#my throat is still in a tremendous amount of pain but i'm not like feverish or exhausted anymore

[blindmagdalena]

sorry i'm using cannibalism as a metaphor for sex again

[yourboyfriendaizawa]

So I was suffering from a splitting headache but couldn't sleep. Then I found your reader story. Then I scrolled down your ENTIRE blog. And I went from pained scowl to helpless beaming and I'm so grateful??? Holy shit I love your soft Aizawa. My first reaction to him was confused howls of laughter and now I LOVE him. Amazing. This is stupid long sorry but lastly, can I request soft lover Shouta just taking care of his poor sick bby? It can be a headache or actual fever I'd really appreciate it ❤

You had known last night before you went to bed that the ache you felt deep in your bones was different that the ache of muscles that came from a long day of working, but as per usual you had another busy day ahead of you the next day and didn’t have the time to even consider the possibility of falling ill, so you’d simply taken a hot shower and gone to bed early and fallen into a deep sleep almost instantly. You hadn’t even woken up when Shouta had slipped in bed behind you several hours later.

When you did finally wake up the next morning though, you knew instantly that what you’d tried to brush off last night as something small and manageable was going to be much worse; on top of the weak ache that had started the night before had settled into your bones and made a home there; your skin was clammy and hot and yet you felt exceptionally cold despite the warmth of your heavy blankets and your boyfriends arms wrapped around you; your head was pounding so hard it was difficult to think and a fire was lit in the back of your throat any time you made the move to inhale or swallow.

With a tremendous amount of effort, you managed to turn in your boyfriend’s arms to face him. “Shouta.” You croaked, wincing at both the sound and the way the word felt in your throat. “Shouta.”

Shouta’s face scrunched up just a bit as it always did when he was woken up from a deep sleep, before he cracked an eye open to look at you. “Hm?”

“Shouta, I don’t feel well.” You said, your voice still quiet despite the effort you put in to making it come out.

He regarded you silently for a second, then removed one arm from where it rested on your waist, bringing his hand up to rest atop your clammy forehead. “You’re sick.” He said, “I think you have a fever.”

You closed your eyes and let out a whine. “I can’t be sick. I have work to do.”

The hand that had lain across your forehead curled into a loose fist which Shouta then lightly rapped it against your temple. It didn’t hurt, but you could tell it was meant as a form of reprimand. “You couldn’t get anything done if you tried right now. You’re staying in bed and getting some rest.” He said firmly.

You began to pout, but didn’t try to argue– both because you didn’t have the energy to do so and because you knew he was right. Regardless, Shouta disentangled himself completely and moved to get out of bed, stopping briefly to throw a glance back at you.

“Stay put.” He ordered.

“Where are you going?” You asked, but he was already gone down the hall. You let out an annoyed huff, but you dutifully laid back against the pillow regardless, drawing the covers up close and trying your best to think of anything but the pounding in your head.

—

When Shouta stepped back into the bedroom some time later, he wasn’t entirely surprised to see you had fallen back to sleep. When he’d opened his eyes that morning it only took a moment of looking at your flushed face and glazed eyes to tell that you were very ill. He’d felt the heat rolling off of your body even before he’d pressed a hand to your forehead.

He placed the tray in his hands on the side table before sitting down on the edge of the bed hand moving to brush a strand of sweat-damp hair out of your face, then gently cupped your cheek. Your eyes fluttered open in response, a weak groan fighting its way from your throat.

“Hey,” he said quietly as your eyes finally came up to meet his, “I made you some oatmeal and brought you some juice. You should eat something before you take any medicine.” You nuzzled your face into his hand and threw him a small grateful smile, though your eyelids began to droop again almost immediately. To keep you awake, Shouta tapped your cheek lightly with his thumb. “Eat now– you can go back to sleep afterwards, I promise.”

He moved some pillows behind you to help prop you up as you pulled yourself into a sitting position, then handed you the bowl of oatmeal he’d brought in. You took it from him and began dutifully spooning it into your mouth despite clearly not wanting to eat anything at the moment. In the meantime, Shouta turned to the nightstand and grabbed the bottle of Nyquil he’d brought in, pouring out a dose and replacing the cap while you ate, though when he turned back around he could see you eyeing him with a frown.

“I hate that stuff.” You rasped.

“So do I.” He replied, handing the small cup over to you. You took it, but were clearly reluctant. “It’s a good thing I’m not the one who’s sick.” He almost let out a chuckle at the returning glare he received. You weren’t particularly threatening to begin with, but with your sickly form currently huddled under a mountain of blankets and sporting ridiculous bed hair you looked like a kitten playing at being a tiger. He refrained though, if only to keep you from refusing to take the medication out of spite.

Luckily, you didn’t attempted to argue any further, instead taking a deep breath and throwing the viscous green liquid back like a particularly foul shot of tequila, even pulling a similar face after you had swallowed. After handing both the medicine cup and bowl of oatmeal (half eaten) back to him, you promptly flopped back into the pillows as though all of your energy had left you in one fell swoop.

Shouta grabbed the tray with the used dishes and brought it back to the kitchen, placing them in the sink and running water of them to let them soak. He’d clean them later on, he reasoned as he made his way back to the bedroom, rounding the bed and slipping under the covers beside you.

“What are you doing?” You asked as one of his arms draped itself over your waist, “You’re going to get sick too if you get close like that.”

“We were already in bed together all night. I’m already contaminated.” He said, making no move to distance himself.

You would have rolled your eyes at him, if you had been capable of movement at all, but everything was feeling significantly heavier now, including your eyelids. Instead, you mumbled, “I won’t take care of you when you start getting feverish.”

“You will.” Shouta replied confidently. He was right, of course.

It was silent for a few moments longer as you began to drift off to sleep, but before you let yourself fall into complete unconsciousness you remembered to say “Thank you for taking care of me.” Shouta most likely replied, but whatever he said you were too far gone too hear.

Maybe he’d tell you again whenever you woke up.