#ginger tea for cough and cold

[nkogneatho]

i love being treated like a princess irl

[balu88r-blog]

Immunity : ಮಳೆಗಾಲ ಬಂತು, ಆರೋಗ್ಯ ಕಾಪಾಡಿಕೊಳ್ಳಿ: ತುಳಸಿ-ಶುಂಠಿ ಚಹಾ ಸೇವಿಸಿ ರೋಗನಿರೋಧಕ ಶಕ್ತಿ ಹೆಚ್ಚಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳಿ...!

Immunity – ಮಳೆಗಾಲ ಅಂದ್ರೆ ತಂಪು, ಆಹ್ಲಾದಕರ ವಾತಾವರಣ ಅಂತ ಎಷ್ಟೇ ಖುಷಿ ಪಟ್ಟರೂ, ಅದರ ಜೊತೆಗೆ ಬರುವ ನೆಗಡಿ, ಕೆಮ್ಮು, ಗಂಟಲು ನೋವು, ಜ್ವರದಂತಹ ಸಮಸ್ಯೆಗಳು ನಿಜಕ್ಕೂ ಕಿರಿಕಿರಿ ಉಂಟುಮಾಡುತ್ತವೆ. ಈ ಸಮಯದಲ್ಲಿ ನಮ್ಮ ದೇಹವನ್ನು ಒಳಗಿನಿಂದಲೇ ಬಲಪಡಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳುವುದು ತುಂಬಾನೇ ಮುಖ್ಯ. ಇದಕ್ಕೆ ನಮ್ಮ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲೇ ಸಿಗುವ ಎರಡು ಅದ್ಭುತ ಗಿಡಮೂಲಿಕೆಗಳಾದ ತುಳಸಿ ಮತ್ತು ಶುಂಠಿ ಯಿಂದ ಮಾಡಿದ ಚಹಾ ನಿಜಕ್ಕೂ ಬೆಸ್ಟ್‌! ಇದು ಬರೀ ರುಚಿಕರ ಅಷ್ಟೇ ಅಲ್ಲ, ರೋಗನಿರೋಧಕ ಶಕ್ತಿಯನ್ನು ಹೆಚ್ಚಿಸಿ,…

[spartanmemesmedical]

सर्दी-जुकाम और घरेलू उपाय

सर्दी-जुकाम एक सामान्य लेकिन कष्टदायक समस्या है जो किसी भी मौसम में हो सकती है। यह खासकर तब परेशानी का सबब बनता है जब मौसम बदलता है। सर्दी-जुकाम होने पर शरीर में कमजोरी महसूस होती है और सामान्य दिनचर्या में विघ्न डालता है। इसकी शुरुआत अक्सर नाक बहने, गले में खराश और धीरे-धीरे बुखार चढ़ने के साथ होती है।खैर, घबराने की जरूरत नहीं है क्योंकि सर्दी-जुकाम के लिए कई कारगर घरेलू उपाय हैं जो आपको इस…

[letusdiscoverindia]

If you are suffering from a severe cough, cold and sore throat? Then you must follow this quick and easy home remedy. For complete details Click Here:

[chicken-remnants]

lemon ginger tea.

[solshop]

Herbal Turmeric Tea For Immunity And Radiant skin – Solshop

Herbal turmeric tea, like the one you described, offers a range of potential benefits for both immunity and radiant skin. Here are some of the key benefits associated with the ingredients in your tea:

Immunity Boost: Turmeric, ginger, and black pepper are all well-known for their immune-boosting properties. Turmeric contains curcumin, a powerful antioxidant with anti-inflammatory properties that can help strengthen the immune system. Ginger is rich in bioactive compounds that have antimicrobial and anti-inflammatory effects, while black pepper enhances the absorption of curcumin, making it more effective.

Anti-Inflammatory: Turmeric and ginger are natural anti-inflammatory agents. They can help reduce inflammation in the body, which is often linked to various health issues, including a weakened immune system and skin conditions.

Antioxidant Rich: Turmeric and cinnamon are loaded with antioxidants that can help combat free radicals and oxidative stress in the body. This can protect the immune system and contribute to healthier skin by reducing the signs of aging.

Skin Health: Turmeric, with its anti-inflammatory and antioxidant properties, can help improve skin conditions such as acne and psoriasis. It may also contribute to a more radiant complexion by reducing redness and promoting an even skin tone.

Digestive Support: Ginger and lemongrass are known for their digestive benefits. A healthy digestive system can indirectly support your immune system by ensuring proper nutrient absorption and waste elimination.

Cold and Cough Relief: The combination of ginger and cinnamon can help soothe cold and cough symptoms, providing relief from congestion and sore throat.

Detoxification: Turmeric and lemongrass may aid in detoxifying the body by promoting liver health. A well-functioning liver is essential for overall health and can help improve the appearance of your skin.

Weight Management: Some of these ingredients, particularly ginger and black pepper, have been associated with weight management and metabolism support, which can indirectly benefit skin health and overall well-being.

Stress Reduction: The warm, aromatic qualities of cinnamon and ginger can help reduce stress and promote relaxation, which is important for maintaining a strong immune system and healthy skin.

It's important to note that while these ingredients have many potential benefits, individual responses can vary. If you have specific health concerns or are taking medications, it's advisable to consult with a healthcare professional before incorporating herbal teas or supplements into your routine. Drinking herbal turmeric tea can be a delicious and soothing way to promote both immunity and radiant skin when used as part of a balanced and healthy lifestyle.

Continue

[buckysouvenir]

i'm not sick You weren’t going to let a stupid cold defeat you in front of Bucky freaking Barnes.

You weren’t sick.

No matter what Bucky Barnes said — no matter how smugly he leaned against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed and a knowing look in his stupidly handsome face — you were not sick.

You cleared your throat (quietly, strategically), rolled your shoulders, and tightened the sleeves of your hoodie. “I’m fine.”

“You sound like a broken air conditioner,” he said, biting back a smirk. “One of those ones in a cheap motel.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means,” Bucky said, pushing off the counter and walking toward you with that annoyingly smooth super soldier stride, “you’re wheezing. And sniffling. And doing that thing where your eyes look too shiny, like a cartoon character about to cry.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not wheezing.”

“You are wheezing.”

You turned your back on him and made your way to the living room, grabbing the stack of mission reports Fury wanted reviewed and flopping onto the couch. You were fine. You could do this. You weren’t going to let a stupid cold defeat you in front of Bucky freaking Barnes.

Especially when he never — never — got sick.

Not once since you’d known him. Not a sneeze, not a sniffle, not even a yawn from exhaustion. Super soldier serum, enhanced immune system, annoyingly superior biology — he was basically a walking health commercial.

So no, you refused to show weakness. Even as your head pounded, your throat scratched like sandpaper, and your body screamed for a blanket and twelve hours of sleep.

You were fine.

You were not fine.

You were in fact, so not fine, that the moment you tried to sit up too fast from the couch, the world tipped sideways.

And Bucky caught you. Instinctively. Like he always did.

“Whoa, whoa— hey.” His hands settled on your shoulders, steadying you. “Alright, that’s it.”

“I’m—” You paused to cough into your elbow. “I’m fine.”

His eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “Sweetheart, you just blacked out for a second while holding a paperclip. You looked at it like it insulted your family.”

“Okay,” you croaked. “Maybe I’m a little sick.”

He didn’t say I told you so.

But he did smile like he wanted to.

