#anyway my head's fever-muddled

[mayomkun]

Rewatching dead boy detectives and I love the music box that starts playing when Charles started hitting the night nurse. Like, the haunting melody went so well with the shock of what we learned about Charles' past and his sudden outburst (spiralling out of control, the feeling of the world beating down on you over and over and even when you try your best, be your best self, it isn't enough and there isn't anything you can do). And then morphed to something more upbeat/thrilling when she fell into the sea, followed by complete silence with Charles' breakdown. Oughhhhhhhhh

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

Burning Up

TW: Delirium, fever (symptoms described), mentioned pills (medicine, I swear)

What is this? It's the fluff snippet I promised my lovely nemesis @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 , and I really hope you enjoy this < 3 < 3

"Are you alright?"

The words seemed to snap the heroine abruptly out the void of her own muddled up thoughts, feeling as though her head were stuffed with cotton, everything an incoherent blur.

"Yes," she still answered back anyway, a trained response, one that stopped people from prying any further, from looking disappointed. It was the answer they really wanted to hear, even if it really disproved the question's validity.

Except the villain didn't smile, and he didn't leave the way he was supposed to. His brows were furrowed, and his arms were folded across his chest, and even though the hero didn't say anything, she just knew she didn't enjoy the sight.

She'd always hated it when he frowned, when he wasn't smiling, or wasn't even wearing the cocky smirk he always brought to their fights. She couldn’t tell what exactly in her response had warranted such a reaction from the criminal, but the guilt twisting knots at the pit of her stomach was very palpable.

As she stepped closer to him, pulling her rigid, aching muscles into a fighting stance; anything to distract him, the attempt hindered by her sluggish movements, all she'd managed to do was stumble towards him, losing her balance humiliatingly fast. It was only her luck that the villain's reflexes were still as razor-sharp as always, rapidly pulling her into his arms and steadying her with his weight.

And he was warm, and blissfully so, his grip firm but never unkind. As fervently as the crime-fighter wanted to lie down, the villain's embrace was comfortable, comfortable to the point that her train of thoughts, broken and destined to crash seemed to steady a bit, the world losing its edge of murkiness for just a moment.

Carefully, the villain pulled away and pressed his hand to her forehead, immediately retracting it away as if he'd been burnt. The guilt resurfaced again, an old, unwelcome demon resurrected, even more so as his frown deepened.

He let out a soft curse. "What were you thinking? Trying to fight when you're like this? You're burning up!" he interjected, his eyes wide, and a note of concern in his voice mixed in with the annoyance.

Except all her mind chose to focus on was the villain's choice of words to describe her state. 'Burning up', as he'd called it, didn't seem too far-fetched from the fire in her head, practically sizzling across her flushed skin, bile rising at the back of her irritated throat, her sore muscles burning with the pain, every movement agonising. Even if she couldn't see that she was burning, literally burning, it felt exactly as though she was.

"You're coming home with me, right now. Whatever ludicrous reason you might have for pulling this bloody stunt, I don't want to hear it," he stated, blunt as always, lifting the hero into a bridal carry almost as though it was second nature to him.

And in the midst of her delirious state, the hero hadn't memorised the route he'd taken home in his car, or how he'd accessed his lair, probably not being able to tell it was a lair as he carried her up into his actual residence. In a different state, the heroine's uncanny attention to detail would have engraved it all into her memory. She only registered the arms that were around her, and the pain that racked her body; her mind becoming too primitive to notice much beyond what she could physically feel.

Soon enough, she found herself being laid down on silk sheets. a thick blanket being drawn over her, and he took her temperature and he swore again, letting out a tired sigh. And just when the villain was about to leave the room. . ."D-don't g. . .go," she slurred, her fingers gripping onto his sleeve as firmly as she could manage.

"I'll just get a couple things for your fever. Won't take me long, I promise." Something in the villain's demeanour shifted, his gaze softening for a mere moment, except he doubted the heroine would take note of it.

There was no doubt about the fact that she would realise she wasn't holding onto his sleeve anymore as he left.

He came back with a cold compress, a glass of water and a bottle of pills, sitting himself at the edge of the bed. Carefully, with a gentleness she'd never known the villain to be capable of, he placed the compress on her forehead, the coolness heavenly against her burning, sweat-slick skin. "Okay, I just need you to sit up and swallow these," he said, and he knew full-well that if she was in a better state she wouldn't have taken the medication so willingly, ergo, she wouldn't have trusted him so willingly. He couldn't help it as a pang of guilt seemed to crawl across his skin, but he shook it off anyway, focusing his attention on steadying the heroine's shaking hands and making sure she swallowed those pills.

He realised he hated seeing the hero, his supposed nemesis, struggling to lift her head up and put it back down, every movement clearly agony for her. He'd imagined he'd revel in her weakness, but right now, nothing of the sort had happened.

The villain had found a washcloth in one of the drawers, using some of the remaining water in the glass to wet it and wipe the sweat off her face and neck, his fingers carding through her hair absently as he pushed himself inwards onto the bed, letting Hero huddle into his form for warmth.

"Y-you're. . .gorgeous," she rasped out, staring into the villain's eyes, taking in the features of his face, his figure, all of him, even in this clouded state.

"What?" he blurted out, completely taken aback, but still continuing to stroke through the heroine's hair.

"Haven't you seen yourself?" she questioned incredulously, as though it was the most obvious thing in existence.

The villain smirked in response, "Well, I guess I'm not narcissistic enough for your point to stick."

"Villain I. . .I'm in love with you," the hero admitted, and he'd never heard her voice so laden with conviction before, not when she'd promised to defeat him, and not any other time ever, her eyes locking with his own, her gaze unrelenting.

Sure, it still irked the villain that when the heroine had confessed her love to him, she'd been delirious, and that her strong emotion could possibly be a result of the aforementioned delirium, but that didn't mean these words held no weight or that the way the hero had regarded him - was still regarding him, had no effect on him.

So for once in his life, the villain sucked in a sharp breath and decided to risk it. "I'm in love with you too," he stage-whispered, carefully shifting the hero so that she was lying down on his lap and kissing her forehead gently.

Some locks are easy to pick, others not so much. That does not mean opening them is impossible, just that it may take a little longer to find the key. Most people aren't aware of what they are capable of feeling, of doing when their heart starts to beat for someone else. But they can never find out unless they have the courage to face the daunting possibility of taking the chance offered to them because love doesn't knock on the door; it walks in announced, and you get to choose what to do about it.

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Wanna be on the taglist? This'll take you there!

[cuddlepilefics]

SKZ Season Greetings - 10

Gone Fever

“Where’ve you been?“, Minho whined as he watched Jisung rummage through his closet to help himself to some of his hyung’s clothes. The older had just woken up alone and it had taken a bit for the rapper to sneak in and head straight for the closet. There was some shuffling as Jisung slipped on a large hoodie before shutting the closet door. Turning to Minho he smiled: “I took a shower. Think my fever broke and I wanted to feel a little more like myself. Still stuffed up as hell and my throat hurts but the fever’s down and now that the fever and sweat are gone, I feel a lot better.” – “’s good to hear”, the older yawned, relaxing back into the pillows. He wasn’t necessarily sleepy anymore but it was cozy there. Minho had his eyes closed when a cool hand appeared on his forehead and Jisung rasped: “Still pretty warm. Do you feel like having breakfast? It's almost noon and I’ll head to the kitchen for some tea anyway.” – “Gimme a moment an' I’ll come along”, Minho sniffled as he propped himself up, “Maybe having a bite will give me my energy back.”

The common area was quiet with both Hyunjin and Jeongin asleep on the couch. Changbin had helped Seungmin put fresh sheets on his bed before the two got comfortable to watch a drama, his laptop abandoned on the dining table. Jisung spotted it and quickly went over to save whatever files were still open because he didn’t trust Changbin’s fever muddled brain to remember saving his progress. Already feeling shaky from the short walk from his room, Minho let himself plop into one of the seats and rested his head on the table. “I’ll be there in a second”, he muttered weakly as he heard Jisung rummage through the kitchen, “Jus’ need a moment.” – “It’s okay, just stay put, hyung”, the rapper hummed, starting the kettle. He got both of them some rice and fruit, only having to wait for the tea. Minho picked up his head when his dongsaeng set down a bowl in front of him. Sympathetically patting the dancer’s back, Jisung smiled: “Got you some rice to replenish your energy and fruit for the vitamins. Tea will be ready in a couple of minutes. Anything else?” – “Thanks”, Minho rasped as he shook his head, a smile playing on his lips when the younger took a seat opposite him.

As soon as they were done eating, Jisung talked Minho into taking a bath, while he himself settled in front of Changbin’s laptop. He saved copies of each of the files, so he could make alterations to their songs but still had Changbin’s versions in case they didn’t approve of the changes he made. Despite having gotten over his fever, Jisung soon felt his head ache again after only a few minutes of looking at the screen. He knew though that he’d take a lot of stress off his hyungs’ shoulders if there was less piled up work after they recovered, so he was determined to get as much as possible done. A slight chill ran down his spine and he had to suppress a shudder, startling when a hand appeared on his back. “What’re you doing, hyung?”, Jeongin breathed, furrowing his brows. He had only gotten up to have some water, planning to go right back to cuddling Hyunjin afterwards.

Glancing up at their maknae, Jisung hummed: “Trying to not let us fall too far behind.” – “Shouldn’t you be resting?”, Jeongin hummed, noting that his hyung’s voice still sounded wrecked. Giving the younger a smile, Jisung proudly informed: “Oh, I’m okay. My fever’s gone.” Though Jeongin was surprised how the rapper could be recovered already while him and Changbin, who had fallen ill first hadn’t significantly improved yet, he wanted to be happy for his friend. It’d probably take a couple more days for his voice to return to normal, while the congestion could take one or two weeks to kick but getting over his fever was a huge step into the right direction.

As Jeongin turned to go back to the living room, he saw Jisung shudder from the corner of his eye. He contemplated asking the rapper if he was sure that his fever was gone because he surely wouldn’t still be having chills if it was but decided that he was far to tired to argue with his hyung, knowing the other had his mind set anyway. Realizing he was alone again, Jisung gave a stuffy sigh. Sure, he could work more productively if he was on his own but he had found himself so much more dependent on company lately, he was almost sad that the younger had left. Jeongin did come back for a moment though, draping a blanket around his hyung’s shoulders to ease the chills. The gesture made Jisung’s heart flutter and the fond smile remained on his lips while he continued to work, one corner of the blanket constantly pressed to his runny nose, muffling the sniffles.

The longer Jisung stared at the screen in front of him, the more his vision was blurring. His eyes stung, frequently flooding with irritated tears as he tried to blink away the blurriness and get them to focus but there was barely any use. Minho had gone back to bed, drowsy from his bath, so Jisung worked in complete silence, facing his battle on his own. It was Chan who eventually found him, gently rubbing his back through the blanket. “What are you doing, Sung?”, the leader rasped, eyes scanning the computer screen. Looking up at the oldest with bloodshot eyes, Jisung mumbled: “My fever’s gone since I woke up this morning, so I tried to get something done. It’ll be easier to catch up again if we don’t fall too far behind schedule.” Furrowing his brows, Chan rested his palm against his dongsaeng’s forehead and hummed: “I know for a fact that I’m still feverish, yet you feel warm to me. If your fever was down earlier, it has most definitely gone up again by now.”

A few beats of silence passed as the realization sunk in. “Oh”, Jisung muttered, rubbing his nose into the corner of his blanket, “That’d explain the headache, I guess.” – “Come on, you should go and lay down”, Chan smiled sympathetically. The rapper shook his head though, insisting: “It’s flowing really well, right now. I can’t stop yet.” – “That’s why there’s a blank lyrics page open?” – “Endless ideas that will be gone if you keep interrupting my thought process”, Jisung sighed dramatically. “Sure thing”, Chan chuckled, lightly shaking his head, “Come on, you need rest.” – “Could you stop distracting me, hyung?”, the rapper whined, “You make it damn near impossible to focus.” – “I doubt that I’m the reason you can’t focus”, Chan reminded patiently, “You’re sick, I bet your head feels all heavy and fogged up too.” Jisung hummed softly in agreement before reaching for his cup, only to realize he had already finished his tea. “Let me get you some water and then it’s back to bed for you”, the leader sighed, “Assuming your fever had actually been gone earlier, you probably relapsed because you tried to do too much too early.”

After having Jisung sip some water, Chan offered him a hand and smiled: “Felix’ back still hurts and he’s in desperate need of cuddles, so if you’re really so eager to do something useful, go keep him company.” The rapper nodded tiredly, allowing his hyung to guide him to Felix’ room, where he crawled onto the bed next to his twin and closed his eyes. When Chan was confident that Jisung would be asleep within the next few minutes, he exited the room and headed back to the dining table to go over what his dongsaengs had worked on while he had been asleep. No way he as the leader could be slacking while his dongsaengs worked so hard through their illness.

A hesitant hand appeared on Chan’s back and the leader looked up startled. “What are you doing and where’s Sungie?” – “I’m picking up where he left off”, Chan muttered before clearing his throat, “He insisted he was recovered.” – “Yeah, he is”, Minho confirmed, frowning when the oldest shook his head. ��His fever was pretty high when I found him out here. Probably made himself relapse because he wanted to start back up at 100%”, Chan sighed, “I made him take a nap with Lixxie.” – “Make sure, you’re not pushing yourself too hard too early”, the dancer commented, realizing that Chan was doing exactly what Jisung had, “If it backfired in his case, it’ll probably backfire in your case too.” – “I’m not pushing myself”, the older denied, “Just making sure his effort wasn’t in vain.” Minho only gave him a stern look and to his surprise, his hyung relented. “I guess I’m doing what he did”, Chan admitted, resting his head in his hands, “Bet you’re going to tell me to be a good role model and go rest till I’m fully recovered?” Minho only kept looking at him, so he sighed: “And you won’t stop breathing down my neck until I actually do so.” – “I mean, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take so long to because I’m tired as hell and my legs feel like jelly but don’t test me, I will stand here breathing down your neck till you finally do so”, Minho agreed.

Chan knew that Minho wasn’t kidding and felt guilty to be the reason the dancer had to stay on his feet despite feeling too weak to do so. Saving his work, he shut the laptop and got to his feet. For a moment, he swayed, his vision darkening around the edges. “Let’s go lay down”, Minho hummed, his hand reassuringly resting against the small of Chan’s back, “I really wanted to continue that anime I’ve been watching but it’s more fun with some company and since you put Jisung to bed, you’ll have to watch it with me.” The leader chuckled at that as he sluggishly followed Minho to his room. He knew the other preferred watching stuff on his own, so the statement had most definitely been a lie but he also knew that his dongsaeng would never ask for cuddles outright, which was cute in a way. Being the one to get the cuddle-privilege from Minho, obviously made Chan feel really warm inside, so there was no way he could turn the offer down.

