you.

Crying out as tears flowed from your eyes at the pounding headache, you snuggled deeper into the blankets pile, hoping the softness would provide some relief. You felt the world spinning as the fire from within grew and the migraine increased. It didn’t matter what herbs or tea concoction you brewed; your pain wasn’t subsiding. The only thing you could do was to sleep it off and pray to whatever higher powers were responsible for healing to ease your discomfort, and you hope it would disappear today so you could meet with Beleg. It wasn’t every week the Chief Marchwarden got time off to return home and spend time with you— it was a blessing he got time off around your anniversary.

Shivering and shutting your eyes as the headache travelled from your temples to the forefront and settled in your sinus, you cried out, “Please, please, please, go away!” Your hands had risen to gently cup your head and rub your sinus while you chanted your mantra for it to disappear. “I ha-…have important things to do today…” you whined while slowly shifting in your spot to face the back of the couch. Over the past two days, you became a fruit bat and resented the light; you even threw up extra sheeting over the curtains to block out any that slipped through the cracks.

Though, your motion, no matter how gentle it was urged your headache to activate your nausea and prompted your stomach to churn. Forgetting that your head was thrashing and your body aching, you leapt off the sofa and bounded for the washroom. The horrid sounds of your stomach emptying echoed throughout the little hut you called home— it was home thanks to Beleg throwing it up for you upon your arrival and acceptance into Doriath. Your stomach heaved as you brought up all the contents you had consumed since the day started until there was nothing left and your throat became sore. You were vomiting air, coughing and choking at the same time with the inclusion of the nauseating headache searing. If only you could remove your brain and rest it down for the entire duration and not have to deal with the annoyance it brought.

“Dammit! Ah— would you just stop hurting for one minute?” you swore.

Silence fell when you ceased your last heave and shut the pail's lid. Squatting beside the bucket, your head drooped against the cupboard door in agony. The distance sound of the birds singing and squawking, folks passing in front of your house, metal clanging and wood being sawed sounded like an alarm blaring beside your head. Even the bothersome knocking against your front door followed by the call of your name sounded like it was near your ear. Wait, knocking? Your name? …Beleg!

His voice was muffled by the mahogany but still seeped through the cracks like sweet music to your ear. Immediately, your pain and worries slipped away, and warmth enveloped your body. Alternating your inelegant body through the house and fighting to arrive at the door in one piece, you fumbled with every structure for stability. Pulling the blankets around your frail body, terrified that when the door was opened, the chilliness of the air would send you into a frenzy. You were saying a solemn prayer from the washroom to the front door, “Dear whoever-is-in-charge-of-removing-this-flu-that-I’m-suffering, please do not let the wind knock me down.”

Arriving at the door at last, the final knock resounded before you coughed a calm down which caught the attention of your eager lover on the other side. Reaching for the knob, you cringed at the coldness before using all your strength to twist the knob and crack the door open just a few inches. Refusing to show your face, you spoke from the shadows, “…mae govannen meleth-nîn.”

You were met with silence on the other end. Beleg stood quietly as he analysed your voice, it wasn’t normal as far as he understood, and it wasn’t…right. Blinking a few times, he readjusted his posture and shuffled lightly on his feet before placing his right hand on the door and giving it a gentle push, calling out to you, “Meleth? Is everything alright with you? If something is wrong, you know you can inform me, I wouldn’t judge?” Attempting to apply more pressure against the door to widen and allow him to slip in, you shouted out at him to stop.

“Wait!” your throat burned at the exclamation, forcing you to cough before resuming, “I’m…I’m fine, just a little…” but you never finished your words as a sneeze snuck up and sent your body stumbling backwards, leaving the door unguarded for him to make entry.

Standing tall and vigilant, he scoped the room for any signs of threat while shutting the door without a hint that it was closed. Eyes falling on your mountain of blankets, loose rags on the floor and haphazardly thrown sheets over the curtain, he turned to glance at you in the furthest corner of the room holding your head. Unwell. Hanging his head with a shake, he removed his boots and placed the bouquet of carnations and lilacs on the table before strolling over to embrace your shaking figure. “Meleth,” he quietly chastised in his motherly tone, “why didn’t you tell me you were unwell?”

Unable to answer, you nuzzled into his chest and found comfort in his presence as the pain alleviated. All the slow creep in your sinus and temples were retracting and your aching bones were lighter. You had heard and experienced the wonders of elvish medicine before, but this was an entirely different form of treatment you were beyond fortunate to experience. Softly whining a series of unfathomable words, he still understood what you were attempting to project and did not hesitate to reach down and lift your body. Walking you over to your bedroom, he cautiously carried you as though you were a baby and delicately placed you onto the bed. With a quick fix and tidy, he adjusted your body to lay among a fortress of pillows and blankets.

Within half an hour of his arrival, Beleg tidied up your house and made a fresh batch of herbal tea and soup. Sitting on the edge of the bed with your body propped against the headboard, a spoon or flavoured water and vegetables were being held to your mouth. “I’m not hungry Beleg,” you croaked.

“Not buying it, your stomach is singing right now…and it’s not happy songs. Now open…say ah,” he counterreplies with a snicker.

Feeling like a child, it didn’t matter how much you fought against his command, you ended up obliging with a scoff and a roll of your eyes before opening your mouth. The moment the liquid touched your tongue it had no taste; your buds weren’t picking up any flavour at all. Rearing your head back to stare flabbergasted at your lover, your frowned, “Um…did you forget to add salt, or herbs to season the soup?”

“What do you mean? I added more than five different herbs including thyme and rosemary,” lifting the spoon to his mouth to sample, he nodded once the flavours hit his buds, “hmm, there’s flavour. Maybe your taste buds aren’t working right now…with the fever and all.” Still lifting the spoon with a fresh batch of soup and veggies, he brought it to your mouth for you to consume.

Making a face at the tasteless food, your appetite wasn’t kicking in the direction to consume anything, but the melody your stomach was playing took away your will to refuse. You were left to close your eyes and silently eat his hearty meal with much gusto. With every spoonful, you were hoping to taste at least a bit of salt to kickstart your taste buds, but all you did was devour bland food much to your disappointment. Though, as bland as it was, you still managed to sense the love and dedication behind the preparation of your meal. It was just like everything he did, with utmost care and affection. Perhaps you understood why his presence affected you to the extremities from the simplest action to the most ostentatious. Beleg was a simpleton elf, and yet everything he did in his power when it came to you was miraculous and extraordinary. This little moment shared between you both was a core memory for you, just seeing how engrossed he is with caring for your little mortal self, brought images of your future.

It was impossible to imagine an elf falling in love with you despite your mortal status and being an old, wrinkled potato one day. Here he was showing that it didn’t bother him, not even your runny nose or vomit would make him run for the hills. He had seen and faced worse than something natural as your illness. To him, this was a joy; showing you indirectly that he would care for you until your last.

“You know, I’m grateful for you,” you squeezed out before inhaling deeply, “I don’t know what it is about you and your…presence, but you make me happy after all these m-months. Just being here with me, not judging or being scornful…just loving me.” You gave him your best thousand-watt smile at the end of your confession, even though you felt a dry cough creeping up your oesophagus. The tears were already blurring your sight from the sentimental gesture.

Bowl in hand and spoon frozen midway, Beleg was astonished. Many words had been exchanged between you both over the many twelve months gone by, but this was new and beautiful. You were grateful for having him in your life, and those were the best words anyone could be told in their entire existence. His emotions were everywhere all at once, he didn’t know if he were to cry or jump and kiss the moon or run around Doriath like an insane person. “What…made you say so? Not that I’m displeased, but more curious. I’ve never heard you express…so openly,” he questioned calmly with a loving smile and a light chuckle. It tinkered through the air and blessed your ear, filling you with love in your heart.

“…this that’s happening right now. It just feels so different from every other moment we’ve shared,” you shrugged with a nonchalant laugh, “makes me realise that you don’t have a problem seeing me as some old, wrinkly potato one day.”

Raising a brow at your words, his eyes never left yours as he reached over to the nightstand and placed the bowl and spoon down before turning to give you his full, undivided attention, “Who said I wouldn’t see you as an old, wrinkly potato?” his finger lifted to bop your cold nose, “you’re my potato.” He joked knowing how much you always complained about getting old and becoming unattractive before his eyes. Growing saggy and helpless, needing to depend on others, he understood how much it bothered you through your humour, but never to him.

Rolling your sore and reddened eyes at his forever and ongoing reply, you watched as Beleg excused himself from your bedside with a ‘dawn of realisation’ look upon his face and left your room. He was silent as he departed, leaving nothing for your ears to discover as he picked up the bouquet of flowers and returned. Standing in your doorway with the red roses behind his back, you observed as he cleared his throat with a hint of nervousness in his eyes. For the first time, you saw Beleg’s figure shake and tremble. Taking a deep breath, he ushered to stand again before your bedside.

“I know that this may seem sudden in your culture but not to mine…and I couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass when the moment is perfect, so here we go… From the day I met you, not a day went by where I didn’t spend every hour, minute and second thinking about every little thing you do— it brought joy to my life. I knew you were the one for me and your race never once hindered me from loving you. If anything, it made me love you more and there is nothing you can do to change how I feel about you…even if you turn into an old, wrinkled potato, you are still engraved into my mind, heart and soul. So here I ask you, my love,” he shuffled one foot forward and knelt before you, revealing the roses and silver ring decorated with small vines, “will you marry me?”

Silence settled in the room where a pin dropping could be heard. Your calculated breathing was the only sound heard as you processed his words and question. “…Are you being serious?” you asked breathlessly.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Your smile slowly crept onto your face from one end to the other before covering your entire aura, creating a glow that came once in a lifetime. A light that represented unconditional joy, love and mutual support. He was typically sneaky when it came to impressing you with elvish traditions or culture on your dates, but this was the last act you envisioned he would whip out on a day like today, let alone while you were unwell.

Unable to contain the happiness of a thousand suns radiating from within, you ignored any aches your body produced and threw yourself into the arms of your patiently awaiting beloved. He caught you with ease but allowed himself to tumble back onto the floor for dramatic effect. Your voice chirped in his ear, screaming yes enthusiastically hundreds of times over and over again. Your shorter limbs were snaked around his body, holding him hostage to your physical affections of kisses and deadly hugs, but Beleg recognised no pain or discomfort. In fact, there was no longer pain and discomfort within your aching joints. His actions were enough to dissipate your illness.

“You have no idea how happy you’ve made me. My original plan was to propose by the waterfall, but you got sick, and I didn’t want the opportunity to be missed,” he chuckled before leaning down to plant kisses across your forehead, leading down to your lips.

“You are too sweet meleth,” you cooed as you leaned in to nuzzle his nose.

“As are you…bess,” he replied with a dazzling grin at the new title you would soon-to-be addressed as.

“Well, I hope you know I’m no longer feeling unwell. My body is no longer aching, so we can do something to celebrate,” you beamed as you pulled away from his lips and fought the urge to suppress a cough, but he saw right through it.

“Hmm, I agree, we should do something…like staying indoors and cuddling because you’re still unwell. Now back in bed sicky,” he commanded while he snatched your body in his arms, bridal style, and carried you back to bed.

“Put me down, I am not sick!”

“Your dry cough and runny nose say otherwise.”

“That’s rude!”

Masterlist

Taglist: @eunoiaastralwings @noldorinpainter @ranhanabi777 @spidergirla5 @lilmelily @someoneinthestars @mysticmoomin @aconstructofamind @starborne0661 @floraroselaughter @singleteapot @the-phantom-of-arda @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @ilu-stripes @justellie17 @justjane

[matsmurdock]

obligatory sick fic

Hi again, today I come to you with a sick fic!

