#sick fic for that anon

[sunniques]

Hear me out

Threesome with step dad jeonghan and step brother Joshua......

The kind of depraved shit that they'd say and do behind the doors and lord they'd be so so mean......

ok but you’re actually onto something here 👀 let me set the scene rq because i’m picturing so many scenarios—

picturing bratty!reader who’s so spoiled and not used to sharing or being considerate. father-son duo jihan sees this as a challenge and decide to break in the latest addition to their family and brat tame her.

so on a day where you’ve pissed them both off, they just take you in the way they want. that’s how you end up naked on the bed jeonghan shares with your mother between your stepdad and stepbro.

“you’re such naughty little girl.” you stepdad coos meanly as he repeatedly slaps your cunt. “always acting so fucking disrespectful. guess daddy and your new big brother are gonna have to teach you some manners, hm?”

you can’t answer bc you’re suddenly being pushed forward and slapped by josh’s thick cock. he rubs his leaking tip on your lips, smirk mean and depraved as he tells you to open up. you listen, eyes rolling back when you feel another cock slipping into your pussy from behind.

“nasty slut.” your stepbrother growls as he starts to fuck your face. “just needed to be stuffed full of cock to behave, huh?”

he and your stepdad laugh meanly and proceed to use you all night until you learn your lesson.

[blindmagdalena]

Ok but Homie being obsessed with his girl taste and going down on her in every chance he gets

18+ cunnilingus, breeding kink, semi-public sex Whether it be walking into a bakery or catching a whiff of a barbeque down wind, there is something to be said for the specific kind of hunger one experiences when overwhelmed by the sudden smell of something delicious.

This is precisely the sort of hunger Homelander experiences every time he picks up your scent. His mouth waters, his jaw aches faintly. He's turning into an addict.

When you catch him staring down at your lap mid-conversation, seated at the Seven's conference table no less, with that familiar, far-away look of desire in his eyes, you give him a nudge with your elbow. "Have you heard a word that I've said?" You ask, amused. "You're ovulating," he replies, which tells you no, he didn't hear a single word. His lips are parted, quirked in a lopsided little smile. His eyes flicker up to meet yours.

"I hate that you know that before I do," you laugh, shaking your head. "Can we focus for a second, please?" "Nope." Homelander slides a hand up your thigh. "See, I'm just not gonna be able to focus on anything... Not with you smelling so fucking good," he tells you, his voice dropping low as he leans in close to your ear. He hears your heart jump. "John," you whisper, glancing over towards the enormous double doors. "The others could be here any minute." "Relaaaax, I'll hear them," he says slyly, catching the back of your neck to hold you steady while he kisses you. He fucking loves the way you squirm in his grip, putting a hand on his chest like you have a hope of dissuading him. He uses the distraction to slip a gloved hand up your skirt, swallowing the moan he surprises out of you when he rubs you through your panties.

"Wait, wait," you say, but it's too late. He's a shark, and your arousal is blood in the water. He moves his hand under your ass and hauls you up out of your chair with obscene ease, dropping you down on the edge of the V shaped table. Homelander wastes no time sliding in between your legs, smoothing his hands up your inner thighs, spreading them wide. He grins, licking his lips preemptively. Hooking your legs over his shoulders, he pulls you forward until his face is nestled nicely between your legs, buried under your skirt, leaving only your back resting on the table.

You cross your ankles behind his back, squirming, desperately pushing your skirt down over his head in an attempt to preserve some modesty. "Aren't there cameras in here?" You ask, biting your lip. "Sure are," Homelander answers wickedly. He's going to enjoy watching that security footage later. He follows up with a firm, slow drag of his tongue up the already-wet fabric of your panties, cutting off however you may have responded, reducing it to a sharp little gasp. Fuck, the smell of you drives him insane, but it's the taste that has him going truly feral. Moving a hand to your hip, Homelander holds you steady while he uses his other hand to pull your panties to the side. Immediately, he closes his mouth over your clit, sucking hungrily at you. He effortlessly holds you in place, keeping you from jerking away from him while he pushes his tongue into you, drinking you up like nectar. Homelander moans lewdly against you, dragging his tongue in deft figure eights before plunging it in deep, coaxing more and more from you, athirst with need. He encourages it with a light slap to your ass when your thighs clench and you start to grind against him. He presses in on your leg, a reminder that you can't break him, you can't suffocate him. You indulge him, squeezing tight on either side of his head, bouncing your hips with what little leverage you have. The sounds you make are music to his ears, muffled as they are by the press of your thighs. He meets each bounce of your hips, alternating between deep fucks of his tongue and swirls over your clit, sucking at it. He presses his tongue flat against the sensitive nub and that's when you really start to make noise. You cup the back of his head over the fabric of your skirt and hold him there, which feels to him like fucking heaven. His own cock throbbing, Homelander rocks his hips against thin air, grinding down in his seat, seeking pressure anywhere he can. He's consumed by the fantasy of fucking you with your taste fresh on his lips, pounding your soaked pussy and filling you with his come, putting a baby in your belly to make your tits fat and wet. He moans again, drooling a wet mess onto your panties, your skirt, lapping at you like he'll fucking die without it. You muffle your cry with your own hand, back arching fully, heels pressed into Homelander's back as you come hard, cunt convulsing wildly against his tongue. He doesn't miss a second of it, luxuriating in the way it changes you on a biological level, endorphins flooding your taste and smell. He drinks it like liquor, and feels just as intoxicated.

Homelander doesn't stop until you beg him to, pushing against his head, over-sensitized. He pulls away with an obscene, wet noise, licking his lips. He looks dazed when you see him, light sensitive and flushed, drunk on you. Your limbs feel like cooked noodles, useless to you. Homelander eases your legs down from his shoulders and maneuvers you into his lap, kissing the taste of you back into your mouth. Your panties are thoroughly drenched, clinging wetly to you. Homelander grinds up needily against you while you kiss, panting lightly through his nose. It isn't out of exertion, but sheer excitement.

"Let me fuck you," he murmurs fervently against your lips. He's already reaching between you to unclasp his belt. "What about the meeting?" You ask, cupping his face, not actually giving a shit about the meeting anymore. Not with him throbbing hot and hard between your legs. You grind down against him to hear the sweet way he keens. "They can fucking wait," he growls, reaching under the table to press a button that dings softly, flicking the green light above the door to red. Locked. "They can wait while I fuck you." Which is precisely how the other members of The Seven end up standing awkwardly outside the door of the conference room, exchanging looks, pretending they don't hear Homelander fucking you within an inch of your life on the other side of it.

[marielschism]

Please do talk about the Marquis, all plot bunnies, how an eventual relationship with him would turn out. Any thoughts are most anticipated! 👀

FR?????????????? okay!

so i'm currently working on patron of the arts, a marquis de gramont x artist!reader fic where he is an art patron/cultural sugar daddy who is horrendously down bad for you, an artist in their flop era. i'm making an hc post for it over at my writing sideblog [@marielserif] so if anyone's interested 👀 i'll post it some time next week!

pairing: marquis de gramont x reader note: i think i made him unbearably ooc. whatever warnings: some mature themes/content; unedited; not an entirely healthy relationship (vincent has issues!!!!!!)

general relationship hcs

side note: these hcs operate under the assumption that the reader is unaware of his work.

i am deeply fascinated by yandere stuff, so every time i think of marquis de gramont, i can't help but sprinkle a bit of obsessive yearning on his part (because i honestly think he's the type to do so! he chased john wick all over the world! that should be me!). he is ruthless, ambitious, and determined, and i think this, too, translates into how he deals with his relationships.

i think that he's the type to fall hard for someone, but is also the type to deny the feeling initially, trying to stamp it out of his brain as hard as he can, constantly pretending that he is unaffected by you. he does not need you. he wants you. he has lived through most of his life without your presence, surely he can live through more.

his dedication to denying his feelings leads him into a great number of sticky situations: perhaps he dismisses you a bit too much, and it puts a significant strain on your relationship. he might even end up with you hating him.

he is used to being feared. he is used to being hunted. but he will never get used to the feeling of your hatred, so that could easily force him to act on his feelings before he makes things worse. it is a wake up call for him: he does not want to lose you because of his own pride.

good for you!

when the marquis is in it, good god, he is in it.

i think that marquis de gramont is an incredibly selfish man. if he loves you, you become an extension of himself — and in turn, he will ensure your safety and your joy. you deserve it. you're his.

he's a patron of the arts — he'll get along with you better if you have some appreciation for art and culture. your conversations with him will be longer, too, and sometimes more heated. vincent is very opinionated, and he'll defend his opinions to the death. he'll take you to museums, renting out entire scenic cultural hotspots just for you (and him) to enjoy at your own pace. he is prone to over-explaining when he is excited, so expect that you'll be doing a lot of listening.

if he senses that you're actually listening to him and he's feeling particularly generous, he'll reward you. you know what that entails.

there are times where you're feeling tired, and you're just not in the mood to listen to him ramble about his least favorite painting in the musee d'orsay. he does not fault you for it, but you feel the mild disappointment radiating off him in waves. you'll have to...make it up to him somehow.

he'll appreciate it very much.

anyway, vincent will take you to the ballet, dress you in the finest of things, and take you to the swankiest of establishments. you deserve nothing but the best.

if you inform him that you are uncomfortable with being spoiled like this, he will try to tone it down a little. the code word here is try. he will go back to sending you swarovski-embellished fountain pens in two weeks.

despite this, he's not above accompanying you to places like gas stations or grocery stores. sure, he'll take at least three bodyguards with him to ensure your safety, but he'll be there for you. he's capable of being normal!