Bucky didn’t leave your side after that.

He tucked you into bed (and you were too tired to argue, which he clearly took as a victory). He brought you every cold remedy known to man — and a few you suspected were just old Brooklyn traditions, like warm ginger ale and saltines.

He came in with soup — twice.

“Second one has real chicken in it,” he said, placing the bowl beside you. “Not the weird freeze-dried cubes from the first one. I upgraded.”

“Fancy,” you whispered, voice wrecked and scratchy.

He returned with orange juice and a whole bottle of vitamin C gummies.

“You’re supposed to take two a day,” you warned weakly.

“I’m not letting you die from a cold, Y/N,” he said seriously. “I’ll overdose you on vitamins if I have to.”

He even brought flowers.

“You bought me flowers?”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Don’t get too excited. They were next to the NyQuil.”

And chocolate.

“You’re bribing me.”

“Yes. So stop looking like you’re going to cry and eat the damn truffle.”

But what really got you — what really made your heart ache — were the kisses.

Soft kisses to your temple when he brought in tea. A gentle brush of lips over your hair when you fell asleep mid-sentence. Little pecks at your forehead while he adjusted your blanket. Sometimes, even kisses on your warm, slightly runny nose, just to make you laugh.

“Bucky,” you croaked once, laughing despite how awful you felt, “you’re gonna catch this.”

He just smirked, leaned in, and kissed you anyway, square on the mouth. “I don’t get sick.”

You blinked at him. “You just kissed me while I have a fever.”

He kissed you again. “Worth it.”

Over the next few days, you faded in and out of sleep while Bucky floated in and out of your room. You felt him brush your hair back, hold your hand, rub your back when you couldn’t stop coughing. Once, you woke up with your head on his chest, his hand gently stroking your arm, slow and steady. You didn’t move. You just melted into it.

There were more kisses. Lazy ones. Sleepy ones. Fevered ones, mostly on your cheek or temple — until you felt a little better and pulled him in for a proper one.

“See?” he whispered against your lips. “Told you I’m indestructible.”

You snorted. “Arrogant.”

“You like it.”

You kinda did.

The quiet, careful Bucky.

Something about the way he stayed — about the way he looked at you like you weren’t a burden — made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with your cold.

Once, you woke to find him dozing at your side, head tilted back against your headboard, his hand still holding yours where it rested on the blanket.

You didn’t let go.

By day five, you were better. Not perfect, but walking upright, able to speak without croaking, and your skin had lost that lovely shade of “slightly dead.”

You found him in the kitchen that morning, making coffee.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, handing you a mug.

You blinked down at it, then up at him. “Guess I lived.”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you sip. “Barely. You gave that tissue box a run for its money.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

He tilted his head, voice softer. “Always.”

Maybe it was the warmth in his voice. Maybe it was the way he said always like he meant it — like he’d already decided that looking after you was just part of his life now.

Or maybe it was the fact that his hand found the curve of your waist without thinking, that he pulled you just a little closer, his fingers brushing under the hem of your hoodie to touch skin as if checking for fever.

Whatever it was — it made you rise up on your toes.

And kiss him.

Just a soft one — a quiet brush of lips, no pressure behind it. But when you pulled back, Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded, like he was the one feverish now.

Later that day, you were curled up on the couch under a blanket, finally reading through the reports you’d abandoned mid-fever, when you heard it:

A sneeze.

From the kitchen.

You froze.

Then slowly turned your head.

Bucky stood there, staring at the counter. His nose scrunched, eyes wide like he was trying to process the betrayal of his own immune system.

“…did you just sneeze?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral.

He blinked. “No.”

“Oh my God.” You sat up slowly, eyes gleaming. “You did.”

He scowled. “It was probably dust.”

You stood, walking toward him with a grin that threatened to split your face in two. “You’re getting sick.”

“I’m not—”

“You caught my cold.” You gasped, delighted. “The super soldier has fallen.”

“I don’t get sick.”

“You do now.” You poked his arm. “This is the best day of my life.”

Bucky opened his mouth to protest — and sneezed again.

You nearly fell off the couch laughing. “Bucky.”

He groaned, rubbing his temple. “I should’ve listened to you. Should’ve stopped kissing you.”

You grinned and walked up to him, arms slipping around his waist. “You couldn’t help yourself.”

“Apparently not.”

You stood on your toes, kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll take excellent care of you.”

He eyed you warily. “You’re going to make me soup, aren’t you?”

“With real chicken,” you said proudly, hugging him tighter and pressing another kiss to his jaw. “And I’ll even bring you flowers. But only if you admit I’m your favorite nurse.”

He sighed dramatically. “You’re not even certified.”

“You didn’t care when you were kissing me all over my fevered face.”

He leaned in, nose bumping yours. “Touché.”

And when he sneezed again — a big, dramatic one — you laughed so hard you nearly dropped the tissues you were about to hand him.

But you caught him this time.

Wrapped him up in a blanket.

And whispered against his hair, “Told you I was contagious.”

[kdyq]

A Warrior’s vigil

Ambessa x fem!reader

Context: ambessa takes care of you while your sick

The first sign that your illness came in the form of a soft cough a sound Ambessa would usually dismiss if it weren’t for how it lingered filled by a faint wince.

She turned from the window of your shared grand estate she had been gazing at the distant horizon and fixed her gaze on the source of the sound.

You, her Darling your usual high energy dulled as you’re seated in a velvet chair by the fire. “ You’re unwell..” Ambessa stated her tone leaving no room for denial.

You move your eyes from the fire and glanced up at her “It’s just a cold. Nothing to worry about” you say as your lips curling into a weak smile.

Ambessa stepped forward. Her heavy boots echoing across the stone floor. “ I don’t tolerate lies, especially from you.” She says as she place the back of her hand against your forehead her expression darking front the warmth. “ You have a fever. Go to bed, now.”

“I can mange—“ she cuts you off. “Y/N.” Her voice was a low growl not harsh but commanding “Do not argue with me.”

Within moments Ambessa swept you into your shared bedroom her efficiency t even someone meticulous as her. The silk sheets were freshly changed and the servant went rushing to fetch a physician.

You lay against a mountain of pillows as you watch Ambessa with amused and exhaustion. “You’re resting me as one of your soldiers.” You say

Ambessa raised an eyebrow as she placed a of tea and broth on the nightstand .”If my soldiers had half of your worth I would. Now drink this.”

You chuckled softly our laughter turning into a cough. Ambessa’s jaw tightened as she handed you the steaming hot ginger tea.

The physician arrived swiftly a nervous young woman who avoided Ambessa’s sharp gaze. She examined you under the warrior’s scrutinizing supervision stammering her recommendations for rest and to hydrate before scurrying out.

Ambessa stayed by your side, her usual air of dominance tempered by quiet vigilance. She brought soup, adjusted blankets, and even read aloud from one of your favorite books, though her deep, commanding voice seemed ill suited to the whimsical tale.

“You’re softer than I expected,” you teased her your voice hoarse but playful. Ambessa smirked. “Do not mistake care for softness. I protect what is mine whether from armies or illnesses.” She leaned closer her hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead. “You happen to be mine.”

The days passed, and though your fever subsided Ambessa’s attention never wavered. Even when you began to regain your strength the warrior insisted you rest with no argument.

“Ambessa, I can walk to the garden without fainting,” You protested one morning, your color returned.

“You’ll stay in bed until I say otherwise,” Ambessa replied, crossing her arms over her broad chest.