You can also find this fic on my ao3 <3 Enjoy!

Words: 1051

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Female reader

credits for the picture: murdocklovebot on twitter

The first thing you felt when you woke up was how gross and clammy you felt. It was apparently early morning, your alarm hadn’t even rung yet, so you were annoyed by that too. You moaned when you tried to turn around to face Matt but realized your entire body ached, the sheet was sticking to you body and you felt cold because of the dry sweat. You saw Matt starting to wake up but couldn’t keep your eyes open because of how tired you were.

“Good morning” Matt said, leaning in to kiss your forehead, that made you moan again because it felt like your body would break just from the featherlight kiss. “God, you’re burning up sweetheart” Matt whispered.

“No, I’m cold” you mumbled in the cover.

“I think you might be running a fever, you’re very sticky” Matt said brushing your hair out of your face. “I’m going to get you some water and Tylenol.” You mumbled a thank you as he got up and left to go fetch you a glass of water in the kitchen.

You felt as though your brain was trying to escape through the front of your face with how much it was aching. You reached for your phone to look at the time and groaned when you saw that it was nearly time for you to get up and start working, you tried sitting up in bed, but felt what little energy you had drain out of you. You heard Matt coming back from the kitchen, and went to get up from the side of the bed when you heard him exclaim his disagreement.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked coming towards you, “You shouldn’t be moving right now.” He laid the glass of water of the side table and pushed you back down on the bed. Everything started spinning, so you welcomed the comfort of the bed under you.

“I have work soon.”

“I’ll send them an e-mail or something, you’re not getting up until your fever’s down”, he said, reaching for the glass and helping you take your Tylenol pill.

“I’ll be fine, this is going to help thank you.” He shook his head. “I’ll take a vitamin tablet too and I’ll be alright in no time I think I’m just tired but I’ll be fine Matty.”

“Either you’re staying in bed or I’m calling Claire”, he threatened.

“I haven’t seen her in a long time, maybe we’ll drink coffee together and make you look like a clown because I’m just having a slow morning.”

“I think you caught Peter’s flu, and you saw how sick he was” Matt said, rubbing his finger up and down your arm. “I don’t want you to be that sick if we can avoid it.”

“It won’t be that bad” you tried, but knew it wouldn’t work. “Maybe I can just work from the bed.”

“You’re not going to work at all, you need to sleep this off.” Matt said. “I’m going to call Foggy and tell him I’ll be working on my cases from home.”

“You don’t have to stay home for me, I can manage.”

“I don’t trust you to take care of yourself, actually.” And ouch, that kind of hurt but you knew he wasn’t wrong. “Y/n, please let me take care of you today. If you feel better tomorrow, then we’ll see about work.”

You thought about it and how anxious it made you to miss work. You had never missed work; you even went to work on a sprained ankle one day to spare yourself the stress and trouble it would entail. Part of the reason why you never missed work was because you knew your boss was a hardass when it came to sick days. But to be fair, it was probably irresponsible to work when you were this sick. The room wouldn’t stop spinning, so you didn’t even know how you’d manage to write emails all day long. You could try for a half day, but you knew Matt would sooner call your boss and let them know how he felt about this than let you do it. You sighed. “Okay, yeah, let me just send an email.”

“I can do it for you.”

“Matt, please.”

“I’ll get you your laptop but then you’re going back to sleep.”

He went back to the living room to get your laptop from the little desk area you’d arranged for yourself after Matt once again forced you to, because you didn’t want him to think you were taking over his own space. He’d shut that shit down so fast you didn’t even have time to blink before he moved some of his stuff over to make room for yours. He got you your laptop, you sent an apologetic email to you HR telling them you had the flu and would be up and at it again tomorrow, but until then you were on forced bed rest. You were so tired that you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel bad about it for now, only thinking about the nap you were going to take as soon as you were done with this. You closed your laptop again and put it on your side table. You put your head back on your pillow and wrapped yourself in the duvet cover. Matt kissed your forehead before going to fill up your glass again. A whine escaped your lips without your consent when he made to leave, he stopped in his tracks.

“Do you need something, what’s wrong?” he asked, a frown between his eyebrows.

“Can you stay with me for now?” you asked, feeling shy suddenly. This was humiliating. You hated being sick because it made you feel and act like a helpless child. “I’m cold and I’m sleepy” you continued, feeling small and keeping your eyes closed to not face Matt’s judging face.

“Oh sweetheart,” you heard him say, and you opened your eyes again. He was coming to sit next to you, his hand coming to brush your hair. “Of course I’ll stay with you.” You thanked you and took his hand to hold it. You turned a little to face him, still holding his hand and before you knew it you were drifting of to sleep.

Thank you for reading, hope you liked it!!

[mad4turtles]

For fic requests maybe a donnie sickfic? Hurt comfort the beloved.. (Also i love your writing!)

Oh, I do Love a good sickfic! Sorry, this took so long, life has been kicking my ass :( But I hope you enjoy it!

---

Donnie hates getting sick.

Really, though, no one would or should enjoy feeling like their insides are melting, their brains turned to slush or their noses constantly blocked (it's worse when it's one nostril first and then the other one, God.) But Donnie thinks, in his humbly correct opinion, he's wholly justified in his immense dislike of being sick. And it's not just due to the aforementioned reasons. But the actuality is far too... icky, gooey emotional to think too hard about for too long, even if it always pops back around, unbidden and unwanted. He prefers logic over the pile of irrational insecurities that linger in the back of his brain, collecting metaphorical dust. 

The actuality is that whenever Donnie gets sick, he gets really sick. 

Second to Leo, Donnie's immune system has always been bogus. Whenever a bug went around, Donnie was the first to get it, and it hit him like a bus. He'd be out of commission for days until his system finally purged the parasite, letting it spread to the brothers and father who'd hovered over him the entire time despite his protests.

And this leads nicely to the other issue that arises whenever nature decides to screw him: his family will not leave him alone. Ever.

He knows he's not the strongest of his brothers. That title, of course, goes to Raph easily, no question. But that doesn't make him weak. Just like his neurodivergent traits make him different, but no less a person and never a burden (in Dad's words, which, heart clench). Or how his soft shell makes him vulnerable in a fight but also Leo's favourite pillow on nights when it's impossible to sleep. They're all things his family have learned to work with or around to make Donnie's life somewhat easier. He's grateful for it.

All of that goes out the metaphorical bloody window the moment Donnie gets a case of the sniffles. And Raph is by far the worst for it, an all-around mother hen on a good day and a goddamn vulture of virtue during flu season. Except for Rat Flu, then it's every turtle for himself.

So this time around, Donnie deigns to keep this whole situation as far away from Raph's overprotective radar as possible.

Except this time, they've just survived an actual alien invasion by the skin of their teeth. And Donnie's got a raging fever that's higher than anything he's ever had in all his sixteen years alive. Apparently, one does not simply walk away from merging with the central system of a spaceship without bruises, scars and a virus that attacks his body with the proficiency of Dr Delicate Touch yeeting a whole-ass building with his bare hands. Which... actually happened, holy hell.

But they have more important things to worry about in the aftermath of the almost-apocalypse—namely ensuring Raph doesn't go blind in his right eye, or that Mikey's hands aren't forever marred by tearing a hole through reality, or that Leo doesn't die in his sleep.

So Donnie does what does best: he gets to work and ignores the pleas and cries of his aching body. He tends to Leo as he sleeps his injuries off. He dodges Raph's worried gazes like it's an Olympic sport and he's going for gold. He evades Mikey's gentle prodding like he does his responsibilities. 

He's dizzy, itchy and all around just one big green and purple mass of overstimulation, mucus and pain, but he gets away with it.

Or he would have if it weren't for Casey being a snitch.

It's the fifth day after—well, after, and Donnie is hanging by a thread and pure spite. It's all he can do to pry his eyes open, everything sore and just plain awful in a way it's never been the last time he'd gotten ill, his body slumped at an uncomfortable angle over his desk. He forgot to take his battle shell off again, so now his back hurts on top of everything else.

It's worse than Rat Flu, worse than anything, and his shell hurts so bad he feels like crying. He's too tired for that.

So he settles for something simpler. He lies on his bed and lets nature take its due course. Surely, death is a mercy at this juncture.

But the universe has other plans and sends in Casey Jr to intervene.

Future Boy is doing his rounds, hopping between rooms to check up on everyone as Nardo sleeps in the med bay. It's really the one time during the day that Casey isn't glued to the slider's side, which is as endearing as it is exasperating. Donnie has done the math, and math doesn't lie. Leo is going to live. He'll be okay. And if the math is lying, Donnie will beat it raw until it tells the only truth that matters to him.

“Master Donatello, as funny as it is to listen to you wanting to beat maths to death, I'm legally required to ask if you're okay.”

Oh. Donnie cranes his sore neck to find Casey standing behind him. He blinks slowly. Had he said all that out loud?

“Yes, you did,” Casey smiles like this is nothing new to him. It probably isn't. “You missed breakfast, and Raphael asked me to come to find you in case you, erm... were dead? I can't tell if that was supposed to be a joke.”

Oh frick. His ruse. It's slipping. Better catch it before it falls off the metaphorical cliff and lands him in the biggest pile of metaphorical shit. 

Donnie sits up and immediately regrets it, his spine seizing with the rest of him in agony, but he channels his inner Leo and plasters a smirk onto his face, spinning in his chair to face Casey. “Have no fear, Donatello is here. I am very much in one piece, as you can see, and very much undead—no, wait, not dead. I'm—I'm good.” Nailed it.

Casey doesn't look convinced. Phooey. “Are you sure? You look pretty beat. I mean, it's expected given the circumstances, but...”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm good,” Donnie scrubs a trembling hand over his eyes. It does nothing to dull the stinging behind them or banish the spots dancing across his vision. That's new. “I... I may have overslept, but alas, schedules have no meaning after the world literally nearly broke. Like our table—y'know, like the meme?” He snickers. “Has Mikey introduced you to memes yet, or—wait, did you have memes in the future? Jeezy creezy, can't imagine what kind of dark humour manifested in that timeline—also, time is relative according to Einstein, so really, maybe I didn't miss breakfast, maybe breakfast missed me—”

Casey puts his hands on Donnie's shoulders, steadying him as he lists too far to the right and nearly falls off his chair. The touch, for once, doesn't burn or make his skin itch with wrongness—Casey's palms are a balm for Donnie's frayed nerves. But he keeps himself from leaning into it as the boy pins him with an unreadable look.

“Donnie, please don't take this the wrong way,” Casey says with a disarming smile. “But what the actual, genuine hell are you talking about?”

Donnie stares at Casey, blinks slowly through the pain, and says, “you have pretty eyelashes.”

“... what?”

“And your nose. 's a good nose. Good for sniffin'. You sniff out all the bullshit with that big ol' schnozz, don't cha, Jones?” He snickers again, and even to his own ears, he sounds drunk. “Bet that's why you can't—can't stand sitting near Nardo for too long, he's fulla bullshit—oh sweet Galileo your had is so coooold that feels nice—”

Casey presses one palm against Donnie's forehead and hisses through his teeth. “Donnie, you're burning up. Like really bad.”

Donnie leans into Casey's palm, chasing the coolness. He feels a grin stretch his beak, delirious as the rest of him, as his mouth runs like the damn wind. “M' bad to the bone, daddy,” he giggles, “you can't handle all this hot stuff, look at me. Y'looking? I hope not, actually, that'd be weird, like Leo's obsession with the bone guy and his skin brother. That shit is wild, lemme tell you. Leo's so freakin' weird, fully bonkers, but I love 'im anyway—“

“I'm not kidding, you should not be this warm, not even for a regular—oh no.”