[comfort-questing]

14. captivity

"I swear, if there were anything I could do to free you, I would already have done it."

she knelt down next to him where he lay on the floor, the stiff gray cloth of her uniform cloak breaking and folding against the flagstones. the faint light of her lantern was the brightest thing in the bare room, touching the dirty blond tousles of his hair, the faded blanket askew over him. his eyes found hers, fever-muddled and resentful, but he didn't flinch as she reached over to check the bandages on his shoulder.

"you've said that for days now." he grimaced, now, as the bloodstained cloth came away under her hands. "do they - ah - know you're helping me? are you just another one of their toys, and if I don't behave they'll take you away - too?"

"shush, you," she said, without particular heat or malice, but absently.

the long sword-slash laying open the skin across his collarbone had been stitched shut, but infection still wept up between the knots of thread. she dipped the rag she'd brought and began cleaning the mess away gently, lower lip caught between her teeth as she worked.

wearily, he let his eyes close again, though his jaw was clenched against the pain.

"I'm no liar," she said at last. "and just because I work with them doesn't mean I have to be beholden to them for all my comings and goings. can't you take a gift as you find it?"

his hands tightened on the blanket, scarred knuckles pale in the lanternlight. "I don't trust gifts - ah."

"easy. I'm almost done now." her face was grave, lip still twisted in her teeth. "I should have hot water for this, and better light - but here's more salve anyway, and a fresh bandage. mind you don't try to move that arm too much."

"heh - I'll do my best." he bit off another gasp as she helped him lean forward, ever so slightly, to wrap the bandage around behind his back. his head was pillowed against her knees for a moment, where she'd placed him, and he stared quizzically up at her as if trying to decipher the impassive look she wore.

"thanks - lady."

"you're welcome, prisoner." she tied off the bandage and laid him back down, pulling up the blanket over him. "sleep well. I'll be back."

he didn't know what he thought of her promise, but he listened to her footsteps anyway on the long stairway, winding downwards until they were swallowed by silence.

[nycorix]

Consequences [9/11]

[fic post]

|part 1| |part 2| |part 3| |part 4| |part 5| |part 6| |part 7| |part 8|

HI NKSVERSE FANDOM HOW ARE WE FEELING !! LMAO I was diligently editing this project regularly and then Real Life happened and now it's been a whole year whoops

Anyways!! In honor of the Flight & Anchor release next month, I'm finally resurrecting this! For any of y'all still reading/interested in this fic, thank you I love you <333 (also: everyone go preorder the novella it's my personal enduring favorite of Nicole's work bc it got me fully hyperfixated on the 'verse etc. etc.) For any newcomers, this particular project of mine is a love letter to this novella specifically, a sort of mirror fic that pays homage to that event in their lives (and to Them generally. It's been over two years and I still adore them so much omg they're probably my favorite Bestie Duo I've ever encountered).

This part is another one of my favorites ngl. It is the one in which 22 is so feverish and overstimulated he picks a fight with 06 because he doesn't know how else to process emotion for absolutely no reason. (I wanna know what if any resources were devoted to these kids' mental health. Diana Reyes I just wanna talk-)

TW: the operatives' toxic trait of not being careful with their bodies

Enjoy!!(?)

_______

9.

His fingers are numb beneath the smart fabric of his gloves. His toes, ears, his whole face is numb, but his eyes and nose sting like hell, his throat burning all the way down to his lungs and he is tired. So, so tired—a level of exhaustion he’s unfamiliar with, that aches all the way to his bones. His muscles are on fire, his lungs keep spasming, and his head is throbbing violently enough that his vision blackens at the edges. 

Yet only two words loop on repeat in his muddled brain, hammering down with every lurching beat of his heart.

Worth it. 

As he flings the hundredth scrap of twisted metal into a pile the size of a small house, ready for the incinerator cart.

Worth it. 

As he heaves a broken slab of concrete up off a mangled car, then tosses the car and the slab into the pile.

Worth it. 

When he pauses to cough, fighting desperately to control his breathing before he damages any internal organs, biting down hard on his tongue to quell the paroxysms, spitting the blood he draws onto the crumbled pavement at his feet. 

Worth—

“Hey, dumbass!”

He barely hears her over the ringing in his ears, but she’s upon him in seconds anyway, hand clamped to his shoulder. He tries to say something—fuck off, probably, or what are you doing here or go back to HQ you idiot but all that comes out is a strained sound that may or may not be “Kit—”.

She ignores it, gripping his shoulder bracingly with one hand while she claps the other to his forehead. 

“She sent you out with this fever?” she says, voice low, careful.

His silence is all the answer she needs.

“I’ll fucking kill her.” Her voice is the calm before a storm neither of them can afford, not now, not this time, not anymore.

“Leave me alone,” he rasps, wincing at the nothing state of his voice. Pushes her, harder than he means to. She stumbles back several yards, arms flailing for balance, too stunned to reply for a moment before the anger comes. 

“Like hell I will.” She plants herself solidly between him and the rubble pile, eyes squinted against the wind that lashes around the corners of the buildings to buffet against them. “What the fuck do you think this is, some misguided half-assed attempt at—”

“This is.” he interrupts, hooking his shoulder into hers and tilting forward, “Me covering.” he pushes, just the barest fraction of his strength, and she staggers, nearly tripping over her feet, “For you.” He bends down, picks up a four-foot chunk of broken concrete, hoists it on his shoulder as he locks eyes with her. “Yesterday was a mistake. I told you she’d know. And she always needs a scapegoat.” He pitches the debris over his shoulder, an involuntary shudder passing through him at the way the clatter grates against his oversensitive ears. “I was the one available. Better to lose one than risk two.” His voice cracks at the end, whittled to nothing by the virus waging war in his throat, but the jab hits home. 

“That's bullshit and you know it,” she mutters, kicking a meter-length of metal pipe toward the pile, but he doesn’t miss the flash of hurt in her eyes before she drops them. 

“Is it.” He scans the ground, frowns as it blurs before his eyes. He stoops, picks up a dormant resonance grenade—gingerly, thumb and forefinger—crushes it down to a marble-sized lump of inert junk metal, winds up, and sends it flying straight through the chassis of a Greenleaf surveillance drone several hundred feet above their heads.

“Whoa, watch it!” 06 yelps, peering up into the clouds with a hand shading her eyes. She tilts her head, tracking the trajectory of the falling drone by the sound, then springs into motion. In just seconds, she sprints across the street and leaps into the air, snatching the smoking hulk of machinery before it can slam sideways into a Stellaxis info board. She folds it in half, then half again, chucking it onto the rubble pile and dusting her hands off with a bemused twist of her lips. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Move.” He brushes past her hard enough for her to grunt in pain, stalks up the side of the pile, and shoves his hand through the crumpled layers of metal into the drone’s transmitter module, extracting a small plastic chip and crushing it into powder. “Don’t be sloppy.”

“Come back with me, idiot.”

“I have one more street to go.” A wave of dizziness washes over him as he starts to descend the pile, and he pauses, half-closing his eyes. “My orders are to do this alone, you shouldn’t be here. Go back.”

“I won’t.”

Frustration bubbles up despite his every effort to keep it down, and he’s beside her in a single roughly calculated leap. “06,” he starts warningly, but she only rolls her eyes. 

“‘22’.” Light, mocking. Then, after a breath, his name. No trace of the kickback in her eyes. “You’re being a stubborn ass and you know it.”

This doesn’t dignify a response. They stare at each other, at a standoff. 

She looks like she’s cooking up some juicier insult, or worse, maybe something compassionate. 

“Hey—”

Before she can get any actual words out, he sneezes, which feels approximately like getting all of his ribs kicked in at once (a sensation with which he is, in fact, intimately familiar). His expression after must be a sight, because when he looks up she is staring harder, that deep furrow creasing her brow that he hates. 

“What,” he tries to say, but he sneezes again—this time bottling it up with every last inch of his willpower, ignoring the detonation of pain behind his eyes—and this expression must be even worse, because now she is glaring at him. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” she says, face undergoing a series of contortions—concerned to alarmed to sympathetic to incredulous—that would have been funny if he wasn’t so strung-out-pissed. 

“Shut up,” he grinds out, meant as a snap but lacking about eighty percent of the energy required for that. 

She sighs, raking both hands up through her cropped hair. “Fine,” she mutters. “At least let me help you.” She picks up a piece of metal, which he snatches out of her hands faster than she can gear up to toss it. 

“No.” He’s tired—so fucking tired—and he’s not sure if he’s angry at her or just himself. 

He chucks the piece of metal toward the pile, skews wide by several feet, and watches it careen off course and smash through a third story window, greeted by a smattering of screams. Every molecule of him cringes away from the thought of the message the Director will absolutely be sending him about this, fear and subsequent fury at the fear pooling like poison in his stomach.

He fists his hands so tightly, a bone in his left index finger snaps. 

06 flinches, shooting him a look that he steadily ignores. When the moment wears thin, silence stretching taut between them, 06 tsks, catching up his wrist with a rough little tug.

“Idiot,” she says softly, digging in a pocket. “Don’t just leave it like that.”

Her warm fingers brush against his frigid skin through the barest gap between glove and sleeve, featherlight, and it is too much.

His sword is out before his thoughts catch up with his absolutely misdirected blind rage, the point grazing her throat. A glance down reveals hers at his heart, a hairline tear in the fabric of his jacket as she leans casually into the onehanded counterstrike. Her stance is open, healing device tucked behind the thumb on her free hand where he can see it. Her face is a question, a new glimmer of hurt kept guarded just beneath the surface.

“Touch me again,” he breathes, drawing a tiny bead of blood from her skin, "and I will kill you."

Incredulity and amusement tick her eyebrows up, but her eyes themselves are very, very serious. “I’d like to see you try.”

Six minutes later, he’s still not sure why they’re fighting but he is sure that he has to keep moving, has to keep striking, has to keep control at all costs. 06 is going easy on him, he knows that she is, yet somehow this has no power to dissuade him from the nonsensical match he’s thrown himself into. They’re a tangle of swords and limbs, boots and fists, and it’s both so much better and so very much worse than his previous ill-fated match with 08.

Sparring with 06 is like fighting an extension of himself. They are a single fluidity, a collective force, two jagged halves of a whole. Their pivots and lunges, strikes and blocks weave together in a seamless flow, easy as breathing, every potential move the other could make etched irrevocably into the folds of their brains. He could do this in his sleep.

Several more minutes pass, indeterminate. The incandescent edges of his anger abruptly cool, releasing his mind and dropping him unceremoniously back into his body just in time for him to realize that he is fading. Rapidly. With 08, he’d still had the greater part of his faculties; now, he’s running on autopilot, the fever like a fire raging in his veins. Black spots shimmer across his field of vision in time with his pulse, which thunders in his ears. His awareness of his body is reduced to points of pain—head, throat, finger, chest—and all of it is screaming at him to sit the fuck down.

He needs to finish this, and quickly.

With the last dregs of his strength, he surges forward, sheathing his sword. As he strides into range, he catches her sword at the base, gripping it in one gloved hand and ignoring the bite of the blade through his fingers as he yanks it from her grasp and casts it aside. In one swift, lethal motion he corrals her by the throat, one handed, and pins her up against the nearest wall. 

He’s prepared for the way her hands circle his wrist, a vice-grip that she will tighten further and further until his arm breaks or he lets go. He’s unprepared for the way all of his muscles start trembling, shuddering with the effort of holding her up that’s normally no effort at all.

“Match.” The word falls from his parched throat, unrecognizably blunted in his own ears. He’s shaking all over now, and he has to let her down a moment before she properly concedes, teeth chattering in his head as the heat generated from the exertion dissipates and he’s wracked with full-body chills.

He thinks 06 replies, but he isn’t sure. Suddenly, everything is fuzzy and wrong, his vision splintering into fractals of white and black as a wave of dizziness swallows him whole. The street spins out from beneath him, 06’s face a blur against the sickly too-bright-ness, and then there is nothing, and he is falling, and it stops.

|part 10|

[osamiiya]

Pairing: Atsumu x Reader (Slight Osamu x Reader)

Summary: Atsumu has a date with his longtime crush, only for him to get sick. Luckily, his twin brother has a can of semi permanent hair dye and an open schedule.

Warnings: Atsumu and Osamu having one brain cell

A/n: Alternative ending with Osamu ?

The first time was when Atsumu was too sick to make it to his 'no makeups' math test. Osamu ran to buy a can of spray-on hair dye and combed his hair the other way.

And it worked, Atsumu got the 100% and Osamu got his chores done for a month.

The second and third times were just for fun, a test to see how long they could go before someone noticed, and usually by practice someone did, but it was always doubted because; "Well, it looks like Atsumu."

The fourth time was when Atsumu scored a date with his longtime crush, a feat nobody saw coming.

Atsumu had built himself up to ask for your number and a date, striding across the classroom amidst the laughs and giggles of his classmates, confidence draining with each step as he neared your desk.

'Act cool, Act cool'

The mantra plays on repeat as he clears his throat.

"Are you free Saturday?" He holds out his phone in hopes you understand.

Nobody expected you to give him a smile and carefully take the phone out of his hand, putting your number in and texting it, waiting for your text alarm before adding his contact into your phone.

And in hindsight, Atsumu should've been careful the following week, not overworking himself and certainly not forgetting his umbrella in the morning.

He layed in bed Friday night, covers pulled up to his chin as Osamu laughed at his sniffling and raspy voice.

"You should just reschedule." Suna offers, watching Atsumu's pink face, from his fever, go even pinker with indignation.

"There's no way, I've been waiting for this for a year now." A cough punctuates his argument and Suna and Osamu cringe behind their facemasks.

"There's no way you'll be able to go when you're this sick." Osamu nods in agreement with Suna's words, feeling slightly sorry for his brother now.

Osamu is quick to jump in when Atsumu opens his mouth to argue.

"You won't be completely better by tomorrow night, that's just crazy."

Atsumu pouts, significantly more whiny now that he was sick.

The trio sit in silence for a moment before a lightbulb goes off in Atsumu's head.

"I don't have to go on the date-"

Suna groans and interjects with a "That's what we've been trying to tell you."

To which Atsumu rolls his eyes and continuous.

"-Osamu can go."

It's silent as the words process in the boy's minds.

"What?" Osamu let's out a shocked laugh.

"You don't have any plans other than gaming with Suna anyways, just go as me and if you score another date I'll go on it. They won't be able to tell."

Now it should be said that sometimes Atsumu has bad plans said with great enough execution where it makes a sliver of sense.

A few minutes of arguing later, Osamu agrees with a huff as Suna laughs.

The next morning Atsumu helps spray Osamu's hair with the semi-permanant hair dye, watching his hair go from gray to yellow before combing it to the other side.

"We still look nothing alike." Osamu's grumpy, and the blond is slightly off, the way they stand completely different.

"Nonsense, you finally look hot."

Osamu can't strangle a sick person, that would be cruel.

But he does anyways, finally letting go of his twins neck at the three frantic taps Atsumu smacks on his shoulder.

The clock strikes 6pm and Osamu finally heads out, his gait changing slightly to be more believable as Atsumu's phone weighs down his pocket.