(forgot to mention that vincent de gramont is territorial and overprotective at times. what's the use of all of his power if he can't use it protect the one he loves?)

(his brand of protection can feel almost like a prison at times. you'll have to clearly communicate with him about what you want, and you have to be very firm with him if you don't want to feel like you're a bird in a gilded cage. you have to make sure that he knows you won't just take it.)

(you need a backbone to love him. that's the truth of it all.)

vincent is also touch-starved, though he denies this constantly.

he can be an incredibly greedy kisser. he kisses you like he's starving, and he'll hold you like you'll turn into dust if he lets go.

he can be gentle, too — easy does it, and he takes it as slow as you want. languid, lazy, like you have all of the time in the world.

he's also a horrific tease. he's a smug bastard. he'll do everything except kiss you — he'll bite your earlobe, let his lips travel to your pulse, and kiss the corners of your lips. when you whine, he'll pull away with that smirk of his, and leave you to your racing heart. you're flustered as hell, and he looks unaffected by it.

(it's a lot harder for him to keep his composure if you're the one teasing him.)

he reaches out for you in his sleep, even if he is alone. a tired vincent will always reach out for you, no matter what stage of sleep he's in. in his sleep, he'll end up wrapping himself around your entire body like a boa constrictor no matter your size. one time, he fell asleep on top of you, and you had to elbow him awake because he was suffocating you.

(he owns a weighted blanket for when you're not around.)

if you play with vincent's hair, he will complain about you messing up the handiwork of his treasured coiffeur, but he won't say a word. when you pull your hands off his hair, he'll actually whine, and place your hands back. you have to clear your schedule if you want to play with his hair; he will not let you out of his presence until he's dead asleep.

if you really want to see a very stressed vincent, you can deny him your touch for weeks on end. but why would you do that? 😊

he's prone to taking drastic actions to get what he wants. a desperate vincent de gramont is someone you do not want to meet; a desperate vincent de gramont gets results.

so god help those who will try to take you from him.

plot bunnies

i really need to finish this because i have a 7-page paper due in 42 hours

i desperately wanted to write a ballet dancer!reader x patron!marquis de gramont instead of an artist!reader but im going to be completely honest with you i have zero knowledge of the world of ballet and i would NOT be able to do the idea justice.

(your rival dancer goes missing because of your patron. you investigate. things do not go well.)

also another plot bunny: leverage!reader

the marquis keeps an eye on you as leverage over your father, who is under his employ. think caine and his daughter.

he threatens your safety to keep your father in line constantly — but he's grown fond of you, strangely. you have a harmless hobby. it is soothing to watch you work. he is not going to hurt you.

(vincent even has his men protect you from harm. their presence in the area deter would-be muggers. you do not know this.)

at one point, your father grows stubborn, and vincent has to take a very drastic measure to ensure his cooperation.

he kidnaps you. of course he does.

strange things happen.

assistant!reader! you are his faithful assistant, and you get hurt in the line of duty. oh noooo. what happens next??? :OOO

[steddieas-shegoes]

I have a request: Steve has emetophobia, but also suffers from chronic migraines that are almost always accompanied by nausea and vomiting. Eddie helps support and soothe Steve through a really bad migraine attack.

(As someone who has both emetophobia and chronic migraines, it is a hell combination.)

PLEASE DO NOT READ IF READING EVEN A LITTLE BIT ABOUT VOMITING OR NAUSEA BOTHERS YOU! I am also a migraine sufferer, and as much as I hate throwing up, I wouldn't put myself in the emetophobia category. I don't go into extreme detail, but it would definitely be enough for someone who is sensitive to even the discussion of it to be bothered by it. There's a lot of comfort in this fic, so hopefully that makes up for it all. Eddie is such a good caretaker for Steve. I hope you love! - Mickala ❤️

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Sometimes, Steve gets warning signs before a migraine: light and sound sensitivity, a dull ache in his neck and jaw, blurry vision.

But sometimes, they come out of nowhere. He’ll be perfectly fine, and then he’ll be doubled over in so much pain he can barely breathe.

The doctors said that it’s normal for cases of head trauma like his, that there’s not much that can be done except keep pain medication on hand, that this could get worse as he gets older.

But the pain is better than the accompanying nausea.

Nothing makes that better. In fact, sometimes his meds or laying down make it worse.

He hates throwing up. The moment he gets that fluttery feeling in his stomach and his mouth starts to build up too much saliva, he’s ready to beg for someone to sedate him so he doesn’t have to throw up.

Once he does the five or six swallows in a row, he knows it’s game over.

His heart starts racing, his whole body breaks into an instant sweat, and he feels his legs go numb.

He usually makes it to the bathroom just in time, but he’s had instances where it all came on so quickly he had to get to the kitchen sink or the trash can, or one time, the floor of the hall.

He hates the way it feels so much, losing control of his body even temporarily while it expels whatever he’d dared eat or drink, he’s become genuinely afraid of it happening.

So when a migraine hits him out of nowhere while he’s cooking dinner for the Hellfire Club meeting in his dining room, he just knows he’s in for it.

He’d been lucky for the last three weeks, not even a hint of a headache to be felt. The sharp pulse of the sudden onset migraine made him nearly buckle at the knees at the counter where he was cutting up vegetables that he was hiding in the sauce for the kids.

He held back as much of a whimper as he could, but the second pulse of pain coursed through his head, down his neck, into his shoulders, and he couldn’t keep quiet.

He heard the group in the other room get quiet, and then heavy footsteps, Eddie’s boots, on the floor.

“Steve? What happened? Did you cut yourself?” Eddie asked from the doorway.

Steve couldn’t quite answer, his eyes squeezed shut and his whole weight against the counter in front of him, all focus he had going to not screaming out in pain.

“Jesus. Okay.” Eddie must have realized what was happening. He hit the main light switch off, only the stove light remaining on. He walked over to Steve and gently wrapped an arm around his middle, shifting him away from the counter so he could lean against him. “C’mon Stevie. Let me get you to your room.”

“Can’t,” Steve managed to say through gritted teeth.

“Okay. Um. Okay. How about I carry you?”

Steve and Eddie both knew he couldn’t carry him upstairs. To the other room, maybe, but Eddie wasn’t built with the type of muscles it would take to get them both up the staircase.

“Okay, you’re right.” Steve hadn’t even said anything, but Eddie must have realized how crazy that sounded. “I’ll carry you to the stairs, then we’ll make our way up slowly, and then I can carry you the rest of the way.”

That didn’t sound impossible, but Steve knew the moment he was jostled, he’d start dry heaving.

He could feel the way his stomach was turning, the heat of the zing of pain in his belly making him wish he could pass out before he vomited.

He tried to get Eddie to stop moving him, maybe if he stood still for a minute, he could mentally convince the nausea to go away.

He couldn’t speak, though, and it was already too late.

One, two, three, four, five swallows.

He started gagging before he could even warn Eddie.

“Shit. It’s okay, sweetheart. Take in a deep breath, hold it, then let it back out.” Eddie was doing his best to get him over the sink or the trash can before anything came out, but he was already dead weight against him and could feel his body heaving. “Alright, let it out, I’ll clean it up after.”

Steve was crying silently, his body curling over the sink that he’d just put a few dirty dishes into, his mouth drooling the excess spit out.