“Ah, that piss-talking son of a bitch, I miss 'im. I don't tell him that a lot... oh god. Leo could've died up there, 'n I didn't tell 'im I love 'im... ohhhh I'm such an asshole—”

“Donnie, your shoulders... is your shell hurting you? How long were you exposed to the Technodrome? How long have you been sick and not said anything? Donnie—oh shit!”

The world tilts, colours a gross mix of dull greys and purples, and Donnie's pretty sure he's on the floor. He feels so hot. And sweaty. And he's crying now. Gross.

“I love 'em all so much 'n I never say it, but feelings are hard,” he blubbers. Everything still hurts, but not quite as intense. Maybe that's a bad thing. It probably is. “I'm a bad—bad brother. I lie badly 'n I keep stupid secrets like bein' sick 'n dying but—but Leo, and Mikey's hands a-and Raph's eye, so like, what's it matter that my brain's melting or whatever when Lee nearly freakin' died—”

“Donnie, spirits help me you gotta stay awake, stay with me, please—Raphael! Donnie needs help—!”

He feels Raph's impossibly fast, lumbering footsteps shake the ground, and hears his choked voice call his name like a prayer. And then the world finally, finally, goes black.

~0o0~

'My mouth tastes funny', Donnie thinks when he finally crawls out from the sweet abyss of sleep.

It's a reluctant thing, but he's not mad about it. Nothing hurts, which is a nice surprise. His brain throbs, but it doesn't feel like he's melting or about to combust. His shell itches, but it doesn't hurt.

Huh.

There's something blessedly cool laid across his forehead, the rest of him bundled in something soft and smooth—his finger twitches—oh, his blanket. His special blanket from his special closet of special things for when the world sucks more than usual. Where did it come from? He doesn't remember getting it out.

Oh well. He snuggles deeper into it with a sigh, a drunken smile pulling at his lips. Donnie loves this blanket. He loves whatever heavy thing is draped over him from behind, squishing him tight enough that it's comfortable, like Raph's hugs. He loves Raph's hugs. He loves Raph.

“Purple? Are you with us?”

He also loves his Dad, like an embarrassing amount, and readily leans into the clawed palm that cups his feverish cheek. He doesn't open his eyes yet. Too much effort. “... D-ad?” he croaks and wow, is that his voice? Lordy.

He hears the smile and relief in Splinter's voice—“Yes, I'm here, my son. You gave us quite the scare.”

A cough rattles Donnie's chest and dry throat when he tries to speak again. Splinter carefully lifts Donnie's head from the pillow and brings a glass of water to his lips—beautiful, blessed water, how I have craved thee. Donnie drinks what he can as fast as he can without choking. Splinter chuckles, chiding without heat, “slowly, Purple.”

He takes the glass away, and Donnie smacks his lips. He frowns. “... teeth still taste like bees.”

There's a startled, familiar deep laugh behind him and Donnie jolts. Raph is here? Huh. That explains the weight, he supposes, and how the blanket got here. It's still odd because this is Donnie's bed, which is wedged against the far wall of his car, and Raph's too big to fit—

“You're not in your bed, Don,” Raph is still chuckling, exhaustion peeking through the cracks of fondness and relief.

Oh. He's talking out loud again. Lovely. “... where 'm I, then?” he murmurs.

“You're in my room. In my bed. With me.” Raph's voice darkens slightly. “Because I had to hear from Future Boy that you were too busy dyin' to come outta your lab for breakfast. Two days ago.”

Donnie's eyes snap open.

He sees that he is in Raph's room, wrapped from head to toe in his special purple blanket. He sees Splinter sitting on the edge of Raph's massive bed, which is just an oversized beanbag chair with blankets and pillows piled to the nines, his eyes crinkled by his tired smile. He looks over his bare shoulder (oh, his battle shell is gone, that explains the lack of pain) and sees Raph, his massive frame curled around Donnie's in a loose but protective embrace. He also sees that the smile on his brother's face doesn't reach his eyes at all.

Oh, Donnie thinks, I'm in the deepest of shit.

Raph takes a deep, deep breath through his nose, and Donnie wants to crawl into a pit. “Why,” he says slowly, patiently, his smile replaced with a frown half as deep as his chasm, “didn't you tell us.”

Now that his mind is more or less clear and agony-free, Donnie can list the plethora of reasons why he'd kept quiet: from the smothering and the mothering over the years over every little thing—his shell, his immune system, his 'functions'—to the part where, out of all his siblings, he'd come out of the invasion mostly unscathed. He could afford to ignore his needs over theirs and deal with the aftermath when it came. Once everything was fine and normal again.

But he looks into Raph's eyes—bloodshot, deep bags barely visible under his mask, damp with tear tracks—looks over at Splinter, whose fur is nearly matted and streaked with more grey than before, and finds that he can't. 

Donnie doesn't always understand emotions, not like Mikey does, or even Leo, when he's not busy being a nightmare and an asshole who Donnie inexplicably adores. He doesn't always get why people do the things they do. Emotions are wild, unpredictable, and scary—they lead people to do dumb things like lying, crying, screaming, and sacrificing themselves for their families without thinking about the consequences. Donnie prefers logic, facts, and stone-cold evidence because it's safe, makes sense the way the rest of the world sometimes just—doesn't, not to him.

But it's his love for his dum-dum brothers that made him neglect what his body logically needed to keep going. Made him ignore it. Because it made even more logical sense to look after his family first. Just like they take care of him. Even if they smother him, it's not on purpose. That's their logic. It makes sense to them to take care of Donnie that way. Because they love him.

Logic driven by emotion. The two can co-exist, after all. And Donnie is an idiot.

He shuffles in his blanket prison until he's facing Raph and buries his face under his big brother's chin. Raph twitches, perplexed. “Don—?”

“M'sorry,” Donnie mumbles. He shuts his eyes against burning tears. “Didn't... had to take care of you. Leo's hurt. Mikey's hands... your eye... didn't need me going down, too. You'd focus on me and I—I couldn't... I thought it was the logical course of action, keeping my mouth shut, making sure you dum-dums get better, but—”

He sniffs. Dammit.

“All I did was scare you more,” he admits, shame burning deep, scalding holes in his chest. “All I did was hurt. Now I'm here and, and you're here and D-Dad's here, and you're not with them and—I'm the dum-dum, I'm a burden, now, and I-I'm sorry—”

Raph all but hauls him into a shell-crushing hug, curling around him like a spiky shield against the world as Donnie falls apart. There's a rumble deep in Raph's chest that soothes Donnie immediately—an old trick he's used when they were small to help them sleep when Splinter was away. It doesn't stop the tears, but it helps.

“My son,” Splinter hops onto the bed behind Donnie, reaching to stroke his head, claws gently scratching his scales. “You are never a burden. Your health—your life—is just as important to us as your brothers'.” He chuckles. “You know, for someone so intelligent, the obvious often illudes you. And I'm sure we've just had this conversation with Blue.”

“Doesn't count,” Donnie mutters into Raph. “Leo nearly died—”

“And you could've, too, Don,” Raph says, and what? “Your fever was high as a kite, and your shell—dammit, Donnie, when you said the ship jacked you up, you didn't say how bad. You... you can't do that again. You can't—“ 

His voice cracks. Donnie's heart cracks with it.

He looks up and sees the tears leaking through Raph's closed eyelids, and he can't take it. He struggles out of Raph's grip--out of the special blanket that his big brother had made for him out of love and mother-henning that Donnie thought he loathed but wouldn't know what he'd do without-- and throws his arms around Raph's neck. Raph squeezes him back. It sends an uncomfortable jolt through the soft shell, but he doesn't care.

“Stop,” Donnie begs as tears trickle down his cheeks freely. “Stop that. Stop it.”

Raph sniffles. “Stop what?” he croaks.

“Crying,” Donnie hisses. “I hate it. I physically cannot handle watching you do that thing with your eyes anymore, I hate it, stop doing it.”

A pause. Then Raph is laughing, but he's still crying. “Can't help it, Dee,” he says, nuzzling Donnie's shoulder against his wet cheek. “When your little brothers pull too much stupid crap in a row, it makes me feel some kinda way.”

“Join the club,” Splinter mutters, not unkindly. Donnie feels his tail wrap around them. “We've got jackets and tissues.”

Donnie hugs Raph tighter. “If—If I promise not to do it again, will you stop crying?” It's a childish thing to ask but screw it. Screw logic, screw the Krang, screw this stupid bug, screw everything. “I swear henceforward to abstain from pulling any and all sacrificial, illogical or emotionally driven actions which could be detrimental to my health, yours or the fam's well-being, lest I must bare witness to your incredibly offensive emotional distress—”

“Donnie,” Raph is fully laughing now, bundling Donnie up as he sits them upright on the beanbag bed. Donnie draws back enough to see his watery grin. “I'm not asking for the Declaration of Independence. I want you to stop being a dum-dum and tell us what's up from now on. And I'll... I'll dial back on the smothering thing. I know I do it a lot...”

Donnie wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and shrugs. “Maybe. But I get it. That's how you function. That's how you love. That's... you. And I love you, so... don't change too much?” 

Raph stares. Splinter stares. Donnie cringes, his face hot in a way that has nothing to do with his fever. “No, wait, no, that was bad, no, sorry, that was yuck, can I get a do-over—oof! Aaaaand you're hugging me again. Cool cool cool. That's cool—oh, no, Raph, what did I just say about crying?!”

Donnie just catches Splinter's long-suffering mutter of “Boys,” over his screeching and Raph's laughter as the snapper doubles over with Donnie still in his arms.

Donnie doesn't go back to his lab (from which he is grounded for two days, these bastards) or his own room that night. They all camp out in the living room instead for a mandatory turtle pile, plus Casey and April, who support a limping Leo through from the med bay to join them. 

Donnie's twin looks at him and says, “you're an asshole, Dee.”

“Ey!” Raph scolds from where he's pinned under Mikey, the box turtle using him as a pillow.

Donnie meets Leo's glare and says, “it takes one to know one, asshole 2.0.”

Casey gives himself hiccups he laughs so hard, and April nearly drops Leo.

Donnie ends up squished in the middle of the pile, just like it always is whenever their resident (and only) genius gets a case of the sniffles. Except this time, it was worse, or it could have been. This time, Leo doesn't bother to ask permission to snuggle under the special blanket with Donnie because he doesn't need to. This time, Donnie doesn't complain about the smothering.

This time, Donnie falls asleep with a smile.

---

Reblogs are appreciated :3

Send more requests, I love writing these boys :)

[dontfeeltoohot]

Would honestly love a continuation of your first fic where they actually go out on a date/beginning of the relationship. Or if you’re going for something shorter I think a sick or allergic Steve would be precious. Just Eddie bringing in patients every few hours and he always comes up from the cafeteria with a cup of tea, a snack, or maybe some antihistamines for his bb

i have a LOT of sick nurse Steve requests, so here's something to hold you over!

XXX

Not entirely sure how Robin's roped him into night shift with her and Nancy for overtime; taking a whole day off away from him, Steve trudges into the ED freezing and exhausted. December in Hawkins has brought ice and slush and eventual snow, and, along with it, a pretty nasty strain of the flu. Even with the flu shot every year, the nurse still manages to catch it without fail sometime between November and January.

Navy scrubs on and a long sleeve grey thermal underneath, he heads to the nurses lounge, trailing his best friend. Steve's ninety percent sure he's got a fever, his body is aching, his throat's sore and he thinks if he closes his eyes for more than ten seconds he'll be out for the rest of the night. Rubbing his face as he dumps his bag into the assigned locker he's got, Steve goes to the coffee pot and grabs a disposable cup, pouring some into it and pouring creamer after. Fuck he's tired even just doing such a simple task.