And he waits for you at the restaurant, flicking through his brothers phone mindlessly, going through his social media feed and commenting on all of Osamu's posts.

And then you arrive.

"Hey." Osamu, no, Atsumu smiles, tucking his phone into his back pocket like he's seen his brother do before.

"Ready to go in?"

"You look nice Atsumu."

Osamu, now Atsumu, smiles cheekily before returning the compliment.

The two of you have dinner, laughing and talking about everything, even holding hands as you walk through the streets, pointing out things in shops and even stopping at an empty store for rent.

"My... brother wants to open a restaurant." The place is perfect, the size, the location, the price.

"Oh yeah, Osamu did want to open an onigiri restaurant, I kind of remember that."

Osamu takes a picture of the store and sends it to his phone, wanting to remember this location.

"Who knows if he can do it, I think he should just stay with volleyball." Osamu's words are an echo of Atsumu's, and a sad glint takes place in his eyes.

It's noticeable enough for you to catch, squeezing his hand slightly to catch his attention.

"I think he can do it."

It's silent for a beat, Osamu completely taken aback before realizing he wasn't supposed to be Osamu.

"We'll see if the idiot actually goes through with it."

You continue walking, swinging your hands slightly and Osamu gets why Atsumu is so infatuated with you, the way you look under the street lights, the sound of your laugh, and gosh, your smile.

He snaps out of it as he walks you home.

"Thanks for taking me out today Osamu." You smile and wave from the doorway, and Osamu waves back, not realizing at first.

And then his face flushes and he let's out a shocked sound of question as you lean against the doorway.

"You think I wouldn't be able to tell my crush apart from his brother? Besides, Atsumu was out sick yesterday too, there's no way he'd get better so quickly."

You think for a minute, studying his face, they really did look similar.

"Besides, your eyes are different."

Osamu's shocked enough where words don't form as you continue.

"Don't tell Atsumu I know, I want to see what happens." You laugh slightly as you wave goodnight and close the door, Osamu standing in shock for a moment before walking home.

The moment Osamu steps into the house, Atsumu's on him like a beast, a flurry of questions sometimes interrupted with a coughing fit as Osamu trys to lean away.

"It went fine, they really like you." The jealousy is well hidden, and if Atsumu wasn't sick and head already feeling muddled, he would've picked up on it.

"Dude, I need to wash this out of my hair." Osamu groans as Atsumu asks more questions, what were you wearing? What did you order for dinner? Osamu payed right?

Atsumu doesn't get a text all weekend from you, leading to an argument between the brothers, Atsumu thinking Osamu had messed everything up, to which Osamu argued that it was Atsumu's idea in the first place.

Until Monday, Atsumu all recovered and sitting anxiously at his desk waiting for you to walk throught he door.

"Y/n!" He's out of his desk in a flash, smiling nervously as he approaches you.

"You, uh, never texted." He prepares to be rejected, and prepares to finally murder his twin.

"You never showed up Atsumu." There's a teasing smile on your face as murderous rage fills Atsumu's eyes, Osamu stood you up?

"I was pretty bummed when Osamu showed up instead."

The lump in his throat goes away as he realizes.

"How did you know?"

You smile playfully, catching eyes with Osamu across the room.

"You have different eyes."

"Oh."

"How does this upcoming Saturday sound?"

Atsumu's confused for a second before he realizes.

"Like a date?"

At your nod he smiles.

"Then it's a date. And with me, not Osamu."

---

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[karasuno-volley]

HAIKYUU BOYS + TAKING CARE OF YOU WHEN YOU’RE SICK ( ft. tsukki, oikawa, atsumu )

pairing: haikyuu boys + gn!reader

tw: sickness. nothing serious, just some cold symptoms. timeskip spoilers maybe?

a/n: i've been sick for the past few days and just can’t seem to shake it, so i’ve written something a bit more in-the-moment. shout-out to the “always sick during cold months” gang. reblogs / likes welcome, no reposting !! love, volley.

     You don’t cry in front of Tsukishima. Or, if you do, it’s exceedingly rare. You two worked so well together because of your personalities. Cut and dry humor and soft teasing is more of your couple style. However, when Kei finally stops by your house after school, knowing you’ve been sick, he’s not quite sure what he’s doing there. Standing outside of your door, he mumbles how much of an idiot he is. You told him specifically not to show up, but now, outside with some soup and other feel-good snacks, Kei wasn’t sure whether to knock or text you. In the end, he decides to call you. That in itself was also rare-- you didn’t enjoy talking on your phone, so many of your conversations, if not happening in person, were played out through texts. Also rarely, you answer it on the first ring. You don’t say anything, because Tsukki already hung up after the first disheartening sniffle. Opening the door to your house, he knows that neither your parents or siblings will be home this early. He makes his way up to your room, barely knocking before pushing the door slightly ajar. Tsukki is greeted by the sight of you, head in hands, tears of frustration running down your face.

     “Are you okay?” He asks, already reaching for the nearby tissues. You wave him off, sniffling once before choking up a response. “I’m fine.” When Tsukki approaches with the box of tissues, you try to steal a few to clean yourself up, but he pulls away, instead drying your tears himself. He settles himself next to you, quiet and reflective as you slowly stop crying. “Did something happen?” He asks. You haven’t really seen this side to him. He must think someone made you cry, because his eyes are dark and angered. “No, I just… My head, it hurts, and…” Oh, God, how could you ever explain to him that you were crying because of a headache? But to your surprise, Kei only nods, adjusting so that he’s sitting against your pillows. You watch, confusion muddling your features. “Well?” He mumbles, reaching for your hand. “Come on. Get some rest.” When you finally give in and lay against his chest, he carefully places some of your blankets on top of the pair of you. Before you knew it, you were comfortably asleep, breathy sighs escaping your lips. Tsukki runs his hand through your hair a few times, but soon enough, he also succumbs to sleep.

     It felt like each time you flew to Argentina to visit him, you always caught some sort of cold. Tooru would joke for the first week of your visit that the only reason you flew out to visit him was so that he could baby you. But now, two weeks into your visit, this damn head cold had yet to disappear. Tooru quickly becomes more concerned as each day passes and you’re still coughing and complaining of aches and chills. When he sees you out of bed in the morning, dragging your feet along the floor, he immediately turns to you. “And what do you think you’re doing out of bed?” He smirks, one hand on his hip. You’ve known that stance since high school-- the one where he isn’t going to let you just slide right past him. You raise your eyes to his, sighing. When you do speak, it’s rough and dry, a product of coughing for most of the night. “Tooru, don’t you have practice? What are you doing here still?” You sniffle, and then come to your surroundings a bit better. Some soup was simmering on the stove, a tea kettle steaming close by. “I took the day off.” He says, as if that’s an obvious thing.

     You’ve never known him to miss anything when it came to volleyball, so you raise your eyebrows, doubtful. “Did you?” “Yes.” He looks to you, a stupid, goofy grin on his face. Then, his tone a bit more serious: “Now go back to bed. Or at least lay down on the couch. I’m making you some stuff to help you feel better.” He shuffles you away with a hand on your lower back, comforting and protective. You settle yourself in on the couch, whiny but not strong enough to do anything about it. You cross your arms until Tooru once again appears in front of you, cradling a cup of tea. He hands it to you gently, and you take a few sips. Then, there’s a spoon coming to your mouth, airplane-style. “Oikawa--,” you start, but before you can reprimand him for treating you like a child, he takes the opportunity to put the spoonful of soup into your mouth. You choke it down, half laughing. “What the hell, Oikawa? I’m not a child, I can feed myself.” He only laughs, handing you the bowl. “See? You’re feeling better already! And I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” You take in a few more sips of liquid, nearly tipping the bowl over when a coughing fit attacks. He immediately steals the soup away, and with an agility only learned through the sport he loves, carefully places it on the coffee table without spilling a single drop. Tooru turns back to you, a hand brushing your hair away from your forehead. “Maybe I need to take care of you better.” He hums, a kiss placed to your heated skin. A fever? A blush? You’re unsure, but Oikawa smiles all the same. Soon enough, you’re wrapped around him in a blanket, easily curled into his arms. He rests his chin on your head, and the day drags on, slowly, sweetly.

     He feels horribly about getting you sick. Really, he does. He tries to shower you in affection to make up for it, a kiss here, a hug there, but you’re having none of it, squirreling out of his grasp as best you can. “‘Tsumu! Stop! I don’t want you to get sick again.” You huff, retrieving a tissue to blow your nose. Your boyfriend frowns, watching you dejectedly. “But I wanna make up for it. I know it was me that got you like this.” He whines, and you lean back against the kitchen counter. “If you wanna make up for it, maybe you can take care of dinner tonight? I don’t care what it is-- it’s not like I can taste anything anyways.” You watch Atsumu think it over. He’s not much of a cook, but then his eyes light up. “I’ll call Osamu!” He runs off like a child, excited for the opportunity to take care of you for once, when it was often the other way around. It’s not like Atsumu would forget to shower or anything, but often you would greet him with breakfast, dinner. Remind him to eat during the day, replenish the energy he’d spent while playing volleyball.

     An hour later, there’s a knock on the door, and it’s Osamu, holding out a to-go bag. “It’s special, not on the menu stuff.” He nods, and Atsumu grins, thanking his brother ten times over. He offers him money, but Osamu simply waves him off, glancing behind him to view your coughing figure on the couch. “Maybe save it, ‘Tsumu? Buy her some cough medicine?” When Atsumu finally joins you on the couch, you’re greeted by some onigiri, a few different teas and soups, and a few desserts. “I told Osamu whatever he felt like you could need, and I guess he doesn’t know what you like.” He says, offering you up a small plate of food. You eat some, but you honestly didn’t have much of an appetite. Atsumu tries to force at least some liquids into you, but by the end of half an hour, you’re pushing him away slightly each time he tries to put another bowl or cup to your lips. Finally, it’s a spoon that catches your attention. You open your eyes, not realizing you had been half asleep. “C’mon, Y/N. Don’t push this one away, it’s medicine.” Atsumu offers it to you once more, and you take the spoonful of the pink liquid, choking it down with some water. When you lean back against the couch cushion, Atsumu is already there, as if anticipating your next action. Sometimes, your boyfriend is wildly perceptive. Your head lolls to his shoulder, too tired to really care about going to bed at all. You don’t wake as Atsumu carefully picks you up, head to his shoulder, before placing you lovingly in your shared bed, pulling the covers over you. Now, it’s his turn to take care of you.

[tangledinmdzs]

hey! can i request for reactions of xiao xingchen, xue yang, song lan and lan xichen to you being ill (like the one you did for the junior quartet)? thank you!

most definitely!

here’s to your request~

»»————-　➴　————-««

Lan Xichen

“you are ill,” 

you let out a soft huff, shaking your head at the comment

but you stop immediately, when your grainy vision just gets even more blurry

you hear a sigh before hands hold your arms, gently guiding you to sit down 

you’re not usually this docile, so Lan Xichen figures you are quite under the weather

when you’re fully seated, you feel a cool hand on your forehead, just as gentle

“Zewu-Jun,” you begin, but your words fall short of your sect leader’s commands

“you will not be attending tonight’s night hunt, you are to stay here and rest.” 

Lan Xichen’s words have always been final

you blink rapidly, staring up to him,

“but,”

you can’t find the right words to continue, both because your mind is so muddled by your fever and the look in Lan Xichen’s eyes

“you will rest,”

“but i can’t,” you add, object and Lan Xichen stares at you

“not when you’re out there fighting demons, without me,”

“I won’t be able to rest,” you tell him, feeling warm from your words and the fever running under your skin

Lan Xichen takes in a deep sigh at you, 

soon his hand lands on your shoulder, gently, solidly

“night hunts and demons can’t usually be put off,” Lan Xichen says and you take in a deep breath at his words,

“but i will leave this night hunt to my brother and the younger disciples,” Lan Xichen says and you stare at him in awe

he smiles at you, cups your warm cheek with his hand and frowns at the temperature

“let’s get you to bed,”

Xiao Xingchen

“Daozhang!”

Xiao Xingchen feels A-Qing’s stick stumble to a stop just one tap away from his shoes

he also hears the anxiousness in her voice,

“A-Qing-”

“it’s y/n-guniang, she’s really ill”

behind his eye cloth, Xiao Xingchen’s brows furrow

he lets the child lead him to your room, in the Coffin home, even though he knows the path well himself

though because he is accompanied by A-Qing, the pleasantries are skipped when the child bursts in through your door

“y/n-guniang!”

Xiao Xingchen hears the ruffling of fabric, the familiar creak of the old bed as someone moved on it

“you didn’t have to bother Xingchen about this,” you say, and Xiao Xingchen stills at the hoarseness of your voice

quietly he approaches your bedside, listening to the way that A-Qing continued to talk about your hoarse voice, your warm temperature, your dizziness these past few days

all the things that he didn’t know

“A-Qing, give me and y/n-guniang a moment,” he asks the child

A-Qing’s words come to a stop with a soft hum and she quickly leaves

“Xiao Xingchen-”

he stops your words by hushing you gently, moving to sit down by your bed

you’re quiet as Xiao Xingchen holds his hand out, a gentle ask for your wrist

you give him your wrist and try to level your breathing as he takes your pulse

you continue to quietly let him feel your forehead with the back of his hand

though you hold his wrist when he tries to find your pulse again

“i’m okay, Xingchen, just a bit warm,” 

“you are running a fever, and you sound exhausted” Xiao Xingchen replies and easily helps you lay down 

you stare up at him, feeling even more warmed by the way that his hands ease you back under the blankets

“rest, i will be back soon,” he reassures you, 

and though you’ve always been hesitant to be a bigger burden to him, you feel reassured by the care he always gave

Xue Yang

there was no reason for Xue Yang to care for you

you were just another person living in the same space of the Coffin home as him

he reminds himself that there is no reason to care for you at all

but in the afternoon heat, you looked incredibly (dangerously) unbalanced as you were trying to thatch the roof

“come down already!” Xue Yang yells at you, when he notices the way you pause in between your work

he himself was stubborn, but after meeting you he could probably say you were a close second

with mild anticipation, Xue Yang walks to the end of your ladder as you start climbing down, slowly

you’re nearly at the bottom rung when your foot missteps 

and you half fall half step off the ladder

your eyes are heavy 

Xue Yang is already at the bottom by then

he is not surprised by the weigh of you stumbling into his arms

“hey,” Xue Yang calls, holds you

you want to push out of his grip and stand on your own as you normally have

but with solid arms around you, your legs finally give out and your eyes easily close with the exhaustion you’ve been holding back

Xue Yang catches most of your weigh with a surprise breath, arms wrapping tighter around you as you go limp

“hey,” Xue Yang calls again, shakes you a bit

and there is no reason that he should care about you, really

but your sun warmed hair and even warmer body in his arms, makes a different kind of anxiousness curl in his chest

Xue Yang has never cared

and he shouldn’t care

but then when he fixes you in his arms to carry you inside

he finds that he does

Song Lan

the door to your room opens quietly 

Song Lan is careful when he enters, mindful of your sleep

his hurried steps slow when they get to your bed

he finds you half curled between the thick blanket

though your eyes are closed, your sleep looks fitful

Song Lan’s brows furrow

you don’t look any better from the few hours before 

Song Lan sits down gently by your bedside, taking the wrist of the hand not hidden between the blankets 

he finds your pulse, listens to its beat and tries to feel for the qi that’s running in your veins

“Song Lan,” 

he’s surprised at the sound of his name, 

but his eyes find your face immediately, seeing your eyes blink blearily open to look at him

“how do you feel?” Song Lan asks, returning your wrist to where it was on top of your stomach

“better,” you reassure, though Song Lan doesn’t believe it, not with how breathy you sound anyways

he confirms what he thinks when he lays a hand on your forehead, feeling the skin still warm

“we need to break your fever,” Song Lan tells you, though when he looks at your face your eyes are falling closed again,

“i...i just need to sleep,” you reassure and Song Lan huffs a closed lip laugh at your stubbornness

“y/n...” but the rest of his words fall short when he sees the way that your breathing levels out

Song Lan sighs, moving a gentle hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear

and as you fall back into the grasp of sleep, a warm hand overlaps yours

[couchpotatoaniki]

One Year ❣︎ Seven: Never Ask Friends for Help

Chapter Summary: As San expected, he caught a cold after your little prance through the storm in Hallim Park the previous day. Luckily, you're fine, which gives you the wonderful opportunity to look after him and the even more wonderful opportunity to let your chaotic nature shine.