You sighed dramatically, but her eyes were soft. “You’re insufferable, you know.”

“And you’re reckless. A perfect match.”

When you were finally well enough to move about freely, Ambessa resumed her usual composure, though she still watched you like a hawk.

“You should let me dote on you sometime,” you say as you sat by the fire one evening, her hand brushing against Ambessa’s.

The warrior raised an eyebrow. “Unlikely.” But the faintest smile tugged at her lips.

“You’re lucky I’m patient,” You quipped.

Ambessa leaned in, her voice a low murmur. “And you’re lucky I’ll move mountains for you. Just don’t get sick again. It’s inefficient.”

You laughed, your laughter ringing through the room like music, and Ambessa allowed herself a rare moment of softness, her hand resting gently over your hand.

“THE END”

AN/ : OMGGGG MY FIRST STORY EVERRRR. MORE IS TO COMEEEE I’ve literally really written a lot.

[satellite-evans]

told you so

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: it's your turn to take care of lando <3

Word count: 1.2k+

Warnings: fluff, lando is sick

A/N:

this is a part 2 for lovesick, but can be read individually, happy reading xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

It started three days after you started feeling better.

You’d just gotten over the flu��a brutal week of hacking coughs, relentless fevers, and being completely wiped out while Lando stepped into full-time caretaker mode. He’d fluffed your pillows, ordered weirdly specific soup combinations (chicken noodle with a side of toast and a single gherkin, why?), and insisted on playing your favorite comfort movies even when he dozed off halfway through them.

Every day, without fail, in between sneezes and sips of hot tea, you’d warned him like a broken record: “Don’t kiss me, you’ll get sick. Seriously, Lando. I’m a walking biohazard.” And every day, like clockwork, he’d give you that crooked smile that made your heart do stupid things and lean down anyway, pressing a kiss to your lips like he was immune to common sense.

“Worth it,” he’d say, all cocky and smug, even as you scowled at him.

Now, three days after your fever broke and you were finally starting to feel like a functioning human again, Lando was sprawled across the couch like a Victorian widow in mourning. A pile of blankets engulfed him like a nest, only the top of his curls and the tip of his red nose visible.

“Baaaabe,” he croaked, voice hoarse and pathetic, as if he'd swallowed gravel and regret. “I think this is it. Tell McLaren I love them. Tell Oscar to win for me.”

You leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and unimpressed. “You have the flu. The same flu I had. The one I explicitly told you not to kiss me during.”

Lando peeked out from under the blanket fort with glassy, betrayed eyes. “You kissed me back! That makes it a mutual decision! This was a joint operation.”

You let out a long sigh and walked over, pressing the back of your hand gently to his forehead. Sure enough, it was burning up.

“Yeah, well. Congratulations, genius. You’ve got a fever.”

“I knew it,” he groaned, flopping dramatically like his soul was leaving his body. “My organs are shutting down. I can feel it. This is the end. Cold, miserable, and betrayed… by the love of my life.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, even as you shook your head. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I need soup,” he sniffled pitifully, burrowing deeper into the mound of fleece and flannel. “And cuddles. And maybe a foot massage. And definitely another blanket. Possibly two.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Anything else, Your Majesty?”

“An eulogy,” he replied weakly. “Something tasteful. Maybe mention that I was brave and beautiful, taken too soon…”

You turned on your heel, heading toward the kitchen with an eye roll so powerful it could’ve shifted tectonic plates. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Norris.”

His voice trailed after you, small and pathetic. “I’m dying! Is this how you treat your dying boyfriend? Where’s the Florence Nightingale energy?”

“Florence didn’t have to deal with whiny F1 drivers,” you called back. “Count yourself lucky I’m making you soup and not letting you waste away on the pit lane.”

“Wait, do we have ginger tea? I read online that’s good for the immune system. And maybe some honey? Or lemon? Or both? And a warm compress for my eyes, I think I saw one on TikTok—”

“Oh my God, Lando.”

“—and maybe like... one of those heated plushies. You know the ones? That look like cats but smell like lavender?”

You grabbed the kettle and let it boil as his voice carried on from the living room, dramatic and ever-demanding, while you secretly smiled to yourself. He was miserable, yes—but so were you, just a few days ago. And just like he’d cared for you, now it was your turn to return the favor.

With soup, cuddles, and maybe, just maybe, one of those lavender-scented cat plushies.

Ten minutes later, you returned with a tray balanced carefully in your hands—a steaming bowl of homemade soup (the good kind, not the sad instant packet), a cold compress folded just right, and a bottle of flu medicine with the dosage already measured out. You’d even grabbed a spoon that didn’t clank annoyingly against the bowl, because yes, you were that considerate. The tray clinked softly as you set it on the coffee table, the smell of garlic and herbs immediately cutting through the stuffy air of the living room.

Lando stirred beneath his fortress of blankets, blinking up at you like a very sad, very sick kitten.

Without a word, you began rearranging the pillows behind him—fluffing one, stacking another for support, gently nudging him upright with a hand on his shoulder.

“Sit up. Time to eat.”

He sniffled pitifully and looked at you with the most dramatic pout you’d seen all week. “Will you feed me? I’m too weak. My arms don’t work anymore. I think they’ve stopped functioning.”

You gave him a flat look that screamed seriously?, but the sight of his flushed cheeks, red nose, and those glassy, pleading eyes—ugh. Damn him and his boyish charm.

“Fine,” you relented with a sigh, picking up the spoon. “But if you fake gag for sympathy, I’m pouring this soup right on your hoodie.”

“You wound me,” he gasped, clutching his chest like a scandalized Victorian noble. “My Florence Nightingale turned cold-hearted nurse. Where is the compassion?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop, gently blowing on each spoonful before guiding it to his lips. He opened his mouth obediently, chewing slowly, and making these over-exaggerated “mmm” sounds like he was in a food commercial.

You let him have his moment.

Every now and then, your fingers would drift to his curls, brushing them back from his sweaty forehead, or you’d adjust the blanket when it started to slip from his shoulder. And each time, he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing grounding him. Dramatic as he was, you knew the truth—he just wanted to be taken care of the same way he had taken care of you. With quiet patience, and a lot of love.

And honestly? You didn’t mind at all. Even if he had brought this on himself.

After the soup and a reluctant but necessary dose of flu meds, Lando let out a long, theatrical sigh like he’d just completed a marathon. He sank back into the couch, curling up with his head in your lap, one arm loosely around your waist as if anchoring himself there. He sniffled again, softer this time, like a puppy trying not to be too obvious about how much it needed cuddles.

You smiled, running your fingers gently through his messy curls, letting the silence stretch between you for a moment before speaking.

“Next time,” you murmured, voice low and warm, “you’re actually going to listen when I say no kissing the plague-ridden girlfriend.”

Lando didn’t open his eyes, just smiled faintly against your thigh. “Next time… I’m still gonna kiss you.”

You sighed, part exasperation, part affection. “You’re impossible.”

“Worth it,” he breathed, already drifting into sleep.

You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his temple, lingering there for a second longer than you meant to. “Idiot,” you whispered.

He didn’t reply. His breathing had already evened out, the medicine kicking in, the warmth of your lap and the quiet room lulling him into sleep. But even in rest, the corners of his mouth were still tilted up in the faintest smile.

You shook your head and smiled, adjusting the blanket over him once more.

Yeah. He was definitely worth it.