"You sure you'll be ok tonight?" Robin looks at him with a furrowed brow.

He's aware he looks just as bad as he feels. His complexion is pale, his cheeks are slowly getting more and more red. That, combined with slightly dull eyes and an overall air of sickness, there's not really any way to deny he's sick.

"I'll be fine, Robin, just...hopefully it'll be a good night." The word 'quiet' is on the tip of his tongue but he refrains- anyone in the medical world knows not to say 'quiet' because all it will do is jinx the situation and make it forty times worse. Steve sighs and rubs his face, taking a sip of the coffee, wincing as it hurts his throat.

An hour into their 7pm-7am shift, Steve gets a silver lining through all the crap he's dealing with- Eddie Munson.

The paramedic walks in with his partner, both handling the stretcher, Chrissy at the head and Eddie at the foot. The teenager lying on his side seems to be in a great amount of pain. Steve's first instinct is to get up for intake but remembers Robin had volunteered earlier so he could mostly sit unless absolutely needed aside from rounds. He watches the long haired man pat the patients arm and then start walking towards him, Chrissy moving the stretcher into room 3.

"Well well, didn't expect to see my two favorite nurses here tonight," Eddie beams, and it makes Steve feel like of like a bowl of jello...or maybe that's because he's sick.

"Yeah, we took some overtime," Steve explains, wincing at how raspy his voice sounds.

Eddie must hear it too, because suddenly his bright smile falls, and his big brown doe eyes look Steve up and down.

"You sick, Harrington?"

"Uhh, just a little," the twenty six year old mumbles, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Sometimes he forgets Eddie and Chrissy work full twenty four hour shifts- hell, sometimes Eddie will do a 36 hour just to get overtime.

"A little?" Robin snorts, rolling her eyes when she walks back over, signing things on the iPad Chrissy is holding out. "Try a lot, Steve. You kind of look like a zombie."

"Hey! I do-"

"A very cute, nurse zombie," Eddie butts in, laughing. His aw furls fall into his face and he brushes them away lazily. "But seriously man, you look pretty sick. Take it easy tonight."

The way Eddie's voice drops a little quieter than usual makes Steve's heart clench. God he's got the stupidest crush on Eddie and he's never going to have a chance, not when Chrissy is right there, and they're both so beautiful. No, Eddie and Chrissy are obviously a thing, and it sucks. Brain hazy with fever, he looks between the two and huffs, coughing into his arm.

"We'll see you later," Chrissy informs, when Eddie's radio crackles to life again.

Around 11:30 PM, as Steve is finishing up making his rounds to check on the seven patient's they've currently got, an outstretched arm stops him. The arm in question has numerous random tattoo's all over it- Steve spots a few flowers, a jack'o'lantern, a heart with a dagger. Looking up finally, he's face to face with Eddie, who looks concerned. A hand goes to Steve's forehead.

"You weren't kidding princess, you should have called out, definitely have a fever."

Steve continues just to look up, eyes wide as he stares at Eddie unashamedly.

"Earth to Steve?"

Blinking, the nurse clears his throat and rubs his face.

"Sorry, I uh...zoned out." The hand on his forehead was nice, but Eddie's already dropped it now, looking far too worried for his own good.

"Yeah, seems like it. How're you feeling?"

"Like shit," Steve admits, knowing he can't pass it off anymore. Eddie looks genuinely concerned, and for once, the other doesn't feel like a burden.

"Alright killer, how about you ask the RN if you can take a ten minute break? I'll get you some tea from the cafeteria and maybe a muffin....you probably need some sugar."

"Tea sounds kind of nice," Steve admits, shivering. His cheeks feel too warm when he rubs his face.

"Alright, go at least sit down, I'll be back in five."

[achitka]

In Flew Enza

my-fan-side wrote:

The prompt is an Alma-Julieta sick fic. There’s some sort of flu out break in Encanto...

There was a little girl, and she had a little bird, And she called it by the pretty name of Enza; But one day it flew away, but it didn't go to stay, For when she raised the window, in-flu-Enza.

The town had come to a virtual standstill as parents spent the day waiting in the plaza for help from Señora Julieta Madrigal. After the first four children, Julieta knew she had an outbreak of the flu going on and immediately changed tactics. The stomach flu that started in the Encanto’s school had worked its way into most of the children in town. Thankfully none of them had been lost to the fevers. That at least she could help with. That and the body aches and help them sleep and regain their strength.

Isa and Dolores, neither of whom were still in school, had thankfully not gotten sick so they helped by making sure the youngest were brought to her first. So much vomit… Julieta spent most of the day reminding worried parents as she administered what help she could to wash their hands frequently. Keep the sick away from as many as they could. Feed them only small amounts of thin broth and her tea every four hours or so. The next day, a heavier broth and maybe an arepa. Let them sleep, but make sure the fever didn’t come back and if it did, send someone to her.

Julieta still chaffed at the knowledge she could not ‘heal’ a sickness like this with her Gift. It multiplied in the body too quickly. By the time someone knew they were sick, the fever and chills would have already started. It didn’t help that all of the younger Madrigal children had also gotten sick. Mirabel, Camilo and Luisa were all in the nursery together. Her mother insisted she help care her grandchildren, as many of the abuelas in town did. Julieta could not deny her or any of them that, she needed the help. As a consequence, a few of the older adults had also gotten sick, including her mother.

Bruno, who’d been helping with her kids, popped up in the plaza, looking completely stressed. Julieta worried it was because of one of the kids, instead she discovered he’d found their mother shivering with fever as she sat in the rocking chair near the window of the nursery. He’d already taken her to her room and Julieta looked at all the people still waiting and knew she could not leave. She made him one of the bundles, gave him her standard instructions and sent him home to deal with it.

Some hours later as the last of the townsfolk got what they needed, she sent Dolores to go check on her mother and father. Isabela, she sent to check on her sisters and cousin and give them all some broth and arepas she’d left for them.

Agustín helped her pack up her things and together they made their way back to Casita. Once home Julieta sat at the table, head resting on one of her hands, the other slowly stirring her coffee. She’d added a bit of chocolate to it and it smelled divine. The coffee wouldn’t really do much, she was way past overtired for that, but it tasted so good. Agustín sat across from her and she could see the worry written there. Neither had slept for a day and a half and he’d followed her like a ghost. Appearing whenever something needed to be moved or a specific herb was needed or bottling the tea she’d brewed. Only one ‘accident’ the entire time…Julieta tapped the wooden table with her finger tips five times after putting down her spoon. No need to tempt it.

There was the sound of thunder from upstairs and Julieta smiled. She’d banished Pepa to her rooms with only Félix allowed to come and go. She was heavily pregnant and a flu at this point would be the worst thing possible for her and the baby. Félix followed every one of her instructions, bearing the brunt of Pepa’s displeasure at not being able to see to Camilo herself but so far, so good. Agustín smiled as she again tapped the table five times. Julieta smiled as well.

As if called by the wood tapping, Bruno came in and poured himself a coffee and took a long drink.

“How’s Mamá?” Julieta asked and took a long sip of her drink.

“Sleeping now,” Bruno said as he twisted and rolled his shoulders.

“Fever?” she asked.

“She seems very restless, so probably.”

“Alright, I’ll check on her-”

“You will eat some food, Julieta.” Agustín interrupted.

She nodded. She’d poured a great deal of herself, maybe too much, into today. She never talked to anyone but Agustín about what she felt as she used her gift. Or maybe as Bruno believed how her Gift used her. As she got older, she learned to micro manage her strength as it left her and went into the foods she used. Never too much and hopefully never too little. The consequences of her decisions affecting the whole of the community.

Agustín was taking out some pans and ingredients, she was mildly curious what he would make with the boiled eggs and salsa he set on the counter. That and she really was too tired to try and stop him. Félix walked in and stopped. He sighed and came around her worktable as Agustín was getting ready to make…something and said, “Gus, whatever you are doing, stop doing it. I’ll make some food. Pepa is demanding mushrooms con queso,” he said with a shudder, “and there ain’t room enough in here for the both of us.”

Julieta watched them fondly as Félix flipped a coin. Her head still on her hand, stirring her now not so hot coffee. Bruno was next to her now with the coffee pot he’d brought over, now patting her on the back with his free hand. “Warm up?”

She smiled and nodded. Bruno filled her half empty cup. She dropped another piece of sweetened chocolate into it, and Bruno whispered, “It’s double headed.”

“Ha!” Félix said as he quickly stuffed the coin back into his pocket, “Heads again.”

Agustín relented then and stood near Julieta.

“Félix, I’ll be up in Mamá’s room,” she said as she got up from the table. Agustín was never good at hiding his irritation. “I promise not to use it, I just need to see to Mamá.” He nodded somewhat curtly as he put his arm around her to help her.

“I’ll bring you a tray,” Félix said, obviously worried as she wavered slightly when she stood up.

“Thanks, Félix,” Agustín said.  

Julieta pulled a chair closer to the bed and replaced the damp towel on her mother’s head. Gently pushing the sweaty silver hairs from her mother face. Julieta was caught up in a memory of the last time something like this happened. She had been so woefully unprepared. So many sick people, her twelve-year-old self was completely overwhelmed. Discovering the limits of what her Gift could do at the worst possible time. Her mother had gotten sick that time as well.

After spending half a day trying to help and failing miserably, her mother came to her after rounding up Pepa and Bruno. “Do you need help, Juli?”

While she wanted to say no, she could handle it herself, the crying children had stomped on her pride flat. She could not help them, and it was killing her inside. “Yes, please,” she said in a defeated tone looking at her wasted morning labors with sadness. “Mamá, I don’t know how to help them. My Gift doesn’t seem to be working for this.”

Her mother nodded and turned to her brother, “Bruno, go and fetch Señor Jose, the fisherman who lives near the river. Let him know your sister needs his special help. Say it just like that, okay?” Bruno nodded and took off at full speed, dodging through the crowd as if someone was chasing him. Pepa’s cloud looked fit to burst and her mother said, “Pepa, me vida, can you fetch the basket I left on the table in Casita?”

“Yes, Mamá,” and she too took off running.

Her mother sat then on an upturned box and waived her closer. She pulled Juli into her lap and said “Chin up, Corazón, you are doing your best.”

Julieta did not agree, she should be able to do this and then a terrible thought brought her to tears, “What if they die, Mamá?” Julieta whispered, “it will all be my fault.”

“No, no, no, don’t think like that. Help is coming.” Her mother rocked a little to try and ease her growing fear but Julieta wondered what sort of help the old fisherman could give. She needed another healer not fish. Bruno returned, out of breath with Jose close behind. He looked out at the people in the plaza and returned his attention to her mother.

“Alma, what’s going on?”

“Julieta’s Gift does not appear to be useful against something like the flu,” she said it in such a matter-of-fact way. Jose nodded and saw the various items on the table seeming to dismiss most. He gently tipped the basket of blueberries and then looked at the people gathered. He knelt down and once he got Julieta to look at him, he asked, “Señorita, do you have any peppermint leaves?”

Julieta mentally checked her apron. She thought she’d picked some yesterday. She wasn’t sure if she taken it out of her pockets yet. Curiosity displaced her fear and she stood up and began to check. She found it and offered them up to Señor Jose.

He took them and turned to her mother saying, “Alma, we’re going to need some hot water and as many small bowls as you can find.”

Her mother only nodded and wrapping her shawl tighter around her, called to Bruno as she headed toward the shops. The people nearest were whispering furiously, but Julieta ignored them and went with Señor Jose as he picked up a bucket and walked her to the river just behind some of the houses near the plaza. He pulled a small bar of soap from his shirt pocket and said, “Okay, Julieta, first we wash our hands.”