Pairing: Mafia!San x Fem!Reader Genre: Mafia AU, fluff, angst, eventual smut, lotta crack and stupid shit ngl Chapter warnings: swearing, (this chapter is pure fluff and crack) Word count: 3.2k+ A 365 Days parody

Previous: Chapter Six For the rest of the series, click here

Speech in bold means they’re talking in Korean

Speech in italics is whatever the reader wants their native langue to be that’s not Korean or English

Speech without either means they’re talking in English

Silence filled your room when you woke up the next morning. It was strange, since San had said he would be waking you up, and there you were, still lying in bed by the time noon rolled around.

It wasn’t as if you were waiting for him to come and get you, but you just wanted to take advantage of the time in such a warm blanket. Yeosang often joked about how you became a cold-blooded reptile whenever you felt sleepy, body temperature dropping and your tongue sharp like that of a snake.

Basically, it was his long-winded way of calling you a cranky, heat-stealing bitch.

Not that you minded at all, since Yeosang was a cranky bitch himself when sleepy.

But then half an hour passed, and there was still no sign of San. Throwing the blanket off your form, you slipped on a pair of slippers and got ready for the day, finding him becoming the very next thing on your agenda.

And the state you found him in was certainly laughable--to you anyway.

“Did you seriously get sick after a little storm?” you chuckled, eyes taking in San wrapped in the covers as if he was a baby, sniffling every few seconds.

“Oh, shut it,” he glared at you, speaking with a nasally voice.

You took a step into his room, one looking fairly similar to yours, with little pictures or much personalisation in general. Must not have stayed here often then, or had many memories he wanted to keep.

That thought... it made you feel a little sad.

Once you reached the edge of his bed, you sat down beside him, noticing just how sickly-looking he was. Skin paler, hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat, flush cheeks and nose, uneven breathing, soft whimpering.

Your smile faded slightly. “How long have you been like this?”

“Since last night,” he coughed, brushing away your hand as you reached out to check his temperature. “Don’t touch me, I don’t want you to catch whatever this is.”

Clicked your tongue at his response and did so anyway. “Holy shit, you’re burning up. More than you should be. Has anyone seen to you yet?” Instantly, you brushed the hair from his eyes, simultaneously wiping away the sweat. Was pretty gross, but you didn’t mind at all.

San relaxed under your gentle touch, finding it cool and soothing against his muddled senses. “N-No. I texted Hongjoong to tell everyone to leave me alone. Clearly didn’t do a good enough job if you’re here.”

Lightly hitting his chest over the blanket, you scoffed. “You’re happy I’m here, don’t lie.”

Grinning, he sighed. “Can’t hide anything from you, now can I, Hun?”

“Nope,” you huffed as you got up. “Now, I’m going to prepare something for you to eat since you probably haven’t had anything since yesterday.” On cue, his stomach grumbled painfully loudly, making the man visibly cringe as he was about to decline your offer so you would stay with him for a little bit longer. “Looks like Mister Tummy’s already answered for you.”

“Mister Tummy doesn’t know shit.”

“Mister Tummy knows more shit than you do. In fact, it processes all of your shit for you.”

“Gross.”

“I know. Mister Tummy’s gross. But full of wisdom.”

“You know what, just go. Leave me be for a bit.”

Evil chuckling reached his ears. “Now that you’ve said it, I’ll just be here to annoy you as much as I can. But before we do that, keep yourself bundled up and make sure you’re sweating buckets. It’s the most effective way to break a nasty fever like that.” You began wrapping him up in the thick blanket like he was a burrito.

With that, you left for the kitchen, calling Seonghwa’s number. As the ringing continued, you looked around, noticing how there were few guards and servants around the place. Not even Wooyoung, Jongho, or Hongjoong could be seen in your trek to make food.

“What do you want, troll?”

“You’ve got to stop calling me that. Whatever happened to ‘hello’? Too mainstream for you?”

“...Hello, troll. What do you want?”

Narrowing your eyes ahead of you, smirk pressing against your lips, you tried to look around for the chef. Not there either. “Much better. Now, can you give me a recipe for that soup with ‘magical healing properties’ you used to give me?”

“Bone broth?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m on adventure to nurse a sociopathic cuddle-demon back to health, now are you going to give me the recipe or am I going to get Yunho to drag it out of you? Because I know very well that he will.”

Seonghwa’s sigh was loud enough to be audible through the phone.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Just text me the recipe, thank you, love you, byeeeeee.” Immediately ended the call, looking in all the cupboards, the pantry, the fridge, and the freezer. This place was stocked to the brim.

Shortly after, your phone began buzzing, Seonghwa requesting to video call you. Swiping the green button, you were met with a (slightly laggy) picture of Seonghwa’s chin, hearing him yell off screen. “--UNHO. MINGI. I SWEAR TO GOD, YOU BETTER PUT THAT DOWN BEFORE I SHOVE IT UP BOTH YOUR ASSES.”

You could make out the response, “Hehe, kinky.” Most likely Mingi from the very nature of the comment.

“What do you want, troll?” you echoed his words back to him, catching his attention--the other boys most likely long gone into the depth of the house.

“Well, well, well, how the tables have turned,” he smirked, moving the camera so you could see him better.

“It’s ‘how the turntables’.”

He looked at you with an unimpressed expression, not pleased with your Office reference, and carried on to ignore it. “So there is no way in hell I’m sending you the recipe through text, since people can easily hack that--”

“And by people, you mean--”

“Yeosang, yes, who else? Little rat bastard keeps trying to steal my recipes.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.”

“As if he hasn’t heard it already about a million times.”

You chuckled in response, knowing how true it was. “Fair enough. Now spill your secrets and bless me with the ability to cook.”

One word to describe the last hour of your life would be... Well, you couldn’t really think of a word. It was purely of Seonghwa screaming over the phone and you screaming back. And panicking. Both of you definitely panicked.

But all in all, the bone broth was made and tasted fairly decent--a worry you had after fucking up so many times in making a simple recipe.

With a pale and dreary look upon his face, Seonghwa looked at you through the phone, narrowing his eyes on you pouring some of the hot mixture in to a bowl. “You’re actually gonna feed him that? Sure you’re trying to nurse him, or was this a master plan to kill him after that ordeal? Because if it’s the latter, then there were much easier ways of doing so.”

“Shut up,” you grumbled, whispering prayers in your head that it would actually help San’s fever. “And goodbye.”

“Woah, woah, woah. Is that it? You’re gonna use me and then lea--”

You hand pulled away from the phone screen, after having pressed the red button. Chuckled to yourself with your comedic timing, completely forgetting the earful you’d get of the elder the next time you call him.

Gathering a tray, you placed the bowl of bone broth on top of it, as well as a packet of painkillers, a glass of water, and some turmeric tea; why San has it, you have no idea, since he seems to be a hot coffee-kind of person.

Would’ve added a flower, because you felt like being extra, but that would seem more like a romantic thing than a... well, whatever the hell you two were right now.

This situation wasn’t exactly common enough for it to be given a name.

Wafting away the thought, you grabbed the tray and walked quickly to the mobster’s bedroom. Didn’t need to worry about any spillage since you’ve had years of practice being quick and precise with movement.

Holding one hand beneath the tray (feeling a little heavy, but again, you’ve had practice), you used the other to open the door, finding San still swaddled in his blanket, sweating like a pig.

“Y/N...” he whimpered, an eye opening at the sound of you entering. Seeing him in such a vulnerable state was different to how he usually was--and you weren’t sure if you liked it.

“I’m right here, San,” you replied in a soft tone, brushing back his hair once more as soon as you placed the tray on the bedside-table beside you. “Brought you some food too. Can you sit up for me?”

Letting out soft whines, he tried to lift his body up, but was too weak and too caged in to get his back even a centimetre off the mattress. You saw the issue, and pulled the covers apart slightly so he could move a little more, both hands pulling gently at his shoulders so he could sit up properly.

Never had you seen someone this unwell from a simple fever. Sure, you’ve felt like shit before, but San’s condition was a little worrying. “Is there some private doctor I can call?”

“What,” he huffed, a smile etching onto his face as he looked into your eyes, “makes you think I have a private doctor?”

“Oh, I dunno, you’re a rich asshole?”

Chuckling, he let his head flop to the side, neck suddenly too weak to hold it up properly. “You’re beautiful, you know that? Annoying, but funny, but sarcastic, but beautiful.”

“Okay, do you wanna continue with that word vomit or are you gonna eat?” You cocked your brow, head tilting to match his posture. “Also, you’re not gonna flatter me by calling me beautiful. That shit doesn’t work on me anymore.”

It had slightly upset San knowing that you had said ‘anymore’--upset him knowing that there were others complimenting what his. But he couldn’t blame them. You really were beautiful in his eyes, even if he hadn’t thought so when he initially laid eyes on you.

“Don’t wanna eat.”

Sighing, you fixed yourself and picked up the bowl, mixing it as you blew to cool it down a little. “You’re not well, you gotta.”

He looked at you with big wide eyes and a small pout--and you couldn’t help but think it was a little cute. “Don’t wanna... unless you feed me?”

Okay, maybe it was a little less cute.

You exhaled, still stirring. “If I do, then you’ll have it all?” He put his hand over his heart, nodding with a sincere look on his face. “Fine then.” You lifted a spoon full of the bone broth to his lips, which he look into his mouth promptly--eyes glued to yours as he did so.

San hummed earnestly. “It’s...actually pretty good.”

Eye twitching, you lightly pushed him. “Why? Did you expect it to be shit?”

“I mean, I heard faint screaming and what I assume was swearing, which could have only come from you because I let everyone have a day off for today. So, yes, forgive my assumption that it would murder me,” he chuckled, opening his mouth once more, in which you carefully put more broth in.

“Be happy that I’m doing this much for you.”

“Because you feel guilty for getting me ill?” 

“No, it was your fault for not taking a hot shower when we came back, like I told you to--and your immune system for being so shit.”

“Okay, first of all, I can’t help it if my immune system wants to act out. I usually don’t get this ill.” You sent him a ludicrous look, continuing to feed him. “What? I really don’t!”

“Tell that to the rain.”

“I-- nevermind. But the second thing is that I offered to take a shower, but you said no!”

“That’s because you wanted to shower with me. No way in hell I was gonna let that happen!”

“You have the shower room for it!”

″Yeah, and I've already passed on my grievances to you yesterday about that hell-room!”

“Well, at least with me with you, you don’t have to worry about--what did you call it? Oh yeah--’Casper the fuckin’ Perverted Ghost’.”

“I’d take a ghost over you any day.”

“You won’t be saying that in a year.”

“Bold of you to assume that I won’t be choosing Casper over you. After all, I’ll be spending time with him as well.”

San scoffed, slightly amused but annoyed at the same time. “Are you actually trying to get me jealous of something that doesn’t exist?”

“Who said Casper doesn’t exist?”

“‘Cause ghosts don’t exist.”

“Tell that to Casper. You’ll find him in my shower room.”

Amidst the conversation, neither of you had noticed how the bowl and cup was now empty, their contents now residing in San’s stomach. But when you did, you got up--ready to walk to the kitchen and put everything away--until his very warm hands wrapped around your elbow gently.

“Please don’t go. You can put all that stuff away later. Just... stay with me.”

Sighing, you decided to listen to him for once an put the tray down before tightening the covers around him again--making him whine. “Noooooo, I wanna hold you.”

“What happened to not wanting me to get sick?”

“I’m ill, stop taking my muddled brain so seriously.”

Your brow cocked up, amused while you looked over his flushed face. “So you’d be willing get me sick too?”

Another pout formed on his face. “Of course not,” he mumbled. “You know what, you’re right. You can go.”

He avoided looking at you, instead fixing his saddened gaze at the window. Your natural scepticism told you that he was just faking it, only putting on an act to get your attention and affection. Yet, for the first time in a while, doubt began to seep in.

Maybe... maybe you could give in. Just this once.

Sighing, you slipped off your slippers and lay down beside him, an arm and leg wrapping around his body to bring him closer to you. A stronger tint of red covered his face as he looked at you, flabbergasted, as he tried to wriggle out of your touch. “What are you doing, you’ll get sick--”

“My immune system is much stronger than yours, I’ll live. Besides, you look cosy,” you muttered, nestling your face into the soft blanket. Even his blanket smelled like a garden in the rain, despite the amount of sweat that’s probably seeped into it.

Truly, he did, and you couldn’t deny that you wanted to hug the human burrito.

San had, instead, found you cute, cheek squished against the fabric surrounding him. Let his mind wonder to the image of you pressed against him--without the covers coming between you two.

Again.

Would you look this peaceful, sleeping on his chest, on a regular day--he thought.

“Are you just going to stare at me or are you gonna get some rest?” San could feel your voice vibrating through the covers despite the thickness of it.

“Hard not to stare at you, ya know?” he relaxed himself, despite feeling like he was baking beneath the blanket, and let his head rest on the pillow, cheek pressed against your forehead.

“Goddamn, you’re hot. Did you take any medicine while I was cooking?”

“Oh, Hun, there’s no cure for sexiness,” he coughed, a smirk pulling at his lips from the joke he made.

Another sigh was pulled from your throat as you got up to look for any painkillers he could take. Sane began to whine once more, rolling over since he could barely had enough energy to move with his arms when he was this tired--a full belly of warm broth and tea not helping what so ever.

“No--wait. Come back...”

“You need painkillers.”

With a straight face, he stared deep into your eyes, slightly glossy and sparkling under the dim sunlight coming into the room. “But you’re my painkiller.”