Eddie’s left hand was rubbing his back and his right was pushing his bangs off his face so he could feel the cool air against his forehead.

It still didn’t help.

Steve was throwing up into the sink, tears streaming down his face, his stomach clenching every time he tried to catch his breath.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. It’ll be over in a minute,” Eddie was saying quietly next to him.

It felt like time dragged on, and the smell and sight of everything was making it worse.

Eddie was doing his best to run water to rinse the sink, but it wasn’t enough, and Steve kept thinking about how he would have to touch it to get it all out.

“Is Steve okay?” he overheard Dustin ask quietly from the door.

“Yeah, bud. Just got hit with a migraine. Can you call Nancy and see if she can bring you all home?”

Steve didn’t know what Dustin responded with, but he assumed he agreed because Eddie turned all of his attention back to him.

Steve’s stomach rolled again, another set of smaller, almost dry heaves making fresh tears roll down his cheeks as he tried to reach a shaking hand over to cover Eddie’s hand on his hip.

He felt weak, which was almost worse than everything else. Being unable to hold himself up, or walk, or even talk was terrifying to him.

“Hate this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, rough from heaving for the last three minutes.

“I know, sugar. Do you think you’re done?”

It was hard to know. Sometimes, it was one and done and he just had to ride out the migraine in bed for however long it took to go away. Sometimes, he’d be heaving into a toilet off and on for hours. The nausea usually didn’t go away either way.

Eddie didn’t wait for a response; he knew Steve didn’t know for sure.

“Let’s get you in bed,” he said as he used a wet paper towel to wipe Steve’s face. “Might be better if you aren’t standing.”

Logically, yeah. But physically, if Steve had to go up the stairs right now, he would probably end up worse off.

“Bath?”

“You want a bath down here?”

“Mm.”

It would be much easier, and keeps him close to a toilet just in case he has to throw up again. Plus, Eddie would wash his hair to help him relax and he needed that.

“Mkay, love. Let’s get you in the bath, then,” Eddie kissed his temple, letting his lips linger for a few seconds.

He slowly moved Steve down the hall, towards the only bathroom on the ground floor, designed for guests and remodeled in the last year to be a haven for any of the kids who stayed over with him.

He’d made it a stipulation when his parents signed the house over into his name, that they paid for the bottom floor bathroom and guest room to be made over completely. They felt just bad enough about leaving him in a desolate town that they agreed.

Eddie went through filling the tub, stripping Steve, and pouring the peppermint oil that helped Steve’s migraine and his nausea into the water.

He helped Steve get in, his legs shaking like a newborn calf standing for the first time, and made sure he got settled all the way back.

“Let me get you some water and make sure the kids are getting picked up. Yell if you need me, I’ll come running.”

“I know.”

He always did.

The moment Steve needed him, didn’t matter what time of night or day, or what they were doing, or where they were, if Steve needed him, Eddie would come.

He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, the peppermint cleansing his nose of the vomit smell from before.

He couldn’t hear anyone, but he knew they would all be doing their best to keep quiet since he had a migraine.

They were good kids.

And Gareth, who apparently had a secret crush on Steve for a while and only got over it when he met a girl at one of their shows, and wouldn’t dream of disrupting him.

He let his mind slow, the nausea mostly going away for now, but the sharp pain of his head keeping him from being able to fully relax.

He felt hands on his shoulders soon enough, guiding him forward so Eddie could slide in behind him.He loved this bath for this exact reason: being able to comfortably rest against Eddie’s front.

“Any better?” Eddie whispered, his breath fluffing Steve’s hair.

“Tiny bit.”

“Want me to wash your hair?”

“Soon.”

He just wanted to relax for a few minutes, enjoy the hot water keeping him warm, his boyfriend’s hands gliding across his chest and arms to keep him safe.

“Tell me when you’re ready, love.”

“Stay forever.”

Words were hard when he had a migraine. Everyone, especially Eddie, was used to the broken words and barely-there sentences.

That was a hell of a sentence to get out though.

“Not going anywhere, sweetheart. You’re stuck with me forever.”

“Mm.”

Eddie kissed his shoulder when he turned his head to rest it further against Eddie’s shoulder.

Eventually, he knew he needed to get out, or he’d end up falling asleep and Eddie wouldn’t be able to get him out of there easily once that happened.

“Wash?”

“You got it.”

Eddie was so careful, his fingers gently gliding through the ends and scratching his scalp softly. He applied just enough pressure along his hairline for Steve to feel temporary relief, the intense pain turning to a dull pulsing sensation while he worked.

“Lean back to rinse, I’ll hold you,” Eddie slowly guided him back and down into the water, one hand on his back to hold him steady, another running through his hair to get the bubbles out.

“All set, sweetheart.”

Eddie got out first, wrapped a towel around his waist, and then helped Steve out. He wrapped a towel around Steve’s waist, and another one around his shoulders to keep him warm. He kicked his foot out to drain the tub, and then let Steve rest his head on his shoulder while they walked to his room upstairs.

Eddie threw on a pair of boxers, ignoring the fact that he was still a little damp. He started slowly drying Steve off, patting along his skin as slowly as he could get away with without Steve getting too cold.

“No clothes.”

Sometimes, migraines made every touch of something against his skin unbearable. It was rare, but it made even his softest and comfiest clothes feel like sandpaper.

“You’ll get cold,” Eddie reminded him.

“Got you.”

Eddie sighed, but gave in. He’d try to bundle him up in a blanket once he was asleep so he didn’t catch a cold.

He helped Steve get into bed, and quickly got in next to him so he could cuddle into his side, using his arm to block out any light from the lamp in the corner.

He hated darkness, but the migraines made it nearly impossible to keep lights on. They’d finally found a lamp that had a dim orange glow, and it was known as his migraine mood lighting.

Steve lay naked in the bed, the cool sheets under him providing some relief, his body curling into Eddie’s side.

Eddie placed a hand on his head, just a light pressure to let him know he was there.

“Got me?”

“Got you, love. Always. Just go to sleep. It’ll be better when you wake up.”

Eddie couldn’t quite kiss him, not at the angle they were laying, but he felt him pull his hand away for a moment, heard him kiss his palm, then place his hand back on his head.

He sighed contentedly, or at least as content as one can be with a migraine, and let himself fall asleep. If things got bad again, Eddie would be there.

[sickficideas]

thinking about an atsushi that has just joined the ADA, fresh off the streets and finally having a stable home and a family that cares about him, getting ill for the first time since he was at the orphanage. and naturally he tries to hide how bad he feels and shrug it off, because he doesn't want to bother the other agency members, and dazai is out on an assignment with him and has to be the one to give him the well-needed TLC. caretaker dazai my beloved.

awwww anon this is so cute 😭😭 Atsushi is initially so afraid to come out and say he doesn't feel good, everyone has already done so much for him and he's convinced he can handle it himself, he's done it all his life after all!! Atsushi and Dazai are out working, maybe further our from Yokohama and Dazai starts to notice Atsushi is starting to get pretty out of it...he's visibly dizzy and confused and Dazai feels his forehead out of nowhere and of course he has a fever 🥺🥺 Atsushi is immediately strangely defensive and in denial and assuring Dazai he's fine, of course he's afraid of the punishments and neglect he received at the orphanage when he was ill 😭 Dazai feels the tiniest...unrecognizable pang of guilt for creating the same feelings in a certain other subordinate previously under his care...but he's focusing on the now 👍👍 he gets a hotel room booked, deciding it's better for Atsushi to rest now rather than later and lets him sleep off his fever a bit in the hotel bed🥺 Dazai just watches him for a while, he always worried about nightmares with Atsushi and he thinks he's more mentally vulnerable when he's sick or injured, but he's there to comfort him if that happens😔😔💔

[violetsandfluff]

Cough Drops and Extra Love

this took a hot minute whole ass month but I think it was worth it? prepare yourself for 4.2k of sick, clingy harry fluff <3 tw: sickness, mentions of throwing up, nudity, *brief* mention of sex, and loads of fluffffff so if that’s not your cup of tea, don’t read any further. I proofread this a billion times and it’s still not quite right, but it’s as good as I’ll get it.

“Hey, rockstar,” you beamed as Harry strode off the stage and into your arms. He flipped his water bottle and raised it to his lips to finish whatever was left in it before re-wrapping his arms around you. He lowered his head so it was resting on top of yours.

“I love you, baby, I’m so proud of you,” you went on. “How was it?”