From there he showed her how to make a mixture of the blueberries and peppermint. This would help the people with the fevers and aches they were experiencing. More smaller baskets of blueberries were dropped off and piles of peppermint leaves seemed to appear from nowhere. Julieta standing on a box took in all his instructions and was fully absorbed in what he was telling her. As she mashed and steeped, steeped and mashed, she felt her Gift pushing into the mixture. With Señor Jose’s help and guidance, she would help these people. She worked quickly to make enough of the stuff to give to everyone. She handed off the last bowl, smiled, and finally relaxed.

Julieta did not have a clear memory of what happened next. She was told by Bruno and Pepa that she’d collapsed and had barely missed smacking her head on the pavement. That had only happened once before. When she’d over used her Gift and drained herself to near exhaustion. Señor Jose had brought her back to Casita and sat with her until the next day when she woke up with a raging headache. He had her take a small pill he explained would help with that. He put three more on the bed stand and told her those should only be taken one at a time and always at least five hours apart.

She thanked him again for his help and asked if she could see her mother. She was told that she’d also come down with the flu and it would be best to wait until later to see her. He also admonished her for not letting him know she was nearing her limit. Reminding her that she could not help others if she was unconscious. Señor Jose got up to leave and Julieta said in a rush, “Wait, Señor…” He turned back to face her and she said, “Señor, can you teach me more. I mean more remedies and maybe how to better tell what’s wrong with someone? I don’t ever want to repeat what happened yesterday.”

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment and said, “It would be my honor Señorita Madrigal. For now, no healing anyone until you get some food in you and some sleep. We can discuss it tomorrow.” He picked up his hat then and walked downstairs. Casita open the front door for him and he left.

Thankfully that outbreak had been relatively small and most recovered quickly. Her mother however was bedridden for several days and Julieta hovered over her at all hours. Señor Jose stopped in everyday to check on her and Pepa and Bruno helped by bringing food as they too stalked around Casita.

The town council members stopped by one by one to make sure the triplets were well, sometimes staying to talk to their mother for a while. Always ending the conversation by asking when the children would be available to work. Their mother’s guilt was plainly written on her face and this made Bruno especially angry.

No one slept in their rooms, opting instead to sleep on the floor in their mother’s room. On the tenth day, Julieta woke to the sounds and smells of someone cooking. She saw her mother was not in her bed, nudged her siblings and all three rushed into the kitchen.

Their mother was putting the last of the food she’d made on the table and said smiling, “Come, come my babies and eat.” Bruno, as always, was the first to reach her as all three wrapped their arms around her and hugged her furiously. They stayed like that for a while until their mother started to disentangle them saying, “Let’s go, let’s go. To the table.” 

Julieta was pulled out of her ruminations by the sound of a tray being set on the table nearby. Bruno looked tired and she was about to say so, when Bruno asked, “Have you eaten anything?”

She shook her head and said, “I’m not really hungry, but I think we’re past the worst of it,” she said replacing the towel. “Tomorrow should be better. I was just thinking where I would start as far as checking on the children in town.”

Bruno came and sat on the floor in front of her and said, “And what magic is going to keep you upright? Or were you planning on having us carry you about on a litter while you do all this.”

“I’m fine Bruno,” her stomach chose that moment to protest her lack of food and Bruno said mimicking her way of speaking to unwilling patients, “Julieta Madrigal, you need to eat.”

“And you need to sleep,” she countered. “Don’t change the subject, woman. Eat…God help us all if you get sick too.” 

How she wished that statement wasn’t true. She nodded, got up and sat near the table. “Where’s Agustin?”  

“Lulu wanted her Papa. It’s why I came over here. Very insistent.”

Whatever was under the cloth cover did smell delicious and she snatched the towel back with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. Picking up the fork she ate a few bites of the eggs and mushrooms before sipping the tea. Félix had added some chili pepper flakes, so it had a nice kick to it. She picked up a strawberry from the plate and popped it in her mouth. She continued eating while watching Bruno attend to their mother and before she knew it her plate was empty.  Bruno looked over then and gave her smile. “Now go sleep, I can handle this ‘til morning,” he said making a shooing motion with his hands when she got up. She opened her mouth to protest, and Bruno said, “All your talking is going to wake Mamá.” Julieta would have pointed out that she’d said nothing since sitting down to eat but arguing with Bruno when he was right, tended to be a losing proposition. Agustín reappeared, quiet as ever and put a hand on her shoulder, and she said “Good night, Bruno. Come get me if you need me.” Bruno shooed her again as he nodded, and Julieta left the room with her husband.

Agustín opened the door to their room and Julieta sighed as she sat on the sofa near the door and asked, “Lulu get back to sleep?”

 “Yes,” Agustín said sitting next to her as he put an arm around her and pulled her close. “Everything will work out mi vida, you did well, just as you always do.” 

Julieta smiled then thinking of the many hours Señor Jose Garza, who was actually a doctor before coming to the Encanto, spent teaching her what he could of his craft. Before he passed, he’d gifted her all of his medical books and the journals he wrote describing many of the useful plants around the Encanto. She knew she’d never had made it through without the knowledge he’d given her. From what she’d seen before she left her mother’s room, she knew her mother would recover fairly quickly this time. 

The next day she went to the Encanto’s small graveyard and stood before a grave that was further from the rest. The headstone was a little mossy as it tended to be this time of year. She came her every month to clean it up and brought Isa with her this time. She really wanted to dress things up.

Isa was not quite focused on where she was but said, “You know Mamá, I saw this one orchid in forest…and since were right here…by the forest.” 

Julieta could tell her daughter was itching to try it so she said, “That sounds perfect Isa.” Isa did and Julieta hugged her as they bent down to admire the Tiny white orchids with pink and purple spots, “These are so beautiful Isabela, Thank you.”

She stood and brushed a leaf off the headstone and said, “Thank you Señor, you are still missed and I will be forever in your debt.”

[bornbreathless-archive]

@overyourhubris from x

THE  MOST  PREDICTABLE  and  agonizing  event  in  any  punished  immortal's  life  was  their  assessment  year.  Every  seven  years,  like  clockwork,  the  immortal's  body  collapsed  and  descended  to  the  periphery  of  lifelessness,  just  at  the  edge  where  they  were  not  quite  dead,  but  also  not  quite  alive.  From  there,  they  met  with  a  messenger  of  the  Fates  who  recited  the  Moirai's  examination  results  to  determine  whether  the  immortal  learned  their  lesson  and  deserved  to  have  their  punishment  rescinded,  or  if  they  would  restart  another  seven  years.

Except  this  examination  was  rigged.  Every  immortal  knew  this,  even  the  ones  who  were  not  punished.  That  was  the  whole  point;  immortality  was  the  punishment,  and  being  toyed  with  by  gods  and  beasts  and  past  memories  was  just  part  of  their  sentence.  Only  few  have  bypassed  the  Fates  and  their  retribution.  No  one  was  surprised  when  they  themselves  were  thrown  back  to  their  body.

And  after  being  on  the  fringe  of  expiration,  this  caused  some  temporary  physical  afflictions.  Achilles  was  debilitated  and  sick,  an  aching  flu  that  seemed  to  last  longer  than  usual.  His  head  was  a  storm,  dizzied  by  how  deeply  the  Moirai  sunk  beneath  his  skin  this  time,  right  down  to  the  bitter  bones  and  made  a  meal  of  him.  You  are  selfish,  they  said,  and  self-righteous.  Cavalier  and  reckless.  Dirt  beneath  the  feet  of  the  gods.  His  mother  would  have  worse  to  say,  he  feared.  And  while  he  expected  harassment  from  Char  after  he  told  her  what  happened,  maybe  even  a  "What's  it  like  to  be  absolute  dirt?"  what  she  said  next  left  him  stunned.

@bornbreathless  :    ❝  i’m  going  to  tell  you  this,    once,   because  i  think  you  need  to  hear  it.    you  deserve  more.    you  should  expect  more  from  the  world  and  put  in  the  work  to  get  what  you  deserve.  ❞

Maybe  she  said  this  because  his  eyes  were  still  bloodshot,  cheeks  raw  from  panic.  Maybe  she  really  meant  it.  It  was  hard  to  tell.  His  fever  was  still  high,  and  focusing  meant  keeping  your  eyes  open,  and  keeping  your  eyes  open  meant  another  migraine.  But  keeping  your  eyes  closed  meant  more  terror,  so  he  had  no  choice  but  to  exist   awake.

"I  am  not  in  the  world's  favor,"  he  murmured  with  a  humorless  grin,  voice  rasping  after  so  much  screaming.  "I  no  longer  have  any  say  in  what  I  deserve  or  what  I  should  expect.  THAT  IS  THE  POINT."

As much as she enjoys their usual back-and-forth, a relationship that would more easily be described as frenemies than anything else, even Char can feel that this is far from the time for even the most gentle of antagonism. Achilles looks terrible, if she didn’t know any better she might think he was dying. She doesn’t like to see him like this.

Which is why she’s fairly pointedly pottering about in the kitchen as he tells her what’s going on. She’s an awful cook, but even she can’t fuck up tinned soup too badly, leaving it to bubble away on the stove as she makes coffee. Pauses for a second before adding a generous slosh of whiskey to the mug and setting it down in front of Achilles. He can drink it or not, same as the soup, it’s entirely up to him; the option is there. She knows that he probably still doesn’t entirely trust her, but that doesn’t keep her from wanting him to be okay. A tenderness usually reserved for the dark hours when one or both of them has screamed themselves awake, now given temporary lead.

Head tilts to the side as she listens to his answer, before her face screws up. “Who gives a shit what the world has to say about it? The world is full of fucking idiots who’d forget to blink if they had to think about it, I’m pretty sure you’re more qualified to decide what you deserve than they are.”

Char returns to the stove just as the soup begins to bubble over, stirs it through a few times before pouring it into a bowl which is set down beside the coffee. It’s now that she allows just a hint of that typical self-satisfied grin to curve her lips. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure I count as part of the world, and you’re in my favour. That’s probably good enough.”

[realistically-shifting]

Where I’m waking up - Orion

I’ve been traveling with Hana for roughly two years since the start of the apocalypse. She’s extremely smart, quiet, and she mostly follows my rules. We’ve managed to keep our secret hidden, our immunity and her ability to give it. I recently caught a nasty infection and the fever put me out of commission for a few days. My healing factor helped by turning what would’ve been deadly to a three or four day flu.

To make things easy; After getting sick, I managed to find an empty cargo yacht docked near the city we were in. Delirious from the fever and food insecurity, I was conscious enough to make sure I brought her to an empty, comfortable room that had a locking door where she would be safe while I recovered. I was not conscious enough to realize that the well-kept ship was obviously owned by someone. Remus.

Remus found me and Hana and took us back to his island, waiting for me to get better after barely managing to get me to take medicine. Hana freaked out whenever he tried to get close, and I was loopy yet clearly agitated by his presence when I briefly woke up. He carried me to a guest bedroom close to his master bedroom, followed closely by Hana keeping an eye on him. He owns a great Pyrenees mountain dog that’s roughly the same size as me, Titan, and he had Titan stay with us to keep Hana company (Titan and Hana are now inseparable).

Whenever he isn’t checking on me or trying to get on Hana’s good side, he’s been pacing. Waiting for me to get better and wake up so he could see me properly. He’s been having dreams of me for years at this point, and the dreams were happening every day up until a few days ago. Now, I showed up half dead on his yacht with a child. He hasn’t been able to calm down this entire time. When he first saw me, he was in shock until he heard and saw Hana crying. He would’ve been taking care of me and staying at my bedside this entire time, but he didn’t want to needlessly stress out Hana who is already understandably upset with me bedridden. Still, whenever he came to take care of me, he always hesitated to leave the room and his touches always lingered, hoping I would wake up and he’d get to see me look at him.