[blushpawss]

feeling sick

warning: fluff + pet names — soft!sylus takes care of you while you’re sick 🩷

main acc: @sushiyuzu

your body ached in every possible way, and the stuffy feeling in your head made it hard to think straight. it had started with a slight scratch in your throat the day before, but now? the full force of the cold had hit. you were miserable, curled up under layers of blankets, trying to find any ounce of comfort. each breath felt heavy, and every time you moved, a fresh wave of fatigue washed over you.

through the haze, you heard the soft creak of the door opening, and you didn’t even need to lift your head to know who it was. sylus’ presence filled the room instantly, warm and steady, a quiet strength that made you feel just a little less alone in your misery.

“kitten, how are you feeling?” his deep voice reached you, soft and full of concern, as he stepped closer to the bed.

you groaned, barely able to answer. “terrible,” you muttered, your voice muffled by the blankets and the congestion in your head.

sylus frowned, his silver hair falling into his eyes as he knelt beside you, placing a warm hand on your forehead. his crimson eyes softened as he took in the heat radiating off your skin. “you’re burning up,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

you didn’t have the energy to argue. everything felt like too much effort, even talking, and all you could do was close your eyes and lean into his touch, hoping the warmth of his hand might somehow ease the fever.

“just stay still, sweetie,” he said softly, pulling his hand back. “i’ll take care of everything.”

you heard him move away, the quiet sounds of him gathering things from the kitchen and bathroom echoing in the background. it wasn’t long before he returned, sitting back down beside you with a cold compress and a steaming cup of tea.

“sit up for a minute,” sylus said gently, carefully helping you into a sitting position. his arm wrapped around your shoulders, supporting your weight as if he knew exactly how weak you felt.

you leaned into him, grateful for the support, as he pressed the cool cloth against your forehead. the relief was immediate, the cold soothing the fever that had been making your head pound for hours. you sighed softly, letting your eyes drift shut as the tension in your body began to ease.

“that better?” sylus asked quietly, his voice low and soothing.

you nodded weakly, feeling the coolness of the compress working its magic. “a little,” you whispered, though even speaking felt like it took too much effort.

he held the cup of tea up to your lips, his other hand steadying you as you took a few slow sips. the warmth of the ginger tea settled in your throat, the honey soothing the scratchiness that had been bothering you all day. you swallowed carefully, feeling the heat spread through your chest, a small comfort in the midst of all the discomfort.

“good girl,” sylus murmured, his voice soft, almost a purr. “just a little more, kitten. it’ll help you feel better.”

you managed a small smile, his words bringing a hint of warmth to your chest that had nothing to do with the tea. even when you were feeling awful, sylus always knew how to make you feel cared for, his gentle tone and the way he called you kitten wrapping around you like a comforting embrace.

once you’d had enough, he set the cup down on the nightstand, easing you back down onto the pillows. “you need to rest,” he said quietly, tucking the blanket around you more snugly. “your body’s working hard to fight this off. let me do the hard stuff for now.”

you gave a weak chuckle, though it came out more as a cough. “you’re doing enough already.”

sylus smirked, his crimson eyes twinkling with that familiar glint of protectiveness. “you know i’ll always take care of you, sweetie,” he replied, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. “you don’t even have to ask.”

he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his lips against your skin. the gentle gesture sent a wave of comfort through you, his touch soothing the aches in a way that went beyond just the physical.

“you’re too good to me,” you mumbled, your voice barely a whisper.

“you deserve it,” sylus said simply, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his hand still resting on your cheek. “i’ll stay with you the whole time. i’m not leaving your side until you’re feeling better.”

he settled beside you, reaching for your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours. the warmth of his hand against yours was comforting, grounding you in the moment, even as your body continued to ache. every touch was so careful, so deliberate, as if he was afraid of hurting you, though you knew he was just being extra gentle because he hated seeing you in pain.

after a few minutes of comfortable silence, sylus spoke again, his voice softer now, almost like a whisper in the quiet room. “i’ve got everything you need right here. i’ll make you soup later, something light that won’t upset your stomach.”

you nodded, grateful for his thoughtfulness. you didn’t have much of an appetite, but you knew he was right—once the worst of the fever passed, you’d need to eat something to keep your strength up.

sylus shifted slightly, lying down beside you and pulling you into his arms. you nestled into his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his body radiating against yours. his hand traced slow circles on your back, soothing, lulling you into a calm state that made it easier to forget about the aches and fever.

“just sleep, kitten,” sylus whispered, his lips brushing the top of your head. “i’ll be right here.”

you nodded sleepily, your body already beginning to relax under the comforting weight of his presence. the fever, the aches, the exhaustion—they were all still there, but sylus made it all feel distant, as if none of it could touch you while he was holding you.

you drifted off slowly, your hand still resting in his, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles in a rhythmic, calming motion. his touch was constant, a reminder that even in your weakest moments, he was there, ready to care for you.

as you slipped into sleep, the last thing you heard was sylus’ voice, soft and low, as he whispered, “i’ve got you, sweetie. you’re safe with me.”

[valiwrites]

vali where did you go??? you didn't love us anymore?? :((

[ found this in my drafts :) yes i was gone for a while 😔 school drained me im sorry for waiting, i will make more stories from now on! otherwise check my wattpad: vickybutter for full stories ]

sick ━ charles leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x female reader

warnings: nothing only fluff

The sky over Monaco was a dull grey, heavy clouds rolling over the coast like someone had drawn the blinds on the entire city. The rain hadn’t let up since dawn, the soft patter against the windows weaving in and out of your thoughts like background music to a film.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, stirring a pot of chicken noodle soup with one hand, phone cradled between your shoulder and cheek. You were talking to your mom, half-distracted, eyes occasionally darting to the hallway leading to the living room.

“…no, Mom, he’s not dying. It’s just the flu,” you said with a small laugh, though your brows furrowed slightly. “Yes, I made him tea. No, not the ginger kind. He hates ginger. Yes, I made him change his socks.”

You hung up just as the soup hit a slow, rolling boil. The entire flat smelled like garlic, thyme, and something soothing. Comfort food. You hoped it would help. Charles wasn’t a good patient—he hated being down, hated being weak. Maybe it was the athlete in him, or the Monegasque stubbornness, or both.

You ladled the soup into a bowl, grabbed a glass of water, some tissues, and the cold medicine you’d all but forced him to take earlier. You balanced everything on a tray and padded into the living room.

Charles was exactly where you’d left him: slumped sideways on the couch in a sea of fleece blankets, his face half-buried in a pillow, damp hair matted to his forehead. His usual olive skin was paler than normal, with a rosy flush over his cheeks and nose that would’ve been cute if he didn’t look so miserable.

“Soup delivery,” you announced softly.

He stirred, blinking blearily. “You’re an angel.”

“You say that now. Wait until I make you take another dose of that disgusting syrup later.”

He groaned, weakly. “I’d rather crash the Ferrari.”

You laughed, setting the tray down and sitting beside him. You pressed a hand to his forehead, frowning. Still too warm. “Your fever’s not breaking.”

“Maybe it’ll go away if I just… stop acknowledging it.”

“Oh, so we’re doing the ‘ignore it and hope it disappears’ method? Very scientific, Mr. Leclerc.”

He cracked a tired smile. “It works for tire degradation.”

You rolled your eyes and handed him the soup, waiting as he slowly sat up to sip at it. He made a small, appreciative sound in the back of his throat after the first spoonful. You reached over and tucked the blanket around his legs again—he’d been kicking it off in his sleep all morning.