Harry just shook his head. “Exhausting,” he muttered at last. “I love you, too, pumpkin.” Casting you a half-hearted smile, he straightened and picked up another water bottle, immediately opening it and downing half of it.

“Someone’s thirsty,” you joked.

Harry let out a dry laugh.

“You’re not very talkative tonight,” you mentioned bluntly. “Usually you’re talking a mile a minute after a show.”

“Tired. And my throat hurt,” was his raspy response before quickly adding, “but it’s better now.”

“Are you sure?” you asked skeptically. “A few sips of water fixed it just like that?”

Harry nodded before throwing his arms around your neck from behind and letting his cheek rest atop your head. “I’m tired, ‘s all,” he said finally. “And thirsty.”

~~~

Once you were home, the first thing Harry did was sink onto the couch and emit a prolonged sigh.

“Oh, baby. What’s wrong?” you asked, plopping onto the cushion next to him.

“Tired,” he sniffed. “Will you take a shower with me?”

“Why?” you asked cautiously.

“Not f’that reason,” he assured you with a soft but priceless smile.

“You want me to help you wash your hair?” you guessed and he nodded, letting out a soft chuckle.

“Only f’you want to, lovie.” His words were followed closely by a poorly stifled sneeze that you chose to ignore. Instead, you made your way to the bathroom and turned on the shower to ensure that it would be nice and warm once Harry stepped in.

When at last he entered the shower in all his naked glory, he stepped towards you and enfolded your waist in his strong arms. He kissed your forehead a few times before resting his head on it once more.

“‘S so warm,” he mused, planting a few more kisses on your head. “Feels nice.”

“I’m glad,” you cooed, reaching up to ruffle his hair, which was now damp and matted down thanks to the water. You wriggled out of his grasp and reached for your shampoo, squeezing a generous amount onto your hands.

“Bend down,” you instructed, and he obeyed, lowering his head so you could reach all of his hair.

You worked the suds into his hair, using your fingertips to massage his scalp as you went.

His eyes fell shut in pleasure as he enjoyed the sensation.

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” you warned jokingly.

He shook his head and let out a gentle laugh. “It feels so good when you wash my hair.”

“Does your head hurt?”

“A little,” he admitted reluctantly. “Not too bad, though.”

A soft smile spread across your face as you continued working the excessive amount of bubbles into his hair. The shampoo allowed it to stick up in all directions, making it resemble a clown.

“You’re so cute, Harry,” you giggled. “You can rinse your hair now.”

“Already?” he whined, leaning his head back into the warm stream of water, running his hands through his sudsy hair to get every last bit of shampoo out. A few coughs and sneezes escaped him as he emerged from the waterfall, shaking any remaining water droplets from his hair.

You repeated the washing process with a more reasonable amount of conditioner, working it into his hair while she massaged his scalp.

When you finished helping him rinse it out, he wrapped you in another warm embrace, holding you tightly against his chest.

“You’re so clingy tonight,” you noticed.

“S’cuz I love you,” he replied, his voice muffled in your wet hair.

“Are you feeling okay?”

He nodded once before ultimately deciding to shake his head, pulling you closer to his chest.

“Does Jeff know you don’t feel well?”

Harry tensed slightly. “He knew I had a headache before going on, and that my throat was sore afterward,” he said slowly.

“Do you want to tell him or should I?” you asked as you turned off the water.

Harry immediately began to shiver, deprived of the warmth the water had been providing. He wrapped his arms around himself before sidling up next to you again. “Tell who what?”

“Tell Jeff that you’re sick. Do you want to tell him or should I?”

“No.” Harry shook his head, clearing his throat to ward off the persistent tickle that tormented it.

“No what?”

“I just need sleep, Y/N. ‘S all it is. Jeff doesn’t need to know.”

You just shook your head. “I’ll worry about Jeff later. For now,” you trailed off, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. “You’re pretty warm.”

His eyes fell to the ground. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” you assured him quickly. “Come here.”

Harry stepped reluctantly out of the shower, stumbling backward upon moving his head too quickly.

“Careful!” you exclaimed instinctively, reaching out to steady him. “You okay?”

He nodded bashfully as his face reddened in embarrassment. “Sorry, lovie.” He spoke in a lighter tone than usual so as not to strain his fatigued voice further.

“Don’t be sorry,” you insisted. “Dry yourself off and I’ll help blow dry your hair.”

Satisfied, he grabbed his towel and began drying off. Any reason for you to play with his hair comforted him.

You rung your hair out in the sink and slipped into a pair of comfortable, loose-fitting sweats before removing your hair dryer from its place in the drawer.

Harry, still wrapped in his towel, sat down on the closed toilet seat to give you better a better view of the top of his head. You dried his hair as quickly as you could, not worrying about what it looked like. After all, it would inevitably get worse as he slept.

Once his hair was thoroughly dried, you led him into the bedroom, instructing him to lie down on top of the duvet.

He did as he was told, and you worked briskly to cover his body in lotion. The lotion was uncomfortably cold on his abnormally warm skin, causing goosebumps to form up and down his limbs. Despite your haste, you made an effort to massage his sore muscles, causing soft groans to escape his rosy lips.

“I’m cold,” he whined desperately, his voice weak and broken. “I just want to go to bed.”

Your heart flooded with compassion at his words. You passed him his pajamas, which he donned immediately. As he did so, you busied yourself pulling back the duvet and comforter.

Harry wasted no time lying down, curling up into a shivering ball against the cool, white sheets.

Presently, you joined him, positioning your body beside his in an attempt to warm him. Instead, he turned away, curling up in the opposite direction.

“I’d feel awful if I got y’sick,” he explained hoarsely. “I don’t feel sexy anymore.”

“Oh, Harry,” you sighed, enveloping him in a warm embrace against his protests. “How do you expect to get better without snuggles?”

He all but melted into you, embracing you and leaning his forehead into your shoulder as his eyelids fell shut.

“Are you comfortable?” you inquired sweetly, to which he responded with a nod as vigorous as his dizzy body would allow.

Once he was comfortable, it didn’t take long for him to start drifting off. You took the opportunity to text Jeff, who agreed that if Harry was sick enough to admit it, there was definitely something wrong. He agreed to drop off some medicine, as well as other items that would benefit Harry, but until then, you were instructed to give him Tylenol to help ward off some of his discomforts.

You shook his already-sleeping body reluctantly, sighing sympathetically when he let out a disgruntled whimper. His exhausted eyes found yours as he stuffed his hands with handfuls of your sweatshirt.

You apologized profusely for rousing him so suddenly before handing him the pills and a bottle of water, which he downed obediently before returning his head to its place on your chest.

“Jeff’s coming with actual medicine,” you informed him, “but hopefully this will take the edge off your headache.”

Harry gave you a weak smile and a grateful hug, mumbling one last apology before shutting his heavy eyes once more. “‘M sorry I’m sick.”

He had been asleep for less than five minutes when Jeff let himself in with supplies in tow. After one mere glance at Harry’s sleep-distraught figure, it was evident that he wasn’t well at all. Jeff set the bag down gingerly on the bed, whispering some generic instructions before leaving as quietly as possible.

You opened the bag painfully carefully, but the rustling of the plastic didn’t fail to stir Harry from his light sleep.

He looked up at you with glossy, dilated eyes, letting out a few sniffles and coughs.

“Jeff brought this for you,” you said, beckoning to the bag. “Sorry I woke you up again.”

“‘S fine,” he sighed softly.

“He brought some medicine as well as a thermometer, cough drops, and extra tissues. And he left some soup in the fridge for us to heat up when we want some.”

Harry attempted to smile as he tightened his grip around you, burying his face in your shoulder to escape the light of the lamp you switched on.

“I was told not to give you medicine until tomorrow to keep better track of doses, but you were also prescribed plenty of cough drops and extra love.”

Harry brightened immediately, eager for love and an extra something to soothe his irritated throat.

You ripped the package of cough drops open, inhaling their inherently intoxicating fragrance before popping one into his waiting mouth.

He thanked you by managing a weak smile before clacking it against his teeth a few times and lying back down.

“Don’t fall asleep with that,” you warned jokingly.

“I won’t,” he replied, his voice low and raspy. “My head hurts, Y/N.”

“Give the Tylenol some time to work,” you suggested gently, running your fingers through his freshly washed hair.

His eyes fell shut at the sensation as he leaned instinctively into your touch.

“Now I smell like you,” he sniffled, enjoying the attention despite himself.