Remus believes that the gods themselves wanted for us to meet. I’m debating telling him about the immunity myself, or shifting to where he found out when taking care of me and seeing Hana when she let her guard down. Either way, in the story he was thankful to the gods for both of us. The woman/person of his dreams, her daughter, plus the one with the ability to give immunity and evolution. At this point he already considers us basically married, I just don’t know that yet, so he lets us do whatever we want and trusts me with everything.

I’m in the guest bedroom with Hana. Hana is across the room with Titan, sleeping deeply with him curled up around her, so I don’t have to worry about her as I’m shifting. She’s been keeping herself busy with her things plus the toys Remus brought her. It’s early morning, the air is cool now but it’ll get hot later. The only light is sunlight coming through the window. I’m laying down on two firm, white pillows, laying on top of soft cotton sheets with a fluffy comforter on top of me. To my left is the door to the room, there’s a small bedside table Hana dragged in front of it to barricade the room. There’s also one bedside table that has some toys on it, plus our things are sitting in a pile beside it. To my right is the window and another bedside table. On it is a bottle of water along with the bottle of medicine he got me to take. There’s also dried food like jerky, but across the room there’s a table that has a mostly eaten plate of food. He’s been preparing meals so Hana could have something hot to eat. Hana helped me get into a black nightgown, my hair is braided down in cornrows, and I can see the door to the guest bathroom from where I’m laying in the bed. It smells clean, it’s quiet, and my body aches slightly, but otherwise I’m totally recovered.

Remus is outside, doing his morning exercises before coming back in to make breakfast and check on us again.

[tired-beholding-bitch]

hold my hand (bring me comfort)

i am super sick because of the covid booster shot and i decided the best way to make myself feel better was writing a corny sickfic set in a world where The Magnus Archives is an office romance and the office romance features Jon having 0 idea how to deal with a fledging crush and deciding soup is the best way to do so. to spice it up it’s not even him who’s sick for once what could you ask more.

“but, tired, wouldn’t it have made more sense for you to go the fuck to sleep?” yes next question

is it particularly accurate, realistic and/or the height of my characterisation for either of them? no. did it make me feel better? yes on a spiritual level. we all need soup sometimes. i should have also probably slept but going to do that now.

please enjoy, this is a rambling mess but i am lovingly holding it in my hands and offering it to you ❤️

---------------------------

«I made you... soup.»

Martin can see that. It doesn't make the image of Jonathan Sims, his boss who maybe-sort-of doesn't really like him, standing on his doorstep in jeans and a hoodie and holding a container of - as he helpfully explained - soup, any less jarring.

He abruptly realises he's still holding a crumpled tissue way too tightly in his fist. There's snot on it.

It's disgusting.

He tries to surreptitiously hide it in his pocket. Jon doesn't seem to notice.

Probably because he's still shifting his weight uneasily from foot to foot, holding his pretty heavy-looking tupperware with both hands so as to not drop it, waiting for Martin to... do something. He nervously looks up from the plastic lid, then, starting up again, taking a sudden interest in the patch of darkened hallway that must be visible over Martin's shoulder.

«It's- you didn't. Sound well over the phone. I brought soup. Would you- can I come in?»

Oh.

«Oh. Oh! O-Of course, sure, come in.» he says, and he almost trips in his haste to move back, freeing a space for Jon to slip inside and closing the door behind him after.

That is when, finally, the reality of the situation dawns on him through the fuzzy, cotton-like haze clouding his head like thick fog.

Everything is suddenly in very sharp focus – the sluggish, slow response of his limbs when he tries to move them, and the ache suffusing his whole body in unpleasant waves (and prickling the base of his neck and the length of his spine and only, somehow, his right temple with especially bothersome stabbing pain), and, of course, how could he forget, the fact that Jonathan Sims is now standing awkwardly inside his flat instead of on his doorstep. Still holding a container of soup that, now that Martin takes a closer look, could probably feed a medium sized army no problem. Entirely too much soup.

Is the soup for him? It’s. The soup is probably for him, or Jon wouldn’t have made the trip all the way from his flat to bring it to him.

There are several baffling implications hidden like Russian dolls in this bigger thought.

Number one – Jon had thought about him. Jon had worried about him. Martin had called him that morning to confirm that, yes, from feeling slightly under the weather the day before he had graduated during the night to a fully fledged fever-and-nausea-and-cold flu situation and no, he wasn’t about to go into work. And Jon had listened to his – admittedly kind of pitiful – explanation on the phone, and apparently Jon had gone home – which in and of itself would have been impressive in any case – and was concerned enough to make him food and bring it to him.

Number two – Jon had, also, made him soup. Not bought it, not scavenged it from the recesses of the tin aisle in the supermarket. He said I made you soup. Which means that apparently Jon can cook and usually just chooses not to, except he had gone out of his way to cook for Martin on a Thursday evening, because he was sick.

Number three – Martin will have to update the status of his lingering his-hair-is-luscious-and-when-he-smiles-the-world-stops-to-look crush because after this he might somehow, possibly, definitely be in love. Not to be dramatic or anything.

He isn’t dramatic. He is not.

It’s the way Jon had looked standing there, oversized purple hoodie with a faded print on the front, hair clearly braided in a rush, with frizzy grey strands escaping the loose plait to curl around his neck in ringlets, for god’s sake.

It’s how his eyes had been darting nervously between Martin and the stairs, like he’d been terrified he’d tell him to get lost, like he hasn’t spent the past six months (or, let’s be real, closer to a year now) sighing after his retreating back like the lovesick main character of a Victorian romance novel.

It’s, really, the tiny, self-conscious, real smile Jon is gracing him with now, holding the soup towards him, eyebrows rising in confusion.

«W-where can I put this? I- I mean, only if you want of course, I-I could heat up. Some of it? For d-dinner?» he stammers through the offer, and by the end Martin is almost sure he can see a blush blooming on his cheeks, even if it’s hard to tell between the dim light in his entryway and Jon’s dark complexion.

Martin is also blushing but that isn’t the point and also, it’s really impossible to figure how much of it is because of the fever he can already feel getting higher again and how much is because of Jon offering to set up dinner for him. For them? Oh god.

He’s a mess. He’s a mess and Jon probably wants to sit down at the table – with Martin in his sweaty pjyamas he didn’t change out of for the whole day and his curls sticking to his temples and his heart rabbiting too fast in his chest with sickness – and eat dinner. Together. Eat the soup he made specifically for Martin, with him.

If the flu doesn’t take him out, Jon will probably manage where it failed. Martin doesn’t say any of that.

«Oh– oh, yeah, sure. The kitchen is- this way, yes.» he says, instead, and leads the way to his cramped but very yellow kitchenette.

Martin’s flat isn’t… the biggest. Or the best. Or not even especially fireproof, as the scorch marks on the wall right behind the stove can be a testament to. But it’s his.

He likes it, and it’s pretty cosy if he says so himself.

There are a lot of throw pillows. He went to Ikea and found a nice photo frame, of the kind that can hold more than one picture, and put on a selection of highland cow photographs on the wall to cheer himself up on bad days and it works. It works and he will not hear anything about it and he’s bracing himself for Jon’s inevitable comment and he’s already opening his mouth to defend himself except–

Jon is smiling again. At the cows on Martin’s kitchen wall.

It’s not even a small smile this time. It’s unjust how stupidly endearing he can look like this – casually hesitating in the doorframe, taking in the unfamiliar environment with careful eyes, and smiling like five pictures of cows doing various adorable cow things are the best thing he’s seen all day.

To be fair, they might be. They are very good cows.

This doesn’t help Martin’s sudden, fervent wish this wasn’t an unfamiliar environment and that Jon was comfortable, here, actually fitting into the nooks and crannies of his life like he belonged there, not like a guest. Now that he has gotten a glimpse of what that would look like he feels greedy, want settling in his sternum like yet another ache, although much sweeter than the feverish pain in his muscles.

«Sit down, Martin.» he says, and the way he rounds the r into nothing is so familiar and yet so much softer than usual, a quiet, exasperated tone to it that almost gives him whiplash and oh, it’s cute. Mahtin, he says. He, in fact, does sit down. «You’re– you’re sick, let me do it. Just– please tell me where the bowls are?» he goes on, and he’s facing away from him, setting his tupperware down on the counter and lifting the lid with a small pop, so Martin can’t be sure.

But he also can’t completely dismiss the possibility that he is blushing again, with the way he seems hellbent on keeping his eyes on the swirling surface of the soup until Martin points him to the lower cabinets where he keeps his dishes, and then very resolutely keeps not looking over at him as he turns on the stove and scoops the newly hot soup into two green bowls with generous ladles.

Martin is not staring. Except he maybe kind of is – he isn’t sure if he’s doing it more than usual, but he feels like, yes, probably. Jon moves with comforting, assured certainty, and he seems to relax even further as he goes through well-practiced motions.

When he sets the plate down in front of him, along with a spoon and a napkin, he isn’t smiling but his expression hasn’t quite settled into his usual frown, either. It’s just… calm. Pleasant.

Martin smiles, absurdly pleased even though he did absolutely nothing. Then, he tastes the soup and finds yet another reason to fall in love with Jonathan Sims.

It’s the best damn soup he’s ever had. Not recently, not even in the last year – in his whole life, hands down.

Martin is not going to cry into this bowl of soup.

Not even if his whole body is hurting like a bad bruise when you press down on it, and he’s sitting down on a comfortable chair, listening to the man he has an incredibly embarassing crush on going on and on about how he made the best chicken soup he has ever eaten, pointedly not mentioning the fact he made it specifically for him.

He doesn’t cry.

He’s very proud of himself.

He does, however, sway dangerously to the side when he goes to stand up after eating, having to catch himself against the table not to fall.

Jon is by his side in an instant, and when Martin risks a glance his way he’s standing just a little too close, hand hovering over his elbow, forehead pinched with worry in an expression that has no right to be as adorable as it is.

If he wasn’t feeling quite so unstable already, he might feign being faint again just to see if Jon would catch him.

As it is, actually, oh, he might not have to fake it. He flops back down on the chair, heavily, groaning in pain when the movement pulls harshly on the tightness in his back.

Jon hovers for a second more, before apparently making a decision, determination settling across his features – his lips press together sharply, his scowl getting deeper.

«Alright. Yes, you- you should rest, I- yes. Let’s- let’s get you to bed.» he says, and Martin feels weak and… precarious enough that he goes willingly. Almost. Not before trying to make some point about doing the dishes (I’ll take care of that, Mahtin, you can barely stand), and protesting because Jon is a guest (not withstanding the fact he was never invited in the first place and did this all of his own volition) and just, generally trying to wrestle down the urge to resist being taken care of.

It’s… rather hard, in fact, to let Jon usher him down the hall to his bedroom, muttering even more apologies because the room is in complete disarray, and there’s tissues everywhere, and his blankets are a sad pile on top of his bed because he didn’t bother straightening them before dragging himself to open the door earlier.

Jon doesn’t seem to mind, leaving him to settle under the covers to… do something. At this point, the fuzziness is back, muffling quite effectively everything that happens outside his direct field of vision, his head and eyelids both too heavy to deal with. The fever reducers must be wearing off.

He closes his eyes for just a second. Probably. When he opens them again, Jon is very close. Sitting on the bed right next to him, that concerned look back in his eyes.

God, his eyes are so pretty.

They’re the same rich brown of good hot chocolate, and when they get like this, all warm and softened from their normal brand of disapproval. They’re lovely.