“Do you want to try eating more later?” you asked, gently carding your fingers through his hair.

“If it’s this soup, then yes.”

You tilted your head. “You’re sweet when you’re feverish.”

“I��m always sweet,” he croaked, before breaking into a harsh cough that made him double over. You rubbed his back until it passed, then handed him the water.

“I don’t know how you still look good like this,” you muttered. “It’s genuinely unfair.”

He sniffled dramatically. “Don’t lie. I look like a sickly goat.”

“You do not. Goats don’t have eyelashes like yours.”

He leaned his head against your shoulder after a few more bites of soup, warm and slightly damp. “Marry me.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He chuckled, throat raw. “Not now. But one day. When I’m not disgusting.”

“Charles,” you said with a soft smile, wrapping an arm around him, “you could propose in the middle of a tissue avalanche and I’d still say yes.”

He paused, eyes lifting toward yours in that half-sleepy, vulnerable way you’d only seen a handful of times—moments when the helmet was off, the walls down.

“…Yeah?” he whispered.

You kissed his temple. “Yeah.”

A few hours passed in quiet.

Charles fell asleep against you, the soup forgotten, his fingers still loosely tangled with yours. You scrolled through your phone, read a few pages of a novel, checked his temperature again. He stirred every now and then, mumbling in French, half-lucid dreams mixing with the sound of the rain.

At one point, he startled awake, sweating and disoriented.

“Shh, baby, it’s just the fever,” you murmured, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. He leaned into your hand like it grounded him.

“I thought I missed the race,” he said, still halfway in the dream.

“There’s no race. You’re safe. You’re home.”

He exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

Later, you coaxed him into a lukewarm bath to help bring his temperature down. He sat in the water like a sulking cat, hair damp, eyes drooping.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“I know. But you’ll feel better. And I promise not to take any embarrassing photos.”

“…You better not.”

You tossed a clean towel at him. “I’ll delete the ones I already took, then.”

“Chérie!”

That evening, the rain let up for a while. The apartment glowed gold with lamp light, warm against the grey outside.

Charles was bundled in fresh pajamas and propped up with pillows in bed, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. You sat beside him with a heating pad over your lap and a book in hand. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus from the diffuser you'd set up earlier.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he said, voice still rough but clearer.

You looked over. “You’d do the same.”

“I know. But still. You could’ve just left me to wallow.”

“You’d get soup on the ceiling if I did.”

He laughed—really laughed, even if it turned into a cough halfway through. You leaned over and pressed your lips to his cheek, letting them linger.

He reached up and gently cupped your face, thumb brushing along your jaw. “You make even the worst days feel bearable.”

You kissed him again, softer this time. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

His eyes searched yours, even glassy and heavy-lidded, and there was something more serious behind them now. “If I ever got really sick—like, properly sick—would you stay?”

The question knocked the breath from you for a moment.

“Of course I would. You don’t even have to ask.”

“I think about it sometimes,” he admitted, “how racing is everything one day, and the next… it’s gone. What if I wasn’t Charles Leclerc anymore?”

You closed the book and set it aside, fully turning toward him.

“You’d still be you,” you said, fingers brushing his. “I fell in love with you. Not just the driver. Not the Ferrari suit. Not the podiums. You, who snores when he’s stuffed up and eats cereal with a fork when we’re out of spoons. You who loves his family more than anything and sings off-key in the shower.”

He swallowed hard. “You make it sound like I’m worth staying for.”

“You are,” you said simply.

A long pause, just the sound of the rain starting up again outside.

Then: “I’m definitely marrying you.”

You laughed, threading your fingers through his again. “Not until you can say it without coughing halfway through.”

“Fine. But start looking at dresses anyway.”

[serenadeofastros]

Regulus has very poor health and therefore gets sick pretty easily. Allergy season? The poor man won’t stop sneezing until he causes himself a nosebleed, someone coughed in his general direction? Two days later he’s in bed with the worst fever ever. Him and Sirius like to joke and blame it on the inbreeding (they’re not really wrong) so when Regulus and Remus start dating Remus makes it a habit of always keeping little packages of tissues on him as soon as allergy season starts, his satchel full of lemon and ginger tea packets on the very likely case Regulus catches a cold. When they eventually move in together, Remus designates a cabinet in their kitchen he deems “the Regulus cabinet” where he stores everything his boyfriend might need in case of sickness.

[ashthesalamipiece]

Hellooo

I absolutely love your DADbakugo and I was wondering if you could do one were reader and bakugo have a two year old daughter who got sick (like a common cold) and eventually reader gets sick from the daughter but brushed it off so she can look after their daughter and bakugo refuses to let reader not rest and forced her to rest and looks after her and their daughter

Thank youu

(Also I LOVE your ficss sooo much and I real hope your doing okay💗💗)

If this is too complicated just ignore it☺️

“Sit. Down. Now.”

The sniffles started with your two-year-old.

At first it was just a tiny cough and a slightly warm forehead—but then came the full storm: a runny nose, cranky naps, clinginess, and an unspoken law that she could only sleep while draped over you like a human blanket.

“She’s just got a cold,” you told Katsuki, running your fingers gently through her hair as she snoozed on your chest. “Nothing big.”

He grunted from the kitchen where he was warming up soup and muttering about buying more tissues. “Still hate seein’ her like that.”

“I know,” you whispered, kissing your daughter’s head. “Me too.”

---

Two days later…

She was already getting better—her fever was gone, her sniffles lighter—but you?

Your throat was raw. Your nose was stuffy. Your body ached. You hadn’t slept properly in 48 hours, and Katsuki noticed the way you swayed slightly while washing bottles in the sink.

“You’re sick,” he said flatly.

“I’m fine,” you said, voice hoarse, pressing a tissue to your nose. “Just a cold.”

“You look like death’s cousin.”

“I’m the mom. I have to keep going.”

Katsuki crossed the kitchen with slow, dangerous precision.

“Sit. The hell. Down.”

“I—”

He pointed at the couch like it was a threat. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

You blinked. “Katsuki—”

“Don’t make me carry your ass.”

You tried to argue again, but then you felt that wave of dizziness hit and finally sighed in defeat.

“…Okay,” you croaked, plopping onto the couch.

“Good.” He tossed a blanket at you and kissed your forehead gruffly. “You get thirty minutes of sleep before I make you drink that disgusting tea you like.”

“You mean the lemon ginger—?”

“Yeah, that hot dirt water. Disgustin’.”

You giggled, curling under the blanket as your daughter padded into the room with sleepy eyes and a stuffy nose.

“Daddy?”

“C’mere, bug,” he said, scooping her up with one arm. “Mama’s restin’. You and me got princess duty today.”

She beamed. “I get to pick the movie?”

“Only if it ain’t that damn singing ice one again—no, don’t give me that face. FINE. ONE TIME.”

You watched from the couch as he moved around with her on his hip, grabbing tissues, juice boxes, and the remote in one motion like a pro.

Your heart melted.

---

Later that night, after the baby was finally down, you woke to find yourself bundled in blankets, a cooling rag on your forehead, and Katsuki sitting at your feet watching TV with the volume low.

“You really did all that?” you rasped.

He didn’t look at you, just grabbed your hand and grumbled, “Told you. You don’t need to be a hero every second. I got you.”

You gave his hand a squeeze.

“And,” he added with a smirk, “you’re not hot anymore.”