It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, but it also didn’t take him long to wake up. He found himself unable to sleep for more than two hours at a time. He was hot and cold simultaneously and every muscle in his body seared with a dull ache. Every time he began to drift off, he awoke immediately, needing to cough or sneeze.

After waking up for the third time, he ultimately decided to move to your other side in hopes of finding a more comfortable position to lie in without straying too far from your comforting body heat.

You adjusted the blankets around him as he adjusted his grip around your waist. HJose tired, glassy eyes looked up at you, blinking profusely as a singular tear slid down his cheek.

You used your thumb to brush it from his cheek and his eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“You didn’t think I’d notice?” you asked in disbelief, feeling your heart sink.

He shrugged, trying to blink back the tears that welled up in his eyes, but his efforts were in vain.

“Oh, Harry,” you sighed, massaging his head gently as he leaned into you. “Why don’t you to go back to sleep?”

“I’m too tired,” he complained.

“Too tired to sleep?”

“I can’t get comfortable,” he explained miserably.

“We can watch a movie together if you want,” you suggested.

“That might wake me up enough to sleep,” he said softly, letting out a few coughs as he scrubbed at his eyes.

You couldn’t help but smile, though you knew he was only clingy because he didn’t feel well. You leaned past him to grab your laptop off of the ground, as well as the tissue box, knowing all too well that he would need it. The moment you opened your laptop, a wave of blue light illuminated the room.

Harry whimpered softly, burying his face in your neck as you rushed to turn the brightness down, blinking the dark spots out of your vision after the shock.

“I’m sorry, baby,” you cooed. “That didn’t help your headache any, did it?”

He shook his head, muffling a short set of sniffles into your shoulder.

“What do you want to watch?”

He shrugged. “Your choice,” he rasped sleepily, moving closer to your chest. “I’ll watch anything.”

Your eyes moved from the glowing computer screen to Harry’s sick body, clinging onto you desperately.

You let out a low hum as you shut your computer and carded your fingers through his messy, blow-dried hair “You just want to be held, huh?”

He nodded solemnly, forgetting his signature cheekiness amid his fevered state as unpreventable tears sprang to his eyes for a second time that night.

Wordlessly, your arms enveloped his middle as you held him to your chest.

A shiver wracked his body as he allowed himself to be held, growing warm and tired in your arms. “I love when you hold me,” he muttered sleepily. Had his face not been buried in your chest, you would have noticed a rosy tint creeping into his cheeks.

In the comfort of your arms, he drifted off immediately, finally succumbing to the sound sleep his body craved.

You fell asleep shortly thereafter, waking up what seemed like minutes later to the sun streaming in through the closed curtains. You were sore from lying in the same position for so long, and your right arm was asleep from being under Harry’s weight. On top of that, you were almost sweating from the heat he had generated onto you throughout the night

A brief glance at him, however, told you he hadn’t moved all night. I’m

Based on the light coming in from outside, it was morning, meaning you could administer his first dose of medicine. Moving slowly so as not to wake him, you tiptoed from the room to use the bathroom and freshen up. You took the time to wash your face, brush your teeth, and get your hair out of your face, feeling miraculously put together as you exited the bathroom and headed for the kitchen to fetch him a bottle of water.

In the short time you were gone, Harry had woken up and repositioned himself to be curled up around a pillow, sniffling and coughing into it.

Climbing back into bed, you ruffled his hair affectionately as he let out a disgruntled sigh, rubbing the sleep from his puffy eyes.

“How do you feel, bubs?”

Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste at the pet name. “‘M okay,” he began before clearing his throat and trying again. “I feel like shit.” The throat-clearing irritated his already-sore throat, causing him to cough.

You rubbed his back sympathetically as he sniffled before continuing to rub his eyes.

“I can give you medicine now,” you said brightly. “Hopefully, it will help perk you up and bring your fever down. You’re like a little heating pad right now.”

“A little heating pad,” he repeated, smiling slightly despite himself.

“A little bed-headed, cough drop-scented heating pad.”

He sighed contentedly as your hands found their way to his hair once again. “My head hurts,” he commented.

“I’ll get you your medicine and water. Does oatmeal sound good or would you rather eat something else?”

“Do I have to?” he grimaced before muffling a stuffy sneeze into his pillow.

“You can’t take the medicine on an empty stomach.” you reasoned. “Plus, when was the last time you ate?”

He sneezed one more time before agreeing begrudgingly. “Anything to make me feel better,” he sighed before coughing again into the crook of his arm.

“I’ll be right back. In the meantime, rest your voice.”

Harry nodded, zipping his lips obediently. He leaned back against the cool pillows, pulling the comforter up to his chin. His whole body was tired and achy, and his head was foggy and throbbing. His nose was alternating between stuffed up and runny, and his chest felt tight and heavy. He could barely sit up without his head spinning and almost everything made his feverish, irritable body threaten to burst into tears. He knew he was being clingy, but he could scarcely keep his hands off of you. He needed your warm, comforting body near his more than anything else in the world. Because of that, a sigh of relief escaped his chapped lips when you finally returned to the bedroom.

After setting down the oatmeal and water on the nightstand nearest your side of the bed, which he had inhabited as of late, you couldn’t resist his outstretched arms.

He buried his fever-warmed face in your neck as you ran your fingers up and down his back.

“‘M sorry I’m being such a baby,” he mumbled. “‘S just, I haven’t felt this sick in forever.”

“It’s okay,” you assured him, squishing his dimpled cheeks. “You baby me all the time. Now it’s your turn to be babied.” You looked over his sick body with sad eyes before passing him the bowl of oatmeal from your nightstand.

He stared blankly at it for a moment before raising a spoonful to his lips. He swallowed a few bites wordlessly before lowering the bowl back down to his lap. “Is that enough?”

You shook your head sadly. “A few more bites, baby. Then we can give you your medicine.”

Harry choked down four more bites of the gormless oatmeal before pushing his bowl back in defiance.

You handed him his pills and a glass of water, both of which he downed readily.

Leaning back against the pillows once more, he cast you a forlorn, heart-melting gaze. His eyes were puffy and watery from fatigue, and his lips were chapped from excess licking. His nose was on fire from the number of times it had been wiped and coddled, but somehow, he was still unfairly cute.

“‘F I can’t sing, can we at least have sex or something?” He looked at you with inquisitive green eyes as he awaited your response.

“Oh, baby,” you sighed. “You’re too tired to sit up fully. How do you expect to have sex?”

He shrugged as a look of defeat crossed his face. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “I’m sorry. Just bored.”

“I know,” you pouted. “Is there anything you want to do?”

“We could watch a movie,” he suggested, beckoning toward the brand-new bedroom tv that had yet to be turned on. Harry never failed to cheer you up when you were under the weather, but you weren’t used to being the caretaker. He fell ill so seldom, and when he did, it was almost always mild and gone in a day or two, tops. Now, glancing over his long body, bundled up in blankets, you hoped you could give him a similar assurance.

“Find a movie while I make us some tea.” You passed him the remote from atop the stout dresser beneath the tv before exiting the room. You made the tea hastily, not wanting to leave Harry alone for too long. Because being sick made him especially clingy, leaving for more than a few minutes at a time would cause inevitable whining from him. When you re-entered the room, mugs of tea in hand, Harry wasn’t there.

Your brow knitted in confusion. Poking your head into the ensuite bathroom, you saw him curled up in a heap on the cold tile before the toilet.

A sound of concern similar to a cat’s meow brewed at the back of your throat. You padded over to where he lay and crouched beside him.

He rolled to his side, brushing the hair from his face to make better eye contact with you.

“What’s the matter, baby?” you inquired, concern evident in your voice. “Did you throw up?”

“Not yet,” he stammered nervously. You noticed how his body trembled when he forced himself to sit up. “I thought I ate enough.”

“It could be completely unrelated,” you suggested, rubbing consoling circles on his broad back. You could see the embarrassment and discomfort on his face as he glanced warily from the toilet to you and down to his hands.

“Maybe,” he sniffled in agreement, barely daring to move for fear of getting sick.

“It’ll make you feel better,” you promised. “It might seem gross, but it’s all in your head. I guarantee you’ll feel a thousand times better when it’s over.”