Not the point. The point is that Jon is offering him a glass of water, along with something else – medicine, he registers distantly as he tries to swallow the pill without choking, and he’s so close.

Martin feels his legs shift against his side as he goes to stand again, seemingly satisfied once he drinks almost all of the water and takes the paracetamol without protest.

He really doesn’t want Jon to leave, all of a sudden.

This has been… nice. Apart from the fact that he’s really sick. And that everything hurts. And that he isn’t quite sure why Jon would appear on his doorstep to take care of him when he’s sick out of the blue, so maybe it’s to make it easier on his conscience for when he’ll fire him, on Monday, for missing work. Or for making it way too obvious he is absolutely, undoubtedly head-over-heels infatuated with his boss.

In his fever-addled mind, who clearly has no idea what they’re doing, Martin panics at that. His hand shoots out from under the blanket, gripping Jon’s delicate, fragile wrist – he doesn’t squeeze, afraid to hurt him. Just… kind of holds him, keeping him from getting away.

Jon’s eyes are darting frantically between that tiny point of contact and Martin’s face, and he kind of looks like he is panicking, but that makes no sense, does it.

«I’m- I’m sorry. I know. I know you don’t like me.» it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. He isn’t sure he would have wanted to stop it, anyway – it is true.

Jon has never made a mystery of the fact he doesn’t like him, which only makes it weirder he’s here, sitting next to him, after giving him soup to help with his flu.

And yet. Here they are.

He looks incredibly conflicted – he’s biting his lip hard enough Martin is kind of afraid he’ll draw blood, but then he does that thing again, where he squares his shoulders as he comes down to a definitive choice on some matter he has discussed entirely in his own head, solely with himself.

When he speaks, it’s with a soft, subdued voice, still kind. Intent, somehow.

«Oh, Martin. No- I just- I’m.» he starts, then stops, frustrated, and he looks away for a second, trying to collect his thoughts. Then he starts over with a sigh, words rushing out of him, «I’m really. Really sorry about– behaving like that. I will apologise properly when you’re feeling better, but– but. I do like you.» he finishes. He’s definitely blushing, this time.

Or maybe the room is dark. Or maybe Martin is already half-asleep.

That must be it, because there is no universe apart for his imagination in which Jon would actually turn his hand in Martin’s own, interlacing their fingers for a second, holding it so gently, so carefully, like it might break.

He exhales, shakily, and his hand is so warm. So small, but firm. Steady. This is also pretty lovely.

«Too much, I’m afraid.» he says, then, and it comes out of him like a secret, like something precious, held reverently in a whisper.

Martin doesn’t hear him. He’s already asleep.

(He wakes up, hours later, groggy but mostly fever-free.

Jon is nowhere to be found.

The soup is in the freezer and there’s more medicine on the living room table, says the note he finds taped at eye-level on the fridge.

He’s grateful no one is there to witness the completely besotted smile he feels overtaking his face.)

[lorkai]

His butler, sick

A/N: This idea came up while @rainiishowers​ and I were chatting on discord, so I decided to write it down as soon as possible. I was really in need of an excuse to write more about these two as I love them, they are my favorite duo after Solomon and Asmo.

It's funny indeed, the butler thought, the way he's been running around, worrying unduly about his prince's health. And he was the one who was sick, his throat aching, his nose itchy, and sweat on the length of his neck. Barbatos brought his hand to his forehead and felt grateful for Diavolo's efforts, his fever had gone down during the night, but he still feared that his young master would get sick.

On an average day it would be impossible to find a single strand out of place in his neatly combed hair or any dent in his tailcoat he wore day after day, he was an excellent butler after all. And despite being one of the strongest demons in Devildom, after Diavolo, of course, Barbatos didn't seem to have been strong enough to escape the wave of flu that had spread far and wide once winter had arrived. He was hating every second, unaccustomed to lying in bed and staring at the dreary ceiling above his head or counting sheep endlessly until tiredness made his eyes close.

Barbatos closed his eyes, his thoughts and emotions mingled and he didn't have enough energy to care about it. And before he even knew it he was asleep, suffocating from loneliness and his flu, the heat of the covers cradling his body tenderly and his hair cascading down onto the white pillow. His face was serene even though his dreams weren't, his body was safe even though he felt restless. And yet the features on the butler's face softened when, even in his uneasy sleep, a warm hand rested tenderly on his head.

 The day dragged on quickly. Diavolo remained with Barbatos the entire time, reviewing his documents while sitting beside his bed. All this was just a pretext for him to keep an eye on his butler and dear friend, or to look curiously at the doors and stairs that adorned his room throughout. The prince was there when his butler's dark eyes opened, humming a long-forgotten song.

"Welcome to the world of the living." He said softly, helping Barbatos to sit up. And although Diavolo seemed undecided on his next actions, running his eyes around the dark room and wondering if he should open the windows or serve Barbatos food, he soon focused on the most important thing. "Here. Take one of them at a time.”

“What are they?” Barbatos looked at the bottles offered to him, his voice completely hoarse.

“Medicines.” The prince replied, simplistic. “Take the blue and then the red.”

“I don’t need them!” His butler frowned. “I feel good.”

And there was the stubbornness of his beloved butler. Barbatos was different when he was sick, much more honest, much more expressive and at that moment the expression on his face was priceless. Diavolo felt like laughing but stopped himself, he smiled and walked away.

“Who knew my butler was afraid to swallow pills.” He scoffed, running a hand through his hair as if in thought. It was a trick, Barbatos knew. He knew him too well, practically raised him in the king's absence, and yet, with puffy cheeks and head spinning, he sat up in bed. “A pity, really.”

“I'm not afraid to swallow these pills. They are small.”

Diavolo put a hand on his shoulders to help him lie down again. “No, I understand. It's all right. We all have our fears, don't we?"

Barbatos made a nasal sound, coughing for a few seconds. He wasn't well and was stubborn in admitting that he needed the medicine, but he finally extended his hand very reluctantly. It would take him longer to recover if he didn't take his meds and he knew it, but he hated that they were on pills. He turned the blue pill between his fingers, and he already felt his throat tighten at the knowledge that he would have to drink it. But he did, even as he fought the desperate feeling of having something inside his mouth swirling and moving along with the water. And he did the same process with the red pill, feeling tired of the little effort.

"Sorry about that." The prince smiled. He carried a single cup of tea for Barbatos and the aroma was special and melancholy. He seemed uncertain whether to offer him the tea now or wait a little longer, seeing as he had already made him drink the medicine now. "You know... My dad used to bring me this same tea when I was sick, I was very young so I may have got the recipe wrong. But I'm sure it was something like this, you'll be fine soon."

And the butler accepted the cup, swimming in that fascinating, unfamiliar scent. The taste of lemon and honey dancing over his tongue as he drank slowly to enjoy each sip.

 Diavolo's golden eyes were wary and he was paying attention to Barbatos' reactions, how he grimaced whenever he swallowed, how he shivered when he moved, how his eyes roamed around his room and how he looked sick from the smell of food, but his posture also exuded an air of longing. Talking about his father was both a blessing and a curse, for he was a man of many moods. "It was comforting to have him around when he wasn't scolding or blaming me. Or angry. He's always been a moody demon, but I think you remember that. Well... not that... not that he be important now. Ah, come and lie down."

The prince fell silent after a few minutes, the same lost look he'd had as a child gleamed in his eyes now. And just like when he was a kid, he hid his pain behind a smile and turned to his longtime friend, helping him to lie down and placing his hand on his forehead again to measure his fever.

"You can sleep, I'll be by your side as long as you need."

Barbatos took his hand in his own, shivering with the difference in temperatures and closed his eyes. "I will. But I wanted you to know that I'm grateful to have you in my life, young master. Thank you for taking care of me. I promise to make your favorite dish when you're better.”

[seriouslysnape]

Under the Weather

Harry Potter x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Fluff. Sickness. 

Word Count: 1,518

“I just hate that you’re feeling bad.”

Harry felt bad. Correction: Harry felt terrible. He watched as you crawled into your bed with sunken eyes and a nasty sounding cough. He wouldn’t ever say this out loud, but you didn’t look so good at all. It was all his fault that you were sick, and he wouldn’t let himself forget it anytime soon.

He had just recovered from possibly the worst case of the flu that he had ever fallen ill with. It had knocked him on his ass for a week due to the fatigue, coughing, fever, and body aches. Pomfrey had done all she could to try to make him comfortable enough, but the strain was just a bit more than her remedies could fix this time around. He was stuck in bed with nothing to do but roll around in his sickness and complain about how bad he felt. 

In the end, Harry was able to recover swiftly and without any real problems. Before too long, he was as good as new thanks to your help. You had taken extra good care of him by keeping him cool from the fever but warm from the chills. You made sure he was eating, even if it was just chicken and soup everyday. You made sure he was hydrated and getting plenty of rest to ensure his recovery...which also included lots of snuggles and kisses.

It turned out that those snuggles and kisses were rather sickly ones, and about the time that Harry was fully feeling better, you had begun to feel crummy. Harry actually noticed it before you did. It was extremely rare for you to sleep later than him. You almost always were up and going before him, but on particular Friday morning, you were still knocked out when he woke up. Not only that, you were unusually warm and ill looking. He had pressed the back of his hand to your head, feeling a pit of guilt when he realized that you definitely were running a fever.

He had woken you up, feeling even worse when you began to cough. He had practically jumped out of your bed, wrapping you up and doing whatever he could to make you comfortable. You had all the same symptoms that he did, and you were guaranteed to be in for a long week. He had insisted that he take another week off from classes to watch over you, but he was already a week behind, and there was no chance that you were letting him fall back more on your account.

He went through all of his classes in a haze of worry. He knew that he had undoubtedly gotten you sick. There was no way that you could’ve gotten it from anyone else. He didn’t even stop in the common room after his classes, going straight back to your dorm where he had left you. When he did walk into your room, you were standing at your trunk, looking weak and drained. You would’ve thought that you had tried to mouth off to Professor Snape by the way Harry reacted.

“What are you doing?!” He shrieked, closing your door and rushing to you.

You threw your hands up in defense, sniffling more drainage out of your nasal passageway.

“What? I’m getting changed. I was in the same pajamas from last night and I felt gross,” You explained with a congested tone, not seeing the big deal, “I’m fine, Harry.”

He ruffled your hair when he noticed it was damp. His face fell into even more horror.

“Did you shower?” He asked as if it were a crime.

“Uh, yes?” You replied nonchalantly.

“But you’re sick! You could’ve...I don’t know! You could’ve fainted or sneezed so hard that you fell or-”

“Harry, I’m not dying. It’s just the flu.” You argued, giggling at his dramatic act.

That sealed the deal. He was dedicating his entire weekend to make sure you were at least on the road to recovery by Monday if you weren’t going to “take care” of yourself.

“Get in bed, you mad woman! What are you doing up?!” He shrilled again, ushering you to your bed again.

That was when you returned to bed to put HIM at ease, looking and sounding just plain awful. That was also when he REALLY started to feel guilty for your current state. He rushed around the room, setting things up the way you had in his when he had been sick. He layered blankets onto your bed, turned on some soft music, made sure the windows were closed to make sure you didn’t catch a cold draft. The only difference was that you had spoken to him in sweet, calm tones. Harry was running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

“Are you warm enough, my love?” Harry asked, adding yet another blanket on top of you, rushing to your desk on the other side of the room.

“Yes, Harry. I told you that I’m fin-”

“Do you want a book? Or maybe I can sneak into the kitchen and bring you a snack?” Harry rattled off, barely letting you get a word in.