You blinked. “...Excuse me?”

“Temperature. Your fever. Calm down, princess. Still hot otherwise.”

You snorted, and he leaned over to kiss your temple.

“Now shut up and sleep before the gremlin wakes up again.”

---

Bonus:

The next morning you find your two-year-old tucked against Bakugo’s side in bed while he holds both her and your favorite stuffed animal.

“Don’t say a word,” he mutters groggily.

You smile and take a picture anyway.

[nottswitch]

꒰ chef!theo takes care of you while you’re sick ꒱

cw: fluff, reader is sick, mentions of bodily fluids

a/n: just me being sick and needing chef!theo to take care of me. haven’t written fluff in a while, so hopefully it’s not too crusty. enjoy <3

⋆˚꩜｡

just yesterday, you were feeling ‘a bit under the weather’, and this morning, you woke up with a pounding headache, a painfully sore throat, coughing your lungs out, and your nose so runny you felt like you could drown in your own snot. it was far from a pretty sight, but your fiancé was immediately on high alert – theo hated when you got sick, especially when he knew exactly what caused it.

“told you you should’ve worn a jacket, didn’t i?” he chastised you, his voice exasperated, as he looked at the thermometer. your temperature wasn’t too bad, which made his shoulders slump with relief, but it wasn’t one of a healthy person either.

“yeah, yeah, i know.” you rolled your eyes, immediately regretting the action – it felt like sand was stuck behind your eyelids, making your eyes water uncontrollably. he was right, you knew that damn well – you really should’ve worn a jacket when you left for work yesterday, since it was unusually cold for the month of may. but you blamed theo’s worries on him being his usual overprotective self, and now you were paying the price.

theo shook his head at your stubbornness, but he couldn’t stay mad at you for long – not when you looked so vulnerable with your cheeks flushed, your eyes glassy, the blanket pulled up to your chin as you shivered. he was already on his phone, calling off work for the day, and even your weak protests that you could handle yourself just fine didn’t help – subconsciously, you knew he’d stay with you, since he always did at the first sign of illness from you.

“they’ll deal without me just fine, amore,” he said firmly, but with a hint of softness in his voice, as if a single harsh word could shatter your fragile form. “now, stay here, i’ll be right back.”

he placed a kiss on your forehead and stood up, walking out of the bedroom. pretty soon, he was back at your side, with a steaming hot mug of ginger tea, a pot of honey and some medicine resting on the nightstand. he lifted the mug to your chapped lips, and you obediently sipped, feeling just a tiny bit better as the warmth started spreading through your chest and stomach.

“i have some chicken soup going downstairs,” theo said, carefully feeding you tea with one hand and holding your chin with the other.

“chicken soup?” you chuckled, but the sound got cut off by a wet cough, making some of the tea splatter onto theo’s face. he closed his eyes, fighting back a smile, and wiped the droplets away. “how does it feel, making commoner food for once?”

“delightful,” he muttered, secretly glad that you were still strong enough to tease him. “don’t worry, i have a chef’s specialty in mind for dinner.”

“i probably won’t even taste it.” you sniffled, taking another small sip of tea. “my tastebuds went bye-bye.”

“did they? well, amore, then i’ll have to work extra hard to bring them back, won’t i?”

you sighed and nodded, knowing that theo would take the challenge seriously. but you didn’t mind – it was endearing in a way, watching your usually calm and collected fiancé fuss over you like a mother hen. you finished the tea, a couple spoonfuls of honey, and then took the medicine theo brought you. as he stood up, ready to head to the kitchen to check on the soup, you looked up at him, pouting.

“chef’s special cuddles?” you whined, suddenly unwilling to let him go, even it was just to the kitchen.

theo couldn’t help a small chuckle, taken by the way your bottom lip jutted out in this adorable pout. “chef’s special chicken soup first, amore. and then, you’ll get all the cuddles in the world.”

au. more.

[christopherisfoive]

Lemon Tea & Truce {Request}

Hello my little anon pie, i can't find the request in my inbox. I hope you see this. Order up: #8 sick reader and #14 enemies to lovers!

The dorm usually buzzed with choreography counts and videogame shrieks, but flu season had emptied the halls. You lay marooned on the living‑room sofa beneath three mismatched blankets, throat raw, fever pulsing behind your eyes. Each cough rattled the half‑empty mug of ginger tea on the coffee table.

Only one member remained in the unit: Lee Minho, resident neat freak, arch‑nemesis of your mess. He whistled while folding laundry in perfect squares.

From the hallway you croaked, “Robot Cat, can you keep it down?”

He poked his head out, arms stacked with towels. “You sound like someone swallowed a blender. Whistle’s the least of our issues.”

You meant to retort, but another cough stole the words. He set the towels aside, gaze flicking to the unused cold‑medicine packet. “Have you actually taken anything?”

“Waiting for a miracle,” you rasped.

Minho muttered something about helpless children, then disappeared into the kitchen.

He re‑emerged ten minutes later holding a steaming mug, plus two fever tablets balanced on the rim.

“Take these. Warm water first—don’t fight me.” His dry tone implied you would.

“You poison them?”

“Haven’t had time.” He rolled his eyes. “Swallow.”

You obeyed. The lemon‑honey drink soothed the sandpaper in your throat, surprising you with how good it tasted.

Minho checked your forehead with the back of his hand, frown deepening. “Still burning. Where’s your thermometer?”

“Somewhere in the medicine drawer… maybe.”

He sighed the sigh of a man who labelled every spice jar. “Of course.”

While he searched, you drifted. A crash jolted you awake—Minho had found the cluttered drawer. Bottles clattered; a tape measure flew out.

“Why is there sewing chalk in here?” he called.

“Multifunctional storage,” you croaked.

“More like chaos theory.” A muffled curse followed, then, “Got it.”

He returned, disinfected thermometer in hand. You glared as he tucked it under your tongue.

“For once, silence suits you,” he said.

Your glare intensified; his lips twitched.

When the beep sounded, he read the numbers. “38.9. Great. We’re courting a hospital visit.”

He vanished again. Water ran; cupboards closed. The scent of rice and chicken wafted out—a sign he’d started congee.

Between dozes you recalled last month’s prank war: Minho swapping your instant noodles with uncooked spaghetti; you switching his cat‑ear headband for pink bunny ears before a V‑Live. Neither of you apologised—score‑keeping was half the friendship you never admitted having.

Now that same Minho padded over with a cold compress, gentling it against your temple. The contradiction made your chest ache in a new way.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He didn’t answer, but his thumb brushed your cheek—just once—before retreating.

Dusk blurred windowpanes when he nudged you awake with a bowl of steaming porridge.

“Eat slowly,” he ordered, handing you a spoon.

The first bite tasted of ginger, chicken, and comfort. “You cook better than you fold laundry,” you whispered.

He raised a brow. “Folding is an art. You’d know if you owned an iron.”

You mustered a smile. “Hit me where it hurts.”

He settled on the floor beside the sofa, arms on his knees. “Serious question—why do you leave lights on in every room?”

Blinking, you shrugged. “Dorm felt empty until I joined. Light makes it look lived‑in.”

He stared, expression unreadable. “It drives me crazy—but maybe I missed it today.”

Heat pooled under your fever. “Maybe you like chaos more than you admit.”

“Maybe.” A ghost of a smile curved his lips.

Later, a thunderclap wrenched you from fevered dreams. Panic clawed; you gasped. Instantly Minho was beside you, steady hands holding your shoulders.