“Yeah, I’m going to get you some meds,” you deadpanned, scooping up the tray to leave the grown-ass mafia boss whining and rolling around, throwing a tantrum.

After some hard thinking and remembering that Wooyoung had given you his number, you called him up as you stood in the doorway, looking at San’s calm state of sleeping.

“My dear sister,” you heard a voice finally say over the phone, “what requires my assistance?”

“...Wooyoung?”

“Yes, dear sister?”

“What in the world has possessed you call me your ‘dear sister’?”

“Because you’re gonna be my friend’s wife some day, so I need to get used to seeing you as my sister-from-another-mister.”

Rubbing the bridge of your nose, you decided to not comment on his outlandish claims. “San’s not feeling well.”

“Is that why he sent us all away?” he laughed, somehow finding this situation amusing--since this is what his best friend tends to do; finds his weakened state as vulnerability, and if there was one thing San hated, it was feeling vulnerable.

But if he truly hated that, then why pursue this why you--when he know that it would force him to bring his guard down?

“I think so. No one was here when I came out of my room. Not the cooks or the maids or even the guards,” you said, taking another gander as if there might be someone roaming the halls to disprove your statement.

There wasn’t.

“Okay then. You want me to give you our private doctor’s number?”

Chuckling to yourself because you knew you were right (immediately confusing Wooyoung), you hummed, “yeah, that would be great.”

“O-Okay. Lemme text it to you. But do you need anything else? I know from experience San can get a little clingy when he’s not in his right mind,” he said, a boisterous giggle passing his lips.

“Nah, it’s fine.” You let your gaze brush over your captor’s figure. “Just send me the number and I’ll take it from there.”

“Okie dokie then, dear sister. I’ll leave you to deal with that enigma.”

“Alright, Wooyoung. See you tomorrow?”

“Call me ‘dear brother’, then maybe I’ll hang u--”

You shoved your phone into your back pocket after ending the call, thinking that it would take him a few minutes. Proving you wrong, the phone buzzes to life within the next ten seconds, Wooyoung sending you a couple of messages.

Wooyoung: Well that was a rude Wooyoung: No matter, I still love ya, dear sister Wooyoung: Probs should clarify that it’s platonic in case San sees it and gets all jelly Wooyoung: Anyway, here’s the number Wooyoung: XXXXXXXXXX

Y/N: Thanks, bro

Wooyoung: 🥺🥺 You called me ‘bro’

Smiling a little, you called the number--which had indeed taken you to a doctor’s clinic. After hearing of his exact temperature and other symptoms, the woman over the phone had concluded that it was as you first suspected--the common cold.

She told you to keep giving him painkillers and he should be fine within the week. Ending the call with a polite ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’, you left to get San more broth and medication, and hopefully you’d lay down with him again.

Which is exactly what you did for the rest of the day, opting to stay with him for the night too in order to make sure he really was okay. Thankfully, the worst of his fever had passed by the time morning came around and he was feeling much better.

You, however, were exhausted after looking after him, deep in your slumber as you shifted closer to San, who had broken free of his blanket prison and wrapped it around the two of you. The sunlight peeking through the window paled in comparison to the faint smile of glee San had adorned when he saw you.

Cheeked pressed up against his shoulder, and arm and a leg draped over his body like a koala clinging to a tree.

Just like he had thought the day before.

☕︎ Tag list: @little-precious-baby​​​​ , @sparklychangbin​​​​ , @shawkneecaps​ If you wanna be tagged, feel free to ask!

[sonderwalker]

“I can’t believe you’re still standing” w/ obikin, in the middle of the clone wars anakin is sick at camp with a high fever but when obi-wan gets captured/stuck behind enemy lines he’s the only person able to go and get him?

oooooo this is kinda long! I’ll try my best from these prompts

As much as Anakin hated sand, he was starting to think that he hated the cold even more. He thought he liked it- anything that wasn’t hot and dry he thought he liked more than what he grew up with. But all this planet seemed to offer was cold rain and mud. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt dry or warm. 

He felt a shiver run up his spine, but there wasn’t anything that he could do about it. He was wearing multiple layers and had his cloak on, the hood pulled over his head. His bones ached, and he wanted to do nothing more than head back to the resolute, go into his quarters and not emerge for the next standard day.

But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t think about anything else than the fact that Obi-Wan was behind enemy lines, captured by Grevious. Wanting to go back and curl up under the covers of his bed was a selfish thought. Obi-Wan was more important than that.

“Are you sure you want to go after General Kenobi on your own?” Rex had asked him before he split ways. And Anakin had reassured him- that it was better that he go alone to get Obi-Wan out while the rest of the men distract Grevious.

His boots squished in the mud as he made his way around the far side of the base. Gross.

Anakin looked up, flinching slightly as cold raindrops his his face. There was an entrance ahead and it looked unguarded.

He leapt up, landing on his feet but quickly dropping down into a crouch, both to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and to try and right himself as a wave of dizziness overcame him.

But Obi-Wan needed him so he straightened back up, inhaling and exhaling slowly. The cold air was a stark contrast to the heat that seemed to be rolling off of Anakin in waves. His body switched from being too warm, and he would pull the hood off of his head, allowing the rain to slide down the back of his neck. And then he would suddenly be too cold, quickly pulling the hood back over his head, clenching his fists and his jaw to try and stop himself from shaking too badly.

He was pretty sure that Rex and Ahsoka noticed anyway, but neither of them said anything to him about it. 

And knowing Ahsoka, she was probably waiting until Anakin admitted that something was wrong so that she could tease him about taking better care of himself. But he couldn’t say that anything was wrong. Maybe he could- he wasn’t really sure.

The guilt mixed in his stomach with the feeling of excitement that always came with seeing Obi-Wan. With being with Obi-Wan. He wanted to be close, but knew that he couldn’t. He wanted to tell Obi-Wan how much he cared, but couldn’t.

He also wanted to get off of this planet as soon as possible, but he couldn’t do that either.

There was a faint warning in the force and Anakin quickly stood up, igniting his blade just in time to deflect several blaster shots that came his way. A group of battle droids were approaching him, but he sliced through them with ease. His blade hissed softly as the raindrops his the plasma and evaporated. He almost didn’t know where his saber was swinging at one point- all of the motions and the blue light seemed to blur together. His mind was muddled, but his muscle memory and the force we guiding him through this.

And they would guide him to Obi-Wan as well.

Anakin kicked a droid arm away from him and turned back to face the door. He sighed again, but it got caught in his throat and he began to cough. He muffled them as well as he could- not wanting to alert anyone else to his presence. He ignored the tight feeling, the heavy ache in favor of pressing ahead and entering the compound.

And although the temperature didn’t really increase, at least it was dry. The separatists base looked like any other- metal walls and bright florescent lights. He kept his hood over his head, not only to hide his face from any cameras, but because the chills were back and he could only focus on so much.

As he progressed through the base, he could hear the sounds of droids marching around, giving orders, and alarms going off in the distance. But all of the sounds seemed to echo and bounce off of the walls, distorting where they were really coming from.

He relied on the force- there wasn’t any immediate threat that he could sense, so he kept going.

But as he approached the cell where Obi-Wan was, there were droids waiting for him. He wasn’t surprised- what had been surprising was the lack of droids that confronted him on his way to get here.

“Freeze, Jedi!” They ordered, pointing their blasters at him. Anakin ignited his saber again, but the light seemed to go in and out of focus.

The droids began to fire at him, and he deflected their shots, doing his best to ignore the pounding in his head and the ringing in his ears. But it was distracting, and one of the shots from the remaining droids grazed his shoulder. He swore, almost dropping his blade before scowling.

The shot seemed to drag him out of his fever-induced haze, and Anakin rushed forward, quickly slicing through the remaining droids, their parts hitting the ground.

“Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to open the door?” He heard Obi-Wan ask from behind it, and despite the situation, hearing Obi-Wan made him smile.

“I dunno, I thought I’d wait another five minutes.” Anakin replied, warmth rushing through his body. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was blushing or because of something else, but he pushed his hood back off of his face and sighed before opening the door.

“You look horrible.” Obi-Wan pointed out as he walked out of the cell.

“That’s how you’re gonna thank me for saving your skin?” Anakin asked.

“I’m surprised that you made it here in once piece, Anakin.” Obi-Wan replied, his eyes narrowing.

“Thanks.” Anakin muttered as he turned to walk away, trying to ignore the stinging feeling that left in his chest.

“Anakin, wait.” Obi-Wan said as he caught up to him.

“That isn’t what I meant and you know it. I’m worried about you.” 

“I’m fine.” Anakin replied through gritted teeth, looking around a corner to make sure there were no droids before proceeding.

“I can see you shaking.” Obi-Wan deadpanned.

“It’s fine, Obi-Wan.” Anakin huffed, and then bit his lip so hard it bled to try and stop himself from coughing.

But even the pain from doing that wasn’t enough to ground Anakin when a wave of dizziness overcame him. He swayed to the side, leaning against the cold wall of the base and closed his eyes. Things were moving in front of him, someone was saying something to him, but he couldn’t make it out over the roaring in his ears.

Sights blurred together, his vision fading in and out until it faded out for good.

The first thing Anakin noticed when he woke up was that he felt like he had been hit by a speeder. Multiple times. And the second thing that he noticed was that someone was holding his hand. He gently squeezed it, smiling slightly when he heard Obi-Wan speak.

“You didn’t say anything about getting shot.” Obi-Wan whispered as Anakin opened his eyes.

“Wasn’t that important.” Anakin mumbled. keeping his eyes closed.

“And you didn’t say anything about being unwell either, but I was able to assume that based off of your appearance.”

“Getting you was more important.” Anakin replied as he now forced his eyes open. He squinted against the bright lights, but knew where he was.

The medbay, back on the ship.

“How long was I out?” He asked, turning to face Obi-Wan.

“At least an hour, if not longer.” Obi-Wan replied softly.

“You seemed to be fading in and out a lot, so I’m not surprised to see that you don’t remember anything.”

“Oh.” Anakin replied, looking away. Obi-Wan squeezed his hand again, and Anakin looked back up at him.

“Is there anything you need?” Obi-Wan asked softly. “I’d imagine that you’ll be in here for a few days before being released to your quarters.”

“Can you stay? Anakin asked suddenly, instantly regretting it. He felt his face heat up, but he wasn’t sure if Obi-Wan could see that the flush on his face was from that.

“Of course.” Obi-Wan replied with a soft smile, brushing a lock of hair out of Anakin’s face with his other hand.

I totally got carried away, whoops.

[taetaemilktea]

Criminal Cuddles

Summary: It’s no secret that Taehyung is huge on physical affection and that Yoongi... well... just isn’t. But when Yoongi catches a cold and wants hugs and cuddles in the midst of his fever-ridden loneliness, Taehyung is happy to oblige—if only Namjoon wasn’t such a responsible leader.

Sickie: Yoongi

Caretaker: Taehyung, mild Namjoon and Seokjin

Word count: 1,996

Author’s Note: If you know me, you know I love contagion haha! You can expect a part 2 with sickie Taehyung in the future! Fic inspiration from @foreheadfeels. Thank you for reading!!

~~~

Slowly. Slowly. Sloooooowly. He was almost there. Two tiny tiptoes and Taehyung had reached the closed door to Yoongi and Seokjin’s room unnoticed. Smiling to himself, Taehyung quietly turned the door handle with utmost care to make as little noise as possible. He had the door knob turned all of the way and was about to quietly push the door open when he heard a stern, deep voice call out his name.

“Taehyung-ah.”

Shit.

Taehyung turned around to find Namjoon shaking his head, arms folded across his chest. He knew he was in for a lecture.

Yoongi had come down with a terrible cold a few days earlier that honestly resembled more of a flu given the fever that he had developed a few days into the illness. Hobi had caught him stifling messy, miserable sneezes into his sweatshirt sleeves, waking up later than his usual 7:00am for coffee, and had alerted the other members.

Seokjin had shoo-ed Yoongi into their shared bedroom, immediately giving him medicine and tissues in hopes that the cold wouldn’t worsen. His hopes had obviously been crushed. Yoongi had a fever, chills, and a horrible cough the next morning.

Immediately upon hearing that Yoongi was sick, Taehyung flung himself towards Yoongi’s room and aimed to get inside. Taehyung was Yoongi’s safe space when sick. Yoongi loved Hoseok more than words could explain and would call him his closest friend, but Hobi’s germaphobe tendencies meant that he was unavailable for sick cuddles. Taehyung, on the other hand, loved cuddles. He slept with a pillow in his arms and latched on to the members any chance he got.

Yoongi was known for always giving into whatever Taehyung wanted—playing extra rounds of games with him, handing over halves of his beloved tangerines when Taehyung asked for some. Yet, never one for physical affection, Yoongi would whine and push away when Taehyung tried to hug him. He just wasn’t big on physical affection.

When he was sick, however, he pulled a full 180 degrees. He would crave hugs and to be held, which is all Taehyung could ever hope to give his hyung. The caveat was that Namjoon was too responsible, noting that every time he let Taehyung in, Tae would exit Yoongi’s room the next day with the same budding cold. Namjoon became conditioned to keep a watchful eye on Taehyung whenever Yoongi, or any of the members for that matter, got sick. Speak of the devil—

“You’re not supposed to be going in there. Yoongi-hyung is sick and he needs to rest,” Namjoon frowned. Taehyung returned the frown with a pout.

“Aish, Namjoonie-hyung! Yoongi-hyung needs me!”

“He needs to take medicine and to sleep. I know you want to be with him but you can see him in a few days when he’s feeling better. I can’t have you going in there anymore, otherwise you’ll catch his cold.”

“But you and Seokjinnie-hyung go in there all of the time. Why can’t I go in too?”

“Seokjin and I give him medicine. And we refill his water and take his temperature to make sure that his fever isn’t too high, Tae.”

“I do that too,” Taehyung retorted, a bit offended that he too wasn’t considered a caretaker of the group. Namjoon couldn’t help but chuckle, uncrossing his arms to instead face palm.

“I mean, sure Taehyung-ah, you’re very helpful. But after you’re done with all of that, you always crawl into his bed, snuggle up close, and practically help him hold tissues to his nose. That’s literally how you catch his colds all the time. Besides, you have to record with the rest of the vocal line later this week and I can’t have you getting sick.”

Taehyung frowned. He knew Namjoon was right. Sometimes he wished his leader wasn’t so good at, well, being a leader. There had been countless times when he, always prone to catching colds, would have to postpone their vocal recordings because he was too congested or had a fever too high to go into the recording studio. He always felt guilty about it, but he equally felt guilty about being unable to cuddle Yoongi to make him feel better.

Namjoon sensed the younger man’s sadness and walked closer to him, slinging an arm around his shoulder and walking him away from Yoongi’s door.

“You can see him real soon, Tae-ah. You just have to wait a little while longer. How about we go pick up some lunch? Are you hungry?”

Taehyung shook his head. All he wanted was to hold Yoongi, to make him feel loved.