Harry leaned back on his elbows, staring expressionlessly at the wall as his face grew pale. His breathing became rapid and shallow. In one swift burst of strength, he repositioned himself so he was hunched over the toilet, his forearms resting on the rim.

You rubbed his back comfortingly for a painfully long couple of seconds until he finished, shrinking back against the blank, white wall. When you joined him, he wasted no time placing his head in your lap and wrapping his arms around your waist.

You played with his hair in silence, twisting the frizzy strands around your finger and unraveling them again.

“Do you feel better?” you asked lovingly as you continued to twist his hair and stroke his cheeks.

He nodded, his eyes fluttering closed as they welled up with tears.

“Are you ready to brush your teeth or do you want to stay here for a moment longer?”

“Stay here,” he mumbled. “You stay here, too.” He looked at you with tearful puppy eyes before muffling his sniffles into your shirt.

“Oh, Harry,” you cooed gently. “What’s wrong? Don’t be embarrassed.”

“‘S just disgusting,” he spat. “I’m disgusting.”

“Why don’t you brush your teeth?”

“What if I get sick again?”

“Do you still feel nauseous?” you tried to respond calmly to his panic.

He shook his head slowly. “I just don’t want it to happen again.”

“It’s okay if it does. You’ll get better.”

Harry peeled his weak body off the floor, steadying himself on the counter as he reached for his toothbrush and toothpaste.

After a thorough cleaning of his teeth, he retreated to his bed, where he burrowed into the covers in an attempt to soothe his shivering body. He poked his head out from the covers just long enough to unpause The Notebook, his comfort movie, before returning to his cocoon.

A few minutes later, after disinfecting the bathroom, you joined him beneath the mountains of covers.

Instinctively, he cuddled up beside you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and embracing you profusely. He gradually began tracing imaginary patterns on your chest with his fingers, tired eyes half-lidded with sleep.

“You still don’t have any energy, do you?” You frowned slightly as he managed to shake his head.

He muffled a series of three consecutive sneezes into your shirt before sniffling a few times and returning to the patterns he was creating.

“I have your tea if you’re ready for it.”

He shook his head and let one final sneeze shiver out of his clammy body.

“Why don’t you go to sleep while you wait for the medicine to kick in?”

He nodded gratefully, seizing the opportunity to let his heavy eyelids fall shut.

“Baby.” You let out a prolonged sigh. “You don’t need my permission to sleep. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he sniffled hoarsely. “Can you spoon me?”

“Of course, lovie,” you mused sadly. “If only you were smaller, I could hold you on my lap and rock you to sleep like a baby.”

Harry whimpered softly as you removed one of your hands from his grasp to ruffle his hair.

“It’s not my fault I’m bigger than you,” he whined.

You had to laugh at his comment. You placed a cool hand on each of his cheeks, causing his eyes to flutter shut in contentment.

A delicate kiss was pressed to his forehead before he rolled over, finding his way into your eager arms.

He mumbled a word of appreciation as his eyelids fluttered closed for long-awaited sleep.

The next few days were a rollercoaster. You had to deal with Harry being extra clingy and emotional due to having to cancel shows for the first time ever. You spent countless hours curled up beside him as he slept, and you spent many evenings with him either relaxing in the tub or shampooing his hair in the shower. You dealt him tissues and cough drops as needed, as well as heated up the soup Jeff had delivered (which proved to be more than plentiful).

You watched in relief as Harry’s energy and cheekiness returned day by day. Soon, he grew more talkative, and not long after that, he returned to the state of despair he had been in earlier that week due to cancelling shows.

Even while sick, though, he never stopped asking for kisses.

Taglist: @madybeth21 @groovychaosavenue @fishingirl12 @sortingharryshairclip @tenaciousperfectionunknown @mrspeacem1nusone @cayleyhannha-blog @whitemancumslut @sunshinemoonsposts

[pfhwrittes]

I'm not trying to be rude but why do you care if minors interact with your blog? From what I can see you don't write smut exclusively, and I thought creators want more people to read their posts?

you may not be trying to be rude anon, but you're certainly skirting the line with this ask. i'm going to try to address this as clearly and as calmly as possible.

firstly, i don't want minors interacting with me in online spaces because i'm an adult. i have been a teenager in online spaces, i grew up with being warned about internet safety and the likelihood of interacting with adults that may not have my best interests at heart online. i am friends with people irl who were groomed online.

i am also friends with someone irl who thought they were talking to another adult in an adult only space only to find out that the person they were talking to (and engaging in flirtatious conversation with) lied about their age. i witnessed first hand as this person contemplated ending their life because the child threatened to "leak" their conversations and called them a paedophile. i witnessed first hand the shame and fear this person lived with even as they went to the police of their own free will to clear their name.

secondly, i shouldn't have to write smut exclusively to want minors to avoid interacting with my blog. i don't want to interact with minors therefore i shouldn't have to interact with minors. that's it. no further discussion should be necessary.

however, for whatever godawful fucking reason, these children continue to launch themselves into my ask box or my friends ask boxes throwing temper tantrums or being passive aggressive cunts all because an adult said no. it reeks of piss poor parenting, of entitlement and of a blatant disregard for their own safety. i am not your guardian or parental figure. i am a stranger on the internet that is saying no for your safety and for mine. practice what you fucking preach when you reblog endless posts supporting the message of "no means no".

and finally, i don't want just anyone interacting with my blog and my posts. i want adults to interact with my blog because i am an adult. i cannot stop minors from reading my blog but i can stop them from interacting with my blog and by extension me.

have a good day.

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Hi guys, thanks for all the hard work you do. I wonder if you can help. Years ago, I read a fic (that I no can't find) where Stiles became really sick and ended up in hospital - I believe the Dr's thought it might have been lyme disease and then later (I think) suspected it was Spotted Mountain Fever disease. I'm not sure if this was the final diagnosis or not but I remember he was really poorly in hospital and they thought he was going to die. Any help would be appreciated. Thank you x

Hi anon! @dimeler says it's this one.

A million miles away by Yesthatsmynaturalcolour

(9/9 I 24,630 I General I Sterek)

A headache becomes something more when Stiles falls severely ill.

Maybe running through the woods with wolves at night wasn't one of his brightest moment.

[nat-20s]

For the ask meme: pov?

POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective

MARTHA TIME BABEY!! this is set in season 3!! also this got longer than i was anticipating so uh readmore time <3

Martha knew about the (in her opinion, a bit on the nose) rosebush that resided splayed across The Doctor’s ribs, and how it didn’t used to have thorns wrapped around it. She obviously knew of and thought fondly about the caduceus snuggled to his clavicle that matched her own. (and oh, how she remembered that day, him and his confusing heartbeat and his eccentricities, including pulling down the collar of his shirt with an enthusiastic “This one is you, isn’t it!”.) She was even aware of the swirling vortex wrapped around his wrist that faded in and out, belonging to one Captain Jack Harkness. That one was..interesting, to say the least.

But The Doctor tended to stay rather bundled up. Logically speaking, it was entirely possible that he had several more marks that she would never bare witness to. She just kind of assumed otherwise, though. The Doctor hardly seemed the type to accumulate soul marks willy nilly, and even when he did, they didn’t seem like they would be all that private. Definitely not a soul mark on the upper thigh type bloke, by any means.

Then he had to go and get himself shot. Sure, she wasn’t an expert in xenobiology (yet- she had some plans), but generally speaking, large wound treatment was the same regardless of species. Step 1: get them into a position where you can accurately assess the wound, for the love of god, Doctor, stop being a baby, take off your shirt, and stay STILL. Step 2: Stop the bleeding. Luckily the shot through the shoulder had been from laser fire rather than a bullet, cauterizing the wound. Clearly meant to injure rather than kill, thank god. Step 3: If bleeding is under control, clean the wound. She didn’t have all the resources she’d like, but the Tardis did provide a fairly extensive first aid kit, including sterilizing wipes that The Doctor, uh, probably wouldn’t have a bad reaction to. Hopefully. Step 4: Make the open wound no longer open: aka bandage it up and threaten to put a cone on him if he starts messing with it.