“Hey. It’s just rain.” His voice, low and firm, anchored you.

Your vision cleared to find his face inches away, worry unmasked.

“Why are you… this nice?” you managed.

He swallowed. “Because I don’t actually want to see you suffer.” Pause. “And because you distract me. Loudly.”

“By leaving lights on?”

“By being you.” Nerves flickered in his eyes, quickly hidden by sarcasm. “Don’t let it go to your congested head.”

“Too late.” You smiled, then coughed.

He pressed the mug to your lips. “Small sips.”

Near midnight, fever broken, you shifted to sit up. Minho’s hoodie dwarfed you, smelling faintly of his detergent and citrus body spray. He dozed against the sofa edge, arms folded.

You nudged his shoulder. “Nurse Minho.”

He jerked awake. “Temperature?”

“Down. All thanks to Robot Cat.”

Relief softened his features. He helped you stand, hand warm at your back.

At your bedroom door you teased, “You know this earns you one free mess—you pick the prank, I won’t retaliate.”

He considered. “I’d rather cash it in for dinner when you’re better.”

“Deal.” You stepped inside, but he cleared his throat.

“Y/N—”

You peeked back.

He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks pink. “Bring my hoodie to dinner. No backing out.”

Your laugh—scratchy yet bright—filled the hallway. “Who’s backing out?”

“Guess we’ll both find out.”

You closed the door, pulse steady and warm. On the sofa behind him, lemon tea cooled beside an unfinished prank tally—no longer needed.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Baby, I'm Cold

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: Your boss is a stubborn man but even he can get sick. (plus!reader)

Character: August Walker

Day Twenty-One of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - I swear I'm not sick

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Mr. Walker leaves his bag at the door, his jacket too. You move his shoes so they sit neatly on the drip tray and hang his jacket. You pick up his briefcase and carry it up to his office. As you near the closed door, you hear him coughing from the other side. 

You slow as you approach and knock on the door, “sir, I have your things.” 

He coughs again then calls through hoarsely, “in.” 

You twist the handle and dip inside. You set the bag on the leather armchair where you always do and retreat as your employer sniffles. He lets out a crackly sigh after. He sits behind his desk, silent, stony. His usual self except for the raspy breaths he lets out. 

You don’t await his dismissal. You know if he has to tell you to go, it means you’ve overstayed. Mr. Walker prefers discretion. He prefers solace. It makes your job both easy but difficult. 

You leave and go down to the kitchen. At this time, he won’t have eaten. He’ll need dinner. With his cough and stuffed nose in mind, you prepare him some chicken and rice soup. You put a thick hunk of artisinal bread with it and a cup of tea. 

You carry it up to him and announce your purpose at the door, “dinner, sir.” 

He grumbles. You know his sounds well enough to enter. You bring the tray to his desk as he sits back in his chair, unmoving, eyes closed, hands firm around the rests. You hear the rattle in his chest from there. 

“Anything else, sir?” 

He opens one eye and the icy blue chills you. His single iris flicks down as he considers the tray. He opens his other eye and sits forward. He swallows another cough. 

“What is this?” He touches the mug’s handle. 

“Tea, sir. I found some ginger. I added a touch of honey--” 

“Why?” 

“Why, sir?” 

“I don’t drink tea. I haven’t ever drunk tea. It’s for my mother. So why--” He snaps his mouth shut and his throat strains as he holds back another cough. He lets out a single croak and clears away the rocky crags. “Why are you serving it to me?” 

“Oh, uh, sir, it will soothe your cough--” 

“I’m not sick.” 

“Yes, sir, the air is dry this time of year,” you agree. 

“I don’t want the fucking tea.” 

“Sir.” 

You come around and take the cup. He sits back again and turns the seat away. You hold the steaming cup and quickly head for the door. You stop, remind by his reprimand of something else. 

“Your mother and father will arrive tomorrow morning. I’ve arranged their room and all else.” You confirm. 

“Great, you did your job,” he sneers dryly. 

“Sir,” you murmur and turn to the door. 

Just a few more hours and you’ll be free. It’s the holidays and even Mr. Walker gave you a day to spend with your family. Though you suspect it’s more that he doesn’t want you around his.  

For the three years you’ve worked for him, you’ve never met a single other person in his life. You clean the house, you pick up his laundry, and you order groceries. You are peripheral. You are the tedium that fuels the more concerning parts of his life. 

🌟

Your mother and stepfather are arguing on the porch. Again. Your aunt and uncle are showing off their toddler grandchild, and your brother, the terrible twins, more than a decade your junior, are flipping through their phones. You sit and observe it all. 

You glance at the window, your mom’s anger expounded in the wag of her finger. You get up as the smell of ham draws you into the kitchen. You check to make sure it’s not overdone then piddle around, trying to distract yourself from the chaos. 

Your back pocket rumbles. You ignore it. It’s some promo trying to entice you into ordering food. On Christmas of all day. As the vibration persists, you assume it’s some poor telemarketer, forced to make the rounds for a bit of overtime pay. 

You ignore it. You work on finishing the brussel sprouts your mother left in the strainer. You cut of the ends and slice an X into them. Your phone starts again. You don’t put down the knife until the third call. 

Walker. 

You hesitate but pick up. Why would he be calling, today of all days. You fix your posture as you answer, as if he can see you. 

“Mr. Walker,” you eke out, nervous you might have missed something. 

“Hello, is this...” a woman says your name curiously. 

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you affirm. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you, especially today, but we are in need of some help,” her voice is tremulous. 

“I told you,” a male can be heard more distantly. “We shouldn’t bother them. There’s a reason they aren’t here, dear.” 

“Pish,” the woman dismisses. “Very sorry again but my son--” 

“Katherine,” you say, “Mr. Walker’s mother?” 

“Yes, Auggy is my son,” she tuts. “As I was trying to explain, he’s doing rather poorly but he’s refusing my care. He’s always been awfully stubborn, you know?” 

“Kath,” the man drones. 

“Oh, I know, I know,” she squeals at him. “He doesn’t want his mommy fluttering around him like an old hen, but you understand, he’s my baby. I’m worried. And so we were looking and saw your name. A girl’s name so you must be someone special.” 

“Katherine,” the man sighs once more. 

“I’m his housekeeper, ma’am,” you explain. 

“Hum, oh, of course. You would be,” she says. “Oh, my, I’m afraid I’ve assumed so much.” 

“Is he still coughing then?” You ask. 

“Oh, yes, terrible. He sounds as if he’s swallowed glass.” 

“We’ll call a doctor,” the man intones. 

“Octavius, please, which doctor do you suggest we call? They all fly out of the country on their salaries,” she chirps. “Honey, please, if you don’t mind, you might be able to coax him. If you are his maid, you’d only be doing your job. He can’t turn you away.” 

You frown. She doesn’t know how wrong she is. He would and he will. 

“Lucine, please,” your step father’s voice blows through with a gust as he comes inside. His anger is forged into his tone and the door slams. You wince. 

“I can be there,” you tell Katherine. It won’t make a difference but it will get you away from all this. 

🌟

Katherine as good as drags you through the door. You didn’t even knock before she swung it open. She’s a tall woman, plump, and her face is rosy. She’s not what you expect. 

“Yes, come in, come in,” she says. “Oh, what’ve you brought?” 

She gestures to the canvas bag on your elbow. 