~~~

Taehyung spent the rest of his afternoon moping. He tried to work on lyrics for his mixtape, but his heart wasn’t in it. He had played a few games with Jungkook, but was unenthusiastic and let Jungkook win (even though the Golden Maknae probably would’ve won anyway). Hoseok and Jimin seemed to notice his sad demeanor and aimed to cheer him up, but both knew it wasn’t worth the effort. They settled for giving him hugs and patting him on the back to reassure him.

~~~

Cup of tea and medicine in hand, Seokjin quietly pushed open his bedroom door to find Yoongi fast asleep in bed. His hair was simultaneously sticking up in different directions and sticking flat to his forehead as beads of sweat collected on his brow. Even in sleep, the poor man looked absolutely miserable.

Seokjin placed the tea and medicine on the bedside table, grabbing the thermometer from the bathroom cabinet and returning to Yoongi’s bedside. He gently shook him awake.

“Yoongi-ah? Yoongi-ah, it’s time to wake up.”

Yoongi rolled over with his eyes still closed and gave a moan of discomfort, eyebrows knit in confusion. One more gentle shake and Yoongi blearily opened his eyes, looking up at Seokjin.

“I’d say ‘good morning’ but it’s clearly evening now,” Seokjin smirked, motioning to the dark night sky just behind the window blinds. Yoongi merely peered up with a dazed, sickly look.

“Your fever doesn’t look any better,” Seokjin frowned, sitting on the bed and preparing the thermometer. Yoongi seemed to think for a second.

“I don’t feel good,” Yoongi rasped through his sore and aching throat.

“No kidding,” Seokjin chuckled, popping the thermometer into Yoongi’s mouth. They sat in silence until it beeped and Seokjin took it out. He frowned at the number. No wonder Yoongi seemed so delirious. He helped Yoongi to sit up and handed him the tea and medicine. The younger took it wordlessly, sighing as the warm liquid eased down his throat. He let out a few hoarse coughs before plopping back against the pillows and letting out a low moan, followed by a set of sneezes into the crook of his elbow.

“hH! hH’ESHHh!! hH’RSHh!! hH’ESHH’hiuhh!!”

Seokjin winced, internally praising himself for remembering to put on a mask before coming into the room.

“What else can I get you? Water? Do you have a headache? I can get you pain relievers?” Seokjin asked, handing Yoongi a tissue from the box on the bedside table.

“I’m okay. Thank you hyung.” Yoongi paused and seemed to think for a moment. “Is Taehyungie here?” He looked up at Seokjin with sad, fever-muddled eyes. Seokjin’s heart broke. He knew how much Yoongi loved to have Taehyung to keep him company while sick.

Before Seokjin even had a chance to respond, Taehyung peeked his head around from behind the open bedroom door where he had, no doubt, been listening in.

“Yoongi-hyung, I’m here. Please let me in, Seokjinnie-hyung,” he pleaded, looking worriedly at Yoongi. Seokjin sighed. He was easily persuaded. Unlike Namjoon, Seokjin wasn’t a leader of a world famous band. He was an eldest brother. The responsible hyung in him told him the keep Taehyung out, but the soft and caring hyung argued to let him in. He looked down at Yoongi, whose face dampened with disappointment. It only broke Seokjin further.

“Aish, Yoongi-ah. You’re not making this very easy for me,” he chuckled. He gave a sigh, followed by a long pause. “Fine. Come in, Taehyungie.”

Taehyung’s pout widened into his famous boxy smile as Yoongi met him with his signature gummy smile. Seokjin couldn’t help but laugh.

“You two are ridiculous. Namjoon is going to have my ass for this.”

In his fever delirium, Yoongi murmured, “That’s why you’re the best hyung.”

“I’m your only hyung,” Seokjin laughed, picking up the empty tea cup and swiftly leaving the room so Taehyung and Yoongi wouldn’t see his ears blush bright red at the complement.

“Come sit, Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi grinned and patted the bed. Taehyung walked over and, instead, pulled back the covers, climbing into bed and immediately snuggling close to Yoongi’s side. Yoongi hummed a laugh but it rapidly turned into a fit of hoarse coughs that he aimed away from Taehyung. He took a sip of water before resting his head against Taehyung’s chest.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Yoongi admitted once the coughing died down. While oftentimes very independent, Yoongi had been starting to feel lonely from being isolated in his room for so long.

“Me too. I’m definitely going to get in trouble for this, but it’s worth it.”

Yoongi smiled. “Namjoon won’t be mad for long, you know him,” Yoongi referenced their responsible, yet kindhearted leader.

“I know, but I have to record this week. I can’t let the vocal line down. Who knows, maybe I won’t get sick?”

Yoongi shook his head. “You will. You always do,” he gave a tired sigh and closed his eyes.

“I can’t help it,” Taehyung pouted. Yoongi murmured a hum in response. Taehyung’s familiar Daegu accent made him feel at ease and he could feel himself being pulled closer and closer towards sleep as Taehyung rubbed his wide palms and long fingers gently up and down his back.

Taehyung noticed that the warm fever was draining Yoongi’s already limited energy supply. He turned the lamp off and wrapped his arms around Yoongi, throwing a leg over his small waist. Humming “Winter Bear” out of habit, Taehyung’s deep and calming voice put Yoongi to sleep before Taehyung had even had a chance to whisper “Good night, hyung.”

~~~

Namjoon happily walked into the dorm carrying a bag full of Taehyung’s favorite treats and cough drops for Yoongi in his hand. He had felt a bit guilty about being stern with Taehyung earlier. He knew that Taehyung understood his orders, but couldn’t help feeling bad at seeing him with such a sad demeanor all day. He hoped the snacks would cheer him up—he knew how much Taehyung loved his strawberry yogurt!

Upon walking into the kitchen, Namjoon found Seokjin, Hoseok, Jungkook, and Jimin happily eating dinner together.

“Hey!” Namjoon greeted with a smile. “Save me some food please. I’m just going to go bring these to Tae real quick. Is he in his room?”

The four members seated at the table glanced anxiously at each other, each avoiding eye contact with their leader. Seokjin took a suspiciously long sip of water.

“Really, Jin?” Namjoon sighed in realization.

Seokjin just blushed.

Namjoon made his way to Yoongi’s room and quietly pushed the door open. He couldn’t help but grin at the sight he saw.

Yoongi was curled into a ball with his head laid on Taehyung’s chest. His nose was bright red and his cheeks were flushed a bright pink. He sniffled softly and curled closer into Taehyung, who had his face smushed into the pillow with his arms around Yoongi’s small frame. Namjoon had to admit, it was quite hard to be mad at such a sight. While the leader in him knew the following week would need to be adjusted if Taehyung got sick, he felt it was worth it to see that Yoongi, who had seemed in deep misery and discomfort each time Namjoon had walked into the room that week, slept peacefully with a hint of a soft and happy grin etched into his face.

[yooniestummy]

SUBMISSION POST (not my fic!!)

from: anonymous

sj oneshot ~Accepting Care

hi! first off, i really enjoy your blog. got inspired to write a short sj oneshot on that vli/ve clip you posted~

sickie: sj caretakers: vmin

EDIT FROM @yooniestummy : UM HELLO??? IM JUSE SEEING THIS NOW???!/!:!/!?:/‘ im losing my mind over this, thank you for submitting this cute drabble!! (original vlive clip anonymous is talking about linked here for anyone wondering!)

"We told you to rest, Hyung," Jimin says, trying to hide his exasperation as he dabs a cool cloth on Seokjin's sweltering forehead. "When you sent a text in the group chat this morning about not feeling well, we thought you meant a slight cold."

"It is just a slight cold," Seokjin murmurs. The last word of his sentence is punctuated by a series of chesty coughs. "And I will rest now."

Taehyung, who is coming back from the kitchen with a glass of tea and soup, grimaces. "You don't have any choice but to rest. You've been running a fever the entire day, and you told none of us! This isn't just a cold, hyung." 

Jimin joins in berating Seokjin. The dancer shakes his head. "And we had to find out how badly you were doing from your vlive."

"I'm fine, really," Seokjin insists. He sniffles, prompting Jimin to shake his head again. 

Both Jimin and Taehyung know how difficult it is to get Seokjin to admit when he isn't feeling well. It probably comes with being the eldest in the group and having to be there for his members all the time. But right now he's way too sick and Jimin and Taehyung both wish their hyung would admit he needs his dongsaengs to take care of him.

"Seokjin hyung, your fever is way too high. If Namjoon hadn't informed us of how sick you looked on that live, Tae and I wouldn't have rushed to get back to the dorms. Then who would take care of you!" Jimin is speaking so fast, Seokjin has to take a few seconds for his fever-muddled brain to understand. 

"I am perfectly capable of - ," Seokjin begins, but is cut off by another series of coughs. Taehyung pats his hyung's back, hoping to provide any comfort he can. "- taking care of myself." 

"Not with this 102.3 degree fever, nope," Taehyung mutters. 

"Now we wait for the fever reducers to work," Jimin says. His eyebrows furrow as he studies Seokjin, who somehow looks sicker than he did on his live earlier. "Tell us if you feel any worse, okay?" 

"Does anything hurt?" Taehyung asks, his voice soft. He knows Jimin only sounds tense because of how worried he is. 

When Seokjin refuses to answer, they all stay silent for a few minutes. The reality show on TV plays in the background, and Jimin leaves the cool cloth on Seokjin's forehead. Seokjin's eyes are closed tightly as Taehyung continues to massage the back of Seokjin's neck. 

"My head," Seokjin murmurs. "My muscles all ache and I feel weak."

Jimin and Taehyung share a look. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't fully honest in the group chat. I didn't want to worry you guys. And Chuseok just ended and maybe you guys wanted extra free time. I didn't want anyone to come back to work early just because I was here for work early and - "

"It's okay, hyung," Taehyung interrupts. 

Seokjin sighs. "Thank you," he finally says. "For picking me up at the building and bringing me back here. And for taking care of me." 

"Hyung, we'd do this and more," Jimin says. "Now please rest, Seokjin hyung." 

~ just a short drabble. i missed writing here. used to write for this community but had to leave for reasons. anyway, hope you all enjoy this quick, comforting drabble!

[super-secret-sick-fics]

hii you said that requests were open so i was wondering if you’d want to write an iwaoi sick fic? like it’s a middle of a practice match agaisnt some school and oikawa feels sick but doesn’t tell anyone beforehand?

Hello and thank you for the request!! I hope this is kinda what you wanted. I tried :) sorry it took me a minute!

An Off Day: an IwaOi Sick fic

Pairing: Sick Oikawa, Caretaker Iwaizumi

Words: ? (I didn’t get a count sorry—longer though)

Warnings: fever, passing out, cursing

————————

It was a dull day.

Oikawa sat in class, his head resting on his palm, and everything just felt faded. Existing as a human today seemed like entirely too much work.

He wasn’t sure what it was, but his entire day, his surroundings, his overall demeanor— none of them were as vivid and bright as usual. Things were just...off.

He felt off.

A lethargic and overall blah feeling clung to him like a thick winter coat, making him feel like he couldn’t breathe and leaving his head muddled. He didn’t know what was going on with his body and it was incredibly frustrating.

Oikawa scoffed to himself, ignoring the curious side eye from the girl next to him, and resolutely decided to ignore the dull, blah feeling. Surely if he willed himself to feel less blah, then that would put the pep back in his step. Besides, this was his last class of the day and then it was time for practice.

They were playing some no-name, no-skill team in what Oikawa deemed a “charity” practice match. For the other team, it would be a learning experience. For Seijoh, it would be another victory to add to their running total.

Class finally ended and he stood up to head to the club room. Immediately, his knees buckled and black spots danced in his vision. A small hand grasped his upper arm and held him steady. Once the spots cleared, he saw the small girl who sits next to him looking up at him, concern etched into her face.

“Oikawa-san? You look pale. You should go home and rest. I’m sure they’ll be okay without you at practice today.” He shook his head.

“I just got up too fast. Thank you for helping me out,” he smiled and she hesitantly let his arm go. She nodded, grabbed her bag, and left the classroom.

Oikawa, much to his dismay, was still dizzy though. He placed his hands on his desk and ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut while he waited for it to pass.

In the club room, he met up with Iwaizumi and chatted with his other teammates here and there, resolutely ignoring the fatigue thay plagued him.

Warm-ups came and went and their coach went over the rotation for the practice match. All the while, the lethargy he felt never went away like he thought it would. In fact, it seemed to be increasing and there was now a dull, consistent thudding in his head. Maybe it was more than just an off day? Maybe something was wrong?

He didn’t get much time to explore the new thoughts, because the other team arrived and their practice match began. Oikawa was right; the other team wasn’t a challenge in the slightest. The fact that it was any easy game didn’t make him feel any better about his complete lack of game.

Nearly every single one of his sets was wrong. Too high or too low. Too far left or right. The ball wasn’t settling in his fingers the way he needed it too and it all irritated him to no end.

He couldn’t concentrate. Every now and then, the court tilted dangerously sideways and he had to consciously ground his feet to bring it back to equilibrium. He was starting to feel weak. His limbs weighed about 1,000 lbs, making every lift of his arms to set the ball or movement of his legs to cross the court a Herculean effort. All he wanted was to curl up on the ground and take a nap.

“Hey, you okay?” Matsu walked up to him during a break between serves and put a hand on his shoulder. He was frowning. Oikawa glowered at him.

Was he okay? No. Of course not. He was 98% sure that he had a fever. Would that stop him from playing? No. Of course not. This was an easy team to beat. If he couldn’t push through this, then he wasn’t worth anything to his team.

“Yeah. Fine.” He snapped. Matsuhana put his hands up and backed away. Play resumed.

It was just a cold. He could shake this feeling if he just pushed through it hard enough. If Oikawa was confident of anything, it was his ability to ignore negative feelings and punch through bad moods.

That confidence slowly drained out of Oikawa along with any energy and focus he may have had the longer the game continued.

The two teams switched sides of the court and Iwaizumi appeared at his side.

“Hey, what’s the deal? You okay? We should have taken this set a long time ago,” he grumbled, his usual grumpy tone setting all of Oikawa’s already frazzled nerves even more on edge. His lip curled as he glanced over at his best friend.

“Thanks, Iwa-chan, I didn’t realize,” he sneered. Iwa’s eyes widened and he blinked comically. Oikawa would have made a joke if he wasn’t feeling so shitty.

“Don’t take it out on me, Trashykawa,” Iwa’s eyes narrowed, “your sets have been off all match.”

Oikawa felt like he was slapped in the face because he knew that. Of course he was more than aware that not a single one of his sets hit their mark yet. It was eating away at him and it made his stomach churn. He could do this though. He would not let his team down.

“I know,” he muttered. Iwa’s face changed again, but Oikawa’s vision blurred and he couldn’t make out what expression the ace had. He walked away.

“Oi, come back here a seco—“ Iwa started but was cut off by their coach.

“Iwaizumi! You gonna stand around and talk all day or are you gonna let us resume the match?”