“No, angel. I don’t want-”

“I promise I don’t mind! The castle is pretty quiet this time of night and Filch is easy to sneak around and-”

“Harry!” You finally croaked out through your already hoarse voice, “I don’t need anything. I’m fine.” 

Harry’s demeanor softened. His shoulders relaxed and his breathing slowed. He was getting himself worked up over nothing, and panicking wasn’t going to solve anything at all.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” He said, sitting on the edge of your bed, “I just hate that you’re feeling bad.”

You shrugged under the pile of covers, giving him a feeble grin. 

“I’m okay. I don’t feel that bad. Just a little under the weather I guess.” You brushed it off.

Harry smiled softly with an even gentler laugh. You certainly didn’t look “a little under the weather”. He had been much more difficult when he was sick. He kicked the sheets off of his body and complained that it was too hot, and then hissed that it was too cold each time he got a new chill. He whined when he had to keep changing clothes because the sweating from his fever dampened his pajamas. You, on the other hand, were perfectly content, even in your ill state. 

“If you say so. Can I squeeze in with you, darling?” He queried, wanting to hold you close in your bed.

“I don’t want you to get sick again. You’re already behind.” You shook your head.

“I don’t care about that. I just want to be with you, my pretty girl.” Harry bantered.

He knew you hated missing school, and you were sure to miss at least a week. The thought of you having to spend the next several days cooped up in your dorm made him feel awful. Worst of all, you weren’t your normal, healthy self and it was all because of him. He wanted you to be happy and at your best at all times, because seeing you happy made him happy. 

“[Y/N], baby, I’m sorry I got you sick. I shouldn’t have let you get so close to me and love up on me. If I had known it was so contagious I would’ve taken care of myself.” Harry apologized, his eyes lowering, finding your hand under all the sheets and giving it a caring caress. 

“It’s not your fault. I wanted to take care of you. I always want to...love up on you,” You remarked, laughing at his previous choice of wording, “I couldn’t let you be sick and not do anything. I care about you.”

Harry’s eyes found yours again, his lips upturning into a wide smile as he looked at your lovingly.

“You really love me that much, huh?” He questioned, bringing your clammy palm to his lips for a ginger kiss.

“That much and more,” You returned with a smirk, “Now shut up and get in bed with me. I need cuddles.”

Harry leapt up from the side of the bed, rushing to the empty, opposite side.

“Yes ma’am.” He joked, crawling in and pulling you flush to his chest.

He winced at how warm you still were, but he was sure that the fever would subside with time. Harry’s paranoia had subsided almost completely, but he still kept a hand on your back to make sure you were breathing...just in case. He’d cater to your every need to make sure you’d be better soon. You’d be back to normal in no time with Harry Potter as your caretaker.

“Thanks for taking care of me, Harry. I really appreciate it.” You sniffed, beginning to feel drowsy as your body fought off the horrid sickness.

Harry pressed a kiss to your forehead, keeping you safe and comfortable in his arms. It was something he would do until forever ran out...with or without a bad case of the flu.

“I’ll always take care of you. No matter what.”

******

Tags: @writingscape @lupinsslut @msmimimerton @thefilmcity

[georgiapeach305132]

You are such a tease about Story’s husband!!! I’m loving it, it is definitely a pick me up that I needed today. I want to ask what happens when EVERYONE has the flu because that’s what’s going on in my house right now.

Oh no! I hope you get to feeling better 🖤

🖤🖤🖤🖤

Quit Touching Me

Summary: The Drysdale's are SICK

Pairings: Ransom Drysdale X Reader

Rating: yucky sickness

Warnings: Four sick kids and a sick Ransom, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 700

Desperate Lives AU Masterlist

Desperate Love Masterlist

Of course the first one to get sick was your germaphobe husband. You had quarantined Ransom to the bedroom while you tried to get the kids situated and off to school. Coming back home to find Ransom all curled up and snuggly on the bed, "I'm dying, Kitten," is the only thing he can get out.

"Aw, my poor little baby," your voice coos down to him. You lay down on the bed, and spend most the morning just petting along his face. Brushing his hair out of his eyesight. Even though he feels terrible he still has the most handsome face you had ever seen. With four kids, it's very rare that you get to just relish in your husband. "You gonna let mommy take good care of you."

He nods his head with his bottom lip puckered out, but then stops to peer up at you, "If you could stop with your sexy talk that would be great," you giggle at him, but continue on making sure he's comfortable.

"Come on baby. You need to sit up and take some medicine."

"Don't want to."

"Ran," your voice whines, "You're worse than the kids. Just sit up, take your medicine, and drink your water," reluctantly he obeys. Settling back down, you turn on your favorite comfort show, relaxing back to hold your sweet baby.

Not long into the episode you get a call from the school, "Mrs. Drysdale, Aster said she's not feeling too well, and Blade has a low grade fever. Story seems to be fine, but she's saying her head is hurting."

"I said," you hear the dramatic voice of your daughter, "that my head is aching. It feels like someone is stabbing me over and over. Could you just tell my mom to come and get me?"

You sigh, giving Ransom a quick kiss. His body still curled up in a ball, not even realizing you're going anywhere. Might as well just pick up all the kids. Stopping at the drugstore so you can get some more medicine just in case, water, Gatorade, soup, crackers, whatever you can think of. Thankfully you were smart enough to get some easy meals, because later it hits the entire household. "You guys stay away from Grandpa. He can't handle all this sickness."

Marta already been contacted that everyone was running fevers, including yourself. All the kids needing some extra TLC it was just easier to set up beds in yours and Ransom's bedroom. "I get to sleep in your bed right?" Story asks her dad, her eyes as big as saucers.

"I really don't care who sleeps in the bed with us," he regrets that quickly when the rest of the kids come piling in the bed with you. Two eleven-year-olds, one eight-year-old, and an almost six-year-old cramming into the bed with you.

"This really isn't that comfortable."

"Well no one said you had to get in here with me."

"Can I not just go get in my own bed."

"I really don't feel good."

"Would all of you just shut up?"

"Quit touching me."

"I wasn't touching you, you were touching me."

"I see my life flashing right before my very eyes. Do you see it Blade? There it goes."

You flop down on the bed somewhere, making it an even tighter fit, while all these kids are arguing about touching or feeling bad, "Would everyone please just stop?" you start to shout, stopping only because you start to cough. "If you're uncomfortable, you're more than welcome to sleep on the palettes I made. If you want to go to your room, nobody is telling you not to. But for the love of my sanity, just hush."

"Mommy?" Story asks, followed by groans from everyone. "Can we watch the Princess Bride?"

"Ran, start her movie," with his eyes closed he grabs for the remote, clicking on the TV and starting Story's favorite movie. Even though everyone had groaned, they all start to settle. "Thank you baby for making us buy the biggest bed possible."

"Don't get too used to this guys. This is only when you're sick kind of thing."

"Story, get off!" Aster whisper shouts.

"Nope, the next person who touches anyone, gets to get in the floor on their palette. There's six of us in this bed, someone is going to be touching someone.

Masterlist

[teaforopal]

benefits of the flu, sort of

Toji x reader 

toji reluctantly cares for a sick reader 

Your chest ached, your throat burned, your sinuses felt like they were pumped full of molasses, and worst of all your high fever had you on a pendulum of chills to sweats. And somehow, it was worth every bad symptom wracking your body to see Toji attempting to muster up a single paternal instinct in his efforts to take care of you. 

“Fuck, your nose is running again,” he scowled, grabbing a fistful of tissues. “Gross.”

You sniffed roughly, accepting the copious amount of tissue to dab your nose with. “Shuddup.” You said thickly, kicking at his thigh. 

He allowed the weak assault, staring at your face intensely. 

“What are you doing?” You set the tissues aside, settling back into your pillow with a nasally sigh. 

“Trying to see if your fever went up.”

“With what? Your infrared eyesight?” You grumbled and pulled your numerous blankets towards your chin. 

Toji’s frown deepened at your taunt. “No, you little shit, I’m looking for sweat.”

“That's stupid,” you sniffled. “Just feel my forehead.”

His lip twitched, scar twinging as well. 

“You are a terrible caretaker,” you said, sticking your tongue out.

“I don't want to be your caretaker,” he snapped back. 

And it was true that a series of horrible coincidences had landed you in Toji’s apartment, near delirious with the seasonal flu, none of which he was happy with. He liked living alone, he liked only worrying about himself, and he definitely liked it when a sweaty sick person wasn't wrapped up in his bed being a smart ass.

Sighing, he gave you another razor sharp glare before reaching forward to press the inside of his wrist against your clammy forehead. His skin was a cool relief. You grabbed his forearm, pressing closer. He froze briefly, before tugging his arm away. 

“You’re even hotter than you were this morning,” he noted, the barest hints of concern tinging his otherwise monotone voice. 

“Get me in front of a camera then,” you grinned deliriously. 

“Not funny,” he flicked your forehead. “Don’t move, I’m gonna get medicine and a wet cloth.” 

“And food, I’m hungry,” you added. 

“Don’t push it.”

The door shut, leaving you to figure out whether the ceiling was actually rippling like the surface of a lake, or if your fever was beginning to fray your lucidity. The fan on the highest setting in the corner of the room became crashing waves that pushed at your ears until you were finally able to drift off into an array of confusing fever dreams. 

You were startled awake from a dream where you were drowning in Orbeez to discover a dripping cloth slumped over your eyes. 

“There you are,” Toji’s face was suddenly inches from your own. “Take these.”

He pushed two white pills past your dry lips. They were sour on your tongue until Toji lifted a glass of water and helped you take a sip. 

“Agh,” you scraped your tongue against your teeth. 

“Lay back down,” Toji instructed, straightening the wet cloth. 

He deposited a plate on your chest once you did, sitting back with an irritated pinch to his lips. 

It took you a moment to register that Toji Fushiguro had actually made you food. “Oh.”

His scowl deepened. “Don't say anything smart or it’s going in the trash.”

It was just a plain grilled cheese, something even a fourth grade could make, but you ate it enthusiastically, frequently glancing at an emotionally constipated Toji. 

“It’s good?” you tried carefully. 

“It’s a grilled cheese sandwich, why would it taste bad,” he retorted. 

“Moldy cheese?” you offered. 

Toji stared blandly at you momentarily, then leaned forward and pushed you back down to your pillow by your forehead. “I will smother you with a pillow.”

You grinned against his palm. “Sure you will.”

“Go to sleep.” He pressed you further into the pillow before stepping back. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“Wait,” you tried sitting up, anxiety suddenly squeezing your chest. 

Toji looked back at you, face cold and entirely unhelpful. 

“Can you at least stay until I’m asleep?”

It’d been years since you were this sick to begin with, and the intense difficulty to breathe was sending spikes of prickly hot anxiety down your spine. The last time you were bedridden and unable to breathe, your ribs had just been broken and your lung was pierced after an unfortunate run in with a cursed spirit. The flu certainly wasn't helping with that bit of unresolved trauma. Sure, your pride had basically just had its head dashed in a dirty alley for asking goddamn Toji for comfort, but dealing with his frigid personality was better than a panic attack in a dark room while incoherently feverish. 

“Why,” he said flatly, unrelenting as ever. 

“Just,” you scratched at your throat, panic setting in at the thought of him leaving. “Don’t.”

“Just don't,” he repeated. “Really?”

But he was already letting go of the door knob, unquestioning about the sudden panic in your voice. Either he didn't care and just wanted to get it over with (the most likely option) or he was giving you comfort without prying (highly unlikely). “You have fifteen minutes to fall asleep or I’m leaving anyways.”

First option indeed.

You nodded, relieved, snuggling further into the covers and squeezing your eyes shut. He sat back down on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh. 

“Thanks.”

“Shut up.”