“Just some stuff to help,” you explain as the warmth of inside seeps beneath the chill in your cheeks. “Hopefully.” 

“Oh, yes, how clever of you.” 

She takes the bag and you let her. She sets in on the bench and unbuttons your top button before you can stop her. You gently catch her hands then do the rest yourself. 

“Sorry, dear, sorry. It’s only, I’m so worried.” 

“He’s a man, he’ll be fine. If you’d stop pecking at him, he wouldn’t be hiding,” a man appears in the archway to the den. He’s big like Mr. Walker, with white hair and paler eyes. He crosses his arms in the same way. That must be the father. 

“He’s sick! You heard him. He wouldn’t listen--” 

“He was doing just fine, Katherine.” 

“Tosh, you don’t know that. You never were there when he was home sick. He needs his orange juice and chicken noodle.” 

“He needs you to stop,” the man you assume is Octavius reproaches. 

“I can check on him but... it’s probably just a cold,” you say as you slip out of your boots. 

“So long as you try.” 

“Right,” you grab the bag and twist the handles. 

You go to the bottom of the stairs and look up. You peer side to side, from mother, to father, both tentatively watching you in turn. It seems Walker puts everyone at arm’s length. 

You take the first step with trepidation. Then the second. Up and up, you climb until you reach the top. You turn down the hallway and come to the office door. You bite the inside of your lip and knock. You don’t get an answer. 

You look at the bag in your hand and contemplate running back downstairs. You can say you tried and got the same result. Still, that Walker doesn’t shout for you to scram is worrying. 

You knock again to the same result. Several more taps go unanswered before you are faced with another decision. Do you go in, just to make sure? 

It would be a waste. You left your family, Katherine waited around for you, you suppose you can brave Walker’s wrath to give her the gift of knowing all is well. 

You inhale and hold it in. You enter the office, peeking through as you do. It’s dim but for the light of the glass lamp on the desk. As you look for the broad figure behind it, you find only an empty chair. 

You frown. He must be in his room or-- 

The grumble jars you. You squint as you try to see through the dark. You find Mr. Walker on the leather settee near the artificial fireplace set into the wall. Great. You should go. You can do that still. He’s not answering you so obviously he doesn’t want to be disturbed. 

He coughs, a sharp, agonizing cough that makes even your throat hurt. You let your breath out. Ugh. He’s a big boy, literally, he can handle it. Right? 

Shit. 

You cross the room and turn the dial on the artificial fireplace. It lights up, casting a soft glow over the office. You turn to find Walker shivering on the cushions, arms crossed as he hugs himself, legs bent to accommodate the short furniture. 

“Mr. Walker, I brought some cough drops and some cold medicine,” you say.  

He groans and doesn’t move. He hacks again, the couch frame creaking under his weight. Why? You shouldn’t feel bad for him. Not for as unpleasant as he’s consistently been. 

You move a leather stool closer and sit. You cradle the bag on your knees and sift through the contents. You take out the bottle of Buckleys. You shake it and reach with your other hand to touch his shining forehead. His eyes pop open and his mustache twitches. 

“Mr. Walker, I have cough syrup--” 

“I’m fine,” he insists, only to cough again. “I don’t want that—sh-- *cough*-- shi-- *cough*” He devolves into a fit and you wait patiently. 

“If you don’t want it, you should try some of these ginger drops.” 

“Why are you here?” 

You steady your agitation. “Your mother called me.” 

“Why did she--” He can’t finish the question. 

“She asked me to help you. I’m trying but I can’t do much if you won’t let me. However, you are my boss so you can tell me to go back home to my family,” you shrug. 

He looks at you then closes his eyes. He shifts onto his back and lifts his legs, extending them over the armrest. He is ridiculous big on the short sofa. 

“Do whatever. I thought you were a maid, not--” 

He can’t finish the insult but you get the gist. You dig around in the bag and take out the tin of menthol rub. You uncap it as his face contorts in an effort to repress his coughing. You hold it out under his nose and he sucks in and flinches. 

He grabs his nose as you recoil and blinks, “what is that?” 

“Just menthol, it will clear your airways a bit.” 

“Oh,” he furrows his dark brows. 

“Typically, you put it on your chest but it’s kind of greasy so--” 

“Do that,” he insists and sniffs deeply, “it’s helping.” 

“Oh, uh...” you stare at him. 

He’s sallow, the brims of his eyes reddened, and his face drawn. You nod and lightly touch the gel. You hesitate. You won’t be able to reach him and... right. 

“Can you...” You look at his shirt collar, “unbutton.” 

He coughs again, a rumble in his chest, and he clumsily pinches his buttons until he frees them. He pulls the fabric apart to reveal his furry chest and you stand. You move closer and bend over him as you gently trace beneath his throat, that little crook of bone above his muscled pecs. You focus on spreading the menthol as he breathes deeper, further puffing out his chest. 

“Better?” You ask. 

He makes a noise, something akin to a purr. You rub the cream in until It’s absorbed then pull away. You cap the container and put it back in the bag. You put it all on the stool and back away. 

“Where are you going?” Walker mutters. 

“To wash my hands,” you say. 

“Mmm, be quick.” 

You take his orders and hurry out. You come down the hallway and dip into the bathroom to rinse your hands. As you dry off, you nearly squeal as a shadow appears in the door. Katherine wrings her hands as she shifts back and forth. 

“Is he okay?” She asks. 

“He’s fine, I think. Just sick. Stubborn.” 

“Oh, very,” she agrees with your last statement. 

“I’m just trying to get him to take some cough meds,” you explain. 

“Ah, good luck,” she trills, “I will make some tea, if you like?” 

“Uh, yeah, we can try that,” you agree. 

She hurries off and you go back down the hall. The smell of menthol and the crackle of the fake fire welcome you in. You go to the settee as Walker lays quietly, breathing in and out, as his shirt remains open. 

“I think the cough syrup will help,” you say. 

He doesn’t respond. You watch the cadence of his chest. Is he asleep. You move around slowly, trying not to knock anything with your hip or step too heavy. You gather up the bag. He can probably sleep it off. 

You let out a squeal as you feel a brush against your bum. You spin as Walker’s arm extends to you and he catches your hip. You stutter in surprise. 

“S-sir!” 

“I’m sick,” he whines, though the surrender is hardly a triumph. “Please...” 

You stare at him. You don’t know what’s worse. The brave face or the pathetic victim. 

“Baby, I feel so bad,” he squeezes and you look down at his large hand. He must be really sick if he’s calling you that. 

“It’s alright, Mr. Walker,” you take his hand and move it off your hip. You lower yourself onto the edge of the couch and bend his arm over his chest. “Your mom’s going to make you some tea.” 

“Mmmm,” he drones and reaches for you again. “Don’t leave.” 

“Sir,” you look down as his touch follows your sleeve to your shoulder then curls down your back, stopping on your waist. You grab his wrist again. “I’ll stay, just... relax.” 

“Yes, baby,” his fingers dip into your soft side, “whatever you want me to do.” He tugs free of your grip and trails along the top of your butt, “just stay.” 

You narrow your eyes and once more stop his stray hand. You cling to it as you direct it away from you, keeping hold of him to keep from another rogue groping. He’s sick for sure. So sick, he must be delusional. 

“Alright, I'm here, Mr. Walker.” 

He opens his eyes and looks at you. You wince at the intensity in his glassy irises. His cheek ticks and he hums again. 

“Mm...” he drawls weakly. “So... soft.”