He glanced one more time at Oikawa before getting into position. Oikawa thought maybe he looked concerned or upset or something, but he honestly didn’t have the energy to figure it out. It was all he could do to stand up right.

The set continued and each passing second was an eternity to Oikawa. Black spots popped up more frequently and he had to squeeze his eyes shut quickly and exhale to keep himself from passing out. It was a losing battle.

The dull thud in his head grew into a steady pounding that took up residence behind his eyes, leaving him vaguely nauseated. It was getting harder to breathe, even though he wasn’t running around like he normally would be. The gym swirled and he blinked several times, but it wasn’t going back to normal. The sounds of shouting and squeaking shoes faded away, replaced by a strange roaring sound.

Oikawa realized very quickly that he was in serious trouble.

“Oikawa!” Wataru’s shout cut through the roaring and sent a sharp pain through his head. As quickly as it left, the roaring in his ears returned and with it, his vision completely blacked out. It took all his effort to call out for help.

“Iwa-cha—“ the sound got caught in his throat and his body crumpled to the floor.

The next thing he knew, Oikawa was staring at the ceiling. He blinked a few times and groaned. The lights beaming down on him reminded him of the migraine he definitely had and he shivered. Why was he on the ground?

“Tooru? Oh thank god,” Iwa’s face entered his field of vision (and blocked the light, thankfully). His voice was shaking and desperate, adding to Oikawa’s confusion.

“Iwa-chan?” He said feebly.

“Are you okay? What hurts? Fuck, Tooru. You scared the shit out of me,” Iwaizumi was frantic, his hands cupping Oikawa’s face, making the sick boy cringe. Touching was no good. He didn’t want that right now.

The corners of Iwaizumi’s mouth pulled down and his eyebrows scrunched. He moved one of his hand’s to Oikawa’s forehead and the other to his own. His eyes blew wide.

“Holy shit, Tooru! Why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick, dumbass?”

Oh. He’d been caught.

“Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t know?” He smiled weakly up at his best friend, who scoffed in return.

“Idiot,” he mumbled before turning his head towards somewhere above Oikawa. The lights pierced Oikawa’s vision and he moaned when his head pulsated. He tried to curl up, but Iwaizumi was already trying to get him standing.

“Coach, he’s got a fever,” Iwaizumi shouted across the gym and Oikawa’s knees buckled. Luckily, Iwa’s arms were securely around his waist.

“I’m gonna take him to the club room and call one of our moms to come pick us up. Do you need me here?”

“No, go take care of our idiot captain,” their coach responded, his arms crossed over his chest. Normally, Oikawa would’ve squaked at the insult, but it was taking all of his attention to stay awake.

“We got this man. Go handle the child,” Makki snickered.

“Mean, Makki,” Oikawa managed to whine as he and Iwa stumbled out of the gym.

By the time they got back to the club room, Oikawa was sweating profusely, panting, and leaning almost all of his weight on Iwaizumi.

Iwa led them to the back of the clubroom and guided them down to sit against the wall. Oikawa shivered and immediately curled into Iwa’s side.

“How the hell did you let it get so bad, Shittykawa,” Iwa questioned. His tone held more concern than malice and it settled Oikawa’s nerves ever so slightly.

“Mmm, so warm Iwa-chan,” was all Oikawa could respond with. Iwaizumi scoffed, but threw an arm around Oikawa’s shoulder and pulled him closer anyway. The setter smiled.

“Yo, who should I call?” Iwaizumi asked, his tone still lacking its normal gruffness.

“Everyone in my family is working right now, Iwa-chan. No one is going to pick up,” Oikawa said. His throat was getting sore now. That means he’s sick sick. He frowned. Another shiver shot up his spine.

Iwa sighed, “okay. I’ll call my mom. She won’t be able to get here for at least half an hour though. Will you be okay until then? We can take the bus if you want.”

Oikawa nuzzled into Iwa’s shoulder. The smallest hints of his cologne were still present, despite getting sweaty from practice.

“No. No bus. We’ll want for Auntie, if that’s okay with you?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll call her.”

“I’m sorry, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa yawned. His eyes started drifting closed. Man, did a nap sound perfect right now.

“Don’t apologize, Tooru. Just scared me,” Iwa muttered and Oikawa felt the ace’s nose nuzzle into the top of his head. He relaxed further, in spite of the chills running through his body.

“Get some rest. I’ll wake you when my mom gets here,” Iwa whispered and Oikawa couldn’t remember the last time he sounded so soft. At least towards him anyway. Iwaizumi pulled Oikawa down gently so the setter’s head was pillowed on his lap.

Oikawa fell asleep to Iwaizumi’s gentle hands carding through his hair.

[tuagonia]

mistletoe - adam du mortain x f! detective

Pairing: Adam du Mortain x f!detective Summary: The detective catches an unsuspecting Adam under the mistletoe during the division’s holiday party.  Rating: G/T (to be sure).Pretty tame, just fluff. Warning: alcohol mention. Word Count: 2.3k  Note: I just really really wanted to write this scene that cropped up in my head during a  f u n  bout of insomnia. I’d like to think this takes place teetering on the edge right before the deep romance sweeps these two fools away. Anyway i used this fic as a way to get over my fear of writing for twc and to get to know my detective... before i launch into the other ideas i have.

—

It’s not that she’s drunk.

No. Not drunk. 

Happy, most definitely, and loquacious. More than the usual amount of conversation that he’s used to. And more laughter. 

Definitely more laughter. 

It’s an unrefined, rough, pitched-at-the-end sound he’s grown used to (fond of?) over the last year. 

Where the more uncouth the subject... the more untamed it becomes, and fighting the stiff edges of his mouth to remain in place becomes an active task.

There’s something so unsuspecting about it too, like how everything concerning her has been up to now. 

Olivia dances with Felix and Nate, and his oldest friend attempts to teach her how to move with the steps that feel like a lifetime ago. Where her shoulders, ankles, hips twist and she turns on the spot.

She sways with the motions of days gone past, as if she’s caught time in her hands — the elixir to it in her mug of wine clasped firmly in her grip — and Nate praises her. 

Adam didn’t catch the name, he didn’t care for it six decades ago and he doesn’t think he’ll bother remembering it now. But he’s certain it’s something as ridiculous sounding as it looks... if she weren’t doing it surprising justice.

When she spins in Felix’s arms, the silver, sparkling discs of her dress catch in the station’s white light and he’s dazzled...more than he usually already is.

No. Not drunk.

Just happy.

In the handful of instances she stops by him during her social rounds, she asks if he wants anything -- a refill of the uninspiring wine? -- and his responses are short. Yes. No. Good. Hmm. And when he doesn’t have the words he manages a slight shake of his head or a passive shrug.

Too distracted by the smile on her face, the mischief he can see twinkling behind her eyes. Sometimes, he can believe it. That she was a troublemaker, up to no good with too much time on her hands, and not this...woman...this decorous facade of pencil skirts, unscuffed heels, and neatly ironed blouses.

He can hear it in the deep, unearthed tone she takes when she lands a passing, unassuming, coquettish comment.

The reason he keeps his answers mono-syllabic.

He watches as she hovers over the snack table, where the food has undoubtedly gone cold, compiling a paper plate of random assortments and grabbing a tin of soda. And when he can no longer see her, he follows the sound of her heels out of the main floor towards the entrance -- barely visible from the wall he’s been hugging all night.

Olivia places the plate on the officer’s desk currently on graveyard duty. He's been longingly listening to and watching the party taking place just a few steps away. But he thanks the detective kindly, playfully clinks tin against mug of wine. 

She meets his eye on the way back -- brief, ever so brief -- before turning her gaze downward.

“You should come,” she said, directing her attention to the rest of the group. She avoided his stare, almost always avoiding his stare when it came to matters of bypassing his jurisdiction. But flitted reflexively to him, and then swivelled back to Nate and Felix (briefly over Mason), and she repeated. “All of you. You’re practically honourary members of the division.”

And although she didn’t say it to him, Adam knows (hopes?) she expected him to answer the invitation. 

Earlier in the evening (much earlier because how long is this going to go on for?), Nate asks him if he’s enjoying himself and Adam muddles together a gruff answer.

His response, with the words “work commitment” hardly audible, prompts bark-like laughter from the second-in-command and claps him on the shoulder before heading back towards the crowd. 

At the end of the night, which finally arrives right when Adam decides he can’t take another rendition of the tracklist that’s been on loop for the past four hours, he stays behind to help the detective clean up.

He sends the rest of the unit home, much to Mason’s relief and much to Felix’s displeasure, and volunteers to make sure the detective catches her cab and gets home safely. 

Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself after Felix winks at him, corralled out of the station by Nate.

And then they’re alone... save for the officer who’s gone on his break. 

She moves about space, clearing paper cups and forgotten plates of food in a large garbage bag. And she talks, and talks, and talks. 

Adam loses track of what exactly, he’s just too busy listening to the quality of her voice. A little hoarse after all the chatting over the music and enthusiastic laughter. It gives it a new edge, one he could grow to like -- the sudden deep, tender quality of it. 

Definitely not drunk as she launches into a spiel about something or other Nate taught her last week.

She tends to do this, jabber on about absolutely nothing in particular when it’s just the two of them. And although he prefers silence, he welcomes it. Because sometimes she’s not actually talking to him, instead using the stoic agent’s still presence to bounce ideas off of. 

Not like he minds. 

He’ll be whatever she needs him to be.

Adam tenses, unaware of where the thought could have surfaced out of so easily. He shocks himself out of his trance, out of following the detective around the room with soft, measured steps. Out of the unconscious non-committal noises he punctuates breaks in her speech with. 

He stops just short of the doorway of the kitchenette. 

Olivia turns to face him after dumping a number of coffee cups in the sink. She quirks an eyebrow, wiping her hands in a tea towel before casting it aside. Her mouth opens, but whatever witty remark she has ready dies in her throat.

Adam can’t decipher the zoetrope of emotions that flicker then disappear, hiding and lurking behind a wily smile. Her mouth is the colour of wild berries, purples and reds, and the crisp jasmine notes in her perfume remind him of a frosty mid-afternoon -- low winter sun in his eyes as he wades through a forest.

He can’t look right at her.

Gleaming winks of silver, a peek of white teeth, and a twinkle behind a dark curtain of hair.

“What?” 

He can scarcely recognise his voice, mostly a husky and unexpected croak. 

A full view of pearly teeth and the stretch of Mondeuse Blanche shiraz-coloured lips.

Adam almost misses the throw-away manner she points a finger up in the space in between them. For a fraction of a second, he’s distracted from the sudden kick of her heart and flickers his gaze to where she’s directing him.

Obnoxious oval-shaped gold leaves, thickly crowded plastic branches, and pearly-coloured fake berries hover in the space he’s decidedly placed between them. His stomach lurches in immediate recognition of the artificial plant.

“Mistletoe,” she chuckles an airy sort of sound. Different from all the crass, rough gleeful noises she made all night. 

A sound, maybe, she might wield against his sanity?

Adam’s gone rigid, the heat he’s been staving off all night makes a mockery of him, only egged on by the tugging of her lips when he glances back down at her. 

She steps closer and he can’t react fast enough, genetic mutations damned under her vexatious gaze. Her heart thumps a little heavier, a chaotically determined sound he can’t fend off. 

His own heart starts up that racket he’s grown to call reckless. 

“I heard,” she begins, so close now he can see the little scar on her nose from an old piercing. Tannin, oak, and jasmines -- the sparkling and sweet scent of violet from her lipstick, “that it’s bad luck...to refuse a kiss under the mistletoe.”

The click of the ‘k’ and the hiss of the ‘s’ in that word hanging so heavy in the air, the breath of its remnants brush his cheek. Faintly, his mind wanders between two realms. One of old wives tales and superstitions where a kiss is required for every berry in the bunch and, the second, how, if it weren’t for those heels, where would that breath have landed instead?

Her sly grin is tickled by his lack of response, the stiffness creeping into his muscles and his conflicted expression.

“Commanding Agent, do you -- maybe -- want to help me…” she begins, another step closer and this time he doesn't think he wants to move, “fight off any unnecessary misfortunes?”

Adam doesn’t recognise himself. He doesn’t know where it comes from, or how he’s sanctioned the movement of his body. It’s minimal, but to Olivia, who has spent the last year fighting off the hunger from the nearly nonexistent mementoes, it’s colossal. 

The smug smile on her face nearly slips.

It’s the tiniest, faintest, barely discernible half-nod as his gaze refuses to leave the curve of her lower lip. Fuller, rounder... he’s thought of the seam of her mouth longer than he’d like to dwell on.

She moves forward and there are no thoughts just the drumming in his chest that pounds a deafening beat. Her hand finds his first, a comfort from the heat roaring inside him, and he responds by tracing the lines of her palms with jittery fingertips. 

Olivia shivers and why does that thrill him? He wonders how long until she decides to put him out of his misery.

Please. Please. Please. The thumping against his ribcage wants to meet the erratic pulse of hers.

Roused by his response, her other hand so warm and soft draws a curious path up his arm, over the swell of his bicep and past his shoulder before it hesitates to fully press at the back of his neck where he knows she can feel fevered skin. 

It takes her an eternity, staring up at him with hooded eyes, dark fluttering eyelashes almost touching the tops of her cheeks. And he’d wait until whatever comes after that eternity.

This is the closest she’s ever been to him and he can’t help but revere the details he once took for granted. 

Olivia rises and the hand behind his neck cautiously coaxes him to meet her. 

And then, right as he thinks the world beneath his feet as he knows it will be thrown off its axis, she tilts her head a fraction and the hot press of her mouth meets his blushing cheek instead.

She lingers and everything amplifies. 

She is a dizzying bottle of Chianti, left out in the sun too long, and warming him all the way down with each indulgent sip.

A field of blooming shrubs of jasmines.

Warm, brisk, spring morning sun.

He hears her deeply inhale, and does he have the same effect on her like she does on him?

His heightened senses register the moment she parts and moves away, suddenly cold and left with the weight of the cream of her lipstick.

Her touch is deliberate, soaking up the feel of his skin, the fine hairs at his nape, under her gliding palms -- and she settles back on her heels.

The imprint of her lips remains on his cheek, willing it to singe him -- mark him -- so he never has to forget what they feel like. The pressure of her mouth, the moment her breath shuddered. 

Olivia makes to touch his cheek, to wipe away all evidence with the sweep of her thumb, but Adam stops her. He catches her wrist with reflexes she’ll never get used to.

He closes his eyes and he tunes in to the demanding call of his heart, thundering, thundering, thundering. And it won’t still. 

Just a moment longer. 

Is what it would ask.

Just a moment longer, so he can memorise the feel of her mark on his skin -- of the instance she cherished him, made room for him, during a fleeting blip that will be her life. 

Olivia moves again, fighting against the gentle strength of his hand, and she rubs the pad of her thumb once, twice, three times. Until the smudge of her affection is reduced to a memory.

She smiles, unlike the smiles she shared earlier. There is no arrogance, no teasing, no playful ridicule. 