The final step, which was really only in this specific case, was stop focusing on the wound and see a large dark spot out of the corner of her eye. Curious, and just a tad worried that there was some Other thing going on, Martha actually studies the blotch between his shoulder blades. It’s not a blotch, or a wound, or a rash, but rather the spitting image of a beetle. Oh, interesting. Clearly a soulmark, though the color is slightly faded, and she couldn’t think of who it might go to. Swallowing down just the ever so slightest twinge of jealousy over The Doctor being connected to yet another someone, she couldn’t help but ask, “So who’s this one then?”

She even threw in a slightly cheeky grin, because she genuinely was more curious than anything. Instead of direct response, of course, The Doctor only replied with a “Huh?”

“The beetle? Smack dab in the middle of your back? You know the one!”

With a scoff, The Doctor hastily puts his (first) shirt back on, and sucks in a breath through his teeth as he pulls on the brand new bandaging. “I most certainly do not know the one. I don’t have a mark on my back!”

Martha rolls her eyes at him. “Do you really not know? It’s not exactly subtle.”

The Doctor turns to face her, stares for a moment, then...sonics his own back. Apparently that does something for him, because as he squints down to the readout? he lets out a classic, “What?”

“I mean, it’s not that odd of a mark, is it? Almost terrestrial, for you.”

“No, that’s not. It’s not the mark itself, it’s, well, I don’t know who it belongs to.”

“Wait, I thought you had this sort of thing all, I dunno, cataloged out? Filed and color coded and everything.”

“Yeah, I mean, it could be her-”

Martha’s eyebrows raise and she covers up another of the littlest, ittiest, bittiest pang with a teasing, “Oh her? You’ve got a mystery woman out there? Or should I say another one?”

“No, no, no, not like that, just someone I ran into-”

“Yeah, right, someone you ‘just ran into’ is someone you have a soulmark with.”

He grimaces ever so slightly, at it’s not from that stupid shoulder of his. “Yeah, you’re right. Can’t be...Well, should be interesting to find out, anyway. Now, where were we? Trensalor, right?”

He’s dashing off to the Tardis console before she can respond, and she lets out a sigh. She knows full well this conversation isn’t getting anywhere any time soon, so might as well go with it. Privately, she hopes that whomever this mystery person is that is now written on The Doctor’s skin is decent. Maybe even someone she could get on with, ideally.

She hasn’t yet discovered the beetle wing on her back.

[lilac-hecox]

Omg so excited ur writing prompts again I literally love everything you write ❤️

I’d love a fluffy ass one of Ian and Anthony where Ian gets sick and clingy. Just love sick fics.

Ian/Anthony - Sick Fic

--

Ian sniffles and tugs the blanket further up his body, leaving it just under his chin. He’s alternating between too hot and too cold, but right now he’s cold, his body shivering on his couch even with the cozy blanket.

He’d caught a stupid cold and usually his immune system is a little stronger, but this one is kicking Ian’s ass to the point that he stayed home from the office today. There’s a history documentary playing on YouTube and Ian has his eyes closed as he half-heartedly listens to the video, it’s just background noise at this point, something to try and help to lull him to sleep. 

Ian might doze off. He’s not sure for how long, but he rouses when he hears the jangle of keys turning in the front door of his home. The list of people who have a spare key to his place is small and so Ian has a feeling he knows exactly who it is. 

There are footsteps and the rustling of a paper bag, and Ian can hear those footsteps getting closer and closer to where he’s resting. Then they stop and there is a quiet stillness before Ian hears a familiar voice. 

“Ian? You awake, buddy?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says from his spot on the couch. His throat feels sore even with the one word he spoke. 

Then Anthony rounds the back of the couch and comes into focus. He’s got a mask on - probably because they can’t afford for him to get sick as well and Ale and Kiana would kill them- but his eyes are the same warm and affectionate brown that Ian’s always known. 

He’s sick and maybe that’s the reason that Ian feels extra happy to see Anthony. 

“How you feeling?” Anthony asks, leaning in and pressing the back of his hand to Ian’s damp forehead. 

“You shouldn’t touch me,” Ian says, “you’ll get sick.” and if he sounds just a tad more pathetic than he might otherwise, well, that’s his business. 

“I assumed the risks the moment I stepped in the door,” Anthony says. “Are you hungry? I brought you soup.” 

Ian opens his mouth but Anthony must sense the question because he barrels on. 

“It’s that good kind you like, the fancy one.” 

Ian smiles despite feeling so ill. God, he’s happy to see Anthony. 

“I got you popsicles too. I remember you used to eat them when you didn’t feel good as a kid.” 

Damn Anthony and his steel-trap memory. 

Ian sits himself up, tugging his blanket to wrap around his shoulders like a makeshift cape. 

“A popsicle sounds good.” 

Anthony nods and pads into the kitchen, Ian trailing along. 

Anthony digs into the freezer and produces the bright yellow popsicle box, popping open the sealed edge. 

Ian doesn’t have to tell him which color he wants. He watches as Anthony digs around for a red popsicle and hands it over to Ian. 

Ian takes the popsicle and sits at the stool at the island of his kitchen. Anthony turns to the paper bag and starts putting the cans of soup he bought away. 

“How was the office?” Ian asks, wrapped in his blanket and sucking at his popsicle. 

“Fine, everyone says hi,” Anthony says as he closes the cupboard and turns to face Ian. He smiles, which Ian can manage to see through the mask. “If I’m honest. It was boring as hell without you.” 

Ian smiles and he feels a little blip of affection pulse through him. 

“I’ll be back soon.” 

“I know,” Anthony says. “It’s just weird without you.” 

“Your turn to be a single parent,” Ian teases. 

Anthony laughs, “Okay, fair.” 

Anthony turns back to the bag and pulls out some medicine, setting it on the island in front of Ian. 

“I got you a couple different things. A syrup and a pill form, and some cough drops.” 

“Thanks,” Ian says. 

He pictures Anthony at the grocery store close to the office, walking through the aisles and picking out what he thought Ian might want or need. It makes his chest feel warm. That Anthony thought about him. That Anthony cares about him enough to come over, to bring soup, to bring medicine. 

“Of course,” Anthony says, “you’re my best friend, Ian.” 

Ian is quickly realizing he’s a sap when he’s sick and the words hit him harder than they might have otherwise. Anthony is his best friend. Anthony cares about him. Ian is glad for that. 

“For real,” Ian says again, “Thank you for taking care of me.” 

Ian knows he sound sickeningly sincere and if he weren’t sick he might be blushing. 

Anthony, he smiles, and Ian can see where the edges of his eyes get all misty. 

“Now I know you’re sick because you’re being really sweet.” 

“Shut up,” Ian whines. He has a tendency to be ‘baby girl’ as Erin likes to put it, around Anthony, and being sick only makes Ian want to slide into that role even further. 

He likes Anthony taking care of him, bringing him soup, smiling at him. 

“So,” Anthony says, “what were you watching?” 

Ian shrugs as he finishes off his popsicle, his mouth tasting of artificial cherries and childhood. 

“Just some history thing.” 

Ian slides off his stool and uses his foot to press down on the lever of his trash can, opening the lid up and tossing the stick inside. 

Anthony stretches and Ian thinks maybe he’ll decide to leave. After all, his job here is done for the most part. Ian is surprised at himself that he doesn’t want Anthony to go. 

“Sounds cool, let’s go watch it.” 

Then Anthony leads Ian into the living room and Ian settles on the couch, tugging his blanket back over him. Anthony sits in a recliner off to the side, a safe distance from Ian. 

Ian is comfortable, happy, as he chooses a brand new documentary to watch so Anthony can get the gist from the beginning. Anthony happily interjects his thoughts as they watch. Ian still feels like crap, but with Anthony over, the illness is a little more manageable.

[creativepromptsforwriting]

One Word Request:

Fever

Sickness Dialogue Prompts

Fever

It was like a fever dream that unfortunately became reality.

"We need to keep the fever down, so that we can move from here."

"Your forehead is a bit warm, but nothing a little bit of rest can't fix."

"Do you have a fever? Or are you just casually seeing things now?"

"I'll make you leg compresses. It's what my mom always did when I had a fever as a kid."

"This must be a fever dream. This can't really be happening."

"Do you feel hot? Are you dizzy?"

"You have a fever. We should go to a doctor before it gets worse."

"It's okay for now, but we don't want it to get infected. If you're feeling too warm, let me know."

One Word Prompt Lists

[daydadahlias]

Are u thinking of writing another groupchat fic? They’re my favorite bed time stories hihi

here u go sweetie <3 a bed time story just for u <3

[empresskaze]

🌨 for an old Camp Libriel member?

🌨️ Stuck in cold weather

I think it's this one, anon if you see this feel free to correct me cuz the emojis aren't totally the same for me.