She smiles -- with those lips that have touched him.

A sharp ringing echoes in the tiny kitchenette and, like he’s waking from a deep sleep, he blinks away the haze of their bewitchment. 

As if nothing happened, Olivia digs into her purse, sources her mobile and answers. The conversation is brief, he doesn’t follow any of it, still reeling from her magnetism.

“My cab’s outside,” she says when she hangs up. 

Still paralyzed, Olivia meets his eye and grins, before she drops her gaze to the floor.

She shakes her head and releases a small, anxious laugh. She touches his arm when she moves past him, out of the kitchenette, and heads for the exit.

He watches her leave, listening to the light click-clack of heels, still shaking her head and-- he practically hears the smile in her voice when she calls out behind her. 

“Happy holidays, Commanding Agent du Mortain.”

--

Note II: Yeah, it’s The Twist. Nate was teaching Felix and Olivia the twist....because I said so and because i hc N being really into the 60s/70s music scene....long legs.....in....flared....jeans. So many typos. But if I didn’t post it when I did I was never going to post it.

[hankwritten]

Plein Air

Demoman/Soldier, 1k

Part of the DontNeedADiscord Pride Week, Day 7: Pride

“Let’s get this one thing clear, maggot: I am proud of who I am.

I am proud to be an American! I am proud to be BLU! I am proud of my ability to practice law in thirty-eight of the forty-nine states! Never in my life have I bowed to the cowardly condition of self-pity, not when I have so much to feel accomplished about. So then! When I tell you this you will not mistake it for me asking for your blessing, your sympathy, or any of that granny-gumming nonsense that you may want to spit in my direction!”

“I get it Jane,” Tavish insisted. “It’s been eleven minutes. Please just tell me what you wanted to say.”

The sheets, which had somehow gotten tangled around me in my (several minute long) speech, prevented me from kicking him in retaliation. Instead, I tried to take a steadying breath, reminding myself that I didn’t need to gasconade in front of Tavish, that all my posturing was unearned after everything else we’d revealed to each other. But, despite knowing that logically, it did not make this any easier. I didn’t make a habit of talking about it to partners. Not to partners, not to friends, not even to Medic who didn’t care much now that the “fun” part was over.

But Tavish…Tavish was different. Or at least, I wanted what we’d made together to be different.

I cleared my throat. “I…was weird. As a kid. Wanted to play war games, didn’t do well with the other girls.” Immediately, I cringed away from the words I’d been avoiding for decades, and looked to Tavish for the flinch of recognition I was sure was coming. But he still had that mix of concern and confusion muddling his face, so I went on, “was just blissfully unaware of it, until I had to leave home over what was brewing. Joined up.”

At least Tavish already knew that part of the story. “Aye, I remember,” he said. “Don’t get what you mean by ‘unaware’, though?”

“I am getting there, maggot!” I huffed. “I’d get confused. Didn’t even remember why people were calling me a woman in the first place. Just kept roaming through Poland until I ran into Medic, and he dropped all his quack medical terms on me. And then he…fixed me up.”

Cured, was what it always felt like. Like everything in my life up until then had been moving through a fever dream, and after Medic had stepped in, it finally broke.

Tavish raised an eyebrow. “That can mean a lot of things when it comes to Medic.”

“He helped with the body I have.” That I wasn’t ashamed to admit. I’d worked hard on getting to where I was, and I was damn proud of it. “Hormones, surgery, the rest.”

“Oh,” Tavish said, brow furrowing.

“Oh? What does ‘oh’ mean, maggot?” I demanded. “If you’ve got something to say then say it!”

At that moment, I was terrified he would—that after all the time working up the nerve, after deciding I loved him enough to do this, it’d turn out that he didn’t want the truth from me.

He saw my expression flash like steel and immediately reached for my hand. “Not that Jane, nothing like that,” he soothed, squeezing my palm tight. “I love you, and I’m glad you felt good enough to tell me all this.”

My racing heart slowed a few beats, a horse tripping over the finish line and coming to a steady trot. I breathed out, and linked my fingers with his.

“I suppose I am a bit puzzled…” he went on. “Getting Medic involved, surgery…it all sounds like a lot of work. Why didn’t you just ask Merasmus?”

Now, the true answer to that question is I didn’t meet that useless old wizard until years after I’d transitioned, but something about the way Tavish had phrased that question left me flabbergasted.

“Merasmus?” I demanded.

“Aye, he can magic bodies around willy-nilly,” Tavish explained. “That’s what he did for me.”

“…WHAT.”

“Did I never tell you that?” Tavish asked, scratching the back of his head. “Ah, well I met him as a kid, I asked him if he could do that, and he was all ‘DO NOT QUESTION WHAT THE GREAT MERASMUS CAN AND CANNOT DO BLAH BLAH BLAH,’ ‘n long story short, he turned me into a laddie.”

There was a deep pause in the mansion’s master bedroom.

“Tavish DeGroot,” I fumed with mounting indignation. “Did you just let me spout goosey gibberish for nearly twenty minutes just to tell me you are also transgender??”

“Er, sorry,” Tavish said. “I didn’t think it was a big deal? Not that your isn’t, obviously, if you feel it is, but er…I suppose, yeah.”

“You-”

“Keep your voice down, lad,” Tavish hushed. “You know Mum will have our hides if we wake her up fighting again.”

“That was only because we broke the dining room table. Yelling is not nearly as loud as that,” I complained, but lowered my voice anyway. Despite my initial frustration, the wave of anger crested and died, and I was left with a warm sense of relief. Relief, and new camaraderie. “You are full of cheeks, you know that?”

“Are you trying to call me ‘cheeky’?”

“I do not have time for your Britishisms! And stop trying to teach me.”

He smiled, knowing by the playfulness in my voice that I wasn’t truly mad at him, not really. “Fine, on my word, I’ll never try to make you talk properly again.”

“Apology accepted,” I replied.

“If we’re good on confessions for the night, you ready to turn in?”

We slid under the sheets, only halfway into bed when I’d stopped our nightly routine. At the moment, it’d felt like the most important thing in the world, to be authentic with Tavish now that we’d given up so much for each other. Curling against him, I realized I hadn’t even guessed how he’d react—nor known that things could be even better between us.

[voiceless-terror]

hi friend!!!! i love your writing!!! if you're taking prompts from the bingo card (if you're not then feel free to delete this!!), how about N5 for Jon? :) i hope you have a great day!!

‘fighting to pay attention to urgent information’ ahh i love this prompt!! thank you so much for the ask, it means a lot since i love your writing so much (and it  inspired me to starting posting my stuff, to be honest). Here you go, I hope you like! This takes place right after Sasha makes her statement to Jon in season one.

Sasha is talking but Jon can’t hear her.

It’s all muddled in his mind. So many things have happened over the last couple of weeks- Martin’s worm attack and now Sasha’s encounter with Michael- and his mind is refusing to process. She gave her statement in his office and was now explaining the situation to Martin and Tim while Jon stood awkwardly in the doorway, trying to nod at the appropriate time.

“We’ll need a plan of attack if Prentiss comes or if any of us encounter Michael again,” she’s saying. “Martin’s already living here, but-”

A plan. Yes. A plan would be good but Jon can’t think beyond Sasha bleeding in his office and Martin throwing open his door demanding to be heard. The worms on the pavement crawl and creep and remind him of something he thought he’d finally put behind him but he’s been chasing it the entire time, hasn’t he?

His body feels at once too hot and too cold. Jon’s never understood that about illness. How a body can burn with fever and shake with a chill at the same time. But he’s not sick, he’s just...overwhelmed. Needs to eat a normal meal, needs to get some sleep. If he could just get a deep breath in his lungs the black spots would stop dancing in front of his vision and he could pay attention and come up with a plan. 

But every other word is ‘worms’ and ‘infestation’ and all matter of disturbing things and his mind goes wild with imagination, horrible scenarios playing out in his mind as his breaths turn into an uneven staccato of sound that he tries to stifle.

“-could get more CO2 you think? Jon?” That’s your name.

“A-Ah, yes. I’ll t-talk to Elias.” Sasha nods and Jon is relieved to have said the right thing. The fog in his brain lifts; the panic eases for just a few moments but it only reveals more physical pain and he starts to shake. He knows he needs to sit down soon or he’ll be lying on the ground either way. So he slowly backs out of the room, hoping no one notices as his hands grasp at the wall for balance. He manages to stumble back to Document Storage before he hears someone calling his name. But he’s lost now, barely breathing as his heart stutters in his chest and he sinks to the floor.

________

Martin had been watching Jon while Sasha spoke. Martin watched Jon a lot- innocently, of course, and Jon never seemed to notice. He was either willfully ignorant or really that oblivious. 

Martin was starting to double down on the ‘willfully ignorant’ theory. 

Jon was nodding along, sure. But his face held a detached blankness, as if each word were in one ear and out the other. Of course he would zone out during this conversation; it involved real, actual supernatural occurrences. He only contributed once, a vague promise to talk to Elias, who was turning out to be a very useless manager. Martin thought Jon was getting better about this. After all, he seemed to believe both Martin and Sasha’s stories. But he watched as Jon moved further and further out of the room when he should be contributing to the conversation. He disappeared down the hallway and Martin let out an irritated sigh, drawing Tim and Sasha’s attention.

“What’s up?” Tim asked from his perch on Sasha’s desk. “Don’t worry, we’re gonna figure this out-”

“It’s not-” Martin got up, starting to make his way down the hallway. “It’s Jon. I can’t believe he would just walk out on this. I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Martin-” Sasha sounded hesitant but he ignored her as he spotted the open door to Document Storage. Why would Jon go  here instead of his office? This was Martin’s room with his things. And I didn’t exactly keep it clean. “Jon?” he called out. “Jon, you need to- what are you doing?”

The man was leaning against his cot, knees brought up to his chest as he stared at the floor. His glasses were tucked into his sweater and his hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. And he was ignoring Martin in favor of whatever the hell he found so interesting about the floor. Martin stooped down to his level, ignoring the twinge in his knees on the cold cement. “What’s going on?” he asked again, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. God, Jon could be so infuriating at times, but he was still concerned.

Jon barely spared him a glance and tightened his arms around his knees, looking like a ball of tension. His shoulders moved very minutely upwards in a sort of shrugging motion and Martin thought he heard a mumble of ‘’nothing, fine,” under his breath and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He moved in closer, setting a firm hand on Jon’s bony shoulder- when did he get so thin?

“Look, I know it’s a lot,” Martin tried for comfort, though it was getting harder and harder to do so these days when the man refused to see reason. “But you can’t just bury your head in the sand whenever someone says something you don’t want to hear, alright? We’re all struggling and it would be a lot easier if we had a boss who actually listened instead of- shit.”

Jon was shaking so much. How had he not noticed? His breathing was off, like a sputtering engine as his white-knuckled grip dug into his knees. His face was ashen and sweaty. He was clearly unwell but he opened his mouth anyway in an attempt to respond. His eyes did not meet Martin’s.

“It’s- it’s all I think about,” he began, his voice more of a croak than the smooth baritone Martin was used to. “She’s after us, after you and Sasha and now there’s Michael and I don’t know what to do.” Martin watched in horror as his eyes filled with tears and his voice trembled. “And- and what if I go home and she’s waiting there? What if she gets Tim? What if we aren’t safe anywhere?” A slender hand shot out and grabbed onto Martin’s sweater, startling him as Jon’s eyes met his own with a desperate fervor. “I-I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. And Elias doesn’t even care, just w-watches while we all scramble around doing- doing-” his voice broke into a hacking cough and Martin couldn’t witness any more. He dislodged Jon’s hand and backed away. Seeing Jon like this was uncomfortable and he wasn’t sure what to do about it, so he went into his natural problem-solving mode. “I’m going to get you some water, yeah? You’re- you’re not well, we can talk about this later.” Despite keeping his voice soft and low, Martin watched as Jon shrunk into himself, desperately trying to stifle his coughs. “I’ll be right back.”

He hightailed it out of the storage area, eyes firmly on the ground and steps so quick he didn’t notice Tim until he ran right into him.

“Oof! What’s wrong, Martin?” Tim said as he grabbed him by the shoulder. “Boss giving you trouble?” Martin shook his head, voicing his next words as diplomatically as possible. 

“He’s, um- I think he’s sick?” Tim’s brow furrowed in concern. “I’m just going to get him some water, yeah.” He walked off before Tim could ask another question; he didn’t want to leave Jon alone for too long but he also didn’t want to be subjected to Tim’s questioning.

It only took him a couple of minutes to grab some water and a cold towel but by the time he got back to the room Jon was laid out on his cot, eyes barely open as Tim said something Martin couldn’t hear and smiled softly at the man in the bed. He knew they’d all known each other before the Archives; it was something that he thought about quite a bit, to be honest. But he’d never really seen Jon interact with someone like this, so quiet and trusting that he nodded off right in front of them.  

“There you are!” Tim said, uncharacteristically quiet. He reached out and Martin handed over the supplies, still stupefied by the whole situation. 

“Just gonna let him sleep for a mo’ before I force this down his throat,” he chuckled as he gently placed the towel on his forehead. “Glad you checked up on him- didn’t realize he was having a rough go of it. I’m usually a bit more observant.”

“We’re all having a rough go of it, Tim,” Martin felt like he had to explain some of his frustration. “How did he let himself get to this point? I mean, he’s always so skeptical on the tapes but it turns out he’s worked himself up so much he’s sick and it doesn’t make any sense.”

“We all tell our lies, Martin,” The words weren’t said unkindly, but he remembered that Tim knew about his resume and though he didn’t think the man would ever tell anyone it did seem like the words were rather pointed. “His coping mechanism is all this skeptic nonsense. Don’t get me wrong, it’s terrible and very annoying,” Tim conceded, giving Martin a knowing look. “But not all of us ended up here accidentally. Most of us are here for answers. For a reason.” Tim’s far off look reminded him that he knew so little about the people he worked with. He wondered what Tim’s reason was, what Jon’s was. And if they would ever feel comfortable enough to confide in him. 

Martin doesn’t know how to respond to those words, so he does what he does best- deflect and nervously offer his services. “I can throw the kettle on, maybe order some takeaway? Food would probably make him feel better.” 

“Yeah, reckon it would,” Tim’s just staring at Jon as he fitfully dozed. Tim may not have been attacked directly but he looked tired and worried all the same. “He likes Thai.”

Martin noted the fact down for his mental file on Jonathan Sims. Hates spiders. Likes his tea with milk, no sugar. Hates my handwriting. Likes Thai. It’s not very comprehensive.

Later, when he’s making tea in the break room, he watches as Sasha slips into the hallway to Document Storage, attempting to go unnoticed. She’s got a hand to her shoulder like she’s trying to rub away the ache and Martin grabs some paracetamol out of the cabinet, knowing both her and Jon will need it. Everyone in the Archives likes to hide their pain, himself included. But maybe for one night they could help each other out. Four tired humans against two eldritch abominations.

Martin could get behind those odds.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065482