~~~~

Gabriel Lane Herondale loathed the snow. From the slush that covered his loafers, to the dampness that matted his hair, to neverending chill that seeped into his bones from the weather, he despised it. His dearest claimed it was pretty, and perhaps it was, but only when enjoyed inside surrounded by working heat, warm tea, and no reason to leave.

Today, though, he found himself waiting at a bus stop while large billowy flakes coated his hair and aggravated his already tumultuous cold. One gloved hand clasped across his body as it tried desperately to retain the bit of warmth his coat brought; the other clutching his soddened handkerchief, which hovered mere inches from his red nose.

Sniffling, Gabriel's droopy tired eyes staring forward, trying not to think about how cold he was waiting for this god forsaken bus.

His breath hitched hard, his eyes squeezed shut as wet congested sneeze erupted into his waiting handkerchief. He'd not even had time to draw another breath before a second then a third followed, each ripping the back of his throat. Gabriel cupped his cloth around his nose, giving a clogged blow that brought little relief.

It was then Gabriel released he no longer felt snow patting his hair. Looking around, a well dressed man in a black coat was next to him holding an umbrella over Gabriel's head. The professor blinked in exhausted confusion.

The man smiled, "I know it isn't much but it seems any break from the snow might help you."

"Oh!" Gabriel felt a hot blush rush across his face stopping at his ears. "I-I appreciate it, b-but please don't...leave yourself..." Gabriel turned away catching another horrendous sneeze. "Exposed at my own expense." He finished sheepishly.

"I'm fine, I'm sure the bus will be here soon." The man replied.

Gabriel nodded, it did feel nice to be shielded from the persistent snow for now. "I normally stay hidden in my apartment," He paused to rub at his nose, "But my dearest partner is quite ill...as well..." He gave a disheartening sigh. "So I ventured forth for his med..." Gabriel’s face slacked, "his...med...me....ah..." Pinching at his nose did nothing, Gabriel bent forward desperately sneezing twice. As he straightened he felt another embarrassed blush fill his pale face but the man only blessed him.

"Well I hope you both feel better soon." He said as the bus finally approached.

"Yes...thank you and for the shelter." Gabriel said as he climbed aboard, taking a seat near the back so he wouldn't disturb anyone.

Closing his eyes, he leaned against the window, a poor attempt to get some rest before his stop, which he almost missed as he'd drifted off.

Back in the warm of the loft building, Gabriel rushed as best as his lungs could take him to the elevators, he wanted to be back home before Liam realized he'd been gone.

His dearest did so much for him, even though he felt awful, his poor Liam was worse and if helping him meant fighting the winter snow, Gabriel would do it every time.

[soft-for-yoongi]

Hello author!

2. 🏝☀️🥵🌡😵‍💫🤢🤮🚑 My idea is here with Jungkook sick and OT7 Caretakers, if possible! (I miss them :( So, they're enjoying a vacation together, in a private place. Its hot, and Jungkook cant handle well with it. He starts to feel week, dizzy and pale. Feeling like a low blood pressure. Everyone looks at him worried. Jungkook faints while drinking some water and after he's wakes and is a little conscious, throw up the water he has drank. The members get desperate and go rushing to a hospital, calling a ambulance, bc maybe jk gets a insolation

‐-------------------‐------‐‐----------------

Sick: Jungkook

Caretaker: OT7

Tw: emeto, vom**, puking, dizziness, fainting, heat stroke, mentions of hospital, ambulance called

Word count: 795

Emojis: 2. 🏝☀️🥵🌡😵‍💫🤢🤮🚑

Yayaya two people requested sick jk with this prompt so I combined them again!! I hope you enjoy and it's what you wanted!!

(I'm also unsure of how many more I'm going to write but I think around 2-3 more!)

‐-------------------‐------‐‐----------------

Searing heat, thick humidity, a private and breathtaking oasis by the beach. With only seven of them present, there are no intrusive cameras or rigid schedules, just pure relaxation. And that's why Jungkook is so upset he's not feeling well. The thought of ruining the holiday is ten times worse than the dizzying nausea and sweat trailing his back.

Jungkook's hand shakes as he brings a water bottle to his lips, he's hiding under his hair so the others can't see how pale and sickly he's looking (and feeling). They're at this small private beach, practically in the backyard of their temporary house. Taehyung and Jimin are playing about in the water, throwing soggy sand at each other. Jungkook was with them originally, playing in the warm, crystal-clear water before the heat started taking a toll on him.

He couldn't deny the nausea and slowly made his way back to the blanket and shade they set up. With every step, his legs felt like jelly, and the world was spinning around him. He plopped onto the blanket, and now he clutches onto the water bottle with his remaining strength.

The others are frolicking about in the sand and water, laughter a comforting sound. Jungkook hoped the shade would help but now he just feels isolated and achy. Just as he was about to take another sip of water, the beach towel rustles next to him. Jungkook turns to find Namjoon, who's sat down with a book in his hand, now looking at him with concern.

"Jungkook you don't look so good, are you feeling okay?" Namjoon reaches a hand to touch the youngest's cheek, feeling unnatural warmth. Jungkook tried to laugh it off, but it came out weak and shaky. "Yeah, I just need some rest." He replies, Namjoon isn't convinced. "No, Jungkook I think you should lay down. You really don't look good." Namjoon's brows pinch together. Jungkook swallows audibly, his head is really starting to pound.

Jungkook has no clue what Namjoon just said. His ears are buzzing and he's struggling to keep up right. He can see a few others start to walk over, confusion on their faces. He registers the water in his hand and goes to take a sip, but it just ends up spilling down his front. Woah, he doesn't feel good. He feels blood pumping in his ears before losing consciousness.

"—unkook! Jungkook, hey. Nono don't sit up—" Jungkook feels his stomach lurch, hands on his body and the worried voices of his bandmates. All he can do is whimper before throwing up to his side and then clutch the nearest person. "H-hyungie—" Jungkook cries, beads of sweat on his forehead. "Kookie, Kookie shh, calm down, Jinnie-hyung has called an ambulance. You're gonna be okay." Jimin smooths Jungkook's hair and Namjoon fans his face with his book.

"I'm gonna be sick- don' feel good.." Jungkook mumbles, Yoongi thinks quick and he grabs one of their empty snack containers and shoves it under his chin. Taehyung takes a bit of a clean towel and pours some water on it to rest at the back of Jungkook's neck and try cool him down. He burps and buries his face into the container.

He pukes clear liquid and Jimin trails his hand up and down his back. His head throbs with each gag and the bright sun still hurts his eyes even in the shade. Letting out a miserable groan, the others are jittery with worry. "Guys the ambulance is here, make room for them." Hoseok instructs and the members move out the way, except for Namjoon who holds Jungkook and the container steady.

Jungkook still manages to be shy and embarrassed as the paramedics check his vitals and ask a couple questions. "Jungkook-ssi how are you feeling right now? Still like before?" A middle aged woman asks, "n-not as bad.." Jungkook turns to Namjoon, hoping he can provide some more details. "He was super pale and dissociated. He's thrown up twice now but I think it was just the heat that got to him." Namjoon explains.

The paramedics strap something to Jungkook's arm and say that they should take him in to administer an IV. "So this is a mild case of heat stroke, two of you are able to ride with him to the hospital if you'd like." One of them suggests.

Seokjin and Taehyung are quick to volunteer and the others promise to meet them at the hospital. In the ambulance Jungkook feels a mixture of emotions, shy but also too sick to suppress his need for his hyung's dotting. He holds Taehyung's hand and asks Seokjin to play with his hair. Looking forward to feeling better, Jungkook vows to always stay hydrated when going to the beach.

[sickficideas]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55889791/chapters/141918550

Have you read this one yet? Its short but its sooo cute

Anon thank you so much for sending me this wahhh😭😭😭 This is one of the cutest sskk sickfics I've ever read, the author writes them so perfectly 🥺💖 and sick Atsushi is so rare 🥺🥺💖

Here is the link for easy access for anyone who wants to read it too, please give it some love !!! It's so good !!! 💖💖

[the-copycat-hero]

i NEED to say that i LOVE this account and its content to the ends of the earth. the amount of times your monoma hcs have given me inspiration to write fics is more than i can count. every time i see another post it basically makes my day so thank you sm for your good service god bless 😭😭🙏🙏🙏

this is so unbelievably sweet that i am rolling myself up in a comedically large carpet and flopping into the nearest body of water, thank u :')

i love this dumb little brilliant blond, and i am glad that you have managed to draw some inspiration from my incessant rambling about him 🙏 rest assured i shall continue to yap in the days to come